“Do you usually get into fights?” Theophano said. She leaned her arms on the table. Mutu sat down on Frederick’s other side.
“He’s one of the Italians,” he said to Theophano.
“Yes. I thought you were in Antioch.”
“I was, but Bohemund’s people started getting nervous.”
Mutu glanced at Frederick. “I heard a rumor you were with the Emperor. What happened?”
Theophano shrugged one shoulder. “Things like that never last. You don’t have any hashish, do you?”
“Not here. I could get some, though—Acre is floating in it, all the Templars and Hospitallers use it.”
“Where do they get it?” Frederick said.
Mutu moved his big hands, palms up. “From Damascus, I think. Or Cairo. They’re very tight with the Moslems.”
Frederick’s eyes narrowed. Diplomatic channels . . .
The balance and flexibility of the Franks in Syria amazed him, that they could adjust everything so delicately without changing the outward appearance at all. He began to wonder how much an agreement between him and al-Kamil would disturb it—on the other hand, if a detente was already functioning, a legitimate truce should be easier to arrange.
“Mutu, do you know anything about the Saracen spies in Jaffa?”
“Not a thing. They don’t circulate around here.” Mutu took Ezzo’s empty cup, filled it, and threw the wine in a torrent down his throat. “They hang around in the Old Quarter—where the people lived before the Emperor came. Mutaq is the one you want, if you’ve got something to sell.”
Oh, really? “Not right now. Later, maybe. Could you . . . put me in touch with him if I wanted it?”
Mutu shrugged. “I can do anything.”
Frederick threw his head back and laughed. Beside him, Theophano whispered, “Mutu, get me some hashish.”
“Sure. How much?”
“A jug.”
Off across the room somebody shouted and Mutu leaped up. “They’re fighting again—I’ll be back.” He strode through the mob toward the corner near the door, from which came shouts and the meaty thunk of fists on bone. Frederick watched him go and drank some wine.
“Interesting. You never told me you had friends like that.”
Theophano grinned. Ezzo said, “Shall we go find Mutaq for you?”
“No. As long as I know where, who, and what, we may as well let them alone.” He mulled it over in his mind, working out ways to control the information the spies fed to al-Kamil. “Sometime we ought to go have a talk with him, though.”
Mutu was carting out two squirming, shrieking men, one in each hand. Theophano said, “He isn’t stupid, you know. The only reason he didn’t guess who you were is because he can’t imagine anybody like you coming here. Be careful.”
“I will.” Frederick leaned back and under the table slid his hand through the opening in her coat. “I will.”
“I was afraid you’d pick a fight with him, before.”
“Who, me?” He looked at her, startled. “Not with him, he’d kill me.”
“Then why did you—”
She bit the last word off and looked away, her forehead creased. Under his fingers the smooth skin of her belly grew tight. Mutaq, he thought. Tomorrow . . .
Ezzo said, “Is this all they do, stand around and drink?”
“What do you want?” Theophano said. “You can probably dice upstairs, and there are girls there.”
Fulk said, “Next door.”
“I mean—let’s have a little excitement,” Ezzo said.
“Can’t.” Frederick held the wine ewer over his cup, but nothing came out. “How can anybody start a fight when Mutu’s here?” He handed the ewer to Fulk. “Get us some more.”
Fulk stood up to look for the boy. Three men arguing were leaning on the table, and Frederick picked up both feet, set them on the rump of the nearest, and shoved. With a wail the man stumbled into the crowd, dragging one of the others with him. The man remaining swung around, but Ezzo picked up his sword, and the man turned hastily to help the other stand. Mutu came back through the mob and sat down again at their table.
“So you might have some reason to go to Mutaq,” he said, looking at Frederick. The boy came with the wine, and when Fulk tried to pay, Mutu waved the boy off. “What kind of reason?”
Frederick slid his hands up and down on the table top. Fulk was watching Mutu through eyes closed to slits. “I didn’t think you knew anything about that,” Frederick said.
