by Robert Thier
“You're mad! Completely mad!”
“Why?” An amused smile pulled at one corner of Reuben's mouth. “Do you honestly think I couldn't hold my own in a tournament at the Emperor's Court?”
The duke grunted noncommittally and bit off another piece of sausage. All too well he would have liked to reply in the affirmative, but his son, though only eighteen years of age, was already a master of the blade. Only two months ago, the duke had stopped “giving lessons” in swordsmanship to his heir because he was getting tired of all the bruises that pained him every night when he went to bed.
He sighed. If only Reuben had half as much patience as he had muscle, maybe they wouldn't be having this argument.
“Listen, son,” he said, leaning over the table and putting the sausage down on his plate. “The political situation in the Empire is precarious. The Pope has only just lifted the excommunication against the Emperor. There are rumblings all across Germany...”
Reuben yawned. “I told you our nobles shouldn't eat so many beans and onions.”
“Silence! Don't you understand? If the Pope reinstates the excommunication against Emperor Friedrich, and you are at his court at the time, don't you see what an effect will that have on our family's fortunes?”
“You see,” Reuben said, yawning again, “the difference between you and me is that I don't really care. I mean, you're a duke, one of the most powerful nobles of the Empire. What could possibly happen to you? And as for me, I only want to see a little of the world. Surely there's no crime in that. I'll be back from Palermo before you can blink twice, I promise.”
“The distance is several hundred miles!”
“All right, maybe you'll have to blink three times.”
Snatching up one of the sausages and waving it at his son, the duke growled: “You won't go! Do you hear me? I forbid you to leave the castle!”
Reuben eyed the sausage dispassionately. “You know, when you used the meat fork, it was at least remotely threatening.”
With a snarl, the duke hurled the sausage over his shoulder. One of the servants ducked just in time to not receive a surprising sausage-experience.
“If you go,” the duke hissed, leaning forward, “you'll not get a penny out of me. Not for the journey, not for food or lodging, not for anything. Do you understand? Not one penny!”
He leaned back in his chair, watching the expression on his son's face. It didn't change. But there was a flicker in his eyes.
“I see,” Reuben said slowly.
The duke grinned and grabbed another sausage.
The rest of the evening passed in relative quiet. For the first time since they had sat down to dinner, the duke truly enjoyed his food. He consumed five sausages, half a loaf of bread, and a bottle of honey wine before finally tottering off to bed, very pleased with himself. Obviously, he had gained a complete victory over the rash youth.
The next morning, his servants woke the duke to inform him that his son had saddled his horse and left in the dead of night, taking nothing but his sword, armor, and a bottle of the duke's finest wine.
Money of Tomorrow
Reuben stepped off the ship, leading his horse behind him, and took a big lung full of air. The air smelled aromatic, strange, alluring—the air of Italy. He turned back to the merchant who was standing at the railing, looking down at the young knight.
“Thanks again for taking me along all this way, Master Kaltbrücher,” he said with a nod.
“I couldn't very well say no to the duke's son, now, could I?” The merchant smiled—though only with his lips, not his eyes. It was clear he had wished Reuben to the devil many a time.
Reuben narrowed his eyes. “Well, thank you. Good luck with selling your goods. And when you return to Limburg, make sure to tell my father what a help you've been to me, taking me all this way. I'm sure he'll find some way to... reward you.”
The merchant's face lit up. “Really? I'll do that.” With a bow, he took leave of Reuben. “If you will excuse me...?”
“Certainly, go about your business.”
Reuben watched the merchant stride away over the deck of his ship. “Poor devil,” he murmured with a smirk. Then he turned away from the ship to face the city of Palermo.
Before him lay the harbor. It stretched along a wide section of the city, the coast forming in a curve around it and providing natural protection from the elements. The docks were teaming with life. Wagons drove past Reuben, their drivers cursing in all sorts of unfamiliar tongues, alluring smells wafted towards him, animals bleating and mooing in their pens, and people, everywhere were people. People in long satin robes, in cloaks, in trousers, dark-skinned people, fair-haired Englishmen and Germans, rough-looking Normans... the variety was endless.
