The King's Road

by Cecelia Holland

  “Lords, ladies, gentlemen and people of Sicily, most excellent Giovanni da Capa of Rome, ambassador of the Most Holy Innocent III,” the herald shouted, “you are in the presence of the King of Sicily, Frederick Roger von Hohenstaufen, Duke of Apulia, Duke of Calabria—” He ran off the rest of Federigo’s titles, while everyone stood stiffly at attention and pretended to listen. Federigo’s ankle itched, and he scratched it carefully with the other foot. The herald ended his speech and rapped his staff on the floor, and Federigo sat down.

  Giovanni da Capa stood forward and delivered a small speech, praising the beauty and peace of Sicily and stating the Pope’s interest in his vassal’s kingdom. Federigo didn’t bother to listen. They always said the same things, like a ritual, like going to church, and what they said had no relation to what they meant or wanted. Diepold made another speech, welcoming Giovanni and assuring him that Sicily loved the Pope and Holy Mother Church more than anything else. Which wasn’t true either, because Diepold was always cheating on his reports of revenues due the Church and on occasion had actually stolen the money of priests and monasteries. Federigo settled himself in the cold throne and played with the lions and eagles carved into the arms.

  “Your Grace.” It was Walter of Brienne, smiling, leaning up against the side of the throne. “You’ve grown since I last saw you. It’s good to see you looking so well, Sire.”

  “Thank you, Lord Walter.”

  “You remember me. I’m flattered.”

  The Papal Legate was approaching. Federigo tried quickly to figure out why Walter was talking to him, why Walter was putting on such a show of interest, and decided that the Papal Legate had something to do with it. The Legate stopped on the steps of the throne, his eyes on Federigo, but when he spoke it was to Walter.

  “The Sicilians have a most charming and intelligent young King. I can see why you wish to return, Lord Walter.”

  Federigo twitched. It sounded as if Walter was not back for good, but just to visit. He looked around for Diepold and saw him watching the two men by the throne with keen eyes.

  “His Holiness the Pope will be pleased to know how Your Grace fares under the tutelage of Lord Diepold,” the Legate said.

  Federigo’s eyes returned to him; he said nothing. They were trying to make him say something against Diepold — perhaps that Diepold mistreated him. The Legate’s smile sagged limply after a moment, but Walter’s looked as bright as ever.

  “If there is anything you might wish His Holiness to know,” Walter said, “you may tell the Legate without any chance of your opinions reaching the wrong ears, Your Grace.”

  On Federigo’s head, the crown pressed heavily. He thought, I could get back at Diepold for all the... But he knew that he would not. These men weren’t trying to help him, but only to gain some advantage for themselves. He looked curiously from the Legate to Walter and back again, wondering how they could be so obvious and hope to get anywhere with it. Across the room, a woman laughed loudly.

  “Surely,” Walter said, “there must be something you have to tell your guardian? After all, Sire, the Pope is your foster parent.”

  Federigo stared at him a little longer and nodded. “Yes. Excellency, you may tell His Holiness that I am studying devoutly and I pray every day to be allowed to be the kind of king who will do credit to Holy Mother Church.” He smiled at them — they looked so crestfallen. “When I am King in fact as well as name.”

  Walter’s forehead creased into three deep wrinkles. “Is Lord Diepold treating you properly?”

  “As properly as I’ve ever been treated.”

  He nearly laughed. They’d expected him to cry to them, so that they would have some tale of misery and injustice to take to the Pope and use against Diepold. In a doorway behind Diepold’s cluster of friends, Franciscus appeared and waved.

  “Excuse me, I think it’s my bedtime.” He got up, holding onto the crown with one hand to keep it from slipping off. Diepold stirred and raised his head when Federigo walked down the steps from the throne, and seeing Federigo start for the door, he moved to intercept him. The boy stopped, watching Diepold come toward him, his hands on his hips.

  “Franciscus is there; I have to go to bed,” Federigo said, looking up at Diepold.

  The big German stopped in front of him. The silver and gold woven into his coat flashed in the torchlight. Federigo could smell sour wine on his breath; he recoiled slightly.

