The King's Road

by Cecelia Holland

  “Now you sound like the Pope.”

  Ben Isaac put his head back and laughed. “Perhaps. Older people sometimes sound alike when they’re talking to boys.”

  The door opened; a little man in a sailor’s leather breeches came in. “Ben Isaac.”

  “Excuse me,” ben Isaac said. He rose and went over to the sailor. “Well. And now you have the money?”

  “Three tarens.” The sailor took out a purse. While he and ben Isaac dickered mildly over the price of the maps, Federigo walked around the shop, looking at the books waiting to be bound, their pages sewn into fat sheaves, and the leather cut to bind them with. He thought, there are good kings in places not Christian, too. Then why does the Pope always tell me to pray and go to Mass so I’ll be a good king? He put his hands on a book covered with gold leaf and bits of jewels. Some merchant had probably ordered it — some rich man with a big house and dozens of coats and shoes. Scuffing his feet on the floor, he went to the door of the shop. When he passed the sailor, he smelled the sweat and oil of the man’s body.

  “Good-by, Master,” he called. “I’ll come back soon.”

  Ben Isaac leaned out around the sailor, and the sailor turned his head to look. “Good-by, Federigo. Be careful,” ben Isaac said.

  So. Be careful meant not only to keep from being run over by oxen, it also meant to watch out that people didn’t know what he thought. Federigo went out into the hot street. It was time to go beg something to eat, and to find his friends and play.

  *

  “Federigo,” Durante shouted. He came racing down the street, dodging in and out of the women carrying home their groceries and laundry in baskets on their heads. “Federigo.”

  “Don’t yell,” Federigo said. “I’m not going anyplace, and I see you.” He sat down with his back to the wall, grinning. “What’s going on? You look as if you’ve been in a fight.”

  Durante skidded to a stop in front of him and strutted up and down, his hands on his hips. “I just beat that Davide until he yelled for his mother.” His knuckles were bleeding, and on the left side of his face bruises showed. Federigo took a bite of the sausage he’d been eating.

  “There’s a pirate ship in the harbor. I saw one of the sailors in ben Isaac’s shop. He was Genoese — I could tell by his accent.”

  Durante sat down beside him, his knees drawn up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around his legs. “Do you want to go follow them around and listen to them swear?” he asked.

  “Maybe later. Have some sausage.”

  “Sure.”

  Federigo watched him take a huge bite of the sausage, peeling back the scrap of linen that it was wrapped in. Durante was two years older than Federigo, much taller, and dark, black-haired and black-eyed, the fiercest fighter in Palermo except for the sailors. His father was a carpenter; Durante was supposed to be learning how to work wood, but he spent most of his time begging, stealing and fighting. Federigo laughed, thinking of that.

  “What’s so funny?” Durante said, his mouth full of meat.

  “Nothing. Let’s go find Yusuf.”

  “Good.”

  They leaped up. Federigo stuffed the sausage inside his shirt and trotted down the street toward the bazaar. All the merchants had set up their wooden stalls in the Vucciria — long counters for their goods and awnings to shield them from the sun; the awnings fluttered in layers up and down the street, green and blue and yellow, red and white striped, bright orange and white. Around them, the women of Palermo thronged, haggling over prices and hunting through mounds of oranges and vegetables and loaves of bread for the freshest, the sweetest, the ripest of everything. Their voices rose like the twittering of birds. Federigo, sliding between them, heard Arabic and Italian, Hebrew and Greek, all the languages intertwining, sometimes all spoken together.

  The bazaar pleased him immeasurably. Franciscus had taught him the history of Sicily — how, in the beginning, Phoenicians and Greeks had built their cities and temples on the island; and how later the Romans had conquered it from them, only to lose it again to the Greeks of Byzantium; and how the Greeks had given way to the Saracens, sailing over the sea in their fleet galleys to rob and murder and finally to settle on the island with the remnants of the Greeks, the Romans, the Phoenicians; and how after a long period of turmoil the Normans of France had come, drifting down through Italy in little groups, and seized control and made themselves kings in Sicily (but never quite defeating the Saracens, who still had fortresses in the mountains); and how, with Federigo’s father the Emperor leading them, the Germans had ridden down to destroy the Norman kingdom and created one of their own. Federigo could see all this history in the faces of the people, and hear it in their voices and smell it on their bodies, because each cooked and ate his food in a distinctive way and that gave each of them a particular odor. He stopped to watch a litter sway by, borne by mules, and inside a merchant with the black skin and crisp hair of a Moor; he stood eying a tall woman with a shawl over her head who spoke Greek to the Sicilian whose fish she was buying.

