All the problems eventually ended up on the Lord of Ibelin’s plate, because he was now recognized—whether reluctantly or not—as Lord of Paphos.
“Come,” Maria Zoë urged, reaching out to lay her hand on her husband’s. “Let’s take a day off and ride to the pomegranate trees—wherever they may be—tomorrow.”
Balian took a deep breath and was about to say “yes,” when a knock at the door interrupted him. He looked over, and John went to answer the door.
On the far side stood Ayyub ibn Adam, the apprentice mason. The young man was dressed like a Cypriot merchant or bureaucrat in a linen kaftan, belted at the waist. He was bearded and wore a wooden cross prominently on his chest. He bowed deeply to John and then, looking deeper into the room, to Ibelin.
“Ah, Ayyub!” Ibelin smiled and gestured for him to come forward—but then, noticing he was alone, he asked a little sharply, “Where is Master Moses?” Although bit by bit the drainage system had been repaired and whole sections of the city now had working sewers, the aqueduct was still not working. Balian had convinced himself that if he could get the fountains working again, the mood of the public might turn more favorable.
“Master Moses wasn’t feeling very well this morning,” Ayyub explained apologetically, bowing again in embarrassment.
Ibelin grimaced. The one-handed master builder was unquestionably a disappointment. Far from being grateful for this new opportunity, he had proved difficult. He complained about the tools, the workers, the prices, the food, and even the weather. He had excuses for every setback, never taking responsibility for his own mistakes or inaction. Recently he had also taken to drink. Ibelin frowned and snapped irritably, “What did he do? Drink too much last night?”
Ayyub looked down and squirmed in discomfort, but he answered loyally, “I think he ate some bad shellfish.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that he was going to report yet another delay, would it?” Ibelin snarled.
John and Maria Zoë exchanged a look. It was this irritability that they found both alienating and worrying. The pomegranates had for a magical moment brought back the Balian they knew and loved, but now he was frowning and angry again.
“My lord.” Ayyub lifted his head and took a visible breath. “I think I’ve found a solution.”
“Meaning what?” Ibelin asked warily.
“May I show you?”
Ibelin nodded. Ayyub stepped forward, pulling a scroll of parchment out of his sleeve. He rolled the drawings out on the table and began explaining them. “Here is the source,” he indicated a spot in the upper right-hand corner. “The path of the Roman aqueduct ran here, through this limestone hill and out the other side. We have, as you know, cleared and repaired all the visible breaks in the aqueduct without water flowing. The only logical explanation is that something is blocking the water here—inside the tunnel.”
Ibelin nodded.
“So, I climbed into the tunnel and followed it until I found where it had collapsed.”
Ibelin cast the young man a look of approval that made Ayyub stand up straighter, even before Ibelin said, “Well done. And what did you find?”
“I went in from both directions, and a second time had men enter from the other entrance at the same time, measuring the distance. When we reached the blockages, we shouted and pounded on rock but could hear nothing of one another. If we measured the distance correctly, the two blocked passages are separated by a mile or more.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Ibelin observed dryly.
“No,” Ayyub admitted, but he was still standing upright, and Ibelin saw excitement in his eyes. “I don’t think we can clear the tunnel, my lord,” he started in a slightly breathless voice. “It would be very dangerous work, and it would be very expensive. We’d have to prop up the roof of the tunnel at short intervals all along the way. What I thought, however,” he hastened to get to the good news, “was that we could divert the water here.” He pointed on the map. “I’ve surveyed the land, and with a detour of just four miles, we could keep the water flowing downhill to reconnect with the aqueduct down here.”
“If it’s possible, why didn’t the Romans take that route?” Ibelin asked skeptically. Although what he’d seen of Ayyub had impressed him, he was still only an apprentice mason, and Ibelin had a hard time believing he could solve a problem like this. On the other hand, Ayyub didn’t complain, and he worked very long hours while his master was lounging about in taverns or sleeping off the wine he consumed there. Ayyub had also picked up Greek at an amazing pace, and had started calling himself “Antonis” so he blended in better. He wore the cross, too, Ibelin supposed, to underscore that he was Christian, even if his native tongue was Arabic.
