“A little more bread, my son?” the pope asked, pushing a silver platter heaped with little loaves made of costly white flour toward Frederick.
“Thank you, Holy Father.” Frederick helped himself to another.
Hermann wiped his pewter plate clean with a piece of bread. Gregory normally subsisted on a Spartan diet, to which he ascribed his longevity, but today he had instructed his cook to prepare a sumptuous meal. Snails in onions and red wine, a stew of lampreys flavored with cinnamon, ginger, and sage, and roasted swan. The grand master sat back to ease his stomach, and eyed his two companions.
The bearded, ancient pope, eighty-seven years old, and the clean-shaven emperor of thirty-six were an extraordinary pair. Gregory, tall, thin, and stooped, with shaggy brows and sharp hazel eyes, chewed the food with his remaining teeth. He nodded as he listened to Frederick tell an anecdote about Jerusalem.
Frederick leaned across the table to make a point, smiling. The pontiff, not normally given to frivolity, laughed heartily. Hermann was astounded at the pope’s transformation. This morning Gregory had still been the aloof vicar of Christ. Then, incredibly, the old man had begun to soften, swayed by Frederick’s manner. Was it that alone, Hermann asked himself, or had Gregory, this son of a small landowner, been overcome by the affability with which this successor of the Caesars treated him? Gregory’s invitation to the emperor to dine with him had been unexpected. He had seemed genuinely pleased when Frederick accepted.
Now, as Frederick, over a dish of figs stewed in honey, outlined his belief that pope and emperor should jointly rule the world for the welfare of mankind, Gregory nodded several times in quick succession.
“Well, my son,” he said, “mayhap it is possible to bring about this ideal state you describe.”
“It must be, Holy Father,” Frederick said. “Chaos and lawlessness would result if ever Church and Empire were permanently divided. I wield the temporal sword that protects the world from anarchy, while you enforce the spiritual laws that keep men from sinking to the level of beasts.”
Hermann could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Even if each privately still harbored grave doubts about the other, what he was witnessing seemed close to a miracle. Praise be to God, Hermann thought. These implacable enemies, who had not long ago vowed to fight each other to the bitter end, appeared to be in perfect amity tonight.
It had taken Hermann, Piero della Vigna, Frederick’s new chancellor, and a delegation of Sicilian bishops headed by Berard a year to negotiate this treaty. Frederick’s excommunication was lifted, the pope recognized him as king of Jerusalem, and the interdicts on the holy places in Palestine were rescinded. The patriarch of Jerusalem was to ratify the treaty Frederick had signed with Al-Kamil. The grand masters of both the Templars and the Hospitallers were ordered not to endanger the truce in the Holy Land by acts of hostility.
Frederick had to concede to Gregory that the property of the Templars in Palestine and Sicily, which Frederick had confiscated, be returned, as were the Church’s possessions in Sicily. A general amnesty for all papal supporters in the kingdom was to be declared, and Frederick had been forced to make concessions on the thorny issue of his right of veto in the election of Sicilian bishops.
The treaty had been signed that morning near the town of Ceprano, not far from Anagni. The pope rode into the valley from his summer palace on his white mule, while Frederick issued forth from his encampment under a purple canopy. They signed the treaty in an open field, on a table covered with cloth-of-gold beneath a cloudless summer sky, cheered by their respective retinues.
After giving each other the kiss of peace, pope and emperor proceeded to a small chapel where Gregory, assisted by two cardinals and an archbishop, lifted the ban of excommunication that had lain on Frederick for three years. Couriers were immediately sent to inform the world that the rift between pope and emperor had finally been healed.
THAT EVENING, as the small party rode back toward the camp at Ceprano, Frederick let his eyes wander over the moonlit fields and terraced vineyards. Hermann dozed on his horse, lightly holding his reins. Without him this treaty would never have come into being. Hermann, whose advancing years were beginning to weigh on him despite his iron constitution, had spent most of this last year in the saddle, pleading, cajoling, and occasionally crashing his large fist down on both imperial and papal tables.
