The King's Road

by Cecelia Holland

It looked something like the one in Palermo — he paid no more attention to it than that. The square itself teemed with people. On three sides, the merchants had set up stalls, and they stood beside them, shouting their wares into the crowd that billowed around buying. Federigo sidled over to a stall selling cheeses and leaned against it, whistling unconcernedly. A tall, gaunt woman in a black shawl started haggling with the vendor; and while the man was arguing prices, Federigo’s hand shot out and closed over a wheel of yellow cheese. He stuck it inside his shirt and ambled away.

  Yusuf was eating his orange. “You should have made Hadji-Mustafa give you some money. He said you brought him good luck.”

  “Not good enough to be paid for.” Federigo edged closer to a stall filled with live chickens in boxes, with cuts of beef and slabs of mutton, and, most important, sausage. There were three men watching the stall; he waited until two were busy with customers and the third was trying to fasten the lid back on a crate of screeching chickens. A fat sausage joined the cheese in his shirt. Folding his arms over his chest to hide his loot, he drifted with Yusuf through the crowd, looking for a baker’s stand.

  “How are we going to find a caravan?” Yusuf asked. He’d finished the orange.

  “Sssh.”

  The woman behind the racks of still-warm bread glared at him, and he smiled at her as sweetly as he could. She made shooing motions to him and he backed off. Suddenly Yusuf was pulling at him, whispering, “Come away look! “

  Federigo glanced over and saw two knights riding past, talking. He stood still, his breath stopped in his lungs. The knights kept on going, but one of their horses passed so close by that its tail swiped across Federigo’s arm. He turned to run, saw that the woman in the stall was staring after the knights, and with a shrug thieved a loaf of bread. Keeping the knights in sight through the corner of his eye, he led Yusuf off into the shadow of an olive tree and sat down to eat.

  “But how are we going to find a caravan?”

  “Be quiet, will you? All in good time.” He twisted off the end of the sausage, took a bite and chewed. “Is there a fountain here?”

  “Across the way.”

  “Good.” He took a bite of cheese and one of bread and chewed them together. “Here, have something to eat.”

  “I can’t understand you when your mouth’s full,” Yusuf said, but he took the sausage and bread. They passed all three back and forth between them, until they were both full, and Federigo stuck the remains of everything inside his shirt. It was well past noon, and the crowd was thinning out. The knights were not in sight. Federigo hoped they’d given up the search, but it had only been a few days. It seemed like weeks. He trotted across the square to the fountain and drank away his thirst. His hair was so long it hung down in the water and got wet. That was the worst thing — anybody seeing him would remember his red hair long afterward; and if a knight asked, they’d tell. He looked around, frowning.

  “When are we going to find a caravan?”

  “Now. Be quiet.”

  Getting up, he ran at a long trot through the thinning crowds around the steps of the Cathedral; usually, the carts and people necessary for caravans gathered in the church-yards, or at least posted signs about their destination there. He waited while three women in mourning argued over who should go first into the church and followed them onto the raised piazza before the main entrance. A priest stood to one side conferring with an old man leaning on a staff; two boys in white robes were reciting parts of the Mass at each other. But over near the railing around the piazza a huge, old man was sitting in the late sun, fanning himself with a palm frond. That looked promising. Federigo went over and bowed.

  “Hello, Master.”

  The man, whose face was so fat his eyes looked buried in the folds of his cheeks, opened one eye and nodded. Federigo sat on his heels, trying to look respectful.

  “Please, Master, will you help me?”

  “What do you want, little boy?”

  “Is there a caravan going to Palermo soon?”

  The fat man stopped fanning himself, shifted his gigantic hams so that he was sitting more comfortably, and lifted the palm frond again. “To Messina, tomorrow. To Taormina, in seven days. To Palermo, yesterday.”

  “Yesterday.”

  “That is correct.”

  Federigo stared at him. The palm frond waved gently back and forth, stirring the air lightly over his face. Behind all that fat, a tiny moist gleam revealed the big man’s open eye. Federigo said, politely, “And can you tell me when yesterday, Master?”

