The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Berard put a hand on his arm. “Please, Frederick, be reasonable. Wait for a day or two, for the messengers to arrive.”

  Frederick brushed his hand off. “I’m going to Messina. By a way no German spy would know.” He strode out of the chamber, clattering down the stairs in his haste to be gone.

  FREDERICK STOOD ON the ramparts and stared across the narrow straits of Messina at the mainland. To hide his trembling hands, he folded his arms across his chest. The sea lay calm and shimmering in the November sun. On the other side the plain of Calabria was arid and empty. It was true. They were gone!

  Mahmoud stood by his side, beaming, as did the castellan and his officers, all of them filled with wonder. Frederick wanted to hug them. He contented himself with grinning at Mahmoud. “Well, Mahmoud, it seems we are saved, at least for the moment.”

  “Allah is great, my lord.”

  “What I’d like to know is, how did Allah arrange this?”

  Frederick turned to the castellan. “Ranulf, tell me once more what your informers said.”

  The Norman knight bowed. “Your Grace, first they reported that the Germans were striking camp in frenzied haste, dismantling their tents and packing their equipment. Within hours, they were on their way. Afterward, we heard that the emperor, with the army, was marching north along the Adriatic toward Ravenna.”

  “And Otto has been seen, alive and well?” Frederick asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace, there can be no doubt that the emperor is in the best of health.”

  “What, in the name of the Lord, can have made him abandon a certain prey and rush off like a madman?” Frederick raised his hand to shade his eyes from the sun and took a last look at the deserted plain across the sea where a few days ago an army of thousands had been encamped. Right there, before him in the blue waters, were Scylla and Charybdis. Monsters that rose from the inky blackness of the sea to devour sailors, whole ships that disappeared without a trace, sucked into the depths by infernal whirlpools … His head spun. He felt dizzy. Whole armies, German emperors, too, vanished? He made his way slowly down the spiral stone stairs.

  In the great hall, he ungirded his sword, let it clatter to the floor. He sank onto a bench. Mahmoud knelt to pull off his mud-caked boots, calling for a basin of hot water for his feet. Frederick’s body ached with fatigue. He had spent two days in the saddle, without sleep, halting only to change mounts at forts along the way, doubt and hope battling in his breast.

  He buried his face in his hands. When all hope was lost, miraculously, he had been saved. Why? Was it possible that God’s capricious games with him were over, or was this just another promise held out to him, only to be snatched away again? Was God testing him, testing his endurance, his faith, which He knew was shaky? A shiver ran through him. Despite his doubts, God had saved him.

  PALERMO, JANUARY 1212

  Frederick watched the great falcon circle in the sky, closer and closer to the flock of wild geese on the ground.

  “Isn’t she magnificent?” he whispered to Fakir.

  The falconer inclined his head. They were sitting their horses at the edge of a marsh. The late afternoon held that crystalline clarity of a sunny day after plentiful rain. The sun was setting into a band of wispy clouds. The trees at the water’s edge mirrored themselves, stark and black, in the burnished water.

  Frederick breathed in the crisp air. He felt exhilarated. The ger was the king of falcons. Much larger than the saker or the peregrine, it could fly to great heights and was superbly powerful. It was found only in the icy reaches of the far north. Whole expeditions were launched to trap just one or two of these birds. This one had been a gift from the king of Aragon. It was the pride of Frederick’s mews. Suddenly, the geese rose in a perfect, arrowlike formation. They were still out of reach of the falcon. She tried to swoop on them, but missed. With a loud rustling of wings, they flew into the setting sun.

  Frederick cursed. What had startled them? He glanced at the hounds. They were still pointing, ears back, tails wagging, looking expectantly toward the houndsmen. Then he heard the drum of galloping hooves. He turned to see a lone rider coming toward them. The hunters parted to let him through. The man, a messenger from the palace, drew rein. He jumped from his horse.

  “My lord, I beg your pardon. A message from the lord chancellor. An embassy from Germany has arrived, seeking an audience with Your Grace.”

  Frederick frowned. “How many?”

  “Two, with a small escort.”