Ayyub shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know, my lord. Maybe the Romans felt it was beneath their dignity to make a detour. The Romans liked straight lines.”
To everyone’s relief, Ibelin laughed. Then he looked more closely at Ayyub. “You really think you can do this?”
“Yes, my lord. And it’s not just me. One of the Greek masons showed me the pass.”
“Ah.” That not only made sense, it sounded like cooperation. That was very good news. “So you’ve befriended one of them, have you?”
“Well, actually, I get along with all of them, my lord,” Ayyub admitted immodestly. It was Moses who was constantly quarreling with them. His tendency to criticize, insult, shout, and blame had caused them to lose several of their best workers.
“I’m beginning to think I should have asked you to report to me alone before now,” Ibelin concluded. Although it went against the grain to speak to a man’s subordinate, there were times when it was necessary and valuable. “Ayyub—or should I say Antonis?”
“I prefer Antonis, my lord.”
“Good. Antonis. This Greek mason, is he a master?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ibelin glanced at Maria Zoë, and she moved over to the far side of the table.
“Do you think this Greek master mason could take charge of the project?”
Antonis looked disappointed, but he nodded.
“Antonis, I want you to finish your training. It is the best thing for you. Equally important, nothing leads to resentment faster than raising an unqualified man above a qualified one simply because of his connections. If I put you in charge before you have completed your training—before you are a journeyman, much less a master—everyone would say it is because you are my protégé, because you came from the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”
Antonis hung his head in defeat.
“If, however, you finish your training under this Greek master, you will gain credibility here—and, I promise, when you are finished, I will employ you. There is so much to do. I want a proper castle, for a start, and the Pope has promised to establish a Latin diocesan structure on Cyprus. I expect Paphos to be named an ecclesiastical see. A Latin bishop will want a proper Latin cathedral. Last but not least, I’ve already had letters from the Benedictines inquiring about a possible monastery here. If you get my aqueduct finished, you and this Greek master mason will be commissioned for the castle. Then—what?—five years from now?—you will be a master mason, and I can entrust you with the new projects. Does that sound fair enough?”
Antonis seemed to think for a minute, but then he nodded. “Yes, my lord. That is fair.”
“Then I want you to bring me this Greek master mason. I need to meet him, but—”
The pounding on the door this time was not polite but urgent, and Ibelin spun about, frowning already.
The door opened without waiting for anyone to call “come in” and Sir Galvin burst in, shoving a man with his hands tied behind his back in front of him. “We got him, my lord!” he announced more grimly than triumphantly, as he pushed the man down on his knees.
Antonis instinctively backed out of the way as Ibelin crossed the room toward the prisoner. The man on his knees was middle-aged and fat, with a puffy face around small, watery eyes
. For a criminal receiving this kind of treatment, he was exceptionally well dressed, in a long caftan over which he wore a cloak wrapped like a Roman toga. He had a gold collar and gold rings on his fingers to underline the point that he was not a poor man.
“Who is this, and what makes you so sure he’s the man?” Ibelin asked. Sir Galvin had been sent to find out who was behind the brutal beating of a recent settler, a Jacobite from Maria Zoë’s dower city of Nablus, who had set up a new bathhouse near the center of town. He charged the same prices as in Acre, which were substantially cheaper than the going rate in Paphos, and the Cypriot bath owners had come to Ibelin to protest. Balian had told them that they were overcharging and he had no intention of intervening. They had responded by spreading the rumor that Ibelin was taxing them more than the new immigrant, groaning that they were being ruined by his taxes. This had led to many natives boycotting the new establishment for a while, but the Latins and other settlers supported the newcomer. He had continued to prosper until two weeks ago, when he had been found in a gutter so badly beaten he was unconscious and slowly bleeding to death. He’d been carried to the castle, and Ibelin had sent for a doctor. Although the man was now on his way to recovery, Ibelin had vowed to find out who was behind this and publicly sentence them.