Yet Reuben's eyes were immediately drawn away from all this to the vast castle that loomed above the city. With its sharp, leaf-like crenels and strangely decorated outer walls, it was immediately obvious that Saracens had been at work here. And good work they had done. The castle was a massive fortification. Reuben was sure the Normans had been very pleased with after they conquered it and threw the Saracens out.
“That's where I want to go,” he told his black steed, Ajax. “But not yet, I think.”
He stopped the next man who passed him. “Excuse me, good sir, do you know whether there is a tournament to be held here soon?”
The man, a fat Italian with little eyes, regarded Reuben disdainfully. “Annarisinni, càmula!”
Reuben was just about to explain that he had no idea what that meant, but the man was already walking away.
He considered teaching the fellow some manners, but decided against it. A true knight had to be patient and kind to simple folk, even if they were rough sometimes.
He turned to the next passerby. “Excuse me, dear lady, might I inquire...”
“Annarisinni, càmula!”
He got the same answer a dozen more times, with slight variations. Finally, he began to wonder whether it wasn't Sicilian for “Welcome to Palermo, stranger.” But since the word “Palermo” didn't feature in the expression, he somehow doubted it.
“Excuse me, dear Sir...” Somebody tapped him on the shoulder.
Turning, Reuben looked down on a thin, little man with a long goatbeard.
“Did I hear you inquire after a tournament, son?” the man said in a wheezy voice, with a thick accent Reuben didn't recognize.
He exhaled in relief. Finally! Someone he could understand.
“Yes,” he sighed. “I've come all this way because I heard of the splendors of the Emperor's court, and if there is a tournament, I should like nothing better than to compete. I have waited too long to measure myself against a worthy opponent.”
“Measure yourself... you are a knight, then?”
“Indeed I am. Sir Reuben von Limburg, at your service.”
The old man peered up at him curiously. “And you haven't heard?”
“Heard what?”
The old man smiled. “The big news, of course, young sir,” the old man explained, changing his address as he let his eyes roam over the crest of the crowned red lion on Reuben's surcoat. “The Emperor is not present at Palermo at the moment, for he is passing his time at the Castel del Monte. Yet he is to return in a few days, and a big tournament is to be held in honor of his arrival. You came at a most opportune time.”
“Is it true?” Reuben exclaimed. “How wonderful! Thank you, good sir. Do you, by any chance, know where I could find a good inn to stay in till the tournament begins?”
“Certainly.” The old man nodded happily and pointed. “Just go down this road, the Via Roma, and you will come to the market in La Kasa, the old Arab quarter. There are several good inns at the marketplace, and the innkeepers all speak your tongue. They've had people from all over the Christian world and beyond as their guests.”
“Thank you again... and just one thing more.”
“Yes?”
“When I asked a number of other people for the
date of the next tournament, they said something to me, maybe in Sicilian, I do not know—‘Annarisinni, càmula!’ Do you know what it means?”
Suddenly, the old man was seized by a coughing fit and concealed his mouth behind his hand. Reuben leaned forward in concern. “Are you all right? Shall I fetch a healer?”
“N-no, thank you, young sir.” Clearing his throat, the old man straightened. “I am perfectly well. The... um... expression is an old Sicilian greeting.”
“I see. Thank you, you have been most helpful.”
With a bow to the old man, Reuben turned and strode off towards the marketplace.
Behind him, he heard the old man start coughing again. Or maybe it sounded a little bit like laughter. But why on earth would he be laughing?
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben found the marketplace shortly after, and immediately his eye fell on an inn with the words “Il Leone Ruggente” above the door. Even with his limited knowledge of Italian, Reuben could imagine what “Leone” meant, and had he not been able to deduce as much, the wooden sign with the figure of a lion that hung next to the inscription would have made everything clear.