  Frederick hesitated. Then he said, “Tell the chancellor I’ll see them on my return. And don’t come rushing into a hunt like that again. You’ve spoiled those geese for us!”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man shuffled his feet and stared at the ground, but did not move.

  “What are you waiting for?” Frederick grabbed his reins.

  “My lord, I …” the messenger’s voice faltered.

  “Damnation, man, what is it?”

  “The chancellor said I was to tell you to return to the palace without delay.”

  Frederick’s eyes narrowed. “Tell the chancellor that I don’t take orders from him.”

  “Very well, my lord.” The messenger’s face was a study in discomfiture.

  Fakir blew his whistle, holding his flat bag out to the falcon. Germans or no Germans, he had to distract the bird from pursuing her quarry. That was how many falcons were lost. After a last desultory circle, she dropped and settled on the bag, devouring the morsel of meat Fakir held out to her.

  Despite his tenseness, Frederick smiled. For a hunter, only a hungry falcon was a good falcon. “Come, Fakir, let’s see if we can find those geese again.”

  The old falconer cast him a long look. “Yes, my lord.”

  He knows I’m not interested in those geese anymore, Frederick thought. He spurred his chestnut stallion forward. The dogs ran ahead, followed by the houndsmen. The rest of the party with their hawks cantered behind. An apprehensive silence had settled on what had been, moments before, a gay hunt.

  Frederick felt cold with fear. All through the winter, ever since the Germans’ disappearance, he had waited for an explanation. First, the only news that reached Palermo was that Otto was hurrying across Italy in a bid to pass the Alps before winter. News traveled slowly in winter. The roads turned to quagmires of mud, almost impassable to wheeled traffic. From November to March the Alpine passes were closed to all but the most intrepid travelers. A messenger who spared neither himself nor his mount could hope to average eighty miles a day in summer; in winter, he was lucky if he covered twenty.

  When he’d finally learned that Otto and his army had crossed the Brenner Pass, even Frederick began to believe that he wouldn’t turn back. He chewed his lip. What could the emperor’s messengers possibly want? Was Otto suddenly so desperate that he wished to negotiate the return of Apulia? The conquered towns had been left well garrisoned by the departing Germans. Did he need money to quell a rebellion at home, or to fight an invasion from abroad? He had refused an offer of gold before, but maybe he had changed his mind.

  His instincts for negotiation told him to take his time. Despite his anxiety, he continued with a hunt in which he had lost all interest. But negotiate what? Nothing good could be associated with Emperor Otto’s name.

  CONRAD VON URSBERG wiped his brow. How much longer were they to wait? He was hot in his thick furred cloak, made to ward off the numbing cold of northern winters. But here it wasn’t even cold outside and inside one sweltered. The German was a towering figure of a man. He was broad-shouldered, with a thick, muscular neck, a graying blond beard, and blue eyes that missed little.

  His younger companion glanced at him. Just as tall but lighter of build, Anselm von Justingen didn’t feel the heat as much. His lanky brown hair was cut in a fringe across his forehead and curled inward just above his collar. Intelligent brown eyes looked out of a clean-shaven face. He, too, wore a fur-lined cloak. “Patience, Conrad, it won’t be long now,” he whispered.

  Co
nrad nodded. This could go on for hours. There was no way he could take off this accursed cloak. He tried to distract himself from his discomfort by looking around the audience hall. A room of splendid proportions, its walls were covered in gold mosaics depicting exotic trees and animals. The vaulted ceiling was a star-studded firmament of brilliant blue. At the far end, on a dais under a fringed canopy, stood the throne. Of carved and gilded wood, it rested on two crouching porphyry lions. The floor, too, was inlaid with red and white porphyry. It was said that the young king and his country were impoverished. His Norman ancestors, however, must have been immensely wealthy to have built such a palace.

  At last, fanfares sounded. The bronze doors swung open. The ranks of courtiers bowed. Conrad, who had been in Constantinople with the Fourth Crusade when they captured the city from the Byzantines, caught his breath. He felt himself transported back to the Bosporus.

