Antichrist

by Cecelia Holland

  His skin crawled. The Mount of Olives, the Holy Sepulcher, Gethsemane and the Vale of Kedron and the Via Dolorosa. This was real, this had stood when Christ came here to be murdered. He heard the pilgrims stumbling along the slope to places where they could see and pray, but his sight was blurring and there was a lump in his throat. He dismounted and threw his horse’s reins blindly to Ayub and knelt down.

  The Grand Master’s ragged voice reached his ears, specific in the general mumble of the crowd. He thought of praying but did not; he only stared at the city out there across the dusty desert bushes. And the emotion was fading away—he snatched at it, wanting it back, but it drained out of him, and he sat back on his heels. Well, it was good while it lasted. That rush of joy and awe: he could remember what it had been like, but the feeling itself he couldn’t recreate. He caught himself comparing it to the overwhelming, blinding burst of sensuality he got from eating hashish, and his face turned hot with shame. But a moment later he decided that it was just to compare them, they were nearly the same thing. He looked around curiously at the pilgrims.

  They covered the slope, all of them in tears, crossing themselves and rocking back and forth in a kind of ecstasy. His Saracens had dismounted and stood beside their horses, and just beyond them, next to her horse, Theophano knelt among her maids, looking over at him. He caught her eye and smiled, and her wide mouth curled into a grin.

  The stony ground hurt his knees, and the sun lay like a weight on his head and shoulders. The air smelled rank with the dust and the oily scent of the low shrubs that covered the ground. Inside the walls there was food and something to drink and good company. He stood up. Wide-eyed, the men around him looked at him, still half submerged in their emotions. Ayub came around to help him mount, and he waved him away.

  “I’ll walk.”

  Ayub nodded and led off his horse. With a rustle like leaves, the mob on the slope got to its feet. Frederick started down the road, his Saracens moving up on foot to bracket him, leading their horses.

  Behind him a clear voice started singing the Te Deum laudamus, and immediately other voices took it and bellowed it out. Frederick glanced back and saw the Freidank near him, walking with some of the Teutonic knights, singing. The Grand Master, Tommaso, the Archbishop, and Fulk and Ezzo had gotten inside the ring of the Saracens, and even they were singing. The Assassin, walking to Frederick’s left, kept shooting looks at them from the corner of his eye; he was chewing like a cow working a cud, and Frederick nearly laughed. A high, ringing pleasure filled him.

  David’s Gate stood open, and while he watched, a file of Moslems rode out. The welcoming party. He wondered what they thought of this—a mass of Christians stumbling over their rocky ground, singing at the top of their lungs and weeping. His chest swelled with joy, although he didn’t understand why, and he couldn’t stop smiling. Fulk, beside him, was swearing in a desperate, quiet voice that sounded like prayer.

  Theophano was walking along a little beyond the Assassin, leading her horse with one hand and holding up her skirts bunched in the other fist. Her long hair had gone loose from its net and swung around her shoulders. She passed through a patch of lavender windflowers and bent and picked one, and holding it in the same hand that held her skirts, trotted a few steps to catch up. When she was nearly even again with Frederick, she stopped a moment and thrust the flower into her hair behind one ear, and her horse lowered its head and took a mouthful of the harsh desert grass. The pause left her behind again, and she ran two strides—the horse jogged beside her, and the purple flower bounced against her shining black hair.

  The thundering voices of the pilgrims sang on. They were near enough that Frederick could see Fakhr-ad-Din among the Moslems waiting for them. His feet hurt from walking on the rough ground. Up on the walls clusters of heads appeased: the Moslems who lived there come to see the Christians who for some reason now owned the city. The last time we took it, we killed everybody. This time . . .

  He walked into the shadow under the great gate, looked up into the crumbling stone of the arch, and went over to the waiting Moslems. Fakhr-ad-Din and an unsmiling man with pouches, under his eyes stepped forward.

  “Your Majesty,” Fakhr-ad-Din said, “may I present the Qadi Shamsu’d-Din.”

