The gray-bearded Conrad said, “As a young man, I served your grandfather, the Emperor Barbarossa. I was with him in the Holy Land. With God’s help, you will bring back those happy days.” His eyes were moist.
Frederick laid a hand on the old warrior’s shoulder. “With the help of Germany’s princes and her people, I promise to restore the Empire to its greatness.”
Berard felt a stab of fierce pain. The boy he had nurtured was no more. The ambition to rule the world ran in his blood. Without knowing it, Frederick had been waiting for this moment all his life.
FREDERICK SAID, “COME, my lords. We need to plan.” He took Berard’s elbow, propelling him to settle beside the fire. For several hours they plotted Frederick’s course of action. Although Innocent had given his tacit approval of Frederick’s election during secret negotiations with the German ecclesiastical princes, the first step was to go to Rome and secure it in person. After that, Frederick would make his way to Germany, past Otto’s remaining allies, to the duchy of Swabia, where he could count on support and reinforcements. From there, he must set out to win the Empire.
When Conrad and Anselm finally took their leave, Frederick and Berard remained alone in the small study. The light outside was fading. In the hearth, the fire had nearly burned out. A few glowing embers smoldered amid the ashes.
Frederick leaned forward, elbows on knees. He looked at Berard.
He knows, Berard thought, how I feel. For the last two days, every one of Frederick’s counselors had advised him to refuse the imperial crown. They recited the pitfalls of this dangerous enterprise. They reminded him that being elected emperor was not the same as being in possession of the Empire. They pointed out the continuing presence of Otto, still with an army, and considerable remaining supporters, not the least of which was his uncle, King John of England. They warned him that Innocent would never consent to his remaining king of Sicily and emperor at the same time. Yes, it was true, he had given his consent to Frederick’s election, influenced by the French king, in a desperate bid to destroy Otto of Brunswick, convinced that only the Hohenstaufen name could overcome Otto. But the price the pontiff was certain to exact would be the crown of Sicily. Frederick listened as if in a trance. His council’s warnings had had as little effect as Berard’s private entreaties and Constance’s tears.
“Berard, I have to accept the Empire for Sicily. If I refuse, the disappointment would demoralize the German princes who have broken with Otto. One day, stronger than ever, he would be back to conquer Sicily.”
Berard pursed his lips. There was some truth in this, but it was not the whole truth. He said nothing.
Frederick said, “I’ll convince the pope when I am face to face with him.”
Berard raised an eyebrow. “I know you can be very persuasive, but you’ll need more to persuade the Holy Father. Innocent’s goal is to make the Church an unassailable territorial power. I cannot see how he can allow the Empire and Sicily to be joined in your person. The papal state would be surrounded by one power.”
“Berard, come with me to Rome, plead my cause with the pope, and then accompany me to Germany.”
“You want me to come with you, despite the fact that you know I disapprove?”
“You know that there is no one whose advice I value more.” With a smile, he added, “Even if I don’t always act upon it.”
Berard sighed. Frederick needed him now, perhaps more than ever before. He nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
Frederick contemplated his hands. “You’re right, you know. I’m not accepting the imperial crown for the sake of Sicily alone, although Sicily will always come first. It’s my fate. This is my Rubicon, and I, too, must cross it, regardless of the consequences.” There was something like regret in his voice. “Berard,” he asked, raising his eyes, “will you stand by me, no matter what happens?”
“Of course, Frederick, you know that.”
“Even against the pope, if necessary?”
Berard looked at him. “I pray to God that I will never have to make such a choice.”
* * *
CONSTANCE PACED UP and down Frederick’s chamber. Since the appearance of the German emissaries, he’d lost every shred of his considerable common sense. “I implore you, Frederick, once more, don’t do this! It’ll never work. Do you really think Otto is just going to accept his deposition? Your Germans themselves admit that he still has a large part of his army and support in the north.”