  Flanked by a ceremonial guard of Saracens in crimson turbans, scimitars held aloft, the king advanced toward the throne. He wore a dalmatic of white silk. From his shoulders fell a scarlet mantle, with gilt-embroidered palms, lions, and camels picked out in pearls. A large ruby flashed in the clasp that held the cloak. As the king passed, Conrad caught a whiff of an incenselike, flowery scent. At least, Conrad thought, making an effort not to wrinkle his nose, he has Barbarossa’s hair and a good square chin.

  The whole apparition glittered with exotic magnificence. Only the sea-green eyes weren’t those of an oriental potentate. They belonged neither to his German heritage nor to the Eastern opulence around him, but were wholly his own.

  After the king had been enthroned, a herald signaled them to step forward. “The ambassadors, Conrad von Ursberg and Anselm von Justingen,” the herald announced.

  Conrad and Anselm knelt.

  “You may rise.” The voice was deep for one so young. “Welcome to my court, my lords.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Conrad glanced at Walter of Palear beside the throne. “Your lord chancellor has overawed us with your hospitality.”

  “My lords, crossing the Alps in winter is an arduous enterprise. What is the nature of your errand?” The green eyes rested on him, cold and unblinking.

  Conrad took a step forward. “Your Grace, we have come to bring you the news that the Emperor Otto has been deposed by the prince-electors of Germany.”

  A murmur of astonishment ran through the hall.

  “He has been deposed, by his own people?”

  Conrad nodded, “Yes, Your Grace.”

  A smile, greatly appealing, impish almost, softened the king’s face. “This is welcome news indeed. We shall celebrate Otto’s fall with a banquet, of which you shall be the guests of honor.”

  Conrad inclined his head. So he had also inherited Barbarossa’s ability to charm at will. “We thank you, my lord.” Conrad drew breath: “May I continue?”

  The king nodded.

  “At the same meeting in Nuremberg, the princes elected a new emperor. We have been sent to ask you, for the weal of Christendom and the peace of Germany, to accept the imperial crown.” He went down on one knee. “Only you, as the last Hohenstaufen, will be able to command enough loyalty to unite the Empire, torn by conflict for so long.”

  Silence filled the hall. It was as if those present were holding their breath, waiting for the king to reply. After what seemed an eternity, Barbarossa’s grandson spoke at last. “This is an unexpected honor. Tell me, has the pope been advised of this?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Before the election, he was approached by the bishops of Basle and Speyer. In principle, the Holy Father’s reaction was favorable. We were to inform you first, before halting in Rome on our return.”

  “My lords, this is a most weighty matter. We will reconvene later, when you can explain all this more fully to me and my counselors.” The king’s smile was tight. He dismissed them.

  Trying not to show his disappointment, Conrad rose to his feet. After months of exhausting travel, Frederick of Sicily’s reaction to his incredible good fortune seemed like a terrible anticlimax.

  FREDERICK STOOD WITH arms outstretched as Mahmoud removed first his cloak, then the dalmatic, gloves, and sandals. The Saracen laid the garments on the bed with infinite care. Later, they would be carried down to the treasury, to be put in their chests and protected from moths with peppercorns. Mahmoud alone had a key to the vault in which King Roger’s garments were kept.

  Mahmoud held Berard’s fibula in his hand, about to place it in its leather box.

  “Don’t return it to the archbishop yet,” Frederick said. “I’ll wear it at the banquet for the Germans.” He laughed. “I’ve always been the king of beggars, Mahmoud. Now I might even become their emperor.”

  Mahmoud lowered his eyes. “Aye. I have heard that the Germans want you for their emperor.” He bent down and began to unroll Frederick’s cream silk stocking. After a moment’s silence, he added, unrolling the second stocking: “But how, oh lord, could you ever be sultan of those you have such reason to hate?”

  “That, Mahmoud, is one of many questions I must answer to myself.”

  Frederick turned to the fire, warming his hands. Thoughts tumbled through his head like acrobats. Everyone would be clustering in turmoil in the privy hall, waiting for him, waiting to overwhelm him with questions, with advice.

  One of the oil lamps in the room flickered brightly, then died. Even if Constance or Berard didn’t appear soon, the servants would come to replenish the oil, trim the candlewicks, close the shutters. He needed to think, to be alone.

