The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Frederick stopped. “If they didn’t obey me I’d have their heads cut off. I’d never buy loyalty with gold.”

  Ibn el Gawazi’s dark eyes held his: “There are times, young king, when the headsman’s ax is the only remedy. But there are other times when it is necessary to appease your foes, even if your pride suffers. The only thing that matters is the final result. Remember the double truth. If the danger is great enough, it is permissible for the strongest man to unwind his pride like a turban and cast it off.”

  Frederick nodded. He understood, yet how he longed to punish those who had made him suffer. As if in a far-off dream, he heard again the sound of splitting wood as the German invaders burst into the tower by the sea where William and a few loyal courtiers had fled with him, hoping to escape by boat. He felt himself a child of five, being flung over the shoulder of a flaxen-haired giant. He remembered kicking and beating his fists on the man’s back, howling to set him down, screaming that they had no right to touch him, that he was the king. The soldiers’ mocking laughter rang in his ears.

  They walked through the empty streets of the Muslim quarter in the searing midday sun. Frederick, lost in his thoughts, started when they reached the blue door in the white wall. They entered the scholar’s small garden. A fountain bubbled beside the garden’s only tree, a gnarled pomegranate. In its shade stood a bench, its tiles worn and cracked. A pebble path led to the house, whose peeling paint proclaimed its owner’s poverty. Although Ibn el Gawazi’s fame reached as far as Cordova, Cairo, and Baghdad, he eked out a living by teaching the sons of wealthy Saracens and by writing treatises on logic, rhetoric, and dialectic. He taught the poor boys of the Muslim quarter for free. His family—once court physicians and astronomers—were impoverished now.

  Frederick halted on the threshold. He looked up at the scholar: “I’m going to tell the archbishop that I wish you to come to the palace and teach me. You will be well rewarded.”

  Ibn el Gawazi smiled. “And do you think he will permit it?”

  “Yes. He’s not like William. I will tell him that you can teach me to talk my enemies into becoming my friends.”

  The Saracen laughed. “I think Allah has taught you that already.”

  PALERMO, JUNE 1208

  The two figures bent over the chessboard in the shady gallery above the palace gardens were engrossed in their game. In the stillness of the afternoon, the only sound was the cool splashing of water from a nearby fountain.

  “Check,” said Frederick, moving his ivory rook.

  William, seated across from him, let out an oath. “Well done, Frederick, you’ve put my king in a nice little predicament here.”

  “If only I could do that to others as easily, and not on a chessboard, either.”

  William, taking no offense, nodded in sympathy before concentrating on the game again.

  Waiting for William to make his move, Frederick’s eyes wandered to the streets below. Palermo was deserted at this hour. The carved fretwork shutters of the flat-roofed houses were closed against the assault of the sun. The town was dozing in a heat-induced torpor, awaiting the evening to resume its bustle until the small hours.

  Frederick hated these soporific afternoons. As soon as he came of age, he’d change everything, bring order into the chaos that was Sicily. The treasury was bankrupt, the officials corrupt, the barons untamed. Even Berard, who thought that most of his other plans were futile dreams, agreed with him on this. If only time would pass more quickly …

  The thud of a chess piece brought Frederick back from his reverie. “Right, William, let’s see your defense.” He stared at the board for a moment. “Hm, I think I’ve found a way to get at you.”

  William threw up his hands in mock despair. “I’m about to be defeated by the greatest tactician since Julius Caesar.”

  “I wish I had just a fraction of his legions. The men I could muster would’ve made Caesar roar with laughter.”

  Frederick moved his queen. “Between the chancellor, who treats me like a child, and the rebel barons in their mountain aeries, they’ve got me wedged between Scylla and Charybdis.”

  A deep voice said from the doorway, “That may not be so for much longer.”

  Frederick glanced up to see Berard striding toward them. “You’re back!” He leapt up. “We’ll finish this game tomorrow, William.” He patted his tutor on the shoulder before turning to embrace Berard.