A fitting place for me, Reuben thought to himself and marched straight to the door. He knocked, politely, and after only a short while the knock was answered by a plump man in a colorful tunic.
“A knight?” he said, his face breaking into a bright smile at the sight of Reuben's magnificent surcoat with golden embroidery. “Say no more, sua Eccellenza, say no more. I, Signore Franceso Accorso welcome you to my establishment! You have come to the perfect place, say no more.”
“I wish to dwell here for a while,” Reuben stated what, in spite of the repeated insistence, he felt necessary.
“Of course you do, sua Eccellenza, of course you do. Where else would you want to stay but at The Roaring Lion?”
“At one of the six other inns on the square?” Reuben suggested.
This suggestion didn't seem to please the innkeeper. “Bah!” he said, shaking his head. “Rat holes and plague dens, the lot of them! No, sua Eccellenza, if you want to stay anywhere in Palermo, you have to stay at The Roaring Lion. It's the only decent inn in the entire city. Decent? What am I saying? It is better than the Royal Palace itself! Come in! Come in and convince yourself. Not even Emperor Frederico[53] himself could ask for better!”
Indeed, Reuben found he was pleased with the inn. Its ceiling was a bit too low for his liking, but that was the case in almost any house he entered, and the main reason he preferred castles to houses. It was built of solid stone, which provided a coolness in the parlor that was very welcome after the heat outside. Yet it was not cold or damp either: light filtered in through narrow windows and gave the room a welcoming atmosphere, aided by the flowers and hunting trophies hanging on the wall. A large wooden cross completed the decoration. Right next to it, a broad staircase led to the first floor.
There weren't any people present, but Reuben didn't think it strange. With such wonderful weather, and such a big event on the horizon, people were bound to be out in the city.
“Come, I will show you your room.” The little man eagerly pointed to the staircase. “You will be delighted, sua Eccellenza, I guarantee! Come, come!”
Reuben followed the innkeeper upstairs. He came, saw, and indeed was delighted. The room was not too small, with bright tapestries on the walls, a comfortable chair and table, and a bed that looked even large enough for him. Plus, the room looked out over the market, with a good view of the Royal Palace in the distance. Reuben liked having his aim in sight.
“I'll take the room,” he decided on the spot. “Please have my things brought up and my horse looked after. I mean to explore the city for a little bit.”
“Of course, sua Eccellenza, of course, everything will be done just as you wish.” The innkeeper hopped delightedly. “If you would just come down to finalize things, we can have your luggage brought in.” He scurried off down the stairs.
Reuben didn't exactly see what needed to be finalized, but he followed the innkeeper anyway. The man had been so friendly and obliging.
When Reuben arrived in the parlor, the little man was standing behind a desk and had taken out slate, chalk, and an abacus.
“Now then, sua Eccellenza, how many nights were you planning on staying in my beautiful inn?”
Reuben shrugged. “Oh, I don't really know. As long as I like, I think. Certainly for the duration of the tournament. I intend to see it through to the end.”
“I'm sure sua Eccellenza will carry away the great prize!” the little man said, tapping his abacus impatiently. “And speaking of prices...”
He made a significant pause.
Reuben didn't quite catch the significance. His stomach had started rumbling, and he was beginning to wonder what kind of food they served here in Sicily.
“Err... yes?” he said, distractedly.
“I was thinking, sua Eccellenza... the tournament will last at least a week, with all the festivities that are planned, so shall we say a week, for now, including meals.”
“Yes, certainly, certainly.”
The small beads on the abacus clicked significantly as the little man shuffled them from one side to the other. Reuben wondered why he was doing this, but stopped as his stomach rumbled again.
“Well, sua Eccellenza, that will be three tari and twenty-seven grani, please.
The innkeeper held his hand open. Reuben looked at it in confusion for a moment, then the penny literally dropped. Oh! The man was asking for money. How tedious and common.