  “Late.”

  “And by which road?”

  The palm frond paused again. A big horsefly buzzed in the air near the fat man’s shoulder, ready to descend; abruptly one enormous hand heaved up and swatted the air, and the horsefly zoomed wildly off. “There is only one road to Palermo from Cefalu.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  “You are welcome, little boy.” The hidden eyes gleamed maliciously. “Hurry and go before someone notices you are redheaded and twelve.”

  Federigo started and nearly fell over. The fat man’s mouth curved into a perfect half-moon of a smile, and deep inside all the fat a laugh bubbled. Federigo bowed again, this time with real reverence, and darted back down the steps toward Yusuf, waiting in the shade of the olive tree.

  “We have to follow them and try to catch up. They left yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? But we’ll never catch them.”

  “Oh, Yusuf, shut up. Come on, we have to hurry.” Federigo dragged him to his feet. “They can’t move fast, not with carts and everything else.”

  “But we don’t even know what road—”

  Federigo hissed between his teeth. Yusuf had proved a complete loss the whole trip. Tugging him along, he headed out the north side of the square, back into the town, and followed the farmers from the bazaar who headed west.

  Empty carts rattled down all the streets, but most of them were going either west or east — Federigo knew that they’d all follow the main road. He kept close to a cart painted with the story of the Flight from Egypt, hiding behind it whenever they passed crowds.

  The bells of the Cathedral began to ring, deep and booming, calling the people to the evening service. A window shutter banged open, and a woman shouted, “Giacopo? Giacopo, come home for dinner.” Somewhere children were yelling and laughing. Federigo gritted his teeth. Feeling homesick would do no good. The dust stirred by the ox he followed got into his throat, and he hawked and spat, already thirsty again. Beside him, Yusuf started to complain again, but Federigo didn’t listen. They passed the last houses of Cefalu, and he sniffed meat cooking, bread warm from ovens, and touched his shirt to make sure their supplies were still there. It was going to be a long walk if they couldn’t find the caravan. He pulled off to the side of the road, out of the dust, and strode along toward the sun, sinking down below the rim of the hillsides before him.

  *

  The road descended to the beach and ran along it; in the gathering evening, the waves curled up phosphorescent, boomed lazily on down the shore, and hissed back into the sea. Gradually, the crowds from Cefalu turned off the road to go to their homes. By moonrise, the boys were alone on the road, which ran off curving below the cliffs, pale under the silver light of the moon. Federigo began to get hungry again.

  “Do you want to—”

  “Look!” Yusuf grabbed him and pointed.

  Federigo whirled around. Far up the beach, a bonfire burned.

  “Maybe it’s the caravan,” Yusuf said.

  “I doubt it. They’d have come much farther than this.” He glanced back the way they had come. “It might be bandits.”

  Federigo could see men crouched around the fire. Bandits, a caravan, whatever it was, he knew he didn’t want to go down there. Something strong in him warned him away from it. He started off along the road again, his eyes on the fire. With all the landscape around it dark blue in the night, the fire made a red-yellow blot in the middle. As they
drew even with it, he heard voices — the road followed the cliff up away from the sea, and the fire burned below them — and he saw horses tethered off to one side. Big horses. He leaned forward into the steep slope of the road, listening to the ring of muffled laughter from the beach below him. Horses that big meant knights. Whatever had warned him had been right. Even if they weren’t Diepold’s men, they’d be dangerous; they’d know him, and loose bands of knights got bored and amused themselves doing strange things, like teasing strangers. Or kidnapping runaway kings. He sat down suddenly by the side of the road, too tired to climb any higher.

  “This road—”

  “Ssssh.” Federigo glanced down at the fire. It looked far off, but voices traveled at night. He looked up at the cliffs rising sheer above the road. If they could find a cave in there, or even a place where the cliff overhung the road, they could sleep safe in case of rain. He got up again, feeling the muscles of his legs start to ache, and walked along watching the cliff. Yusuf shambled along behind him, whining every few steps.