There was a stillness, a soothing quiet in the warm night air, interrupted only by the beating of hooves on the dry soil. Raising his eyes toward the inky sky, he felt a heady sensation of relief. He was free! Free to devote himself to Sicily and the Empire.
Was it really possible to weld the German principalities into one nation? He had pondered this question now for fifteen years and still not found an answer. Their loyalty to a strong emperor, a first among equals, bound them together. But could these unruly princes remain united for longer than one man’s lifetime? Perhaps, if their allegiance could by transferred to a dynasty.
Yolanda’s little son Conrad had grown into a robust little boy of three. Frederick had been relieved to see that the child hadn’t inherited Yolanda’s frail constitution. He was his only legitimate heir after Henry. Henry had recently been betrothed to the Duke of Austria’s daughter Margaret. Frederick had long been searching for a means of incorporating the duchy, which controlled Germany’s access to Italy, into the Empire.
Whenever he thought of Henry he felt vaguely guilty. He hadn’t seen his son for ten years, since the day he and Constance left Germany. His last image of him was of a nine-year-old hiding his tearful face in the archbishop of Cologne’s cope. It wasn’t his fault that every time he planned a reunion, fate thwarted his efforts. The Saracen rebellion, the Lombard closure of the passes, the crusade … He wrote to Henry frequently, admittedly mostly about matters of government. Yet a voice at the back of his mind told him that this was not all, that since Henry’s infancy he had felt a distaste for his son’s whining ways. Then there were his natural children, among them Richard, as dark as his mother Leila, a broad-chested young man of twenty, with an unbending sword arm.
There was little Frederick of Antioch, the child of Yolanda’s vivacious cousin, born after his mother’s precipitous return to Palestine. The ruse hadn’t worked. Her ship had been delayed and she had been visibly pregnant upon her arrival in Outremer. Her husband had been prevented from burning his wife for adultery only by the threat of having his lands confiscated by Frederick’s regent, to whom she had appealed. No sooner had Frederick landed in Acre than the count sent the boy to him in a basket, with a note to say that he could care for his own hell’s spawn. He picked up the frightened child and hugged him. “I’ll give him the title of prince of Antioch, like my uncle Bohemund,” he had said to Mahmoud, “that will make the old ass of a count even angrier.”
There was Catherine, Adelaide’s daughter, a pretty little thing of thirteen. Soon, he’d need to find her a husband.
However, despite the affection he had for all his children, it was Enzio who was his favorite. He had inherited his mother’s beauty, except that unlike Adelaide, he was dark-haired, with large, dreamy eyes. He was a devil in the lists. He had a quick brain and a talent for poetry. Frederick sometimes allowed the boy to join him when he entertained his circle of poet friends, such as Giacomo da Lentini, laureate of Sicily, or Percival Doria, the Genoese prince. As they sat around the fire, listening to a lute player, the group would compose poems in the vernacular. Enzio’s compositions were invariably outstanding, almost as good as Giacomo’s and far better than his own. Enzio would be fifteen this year. It was time to entrust him with greater responsibilities.
Responsibilities … Frederick sighed. There were so many. So much of what he had planned had been left undone during the years of his strife with Gregory. But now he could devote his energies into refashioning Sicily into the marvel it had once been.
He felt a sharp longing as he thought of Palermo. He could see the city, her flat rooftops and minarets, her shor
es washed by a blue sea, her gardens lit by the same moon that was here turning the bunches of unripe grapes into clusters of silver. A face imposed itself on the image of the city, a beloved face, with dark brows and large, searching ink-blue eyes.
Frederick gave spurs to his mount. He was suddenly in a hurry.
MELFI, APULIA, JULY 1231
“Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, King of Sicily, Jerusalem and Burgundy, to his people …”
Piero della Vigna’s magnificent orator’s voice echoed through the pillared hall of Melfi Castle as he read out the introduction to the new code of laws. When the chancellor had finished, Frederick dipped his pen into the vermilion ink and affixed his signature to the parchment. A great cheer went up. The Constitutions of Melfi had assumed force of law.
Roffredo of Benevento, on Frederick’s left, beamed. It had taken him, Piero, and a team of jurists years of labor, of long discussions with Frederick, of arduous travels investigating arcane customs and local laws, and of consultation with princely bishops and unlettered village elders, to compile the work. It was the first legal code promulgated in Christendom since that of the Byzantine Emperor Justinian more than seven hundred years earlier.
