Antichrist

by Cecelia Holland

  “How do you know? How can you possibly—”

  “And because in Sicily you won’t be lonely, you won’t have enemies all around, and you won’t love me

  anymore.”

  Her voice had hardened and sharpened, like a knife. He drew a deep breath. “How do you know?”

  “Because I know you. Do we have to do this?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “I did.” She glanced at him and quickly turned away. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you don’t like it there, I’ll let you go. You can come back here.”

  She shook her head. “I have a son in Antioch. That’s where I live. He’s there with my mother.”

  “You can bring him. And her.” But he didn’t want that, and his voice showed it. “Theophano.”

  She shook her head. Confused, he hunted desperately for the arguments, for the right words, but nothing came into his mind. All he could think of was being without her. He thought, I’ll marry her, and his mind flinched away from it, and he understood finally; it jarred him as if he’d been struck. He turned slightly to put his back to the wall and stared across the room. Gradually his mind quieted, everything settling down again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s how I am, I can’t change it now.”

  “Nobody wants you to.”

  He looked over and saw her smiling, her face calm and her eyes bright. “Will you go with me to Acre?”

  “I’m going that way. If you want me with you, I will.”

  “I do.”

  For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes, silent. She moved a little, and he straightened up away from the wall.

  “You were going to write me a poem once,” she said. “Will you now?”

  “Now? Here?” He looked around, startled.

  “Yes. Now.” She pulled him over toward the table. “Giancarlo, come light the lamps, please.” Dragging over a stool, she sat down next to the chair at the table and grinned up at him. Giancarlo jogged in with a taper, and the lamps glowed and filled the room with clear yellow light. Frederick sat down at the table and got out paper and ink.

  “It usually takes me a while. Shall I do it in Italian or Arabic?”

  “Arabic. So I can read it. Do you usually write in Arabic?”

  He shook his head. “This is . . . not an inspiring moment.” Elusive images filled his mind, floating just beyond the reach of words. “You can’t laugh.”

  “I won’t.” She craned her neck to watch the pen he held over the paper. “Go on.”

  “Don’t rush me.” He wrote: Love bird, fly to me. . . . “Can you read Arabic?”

  “A little. You’ll tell me what the words mean and I’ll remember.”

  “Oh, marvelous.” He glanced at Giancarlo, who was loitering in a corner. “Get out.”

  Giancarlo left, humming to himself. In the next room dishes rang together.

  Love bird, fly to me, come and nest in my love tree. He hunted around for another verse.

  “What will you do? In Antioch.”

  “Live,” she said. “What I usually do.”

  Love bird, sing your song, sing in my window all night long. She won’t go. Will you think of me sometimes? “This one will be short.”

  “So long as it’s good.”

  “I’m not really a poet.”

  The Arabic script decorated the page in a strange design. He wanted to change the structure; he knew what he wanted to say, but the words for it refused to come. Scraps of metaphor came into his mind, and even before he wrote them down in the margin, he knew they were no good. For a moment he fretted, trying to fit darkness, the moon, the wind and the love bird all into one verse, and suddenly the right way came to him, including none of them.

  My heart is a thorn thicket to the white doe

  My heart is a parched desert to the lioness

  For you my heart is a flowering tree

  Full of the wind’s music

  Beneath that he wrote the first two verses again, and sat back, mildly amazed. It was one of his better efforts, at least in Arabic. When he read it over, the lines gave him back the precision and softness he’d felt in thinking of them; even in Arabic the first and last parts sounded like Italian, which he liked.

  “Is it finished?”

  He nodded, shy about reading it.

  “Tell it to me.”

  He did, his eyes on the page. A moment after he’d finished he looked up at her over the top of the paper. Her eyes wide, she was watching him.

  “Red. That’s beautiful.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes.” She took the paper and looked down at it, her lips moving silently. In the next room people laughed.

  “It’s very like you,” she said. “It’s very sensual.”

  “Do you really like it?”

  Now her eyes were amused. “Yes. Very much. Thank you.” Tucking the paper into her blouse, she leaned forward and kissed him. “Thank you.”