“His name is Niketas Blemidas. He owns the bathhouse near St. Solomoni, and one of his own customers betrayed him,” Sir Galvin answered smugly. Ibelin just raised his eyebrows, and Sir Galvin continued readily, “Said’s bathhouse has been closed ever since he was beaten within an inch of his life, and so people naturally went back to the other bathhouses. One of the customers overheard this pig bragging about how he’d ‘put an end’ to the ‘Syrian’s trade,’ and with any luck his rival would either die or ‘go back where he came from.’”
“Has he confessed?” Ibelin asked.
“You want a confession?” Sir Galvin asked, surprised. “Give me half an hour—if it takes that long.”
“Wait,” Maria Zoë interceded, not sure her husband, in his current mood, wouldn’t give Sir Galvin permission to torture the prisoner. Coming across the room, she addressed the prisoner in Greek, “Do you know who I am?”
The man looked down and mumbled, “Maria Comnena.”
“Yes. Correct. Do you know why you are here?”
“Your husband is determined to put me out of business. He hates me and all Cypriots.”
“Did he just say what I think he said?” Ibelin angrily asked his wife. She made a calming gesture and continued with her interrogation. Starting (to her husband’s outrage) with: “Yes, of course,” before continuing, “That’s why he’s repaired the drainage, has stopped the smuggling, and is working on restoring water flow to the city. But given the fact that he hates all Cypriots, why do you suppose he’s picking on you?”
“How should I know?” the man growled, sending Ibelin a look of loathing. “But if he tries to harm me, you’ll see the whole city rise up in rebellion!”
Ibelin’s Greek had been steadily improving, and he recognized the word “epanastatis”—rebellion. He had heard it all too often since his arrival here. He stiffened.
“Rebellion?” Maria Zoë asked back. “Why?”
“Because I’m a respected man from a good family. People look up to me!” the prisoner insisted. “Barbarians like your husband and his hounds have no right to lay a hand on me.” He looked up at Sir Galvin with contempt.
Maria Zoë spoke to her husband in French. “I think Sir Galvin is right and that this is the man behind the beating. However, I don’t think it would be wise to torture him just yet. He’s a bully, and right now he believes he has many friends and supporters who will rally around him. If you put him alone in a dungeon and leave him there for a few days, he may start to see the world a little differently.”
Ibelin nodded with resignation and gestured for Sir Galvin to take the prisoner away. He found the entire exchange very discouraging. “That man nearly murdered another man just because he works harder, and he calls us barbarians!” Ibelin shook his head.
Leaving, Sir Galvin nearly collided with the next party seeking an audience with Ibelin: Father Andronikos, accompanied by his wife and daughter. At the sight of Eirini, John’s face lit up, and he hastened across the room to welcome her and her parents. Andronikos’ wife, however, had caught sight of Maria Zoë and was intent on greeting her, her daughter in her wake. Father Andronikos was left smiling in the doorway. Because they were still separated by the language barrier, Ibelin called to his son, “John! I need a translator.”
The last thing John wanted to do was leave Eirini’s side, but he could not ignore a direct order from his father. Nor, in light of their fight the year before, did he want his father to think he had not grown up. With a bow to Eirini, he dutifully joined his father, who told him to greet Father Andronikos, assure him he was welcome, and ask his purpose.
Father Andronikos blessed Ibelin before answering John’s question about his purpose. “Well, the girls insisted they needed to come shopping,” he remarked with an indulgent glance toward his wife and daughter, “but I also have a request from Father Neophytos.”
Balian indicated they should sit in the window seat, and the three men crossed to it. John sat next to Father Andronikos, so he had a clear view to Eirini, still dutifully standing beside her mother as the latter deluged his own mother with a flood of words.
“The good work you have been doing to clear out the pirates has reached Father Neophytos’ ears,” Father Andronikos announced and John translated.
