Frederick nearly choked. Into his mind leaped the memory of him, Mutu, and a heap of gold, and his own voice saying coolly, “The Emperor is negotiating with en-Nasr . . .” He paused long enough to control his laughter and said decorously, “Sultan, if you believe that I would commit such a crime against our friendship, you must believe me so treacherous you would conclude no treaty at all.”
Al-Kamil’s steady black eyes burned with amusement. “I am struck with shame that I mentioned it at all, Sultan.”
“I assure you I need no other alliance in the East than yours, Sultan.”
“Let it be so.”
“There is the question of Nazareth.”
“Nazareth is yours. Provided, of course, the possession of it is merely for the purposes of prayer.”
Sublime. Frederick contemplated that. Al-Kamil went on, “I will grant you as well control of the strip of land from Jaffa to Jerusalem that we discussed in our letters.”
“The wisdom of this, Sultan, is yours as well as mine.”
Fakhr-ad-Din’s eyes widened; Frederick decided he was wondering what Frederick meant. Al-Kamil put his fingertips against the rug and traced the design. “In addition, Sultan, you mentioned certain areas you wished ceded to you. This, of course, is of little moment to me, since I do not now control Jaffa, Sidon, Acre or Caesarea.”
Balian moved abruptly behind Frederick. Tommaso turned to look back at him. Shifting his weight more comfortably on his crossed legs, Frederick said, “Yet once they were Syrian cities, and the rights of the Franks over them are the rights of conquest. For the duration of the truce I require the measure of control your words can give me over them.”
Tommaso went back to translating, and al-Kamil gave him time to catch up. Smiling, he looked around at his relations, who all smiled back at him. Clearly they didn’t realize what was so amusing. Al-Kamil rocked gently on his cushions.
“You are no longer King of Jerusalem, are you, Sultan.”
“My son Conrad is King. I am Regent only.”
“Then let me hasten to help you establish your control over the Franks of Syria. Jaffa, Sidon, Caesarea, and Acre are yours. For ten years.”
Frederick bowed, and al-Kamil bowed. Al-Kamil went on, “I wish no hostages. This treaty has been drawn up through the free will and request of both of us, and we shouldn’t place constraints upon each other in any way. Shall we leave the scribes and the diplomats to draw up the formal agreements? It is my custom at this time of the day to relax. If you will join me, Sultan?”
“I would be most happy to.”
Now they had the problem of who was going to rise first. Frederick looked across the carpet into al-Kamil’s eyes, grinned and counted inaudibly to three. Al-Kamil smiled. In unison they stood up, and the others scrambled to their feet.
“Very pleasant,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “Now if only the scribes can get organized, everything ought to work out beautifully.” He put one hand on Frederick’s sleeve and turned toward al-Kamil.
“Sire,” Balian said. “May I have my city back?”
Frederick swung around to face him. “Naturally. It’s a point of law, that’s all.”
“It’s a point of scaring every Frank in the East,” the Archbishop said. “Excuse me, Sire.” He bowed and went over to where Tommaso and the scribes from both sides and al-Adil abu Bakr were talking. Al-Kamil came over to Frederick, smiling.
“Let’s hope the rest of the ten years are as harmonious. We have a saying in the East—Trust in God, but tie your camel. I doubt too many people are going to like this treaty.”
“Too many camels roaming around loose?” Frederick took a plate from one of his pages; a slave was waiting with one for al-Kamil. “They needn’t like it, as long as they abide by it.”
Al-Kamil nodded, chewing. “The lamb is excellent. Try some. This business with Jaffa and Acre, now. I thought perhaps you meant to try to rule here the way you do in Sicily.”
“I’m just trying to keep them from ruling me.” He ate some of the lamb and nodded. “This is good. You have another saying—A thief is a king until he’s caught. There are too many kings among the Franks. It doesn’t suit my sense of order.” He looked around for Corso and sent him after milk.
“I have nothing against Franks singly, but as a group they’re impossible.”
Frederick laughed. Their retainers were standing around them in clumps, eating and watching them covertly. He gave the plate to Corso to hold and drank his milk.
