The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Berard went on, “The poor fellows thought they’d elected a malleable youngster who would be grateful to them for elevating him to the purple, only to find themselves confronted with an emperor who has the instincts of a despot.”

  Frederick laughed. “I like that, Berard. Hm, the instincts of a despot. Not bad at all. In fact, that’s exactly what these scoundrels need. A tyrant to keep them in line!”

  “Listen to me,” Berard said, serious again. “I’m not trying to save you from a minor sin. On that, you’ll have to argue your case with the Almighty yourself. Your goal, as you yourself have said so often, is to give the Empire peace and unity, and I am trying to help you achieve that. Banish her from your court, marry her to a great lord, send her to a nunnery, anything to get her out of the position she now occupies. And do so quickly, before she stirs the winds of discontent any further.”

  Frederick looked down at his hands. “I’ve tried to marry her off. She won’t hear of it.”

  “Maybe the husband you suggested wasn’t rich and powerful enough?”

  Frederick sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, Berard was probably right. She had been dropping hints for months that kings had been known to divorce their wives, citing the divorce of Louis of France and Eleanor of Aquitaine. But he couldn’t lock her up in a convent simply because she was scheming to marry him.

  “I can’t just banish her, Berard. She’s done nothing to justify it. Gossiping about me with her kinsmen is not a crime, you know. Nor, for that matter, is falling in love with me.”

  Berard twisted his mouth, “Is she in love with you, or with your throne?”

  “Oh, come now, Berard. Isn’t it possible to love a man, as well as the power he wields? Why should the luster of a crown appeal only to men? Any woman in her position would want to marry me. Adelaide’s not a common serving wench, but the great heiress of a noble name. She’d make a perfect empress,” he added with a smile, half to bait Berard and half because it was true …

  Berard blinked in alarm. “I sometimes think that that woman is in league with Satan. Perhaps she’s cast a spell on you. They say her old nurse has great knowledge of herbs and philters. Maybe maid and mistress brew them together on moonlit nights …”

  “You can’t possibly believe such nonsense.”

  Berard pursed his lips. “She’s trouble, one way or another. Think about what I’ve said. Promise me you’ll keep her more in the background. Don’t flaunt her at official functions. Don’t take her with you on every progress.” He leaned across the table: “Do you know that the common people call her the ‘Uncrowned Empress’? Imagine the pain this will cause Constance when she, as she must, hears about it.”

  Frederick lowered his eyes. Berard’s last words had hit their mark deeper than all his previous reasonings. “I’ll be more discreet, I promise you.”

  AACHEN, JULY 1215

  On a hot cloudy July afternoon Frederick made his entry into Aachen. He was escorted by the clergy and princes who had welcomed him outside the gates. A sea of townspeople lined the route of the procession and filled the narrow side streets. The starched wimples of matrons stood out like white sails in the bobbing crowd. On the city walls, the ramparts were black with spectators. The streets had been swept and watered to settle the dust. Tapestries hung from the half-timbered houses of prosperous burghers along the main thoroughfare. Here, as in Alsace, storks’ nests dotted the roofs.

  At the head of the procession rode the portly archbishop of Mainz on a gray palfrey with a crimson saddlecloth. Behind him came the princes of the Church in a glittering array of jeweled miters, processional crosses, and brocaded banners.

  Frederick, mounted on a white stallion with sky-blue trappings, glanced at the sky. In the evening, there’d be a thunderstorm. Behind him followed the temporal princes and the highest dignitaries of the Empire, including the newly loyal Duke of Brabant. He’d been amused earlier to note that Henry of Brabant’s saddlery was far more splendid than his own, with a golden bit and spurs to match. Henry’s way of soothing his bruised ego? The duke, whose ferocity and love of splendor were bywords, had submitted to Frederick with good grace. A rational man, and a civilized one to boot …

  Here and there the crowd pushed forward in their enthusiasm, trying to touch Frederick’s horse or his mantle. At a junction, a ragged beggar threw himself forward, crying “Mercy, Mercy!” Frederick had to rein in his horse sharply to avoid the man.