He was standing in a pool of sunshine, booted and spurred, his hunting cloak over his arm, staring at her, saying nothing. She’d arrived as he was about to go hawking, with the Germans. He, who had hated all things German! He had even begun learning German. It was preposterous. His refusal to argue, to react, added rage to her fear for him. “Do you really believe you’ll be able to command enough German loyalties to defeat him? You, an unknown stranger? You’re nobody, you have no gold with which to pay an army, you can’t even speak their language. You’re nothing but an immature boy dreaming childish dreams of glory!”
With one swift stride, he was at her side. He grabbed the front of her gown and shook her. “Don’t you ever speak to me like this again, do you hear me?” As suddenly as he had pounced on her, he released her. “I’m sorry, Constance. I must follow my destiny.” He picked up his cloak from the floor. “I know you don’t understand, but I truly believe that it is possible to restore the Empire to its greatness. That is why I am going to Germany. I am leaving next week, from Messina.”
Constance hung her head. There was nothing more she could say.
On the threshold, Frederick turned around. “If anything were to befall me, I am leaving Sicily in your hands. You’ll be queen-regent, together with Berard, until our son comes of age. While Berard is away with me, Walter will act as co-regent.”
Constance stared after him, dry-eyed, numb with pain. This time, she knew, she had lost him for good, to a new mistress more dangerous and more bewitching than any woman: the dream of a new Rome.
A COLD SPRING wind filled the sails as the royal galley made its way out of Messina harbor. The sky was gray with the threat of rain. Spray from the waves splashed across the deck as the oars dipped into the black water to the somber beat of the galley master’s drum.
Frederick stood and watched the island slowly recede into the distance. Would he ever see Sicily again? In his mind he could hear Constance’s voice, a voice he’d refused to heed. What lay ahead seemed suddenly as danger-filled as the churning waters around them. He glanced at the lookouts who were watching for Pisan galleys. Skirting the coast, both to avoid the Pisans and to be able to make a quick landfall, the ship followed the Sicilian mainland, heading toward Rome.
The icy wind stung his face. As he steadied himself on a rope, he thought of his escort in the cramped space below deck. Thirty knights, Berard, Alaman, the two Germans, and a handful of Saracens. Surely never before had a smaller group attempted a greater feat. In Rome Innocent would provide them with additional men and, God willing, funds as well. Once across the Alps, they would be in Swabia, where he could count on further reinforcements.
He pulled up the hood of his cloak to shield himself from the drizzle. With a last look at Sicily disappearing in the mist, he clambered down the slippery stairs.
ROME, APRIL 1212
FREDERICK REINED IN his horse on the summit of the ancient road. Before him lay Rome. He thought of the nights he had spent as a boy, reading and rereading the writers of antiquity. How often had he imagined this city and the great men who had walked the shady arcades of her marble-paved Forum …
He turned to Berard. “What a sight!” He swept his arm across the horizon as if to embrace the city. “Look at the size of her, at the length of her walls!”
“When you get closer Rome loses much of its luster,” Berard was slumped in the saddle with fatigue. “The stench and the flies are terrible, the sewers no longer work, the pavements are gone.”
“Oh, Berard, it isn’t that bad,
” Alaman grinned. “Rome has the most beautiful courtesans in Italy. Unfortunately, the rich cardinals have been driving up their cost. But at least, at the prices they charge, they aren’t poxed!”
Frederick suppressed a smile. Alaman was baiting Berard. A churchman who practiced what he preached didn’t fit in with the Genoese’s opinions of the clergy. Although Alaman liked Berard, he’d once told Frederick that he found him to be an enigma. No mistresses, no pleasure boys, no hidden offspring; it was unnatural!
“We had better be on our way if we are to reach Rome before nightfall,” Berard said, ignoring Alaman. “Even in Rome, the city gates close at dusk.”
With a last look at the city of Caesar, Frederick headed his horse down the slope, followed by the others. In a cloud of dust, their cloaks billowing behind them, they cantered along the Via Appia toward Rome.