“I don’t, but I’m curious. What’s the matter, aren’t you happy with the way the Crusade is going?”
Ezzo obviously didn’t know what was happening. Frederick stared at him, ready to shut him up if he spoke. “Let’s say I think things could be better.”
“Need money?”
Ezzo’s head jerked up, and Frederick scowled at him. Beyond Theophano, Fulk was half smiling.
“I might.”
“What’s your rank?”
Frederick looked calmly from Ezzo to Mutu, who was leaning forward intently. “I’m highly placed. Ask her.”
Mutu straightened up, his eyes flickering to the others. With a coil of shoulder muscle he turned his head to look back. “I may know somebody who would . . . be interested in talking to you. If you need money and you . . . agree with him on some things, he might be able to use your help.”
Frederick smiled, at him. “I don’t work for other people. Be more specific.”
“No. I don’t mix in that kind of thing, I just carry information.” Mutu’s white teeth gleamed. “I don’t work for other people either.”
“How would you like to work for me?”
Ezzo got up and walked out. Frederick looked after him and back to Mutu, who was shaking his head.
“I don’t understand.”
“You say you carry information. Obviously you get paid well. I’ll pay you double if you pass everything on to me as well as the intended ears.”
The corners of Mutu’s mouth drew down. “Theo—”
“Don’t ask her. Will you?”
“I could lose a lot of friends and get myself killed doing that.”
“On the other hand, you could get yourself hung for not doing it.” Frederick took hold of Theophano’s wrist to keep her from saying anything.
In Mutu’s steady eyes the faint bewilderment gave way to cold, even anger. “I stepped right into that, didn’t I?”
“With both bare feet, yes.” Frederick stood up, pulling Theophano up out of her chair. “Somebody will come here tomorrow. If you’re still around, I’ll take it that you’re working for me. We can arrange the details later.”
Mutu said nothing; his eyes stared past Frederick’s shoulder. Ezzo stood in the side doorway, his sword half hidden under his cloak. Hanging onto Theophano, Frederick headed for the door, almost running.
“Let’s go,” Ezzo said when they were all outside in the dark. “Let’s get out of here.”
Fulk said, “That’s a good idea. He might try to kill you.”
Frederick wrenched his arm out of Ezzo’s grasp. “Now, come on, don’t get overexcited. I came down here to get drunk and I’m not drunk yet.”
“Exactly,” Theophano said. “But sober you managed to insult Mutu, and God knows what you’ll do when you’re drunk.”
“I intend to find out.” He swung away from them and started down the street. With a rush they caught up with him and grabbed hold of him.
“Are you trying to get yourself—”
“Let go of me,” Frederick said.
Ezzo and Fulk stepped back, but Theophano did not, she looked up at him and said, “Let’s go back. You can’t—”
“I can do whatever I want, and I’m going to, damn you.”
“If you talk to me like that again, I’ll leave you.”
He had already begun to push by her, but he stopped, amazed, and looked down at her face. Her level eyes, the hard set of her mouth—she meant it. He licked his lips. “What do you
mean?”
“What I said.”
She looked at him a moment longer, lowered her eyes, and started walking away, up the street. Ezzo and Fulk stood on either side, their eyes on him. Waiting for him. He looked after Theophano, who was nearly to the corner. I can let her go and stay down here; in the morning she’ll change her mind. A moment after he’d thought it he didn’t believe it. If he didn’t go with her she wouldn’t go back to the palace. Stay anyway. She can’t—
Theophano turned the corner out of sight and he broke into a hard run after her. The walls of the buildings on either side threw back the echoes of his and Fulk’s and Ezzo’s footsteps. Up at the corner a cart drawn by a mule appeared, coming from the harbor—the driver reined in and stared while they ran past.
As soon as he could see her, up ahead, he slowed down to a jog. She had no reason to . . . Stupid, silly, like all women. She heard them coming and stopped and waited, near the arch over the street. Two strides from her, he slowed to a walk; she fell in beside him when he passed her.
“You can’t go home alone.”
