“They all are, till you see them,” Frederick said, studying his boots.
TRANI, SUMMER 1233
“Greetings to the emperor of the Franks!” White teeth flashed in the dark bearded countenance.
“Greetings to the cousin and envoy of the great sultan, may the peace of Allah be upon you!” With outstretched arms, Frederick stepped onto the gangplank and embraced Fakhr-ed-Din in the harbor of Trani. He held him at arm’s length. The emir had hardly changed since the day, almost five years before, when they said farewell to each other on a height overlooking Jerusalem.
The sultan’s continued friendship was an important element in the network of alliances he was forging. Al-Kamil had emerged victorious in his battle for supremacy with his kin. He now ruled the Arab world from the Nile to the Tigris. In Europe, Frederick had recently signed a new treaty of friendship with the French king. And in England, Piero was conducting the negotiations for his marriage to Henry III’s nineteen-year-old sister Isabella.
He steered the emir away from the jetty toward the waiting horses that were to convey them to the half-finished castle that stood beside the Norman cathedral. “I have brought a friend to welcome you,” Frederick said, gesturing toward his own mount, a black Arab stallion with vermilion saddlery. “Dragon, you remember your old master, don’t you?”
The emir stroked the horse’s head. He smiled, “I see you have taken good care of him.”
“IT’S A MARVEL!” Frederick examined the sultan’s gift, a planetarium in the form of a golden tent, in which astral bodies wrought in gold and jewels moved within their circuits by means of hidden mechanisms.
Michael Scot, whom he had hurriedly summoned, couldn’t contain his astonishment either. Walking around it in the audience hall, Frederick’s physician and astrologer exclaimed, “And it’s a clock, too, my lord! See here,” he turned a knob and a chime sounded the fifth hour of the afternoon, “it keeps time!”
“There are only two in the world,” Fakhr-ed-Din said. “The other stands in my cousin’s palace in Damascus. His sages tell me that this clock is a hundred times more accurate than the best waterclocks.”
Frederick turned to those gathered in the hall. “My lords, next week is the feast of the Hegira. I will hold a great banquet in Foggia in honor of the Prophet Mohammed and the sultan’s illustrious ambassador.” For the benefit of the German lords, he added, “The Muslims celebrate each year the anniversary of the Hegira, the prophet Mohammed’s journey from Mecca to Medina.”
They stared at him in consternation.
IT WAS LATE at night. Through the open arches came the bittersweet scent of cypresses. Somewhere, a fountain splashed. The palace was silent except for the sentries, somber helmeted figures pacing the walkways.
Frederick and Fakhr-ed-Din were seated cross-legged on the carpet in Frederick’s apartments. They had just finished a last game of chess.
The emir reclined. “Nowhere in the Christian world except in your realm could a feast like the one today have been held.” After a great hunt, more than four hundred noblemen and prelates from Sicily and the Empire had sat down in three crimson tents with the sultan’s envoys to celebrate the feast of the Hegira. Frederick himself, to honor his guests, had worn a green tunic embroidered with Koranic verses.
Frederick smiled. “My lords were a little reticent at first, but eventually, with the aid of a fair amount of wine, they enjoyed themselves. The differences between people are far smaller than they themselves imagine, imprisoned as they are in their own worlds. I like to fool myself that by showing respect for the Prophet, I’ve broadened their minds just a tiny bit. I shall miss you. My true friends are few and I treasure them.”
Fakhr-ed-Din inclined his head. “Your friendship is a precious gift. Know, Frederick, that should you ever have need of me, I and all I possess are yours.”
“I thank you, my friend.” He stared at the carpet. “I have a great sorrow, Fakhr-ed-Din,” he said, “that I carry within my heart.”
The emir raised his brows.
“My son Henry has disgraced me. He has rebelled against my orders. Even worse, a few weeks ago, I received news that he has plotted against me with my enemies, the Lombard cities.”
The emir had some knowledge of this incomprehensible thing called the Lombard League. “But why would your son wish to do so? Are they not his enemies as much as yours?” he asked.
