The King's Road

by Cecelia Holland

  “Pull,” Durante whispered. He was rapt, leaning forward over the rail, his eyes fastened on the other ship. Sailors leaped past them into the rigging, carrying a net aloft, and strung it across the prow of the ship.

  “What’s that for?”

  “In case they try to board us,” Durante said.

  “What if we get killed?” Yusuf clutched Federigo. “What if they take us prisoner?”

  “What if the sky falls on us and cracks our heads?” Durante said. “Oh, shut up.”

  Federigo cast a quick glance around the ship. All along her deck, sailors with swords and daggers were stationed, tense and ready. In the rigging men with bows were crawling into position, wrapping their legs tight around the ropes that braced the mast. Hadji-Mustafa stood at the tiller, his long fair hair blowing in the wind.

  “Can you make her out?” he shouted, and a man at the foot of the mast relayed the call to the lookout.

  “Not yet, Malik.”

  “Double-time, Abdul.”

  The drum in the hold picked up a faster beat, and the oars swung to meet it, crashing and groaning in the oarlocks. With each stroke, the breath exploded from the lungs of the oarsmen; Federigo could hear it clearly. He jumped up and down, excited. Yusuf was praying in Arabic.

  “I wish they’d give us swords,” Durante said. “I wish they’d let us fight.”

  Federigo cried out wordlessly — the ship ahead of them was wheeling away. “They’re running — look.”

  All over the ship, a roar of triumph went up. Abdul bellowed, “She’s turned, Malik — she’s seen who we are.”

  “Let’s try to catch her,” Hadji-Mustafa shouted.

  Everybody cheered but Yusuf, who was praying as hard as he could, and Federigo. They could lose days chasing the Genoese ship — they could even go so far off course for Cefalu that Hadji-Mustafa wouldn’t want to go there. He stared glumly after the Genoese. “Coward.”

  Abdul jogged up. “She’s running for Cefalu. We’ll catch her before then.” He pulled a canvas sack out of the cave where the boys slept and trotted back toward the mast.

  “To Cefalu,” Federigo murmured. He narrowed his eyes, watching the Genoese ship. She still looked far away, but she was definitely heading for the coast, although on a long tangent of a course. He wondered why Hadji-Mustafa was chasing her; the Genoese were pirates, too, especially the ships that traveled alone. He folded his arms on the rail and watched.

  When he looked around again, Yusuf was huddled in the shadow of the railing, looking glum, but Durante was nowhere around. Finally Federigo saw him helping Abdul and another man fasten a strip of blue silk to a line. Abdul and the other sailor stepped back, and Durante, glowing with pride, ran the silk pennant up the mast. Federigo grinned. Durante would get himself involved in everything that went on — he was like that when he enjoyed something. He turned back to watch the Genoese ship.

  All that day they crawled over the sea after the other vessel. Since they were running before the wind, Hadji-Mustafa had them put up the sail, and the oarsmen rested, talking and drinking at their benches. Durante went around with Abdul, asking the names and uses of all the equipment he saw — every bit of rope and projection of wood. Federigo watched the ship they were chasing, wondering how far away it was.

  They were catching up, but the wind was dying — already, the sail of the other ship was fluttering loose, and the sea grew glassy calm between them. The Genoese put out its oars; and a moment later Hadji-Mustafa gave a shout, and Abdul passed it along, and the oars of the pirate ship rattled out and drove into the water. Federigo could see the men on the Genoese looking apprehensively back toward them; they began to throw barrels overboard to make their ship lighter.

  All afternoon, the two ships rowed down the sea, with Hadji-Mustafa’s creeping steadily closer to the Genoese, like a pursuing demon. The grating of the oars in the oarlocks began to get on Federigo’s nerves. He gritted his teeth, listening to the incessant rasp of wood on wood, and tried to think of something else. But he was fascinated by the chase; he watched the Genoese draw nearer, in spite of all they tried to do to get away from Hadji-Mustafa, and he felt sorry for them.