  “Yusuf,” Durante bawled. “Over here.”

  Yusuf was braiding strips of leather together, sitting in between two booths, his eyes dreamy. When he heard Durante, he leaped up and started toward them, grinning.

  “Did you hear about Moshe?”

  Federigo and Durante crowded around him, their heads bent so they could talk in the hubbub of the bazaar.

  Durante said, “No. What happened to Moshe?”

  “He ran away from home and spent all night on one of the ships in the harbor. The sailors fed him and told him stories, and they were going to take him with them, but his father found him and took him home.”

  “Oh—” Federigo beat his fists on his thighs. “Why? Why didn’t he let him go?”

  Yusuf’s mouth pulled into a sly smile. “Well, because he’s Moshe’s father. If you had a father, Federigo—”

  Federigo straightened up. “Yes? Go on.” His skin felt hot.

  Lazily, Yusuf shrugged, and with his sandaled foot drew a circle in the dust of the street. “Well, you’ll never know, will you? I mean, having a father is—”

  Federigo hit him hard in the stomach. Yusuf staggered back, and Federigo charged him, his fists pumping. Suddenly Durante’s hard thin body was in his way, thrusting them apart; Durante yelled, “Come on, quit it, both of you.”

  Stepping back, Federigo blew on his knuckles.

  “Make him apologize.”

  Yusuf was struggling in Durante’s grasp, his hair falling in his eyes; he yelped, in Arabic, “Let me go. I’ll kill him, I’ll break all his bones.”

  “You’ll try,” Federigo shouted, dancing with rage.

  Durante whirled and knocked Federigo away with one arm.

  “You can’t, Yusuf. He’s the King.”

  Federigo lost his balance and sat down hard. The people around them were watching, some laughing, others shaking their heads and scowling. Getting up, Federigo started back toward Yusuf, but he’d regained his temper. He felt a little silly. Yusuf was right, he was an orphan, and it was stupid to fight over the truth. Yusuf was clawing his way out of Durante’s grip.

  “Let him go,” Federigo said. “Yusuf, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

  Durante said, “He shouldn’t have teased you.”

  Yusuf wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Just because you’re the King—”

  Federigo fisted both hands and charged in again. Durante yelped. For an instant, Federigo saw nothing but a whirl of Yusuf’s cloth and face and the dusty street; his fists pounded on flesh, and something hard smacked into his eye. He shouted. Arms wrapped around his body, and he clutched Yusuf and tried to fling him down. Yusuf kicked him hard in the leg. Wrenching one arm free, he slugged Yusuf in the side, and the other boy fell.

  “Stop,” Durante said coolly. He grabbed Federigo by the arm and pulled him back. “Don’t fight him when he’s down.”

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t particul
arly nice. Yusuf, get up and stop fighting, he can beat you.”

  Yusuf was sitting in the dirt, braced up on his arms, and his nose was dribbling blood. Slowly, one leg at a time, he got to his feet and straightened. His thin face looked murderous.

  “Shake hands,” Durante said. “Be friends again.”

  Federigo said, “If he stops teasing me.”

  “It’s the truth,” Yusuf muttered.

  “Be quiet,” Durante shouted, “or I’ll beat up both of you, and you know I can do it, too. Go on, shake hands.” He gave them each a shove.

  Yusuf’s hand moved out, the fingers spread, and cautiously Federigo took it and shook it once, hard.

  “All right,” Durante said. “Now let’s go find some sailors and listen to them swear.”

  They started off through the bazaar again. Yusuf kept looking threateningly at Federigo, whose eye was beginning to hurt. He put one hand up to it. Fighting was stupid, it only got him into trouble. He was going to have a black eye and Diepold would beat him. He felt unsure and unhappy and a little sick to his stomach.