  “What did you tell them?” Diepold said softly. He sank down on his heels and put one hand on Federigo’s arm. His eyes blazed. “What did they ask you?”

  Furious, Federigo jerked his arm out of Diepold’s fingers. “Don’t touch me.”

  Diepold’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What did they ask you?” With a quick jerk of his head, he looked around to see if anybody was watching. They all were, but no one was close enough to overhear.

  “They asked if I had anything to complain about,” Federigo said. Under the fancy collar of his coat, Diepold’s neck was flecked with fleabites. Federigo was disgusted — he hated fleas and lice and took a bath every day to make sure he had none. He gritted his teeth.

  “What did you say?” Diepold asked.

  “Nothing. Let me go, Franciscus is waiting for me.”

  Diepold looked puzzled. He put one hand out to touch Federigo, who moved back out of reach. Diepold’s hand fell to his knee.

  “Why? You could have poured your heart out to them, they would have loved it.”

  Federigo’s head ached from the weight of the crown. He put both hands up and took it off. The touch of the cold metal in his palms made him feel stronger, and he said, “You would do that, Diepold, but I wouldn’t.” His throat tightened up; he hated this, not being able to do anything for himself, being at their mercy. Now they were trying to make him play their silly game. He stared at Diepold a moment longer and ran around him and toward the door. A page came up to him just before he reached Franciscus.

  “Your Grace — let me take the crown—”

  Federigo stopped. His fingers tightened around the crown, and he thought of telling the page he couldn’t have it. But they’d only take it away. And the crown itself meant nothing; Diepold could wear it all he wanted, but it would never make him King, not while Federigo lived. He handed the page the crown and turned to Franciscus.

  “The Pope has sent you a letter,” Franciscus said. His arm went around the boy’s shoulders. “It’s in Latin — we can translate it tomorrow for your lesson.” His fingers smoothed Federigo’s sleeve. “Come to bed now. You’ll have bad dreams if you stay up late.”

  Federigo let the old man draw him out the door into the next room. “What are they doing? Is the Pope going to send Diepold away?”

  “He’s trying, apparently. It will probably work, too.” Franciscus helped him unclasp the coat and took it off, folding it over his arm. “Heaven help us, Federigo. Did you go in there without shoes on?”

  “They didn’t notice.”

  Franciscus sighed. Together they walked through the empty, darkened rooms toward their part of the palace. Federigo’s bare feet crunched on the rushes on the floor, and without the coat he could feel the cool draft from the walls. They walked through a little room where Federigo sometimes had to sign charters; the tapestries were rippling slightly in the breeze. Suddenly Federigo felt tired to his bones.

  “Why don’t they ever let me alone?” He was holding Franciscus by the arm, and he leaned on the old man, pushing his head against Franciscus’ side.

  “Ssssh. You’re too old to whine. Here.” Franciscus took a tart out of his sleeve and thrust it into Federigo’s hand. “Eat this, it’s good to go to bed on a full stomach.”

  The tart’s thick sweet crust broke under Federigo’s teeth, and he tasted cherry jam. While they climbed the dark, cold stairs he ate the tart, savoring each bite, and licked the juice from his fingers. Long after they’d reached the head of the stairs and the tart was gone, he could taste cherry jam in his mouth. With Franciscu
s’ arm around him, he went to his room.

  So the Pope had sent him another letter. He always rattled on and on with advice and little stories from the Bible as examples of good conduct. He yawned. Tomorrow was just the other side of sleeping; tomorrow he would read the Pope’s letter, and tomorrow he would go to see David ben Isaac. He let Franciscus lead him in and help him take his clothes off.

  Chapter Two

  THE BRILLIANT SUN beat down on the little white houses on either side of the street; Federigo moved into the shade of an old olive tree. The street ran down a steep hill to the harbor, and at the far end of it he could see the glitter of the water. A ripple of pleasure coursed through him. The air smelled of the olive tree and the warm stone of the houses, and occasionally the wind brought him the noise of the bazaar in the next alley: a chatter of high-pitched voices, the sound of donkeys and goats and cattle moving around, and the rumble of wagon wheels. He wiggled his bare toes deeper into the dust. He didn’t have to be back until sundown, and it was barely noon. He could play, talk to people, beg oranges and candy in the bazaars, watch the ships in the harbor, anything he wanted. He trotted out into the blazing sun again and ran down the hill, his arms widespread and his shirt flapping around his ribs.