  By sundown, he was feeling sorry for himself. Spending all day in the sun had given him a sunburn that made it hard to touch anything without crying out. And Durante was climbing all over the ship — Abdul and Hadji-Mustafa answered every question he asked. Federigo thought it wasn’t fair, Durante had a father. He wished, as he had before, that his father was still alive. He imagined him very tall, and red-headed. The Emperor. He’d sit on the throne and teach him how to judge people and how to make laws, how to lead an army and how to fight. They’d go hunting together, his father and he — he’d have his own hawk, and his own horses, a whole stable of them. He’d always have lots of clean shirts and plenty to eat. His father and he would go places together, and when he was bad, his father would beat him and not send Lothair to do it. Federigo rubbed his eyes with his fists to grind out the tears and wondered what it was like to have a father. If you had one, obviously, you took it for granted. He couldn’t even remember that anyone had ever told him that his father had seen him — all the while Federigo was a baby his father had been ruling and fighting in the south, and Federigo had been in a nursery in the north.

  It was silly to brood over things he couldn’t change. He wandered back into the waist of the ship and found Durante cheerfully beating Abdul and a sailor named Oddi at dice; two or three other seamen stood around laughing and making jokes about it.

  “You’re bright red,” Abdul said, when Federigo sat down beside Durante.

  “I know. I can feel it.” He touched his cheeks gently with his fingers and winced. His skin felt as if it were burning.

  “The sun bounces off the sea,” Oddi said, “and hits you harder. All right, little tiger, it’s your cast.”

  Durante picked up the dice and shook them; his white teeth flashed in his face. He’d gotten tan. With a whoop, he cast the dice, and they rolled over and over, wobbled to a stop, and came up three fours. The sailors all groaned.

  “How did he do that?”

  “He’s cheating.”

  “No, they’re Oddi’s dice.”

  Around Durante’s feet, a collection of small coins and bits of jewelry and clothing lay.

  Federigo picked up the dice. “Can I play?”

  “You have nothing to bet,” Durante said.

  “Just once,” Federigo said, and rolled the dice. They clattered on the deck and lay still. Abdul roared.

  “It’s Palermo. They all learn to throw dice from the age of six months.” He stared at the dice. Federigo had rolled a thirteen. “I’m not gambling with any boys from Palermo ever again.”

  “On your feet,” Hadji-Mustafa yelled. “She’s coming about.”

  Federigo bounded to his feet. The Genoese ship had swung around broadside to the wind, and her oars thrust out motionless from her sides. He said, “Are they going to fight?”

  Abdul laughed. “No. They’re surrendering. Look.” Durante swore a round sailor’s oath. “I wanted to fight.”

  “Hunh. You would.” Abdul swung around. “Lower out the boat. Oddi, Feisal, Marco, Yaya—”

  Federigo trotted up to the bow. The Genoese ship rolled in the water, helpless, and on her stern her master was waving a white cloth slowly back and forth. It occurred to him that pirates didn’t fight as much as he’d thought — not if they could help it. He watched the little boat put off from the ship and scull toward the Genoese, packed with men. Why fight if you would only lose, and maybe die? He wondered if they’d take the Genoese prisoner, or just rob her of her stores and whatever plunder she might have collected. All in all, he decided, being a pirate wasn’t as exciting as the stories made it out to be.

  *

  The boat came back full of bales of cloth, barrels of salt meat and wine and bushels of grain; most of the men had stayed on board the Genoese. Federigo watched while the sailors under Hadji-
Mustafa’s direction packed the plunder into the hold. Once again, the boat went dancing over the waves to the Genoese. Waving their swords and shouting, the pirates jumped down into it and started back toward their own ship. From the Genoese ship came howls and hoots and insults, and the pirates shouted back, full of blood-chilling threats and promises.

  Hadji-Mustafa came up beside Federigo. “You’re good luck to me, King. They were carrying a lot of gold, on top of all the rest.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m glad it was worth your doing it.”

  “What’s the matter, disappointed? No blood, no fire?”

  Federigo shook his head. “I’m kind of glad about that. It’s just that ... I don’t know. It doesn’t seem all that much fun.” He shrugged. “It just seems like what you were talking about last night — working all your life away for nothing.” He cocked his head to one side. “I mean — what will they do — what will you do with that gold? You’ll just spend it all as soon as you reach a port and have very little to show for it. Won’t you?”