  Berard put an arm around him, steering him towards the gardens. “I have some wonderful news from Rome.” Berard’s brown eyes shone. “Let’s go outside, where the walls have no ears.” Although William could be trusted, there were spies everywhere.

  As they walked down the steps, Frederick said, “It’s good to see that at least someone moves about at this hour. Not a soul stirs in the palace till vespers. Even William would much rather doze under a palm tree than play chess with me. When I’m fifteen, I’ll move the court to the mainland you’ve told me about, where the air is dry and fanned by a breeze. Where …”

  Berard grinned. “I know. All the things you’ll do when you come of age. The Lord have mercy on us. None of us will be safe, and it’s only another year.”

  “How was Rome?”

  “Crowded. Dirty. Filled with scheming cardinals. We docked at noon. Knowing that you’d be about, I came straight here.” He drew a parchment, sealed with the keys of Saint Peter, from his pocket. “Here, read this. This time, the Holy Father has answered our prayers.”

  “Ha,” sneered Frederick. “He’s allowed the barons to mock his authority for years, and as for what he’s permitted them to do to me and my kingdom …”

  Berard sighed. “You know that the only weapon at Innocent’s disposal has been negotiation, and with it, in the end, he’s achieved considerable success.”

  “Yes, I know,” Frederick said, kicking a pebble out of the path, “but it doesn’t change the fact that the pope always sees to the interests of the Church first.”

  “Read the letter.”

  Frederick scanned the letter, then handed it back to Berard. “I’ve told you I won’t marry her. I’ll have none of his pet project. I don’t want a wife, and certainly not one as old as this one. I don’t care if the pope has squeezed a better dowry out of her brother.” Frederick grimaced, mimicking revulsion. “Berard, how could you? You’re supposed to be my friend. It wouldn’t even do the dynasty any good. I’d never be able to breed heirs on her. Imagine bedding a wife as old as this. Ugh.” He shook himself like a wet dog.

  “You did not finish reading, or you would have changed your mind. In addition to the original dowry, the king of Aragon has agreed to give his sister five hundred Aragonese knights, armored, each with a squire and three horses.”

  “What?” Frederick grabbed the letter. Excitement gripped him. Thoughts raced in his mind. With five hundred well-equipped knights, he could reestablish control over his country. He read on in feverish haste. After he finished, he leaped into the air with a triumphant shout, waving the parchment like the banner of his new host. Grabbing the beaming Berard by the arm, he whirled him around in a wild jig.

  “Enough, Frederick, enough!” Berard’s flat black hat fell off and rolled into a flower bed. He retrieved it from among the lilies. Placing it carefully back on his head, he smiled: “I told you it was good news. May I write to the pope, conveying your acceptance?”

  Frederick laid a hand on Berard’s arm. “I know how hard you must have worked in Rome to bring this about. No, don’t interrupt me,” he raised his hand. “I know you’re going to say it was all the pope’s doing, but although I’m young there is one thing I know: no pope will ever be as true a friend to me as you. I shall not forget it.”

  Berard stood still. He stared at him as if he had never seen him before. Then, slowly, he went down on one knee. Taking hold of Frederick’s hem, he brought it to his lips, bowing his head. “My liege,” he murmured, “may God grant you success and wisdom.”

  Tears shot into Frederick’s eyes. I
t was the first time that anyone, without an ulterior motive, had paid homage to him. As he looked down on Berard’s bowed head, he felt himself imbued with new confidence. The fears and doubts of the past vanished. He knew, in that moment, that he would succeed. He would rebuild his kingdom and safeguard his people. Yet he knew that it wasn’t the Aragonese dowry that had caused this sudden certainty. It was something else: God had finally remembered him.

  He raised Berard to his feet. For a moment he looked into the archbishop’s brown eyes. He saw love there, and respect. He kissed him on both cheeks, not caring that the other should see the tears in his eyes.

  Together, in silence, they climbed the marble steps to the loggia. Behind them, the westering sun set the horizon ablaze in splendor.

