The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  As he reached the door, he turned.

  “Berard …”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t worry about my soul.” It was said lightly, with a smile, but in his eyes there was sympathy for Berard’s turmoil.

  After he had gone, Berard sat looking for a long time at the crucifix on the wall. His eyes scrutinized the face of the Saviour as if seeking an answer.

  In a way, Innocent and Frederick were both right. Each was protecting his God-given right. One his crown, the other the independence of the Church. Where was his own duty? He owed allegiance to the pope. But above Innocent stood a greater One. On whose side would He wish him to be? The carved, emaciated features of the crucified Christ looked down on him full of compassion.

  In the distance, Berard could hear bells. They were ringing compline. The monastery bell, too, began to chime, calling the brothers to the day’s last service. Since childhood, Berard’s life had been ordered by the sound of church bells. Bells divided the day and night into the sections set aside for devotions by the monastic orders, but they also marked time for everyone else. Bells announced fire, death, war, as well as feasts, births, christenings, and weddings.

  The strokes of the bells rose and fell, back and forth in a steady rhythm, a beautiful sound that brought peace to Berard’s heart.

  ON EASTER SUNDAY, before the Roman nobility and a glittering array of cardinals, archbishops, bishops, and officials of the curia packed inside the Lateran basilica, Frederick paid homage to Innocent as his vassal. He renewed the concordat of his mother, and took the oath the pope had demanded.

  In a steady voice, his right hand on a jewel-encrusted book of the Gospels, Frederick swore that as soon as he was crowned emperor he would renounce the throne of Sicily in favor of his son Henry. His face was calm. He accepted the pope’s embrace with a smile of gratitude and thanked him for his help and protection.

  In the dim light of the basilica, amid the wafting incense and candle smoke, Pope Innocent looked at the serene young features of his vassal and was satisfied. This time, he thought, the papacy might be well served. Acolytes in white and gold surplices swung silver censers. Frederick knelt. The pontiff raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross above him.

  “Go with God, my son, and may your reign be blessed!”

  IN ADDITION TO his blessing and four thousand gold bezants, the pope gave Frederick a parting gift even more precious than gold: orders to the German bishops to assist him in every way, particularly with the supply of men and arms.

  However, the curia’s spies reported that Otto and his army were at Trent, guarding access to the Brenner Pass. North of Rome, the Italian cities friendly to the Guelfs were barring him from crossing the other Alpine passes.

  “I can’t believe this!” Frederick fumed. “Here I am, elected emperor by an overwhelming majority of the German princes, and I can’t even get across Italy, past a few miserable city states ruled by dyers, cobblers, and coopers!”

  “They’re not that miserable, Frederick. Most Italian communes are as rich as Croesus. They can afford the best foreign mercenaries. As for the tradesmen you’re sneering at, it is precisely their trade that has made them wealthy,” Berard said.

  Frederick glared at him. “You think that cities should rule themselves?”

  “I’m just saying that they’ve succeeded remarkably well. They’re a force to be reckoned with.”

  “I for one see only the havoc wreaked by these city-states. They continually harass their neighbors, and fight the pope or the emperor or both.”

  “The emperors who have ignored the power of the Italian communes have done so at their peril. Remember that.”

  Frederick decided to go by sea to Genoa. This would at least take them in a northeasterly direction. In addition, the Genoese might be induced to offer support, both financial and in the form of fighting men. But this plan too was delayed when they heard that the Pisans were patrolling outside the Roman ports. Furious, Frederick remained in Rome.

  Finally, Alaman found a Genoese captain who smuggled Frederick and his escort, dressed as Saracens, on board his merchant galley amid a cargo of cloth, olive oil, and cheese. The Pisan spies in the port were hoodwinked. As the bay of Genoa came into sight, Frederick and his men unwound their turbans. The Genoese, bitter rivals of the Pisans, gave him a tumultuous welcome. A huge crowd brandishing boughs of greenery followed Frederick and his escort from the harbor through the winding streets to the Doria palace.