  The beggar gripped Frederick’s stirrup, his face uplifted in supplication. Silence descended on the crowd. For a moment, Frederick was baffled. Then he realized what the man wanted. A sovereign’s touch was believed to have miraculous healing powers. Frederick peeled off his right glove. Trying not to show his revulsion at the festering sores that covered the man’s face, he leaned down and laid his hand briefly upon the matted grizzled hair.

  A roar of approval went up. Frederick, a wave of nausea rising in his throat, pulled off his ring. Some decent food would do the poor wretch more good than any touching. He handed him the ring. The disfigured face transformed by a toothless smile, the old man sank to his knees. “May God bless you, my lord.” He rose unsteadily to his feet and melted into the crowd.

  The procession moved forward. The cheering reached a frenzy when the mounted heralds began casting largesse to the people, who scrambled over each other in their eagerness to grab the silver coins as they rolled into the dust.

  Frederick was still thinking of the beggar. The royal laying on of hands, widely practiced by the kings of England and France and sanctioned there even by the Church, had always filled him with unease. Perhaps distortions of the mind could be overcome like that, but rotten lungs or festering flesh made whole? Should a king stoop to …

  Frederick suppressed a gasp as he caught sight of Charlemagne’s palace. It was the most splendid building he had seen in Germany. A double-storied complex of reddish stone with gilded roof tiles, it had none of the forbidding austerity of the fortified castles elsewhere in Germany. This was palatial in the true sense of the word: not defense, but magnificence was its primary purpose.

  At one end stood the Royal Hall. At the other, connected to it by a wing of the palace, rose the octagonal church that was the glory of Germany. The church was surmounted by a dome, the only one north of the Alps. In front of the church, in the manner of a Byzantine basilica, was an enclosed atrium. Frederick now understood why they called Aachen “the Rome of Germany.” Charlemagne had made the old Roman spa of Aquisgranum his capital, embellishing it until, at least in the minds of his people, it rivaled the Eternal City.

  Frederick, calm, almost detached until now, felt his heart pound as he looked at the church. Tomorrow he would be crowned there, the fourteenth emperor to be consecrated in it since Charlemagne resurrected the Western Empire just over four centuries earlier.

  FREDERICK KNELT ON the cold marble floor before the altar. His eyes were closed. His mind felt empty, cleansed. All emotion had drained out of him. Never before had he felt such a deep sense of peace.

  He opened his eyes. The little side chapel was shrouded in almost total darkness. A single oil lamp flickered on the altar. How long had he been kneeling like this? He glanced up at the stained glass window. No glimmer of daylight shone through it yet. It must still be the small hours of the morning, an hour or two before they came to bathe and dress him.

  In the stillness, he sensed the presence of his predecessors, who, too, had kept vigil alone in this chapel during the night before their coronations. He bent his head. For a moment he stared at his hands. Unlike Berard, he had no experience in talking to God, yet he felt a need to speak to him, to ask his blessing. He closed his eyes. “Oh God,” he said into the silence, “Give me the strength to carry this burden. Help me to make the Empire strong and enduring. Aid me in giving my people justice and order. And protect Sicily, oh Lord, I beg of you.”

  Tears stung his eyes. He raised them to the emaciated Christ above the altar. In the flickering shadows
the carved lips of the Saviour on the cross seemed to be moving in silent benediction.

  He blinked, shaking his head. He must be overtired, overwrought with emotion. Like the mystics, after spending hours on his knees, he too was beginning to imagine things.

  THAT MORNING, AFTER a ritual bath, his fast unbroken, Frederick emerged from the palace into the atrium that connected it to the Palatine chapel. Before him in the sunshine walked the clergy in solemn procession, bearing Aachen’s sacred relics.

  The princes awaited him in the courtyard. They raised their shields, clanging their swords against them. “Long live the Emperor Frederick, long live the Hohenstaufen!” Again and again, the chorus of voices rose above the din. Once, long ago, before the anointing and crowning of kings, the Germanic rulers had been confirmed in their dignity by being raised upon the shields of their warriors.