Berard, watching Frederick’s face, thought how little he had changed despite the passing years. He was smiling that peculiar half-smile he had had since boyhood whenever he achieved an objective.
Since the peace of Ceprano, Frederick had devoted himself to Sicily’s prosperity. The Messina mint had made a gold coin called an augustalis. It was the only gold coin in Europe and caused a great stir, accustomed as people were to adulterated and clipped silver coins. Frederick accumulated the gold by forcing foreign merchants to pay for Sicilian goods in gold, but allowing payment for local trade to be made only in silver. On the obverse, the augustalis bore a likeness of himself, crowned by a laurel wreath, and on the reverse the imperial eagle. Gregory was sure to look on this with misgivings: little imagination was needed to realize that it proclaimed Sicily and the Empire as one, united in Frederick.
As much as he had been against the images on the coins, Berard shared Frederick’s pride in the new legal code. An amalgam of centuries-old customs and new laws, the code was Roman in spirit. But it also contained radical concepts that were Frederick’s own. The status of women, villeins, and orphans was improved. Trial by combat was abolished, as was payment of blood money for murder. Most importantly, all would be treated equally under the new laws, be they Saracen or Lombard, lord or villein. This, unheard-of in feudal law, sprang from Frederick’s conviction that the foundation of justice was impartiality.
It remained to be seen what Gregory would make of it. With an eye to appeasing the pope, Frederick had introduced more severe measures against the growing number of heretics. The Albigensians, or Cathars, as they sometimes were called, had begun to spill over into Italy and Sicily to escape the Inquisition. In Languedoc, where they originated, they were being hounded by the Inquisition.
The Office of the Inquisition, recently established by Pope Gregory and encouraged by King Louis and his pious mother, was becoming very powerful in France. Frederick worried that the Inquisition’s tentacles would soon reach into Italy, Spain, even Germany. Independent of the local clergy, the Inquisition was ostensibly an instrument for extinguishing heresies. So far, there had been no torture to extract confessions. But as Frederick said, the Inquisition was an ideal tool for the papacy to terrorize opponents and stifle thought. Torture was bound to follow.
A movement caught Berard’s eye. A page approached Frederick and was whispering to him. Frederick broke into a smile. He beckoned to Piero. “She’s been delivered of a daughter. See to the lords and the English ambassador. I’ll join you at the tournament.” He instructed the officers of state who were to sign the document to witness it in his absence.
Although Frederick had spoken in a low voice, others, too, had heard his words and were casting looks at each other. Surely the birth of a bastard was not a reason to disrupt an occasion such as this. Frederick flashed Berard a broad smile as he passed him. There was no doubt of the happiness Bianca brought him. Last year, she had given him a daughter he had named Constance. Now she had born him another child. Frederick knew he could never wed her. If Bianca’s insignificant rank would have barred him from marrying her before, now that she had born his bastards, it was unthinkable. Despite this, Bianca Lancia was the uncrowned queen of Sicily. Troubadours sang of her beauty, and foreign envoys carried tales of her back to their courts.
Berard noticed Piero’s narrowing eyes as he, too, watched the haste with which Frederick disappeared. The chancellor disliked Bianca. He was used to women succumbing to his suave charm. Malicious tongues accused him of bedding not only a large number of the ladies at court, but some of their husbands, too. Berard, observing him in unguarded moments, often asked himself what the real cause of his resentment of Bianca was.
Piero was turning to the English ambassador with great affability. Drawing him aside, he engaged him in conversation. Piero’s mind was as devious as it was sharp. Yet there could be no doubt of his loyalty to Frederick, who had raised him, on merit alone, to the office of chancellor after Walter of Palear’s disgrace. What Berard disliked about him was his hubris. His strutting gait and flamboyant cloaks put him in mind of a peacock. But Piero wrote excellent sonnets, a new form of poetry invented by Giacomo da Lentini. Piero declaimed them with a flair rivaled only by Frederick’s son Enzio. From dark-haired Enzio, Berard’s mind wandered to Frederick’s eldest son Henry.