“When are you coming to Jerusalem?” al-Kamil said. “We’ll have to have a banquet.”
“As soon as the treaty is drawn up and signed and sealed. I have to get back home before the Pope divides my kingdom from the rest of Italy and lets it float out to sea.” With Corso holding the plate for him, he cut meat.
“You’ve got things of your own to do, haven’t you?” Al-Kamil made a face. “Quite. I’ve been held up too long at Nablus. Which is not an amusing city either. This treaty will put some pressure on my nephew in Damascus. I just hope he doesn’t decide that his best chance lies with Khwaresm. You said something about repercussions—I liked that, it was nicely put, and very true.”
Fakhr-ad-Din came up beside Frederick. “You are coming to Jerusalem, though.”
“I have to. Would I come all this way and never go to Jerusalem? I plan on being crowned in the Church of Saint Sepulcher.” Frederick shooed Corso away with the plate and washed his hands in a bowl Giancarlo brought. Giancarlo stared at al-Kamil, his jaw hanging open, and al-Kamil smiled at him. Giancarlo’s eyes widened and he swallowed.
“You can stay with me, then,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “At the Qadi’s. Shamsu’d-Din.”
“Crowned as what?” al-Kamil asked. “If I’m not being too inquisitive.”
“I’ll think of something.” Frederick eyed Fakhr-ad-Din. “You just want Theophano near you again.”
Fakhr-ad-Din mimed astonishment. “I? Let me assure you, Frederick, my only interest is your comfort.”
Frederick laughed and drank from a cup Corso held out. “I’m sure I’ll be comfortable at the Qadi’s.” He turned to look at the scribes.
They had finished comparing notes; Tommaso was reading a sheet of paper, tapping his fingers idly against his chin. When he saw Frederick looking at him, he nodded and came forward. Al-Kamil swung away from al-Adil abu Bakr.
“Sultan, I shall see you in Jerusalem, then.” He bowed slightly. “Until then.”
“Sultan.” Frederick bobbed his head. “Until then.”
Al-Kamil with his retainers left the tent, and outside, people cheered in Arabic. Tommaso said quietly, “Their scribes will make up the first draft and send it to us for corrections and changes. It shouldn’t take long.”
“He was certainly agreeable,” the Archbishop said. “We had our doubts when we left Nablus.”
Frederick looked around—all the Moslems were gone, and he sat down on the cushions behind him. “What do you mean?”
The Archbishop shrugged. “He had said he would surrender control of Jerusalem, but nothing else, and that he had his reservations about that. I don’t think he’d really made up his mind. What you said reassured him. He was afraid Jerusalem would turn into an armed camp of Christians.”
Tommaso looked quickly over his shoulder and said softly, “What Sir Hermann said ought to have unreassured him. He’s right—the Sultan, I mean. Acre and Rome are not going to like this treaty.”
Frederick drew up one knee and rested his forearms on it. “Tommaso, when I hold Jerusalem it will make no difference what they like. How long do you think this drafting will take?”
“A few weeks. No more.”
“Hunh.” He stared at the trembling green silk of the far wall. He’d thought he’d be jubilant, now that it was all but ended, but he was not—the leaden depression nudged at the edge of his mind again, like the beginning of a headache. Quickly, almost frightened, he stood up and headed for the door.
Why don’t you have him arrest
ed?” Theophano said.
“Because . . . it would be too much trouble.” Frederick took a deep breath and leaned on the railing, looking down into the street. At least the crowd was quiet, although there were nearly a hundred people down there, listening to the Franciscan monk shout. From this distance he could hear only a little—every fourth or fifth word.
“Antichrist,” the monk bellowed, and jabbed his arm at Frederick. “Antichrist—” And bawled something about defiling holy places. The crowd slewed around to look up at the balcony. Frederick bit down hard on his lower lip.
“Then, why listen?” Theophano said.
“I’m a flagellant.” Even to him his voice sounded harsh and overloaded, and he cleared his throat. The Franciscan jumped off his perch on the wall and ran through the crowd and the stream of passers-by to confront him.
