The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Frederick nodded. “I do understand, my lords. What remedy do you propose?”

  “We have had word of the circumstances of your unfortunate disagreement with the Holy Father, my lord,” Gerold said. “I myself, having been present, can attest to the facts that forced you to return after the first departure. The Holy Father’s, ehh …” Gerold searched for the most tactful word, “intransigence was undoubtedly due to his fervent desire to see the crusade begin. We are convinced that now that you have fulfilled your vow, His Holiness will gladly lift the ban that so unfortunately still lies on your person.”

  Frederick smiled. “That is my opinion, too, Gerold. Who better to act as my envoy then than one of your bishops, who can bear witness to my presence here? I suggest that one of them and one of my Sicilian bishops leave for Rome without delay.”

  Frederick rose. “We will sup together tonight. And before long, I am certain we’ll receive tidings from Rome that this regrettable misunderstanding is over.”

  As the two prelates bowed themselves out, Frederick wondered how long it would take Gregory to relent and lift the ban. It was almost impossible for him not to do so now.

  Either way, he would gain precious time to conduct his negotiations with Al-Kamil.

  FREDERICK, FINDING LIFE uncongenial in Acre’s castle, surrounded by the stench and noise of the overcrowded city, went to live in a nearby fortress by the sea belonging to the Teutonic Knights. Here, at least, the air was clean, and it was possible to sleep at night. Here, also, fewer eyes observed his movements. The less his Frankish barons knew about his actions, the better. His falcons, hounds, book chests, hangings, and silver plate were loaded onto a long file of camels.

  The money chests containing his treasury were escorted by a detachment of Saracen troops from Lucera, while he himself was flanked by his Saracen bodyguard. The presence of so many Muslims in his retinue had caused grumbling among the Franks, particularly as he permitted them to openly say their prayers. Frederick’s explanation that it was useful to have troops who were familiar with Saracen fighting methods hadn’t entirely convinced the barons, and even less so the clergy. No matter, they’d impress Al-Kamil with his Muslim sympathies.

  Once installed in the fortress, he settled down to wait. Thomas of Acerra, bearing gifts, was dispatched to Al-Kamil at Nablus, to inform him of Frederick’s arrival and formally request that he surrender Jerusalem to her rightful owner. Meanwhile, an embassy of churchmen had left for Rome. They weren’t expected back for several months.

  As the heat of September gave way to the balmy days of October, a stream of messengers, noblemen, prelates, and petitioners came and went through the gates of the fort. The administration and high court of the kingdom remained in Acre, but all major decisions had to be ratified by Frederick. Occasionally, he himself would dispense justice, enthroned under two palms in the courtyard. The lords of Outremer, accustomed to the supremacy of their high court, frowned on this assumption of royal privilege. To keep the army occupied, massive earthworks were thrown up around Acre. The fortifications of all nearby castles were strengthened, roads were leveled, wells dug.

  The envoys to the sultan returned at the end of October. Jerusalem, however, was not among the rich gifts the sultan sent to his friend the emperor. Al-Kamil was as fulsome in his protestations of friendship as he was evasive. Soon, he would be sending an embassy to further deliberate the issue.

  Unlike his fellow crusaders, Frederick was unperturbed by the result of the embassy. No follower of Mohammed would rush such a matter. Frederick smiled and went hawking with his falconers.

  FREDERICK, IN A window seat above the sea, was immersed in Eusebius’s Life of Constantine. He raised his head and listened. A great noise of rolling drums and vociferous voices was coming from the land side of the castle. Saracen drums … ?

  Frederick leapt up. He collided with the Duke of Limburg, who burst into the chamber. “My lord,” he cried, eyes shining, “I think you would wish to see this!”

  Reassured, Frederick followed him. Leaning over the parapet of the gallery, he stared in wonder. The courtyard held a scene from Haroun AlRashid’s Arabian Tales. A train of camels with cages on their back waited to be relieved of their burdens. In one of the cages, Frederick saw a leopard. Others contained furry creatures with long tails he had never seen before, with humanlike faces, gripping the bars of their prisons with what looked like hands. A file of six gray Arab mares with scarlet saddlecloths stood roped together near the gate.