  THE NEGOTIATIONS DRAGGED on all through the autumn and winter of that year. Envoys traveled back and forth between Palermo, Rome, and Saragossa. Finally, at the beginning of the new year, Frederick signed the marriage contract. Frederick, who had come of age in December, was now ruler of Sicily. The pope had relinquished his regency, although the kingdom remained a vassal state of the papacy.

  The Sicilian nobles, realizing that their indigent boy-king had turned into a man, allied to the powerful kingdom of Aragon, reconsidered their position. Invitations to the wedding festivities had been sent to many of the barons. Most decided to accept the proferred olive branch.

  “IT’S ABSURD. AND irresponsible.” Walter’s voice was trenchant. “To spend so much gold on a wedding when the exchequer is up to here in debt!” The chancellor reached to his neck. He fixed on Frederick. “You, my boy, had better learn the first lesson of governance, and learn it fast: husband your resources. Without thrift, the wealthiest kingdom will bankrupt itself. And Sicily is far from rich.”

  Frederick glared at Walter, “I didn’t ask your advice. I was merely informing the council.” He narrowed his eyes, “And don’t you ever address me like that again.”

  The chancellor’s face muscles twitched. He picked up his hat, turned, and stalked out of the chamber. Silence fell on the chamber. The councilors glanced at one another.

  They’ve been waiting for this, Frederick thought. And they’re waiting to see how I’ll react. He sat down. With all the calm he could muster, he said: “My lords, precisely because I am aware of the precariousness of our position, I intend to dazzle the barons with the lavishness of the celebrations. This is not profligacy but an investment in the future.” He added pointedly, “My lords, you have my leave to go.”

  The councilors bowed and shuffled out of the chamber. Only Berard and Cardinal Savelli, the papal legate, remained. Berard whispered to the white-haired cardinal. The other nodded. They approached Frederick, who was furiously pulling on his gloves.

  The cardinal spoke: “A word with you, please.”

  “Arrogant old vulture!” Frederick exploded. “I’ll teach him to insult me. My grandfather would’ve had his head for this!”

  “Not so loud, Frederick,” Berard pulled him into the window niche. “You still need him. None of us has his experience.”

  Cardinal Savelli nodded. “Do not offend him too openly, Your Grace, it would not be wise.”

  They’re right, Frederick thought. He couldn’t do without Walter. Not yet. Not for a while. He felt as if he were choking. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Tell him to apologize. I’ll make a show of forgiving him, but I won’t forget.”

  He glanced at the pope’s ambassador, the white-haired, rubicund Cardinal Savelli. The second churchman he’d ever liked. “Thank you for your concern. That, too, I shall not forget.”

  THE ORANGE SILK curtains stirred in the evening breeze. Frederick put the book down; it was futile to continue straining his eyes in the twilight. His attention had been straying from the text anyway. Instead of concentrating on the book, his mind had been wandering to the wedding.

  When he thought of his bride his mouth curled down. Of all the nuisances he had to contend with, this was no doubt the most infernal. It was a king’s lot to marry for the good of his country, but it still irked him. The Aragonese fleet bearing the five hundred knights and the future queen of Sicily was expected any day. Frenzied preparations were in progress. Wherever one set foot, tapestries were being hung and furniture moved about. Servants staggered past with piles of linen, bundles of candles, chests, trestles, and panniers full of God knew what. Musicians, dancers, and acrobats practiced all day long amid disjointed snatches of music. The whole fuss grated on Frederick’s nerves.

  He rose and went over to the perch in the corner. At her master’s approach, the peregrine, tethered to her perch, stretched her neck out. Stroking the soft brown plumage Frederick marveled, for the hundredth time, at the intelligence in those jet-black eyes whose sight was so superior to that of man. The bird had been a New Year’s gift from Berard. Because she was far more docile than his other falcons, he kept her in his apartments and even took her, sitting on his fist, to the interminable church services he was forced to attend now.

  “You want to go hunting, my beauty, don’t you?” he murmured, caressing her. “So do I, but we must both be patient. When all this to-do is over we’ll go hunting, and you can show me how clever you are.” Pressing his cheek close to the small head and the mighty beak, he inhaled the clean, furry smell of her feathers; it gave him comfort.