“You are damned,” the monk shouted. “Will you damn all these people as well? Use Jerusalem as a lure to entice them into sin?” He flung out his arms. “Do not go to Jerusalem, Antichrist.”
He was a young man, barefoot and ragged in his brown cassock, and his face burned with ardor. Frederick looked down at him and said nothing. That morning they’d sent back the final draft of the treaty for al-Kamil to approve and sign, and in less than a week the treaty would come back to Jaffa for him to sign, and immediately after they were leaving for Jerusalem. But the Franciscans had been here for three weeks now, and he couldn’t ride down the street without them shouting at him. They kept vigil on his palace and swarmed in the bazaar and preached against him in the churches. He clenched his teeth and stared down at the monk.
“Even you might be saved,” the monk was saying. “Repent and rejoice in God, and in His mercy find salvation.”
The crowd was drifting off, bored. Theophano came over to the railing to look, and the monk saw her and shouted, “Harlot.”
Frederick jerked. Theophano looked over at him and quietly moved back where the monk couldn’t see her. “Red, come inside, it’s too hot out here.”
The monk, glancing around, saw that he’d lost his audience. He backed up into the middle of the street and knelt and began to pray. The people moving along the street passed by, glancing curiously at him or simply ignoring him—Franciscans had been praying in the streets around the palace ever since they’d heard about the treaty. Something—the way the young man knelt there, the way the constant traffic eddied around him—Frederick shook himself.
“Red.”
“I’m coming.”
What if I’m wrong? He backed away from the railing; the sun flashed off the sea and dazzled him, and he put his hands to his eyes. If I go to Jerusalem . . . He backed into a chair.
“Ouch.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He hobbled through the door, gasping and yelping at the pain in his shin. “Oh, Jesus. How did I do that? Ouch.” He sat down and held onto his leg with both hands.
“You were feeling guilty or something. Very dramatic.” She sent her maids away and called for a page to bring in her lute. Frederick turned to look out the door, but naturally he couldn’t see the monk.
She ran off a scale. “Why do you let them stay if they upset you so much?”
“Because if I make any trouble with them they’ll look more right than they do now. Simple diplomacy.” He got up and walked around, testing his leg, and sat down on a couch. She began to play softly.
“Am I going to Jerusalem with you?”
“Yes.”
The Patriarch had forbidden anybody to follow him to Jerusalem, on pain of excommunication; Mutu had said that in Acre nobody talked about anything but the treaty and how it betrayed Christ because there had been no fighting. Fulk had said even he’d laughed at that. The Patriarch was threatening to excommunicate the entire city of Jerusalem if Frederick went anywhere near it. He contemplated the idea that the most holy places in Christendom were about to fall under the ban of the Church.
“There’s art to it,” he said. “There’s a certain genius to it.
“Are you bragging again?”
“This I had nothing to do with, it’s all the Pope. And the Patriarch. And I was so looking forward to having him crown me.”
She laughed. Her long fingers trailed over the strings. For a moment Frederick felt buoyant again, even happy, but the same old gloomy feeling nudged him, and he got up and walked around, trying to find something to do to keep himself busy. If they are right . . .
“Tell me about your children,” Theophano said.
“My God. Why?”
She shrugged—since she’d been with him she’d been practicing the lute, and the notes ran lightly, accurately from her fingertips. “I’m a woman, I’m curious.” She gave him a sly look. “Do you want me to rub your back?”
“Later.”
“Tell me about your children.”
He stood in front of a chest and picked up a little jar of perfume. “Well. There’s Heinrich, who’s King of the Romans—he’s eighteen. And a prize. He doesn’t think I know what he’s doing, but I do.” Unscrewing the top, he sniffed. “This is the stuff you wore yesterday. I like this.”
“What’s Heinrich planning to do?”
“Let’s say he’s under the influence of evil counselors. I don’t like him anyway—he’s colossally stupid. He takes after his mother.” He put the top back onto the jar and opened another.
“What’s this?”
She looked. “Cream for my skin. Don’t leave the tops off, will you? They’ll dry up.”