“It isn’t that long a distance. You could have sent Fulk with me.”
His shoulders quivered. She meant to make him angry, she had to, or she wouldn’t be doing this. He stared straight ahead at the top of the street, where he could see the torches of the watch coming toward them.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You shouldn’t have said any of it.”
Three more strides, ringing on the cobblestones. The watch came trotting past them on his big horse, the muffled bell tied to the cantle of his saddle clanking with every step.
“I said I was sorry,” she said stiffly.
“You can’t help it, you’re a woman, all women do things like that. I’m going to start in on young boys.”
“Oh? How have you managed to overlook them for so long?”
He glared at her. Fulk and Ezzo had dropped back several strides. “Keep on talking like that,” Frederick said, snarling.
She stopped dead, her eyes huge with rage. “I intend to. Until I’m dead. And if you don’t like it—”
“I don’t.” He kept on walking. She ran after him, caught up, and clutched his arm to make him stop.
“I said I was sorry. Damn you, will you stand still?”
“All right.” He stood still. She threw off her cap—her hair was hanging in her eyes—and with both hands flung her hair back over her shoulders.
“I said I was sorry. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not going one step farther until you apologize to me.”
For a moment he was, so angry he couldn’t get the words out straight. He raised both hands, got himself back together, and shouted, “For what?”
Her mouth fell open. “Why—for talking to me like that.”
“Like what? I still don’t know why the hell you’re acting like this, except I wanted to go get drunk and you—”
“Forget it,” she said, and smiled. Abruptly her whole face was soft again, the hard lines gone, and her eyes bright. “I’m sorry.” She hugged him, and he put his arms around her, completely bewildered.
“Theophano—”
“Let’s go home.”
I’m lying here in this bed and in a while I’ll call the pages and have breakfast and get dressed, and there will be no message from al-Kamil. I’ll go through the whole day waiting for the message from al-Kamil and there will be none; I’ll keep wishing the night would come so I could sleep and get rid of the time until morning, when a message might come, but in the morning a message will not have come. . . .
“What’s wrong?” Theophano said.
“Nothing.”
“Shall I call the pages in?”
“If you want to.”
He thought of the work he had to do—the organization of a local government for Jaffa, the daily work of the Crusade, the decisions for Sicily—and shut his eyes. Too much. I’ll never do it, I don’t know where to start. How am I going to get from here to there? Everything overwhelmed him in a tide and he rolled over and put his head in his arms.
“Red.”
She put her arms around him, pressing herself against his back, and curled her legs around his. Warm and moist, her breath came and went against his neck. He sighed; the cradle of her arms and legs made him feel better, but he didn’t know why. I love you. Something always held him back from saying it. She would . . . withdraw from him. He didn’t know how he knew it. She would start talking about other things and he’d lose the moment, and he wanted to hang onto it.
“Call the pages,” she murmured.
“All right.”
Sitting up, he shook his hair back out of his eyes. One thing at a time, bit by bit, put it all together like a puzzle and make it look good. He yelled for Corso and slid out of the bed.
When he was dressed and had eaten and dealt with a handful of early-morning petitioners and sent Marino off to find some old charters, he went out onto the balcony of the palace and leaned on the rail. From here to the harbor the city was clean and filled with people and donkeys and carts—they even had a bazaar set up at the far end of this street. He looked toward the wall, squinting against the sun; the Grand Master was supervising the rebuilding of it. Swarms of men covered it, lugging stone around, filling the gaps with mortar and mud, and a train of mules ran off into the hazy distance. Dull as lead, his mood pressed down around his heart and lungs, and for a moment he concentrated on staying alive.
“Your Majesty.”
“Yes, Marino.”
“Excuse me, Sire, for disturbing you, but this is urgent.” Marino came out onto the balcony, his feet scuffing the new carpet—a present from Balian of Sidon. In his hand was a thick packet of paper. Frederick turned and took it from him. On the seal was Piero’s special mark, and the whole outside of the packet was scribbled with instructions and cryptic notations.