“The Lombards are serpents in human form. The emperor is by rights king of Lombardy. But the Lombards’ power increased greatly after my grandfather Barbarossa’s death. For years, they’ve refused me their crown. To entice Henry to side with them against me, they have offered to crown him king of Lombardy. I’m sure they have no intention of keeping their promise, but my son isn’t only a traitor, he’s a fool, too.”
“So you will have to take up arms against your son?”
Frederick nodded. “In the spring. Most German princes are with me. The campaign will be short. The rebels backing Henry, with the exception of one or two princes blinded by greed, are common burghers unaccustomed to fighting. They’ll soon lose their courage. But the worst is to have to sentence my own son as a traitor …” He stood up and paced. “The pope has agreed to my son Conrad becoming German king. But the pope, too, is a serpent. He, who has repeatedly offered to mediate between myself and the Lombards, has been making secret overtures to them. At times I wonder whether Gregory is involved in Henry’s plot, too.”
The emir stared at him, wide-eyed. “Is it possible?” he asked.
Frederick said, “With the Vicar of Christ anything is possible.”
GRAVINA, APULIA, APRIL 1235
Bianca stood on the parapet of the south tower and watched as Frederick left on the first stage of his journey to Germany. It was a glorious April morning. The day was clear and crisp, cool still, but with the promise of the sun already in the air. Mounted Saracen crossbowmen clattered over the drawbridge, four abreast. A solitary figure on a black steed appeared from under the gate arch. He was dressed in moss-green huntsman’s clothes, his head bare, in yellow boots.
Behind him, in a wooden wagon with scarlet leather curtains, traveled little Conrad and his nurse. Beside the prince’s conveyance rode his valets and two of his tutors. Conrad was now Frederick’s only heir.
Apart from his son and his menagerie, he’s also taking his Egyptian dancers, she thought, remembering Peppa’s words. What would his new wife make of his odalisques? Strangely, the thought of the English princess who was to become Frederick’s wife no longer hurt. When he had first confessed to her that he was to marry again, she had walked about for weeks with a burning ache in her stomach, unable to eat, think, or sleep. Master Scot had prescribed thin gruel and ship’s biscuit, which for the sake of her children she had forced herself to eat.
When all his efforts at comforting her failed, Frederick did what came naturally to men when faced with guilt: he attempted to buy her acquiescence with gifts of jewels and more lands. When that tactic, too, failed, he stayed away.
The week before he came to bid farewell to her and the children. He would be gone for at least two years, he said. When she stared at him in silence, he took her hands.
“Bianca,” he pleaded, “don’t send me away like this. I may not see you for several years. My heart is heavy with what I must do to Henry. My marriage to Isabella of England is naught but an affair of state. She’s probably as plain and boring as Yolanda was, but even if she were comely, it would change nothing. I give you my word as emperor that no other woman will ever take your place in my heart.”
Against her will, she had smiled. Only Frederick would offer his word as emperor as a pledge of love. He took her in his arms then. And her body, like her heart, once again betrayed her. For seven days and nights they hunted, talked, and loved together.
At dawn this morning he awakened the children in the chamber where they slept with their nurses, and kissed them. Constance, the eldest, a serious child of five, curtsied before her
father like a great lady. Violante, who was nearly four and used to her father’s erratic comings and goings, sleepily kissed him back. But two-year-old Manfred clung to him with heart-rending cries of “Take me! Take me!”
When the moment came for Frederick to bid farewell to Bianca, she had turned away.
“Farewell, my emperor,” she now whispered into the breeze. She felt a presence and turned around. Beside her stood her brother. In the din of the baggage train she hadn’t heard his footsteps.
“Manfred!” She was ashamed of the tears that were running down her cheeks.
“I hope I haven’t startled you,” he said, averting his eyes from her face. “I, too, wanted to watch him leave.”
After a moment’s silence he added, “Only God knows when we’ll see him again.”
“Or what may befall him in Germany.” Bianca bit her lip. “He says that defeating Henry will be child’s play. His trust in his German vassals is such that he isn’t taking enough troops. And next year he’ll lead a German army against the Lombards. That, too, is fraught with danger.”