  Immoderately pleased, he grinned at her, took hold of her hair, and pulled her toward him again. In the middle of the kiss Marino called them in to dinner, and holding her by the hand, he got up and headed for the door. She would go with him, he knew it—she had to. Smiling, he led her around the lattice screen into the gaudy light of the next room.

  Turtledoves brawled and cooed in the peak of the arched gate he rode through into Acre, his Saracens and his knights around him like a moving fortress. Their shadows coiling and uncoiling over the neck of his horse, his banners flapped in the hot spring wind. People crowded the walls, but there were no cheers. He kept his eyes straight ahead. I brought you back Jerusalem and you won’t even call to me in the street.

  Riding along the Wall Street, they passed the English Tower, the Accursed Tower, the Tower of Saint Nicholas, riding in and out of the stripes of shade they threw across the bright dust. Up on the rampart the people of Acre stood and watched in silence, and in the houses on the inside of the street, windows opened, heads thrust out. At one corner, just after the street turned the angle under the Accursed Tower, a Franciscan stood; he shouted, “Traitor,” in a voice like the clank of iron. But no one picked up the shout, and it died in the hot afternoon wind. Frederick’s hair swung in his eyes, and he flipped it back over his shoulders. For a while a black dog trotted along beside them, a little bell on its collar jingling softly.

  “Heretic,” someone whispered up on the wall.

  He looked up; the people were moving along the rampart, keeping even with him, their faces thrust toward him, pale and fierce, like masks, their lips drawn back from their teeth. He made a face and looked straight again. It would have made him angry once, even afraid, but now he was tired of it. They turned through the gate into the compound of the Teutonic knights.

  Grooms came out quietly to take their horses; in the ranks around him voices started up, relieved. The big gates swung closed. Frederick dismounted and turned to find Tommaso at his side.

  “That’s a beautiful horse,” Tommaso said.

  Frederick glanced around. “Yes. She’s nice to ride too—very easy gaits.”

  “Where did you get her?”

  Tommaso knew that. Frederick stared at him, bewildered. “The Qadi gave her to me when I left Jerusalem. Weren’t you there?”

  “I was.” Tommaso looked away. “I was there, too, when he met you at the gate when you entered, and he didn’t like you then. I was there at dinner afterward when you charmed him into liking you.” His eyes rose to Frederick’s and he cocked his head. “Why can’t you do that with the people of Acre?”

  Frederick went around him toward the door, exasperated. Tommaso stuck to him. “They aren’t worth it,” Frederick said.

  Tommaso strode around to open the door for him. His face was perfectly expressionless. “If you say so, Sire.”

  “Hunh.” Frederick went inside, into the knights’ front hall—there was a passage off it into his house next door. Rapidly the room filled up with his retinue and
knights, still subdued from the icy reception they’d gotten. Corso and Giancarlo ran up to take Frederick’s cloak.

  “Giancarlo. I thought you were going to show me some of your poetry.”

  The boy looked up, startled, and smiled. “I will, Sire.” He ran off, his arms full of the light cloak. Frederick looked around—someone offered him a tankard of beer, but he turned it down. The Grand Master and the Archbishop were conferring near the doorway to the passage.

  Beyond them, leaning up against the wall, Enrico da Malta was drinking beer; Frederick grinned. When Enrico lowered his mug, he beckoned to him, and Enrico, smiling, came quickly through the crowd toward him.

  “Sire.” Enrico knelt briefly. “Congratulations.”

  “Mixed, I’m sure. Do you have my ships here?”

  “Forty-eight galleys, ready to be loaded. When do we set sail?”

  “Within the week, I hope. I have a lot to do before then.” Frederick headed for the passageway. “I’ll know for certain by the day after tomorrow. What’s the news from Sicily?”

  “Everybody thinks you’re dead.”

  “Other than that.” His staff was following him; his pages ran up to open the door. Ayub ducked into the corridor ahead of Frederick, the Assassin close behind.

  “Not bad, actually,” Enrico said. He held back so that Frederick could precede him. “The Pope’s armies hold the mainland, but it’s gone sour on them—you know Sicily. Papal soldiers keep winding up in ditches with their throats cut. That sort of thing.”