“Shall I wait, Sire?”
“No.” He read the note in Piero’s handwriting—“Most express and secret.” His skin grew cold. Taking the dagger from his belt, he slit the packet open and unfolded it.
“From Palermo, this seventh day of December in the year of our Lord 1228—”
“Palermo,” Frederick said. He glanced around—Marino had gone; through the open doors he saw people moving around inside, but no one had heard him. He swallowed and flipped to the important part of the letter, marked in red ink.
“The mercenaries of the Pope under the command of John of Brienne have seized control of all of mainland Sicily. Lucera holds out but is steadily besieged. We have moved the apparatus of government to Palermo and continue to rule from here, in Your Majesty’s name.”
The letter blurred. Frederick stood still, aware of the heat of the sun and the noise from the street, of the harsh rustle of the papers in his hands. His hands were trembling. He dropped the letter on the floor and wrapped his arms around himself. Gradually his sight cleared—everything looked extraordinarily sharp and real. So even if I win here, everything there will be lost. He thought of Sicily—of the macchia, the wide, empty horizon, and the marshes. He has it. He took it. And I can’t go back and . . .
“Frederick.”
“Good morning, Dawud.” He stared blindly into the distance.
Fakhr-ad-Din came slowly over to the railing and turned to face him. “I’m sorry. I have nothing to give you except the dubious benefits of my conversation.”
Frederick jerked his gaze around toward him. “Do you know about this?”
Fakhr-ad-Din nodded. “We’ve known of it for some time. You see, one of our best spies is the Pope himself, who tells us what he thinks will keep us from helping you.”
Within Frederick’s chest something leaped violently. He dropped his arms to his sides. “Tell al-Kamil that he might find it less troublesome to give me Jerusalem and let me go home than to have me here as King of Jaffa.”
“We’ve considered that.”
“If I have to, I�
�ll start all over again, Dawud. Here in Jaffa. And he’ll have more to worry about than en-Nasr and al-Ashraf and the Khwaresmians, even if I’m king of nothing but lizards.”
Fakhr-ad-Din smiled. “Of this there’s no need to convince me. The rebuilding of Jaffa and the depths to which you’re already involved in the affairs of Syria are sufficient evidence. Corso told me that you ate very little at breakfast—will you have something with me?”
The other man’s direct eyes and his smile loosened something in Frederick’s mind. He looked toward the wall again, and toward the Angel Tower, half rebuilt; they were swaying up a net full of iron rods to the top level.
“Yes. Fine.”
Fakhr-ad-Din clapped his hands and through the doors came files of pages with small tables and chairs and trays of jellied meats and fruit and bread cut into stars and circles, soaked in butter and toasted brown. Frederick’s mouth watered. While the pages set up their tables and spread out the food he and Fakhr-ad-Din sat down and washed their hands in little golden bowls of scented water. Fakhr-ad-Din lifted the top from a pot of couscous and sniffed.
“Ummm. Marvelous.” He put the top back. “Your commander in Sicily doesn’t seem to be entirely adequate.”
“He’s brash.” Frederick dried his hands and sent a page after the letter, which had blown into a corner. “And the Pope has the money to buy the best generals in Europe.” He took the letter and flipped through it.
“Well, you know, if you’d left your barons in possession of their castles, Sicily would be in better condition to face something like this.”
“Un-hunh.” Piero had written a brief summary of the campaign—the Pope had met no resistance except at Lucera and a few other fortified towns that they’d managed to garrison. “I hate wars.”
Fakhr-ad-Din directed a page to serve him couscous and fruit. “So do I, of course. How extensive do you think the damage is?”
“I don’t know. I won’t be able to figure that out until I’ve had a chance to read this through.” He folded the papers and thrust them inside his coat. “Corso, ask Yusuf to come here and play for us.” He watched his hands moving with the spoon and fork. How can I do this? I ought to be screaming and banging my head against the wall. More structure. If I keep going through the motions, everything will be all right. Maybe.
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