  “You sound like an old man.”

  Federigo grinned. “All my teachers are old men, that’s why.”

  “Well, you’re right. About my crew, at least. But in the meantime I do as I please. I sail where I want to, and I have my own ship — that’s all I want. I don’t care about the gold, just about sailing.” Hadji-Mustafa took a little pot from his shirt. “Here, put that on your sunburn.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It wouldn’t bother me if I never robbed another ship,” Hadji-Mustafa said. “So long as I—”

  “Could do as you please,” Federigo said. “That’s a good reason, I guess.”

  “Thank you,” Hadji-Mustafa said, with exaggerated politeness. He stared down at Federigo, and finally he shook his head. “Do you want to be King?”

  Federigo nodded, unscrewing the top of the pot; he dipped out salve on his fingers and spread it on his face.

  “Why? It’s probably more trouble than piracy, and about as dangerous and hard on other people.”

  “So I can do as I please,” Federigo said, and laughed. Hadji-Mustafa, surprised, laughed too, and thrust out his hand. Federigo wiped off the salve hastily and shook hands with the pirate.

  “We understand each other,” Hadji-Mustafa said. “Good. I thought so, back in Palermo. Come along, now, we have to eat.”

  Chapter Five

  “THERE’S CEFALU,” Hadji-Mustafa said. “Do you want to go ashore now, with me, or after we eat tonight?”

  “Now,” Yusuf said. “Please, Little Red, can we?”

  Federigo nodded. “We have to find a way to go back home. We can’t do that in the dark.” He stared at the shore. The bare brown-green coastline turned to white sand at the sea’s edge, then to white foam, and darkened gradually to a bright, clear blue. Fishing boats painted red and yellow sailed and rowed about the harbor. Palm trees sprouted above the beach, beneath the tremendous cliff, and right below the rock he could see the double spires of the Cathedral one of his ancestors had built. The rock was shaped roughly like a head, which was probably why the town was called Cefalu. He wished he knew what he was going to do when he got on the beach.

  “Red,” Durante said, “I’m not going.”

  Federigo swung around. “What do you mean?”

  Durante was fairly dancing with happiness. “I’m staying with the pirates.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly Federigo had a lump in his throat. He couldn’t imagine not being able to find Durante whenever he wanted someone to play with. But he understood why Durante wanted to stay on the ship. He remembered how eagerly Durante had asked Hadji-Mustafa questions about sailing, that night on the deck under the stars. He flung his arms around Durante and hugged him.

  “Have a good time. Come see us when you put into Palermo.”

  “I will.” Durante hugged him back. “Don’t get killed. And learn how to fight.”

  “I will.”

  “And tell my father that I’m all right and happy, and that I’ve gone to sea.” Durante glanced at Hadji-Mustafa, who was waiting impassively, the boat’s cable in his hand. “Don’t tell him that I’ve gone with the pirates, though.”

  “All right.” Federigo watched Hadji-Mustafa grin sarcastically. Yusuf climbed over the rail and, clutching the rope, let himself down gently into the boat — as Abdul had said, he wasn’t a sailor. Federigo took hold of the rope in both hands. He’d seen the sailors do this, and he wanted to try it. With one leg wrapped around the rope to keep him from going too fast, he slid down with a whoosh and a thump into the boat. Yusuf in the stern of the boat was laughing.

  “I can hardly wait to step on the ground again. I’m so sick of ships I could die.” He bounced up and down.

  Hadji-Mustafa landed beside him and cast off. “Federigo, fend us off.”

  Standing awkwardly on the gunwale, Federigo pushed them away from the ship. High above them, Durante was calling good-by.

  “I like to sail,” Federigo said. “Someday—”

  Abruptly he realized that he was falling. He wobbled, flailing with his arms to get his balance again, but the boat seemed to drift quietly out from under him. He yelled. Beneath him was nothing but scummy water — he took a deep breath and shut his eyes and fell in. Warm as milk, the water closed over his head. He thrashed his way to the surface and looked around, flipping his hair out of his eyes.

