“Go get me the stuff, Miklos.”
The little Greek’s fingers tapped on his knife hilt.
“Now.”
A foot scraped on the deck. Miklos looked beyond Frederick, back into his face, and shut his eyes. In a burst of energy he dove out from under the railing and charged for the afterdeck hatch.
“Jesus,” Pico said.
“I don’t mind telling you that I have hated every day of this voyage,” Enrico said, “and I fully expect to hate every day of it yet to come.”
“Enrico, how could you? The pleasures of a sea journey, the fresh salt air, the sky—” Frederick looked up at the stars, radiating subtle colors, peppering the sky. “I love it.”
“Sire. Forgive me if I’m offensive. Why can’t you act like an emperor?”
“Oh? How am I not acting like an emperor?” He leaned his weight against the tiller bar and felt the ship answer. Steering was better than anything else.
“You’re . . .” Enrico made an exasperated sound. He moved the lantern closer, between them. “You know what I mean.”
“I am Emperor. Therefore everything I do is what an emperor does.” Frederick shrugged. “I don’t see your point.” It was hard to pay attention to what Enrico said.
“What if Miklos had pulled his knife after you ordered me off?”
The hashish was soft enough to spread with a knife, like butter, and Miklos had been right that there was enough to keep anybody in a stupor for weeks. Frederick tried to keep from laughing, but it was hard. Enrico didn’t know that he was floating. “He wouldn’t have.”
“What if he had?” Enrico leaned his arms on the railing and stared out to sea.
“I’d have killed him. Or you would have.”
“For the love of God. He’s a sailor, he knows how to fight.”
“So do I.”
“You’re diminishing yourself.”
“Am I?”
Under his hand the tiller worked and by habit he compensated. Enrico moved his shoulders. In the lantern light his face was full of lines.
“No. But you’re defeating your purpose. You know that, don’t you?”
“Why?”
“Because we—” Enrico lifted his hands. “We love you. But not because you are Emperor. Because you are Frederick.”
“Oh.” That was a good point. The hashish fog receded slightly; the thought pierced it like a cold wet draft in a warm room. “Enrico, I didn’t know you indulged in the philosophy of statecraft.”
“I’m smarter than you think I am. All right. Everything you do is imperial. Fine. I’ll stop worrying about it. But will you please not get yourself killed?”
“Promise.”
“And if you’re going to eat hashish, stay out of bright lights. Your eyes are the size of saucers.”
Frederick jerked, startled. Enrico twitched the lantern a little closer, looked, and smiled. “I told you. I’m smarter than you think I am.”
Frederick laughed.
“Cyprus, Your Majesty,” the Captain said, nodding.
Frederick smiled glumly, “I see,” and went below to change his clothes.
They hey were all waiting for him in Limassol, on Cyprus—the Grand Master, the Archbishop, Tommaso d’Aquino, Ricardo Filangieri, a dozen barons disenchanted with the current regency, envoys from the Templars and the Hospitallers, envoys from Antioch and Acre and Tyre, and it was like stepping out of the clean air of the sea into a miasma. They were all around him, their voices babbling, from the quay to the castle of Limassol; everybody wanted something or had a report to give him. The King and the bailli of the Kingdom of Cyprus—John d’Ibelin—weren’t there. At the castle itself Frederick had to sit through a long and grueling ceremony of greeting, with speeches by nearly every citizen of Limassol, including the chatelain of the castle who twice burst into stuttering fits that turned his face bright red and made everybody else nervous. There was nothing to do for it. While the old man stood there fighting his own tongue everyone had to stand and watch, pretending it actually wasn’t happening. Finally everything was over and done with and they got to eat, but the food was cold and so lightly seasoned Frederick couldn’t tell the difference in the meats. He snarled at Corso for filling his cup with the wrong wine, and Corso nearly fell over backward in surprise.
The Grand Master, on his left, took one look at him and was silent, but the chatelain on his right maintained a hysterical babble about the affairs of the island, stuttering every other word. Frederick made up a list of comments—“Oh, really,” “Quite so,” “Fascinating,” and “Well, of course”—and used them, in the same order, whenever the situation seemed to call for something from him. The chatelain apparently didn’t notice. The envoy from the Templars, a gaunt man in lavish silks, watched him gloomily all through the meal.