POPE INNOCENT STOOD at the window, looking out over his city. Tall and thin, he had a long face, an aquiline nose, and deep-set eyes whose piercing glance made most people feel uncomfortable. Innocent’s moral principles, combined with a shrewd pragmatism and an iron will, had made him the most powerful pope since Gregory the Great.
The Lateran Palace, residence of the popes since the time of Constantine, commanded a magnificent view of Rome. In the distance, beneath a bank of clouds, the Colosseum towered over the city; symbol of her pagan past, it dwarfed the buildings around it. Everywhere were signs of Rome’s vanished greatness: the baths of Caracalla, triumphal arches, remains of palaces and porticoes, even the aqueduct below the Lateran square, still carrying water in its clay pipes to the Palatine hill, as it had done for more than a millennium.
Cheek by jowl with the remains of antiquity grew the Christian city. Sometimes the new buildings were so entwined with the old that they shared a common wall. Many churches, public buildings, and the fortresslike towers of the nobility were built of Travertine marble pillaged from ancient buildings. Thus, Innocent thought, pagan Rome lives on in the Christian city, blended together with bricks and mortar. And perhaps in the hearts of men, too …
Innocent sighed. The bell towers of Rome’s innumerable churches and monasteries proclaimed her dedication to Christ. For nearly seven hundred years, the popes had ruled Rome. They’d staved off barbarians and Saracens, maintained order, arbitrated between the perpetually feuding nobility, and kept the populace more or less under control. The power he wielded was based on faith. But how deep was this faith really?
This question was at the core of the imperial problem. Otto’s breach of promise was a challenge to the doctrine of total obedience owed by all Christians to the pope. It was also a dangerous example. The papal lands had to be recovered; they had shrunk to less than half their previous size. Without sufficient land, he couldn’t secure their borders, couldn’t maintain an army worthy of the name, but had to depend on the unreliable protection of his vassals.
There was a knock on the door, followed by his secretary. “Your Holiness, the king of Sicily has arrived.”
The pope glanced up. “I’m coming.”
The secretary bowed and withdrew.
Innocent sighed. Frederick of Sicily. Now here was a tricky problem. What was he like, this young man? The lad had done well in Sicily since coming of age, despite setbacks. Seventeen years old, impecunious and inexperienced, his vassal. He, at least, would have to rely on the support of the Church. A welcome change from the towering Otto with his army, his English uncle, and his wealth. Every time Innocent thought of Otto’s treachery, his ulcered stomach knotted in pain.
Young Frederick will have to do, Innocent thought. He gathered his purple mantle and went to meet his erstwhile ward for the first time.
FREDERICK KNELT AND kissed the papal slipper. Then he pressed his lips to the Fisherman’s ring. The ceremony of homage over, Innocent rose and embraced him. They exchanged the kiss of peace. The pontiff held him at arm’s length.
“We meet at last, my son.” The voice was that of an accomplished preacher, smooth and sonorous.
“Your Holiness, this is indeed a joyful day for me,” Frederick said, holding the pope’s gaze.
Innocent’s sharp eyes, accustomed to seeking out the failings of his fellows, carefully scrutinized the young man before him. Fearless, he thought. He smiled. “Well, Frederick, this is a great honor and a heavy burden you are about to assume.”
“Holy Father, with God’s help and your guidance I am confident of success.”
Smiles of approval appeared on the faces of the prelates standing about the pope. Several nodded.
“We have much to discuss, Frederick.” The Pope motioned to the two cardinals flanking him. “Ricciarelli and Orsini, come, let us go to my study.”
Frederick followed, accompanied only by Berard and Cardinal Savelli, the papal legate to Sicily. The rest of his retinue waited outside in the antechamber.
They remained closeted for several hours. When they emerged at last, Frederick’s face was stony. Their little group was standing in the Lateran square before the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, waiting for their horses to be brought by the papal grooms.
“What happened?” Alaman da Costa asked, unable to contain himself any longer, as the horses appeared. “What conditions did he make?”
“Ask Berard,” Frederick snapped, swinging himself into the saddle with a look of disgust.
FREDERICK PACED UP and down like a caged bear in the whitewashed chamber in the monastery where they were lodged.
