Antichrist

by Cecelia Holland

  “No, but I’ll have some anyway. I’ve been noticing that of late you seem to be sinking into boredom, Frederick. Have you considered a hunting trip, perhaps? A few days spent in the desert, with the hawks and horses, should freshen your appetite for . . .” He made gestures, vague in the air, and smiled even wider.

  “An expedition of sorts?” Frederick handed him a cup of sherbet. “I could be interested.” But he had trouble keeping, his voice even, and Fakhr-ad-Din took one look at his face and laughed.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “I could leave tomorrow. Where?”

  “I’ll go along to see you don’t get lost. I’d suggest you bring your entire retinue, bar of course the Assassin, and a small guard of knights. One never knows what one might encounter in the desert.”

  “Of course not.” He laughed out loud. “What constitutes a small guard of knights?”

  “A hundred men or so.” Fakhr-ad-Din sat down. “And be prepared to bargain.”

  Frederick whooped. Stretching his arms over his head, he jumped so high his knuckles grazed the ceiling, whirled, and ran into the room Theophano had gone into. She was sitting on their bed, with her women around her sewing and mixing perfume and face cream. Frederick dodged through the pots, leapt onto the bed, and wrapped both arms around her waist. All the women screamed except Theophano.

  “What’s happened?” she said.

  “Nothing. Not yet.” He kissed her. “I’ll be gone for a little while, starting tomorrow. Can you live without me?”

  Her eyes blazed. “It came.”

  “Well, an invitation to it.”

  She flung her arms around him. “I knew it would—today felt lucky.”

  They rolled around on the bed a while, kissing and nuzzling each other. Frederick began to take off her clothes.

  “Can I tell anybody?”

  “No,” he said. “The way it came, I’m supposed to keep it secret.” He undid a bow and pulled her bodice away from her breast. It would be best to let out the news immediately—it would get them scared, up in Acre and Cyprus and in Rome. Mutu was going to be useful again. He pressed his mouth to her breast, chewing and sucking on her nipple. Her hand tangled itself in his hair.

  “Shouldn’t you be praying or something?”

  “I am. Thank God.” He glanced around; her maids had left, and he kicked his way awkwardly out of his clothes. Theophano stroked her thighs against him. He rolled over, pulling her on top of him, and shut his eyes. Love me—love me back. It was all over, all the waiting—he gulped and tightened his arms around her. “Oh, yes, oh, yes.” Heat poured through him in gigantic waves, and he hid his contorted face in her hair.

  * * *

  “We are within a day’s ride of Ramleh to the southeast,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “That’s where King Baldwin beat an enormous army with a handful of knights. To make sure no one thought it luck, he repeated it a few years later. King Baldwin the First, that was. Nablus is to the northeast. Beyond Ramleh is Hebron.”

  “In the summer this must be hell.” Frederick slewed around in his saddle to look back toward the wall, where his men were setting up tents. The gray-brown desert stretched out toward the horizon, pocked with dusty bushes. On his tongue he tasted the metallic harshness of the well water. “I assume we aren’t going to ride together, he and I, horse to horse.”

  “The Sultan is a short way away. He has caused a tent to be erected where you may meet. But that’s tomorrow.”

  “What decided him, do you know?”

  Fakhr-ad-Din squinted into the sun. On his hands jeweled rings flashed. “I’m not sure. Perhaps he’s reluctant to leave Nablus with this unfinished, and the need to leave Nablus grows great. Perhaps he simply got tired of listening to his council tell him how treacherous you are.” He touched his beard with his fingertips, and his eyes moved to regard Frederick solemnly. “Possibly he realized that unless he made a firm ally of you, your restless spirit, of which I and others have spoken, might induce you to adventures dangerous to him. Now, Frederick, you haven’t been talking to en-Nasr behind our backs, have you?”

  “I? Never.”

  Fakhr-ad-Din blinked once slowly. “Yet an ally who believes himself lightly considered might chafe and become a bad enemy. We should go back—standing around in the hot sun isn’t good for one’s health.”

  “I should send messengers to him—to arrange for the minor details.” Frederick turned his horse. The Saracens and Fakhr-ad-Din’s few attendants wheeled to follow.