  Yusuf was rocking back and forth with laughter, and Hadji-Mustafa’s grin had broadened enormously. From the rail of the ship, the shrieks of the sailors’ mirth reached him.

  “Wait for me,” he yelled. Embarrassed, he struck out clumsily for the boat, which was gliding off over the waves.

  Hadji-Mustafa raised the sail a little, took hold of the tiller, and sailed the boat down toward him. Federigo waited, treading water, and splashed Yusuf. “You be quiet. At least I can swim.” Lunging forward, he caught the gun-wale of the boat and heaved himself into it, falling into the bilge.

  “You looked so funny,” Yusuf said. “You looked so surprised.”

  “I was.” Federigo laughed. “But it’s nice — it’s warm.”

  Durante shouted, “Good-by, Little Red,” and Federigo turned and waved to him.

  Hadji-Mustafa put the helm over, and the boat skimmed down toward the harbor, past the fishing boats trailing their nets.

  “You’ll dry out quickly enough.”

  Federigo took off his shirt and wrung it out over the water. “Do you know if we can catch a ride with a caravan to Palermo?”

  “Probably. The bazaar is in the square in front of the Cathedral — those spires there.”

  “I know — my great-grandfather built them.” He spread out his shirt in the wind and flapped it.

  “Be careful, though,” Hadji-Mustafa said. “They’ll probably be combing the island looking for you. Of course, if you get caught, you’ll go straight back home.”

  Federigo shook his head. “I don’t want to get caught.”

  Hadji-Mustafa put his head to one side. “You won’t either, if I know you at all, and I think I do. Yusuf, get up in the bow and fend off from the quay.”

  “I don’t know how,” Yusuf said.

  “Oh, you.” Federigo scrambled past him and stood up in the bow. The quay swept up toward them — boys and men were fishing from it, their lines drooping down into the water. He leaned out and caught a piling and held the boat steady against it; the thrust of the sail nearly carried the boat out from under him again. Hadji-Mustafa lowered the sail. A man on the quay over Federigo’s head threw down a thick, slimy rope, and Federigo made it fast to the bow of the boat.

  “Up you go,” Hadji-Mustafa said. He tossed Yusuf easily up onto the quay and swung himself up, his lean body twisting. Federigo used the rope to pull himself onto the flat planks of the wharf, in among the old fish heads and the glitter of scales. The whole quay stank of fish.

  “Now,” Hadji-Mustafa said. “If you go down that way and turn left, you come to the Cathedral.” He glance
d around at the people watching them curiously; strands of his long blond hair were caught across the silk patch on his eye. “Be careful, as I told you. And remember your promise.”

  “What was that, Master?” Federigo was putting on his shirt, already nearly dry.

  “Don’t hang me,” Hadji-Mustafa roared, and laughing strode off down the quay, with the men darting respectfully out of his way.

  Yusuf said, “I’d do that first thing, if I were you.”

  Federigo shrugged. “He’d be too hard to catch. Come on.” At a trot, he headed through the mobs of people around the harbor, toward the spires of the Cathedral jutting up beneath the huge, head-shaped cliff.

  “I wish Durante had come with us,” Yusuf said. He stopped just long enough to snatch an orange off a stall while the vendor wasn’t looking. “I’m going to miss him.”

  “He’ll have fun, and maybe he’ll get rich.” In a square fringed with palm trees, Federigo paused to get his bearings. On one side of the square was a tavern, with horses tethered in front of it. He looked hard at one of the horses and pulled Yusuf into the shadows.

  “What—”

  “I know that horse — that’s Lothair’s horse. Come on!” He burst into a hard run, headed out of the square. Yusuf raced along beside him; they careened through a street lined with little shops and full of shoppers. Federigo ran into a fat man, who grunted and thrust him off, and cut down an alley into the next street.

  “What will they do if they catch you?” Yusuf asked, panting. He looked around. “There’s the Cathedral.”

  Federigo nodded. “I don’t want to find out.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the square where he’d seen Lothair’s horse. Hadji-Mustafa was right. They were searching the island for him, and he’d never have gotten this far if he hadn’t been on a ship, out to sea. He jogged down a tiny street and out into the square before the Cathedral.