  Frederick grinned. The corridor smelled foul, and the walls dripped steadily, but it was short; ahead, light showed through the open door. The pages ran through, with Corso shouting orders. He ducked his head to keep from knocking it on the lintel and stepped out into a bright, fresh room.

  “They’ll run,” Enrico said. “Della Vigne said that I should tell you that. As soon as you step foot in Sicily, the Pope’s whole army will turn and run—the Pope’s been telling even them that you’re dead, or else they’d never stay.”

  The Grand Master said, “Sire, are you, going to call a council?”

  “Yes. I want to get some kind of statement out about the treaty.” He went across the room for a cup of wine and caught a glimpse of Theophano and her maids in the next room. “As soon as possible,” he said, watching her. Theophano turned her head and smiled at him, and he waved and went back toward the little knot of his officers. “And we have appointments to make. Baillis and constables and the like. Tommaso, draw me up a list of candidates. Berardo, will you go to the Patriarch and ask him to reconsider the interdict?”

  The Archbishop snorted. “It can’t possibly stand. How could anybody declare Jerusalem excommunicate?”

  Frederick laughed. “Well, make the point to him.” The Bishop of Caesarea had arrived in Jerusalem, all fulminations and wild looks, on the day they’d left, and he’d mentioned the Church of St. Sepulcher specifically in the ban. It was a nice point of canon law whether anybody could call down anathema on the tomb of Christ. He went over to a table to put his cup down. “Hermann, who’s constable of Acre?”

  “Garnier the German, I think. He’s an old friend of John of Brienne’s.”

  “Oh, well, then, you’d better keep watch on the city. I didn’t like the . . . mood of the people when we came in.”

  The Grand Master rubbed his jaw. “Neither did I. Garnier is an intelligent man—don’t judge him by his friends, Sire. I think Enrico had some messages for you.”

  Frederick swung around; Enrico was coming in from the passageway, a packet of letters under his arm. “Oh. Good.” He stretched out one hand to take them, and Enrico lengthened his stride toward him.

  Falk and Ezzo came in, armed with wine cups. Fulk looked around, stared out the window, and said glumly, “Here we are again, back in jolly old Acre.”

  “Well,” Frederick said, “we’ll be going home before you can get into any trouble.” He grinned, looking through the thick stack of letters. “You have my leave, all of you.”

  “Mutu has come up from Jaffa,” Theophano said. “One of my maids saw him in the street.”

  Frederick looked up. She was sitting on the couch, combing her hair. “Oh.” He studied her, the grace of the long lines of her body, her eyes and her hair. “Have I ever told you you’re beautiful?”

  “No,” she said, and smiled, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes. “Not in words.”

  He leaned back. He’d been drawing up the list of appointments, and it had to be done before tomorrow, but to look at her pleased him so much he couldn’t look away. She knew he was watching, and she moved under his eyes, stretching, showing off. He laughed and went back to the list.

  “You are.”

  Balian of Sidon he meant to name one of the baillis of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but the other was still open, and he didn’t like any of the choices. While he thought it over he filled in several of the smaller offices, rewarding the men who had stayed with him from the beginning of the Crusade. Theophano came softly across the carpet toward him.

  “You weren’t listening to me.”

  “If you come much closer I’ll do more than listen.” Garnier the German was on Tommaso’s list; if he’d been friends with John of Brienne, he probably hated Frederick, but the Grand Master liked him, and a German might be . . . Anyhow, it would be a nice gesture. “What do you mean, I wasn’t listening?”

  “When I said that Mutu is here.”

  “I heard that.” He wrote in Garnier’s name next to Balian’s.

  “Well,” she said, “he says there’s going to be trouble.”

  “One needn’t be big and black to know that. The question is when.” He needed five baillis for Cyprus.

  “Tonight.”

  The brush left a smear across the paper. “God damn.” He stood up, his mind racing. “Was he sure?”