  “I assure you, Frederick, he’s seen to that. All that’s necessary is that you arrive at the appointed place on the appointed morning.” Fakhr-ad-Din smiled, pulling his headcloth straight.

  “Splendid. How large is the tent, where do we sit, how many scribes and pages do we bring, do we bring soldiers with us, and if so, how many, how do we enter the tent—?”

  Fakhr-ad-Din frowned at him. “Frederick, you’re not a Moslem. These things ought not to concern you.”

  “I’m a Christian, and they do.” He watched a vulture circling, far above them and down the sky. “Who takes precedence in entering the tent?”

  “Obviously, since al-Kamil is the Sultan of Egypt and Syria, and you are a visitor—”

  “I’m Emperor. There is no other Emperor besides me, except the one in Constantinople, and he’s a forgery. Clearly, therefore, I take precedence over a Sultan when everybody knows that there are at least three Sultans and probably—”

  “What if the Sultan were to be seated in the tent when you entered?”

  “Out of the question.”

  They rode into the camp, and grooms ran alongside, ready to take their horses. The Grand Master had seen to setting up the camp; everything looked neat and in place and working. Frederick took a quick glance around and dismounted.

  “He has what you want,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “To be blunt.” He swung his leg across the cantle of his saddle and stepped down; grooms led the horses out from between them. “Obviously, you have to give him precedence.” He was grinning.

  “Well, I must have something he wants, or he wouldn’t give me what I want.” Frederick carefully took precedence over Fakhr-ad-Din entering the tent. Corso came up to take his cloak. “And since he asked me to come here, I ought to take precedence over him.” He took a gulp of the odd-tasting water and sat down. “By the way, are you authorized to discuss this kind of thing?”

  “Naturally,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “Why change horses so close to the end of the race? What about separate entrances, and both of you entering on a prescribed signal?”

  “Fine. But they have to be within sight of each other or he’ll try to sneak in ahead of me.”

  “Or you ahead of him.” Fakhr-ad-Din laced his fingers together. “I can see this will be delicate. Corso, don’t you have anything but water?”

  “I’ll bring you some sherbet,” Corso said. He left. Frederick took paper and a brush and ink from a chest on the table and in Arabic wrote: “Two entrances, within sight of each other.”

  “How do we sit?”

  “Side by side,” Fakhr-ad-Din said.

  “No. Then we have the quibble about left hand or right hand. What do we sit on? Camel saddles? Stone thrones?”

  Fakhr-ad-Din pursed his lips and thought. Frederick said, “Rugs with cushions?”

  “Suitable.”

  “Two rugs each and three cushions? That ought to keep us comfortable.”

  “Make it six cushions. My master sometimes likes to stretch out.”

  “Fine.” He wrote that beneath the first specification.

  “Attendants,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “On this he is adamant. Two scribes for each, and the discussion is to be in Arabic without translators.”

  Frederick threw the brush down. “Oh, no.”

  “He speaks no Italian, and the only member of his staff who does is I myself. I am a bad translator. He insists. You and most of your staff speak Arabic.”

  “I have no Arabic-writing scribes.”
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  “We will provide you with one.”

  “I’ll provide mine with a translator. With two translators. Tommaso d’Aquino and Sir Hermann von Salza.”

  Fakhr-ad-Din made a face. “That’s . . . difficult.”

  “I’d be glad to provide him with translators if he wishes them.”

  “That won’t be necessary, I’ll be in his retinue. Tommaso d’Aquino may come as a translator, but Sir Hermann will have to be reckoned one of your staff.”

  “All right.” Make the minor concession generously. “How many in the staff of each of us?”

  “Five. None to rank beneath the rank of emir.”

  “Tommaso for a translator. Balian of Sidon.”

  “Very good.”

  “Sir Hermann.”

  “Yes.”

  “The Archbishop.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ricardo Filangieri.”

  “Is no emir. No.”

  “Guy Embriaco.”

  “Satisfactory but not quite excellent.”

  “Conrad of Hohenlohe.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how many others can I take with me but not into the tent?”

  “Not above twenty knights and ten attendants.”

  “Fifty and thirty.”