  The steep slope helped him on, faster than he could normally run, his strides gigantic. Halfway down to the bottom, he saw an ox cart turn into the street at the next corner. He tried to stop himself and could not; he lost his balance, tripped, and fell onto the rough cobblestones. Rolling, he flung out his arms to stop himself. In the cart a man shouted a warning. Federigo rolled up against a wall, at a place where leaves and dirt had drifted up in a little heap to cushion the blow, and sat up, dazed.

  The man on the cart shouted, “Watch out, boy, I nearly hit you.” He waved his long whip. The cream-colored ox, dragging the cart on up the hill, swung its big head to stare at him, moist-eyed.

  Federigo laughed. When the cart had gone by, he picked himself up and jogged across the street to a doorway. He’d torn his shirt, and his knees and hands hurt viciously. Standing under the swinging wooden sign above the door, he inspected the scrapes on his palms. Small drops of blood oozed slowly through the torn skin. He wiped his hands on his trousers and went into the shop.

  Inside, it was unexpectedly cool, and everything smelled of old leather and ink and wood. For a moment, he could see nothing in the darkness, and he blinked to get his eyes used to it. In the dim, quiet room, he could hear the scratching of a pen over parchment and the shuffling of feet. Gradually, he began to pick out details — Feisal, David ben Isaac’s helper, sitting on his high stool in front of a desk, and the piles of books and boxes and the general litter of pens and parchment. Ink in big jars filled the shelves against one wall.

  “Good morning, little King,” Feisal said, looking up from his book.

  “Good morning.” Federigo went over to the desk and peered at the manuscript Feisal was copying; he had to stand on his toes to see over the edge of the desk. “What’s that?”

  “Aristotle,” Feisal said. “A translation and commentary by Avicenna.”

  Federigo craned his neck. Dipping his pen into ink, Feisal copied out one line from the manuscript onto a fresh sheet of vellum. He concentrated so hard that he held his breath. Federigo loved to watch the long loops and curls of Arabic script appear like a tail behind the moving pen. He saw a word that he recognized and waited until Feisal had ended the line.

  “Is it about medicine?”

  Feisal nodded. “How did you know?”

  “That word there, that means blood.”

  “It does.” Feisal glanced quickly at him. “Who taught you to read Arabic, little King?”

  “Oh, I just learned.” Federigo folded his arms on the side of the desk and rested his chin on his hands. “Who is that for?”

  “The Master Hakim Ayub ibn Tariq.”

  “Don’t bother Feisal, Federigo,” David ben Isaac called. He came out of the back room, smiling. “It’s hard enough to get him to work as it is.” He put one hand out and drew Federigo away from the desk. “By the One God, you’re filthy. What happened to you?”

  “I fell in the street.” Federigo flapped his shirt to knock off some of the dust. “An ox nearly trampled me.” Looking up at ben Isaac, he smiled, but the old man put one hand up to his beard and stared down, frowning slightly.

  “Federigo, you really ought to be more careful.” Abruptly he turned and went over to a table, on which piles of bound manuscript stood waiting to be delivered. He was tall, with long, slim hands that moved lovingly over books; on his head he wore a silk skullcap. Federigo went after him, catching a glimpse of something odd on the table.

  “What’s this?” he said, picking up a long wooden rod with notches on it. Across the top was a short crossbar, carved with Arabic designs.

  Ben Isaac looked over from the book he was inspecting. “That’s an astrolabe. Sailors use it to find out where they are at sea.”

  “How?”

  Ben Isaac closed the book carefully and turned. “You put the crossbar on the horizon, and count the notches up to the North Star, and that tells you how far north you are.”

  “It’s beautiful.” The wood felt smooth under his fingers; it was lacquered, and the carved designs were painted in. He balanced the astrolabe in his hand. “If it’s just a tool, why make it so beautiful?”