  They reached a level place in the road, and Federigo sat down again to rest. He was dizzy from weariness, and every muscle in his body throbbed; but he was afraid to go to sleep out in the open — the knights might find him, and there were supposed to be bandits on this road. Yusuf, of course, curled right up and went to sleep. Federigo’s head sank down, and his chin rested on his chest. He couldn’t keep his eyes open much longer...

  He dozed off. That part of him strong enough to protest kept nudging his mind, warning him to wake up, and his sleep was filled with scraps of dreams. Hadji-Mustafa leaning against the tiller, talking about the stars in his strange soft voice, as if he loved them ... and Durante as a pirate, leaping with a sword onto a Genoese ship... He stirred and saw the moon shining on the face of the cliff and the strange rock just down the road, so square it looked like a little stone house. Again he slept, and this time dreamed of a wild charge of ragged bandits, and the screaming of women, and a baby crying. When he opened his eyes again, the moon had set.

  “Come on, Yusuf, wake up.” He pulled Yusuf still half-sleeping to his feet. “Come on, let’s go just a little way.”

  “Oh, let me sleep, please—” Yusuf’s head jerked up. “Do you hear something?”

  Federigo frowned. “No. Just the wind. Come on.”

  “That isn’t the wind.”

  “It’s a bird, then. Come on.” He wasn’t really sure he heard the thin wail; it came on and off, like a thing in a dream. He gave Yusuf a push on down the road, toward the square rock.

  The square rock! He stopped dead and stared. It wasn’t a rock, it was a cart, overturned. Yusuf, beside him, gave out a small cry and started forward.

  “I told you I heard something.” Yusuf broke into a run.

  From the shadow of the cart, somebody darted, running from them. Skirts whirled around its legs. Federigo dashed after Yusuf. It was a woman. And the cart ... the cart had been burned, recently; he could smell charred wood, now that he was closer to it. And the thin cry was the sob of a baby. He tripped over a cartwheel and fell sliding onto the rough earth of the road, got up, and ran on. Yusuf had overtaken the woman and was trying to hold her, talking to her, while she wept and begged him to let her go. Federigo jogged up to them. The woman — she was only a girl — clutched a little baby to her with both arms, and tears covered her face.

  “It’s all right,” Yusuf was saying. “We won’t hurt you.”

  Federigo said, “Hush, girl, there are knights all over the beach just a little way away.”

  She stopped struggling. “Knights?”

  “Somebody’s camped down on the beach.” He pulled the tail of his shirt out of his trousers and wiped her face. “Don’t cry.”

  “Who are you? I thought you were—” She began to cry again, and Yusuf scooped the baby out of her arms and rocked it, watching her curiously.

  “We’re friends,” Federigo said. He led her back toward the cart, which looked like shelter. “What happened?”

  “Oh — oh—” The girl flung her arms around him. “It was terrible.”

  Federigo pulled her arms free and made her sit down in the eave of the cart. He still had some of the cheese left, and he tore off a chunk of it and gave it to her. “Here. Eat something. What happened?”

  “The caravan was attacked,” she said, and broke into a wail. Federigo shook his head in exasperation. Holding the baby, Yusuf crooned absently, his eyes on the girl’s face.

  “Who are you? Where do you live?”

  “My name is — is Maria. And I live in the Street of the Jars, in Palermo.”

  “Palermo! “ Yusuf said, softly. “That’s where we’re going.”

  “Maria, what happened?” Federigo fed her more cheese. She might be upset, but she ate like any greedy girl.

  “Somebody attacked the caravan. I was fetching wood for a fire — me and my baby. When I came back everything was burning, they were all fighting—” She sobbed. “I hid. When I came out, everybody was gone.”

  “Here?” Federigo looked around. The cartwheel he’d tripped over had come from this cart, and there was no other sign of damage except this one broken vehicle. “They don’t seem to have done much.”

  “They left me here,” the girl cried, and burst into tears again.

  “She’s useless,” Yusuf said. “All girls are. What are we going to do with her?”

  Federigo shrugged. “She’s going to Palermo, and so are we.”

  “We won’t be able to move fast with a woman and a baby.”