  “Yes,” she said, and looked up at him curiously. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” His hands on his hips, he wandered around the room, considering whether he should act on Mutu’s information. If he did, he might only create the situation he was trying to protect himself against. Trouble in a city usually meant mobs and mobs made him nervous, he didn’t understand them. He pulled a bellrope and Giancarlo came in.

  “Sire.”

  “Send for Sir Heimann, Fulk of Ancerra, Ezzo d’Iste and Ricardo Filangieri.”

  Giancarlo bowed and ran. Theophano said, “Do you think . . . What do you think they’ll try to do?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.” I wish I knew what was going on out there. “Did Mutu say who was stirring it up?”

  “No. Just that everybody in the harbor district was getting ready for a riot. Red, they can’t hurt us here. Why not let them run it off?”

  “Oh, well. I like to dabble in civic affairs.” He stared at the far wall; on it was painted the Flight into Egypt in broad splashes of color.

  “Sire,” the Grand Master said. Coming into the room, he bent his knee slightly and bowed to Theophano.

  “Hermann. Unh—come next door.” He glanced at Theophano. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  She smiled. “Don’t be rash, Red.”

  “Why not? It’s fun.” He led the Grand Master out of the room and into the larger one across the antechamber. Fulk and Ezzo met them in the middle.

  “Fulk,” Frederick said. “I hope you and Ezzo are properly bored by now?”

  “God. This city drives me wild.” Fulk thrust his hands into his belt. “Is there something amusing we can do?” Grinning.

  “Yes, in fact. Take horses and go out and ride around. I want to know if trouble starts anywhere, and who’s there when it does. If it does. Go down through the harbor and up past the Templars’ Quarter. Stay together; I wouldn’t like it at all if you got killed.”

  “Sire.” Fulk bowed and started for the door.

  “Fulk.”

  “Sire?”

  “Don’t start anything.
If you do, I’ll be very, very angry.”

  Fulk blinked. “Sire. Would we do such a thing?” He bowed and went out, with Ezzo at his heels. Just beyond the door they both laughed.

  Frederick made a fig at the door. “They’ll get me in trouble someday.”

  “When you want them to.” The Grand Master pulled a drapery closed over one of the windows to keep out the draft. “Are you expecting some trouble, Sire?”

  “Yes. But don’t tell anybody. My sources aren’t beyond reproach. Where’s— Rico, come in. Both Ricos.”

  Ricardo Filangieri and Enrico da Malta bowed and advanced. Filangieri had his cap in his hands, and he wore boots; he’d been out or going out. Frederick lifted his eyebrows. “Did I interfere with some errand?”

  “An unimportant one.” Filangieri put his cap on the table.

  “Enrico, where are the ships in the harbor?”

  “At anchor,” Enrico said. “Why, do you want them brought in to the quays?”

  “No. Leave them out. Rico, I want you and Hermann to take two companies of knights and have them ready. If there’s any trouble in Acre tonight—any sign of large crowds gathering, any unusual noise or fighting—you”—pointing to Filangieri—“seal off the city, and you”—to the Grand Master—“seal off the Templars’ Quarter. No one leaves or enters. Is that clear?”

  “Are you sure, Sire, that—”

  “Yes. I am.” Frederick smiled. “Do as I say, now, I have my reasons. Enrico, you’re in charge of the harbor. I don’t want those ships in any danger.”

  Enrico, who wore slippers and a loose gown, shrugged and started for the door. The Grand Master said, “Sire, what of your personal safety?”

  “Leave me some of the knights and my Saracens. The compound walls are strong enough. Leave me ten knights.”

  Filangieri picked up his cap. “Sir Hermann, we should start now.”

  “Don’t do anything that might cause trouble,” Frederick said. “Don’t act as if it’s inevitable. Just in case, hunh? Be careful.”

  Corso came in and made a fuss about drawing the draperies and lighting the lamps and ordering Giancarlo around. Filangieri and the Grand Master left, and Frederick stood in the middle of the room, imagining a map of the city and working out the possible trouble centers, while the two pages trotted around him. Frederick thought of the city’s garrison, over which he had no control. We’ll see what they do when the time comes.