  Niccolò Doria, head of a family who had supplied the republic of Genoa with statesmen for more than a century, was also leader of the Ghibelline faction in the city. An elderly man with impeccable manners, a bulbous nose, and the hands of an aristocrat, he had nevertheless, like most Genoese, the shrewd instincts of a merchant. His small black eyes appraised Frederick. “My lord, you do me and my family great honor in accepting our humble hospitality.”

  He is, thought Frederick, evaluating the benefits to be gained from ingratiating himself with the new emperor.

  With a flourish of his wide-cut velvet sleeve, Niccolò introduced them to his family, assembled in the atrium of their palace. His wife, a middle-aged, tired-looking woman in a brocaded headdress, curtsied. The cause of her pallor appeared in a large brood of children, ranging from an infant in the arms of a wet nurse, to several plain daughters of marriageable age, and two handsome, dark-haired sons, Percival and Barnabo.

  Frederick took an immediate liking to the elder of the two, Percival, about his own age. Percival and a chamberlain escorted them to their quarters, which occupied a whole wing of the palace. After the Doria servants had left their baggage, Frederick looked around. Frescoes of country scenes covered the walls. The bed hangings were of thick cendal, the beds massive, raised on platforms of carved oak. The mattresses were stuffed with soft down, the first featherbeds Frederick had ever seen. Punching his fist into a mattress, he grinned at Berard. “The Dorias enjoy showing off their wealth, don’t they? How did they acquire it, by piracy or fulling?”

  “Shipping, my son. Most honorably.”

  They spent their days entertained by the rulers of Genoa. Jousts, hunts, and gargantuan banquets followed one after another. Weeks passed. Still, the friendly Italian towns urged caution. All routes over the Alps were watched by his enemies. Frederick became more and more impatient. His only distraction was his new friendship with the Doria heir, Percival.

  Although at first the young man had been a little reticent, he had soon lost his reserve. He introduced Frederick to his friends. Together, they read poetry until late at night, or debated Boethius, a Greek philosopher recently rediscovered. Accustomed all his life to the company of people much older than himself, Frederick revelled in the camaraderie of men his own age. They would do the rounds of the better wineshops behind the Ripa Maris, the arcaded seafront, where all Genoa’s trade and most of her public life took place. Alaman, a kinsman of the Dorias, often joined them.

  THE TAVERN, CUT deep into the rock, resounded with laughter. Men filled the long unplaned tables, sweat glistening on faces flushed with revelry. The lute player in the corner strummed his instrument, urging them to join in. Song filled the vaulted room. Cups were raised and drained. Serving wenches staggered past carrying heavy earthenware flagons.

  A barefooted girl, her unbound hair tumbling down her back in a tangle of yellow curls, jumped onto the wine-stained table at which Frederick and his friends were sitting. Alaman tossed her a coin. “Dance for us, Catalina!”

  The lutenist strummed harder. The singing grew more raucous. Stamping her feet, the girl began to dance. Slowly at first, then gathering speed. Skirts flying, eyes closed, she turned into a blur of spinning hips and heaving breasts and long wild hair. Frederick stared at her, mesmerized by her feral vitality.

  As suddenly as she had started, she came to a halt. The tavern erupted into wild applause. Coins flew through the air and landed at her feet. As she bent down to retrieve the coins, Frederick realized th
at he, like everyone else, was leering at the white flesh protruding from her low-cut bodice.

  The girl jumped off the table in one lithe movement. Alaman slapped his thigh. “Come here, my dove.” She threaded her way toward him, adroitly avoiding the hands that reached out from other tables, and sat on Alaman’s lap. Lazily, with a gesture born of long practice, she removed his hand from her bodice whenever it got too close. Her eyes, green and slanted like a cat’s, were fixed on Frederick.

  “Here, drink this!” Alaman urged, handing her his wine cup. Over the rim of the cup her eyes smiled at Frederick.

  Alaman, who could drink like no other man Frederick knew, emptied cup after cup, ordering more flagons. All the while he fondled the dancer, watching Frederick and her. Determined not to be outdone, Frederick downed the unwatered wine almost as fast as his friend. His legs began to feel heavy. Percival, beside him, was slurring his words. Glancing across the table, Frederick caught the critical look on Anselm von Justingen’s face.