  The Qadi bowed stiffly. “I am at the service of the Emperor.” He didn’t sound as if he meant it, and his eyes turned toward the mass of pilgrims. Frederick swung around—the pilgrims were clogging up the gate and the road to it, packed together and shoving. The singing died away. The Qadi said, “We were not expecting so many.”

  Frederick called to the Grand Master, and while the old man was fighting his way through the mob toward him, said, “Well, we’d better get them inside before they decide they’ve been cheated. Dawud, do you have guides in there?”

  “Yes. But not enough.” Fakhr-ad-Din’s mouth tightened. The crowd was muttering, and in their voices was a note of rising excitement—they thought they were being kept out of the city deliberately. If they panicked—if they began to struggle—The. Grand Master came up, his face stained from crying.

  “Break them up into groups,” Frederick said. “Small groups. And get them in there and put away safely before they . .

  Fulk came up. “Sire, I’ve seen the plan of the city, I can probably reach the Hospital.”

  “Good.” Frederick nodded.

  A shrill German voice from the middle of the crowd yelled, “Let us in. Why is the gate closed?” And somewhere else a man shouted angrily.

  Frederick raised his arm to Ayub. Fulk plunged off into the crowd, shoving his way through toward the gate. The Teutonic knights were blocking it—they had the sense not to go in alone, but the crowd was pushing at them. Frederick whirled and saw Ezzo and grabbed him by the sleeve.

  “Find Theophano and get her out of that crowd.”

  Ezzo plunged away. Ayub was there with Frederick’s horse, and he grabbed the reins and the high pommel of the saddle and mounted. From that height he could see the pilgrims spread out under the walls, packed forward, pushed from behind, and a man screamed, “Let us in.” On the walls the Moslems were moving around nervously. A stone flew out of the crowd, aimed at them, but it rebounded harmlessly off the high wall.

  Frederick kicked his horse forward. The crowd was milling, and their excitement radiated from them like a fever. Up at the gate the guides were finally leading off the knights, but the pilgrims crushed into the space around the gate faster than they could organize them and take them away. He saw Fulk herd a group of at least sixty off into the Street of King David, and he saw people going in alone, unguided; he kicked the horse straight into the crowd.

  “Watch out—watch out—”

  Hands caught at him and at the horse, trying to hold him off. He clenched his fists on the reins, frightened of trampling them, frightened of not getting to the gate before too many wandered into the city alone. Suddenly someone called, “The Emperor—it’s the Emperor—” and they turned to look at him. The crowd had been brown and gray before, the color of their clothes, but now it was a mass of pale, upturned faces. They cheered, holding up their hands to him.

  “Calm down,” he shouted. “Just wait, be patient—they didn’t know there would be so many of us. You’ll need guides—you’ll never find your way around alone. Just wait a little, you’ll all get in.”

  Immediately he knew they hadn’t all heard him, because like a wave they surged toward him, pushed on by the ones in back who hadn’t heard and were shouting, “What did he say? Is it closed to us?” Their arms waved, and in the mob of faces their mouths opened and shut grotesquely. He looked toward the gate and saw Tommaso leading off another pack. Fakhr-ad-Din was scrambling through the crowd near the wall to the gate. The Qadi looked dour and did not move.

  The Freidank pushed up to Frederick’s stirrup, grinned cheerfully at him, and started to sing the Te Deum again. The song spread through the mob, and they slackened off, they stopped pushing, and spaces opened up among them.
Frederick’s shoulders slumped. He twisted in his saddle and saw Theophano standing with Ezzo, near the Qadi, who was staring at her and scowling. Fulk had come back with a horse, and the Moslem guides were shouting in bad Latin, waving their arms.

  Gradually the crowd thinned out, moving into the city—they took the song with them, and disjointed verses spilled back through the gate and clashed with the version sung outside. Frederick’s horse walked with the crowd up to the gate, and he had to rein it down to keep it from carrying him into the city. He thought, I should have known something like this would happen. The faces of the people swarming past him filled him with uneasiness—they looked so happy, and yet only a little while before they’d been working themselves up to storm the city barehanded. Crowds. Christ, I hate crowds. He glanced at Theophano again and saw her talking calmly to Ezzo, the blue flower still in her long black hair.