Amalric Barlais, the Cypriot who had once had pretensions to the place of bailli that John d’Ibelin now held—Amalric Barlais was not in sight, and as soon as the banquet was over and the entertainment begun, Frederick asked the Grand Master about him.
“He’s here,” the Grand Master said. He hitched his chair closer so that he could talk without the dozens of people around them hearing. “He’s not at the table because he’s an outlaw on Cyprus. Why, did you want to talk to him especially soon?”
“It’s not necessary.” Frederick twitched one hand. “I’ll see him later.” The jugglers were juggling madly right in front of him, their girl attendants turning somersaults and doing handstands under his eyes.
“Aside from the fact you’re in a terrible humor, you’re looking very well, Sire. The voyage must have been good for you.”
“It was fun.” He glanced at the Grand Master and grinned. “Is it obvious I’m in a bad mood?”
“To those who know you, Sire. Tommaso and Berardo and I all came to the conclusion separately.”
Frederick leaned out to look at the Archbishop, who was chatting with his neighbor. The neighbor caught sight of Frederick and nudged the Archbishop, who looked up, cocking his eyebrows. Frederick inclined his head slightly and sat back. The jugglers’ pretty assistants were dressed in translucent trousers and short tight bodices, and he was considering scandal.
“Sire,” the Grand Master said. “I’m very sorry about the Empress.”
Frederick’s stomach caved in. “I’d almost forgotten.”
“Then I’m sorry I reminded you. Berardo—”
The Archbishop pulled up a stool and sat down on Frederick’s right, opposite the Grand Master—the chatelain had gone long before, nearly ill with nerves. “Sire. My congratulations.”
Frederick was still thinking about Yolande; he jerked up his head.
“You didn’t yawn once through the entire ceremony.”
Frederick whooped. “I came close.” He looked back at the girls. This was no time to indulge in guilt. Quickly he narrowed the possibilities down to two, a redhead and a girl with long, long black hair and olive skin. “Suppose you tell me about Cyprus, Berardo, it’s so tedious being ignorant.”
“Barlais can tell you better than either of us. Or Tommaso can. It’s my opinion, Sire, that you—”
The spectators all around them let out a roar that drowned his voice. The jugglers were tossing lighted torches back and forth, fluttering cartwheels of fire, while the girls turned somersaults in the air between them. The redhead wasn’t as nimble as the dark girl, and Frederick grinned. He stuck one hand out behind him for Corso.
“—that you call all the major barons of Outremer to Cyprus and consult with them before you go to Acre.”
Frederick nodded; he’d considered that already. “Of course, if anybody said, ‘Thank you kindly, no,’ I’d be in a bit of difficulty, wouldn’t I? What about John d’Ibelin?”
In the little pause he watched his girl turn a particularly athletic somersault. Corso had come up behind the Grand Master.
“He’s not here,” Hermann said, lamely.
“Obviously. His suzerain comes to Cyprus,
and the bailli of the kingdom isn’t here to welcome him. Nor is the King, who is in the bailli’s care.”
“The Ibelins don’t behave like ordinary men,” the Archbishop said. “As I’m sure Barlais has told you.”
“He sent a man to Sicily to make sure I heard of it. Gavin of somewhere or other. The blond one over there drinking.”
“Sire,” the Grand Master said. “Barlais is heavily biased.”
“I know.” So am I; Ibelin should be here. “Excuse me a moment, Hermann.” He nodded to Corso, who ducked in between him and the Grand Master. Frederick drew the boy’s head down by the collar of his coat and whispered, “Tell Ricardo I’ll take the dark one and he can have the redhead for once.”
Corso straightened, bowed, and went smiling off toward Filangieri, who had been staring as hard as Frederick at the girls. The Grand Master said, “In any case, Sire, if you meet with the important men here, you’ll have a chance to find out what’s going on in Outremer before you go there in person.”
Frederick said, “It’s infinitely more important that I get some kind of confirmation of my rights as Regent for my son. Whom should we summon?”