  The cause of all the noise, however, was an immense animal that seemed stuck in the gateway and refused to move forward. The drummers drummed. The turbaned keeper shouted and screamed, brandishing an iron prod. Others behind pushed and shoved, yelling and coaxing, all to no avail. Finally, a groom returned from the stables with a load of hay. Tempted by the fodder, the behemoth suddenly lumbered forward with surprising grace and began to pick up tufts of hay with its long and agile proboscis.

  Frederick couldn’t take his eyes of the animal. It wasn’t possible … An elephant. He had read about the war-elephants with which Hannibal had crossed the Alps and nearly defeated Rome. He was so absorbed in the elephant that he failed to notice a group of Saracen noblemen in jeweled turbans and vivid robes, who stood waiting at the foot of the stairs. In their center was an exceptionally tall man who seemed familiar. As he turned his head to say something to the man beside him, Frederick recognized him.

  He turned to the duke. “Why wasn’t I informed the moment they arrived? How can you keep a great prince of Islam waiting like a villein!”

  Frederick clattered down the stairs. At their foot he encountered John of Ibelin. The golden-bearded lord of Beirut fixed his sharp brown eyes on Frederick.

  “It seems the sultan is reciprocating your generosity, my lord. What else is he going to part with, apart from exotic animals of no use to anyone?”

  Frederick gave him a withering look. “My lands, and yours too, if you can curb your temper long enough,” he snapped, brushing past him.

  Under the incredulous eyes of Franks and Saracens alike, Frederick strode forward with outstretched arms and embraced Fakhr-ed-Din. The emir kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Praise be to Allah. He has brought us together once more.”

  Frederick smiled. “In friendship, I hope?”

  Fakhr-ed-Din inclined his head. “In friendship, my lord.”

  THE PERFUMED WATER cascaded from the ewer held by the slave girl over Frederick’s outstretched hands into the silver basin. He dried his hands on the proffered linen towel, then handed it to his guest.

  They were seated, in Muslim fashion, cross-legged on the thick carpets in Frederick’s privy chamber.

  Frederick waited for the veiled slave to leave before asking casually, “Well, my friend, what tidings do you bring?” He reclined, toying with the tassel of his silk bolster as if the matter were of no consequence. The meal they had just eaten lay heavy in his stomach. His mouth felt as dry as desert sand.

  The emir looked at him. He saw through the inscrutable mask. He knew how much was at stake for the emperor. His difficulties with the pope were known to Al-Kamil. Despite his loyalty to the sultan, Fakhr-edDin found himself wishing that he had a different message to deliver, that somehow a compromise between these two men might still be possible.

  “The sultan bids me tell you that his heart is heavy because he cannot accede to your request.” The emir studied the pattern on the carpet. “If he were to surrender Jerusalem to you, he would bring down the wrath of Islam on himself. Jerusalem, as you know, is holy not only to Jews and Christians, but to Muslims as well. The prophet Mohammed ascended to heaven from there.” He looked up. “The Dome of the Rock is, after Mecca and Medina, the holiest shrine in Islam.”

  Frederick leaned forward. His eyes were hard. “Tell the sultan that I, too, cannot lose face with my people by leaving without having recovered Jerusalem. But my need is greater than his. If he won’t cede the capital of my kingdom to me b
y treaty, I’ll wrest it from him with my sword. The hills of Judaea,” he said, “will run with rivers of Saracen blood, and the blame will be his.”

  He added, “Tell him that, and tell him, too, that my patience and that of my men is running out!”

  “I will, my lord,” Fakhr-ed-Din said.

  Frederick rose. With a smile, he said, “Tomorrow, we’ll go hunting together, as we used to do in Apulia.” All the harshness had gone out of his voice and his eyes. “You remember?”

  The emir nodded. “Often, I have looked out at the sea, toward Sicily, and thought of those happy days at your court. No other man I have ever met understands falcons, or men, as you do.”

  AFTER FAKHR-ED-DIN HAD returned to his tent in the embassy’s encampment, Frederick walked back to his chambers. It was late, well past the twelfth hour. The guards in the passages stood to attention as he passed, silent shadows in the light of the torches.