“He must leave Sicily well garrisoned, Bianca. He doesn’t trust the Pope, and rightly so.”
She turned to her brother. “I fear for him, Manfred. Even for Conrad. If he were to fall into his brother’s hands …”
Manfred put an arm around her. “Frederick takes only calculated risks. Riding in a show of oriental splendor across Germany, with little Conrad by his side, is such a calculation. The burghers and nobles of Germany will, I promise you, succumb to him as they did once before. No one understands the German soul as Frederick does. Mark my words. The princes will elect Conrad king of Germany.”
Manfred’s eyes followed the distant figure in the green cloak. He had served him now for more than twenty years. From a young nobleman with few prospects he had risen to become one of the most powerful lords in Sicily. He would never betray Frederick’s trust. And yet he sometimes asked himself if he hadn’t sold his soul. Was not the pain he had just read in Bianca’s eyes the wage of his weakness?
Together they stood watching the long lumbering line of the baggage train slowly disappear over the crest of a hill. Neither mentioned the English marriage.
SPEYER, GERMANY, JULY 1235
In the beauty of a German summer’s day, with the beeches and chestnuts and oaks all clad in dappled greens and the Rhine flowing past the red-walled city like a stream of molten silver, Frederick made his entry into Speyer.
Cymbals clashed and trumpets blared as the Saracen cavalry rode across the bridge onto the left bank of the Rhine. Mounted on black Barbary steeds, the fierce-looking horsemen were a splendid sight in their red and green striped tunics and crimson turbans.
After an interval that allowed the dust to settle, the emperor appeared. Frederick, mounted on Dragon, in a purple mantle embroidered with the eyes of peacock feathers, acknowledged the cheering crowd with a gloved hand. He bent down to whisper something to seven-year-old Conrad, riding beside him on a gray palfrey. The curly-haired prince, who handled his mount with assurance, smiled shyly and raised his right hand in a salute. The effect was immediate. “Long live Prince Conrad, Long live Prince Conrad!” the crowd roared. Behind Frederick and his son rode the German princes and prelates in a sea of flying banners.
Then came the falconers in moss-green tunics and peaked hats. On their wrists sat the falcons, their heads sheathed in embossed leather hoods with red feathers. The imperial hounds, sleek and well groomed, were led in pairs on scarlet collars and leashes. In their midst padded a line of camels. Upon their backs, in curtained palanquins, traveled the Egyptian dancers. Here and there, the people caught a glimpse of a dark-eyed veiled beauty peering down at them. The eunuchs of the imperial household, towering black men of huge girth, rode on richly caparisoned mules beside the camels. They were followed by the hunting cheetahs. Mounted on special seats affixed to the cruppers of their Saracen keepers, their eyes were hooded like those of the falcons. The people clapped and cheered at their sight.
As the elephant lumbered into view the crowd fell silent. On its back it carried a red wooden tower filled with Saracen crossbowmen. Behind ambled a giraffe, led on a leash like a giant dog by a groom on horseback. More animals of the imperial menagerie appeared in cages that rattled past on wooden wheels: spotted lynxes, a lion, and a polar bear.
“Father,” Conrad said, raising his voice to be heard above the din of hooves and wheels and bridle bells, “I’ve never seen so many people.”
Frederick laughed. He laid a hand on Conrad’s shoulder. “This is nothing. Wait till we get to Cologne. The Germans have never seen anything like this. And they love their emperor. They’ll love you, too.”
The boy looked down on his embroidered gloves. His father had explained to him that he was to be king of Germany because his brother Henry was to be deposed. He did not quite understand the fearful thing that had befallen Henry, whom he had never met. People talked in whispers about Henry and fell suddenly silent when Conrad appeared. Just as they did when they talked about his Aunt Bianca. Well, she wasn’t really his aunt, but she had brought him up until he had received his own separate household a few months ago. Although traveling with his father was great fun, Conrad missed her. She had given him a brightly colored psalter as a farewell gift, and hugged him. Father had wanted to hug her, too, but she had turned away. When he lay in his bed in some strange German castle at night before falling asleep, he sometimes imagined that she was there. In the glow of the embers, he’d watch the door slowly open. She would sit down on his bed with a smile, to say his prayers with him, as she often used to do.