He did his best to ignore the innkeeper’s open hand.
“I'll pay after the tournament. For now, I have different things in mind. I was wondering...”
“But... why would you not give me the money now, if you have it?” the innkeeper interrupted. His broad smile wasn't quite as friendly as before.
“Well, I don't have it now.” Reuben waved that unimportant detail away with a motion of his hand. “But don't worry, after I've collected prize money at the tournament, you'll get your due. Now, can you have my things brought up to my room?”
“Let me be sure I understand you.” By now, the smile of the innkeeper wasn't really a smile anymore. He wasn’t calling Reuben “sua Eccellenza” anymore, either. “You are offering to pay me with money you don't have.”
“Well, as I said, not now, but it's only a matter of time. By the way, when do you serve dinner? I would like something hearty, something to...”
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out, I said,” the innkeeper commanded, his fat chin jutting forward. He slammed the slate and abacus down on his desk. “We have no use for beggars and vagabonds here.”
Reuben raised an eyebrow. “My good sir, I know it cannot be your intention, but if you are not careful I will be in danger of thinking you impolite.”
“Diable! You have some cheek! Get out now, or I'll see that you crawl out!”
“Furthermore,” Reuben added, “you seem to be questioning my honor and status, and even threatening me. That is not the kind of behavior I would expect from a fellow Christian. But I will forgive you all if you tell your servants to bring my things up to my room now, and make me a hearty meal. What do you say, my friend?”
What the innkeeper said in reply was definitely something which questioned Reuben's honor, status, and maybe also his romantic preference for the female sex.
“Sir!” Reuben exclaimed, shocked to the core. “I must ask you to mind your language!”
“Antonio! Fredo!” Sticking two fingers into his mouth, the innkeeper whistled shrilly. Through the door behind the desk that apparently led to a back room, muffled noises could be heard. Not long after, two burly, dark-skinned fellows with curly hair stepped out into the parlor. Their eyes fixed on Reuben immediately.
“Throw this bastardo out in the street immediately,” the innkeeper commanded, pointing to the indignant knight. “I don't want to see him here ever again.”
The two men marched towards him.
“What is this?” Reuben demanded. “I told you I would pay you after the tournament. Are you doubting my word and my honor as a knight?”
“Why is he still here?” the innkeeper snapped. “Get on with it!”
“Si, Signore,” one of the men growled. He stepped towards Reuben, raising his fist.
In an attempt to placate them, Reuben held up his hand. “Please, we are all good Christians, all brothers in the Lord, no violence is necessary.”
The first punch caught him on the cheek and slammed him into the stone wall.
He shook his head, trying to get rid of the bees that suddenly seemed to be swarming around inside, buzzing loudly. “All right,” he growled, pushing himself away from the wall, towards his opponents. “Maybe a little bit is necessary.”
The First Challenge
Years ago, when he had just started his training as a page, Reuben used to train against straw dummies in the courtyard of his father's castle. Fighting against these two men reminded him a bit of that experience, only the men didn't move quite so fast.
He had one by the collar and out the window within five seconds. The second took even less time. Reuben went for variety and threw him out of the open inn door. From outside, he heard loud cursing, and not in Italian.
“You lout! How dare you get in my way?”
“Scusa, sua Eccellenza,” came the heavily accented voice one of the men, filled with fear. “It wasn't my doing! This man threw me—he won't leave our master's house!”
“The Roaring Lion?”
“Si, sua Eccellenza. And this man...”
“Man? What man?”
Footsteps came up the outer stairs and the door, which had swung shut again after Reuben had flung that impudent servant out, flew open. In the doorway stood a broadly-built man of about thirty, his head bald, his prominent chin adorned by a straight-cut black beard that seemed hewn out of black basalt. One couldn't see much of his mouth through the barrier of blackness, but Reuben thought it was a fair guess to say that it wasn't smiling at the moment.