  “There isn’t enough water in the well to keep them from thirst.”

  “We’ll bring our own water.”

  “Forty knights and ten attendants.”

  “Ten knights and forty attendants.”

  Fakhr-ad-Din was staring into space, all his attention focused on the problem. Frederick scribbled down the names of his staff.

  “Twenty knights and thirty attendants.”

  “Good. Fifty’s a nice number. Banners?”

  “Inside the tent, your personal banner and the banner of the King of Jerusalem. Al-Kamil will bring his personal banner.”

  “My imperial banner, Dawud. Give me some rank.”

  “My dear fellow, doesn’t your personal banner denote your rank?” Fakhr-ad-Din gave him an owl-eyed stare.

  “Yes. As Duke of Swabia. What about outside the tent?”

  “That’s up to the personal taste and abilities of you both.” Fakhr-ad-Din bowed.

  “Um-hmm.” Frederick wrote. If Fakhr-ad-Din and al-Kamil thought because he wasn’t in Sicily he couldn’t devise a display worth a Sultan’s, they were both piteously deluded. “Who will be with him?”

  “Ah. But you probably won’t recognize the names.”

  “Try me.”

  “Myself, although I’m the least, of course.” Fakhr-ad-Din ticked the names off on his fingers. “As-Salih Ayub.”

  “His eldest son. And al-Adil abu Bakr?”

  Fakhr-ad-Din nodded, beaming. “Charming young men, you’ll like them. Az-Zahir, King of Aleppo.”

  “He does seem to be fencing himself around with relatives.” Az-Zahir was al-Kamil’s cousin, the son of his uncle Salah-ad-Din. Since that side of the family had always quarreled with al-Kamil’s, they were clearly showing off their unity against Christians.

  “And his younger son, al-Musud,” Fakhr-ad-Din said. “He’s learned. So, of course, is my master.”

  “I know.” Frederick wrote down the names on another piece of paper. “What about eating and drinking and other details?”

  “You may bring five pages. We will provide the refreshments.”

  Frederick nodded. “The rugs ought to be on opposite sides of the tent, but not so far away we have, to shout. I’m willing to face Jerusalem if he’s willing to face Mecca.”

  “Excellent.”

  Frederick stared at the paper, trying to think of what he’d forgotten. He still couldn’t believe that this was happening finally, that tomorrow he would see al-Kamil and they would talk. That tomorrow he might have Jerusalem. He said, “Dawud, tell him that I would never push him so hard if I didn’t have to have it.”

  “I think he knows. He’s looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Yes.” Frederick grinned. “I’m sending a mule train of presents over there, do you want to send a message with it?”

  “I’ll use my own means, if you don’t mind. I should have an answer by sundown.” Fakhr-ad-Din stretched, sighing. “This is all starting to fit together and I’m glad.”

  “So am I.” He had to talk to Marino, to Tommaso, who had come into camp with the Archbishop that morning, to the Grand Master and Balian and Corso—millions of details to work out. He took another sip of the harsh water, got out another piece of paper, and started writing out instructions; his hands were so unsteady with excitement that he could barely hold the brush.

  With his answer al-Kamil sent presents in a vast train, piles of silk and cotton cloth, mounds of jewels and gold, pepper and sugar and camels and ivory, a chess set carved from some precious stone—green and white—that Frederick didn’t even recognize, and perfume, attar gill and myrrh, books on arithmetic and medicine and geography, and a map of the world engraved on a silver disk, imitating Idrisi’s.

  “He cleaned out all the closets in Nablus,” Frederick said, delighted. “I miss the six Sudanese slaves with red roses in their hair.”

  Tommaso said, “I trust you were as generous, Sire. You know how the Moslems fret about appearances.”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll have to build a new palace to hold it all.” They were to meet at noon. Tommaso was already dressed, standing stiffly gorgeous in acres of red and white satin. Frederick tried on rings. “Wait until you see my new coat. How bad would it be if we got there before al-Kamil?”

  “Tragic,” Tommaso said. “We have to arrive at the same time or a little after, or else it will look as if we’re waiting for him. Or worse, as if we’re cheering him when he arrives.”