  “We can’t just leave her here. She hasn’t got the sense to walk back to Cefalu.” He sighed. The sun was rising; he could see the girl’s face more clearly now. Turning, he looked out to sea. The light turned the water gold.

  “Let’s make up our minds after we’ve slept,” Yusuf said.

  Federigo nodded. His weariness had returned, dragging at him, making it hard to think. “All right. Maria, listen to me. Are you listening?”

  The girl nodded. She’d taken her baby back from Yusuf, and one hand smoothed the fine dark hair across the baby’s skull.

  “We’re going to sleep — Yusuf and I. My name is — Durante. When we wake up, we’ll go to Palermo and take you with us, all right?”

  She smiled. “How are two little boys going to get to Palermo?”

  “You’ll see, when we wake up. If those knights come up here, you must wake us up. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m not stupid,” she said, loftily.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Federigo crawled into the back of the cart, where a heap of old clothes had fallen down to make a kind of bed. “Keep a good watch.”

  Yusuf crept closer to him. “She’s right. How are we going to get to Palermo?”

  “Walk.” Federigo yawned and put his head down.

  “But it’s so far.”

  “There’s nothing else to do. Go to sleep.”

  Yusuf snorted. “You always have all the answers. ‘Stow away on a pirate ship.’ Walk to Palermo.’ I don’t know why I hang around with you, all you ever do is get me into trouble.”

  As tired as he was, Federigo had to laugh at that: it was so true. He shut his eyes.

  *

  The bright morning sun revealed no new solution to the problem. They divided the last of the cheese among them, and Maria fed the baby. Federigo walked far enough back on the road to see that whoever had camped on the beach the night before was gone, leaving nothing behind except a great blackened ring on the white sand and the marks of many horses. Going back, he found Yusuf arranging a long piece of cloth as a cradle for Maria to carry the baby on her hip.

  “They’re gone, at least,” Federigo said. “Maria, how far is it to Palermo?”

  She looked over and shrugged her shoulders carelessly. “Far. It doesn’t matter, we’ll never get there.” She crooned to the baby.

  Yusuf said, “She’s been talking like that all morning. Why don’t we leave her here? She’ll only sl
ow us up.”

  “Because—” Federigo flung his arms out. He could think of no good reason for taking the girl along with them; it was easier to steal food for two than for four, and she wouldn’t make the traveling any easier. “I wouldn’t like anyone to do that to me,” he said. Something in him said, “Do it.” He heaved a tremendous sigh. “Let’s start walking.”

  Yusuf made a face. They started out, Maria between them; the road rose up along the side of the cliff, and far below them, the beach glittered stark glaring white in the sun. The boom of the surf reached Federigo’s ears only as a faint whispering. He watched his bare feet striding along the road — they were filthy dirty, Franciscus would have been furious. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed him. Each of his strides seemed so short, and it was such a long way to Palermo. Maria was right: they would never get there. He clenched his teeth and walked on.

  Chapter Six

  “I’M SO HUNGRY,” Maria said and sank down on a hummock of grass by the side of the road. “I’m not going to go any farther until I have something to eat.”

  Federigo raised his hands and let them fall to his sides. “Where are we going to find food out here?” He looked up at the cliff above them — bare, brown rock, pocked and hollowed and knobbed by the wind.

  Yusuf sat down next to Maria. “Don’t be silly,” he said softly. “We could sit here until we starve. There must be a village close by, maybe just up the road. Come on, keep walking until we get there.”

  “No.” The girl shook her head; her hair came loose from its white scarf, but she ignored it. “I’m hungry.” Suddenly she was weeping, great tears rolling down her face. “My husband is dead, my parents are dead, and you want me to walk to Palermo, and my feet hurt.” She put her face in her hands.

  Federigo wanted to scream. He sank down on his heels and pulled in empty rage at the tufts of coarse, gray-green grass.

  “What are we going to do?” Yusuf said to him.

  “I don’t know. Maria, maybe your family isn’t dead. There was only one cart burned, there was no sign of a real fight. Maybe they scared off the bandits. Maybe they went on.”