  “I’ll have to show you some tricks,” Durante murmured. “You’ll be a good fighter one of these days, you aren’t afraid of anything.”

  “All right,” Federigo said. The idea of being able to do what Durante had done — stop them fighting just by a simple threat — interested him. But the thought of facing Diepold with a black eye made him glum. He couldn’t fight or threaten Diepold. What good was knowing how?

  *

  “My children,” Hakim Ayub said, lifting one hand. “A certain Kurdish shepherd had a number of sheep. Nearby lived his brother, who had sheep to the number of three times that of the first shepherd. Beyond a small river lived a third man, whose sheep numbered as many as those of the first two combined.”

  Federigo grinned. Hakim Ayub always made arithmetic problems into stories. Lifting one hand, Hakim Ayub glanced around the semi-circle of Saracen boys squatting before him on the floor and cleared his throat.

  “My children, the sheep of the three herdsmen together attain a number which, when doubled, is one less than the square of the most sacred number. Tell me, my children, how many sheep each shepherd had.”

  Eight Saracen boys bent over their abacuses and writing tablets. Federigo, who was leaning in the window, swung his feet slowly off the ground, balancing himself on his stomach on the windowsill. “The most sacred number was nine, which was eighty-one squared, minus one—”

  “Master,” one of the Saracens called, and instantly the others began to shout, “Master, Master,” and wave their hands for his attention. In his head, Federigo hastily divided forty by eight.

  “Perhaps Federigo knows,” Hakim Ayub said, in his placid voice. “Federigo.”

  “Five, fifteen and forty. I mean twenty.” Federigo tilted forward over the windowsill and did a slow somersault to the floor of the room. They’d all beaten him. It was a disgrace to be asked for the answer. Hakim Ayub always asked the last to shout that he had it. And he’d gotten it wrong, a little. He sat up, cross-legged, and looked glumly at Hakim Ayub.

  “Correct,” the old Moslem said. “Did everyone reach the numbers five, fifteen and twenty?”

  Of course they all had.

  “Ummm. My children, the hour grows late, it will soon be the moment for prayer. You’ll all have to run to reach your homes and the mosque. Dismissed.”

  The eight Saracen boys leaped up and raced screaming out of the room. Hakim Ayub winced and turned his dark eyes on Federigo. He had a wonderful face, seamed and wrinkled, the eyes buried in the pouches of his eyelids, and a small mouth always pursed inside a curly white wreath of beard. He reminded Federigo of a picture he’d once seen of Charlemagne.

  “Well, Federigo,” Hakim Ayub said, and shut his book. “You were slow on that last problem, my child. Don’t you enjoy algebra anymore?”

  “You misled me when you started talking about Kurds, Master. I was thinking of Jerusalem.”

  “A worthy subject for contemplation.” Hakim Ayub picked up a pole and went to put the counters straight on his giant abacus. “I mentioned your lapse only because it astonished me. You’re usually so quick. Your eye is lovely. What happened to it?”

  Federigo made a face; that hurt his black eye, and he put his fingertips to it, feeling the swollen, sensitive lid. He could barely open it. It felt bruised, as if he could see the purple-black through his fingers.

  “I got in a fight with Yusuf ibn Caidi.”

  Hakim Ayub frowned. Leaning his pole up against the cracked plaster wall, he said, “A difficult, wild boy, Yusuf. He was a student of mine for a while. And he’s friendly with that Durante, too — that little ... umh ... little...” He stroked his cheek. “You shouldn’t play with them, Federigo.”

  “They aren’t had, Master. I like them.” It made him angry when Hakim Ayub tried to tell him what to do, and he shifted to get his legs under him.

  “Most of the boys in my class begin shouting as soon as they hear someone else,” Hakim Ayub said. “Whether they have the answer or not.”

  “That’s cheating.” Federigo wandered to the door, through which he saw the quiet garden just inside the Master’s gate — the shadows stretched across the wall. It was getting late. “I may fight a lot and have had friends, Master, but I don’t cheat.” He grinned at Hakim Ayub, who shut his eyes entirely, smiled, and nodded.

  “Especially since you’re clever enough to get the right answers most of the time, Federigo.”