  Two more girls joined them. One of them sidled up to Frederick and tried to sit on his lap. He pushed her aside.

  “Come on, Frederick, don’t be so surly, they’re all juicy morsels.”

  He gave Alaman a withering look and drained his cup in one gulp, slamming it down on the table.

  “Let’s leave, I’ve had enough of this place.”

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, FREDERICK GRATEFULLY inhaled the crisp sea air. The pungent odor of spilled wine and unwashed bodies in the tavern had been overpowering. His head felt heavy and his mouth was dry. He had drunk far too much spiced wine. As the longing in his loins subsided, he felt relief at having preserved his dignity.

  Somewhere, the call of the night watch on their rounds echoed through the deserted streets. In the stillness, their footsteps rang out on the cobblestones as they made their way back to the palazzo Doria. As they rounded a corner, a small figure darted out of an alley. A scruffy urchin tugged at Frederick’s cloak.

  “Messire! Messire!”

  “What … ?”

  Another tug, motioning him to bend down. Frederick listened to the child. Bursting into laughter, he fished a coin from the purse at his belt and gave it to the boy. His resolution vanished. He turned to the others: “You go along. I’ve been sent an invitation by a beautiful lady.”

  “A lady she assuredly is not, but you’ll enjoy her. A hot little wench, made for bedsport. Selective, too,” Alaman said. “As soon as she clapped eyes on you, I could see that tonight it was neither my prowess nor my gold she was after.”

  Preceded by two Saracens carrying lanterns and tailed by Mahmoud, Frederick followed the boy through the dark, tortuous alleys. They went up a narrow, creaking outside staircase. The room was small and dingy. A single tallow lamp threw a circle of light onto the low whitewashed ceiling. Catalina came towards him.

  “I knew you’d come. You want me, don’t you?” When she smiled, her cheeks dimpled. She showed no sign of respect or awe, though she knew full well, as did everyone in Genoa, who he was. With a casual gesture, she began to unlace her bodice. Her breasts were large and white. Frederick’s mouth went dry. He took one step across the room and tried to grab her. “Come here,” he said, his voice thick.

  With a little laugh she evaded him. “What an impatient young buck you are!”

  The blood was pounding in his temples now, a mixture of headache and lust. He lunged forward and caught her by the wrist. “Don’t taunt me, you little wildcat!” Bending her head back, he kissed her hard. They stood pressed together, tasting each other hungrily. Out of breath, he let go of her and wiped his aching mouth with the back of his hand.

  With a deft movement, she bent down and undressed him. “By the milk of the Virgin!!” She ran her tongue over her lips as she stared down at him. Then, gently, reverently, she held him with one hand while she stroked him with the other.

  Frederick closed his eyes. He opened them again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea …” She stopped. “Come,” she whispered. She pulled him across the room. Leaning backward over the table, she raised her skirts. With half-closed eyes, her hair fanned out on the table, she offered herself up to him.

  He sank into her with a groan. He hadn’t had a woman for weeks. Every fiber in his body ached for the moment of release, yet he wanted to continue, to torment her twisting flesh by denying it what it craved. The power to enthrall her was as heady as the urge in his loins. Finally, unable to hold out any longer, he slumped forward. The girl screamed, a wild, triumphant scream, and fell back onto the table.

  With his heart pounding, Frederick straightened his back. He took in the air in great gulps, feeling strength and breath flow back into him. After a moment, Catalina wrapped her legs and arms around him. “Take me to bed, like this,” she whispered.

  With their bodies still joined, he carried her over to the truckle bed in the corner. He began to move again, taking his time, feeling a new wave of excitement building up, rising in a slow, exquisite curve, higher and higher.

  AS HE CREPT down the creaking staircase in the first light of dawn, followed by Mahmoud, who avoided his eyes, and his companions, who had spent the night wrapped in their cloaks on the threshold outside, he felt sick. His temples pounded, his stomach heaved. With a mixture of disgust and dispassionate curiosity Frederick asked himself how he could have spent the night with a common harlot in a squalid hovel. And yet he knew that he would see her again. He had given her his whole purse, which was not very much, with an apology. Catalina had only laughed, a deep, guttural laugh, and curled up again on her pallet.