Ibelin dismissed the remark with a deprecating gesture. “Andersen had been dealing with smugglers more than pirates,” he noted.
Father Andronikos just smiled knowingly. “But it has not escaped Father Neophytos’ ears that you have been just as harsh with the Pisans and Genoese as with the Greeks and Cypriots.”
“Smuggling is smuggling,” Ibelin answered firmly and John translated a little distractedly, because Ayyub/Antonis had joined the women and was engaging Eirini in conversation. The young man was bronzed by the sun, muscular and, John felt, far too good-looking. He certainly didn’t like the way Eirini was smiling up at Antonis—practically the same way she smiled at him!
Father Andronikos was answering, and John had no choice but to focus on the conversation he was translating. “You may not know, but four years ago, when the Templars ruled the island, the Bishop of Paphos, a very wise and pious man by the name of Basil Kinnamos, felt he must personally bring word to the Patriarch in Constantinople of the terrible things that were happening here. He took ship at Paphos—but never arrived in Constantinople. There were no storms in the period he was traveling; it was summer. It is widely believed that he was seized by Pisan or Genoese pirates, who are known to have attacked a ship from Cyprus bound for Constantinople off Rhodes.” John indicated that Father Andronikos should stop so he could translate this monologue.
As was to be expected, Ibelin was suitably outraged, but also quick to point out that he had no way of knowing what had happened four years ago. At the time, he reminded the Greek priest, he had been focused solely on the fight against Saladin.
“I understand, but Father Neophytos was hoping your Norseman might be able to persuade the Genoese and Pisans that fall into his hands to be more forthcoming about the fate of the good Bishop Basil.”
“I can certainly ask him to question anyone—or indeed, everyone—who might be able to shed light on this incident,” Ibelin promised. Meanwhile, Eirini’s laughter floated across the room like the chiming of a bell, making John tense with jealousy.
“That is all we are asking,” Father Andronikos assured him with a smile, adding, “Father Neophytos thinks it would mean a great deal to the people here if the fate of their beloved bishop could be discovered. If the men responsible could be brought to justice, it would certainly go a long way to reconcile the inhabitants of Paphos to the new regime,” he added.
As John translated, the priest pushed himself back t
o his feet with his hands on his knees and declared, “And now I’d better go rescue your lady from my wife, who will otherwise talk her ear off. Good day, my lord. And to you, too, young—no, Sir Janis.” He held out his hand to John, and smiled particularly warmly at the young man—before firmly taking his wife and daughter by their arms. With a bow to Maria Comnena, he escorted his daughter and wife out of the chamber.
John was left behind, frustrated and simmering with jealousy, as Ayyub/ Antonis saw Eirini halfway to the door, bowing gallantly as she left.
Kyrenia, Cyprus, November 1196
It was one of those deceptively mild autumn days that Ibelin was already coming to expect on Cyprus. The sun warmed the air to summery temperatures. The breeze was light. The water was turquoise and aquamarine, and it sparkled like diamonds where the wind ruffled it. The ship gliding through the harbor entrance was flying all her bunting in a gaudy display reminiscent of a tournament field. Yet Ibelin’s eyes were drawn to the banner flying from the mainmast, high above the other bright-colored banners: the simple white with gold of Jerusalem.
The sight of it as it stretched out on a puff of wind stabbed Ibelin’s heart. No matter how much he liked being on Cyprus, the crosses of Jerusalem were an admonishment. He had not set eyes on the Holy City since the day he marched away after the surrender. And better so, men who had made the pilgrimage told him. The cross had been replaced by a crescent moon over the dome of the Temple of God, and the façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher was covered with Arabic graffiti.
Ibelin shook himself and concentrated on the present. On the deck of the ship gliding toward the quay was Henri de Champagne. He was dressed in rich robes of white silk trimmed with gold embroidery, and on his head he wore a flamboyant hat of cloth of gold bordered with white satin. He was not yet thirty years old, and looked young and fresh to Ibelin. Or was he himself just getting grizzled?
The Last Crusader Kingdom Page 45