  Ben Isaac shrugged. “Because people like beautiful things around them. And things that are important to them they often take loving pains with, to make them pleasing.”

  “Like a crown.”

  Ben Isaac stroked his beard. “Yes. Like a crown. Or books.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “It belongs to a sailor who came in here looking for maps. He left it as surety while he went to find money.”

  Federigo ran his thumb over the designs. “An Arab sailor.”

  “No, he was Genoese.”

  “A pirate? He must have stolen it from an Arab.” In the dim shop, with the rustle of Feisal’s pen in his ears, he saw in his mind a fierce sea battle, the ships thrashing through the water, the groaning of the slaves at the oars, and the crack of sword on sword. His hand tightened around the astrolabe. “Someday I’ll go sailing.”

  “Not if you aren’t more careful.” Ben Isaac touched his shoulder. “You’re just a boy, Federigo. You could be hurt very easily.”

  “I’ll be careful.” He put the astrolabe down, but his eyes remained on it. It made him wistful to think of the places the wooden tool had been, the men who had handled it. Someday I will have an astrolabe too, he thought.

  “It’s all over Palermo that there’s an envoy from the Pope in Al-Aziz,” ben Isaac said.

  Federigo nodded. “He’s here to talk to Diepold. He brought me a letter from the Pope.” That made him laugh, remembering the letter.

  “An amusing letter?” Ben Isaac smiled. He was a Jew and the Pope meant nothing to him.

  “Well, he always writes me lots of advice, like that I have to treat everybody with justice and honor and that I have to remember the dignity of a king.” Federigo shook his head. “It’s all useless advice — he doesn’t know what it’s like down here, everything he says makes no sense to me down here. He says I must learn to be a good Christian king.”

  “That certainly is good advice,” ben Isaac said slowly, but Federigo could tell by his tone of voice that he didn’t believe it. Federigo opened a book in front of him and stared at the script. It was in Hebrew, which he could not read.

  “It’s silly advice. You’re Sicilian, and you’re a Jew. Feisal is Sicilian and he’s a Saracen. How can I be a good king to you if I am a Christian? I mean—” He frowned, staring at the meaningless letters. “I am a Christian, but I can’t be a king just of Christians, I have to be a good Jewish king and a good Moslem king, too.” Was that possible? He cast a quick glance up at ben Isaac.

  The tall man was staring down at him with a peculiar look on his face. A smile twitched at the cor
ners of his mouth. “Federigo, have you ever said that to anyone else?” he asked.

  “No. I just now thought of it.”

  Ben Isaac took him by the sleeve and led him into a corner. “Federigo, if I were you, I wouldn’t tell anybody that idea. Do you know what heresy is?”

  “Yes. That’s when you don’t believe in God.” Federigo sat down on a pile of leather.

  “Not really. It’s when you don’t believe in the teachings of the religion you’re supposed to belong to. It’s against the teachings of your religion to believe what you just told me.” Ben Isaac sat down on a low chair. “Do you know what happens to heretics?”

  Federigo shrugged. “Some priest tells them to watch out or they’ll go to hell.”

  Ben Isaac’s face tightened. His beard seemed to bristle. “Heretics are burned alive, Federigo.” His eyes looked off into the darkness of his shop. “I’m not trying to frighten you. I hope no one will ever be able to frighten you. What you said is right. A king of many different peoples has to be above any kind of prejudice.”

  “I’ll have to think about it some more. I just thought of it when I said it, I’m not sure it’s right yet.”

  “I think you’ll decide that it’s right.” Ben Isaac smiled. “But just don’t tell anybody. Keep it in your heart and use it to guide you, but don’t tell anyone.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If I act that way they’ll all know I believe it.” Federigo cocked his head to one side. “Won’t they?”

  “Not necessarily. People say one thing and do quite different things all the time. People believe what they are told, they’re not always smart enough to understand what they see.” The beard wrinkled around his smile. “It’s hard to be a Jew in a Christian world, Federigo. It’s even harder to be a just king.”