  Frederick walked over to the window. The night sky was dark and velvety, with brilliant stars. Above the sea hung the thin sliver of a waxing moon. The growing crescent of Islam.

  He turned from the window and stopped to look at the astrolabe on the table. Of all Al-Kamil’s splendid gifts, this astronomical device was the one he valued most. He turned it idly with one finger. Uncertain of the result of his attack on Damascus, Al-Kamil was procrastinating. If Damascus fell quickly, he’d be able to face a war in Palestine. If, however, Damascus held out, if the attack turned into a long siege, he’d have to accommodate Frederick.

  What was needed now was a show of force, to reinforce his threats to the sultan. It was time to march to Jaffa.

  He picked up a cup and poured some of the sweet, ruby-red wine of Palestine into it. Like a libation to a pagan god, he raised the cup. “To the walls of Damascus!”

  WHILE THE CRUSADERS were preparing to strike camp and march toward Jaffa, two Benedictine friars arrived in the port of Acre aboard a fast galley. In a city filled with pilgrims and friars of every description, they excited little notice. They stayed just long enough at the house of their order in Acre to obtain horses from the prior’s stables. Before vespers, the two knelt before the patriarch of Jerusalem in his palace in Caesarea.

  The patriarch stared at them: “But this will destroy the crusade.”

  The elder of the two friars nodded. “That is the Holy Father’s wish. The emperor is the personification of evil. A crusade led by him without the pope’s blessing is a mockery of heaven. God’s wrath will come down on the crusaders. It will end in defeat and the death of thousands of innocents.”

  The patriarch nodded. “There have, of course, been rumors for a long time. The sudden death of the Empress Yolanda, his Saracen ways … it is even whispered that he never makes confession …” He rose from his thronelike chair with surprising agility for a man of his age and girth. “If we are to ensure that the pontiff’s will be done, we must make haste. Come, brethren.”

  AT SUNRISE THE following day, the patriarch, accompanied by the officers of his household and the archbishop of Caesarea, arrived in Acre. The army, Gerold knew, was set to march south the next morning. The pope’s letter was read by the patriarch in the great square outside the castle to the clergy and the assembled crusaders.

  The excommunicated emperor was to be given no allegiance by either clergy or the religious orders. Under pain of losing the remission of sins granted to those who took part in a crusade, all crusaders were forbidden to obey the emperor.

  WHEN FREDERICK RECEIVED the news, he called for his sword and cloak. Vaulting onto his horse, he galloped to Acre, followed by his guard and a breathless Berard riding beside Hermann. Night had fallen by the time his heralds summoned the crusaders to an urgent meeting.

  Frederick’s eyes scanned the faces that filled the torchlit hall. Some were clearly ill at ease, torn between their duty to him and their fear of God. The secret traitors shifted their eyes. Yet others showed open triumph. The grand master of the Templars, a tall, hook-nosed French nobleman, stared at him with unconcealed enmity. Frederick held his gaze until the other lowered his eyes. A few smiled encouragement. A small group of his own men, Thomas of Acerra, the Duke of Limburg, Richard Filangeri, and, surprisingly, Balian of Sidon, clustered around him as if they feared that he would be attacked. Hermann von Salza too stood at his side, with that magnificent bearing that commanded the respect of even his enemies.

  “My lords, I have heard your case,” Frederick said after a pause. “As you know, I have done everything in my power to make peace with the Holy Father. I have offered to accept any religious penance he wishes to impose, I have redeemed my vow to go on crusade, all to no avail. While the pope’s attitude seems to me to be that of an old man whose mind has become addled so that he can no longer see where the real weal of Christendom lies, I understand the terrible predicament that you are all subject to. In order to save this crusade,” Frederick continued, “so that we may still accomplish what we have set out to do, for the greater glory of God, I hereby relinquish its leadership.”

  With a slow, deliberate gesture, he unbuckled his sword and laid it carefully on the table in front of him.

  Frederick leaned forward, his palms on the table. He looked at the men before him: “The orders to the army will be given by the Duke of Limburg, in the name of Jesus Christ. We march as arranged at dawn.” With that, he turned and strode out of the hall.