  His horse slacked its weight off one hip and lowered its head, and he let the reins slide. The pilgrims walked past him in a thinning stream. His throat was coated with dust, and he couldn’t swallow. His suite was gathering, over near Theophano; the pages sat on the ground and looked up at the wall and chattered happily, he could hear their voices even above the shuffling of the pilgrims’ feet. Fakhr-ad-Din came out the gate, pushing through the space between the pilgrims and the wall, and stopped beside him.

  “That was a tense moment.”

  Frederick nodded. “We could have planned it better.”

  Fakhr-ad-Din said, “We heard about the ban and we didn’t think so many would come. It was my fault.” He looked up, smiling; his face was filmed with dust. “It’s a fine tribute to you.”

  “One I could endure without.” The last of the pilgrims, two old men and a boy on crutches, went off with a chattering Armenian. Their quavering voices took the Te Deum with them. Frederick stared after them into the city—the Street of King David stretched out straight from the gate, narrow between the two rows of stone buildings; two other streets ran off to the left and right, black with shadow from the late-afternoon sun.

  “Come along,” Fakhr-ad-Din said gently, “you must be thirsty. The Qadi’s house is prepared for you, let me lead the way.”

  “What do you think of Jerusalem, Sultan?” the Qadi said.

  “It’s very pleasant.”

  “I’m pleased you think so, since you are now the ruler of it.” The Qadi beckoned to a slave to fill up Frederick’s plate again and stared out across the room. Since their meeting he hadn’t smiled, and in everything he said sounded the same bitter note, sometimes more muted than now. Frederick ate lamb and rice and drank a little wine.

  “There’s a minaret across the square from my window, but I didn’t hear the muezzin call.”

  For a moment the Qadi’s stony profile didn’t alter. The clatter of the other people around them filled Frederick’s ears. Suddenly the Qadi turned to look at him, his black eyes wider than before. “I asked him not to. I thought not to offend you, Sultan.”

  “If you were in my city of Palermo, Qadi, you would hear the muezzins five times a day. It would offend me not to hear him tomorrow at dawn.”

  Beyond the Qadi, Fakhr-ad-Din leaned forward to look at the older man’s face. The Qadi shut his eyes and bowed his head. “I accede to your will, Sultan. It shall be done.”

  “Your Majesty,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “How long will you remain in Jerusalem?”

  “Not long enough. I have to get back to Sicily.” Frederick tapped his cup, and Corso came up to fill it. “I’m being crowned the day after tomorrow.”

  “The Sultan al-Kamil has sent his regrets that he’ll be unable to attend,” the Qadi said. “He has to go to Damascus.”

  “Oh?” Frederick grinned.

  “Well,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “Near Damascus. But we’re having a banquet tomorrow, and I’ll take you around to all the sights during the day.”

  “Good.” Frederick looked at the Qadi. “Have I your permission to enter the Haramu’sh-Sharif?”

  The Qadi’s mouth twitched toward a smile. “Naturally.” He turned his head toward Fakhr-ad-Din, and when he faced Frederick again he was almost grinning. “If I might attend you. The Emir is, perhaps, less acquainted with the city than I.”

  “I’d be very pleased if you would. Does Abu Musa Nizam al Tawli still live in Jerusalem?”

  The Qadi’s eyes opened twice as wide as Frederick had ever seen them before. “How do you know Nizam?”

  “He and I corresponded awhile on the subject of quadratic equations.”

  The Qadi was speechless. Fakhr-ad-Din leaned forward again. “He’s gone to Cairo, Frederick—al-Kamil wanted him for his court.”

  “Are you a mathematician, Your Majesty?” the Qadi said.

  “Not really. I pretend a lot.”

  Fakhr-ad-Din snorted. Frederick grinned at him and looked over toward the table where his staff was eating; Tommaso caught his eye and cocked his eyebrows and looked pointedly at the Qadi. When his gaze returned to him, Frederick nodded slightly. Tommaso smiled, and leaning back, began to talk to the Grand Master. Frederick lifted his cup.