  “Mahmoud, wait for me at the kitchen postern with two horses. Make sure no one sees you.”

  THE MOSQUE WAS empty. The evening prayers were over. The sweepers had gone, and the few old men who came to honor the last prayer of the night would not be here for a while. Frederick slipped off his hood. There was no one to recognize him.

  From the bench along the north wall he could see the courtyard through the horseshoe arches. Clouds lit by a partly hidden moon scuttled across the sky. The orange trees cast black shadows over the pavement. From beyond the gate tower, a horse whinnied. It was Mahmoud with their horses.

  Two tall bronze cressets lit the mirhab. Frederick leaned back and closed his eyes. In his head, voices whispered warnings, encouragement, doubt. Was this God’s latest move in his cruel game of chess? Was God offering him his queen only to distract him so that he could snatch his king? Or was this a genuine truce, an end to his challenge? In his mind’s eye he saw the German ambassadors, heard their strangely accented Latin: “We … ask you, for the weal of Christendom and the peace of Germany, to accept the imperial crown …” The crown of the Holy Roman Empire, Charlemagne’s crown … it had not been offered to the Hauteville king of Sicily, but to the last of the Hohenstaufen. Who were they, so revered and so hated by so many? Becoming emperor would mean becoming a Hohenstaufen. It would mean becoming German …

  Later, he would listen to Berard, to Constance, to Walter. But first he needed to fathom the answer for himself. He would find it here, in this deserted mosque of his childhood, the mosque of his years of penury and solitude. A sense of calm, of detachment almost, began to fill him.

  “Frederick of Hohenstaufen!”

  The words echoed through the mosque. Frederick leapt up, reaching for his dagger.

  “Forgive me for startling you, oh king.” A figure detached itself from the shadows and came toward him. The green turban bowed. “I was meditating when you entered …”

  Frederick stared at Ibn el Gawazi. “How could you know … Why did you call me by that name?”

  The scholar spread his hands. “Call you what, oh lord? I merely wished the peace of Allah upon you.”

  Frederick sheathed his dagger. “I am sorry, my friend. I heard a voice calling me by a name I have never used, a German name, my father’s name.” He looked at the scholar, “I have been elected emperor, in place of the deposed Emperor Otto. He still has much support. It is a grave decision, a decision th
at could make Sicily the heart of Christendom or destroy her.”

  “I see.” Ibn el Gawazi showed no surprise. After a moment, he said, “And have you made your decision?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, allow me to walk with you to the gate. It is not seemly that the emperor of the Franks should walk alone in the night, even if the blessing of Allah is upon him.”

  THE PARCHMENT CONFIRMING Frederick’s election lay unrolled on the work table in his privy chamber. Weighted down by four bronze inkhorns, it was more than five feet long, and bore the signatures and seals of the German electors.

  Berard had watched Frederick read it over and over again, staring for long moments at the signatures and glossy red seals on the creamy vellum. Frederick stood bent over it now. Raising his head, he frowned at Conrad. “Why king of the Romans?”

  “My lord, when a new emperor is elected, his title is king of the Romans, which means king of Germany. He is crowned as such in Aachen. Although he is emperor in all but name, it is only after his coronation by the pope in Rome that he officially assumes the imperial title.”

  “Does that mean that the pope has the ultimate veto on the emperor’s coronation?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Is there anything the pope will not try to control? What worldly ambition for one whose concern is supposed to be the spiritual welfare of mankind!”

  Berard winced. Conrad and Anselm, however, nodded in agreement. The power of the papacy had never been popular with the German nobility, nor with their emperors.

  Frederick walked around the table. Berard caught his breath. Frederick’s shoulders were rigid; a nerve twitched above his left eyebrow. “My lords, as you know, I have spent the last two days with my counselors, considering your offer.” He paused. “Against their advice and that of my queen, I have decided to accept the imperial crown.”

  The two German lords fell to their knees. They reached for Frederick’s hem and raised the cloth to their lips. “My liege,” Anselm, the younger, said, “we pledge ourselves to you. May you bring peace to our land.”