Berard maintained a correspondence with the bishop of Ratisbon, chancellor of Germany since poor Conrad’s assassination, whose task it was to ensure that Henry followed his father’s advice—advice that, of late, Henry seemed to be ignoring more and more.
Now twenty, Henry had inherited his father’s willfulness but none of his astute political sense. Frederick, despite his independence of mind, had always surrounded himself with able men and known when to follow their counsel. Henry appeared to be sadly lacking in this regard. Resentful of the curbs imposed on his authority by the German princes, he had been making overtures toward the burghers of the free cities, setting himself up as their protector. From the reports he heard over the years, Berard had pieced together a fair picture of the young man. It was not one that bode well for the future.
He made his way in a somber mood through the throng of guests to the adjoining hall. His eyes lit up at the tables laden with choice wines, Saracen sweetmeats, delicate pasties, and above all, sherbets. Made with snow brought down from mountaintops and stored in deep underground caverns, they were his special delight. He suddenly realized how hungry he was.
A cup of spiced wine in one hand and a flaky boar pasty in the other, Berard chewed appreciatively, while his eyes scanned the company. Most were Sicilians, with a few tall German noblemen and one or two portly Rhenish prelates. This reminded him again of his friend Siegfried. It had been a long time since he had seen the bishop. They had spent many pleasant hours together during his years in Germany. Well, he’d see him soon enough. As chancellor of Germany, Siegfried would be a prominent member of Henry’s retinue at the Diet in Ravenna that autumn.
THE RED-WALLED CITY of Ravenna was preparing for the first imperial Diet to be held in nearly eleven years. Every German prince, as well as King Henry, would be present.
Frederick took up residence in the bishop’s palace on the marketplace. While awaiting the delegates’ arrival, Frederick, accompanied by Norbert, explored the monuments of Ravenna’s past. He hoped that Ravenna, once capital of the Western empire after the barbarian conquest of Rome, would yield antique columns, plinths, and perhaps statuary for the palace he was building in Foggia.
The pleasant autumn weather turned and rain fell for days, shrouding the city and the surrounding marshes in gray mist. All Saints’ Day came and went, and still not a single delegate had arrived. Three days later, a fast-riding courier sent by Henry of Brabant brought calamitous news: the
Lombard communes had once again blockaded the Brenner Pass. The duke and the other princes were making their way by the much slower and by now snowbound Styria-Friuli route. They wouldn’t be in Ravenna before the middle of December. The Diet was postponed until Christmas. Frederick began to plan the only solution to the Lombard problem: war.
On the second day of Christmas, Frederick’s birthday, an exhausted, much aged Henry of Brabant arrived with an escort suffering from the ill effects of cold. Conditions were so bad, he reported, that most of the other princes had turned back. After embracing the duke in the vestibule of San Vitale, where he was attending mass, Frederick asked, “And Henry?”
He blanched when he heard that his son had never left Germany. Instead, Henry had sided with the burghers of Liège in a dispute against their bishop. Staring at the floor mosaic, he muttered, “A fitting birthday gift …”
The Diet was postponed once more until the spring, in Aquileia. Frederick issued an imperial summons, worded in the harshest terms, for Henry to present himself at Easter in Aquileia. Milan, head of the Lombard League, and her allies were placed under the ban of the Empire.
“WHAT AM I to do with him?” Frederick put the fragment of a marble hand back on the pile of Roman remains.
Bianca was sitting on the stump of a column. Thoughtfully, she scraped the earth at her feet with the tip of her shoe.
“He’s behaving like a willful child,” she said, “so a good spanking is the first thing that comes to mind. What, I wonder, is the equivalent of a good spanking for a king?”
Frederick sighed. “Berard thinks that I should talk to him, not as emperor, but as father. I’ve left him alone too long. Now that he’s a man, he thinks he needs no one’s advice any more. In a way, I can understand his irritation with the churchmen around him.” He smiled. “When I was young, they nearly drove me mad. If it hadn’t been for Berard, I might also have rebelled against all common sense simply because its source was a fusty prelate.”
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