  After the last man had sheathed his sword, they escorted him to the church. Fanfares sounded. The bronze doors, silver-green with the patina of centuries, swung open.

  Charlemagne’s double-storied church was a magisterial blend of two cultures. Its octagonal splendor was Greek, the solid simplicity of its construction Germanic. The sanctuary was separated from the outer octagon by eight massive arches of horizontally striped black and white marble. On these rested the upper gallery, with arches of the same design. The cupola was covered in gold mosaics depicting biblical scenes. On the eastern side, facing Jerusalem, Christ the King sat enthroned, lifelike in the glow of hundreds of candles. What, Frederick wondered, had Charlemagne’s rough barbarian lords thought as they gazed upon what to them must have seemed like a miracle of the builder’s art?

  Above the altar, suspended from the dome, hung the famed Barbarossa chandelier. The crown-shaped luster spanned half the octagon and illuminated the entire sanctuary. Frederick felt a surge of elation as he gazed at his grandfather’s gift. He’d give Germany back her ancient pride, her glory. At the same time …

  “Sire …” The archbishop of Mainz touched his sleeve. Together they walked to the altar. On it lay the royal insignia: the crown, the purple mantle, the orb and the scepter, and the state sword.

  In a blur of hallowed words and gestures, he was girded with the sword, anointed on chest, back, shoulders, and forehead, cloaked with the coronation mantle, and crowned. The orb and scepter were handed to him. The clergy then escorted him to the upper gallery to be enthroned on Charlemagne’s throne, a simple seat of four slabs of white Parian marble, yellowed with age.

  After Mass, as the choir intoned the Te Deum, Frederick made his way down again. The assembly sank to their knees. From their throats rose an ancient hymn to Christ’s victory, “Christus Vincit, Christus Reignat, Christus Imperat,” with which the German people paid homage to their newly crowned kings.

  The coronation was over. He was now expected to leave the church, to be acclaimed by the populace waiting outside. Instead, he turned back to the altar. The prelates, glancing at each other in surprise, followed. He raised his hand. The murmurs died down.

  “Princes and people of Germany,” he said, “With God’s help, I will bring you justice, peace, and prosperity. I shall work to unite the Empire and make it once again as great as in the days of Rome.”

  This was greeted by loud cheering. He went on: “Like my grandfather Frederick Barbarossa, I, too, wish to show my gratitude to Him who has raised me to the throne of Charlemagne.” He raised his right hand. “I swear, before God and every man here today, to lead a crusade to Jerusalem, for the glory of Christ and the Holy Roman Empire. To Jerusalem!”

  The congregation erupted into uproar. The name of Christ’s city echoed through the great church like a battle cry. “Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Jerusalem!” they chanted, shaking their clenched fists skyward.

  Frederick, watching, let a smile pass over his lips. Not the pope but the emperor would now be the leader of the next crusade.

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING morning, despite the festivities that had lasted till the small hours, he was back in the church. Crowned and cloaked in the coronation mantle, he sat beside the altar, applauding the crusading preachers.

  Berard, too, applauded, but with far less enthusiasm. These peripatetic priests were common all over Europe. Roaming from town to town, they kept the zeal to liberate Jerusalem alive. In years when an official crusade was declared, their number and the fervor of their preaching increased greatly.

  Still, three in one town, the day after Frederick’s announcement … Berard, whose head ached from too much wine drunk in annoyance, and too little sleep, told himself that at the first opportunity he’d get the truth from Frederick. This sudden crusading fervor was too well organized to be spontaneous. He must have planned it all beforehand. Perhaps with Siegfried’s connivance? The archbishop of Mainz was known to be at logger-heads with Rome. He would welcome any opportunity to enhance German prestige at the expense of the papacy, particularly if it was made to look like the emperor’s spontaneous idea.

  Excitement ran high. It was only natural, Berard thought. Not since Barbarossa had an emperor summoned the German people to a crusade, promising to lead them to victory himself. To many, it must seem as if the dignity of Germany was about to be renewed. And the symbol of that renewal was a young emperor, sweeping away the woes of decades like so many cobwebs. But did Frederick fully realize the immense responsibility he had so insouciantly shouldered? There were only two ways of redeeming a crusading vow: fulfillment or death.