“… and that’s not all. On Easter Sunday I must do homage to him for my kingdom, like any miserable vassal for a few acres of plowland! There’s no end to this priest’s ambition, is there? I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to become emperor himself!”
Berard shook his head. To him, Innocent’s conditions seemed more reasonable than he had dared hope for.
A knock at the door interrupted them. “A gift from the prior, my lords.”
The cellarer, a rotund Benedictine in a black robe with a large bunch of keys at his belt, came in bearing a tray. He set down an embossed jug and two silver cups on the chest against the wall. “The best vintage, from our vineyards in Frascati,” he beamed.
Frederick inclined his head. “Thank you. Tell the prior his gift is most welcome.”
The monk waddled out. Berard poured two cups and handed one to Frederick. He took a sip. The wine was deliciously cool and crisp. “Let’s look at this calmly, Frederick. Anger will get us nowhere.”
Frederick sat on a stool opposite him. With the toe of his boot he cleared the rushes, then put his untouched cup on the floor. His anger had run its course. He was ready to listen.
Berard said, “So Innocent wants you to hand over Sicily to little Henry as soon as you are crowned king of Germany. I’m surprised he has not demanded that you sever all connections with Sicily. All in all, the Holy Father is being very reasonable.”
Berard took another sip of wine and continued, “And as for his stipulation that you renew your mother’s concordat, it makes sense to renew the bonds of vassalage that bind you to the papacy. The tighter they are, the less you will be able to renege on your promises, as Otto did.”
“God’s truth, Berard, and the condition that during Henry’s minority the kingdom be administered by a regent of the pope’s choosing? That effectively bars me from ruling my own country!” Frederick jumped up. He glared at Berard.
“But that’s precisely what you’re not supposed to be doing,” Berard said. “You’re supposed to rule the Empire instead.”
Frederick sat down again. “And for good measure, I must pay an annual tribute, to be handed over every year in a public ceremony. Can you believe that?” He shook his head in disgust.
“The tribute is not very large; it’s more symbolic than anything else.”
“It’s still an unspeakable humiliation. Can you imagine Caesar paying tribute?”
Berard leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Look, Frederick, the best way to understand an advers
ary is to put yourself in his place,” he said. “The pope is a very worried man. He made one mistake in backing Otto and he wants every possible reassurance that he’s not making another, worse one, with you. After all, the Hohenstaufen emperors have all been at loggerheads with the papacy!”
“Only because the popes have meddled in the Empire’s affairs. If they contented themselves with running the Church, there would be no conflict.” Frederick paused, then sighed, “If only my mother hadn’t signed that concordat with the pope. How could she have done anything so stupid?”
“She had no choice, just as you have no choice now. By making Sicily a papal fief, she was trying to protect your life, and your heritage from invasion. You know that you must accept the pope’s conditions if you are to be emperor.”
“Have no fear. I’ll swear the oaths, I’ll sign the agreements, I’ll go down on my knees and grovel. But I promise you one thing,” he said viciously, “one day I’ll teach the papacy a lesson it will never forget.”
“You can’t do that.” Berard’s voice rose. “You’re imperiling your immortal soul!”
“Ha! My immortal soul! What about his immortal soul? I should think that extorting promises under duress is worse than committing perjury to save my kingdom! My forefathers were kings and emperors long before this plebeian was in swaddling clothes. And in any case, is there really such a thing as a soul?”
“Frederick!” Berard rose. He was very calm. Putting a hand on Frederick’s shoulder, he said, “I beg of you, do not do this. Let us find a compromise, let us reason with Innocent, but do not begin your reign as emperor with a falsehood. The wrath of heaven is a terrible thing.”
Frederick shook his head, “Berard, there are some things that we will always see differently. I’m a king. You’re a priest. God has appointed us to different tasks, and I must do what I consider necessary, whatever the price.” He jumped to his feet. “I’m going to take a walk around the cloister, I need fresh air.”
The Falcon of Palermo Page 11