  “I thought so. Ayub?”

  Ayub came out of the back of the tent, his headcloth in his hand.

  “Send someone out ahead of us to watch the meeting place, and when al-Kamil and his train come in sight, let us know. We’re leaving in a little while, once those damned pages get ready.”

  “Lord.” Ayub grinned. “They’ll never be ready, they keep changing one another’s clothes.”

  “Well, get in there and tell them if they aren’t out here by the time I’ve got my coat, they aren’t going.”

  Ayub beamed and went out the side door toward the tent full of pages. Tommaso walked in a little circle. His silver-encrusted coat, draped artistically into dozens of deep folds, swept the carpets and brushed with a clatter against the furniture. Frederick drifted to the door and looked out into the camp. Men ran in all directions through it, carrying packages, leading horses and mules, shouting orders, and the constant babble of their voices rang in the dusty air. Across the way, eighteen Teutonic knights, their armor glistening, paced nervously back and forth in front of the Grand Master’s tent, their banner fluttering overhead.

  “Sire.”

  He turned—the three pages assigned to attend him while his regular pages got dressed were waiting with his coat. Grimacing, Tommaso stared at it.

  “I knew it. We’re all gotten up like Popes, we can’t move for all the clothes, and you’re going as if it were a hunting trip.” He turned his back.

  Frederick stood still while the pages put stools around him, climbed up onto them, and put on the coat over his head. “I’m doing the talking, you’re just translating. I have to be comfortable.” One arm got stuck in a sleeve and he fought with it, nearly tearing the soft cloth. The pages adjusted the coat; one of them was crying.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I wanted to go,” the page wailed. “I wanted to go and Giancarlo got to go and I didn’t.” He snuffled tremendously and went for a brush to buff the hem of the coat.

  The Archbishop burst in, blazing with the rubies sewn onto his robes, and knocked over a chair with his sleeve. “Oh, Christ.” He tried to bend and pick it up, nearly fell over, and straightened with an audible click. “We should be leaving, Sire.”

  “I’m c
oming.” He took the diamond chain from the page who was crying and hung it around his neck. Leaping up onto a stool, a page combed his hair. Through the side door came Ayub, Yusuf and the five pages going with them; Corso snapped his cuffs and shook his wrists to fluff out the lace.

  Frederick howled. “Corso. You’re as bad as I am.” He started forward and a page yipped. “Oh. I forgot.” While the page put on his spurs, he studied himself in the mirror. “How do I look?”

  “Comfortable,” the Archbishop said. “Which is better than the rest of us.” He nodded to Corso, who brought over the crown on a satin cushion. Outside, horses snorted and stamped.

  The ride to the meeting place was a short gallop, but of course they’d have to keep the horses to a walk. Frederick went out into the steaming sunlight. Before his tent the horses stood thick as a wall, covered with embossed leather worked with gold. The Grand Master in his silk cloak strode forward, leading Frederick’s horse. He spoke, but so many people were shouting, Frederick could hear nothing. He bent his knee and the Grand Master gave him a leg up into the saddle.

  As if he stood on a watch tower, suddenly he saw everything—beyond the wall of horses and knights, those who weren’t going stood packed in a circle, their eyes on him, and when they saw him they cheered, waving their arms. The Saracens galloped up, making their horses curvet and kick out. Almost in unison, the Teutonic knights mounted, and their raised lances swung up like masts into the sky. There was another cheer. Frederick’s horse shied sideways, crushing his leg against the Archbishop’s mule, and threw its head up and neighed. The Grand Master, mounted up, leaned over to talk to his standard-bearer, and the gonfalon dipped and swirled and dipped again.

  Half the knights in a double file trotted quickly out of the swarm of people and horses. Frederick looked around, his heart beating irregularly. Out of the churning disorder, order came as easily as if they were chess pieces. Tommaso raised the imperial standard, looking down to talk to the man easing the butt of the staff into his stirrup, and beside him the Archbishop held the box with the crown and the cushion on his thighs and stared around„ squinting into the brilliant sun. They started off after the knights, and Frederick nudged his horse to follow. The Saracens made a triangle around him, Ayub in front carrying the standard of the King of Jerusalem.