  At midday, as the bells rang sext, Frederick himself mounted the gemstudded pulpit. He had thought of everything. On his mantle was stitched a red cross on a white background, the crusader’s emblem. He would have made an excellent preacher, Berard thought as he listened. Frederick was eloquently painting a harrowing picture, sadly all too true, of the state of Jerusalem and the beleaguered Christian principalities in the Holy Land. At the end, he got so carried away that he thundered, “No Saracen shall ever again stable his horse in the tomb of Christ!”

  Berard lowered his eyes. No one familiar with the Muslim respect for “people of the book,” least of all Frederick, could believe this. Years ago Berard had been astonished to learn, after his arrival in Palermo, that the Muslims, too, venerated Abraham and respected Jesus as a prophet. They even accorded the Virgin Mary a special respect as Jesus’ mother.

  Jerusalem was on everyone’s lips. Berard alone was filled with misgivings. Despite the sun outside and the press of bodies within the church, he felt cold. He drew his cloak closer around him.

  THE FADING SUMMER light fell in soft beams onto the gray marble floor of what had once been the anteroom to Charlemagne’s bedchamber.

  “I’ll deliver the Holy Places to Christendom,” Frederick said. “That doesn’t mean I’ve become a fanatical crusader.” He spread his hands. “Look at it this way, Berard. Religion is the bulwark of civilization. A people who believe nothing and therefore fear nothing will create anarchy, for themselves and others. The holy places are fundamental for the dignity of Christendom. I, as emperor, must therefore recover them.” Leaning back against the settle, he smiled. “From a ruler’s point of view Christianity’s a splendid religion. That’s why Constantine adopted it as Rome’s religion. A religion that preaches morality, hard work, and obedience to God and government is the answer to every sovereign’s prayers, don’t you think?”

  Berard’s dark eyes widened. “Frederick,” he asked with trepidation, “do you then not believe in God?”

  “Of course I believe in God! I’m just not sure that it is the exclusive God of the pope I believe in. If God made the world and everything in it, he also made those who don’t believe in Christ, didn’t he?”

  Berard was appalled. “Frederick, you know that all those who don’t embrace Christ will be consigned to eternal damnation.”

  “I don’t know,” Frederick shook his head. “I sometimes think that the Church invented it all to increase her power. There are people in distant countries such as Cathay who can’t embrace Chri
st because they’ve never heard of him. How can they be condemned to hellfire because the Lord forgot to send them an apostle?”

  Berard crossed himself. This was heresy. Men were burned at the stake for far less. “Frederick,” he said, anguish on his face, “I know you don’t mean what you’re saying, that your inquisitive mind is only exploring ideas. But I beseech you, be careful. You’re on very dangerous ground. If this ever got out … there’s no telling what the consequences might be.”

  “I’ll be careful. And I’m sure the Lord understands.”

  Berard sighed. “I’ll age before my time in your service. As for your heathens in Cathay, if the Lord didn’t send them an apostle, they probably didn’t deserve one. Perhaps they’re so steeped in depravity that they’re beyond redemption.” Drily, he added, “In any case, this fabled Cathay may not even exist. Perhaps the Venetians invented it to enhance the value of their exotic wares.”

  “Of course it exists! There’re two large vases in my palace in Palermo from there. They’re pale green, like the first leaves of an apple tree. On their bottom they bear strange writing, a little like Kufic, but different, which no one can read.”

  Against his will, Berard smiled. How like Frederick to look on the underside of a vase!

  Frederick had picked up a bunch of grapes, and was plucking them off one by one, chewing with gusto. He grinned: “You realize that you’ll be the most important delegate at the Lateran Council? You’ll be representing not only the emperor but also the future conqueror of Jerusalem. The envoys will all be bilious with envy.”

  Berard folded his hands over the jeweled crucifix on his stomach. What would God make of such an opportunistic crusader? And what if he failed and, like his grandfather Barbarossa, perished in the attempt? After a long silence, he said, “And how do I explain your crusade to the Holy Father?”