Did Henry pray? Probably not. Maybe that was why he had been imprisoned. How could his brother have done anything hurtful to his father? Everyone loved his father. He had even allowed Conrad to bring his new tiercel, a small, tame falcon he was teaching him to hunt with. It was exciting riding beside his father across Germany. Everywhere, huge crowds acclaimed them. Every day, different princes came to pay their respects. Conrad felt very important and adult. The only part he didn’t like was the one about living in Germany. His father had explained to him that one day, when he was king, he would have to live there, because a German king had to live in Germany.
OUTSIDE THE GREAT cathedral of red Rhenish sandstone, the clergy and dignitaries awaited them. As he dismounted, Frederick noticed a familiar face. He bent toward Siegfried of Ratisbon. “The fat bishop with the violet cope, isn’t that Landulf of Worms?”
“I’m afraid so,” Siegfried whispered.
Frederick clenched his fists. “How dare he appear here after having been Henry’s counselor! Remove him and have him stripped of his episcopal insignia!” Two sergeants went up to Landulf and grabbed him by either arm, dragging the protesting bishop down the steps while the townspeople cheered.
Frederick took Conrad’s hand. Together they ascended the steps. In the dimness of the double-choired basilica, Frederick closed his eyes as he listened to the Te Deum. Soon he would have to sit in judgment on another, far worse traitor than Landulf, one whose betrayal could not be forgiven.
A THICK MIST hung upon the mountainside. The fog was engulfing the trees, creeping down toward the Neckar River. Below the castle’s ramparts, the roofs of Heidelberg had nearly vanished in the swirling grayness.
Frederick slammed the shutter closed. And this in June! The castle’s cavernous chambers were as dank within as the weather without, a penetrating cold that froze one’s bones and sapped one’s spirit. In the hearth smoldered a fire of damp logs that gave off only smoke.
This impregnable fortress, with walls twelve feet thick, was his son’s prison. Putting down the rebellion had been easy. Henry’s supporters had deserted him one by one. The rebel Rhineland cities were brought back under the control of their bishop-princes. In most cases, armed intervention hadn’t been necessary. At Frederick’s approach, the citizens flung open the gates and begged for mercy.
Henry sought refuge in the castle of
Trifels. It took Hermann’s repeated intercession to convince him that resistance was useless and would only lead to starvation. Finally, Henry surrendered. He was clapped into fetters. In a barred wagon, jeered at and pelted with refuse by the same populace who had recently acclaimed him as their protector, Henry was brought to Heidelberg.
Thus was, must be, a traitor’s fate. Yet he couldn’t blot the image from his mind. He kept on hearing Hermann’s voice describing the journey. He saw the contorted faces of the crowd, ordinary men and women turned into a savage mob, gloating over the fall of an anointed king.
He adjusted his sword and opened the door to the antechamber. Hermann von Salza, Henry of Brabant, and the archbishops of Cologne and Salzburg stood waiting. They all wore ceremonial dress. Their faces were grave.
He squared his shoulders. “Let us proceed, my lords.”
FREDERICK, ENTHRONED BENEATH the dais, looked toward the doors through which Henry would be brought any moment now. The throbbing in the left side of his head, which had started that morning, was worse. For the first time in his life he felt the weight of the imperial crown a burden on his head.
The hall was crowded. Every German lord of note was present. Glancing about the hall, Frederick recognized many of his friends. Henry of Brabant, the Duke of Meran, and Siegfried stood to his right. His eyes met Hermann’s. He understands, Frederick thought, better than anyone.
The doors swung open. Henry, a purple cloak on his broad shoulders, had lost none of his bearing, except for his gait. The chains around his ankles clanked with each shuffling step. Beside him walked his jailer and arch-foe, Wilbert of Bavaria, the Duke of Bavaria’s brother.
Henry flung himself to the ground before the throne. “I am your son, father, I beseech you, have mercy on me!” His back shook. The lords glanced from Henry, sobbing into the floor rushes, to Frederick. Silence hung heavily in the room.
The Falcon of Palermo Page 40