“Guy Embriaco of Jebail,” the Archbishop said.
“Why?”
“Because he’s rich.”
“Good, I need money. Guy Embriaco. Bohemund of Antioch, obviously. Who else?”
“Two or three people from Tripoli, and some of the smaller barons from the south. And Balian of Sidon. He’s more inclined to you than anybody else, big or little, and he’s influential. He’s related to very nearly everybody west of the Jordan. Probably east of it too.”
“I thought Bohemund held Tripoli.”
“He does, but there are valuable men there not in his party.”
“Bohemund isn’t a vassal of the King of Jerusalem, is he? A pity. He should be.”
“The baby’s strong, I hear,” the Grand Master said.
“He looks like every other baby I’ve ever seen.” The juggling was over, and now they had animals in doing tricks. Frederick drank another cup of wine; he was getting drunk, and suddenly he was sick to death of the whole thing, Crusade and all. “Hell, I’m sleepy. Can’t I go now?”
“Soon,” the Archbishop said. “Here comes Tommaso.”
Tommaso d’Aquino and Enrico were walking quickly toward them; they bowed and Frederick waved irritably to them to stop. “Where’s Ricardo?”
“Gone to make sure of your girls.” Enrico settled himself comfortably on his heels in the packed space around Frederick. “Your taste is exquisite. You should see her up close.”
The Archbishop frowned. “Sire, perhaps you shouldn’t add to the rumors—”
“Ssssh.” The Grand Master knocked him on the arm. “Sire, when you speak to Barlais, remember: he hates the Ibelins.”
“Oh, God. I’ll remember.”
“And Tommaso has some—”
Tommaso bristled. “I’m perfectly capable myself of saying what I have to, Sir Hermann, thank you. Sire, I’ve got detailed reports I’d like you to hear as soon as you can. Before anybody else gets here, to cloud the issue.”
“Naturally. Look, do you suppose I can leave now?”
“You’re the Emperor, Sire, you aren’t supposed to—”
“Well, I am.” He stood, and the whole huge hall heaved itself violently to its feet. The trained dogs and monkeys shambled around on the floor while their master snapped orders, and suddenly even the dogs and monkeys were bowing. Frederick laughed.
“Give him some money. Give the jugglers some money. Is it hot in here or am I running a fever?” He plunged for the door behind the high table. The crowds packed around him suddenly surged toward him, murmuring, but the men around him fended them off and the mob of courtiers couldn’t get near. While pages and sentries got the door open, Frederick glanced around; he saw the shine and glow of their eyes and realized that this was one of the biggest events of their lives. The arrival of an emperor on crusade—he went through the door and across a smaller hall to stairs.
“Provincials,” Enrico .said, “Why don’t you tell everybody how you got so tanned, Sire?”
“Shut up. And don’t you tell them, either.” At the top of the wide stone stairs he looked both ways, bewildered. “Where do I go?”
“Down here.” Corso appeared from an alcove. “They’re beautiful rooms, you’ll be amazed, Sire.”
“What’s in them?”
Corso laughed. “I don’t think she speaks Italian.” His eyes shifted to the men with him, and he led off, strutting a little. Frederick started unlacing the front of his coat, walking behind Corso and between the Archbishop and Tommaso.
“The envoy from the Templars. Who’s he?”
“Treasurer of the Order—Jean de Neuville.” Tommaso trotted a few steps to reach the door ahead of Frederick and hold it for him, yanking it from the hands of a page to do so. “One of my reports concerns the Templars.”
“Fascinating.”
They went into the anteroom and through it into a dressing chamber; Frederick shed clothes with each step. “Start reciting. Ricardo—is he—hey, Rico.”
“Sire.” Filangieri knelt briefly. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to greet you personally earlier—”
“I know. How many men do you have now?”
“Four hundred and ninety-four—two died in passage and four since in Acre. And the Duke of Limburg still has a few thousand men, but they’re leaving every day to go home. I’d love to.”
Frederick socked him in the chest. “Later. You’re doing a good job, I can’t afford not to have you here. Think of Tommaso, he hasn’t been home in years.” He went across the room to a table with a pitcher of water on it and splashed some on his face, trying to get rid of the muzziness of having drunk too much.