“I won’t. Conrad is only eight months old, so he’s no problem yet, but I imagine he will be. Yolande is three.” He couldn’t really remember if she was three or four; he screwed his face up, trying to think. “She takes after her mother too. And Enzio, he’s my bastard. None of them takes after me. Enzio’s fun, he does nothing but play and the court spoils him silly. Are you pregnant?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why did you ask about my children?”
“Not that I know of, no. I just wanted you to think about something other than Jerusalem and monks and excommunications.”
I want a son like me, who thinks like me and who likes me. He rubbed some of the cream into the back of his hand. Theophano’s son. Heinrich, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly ten years, was plotting to overthrow him, depose him as Emperor and take his place and be a blessing to Mother Church. Soft and cool, the cream vanished into his skin. The monk praying in the street was probably only a little older than Heinrich.
“Heinrich and I—”
“I’m sorry I ever brought it up,” she said.
“Well, you did.” He put the top on the jar of cream and went back to the couch. “Heinrich is a typical Hohenstaufen. My father must have been like him, except that my father was clever and knew how to govern and Heinrich doesn’t.”
“Is he in Italy?”
“No. He’s in Germany, I left him there when I came back.”
She drew one foot up beneath her. “What?”
“Oh. I went to Germany to be crowned Emperor, had Heinrich crowned King of the Romans—my heir—and went back to Sicily.” He made a mixing gesture with one hand. “It’s all complicated—I spent a lot of time in Germany figuring it all out. I had an idea in my head for ruling, and I knew it wouldn’t work in Germany, but before I went home I had to fix everything so the Germans wouldn’t rebel against me and get me involved in something outside Sicily. So I gave them Heinrich and told them to rule themselves.”
She was nodding, looking solemn, but her eyes sparkled. “I see. Very logical.”
“That’s what I like about you, you understand what I say. That was nearly ten years ago, and I haven’t seen Heinrich since. So he doesn’t really know anything, because I never taught him anything except not to bother me when I was working.”
She cocked her head. “When is your birthday?”
“The day after Christmas. I forgot it this year; I didn’t go to Christmas Mass because I’m excomm
unicate. I’m under Capricorn. Anyway, Heinrich has nothing to teach him except his blood.”
“Does he dislike you?”
“Yes. I dislike him too.”
“By letter, I take it. Why?”
“He hates me because I’m a heretic and I hate him because he’s a German. Will you let me make my point?”
“Certainly.” Solemn again. “Go on.”
“The Germans make everything dark. It’s amazing. Their cathedrals are dark, their castles are dark, their legends are full of dark stories, everything is gloomy and frightened. They hunt heresy in themselves like the signs of physical disease. They are afraid of God and the devil and themselves—what are you smiling about?”
“Nothing. Poor Heinrich.” She put the lute down and came over to sit next to him on the couch.
“Naturally. He’s part German, and he was raised in Germany, and that brought it all out in him—” He raised his hands, palms up. “They’re afraid of sin in Germany, so they find sin in everything.”
“You’re part German too. More German than he is.” She reached out and took a hank of hair in her hand. “But I’ve never noticed you to find sin in anything.”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. With his arms around her waist, he pulled her close to him, inhaling the fragrance of her hair and her skin. “Well,” he said, his mouth close to her ear, “I’m Sicilian really.” He thought of the monk in the street, but that seemed unimportant. He laid his head on her shoulder and shut his eyes.
“Jerusalem,” the Grand Master whispered. “Jerusalem.”
Frederick looked down at him, amazed. The old man stood in the road, tears streaming down his face, staring at the city waiting for them there, and abruptly he knelt. With a crash of armor all the Teutonic knights went to their knees as well. Frederick looked back at the hordes of pilgrims following them; many of them weren’t close enough yet to see the Holy City, and they were hurrying up, but those in the front ranks were kneeling too, and they were weeping like the Grand Master. He turned his head to look at the city. The road wound across the rumpled, sandy slope toward the Gate of King David; he could see David’s Tower from here, half in ruins, and something that looked like Tancred’s Tower, and a rise that could be the Mount of Olives beyond the gray stone of the crumbling walls.
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