  A movement behind him made him wheel around. A servant girl carrying a burning taper had padded on bare feet into the chamber and was lighting the lamps. Seeing the relief on his face as he recognized her, she smiled. “Did my lord think an assassin had crept into his chamber?”

  Despite her impudence he couldn’t help noticing that her teeth were magnificent, gleaming white in the dark oval of her face. She was one of the new Saracen servants who had been hired for the arrival of the Aragonese, and uncommonly pretty.

  It annoyed him that she had surprised him petting the falcon. He sat down behind the table and pretended to busy himself with the writing implements. But while his hands toyed with inkhorn and quills, his eyes followed her. As she went about the room, trimming the wicks with a little pair of bronze scissors before lighting oil lamps and candles, her bangles tinkled softly. Unbidden, the memory of his only experience with a girl came back. Color rose in his cheeks. The hasty coupling with a dancing girl provided by Fakir, his head falconer, had been followed by acute embarrassment. Whenever they went hunting, he had to endure Fakir’s banter. The old falconer, who had taught him to hawk since Frederick could barely sit a horse, felt entitled to such familiarity. According to Fakir, Frederick was surrounded by old Christian priests, who were thus doubly disqualified from understanding the needs of a virile young man. A king needed a harem.

  Afraid the whole of Palermo might hear about his inexperience, he had since declined Fakir’s offers to provide him with further “target practice,” as the Saracen termed it. Now, however, Frederick found that all he could think of was the girl. She was much prettier than the other one had been. He wanted to reach out and touch her.

  The girl slowed her movements. When she reached the desk, she raised her dark liquid eyes to him. Then she bent over the lamp, slowly lighting the little wicks on the bronze tiers. She was so close to him that he could smell her. Her scent was a mix of wood smoke, sweat, and female that made him dizzy.

  “What is your name?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Leila, my lord.” The softness of her voice robbed the guttural Arabic syllables of their harshness.

  Frederick rose and stretched out a hand. “Come here,” he whispered in her language. She hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath, she blew out her taper and came toward him.

  He encircled her waist with his hands, pulling her to him. Standing on tiptoe, she offered him her lips. He kissed her, slowly at first, then more urgently, holding her against him with an iron grip, as if the strength of his embrace could assuage the fierce ache within him. His lips wandered down, following the line of her throat. His fingers fumbled with the t
iny brass buttons on her blouse.

  Leila disentangled herself. “Come, my lord,” she whispered, taking him by the hand and leading him to the canopied bed in the corner.

  As they lay together afterward, he raised himself on one elbow to look at her. Softly tracing the contours of her body, still damp from the sweat of their bodies, with his index finger, he admired the pliant roundness of her flesh, so different from his own hard muscular form. The girl, obviously unsure whether to linger or leave, looked up at him. “Did I please my lord?”

  He nodded. His wandering finger was exploring the silken skin on the inside of her thighs, had found the warm, yielding moistness within her. He began tentatively to stroke her. She moaned with pleasure. Encouraged, Frederick continued his rhythmical stroking. Her eyes were closed now and her breath was coming faster; suddenly her body convulsed, then slackened. She gave him a radiant smile. Frederick realized what he had witnessed. So women could be pleasured like this, too.

  Leila giggled, pointing. He burst into laughter. “Oh, the royal scepter has risen again.” He took her hand and clasped it around himself. As her hand moved steadily, her long hair brushing across his chest in a soft caress, Frederick fell back on the bolster, abandoning himself to her.

  When later, drowsy and drained, he lay beside her, he was filled with surprise. How much pleasure men and women could give each other. And it needn’t be hasty or furtive. Yet, according to the Church, he had just committed the sin of fornication. Perhaps Fakir had hit on a truth when he said that the old men who ruled the Christian Church were so far removed from real life that their teachings did not reflect God’s will but their own ignorance.

  A FLOTILLA OF galleys was anchored in the bay of Palermo. In the bright morning sunshine the red and gold arms of Aragon fluttered from their riggings. The biggest of the vessels had just docked and its gangplank was being let down.