  The Latin chapel in St. Sepulcher was small and dark. After the Dome of the Rock, covered with brilliant glazed tiles and the inscriptions of Salah-ad-Din and carpeted with the prayer rugs of the Moslems, the little church seemed cold and damp, like a tomb. It was a tomb. Frederick walked alone up the aisle, past the ranks of the Teutonic knights and the men who had come with him from Sicily. In the nave overhead sparrows twittered and swooped—they kept them out with grates in the Dome of the Rock.

  No one spoke. Except for the swallows and the soft padding of his own feet, there was no sound. He kept his eyes on the altar ahead of them; beyond it, shielded in marble, one end of the sepulcher itself was visible, worn slick with kisses and the tears of pilgrims. A stone, like the Kaaba, a mere stone. Against it the chipped gilt of the altar looked tawdry.

  There was no priest here to crown him, to say Mass and to preach some dutiful sermon. On the low altar they had put a crown, resting on a cushion. Tall candles flanked it, but they weren’t lit—this wasn’t really a service. To me this is the only service. He stopped before the altar and looked to either side. The mass of armored men behind him did not move and said nothing, and the swallows’ chirping seemed weak and far away. He looked up into the dome above the sepulcher. The plaster was flaking. In the dim light he could see the outlines of painted figures, and in the gaps in the plaster, older faces: Christ, the Apostles, the Day of Judgment. Their Byzantine eyes reminded him of the paintings in the old churches in Sicily.

  I need no priest. He felt taut and strong and charged with purpose, as if all his will and energy were gathered up and focused on this single moment, this crown and this act. Lowering his eyes, he stared over the altar toward the sepulcher, reached out, and lifted the crown from its cushion. Heavy in his hands, solid and cool and real: I need no priest, this I do by myself and to myself, this is my stigmata. He lifted the crown and set it on his head.

  Behind him, with a thunderous clash of armor, they all knelt. He shut his eyes, trembling with exaltation. Oh God, he thought, now I am Emperor. The crown on his head weighed less than the air; the hatred of his enemies seemed less important than the twittering of the sparrows in the nave.

  “And after we go to the Jordan?”

  “Back to Acre,” he said, and put another date into his mouth. “From there, home.” Through the open windows he could see the whole Arab Quarter, filled with the luminous twilight, brilliant blue. Beyond the Dome of the Rock and Mount of Olives rose, low and shaggy with trees. The white walls of the houses shone in the deepening blue light. At the end of this street someone was hawking mulberries in a shrill voice.

  “Have you done something scandalous again?” Theophano said. She came over to look out the window. “They tell me you nearly killed a priest.”

  “God, that was long ago.” Yesterday. He leaned against the wall, still looking out the window. “He was begging i
n the Haramu’sh-Sharif. And I didn’t nearly kill him, I only threatened to.”

  She was watching him, her arms folded over her breasts; one curl of her hair lay against her throat. Being reminded of the priest had nettled him. He reached out and took the tress of hair between his fingers and pulled it gently.

  “Tired?”

  “Yes. I want to go home.” He draped the tress carefully against her throat again and smiled.

  “Red—” She looked out the window. “When are you going to ask me if I’m going to Sicily with you?”

  Not now. His chest constricted. “How do you know I will?”

  “I know you.” Her hand moved along her upper arm. “You’d better ask now, putting it off won’t help.”

  He rested his head against the wall and shut his eyes. In the next room they were setting out the dinnerware; the rumble of voices reached in through the lattice screen across the door. A lump came into his throat.

  “That’s enough of an answer, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said wearily. “I guess it is.”

  He opened his eyes onto the beautiful, luminous blue of the air. She was running one finger over the carved stone of the window sill, her eyes downcast.

  “Theophano. I love you.”

  “I know. You nearly said it once.”

  Her voice was thick. If she’s unhappy, why—

  “Do you love me? At all?”

  Her head bobbed up and down once. “But I won’t go to Sicily with you.”

  “Why not?” He clenched his fists. “Why not?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . this is where I belong. I wouldn’t be happy somewhere else.”