  For a moment, going out into the garden, Federigo didn’t understand what he’d said. With his hand on the wooden gate, he paused. That was odd. It sounded as if Hakim Ayub were saying that he didn’t cheat because everything was easy enough that he didn’t have to. He walked up the street, running his hand along the wall. That wasn’t a compliment, no, it certainly was not.

  The sun was going down. In the tall pine trees that filled the park around Al-Aziz, the wind moaned and cried like a baby. Someone once had told him that the sound of the wind was the voices of ghosts risen to prowl around at night. He quickened his steps, and all along his spine the hair stood on end. When he moved out from between the last of the houses on the street, and the street became the road to Al-Aziz, he felt the bite of the wind like a blast of cold.

  Behind him, the lower town was already dark. He turned to look back into it, at the flood of shadow creeping slowly up from the harbor like an ocean drowning everything, houses, fountains, gardens and dogs. Off beyond the red-tiled rooftops, the spire of a minaret gleamed in the last level rays of the sun. There was something strange about it. Palermo at night was a different city, people were robbed and murdered, people went into alleys and never came out again. He thought he could see it changing before him, all the buildings crouching down to shield the thieves and killers in the dark. With a yelp, he turned and raced toward the palace. Sometimes being King of Sicily was nothing compared to being twelve and a good way from the light and warmth of home.

  Chapter Three

  THE LIGHT of tall candles played over the mosaics on the wall of the chapel — Mary on a white mule entering Bethlehem, the Coming of the Wise Men. Federigo clasped his hands behind his back, wishing the service were over. Franciscus had lectured him about his black eye all the way over from their part of the palace. Diepold so far had maintained an ominous silence. And Federigo had seen the Papal Legate gasp and make an exaggerated face when he’d first entered the chapel.

  Now, at the altar, the Legate was reciting the last of the Evening Service, and all around Federigo arms rose and moved in the Sign of the Cross. In loud voices, they said the last prayer; and the Legate turned and blessed them, saying, “Go, it is complete.”

  “Amen,” everyone said, loudly, and with Diepold beside him, Federigo turned and walked down the aisle toward the door, with all the other people standing at attention on either side. Halfway to the door, he felt Diepold’s strong fingers grip his arm, and he gulped. It must be worse than usual to
come home with a black eye when the Papal Legate was there. He quickened his steps, but Diepold kept up with him, of course. In fact, by the time they had reached the threshold, Diepold was practically dragging him. With a twist of his arm, Diepold wheeled him around the corner and into a quiet part of the courtyard.

  “What happened to you?” Diepold hunkered in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Where did you pick up that eye?”

  “I was born with it,” Federigo said, angry. “It just changes color now and then.”

  Diepold shook him hard, so that his head snapped back and his neck hurt. “Don’t talk back to me. Go to your room. I’ll teach you not to fight like a common street brat. Go.” He shoved Federigo toward the open courtyard and stood up, and Federigo with one glance at Diepold’s tight red face broke into a run for the outer staircase. This, he could tell, was not going to be a regular beating, in which the louder he yelled the less it hurt. Franciscus was waiting for him halfway up the stairs and caught him by the arms.

  “Oh, Federigo. Didn’t I tell you it was a mistake?”

  “At least he could have asked if I’d won the fight.” But acting calm didn’t help. He pulled Franciscus up the steps toward the second story door. Down in the courtyard, Diepold was talking to the Papal Legate, who kept twisting his neck to stare up at Federigo on the stairs. Federigo slipped inside the door.

  “I’m going to run away.”

  “You what?” Franciscus wheeled toward him. “Federigo. An ordinary boy might be able to run away at will, but you are the King.”

  “Oh, not forever, just for tonight. Anyhow, I was going to go meet Durante and Yusuf in the park. He can’t beat me twice, so it doesn’t matter.” He realized he was making little sense and shrugged.

  Franciscus hauled him into their room. “You can’t run away. If you disappear, it will upset everything — the whole kingdom. Don’t you see that?”

  “But I’m not going to disappear. You can tell him I’ll be back in the morning.” Federigo opened the closet and searched for his cloak. “They can beat me in the morning.”