  * * *

  THE QUARTER WHERE Catalina’s father was a tavernkeeper became as familiar to Frederick as the palaces of Genoa’s aristocracy. Whenever he could, he sneaked away, with only Mahmoud as an escort. They coupled with a frenzy that left him drained and contented. Even his worries seemed to seep out of him.

  On the day before he left Genoa, Frederick went to see Catalina for the last time. He untied a leather pouch from his belt. Taking her hand, he spilled the contents into her palm.

  “This should buy you a dowry, Catalina. Take them to Percival Doria. He knows about you. Ask him to change them for you. He will see that no one cheats you.”

  Catalina stared at the coins. “Real gold?”

  “Gold bezants, from Byzantium. Unclipped.”

  “But so many?”

  Frederick smiled. “It’s a prince’s duty to reward those who give him pleasure.”

  Catalina wrapped her arms around him. She put her head on his chest. “One day, I’ll tell my grandchildren that in my youth I loved the Emperor Frederick,” she whispered.

  THE MORNING WAS already hot. They left Genoa behind and climbed the steep road leading north across the Apennines. As they gained in altitude, the landscape became more solitary and forbidding. Vertical walls of rock rose before them. Bluish-gray outcrops of slate covered the land. Here and there, a few stunted trees clung to the sparse soil between the rocks. Bright patches of yellow gorse flowered along the dusty road. Behind them, the Gulf of Genoa shimmered under a cloudless sky.

  Frederick, riding a splendid gray stallion, gift of the doge, thought with relief that Genoa was behind him. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed his stay there. For a while, even the subtle haggling with Genoa’s rulers had amused him. The deal had been a good one for both parties: The Genoese offered money as well as men in exchange for pledges to be fulfilled upon his accession. He promised to confirm the privileges granted by previous Hohenstaufen emperors, and added several new ones which would benefit Genoa to the detriment of Pisa and Venice. He had signed the deed in the grand hall of the dogal palace: Fredericus Rex et Imperator. It was the first time he had used his new title.

  THEY ARRIVED IN Pavia a week later without incident, despite having been warned that the Guelf towns had posted scouts. In Pavia, Frederick was received as if he were already the reigning emperor. He rode through the town gate festooned with Hohenstaufen banners, a black eag
le on a field of gold, to the Palazzo Pubblico, where he was was welcomed by the leaders of the city to the pealing of church bells. From there they escorted him in solemn procession to his lodgings at the bishop’s palace, the purple canopy reserved for the emperor held above his head.

  With a sigh of contentment, Frederick leaned back in the hot water. The wooden tub had been well lined with linen to protect him from splinters. He closed his eyes. A banging on the door roused him with a start.

  Couldn’t they ever leave him alone? “Who’s there?” he bellowed. Mahmoud poked his head into the chamber.

  “The archbishop. Says he’s just received some urgent news.”

  “Well, if it’s that urgent, let him in.”

  “In here?” The Saracen’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, in here!”

  Berard, in a spotless tunic, his beard freshly barbered, sat down on a bench, betraying no surprise. He had been confronted with Frederick’s passion for bathing before. Frederick suspected that Berard thought this Saracen custom of soaking in scented water odd, if not actually effeminate.

  “Frederick,” he leaned forward, “an envoy from Cremona has just arrived. The Milanese are leaving Milan to patrol the Lombard plains. We have to leave now.”

  “But we’ve just arrived.”

  “I know, but if we don’t leave Pavia before nightfall we won’t get through to Cremona.”

  Frederick stood up, splashing water all over the floor.

  “Give me a towel, will you?”

  Berard, averting his eyes, handed him one of the linen towels from the bench he was sitting on.

  Rubbing himself dry, Frederick stepped out of the tub.

  “I must admit that I would have liked to spend a night or two in a bed,” he said. “Can we get enough fresh horses?”

  Berard smiled. “I’ve already requested them.”

  THE MESSENGER FROM Cremona was waiting in the hall. He was young, remarkably handsome, and exhausted.

  “Count Manfred Lancia, at your service, Your Grace.” He removed his dusty hat with an elegant flourish.