“Shall I summon those barons, Sire?” the Archbishop said.
“Yes.” Frederick turned, and Corso handed him a towel. “Be polite. Where’s Barlais?”
“Coming,” Tommaso said. He was marking something down on a sheaf of notes; he didn’t look up.
“Good. Report.”
While Tommaso gave him a broad summary of the supplies in Acre, the defenses of the Kingdom of Outremer, the relations of the barons, the proceedings of the High Court, the high and low and middle diplomacy inside the kingdom and with the Arab courts, Frederick changed into light silk and sat and listened. Barlais came in during one of Tommaso’s dispassionate speeches; he bowed, advanced a little, and paused, unsure. Gavin of Chenichy was with him. Frederick thought of the girl waiting in the next room and drifted to a window to look at the moon. It was past midnight. He stood in the window listening to Tommaso and watching the lights move around in the next keep—pages lighting other guests to their beds.
“Sire,” Tommaso said, “what follows concerns matters probably best kept confidential.”
“Oh?” Frederick turned. “All right. Everybody has my leave except Tommaso.”
Barlais stepped forward. “Sire?”
“You too. I’ll see you in the morning. I’m tired. Hermann, see to anything I’ve overlooked.” He sat down on a stool, took a comb from Corso, and sent him out as well. The others were all swiftly gone, all probably dead tired. Frederick combed his hair.
“First of all,” Tommaso said, “there’s this business with John d’Ibelin. I assume Barlais and his friends told you he seems to have dispensed with the usual procedure for becoming bailli.”
“Yes. They say he’s stealing revenues.”
“Well, technically he has. Now, this man is the most loved and respected noble in the entire Frankish East. It would do you absolutely no good to accuse him of wrongdoing. You’d never get a judgment against him out of the High Court. His brother was ban Philip, that was—and when he died John simply took over. He was never appointed and never confirmed. But he’s been working to the satisfaction of the High Court of Cyprus and the nobles, and they’ll never stand for your replacing him with a Sicilian
, for instance.”
“You?”
Tommaso shrugged. “They dislike me. I’ve made them do things they don’t like. I’ve been effective, and they don’t like that.”
“Unh-hunh.”
“But I would advise very strongly that you do something about him. He seems to have assumed the post of bailli because he was his brother’s next of kin.”
“That’s dangerous. Besides, the King is a child, and during a regency . . .” He frowned. “I know what happens during long regencies.”
“Indeed, Sire.”
Tommaso was silent a moment, staring toward the window. Frederick turned and studied him; Tommaso was the most efficient man he knew, including himself. He looked tired and a little harassed, but he usually did.
“You asked me, remember, to investigate discreetly the affairs of the Military Orders in Acre.”
“Yes. Sit down.” The comb caught on a snarl and he had to work the hair loose with his fingers.
“I did, naturally. Not through the High Court, which as you’ve gathered isn’t amenable to control from anywhere, least of all an imperial agent. My sources are not unimpeachable, but they’re good enough, and I was careful to verify everything from as many different sources as possible.”
“I know how you work.”
“First of all, both the Templars and the Hospitallers are much, much richer than the Teutonic knights.”
“I know that.”
“Well, there’s more. Their original purpose seems to have died. They still conduct occasional campaigns but they seem to be merely for show. The Hospitallers . . . seem merely gluttonous and ambitious. The Templars are somewhat different. They are in close touch—in some cases extraordinarily close touch—with all three important Arab courts, and with Khwaresm.”
Frederick looked up, surprised.
“Their interests and investments are closely enough linked to the situation in Outremer that they’re willing to manipulate for their own gains—increased pressure on a certain area by the Arabs, for example, will force the region to rely more heavily on the Templars. Considering that the kingdom is nothing more than a scrap now, it’s rather selfish and shortsighted of them. The Arabs can wipe them out easily enough. They seem to pay a tribute to al-Kamil. I’m sure they paid a tribute to al-Mu’azzam before he died but en-Nasr isn’t worth their trouble.”
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