  * * *

  AND MARCH THEY did, to Frederick’s own surprise. At dawn, with blaring trumpets and flying banners, the endless line of men and beasts, knights and foot soldiers, carts and camp followers lumbered along the coast toward Jaffa. The Templars and the Hospitallers, unable to resist the lure of war but unwilling to associate themselves too closely with the anathematized emperor, followed in the distance.

  Frederick was jubilant. Despite the pope’s efforts, most of the crusaders were still behind him. Thanks to a simple ruse, they were willing to fight.

  At their approach, the small Saracen garrison of Jaffa fled. Frederick marched into the city where he was joyously received by the Christian population. He immediately began to rebuild the walls that the Saracens had dismantled.

  JAFFA WAS A pleasant town clustered around a lovely bay, surrounded by orchards of lemon and orange trees. The only problem was a shortage of food. Many of the crusaders and pilgrims refused to eat unaccustomed foods. Although the days were warm and sunny, interspersed with soft rain, the nights were bitterly cold. Looking up at the bleak hills of Judaea, they could see the snow that lay on the rocky land. Up on its plateau, Jerusalem, too, would be dusted with snow.

  At Frederick’s Christmas court, gaiety was forced. The city they had come to conquer seemed further out of reach than ever. Negotiations with the Sultan came to a halt. Incensed by what he termed Frederick’s aggression, Al-Kamil broke off discussions. A melancholy Fakhr-ed-Din embraced Frederick and rode off once more into the hills of Samaria toward the Sultan’s court at Nablus. This, Frederick told them, was just one more maneuver of an oriental mind. The crusaders, however, demanded action. Frederick temporized. The troops he could still rely on were too few to take Jerusalem.

  To distract himself, Frederick invited the famed Talmudic scholars of Jaffa into the fortress. Seated among them, he questioned them about Jewish law and customs. Taking his leave, the chief rabbi said to Frederick, “Previous crusaders have at best ignored us and at worst massacred us; you have treated us with courtesy and inquired about the law of Moses!” The leaders of the small Jewish community in Palestine left that evening shaking their heads. Never before had they come across a Christian prince who wanted to know why Jews were not allowed to eat fish without scales!

  Then came the dread news that the supply fleet bearing the desperately needed Sicilian corn had perished in a storm. All but two transport vessels had sunk. The price of bread soared. There were food riots. This exacerbated the dissensions in the camp. Frederick pointedly continued to go about without a sword, but by now even the or
dinary footsoldiers, incited by the clergy, had begun to mutter that only evil could come from fighting in the army of an excommunicate.

  In the middle of January he left Jaffa, well garrisoned and with her walls refortified, to return to Acre. As he rode out of the gates, he looked up in the direction of Jerusalem. For the first time since his arrival in Palestine, he asked himself whether he too, like the Lionheart, was fated to never set eyes on the Holy City.

  As he approached Acre, the weather improved. The clouds lifted and a pallid sun tinged the gray sea with gold. Above the great tawny walls of Acre flew the Hohenstaufen eagle. Lush sugarcane as high as a man, its spear-shaped leaves glossy with rain, lined the side of the sandy road. Soon it would be cut and its juice turned to sugar. The abundance of sugar here had astonished the crusaders. Sugar was a costly luxury in Europe, unknown to anyone but the very rich.

  Despite the wet cloak that dragged on his shoulders, Frederick’s gloom began to lift, too. The coastal towns were in his hands. And the sultan was having difficulties of his own. All that was required now was patience, and time.

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, on a cold, clear morning, a Sicilian galley docked in the harbor. Within hours a second galley, having been sent by a different route for reasons of safety, arrived as well. Both bore identical messages from the regent of Sicily, Rainald of Spoleto.

  Frederick, reading the duke’s letter, turned white. He handed the parchment to Berard. “The pope has invaded Sicily.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Berard said. His hand holding the letter shook. “He must be mad.”

  “He’s your pope, head of your Church!” Frederick yelled.

  “The pope is but a man.”

  Frederick crashed his fist onto the table. “He’s a vicious, self-seeking old fool. I’ll sweep his soldiers like vermin off the soil of Sicily, and cast him into a black dungeon, to rot forever!”