The Falcon of Palermo Page 3

  The members of the regency council began to talk all at once. The rebels’ recent assassination of a royal bailiff after a period of relative calm had started a new round of aggression in this long war of attrition.

  Although Berard had disliked Walter on sight, he could not help but admire his competence. He was arrogant, but his decisions were sound. Of the seven council members, three were abbots of large monasteries, one of them the octogenarian abbot of the great abbey of Monreale. The only member of Berard’s age was Alaman da Costa, a Genoese condottiere in charge of the soldiery. With exception of the Genoese, appointed by the pope, they were all Walter’s men, although the abbot of Monreale, when he roused himself, could speak his mind with great firmness. Now, as if in confirmation of Berard’s thoughts, after a brief debate they all agreed with the chancellor.

  “Well, what do you say, my lord of Castacca?” Walter’s tone was acerbic. He had made it clear from the beginning that he viewed Berard as an irritation. He didn’t hide his annoyance if he came across Berard in the chancery. Whenever Berard approached him on matters concerning Frederick, he was dismissive, almost curt. Walter was clearly not impressed by Frederick. His hands were full enough as it was, he had said, without having to play nursemaid too. The boy was always making trouble. Once he was of age, he would be taught to rule. In the meantime, William looked after him, and so could Berard, if he wished to.

  “I think,” Berard said into the sudden silence, “that we should stay our hand. Our first priority is to hold our parts of the island. We are short of men to protect Palermo and Syracuse. If we weaken our defenses to attack the rebels, we could jeopardize the lands we have already recovered.”

  Walter smiled thinly. “True, my lord, but you forget that it’s not a major attack I’m planning. A swift raid to destroy the crops and burn a few villages. Homeless and hungry, the villeins will abandon their lords and join us. Gradually, the rebels’ base will shrink.”

  “Innocent people will suffer.”

  “Such, my lord of Castacca, is the way of the world. I must re-establish the crown’s authority. Yours is the only dissenting voice. My lord da Costa, I’ll await you after vespers in the chancery.”

  The council chamber emptied. Berard found himself walking behind Walter’s tall spindly figure. He walks fast for a man of his age, Berard thought, slowing down to avoid him.

  “Ah, my dear Berard.” Alaman clapped a hand on Berard’s shoulder from behind. He grinned, jerking his head toward the vanishing russet cloak. “The uncrowned king …”

  The swarthy Genoese fell in beside him. Large and affable, with appetites to match, he was, despite his braggadocio, a fine soldier. Berard invited him from time to time to sup with him. Alaman was good company and loved to gossip, although he stuffed himself with the delicacies produced by Berard’s cook with a barbarian lack of appreciation for their excellence.

  “I’m going to see Frederick,” Berard said. “Would you like to join me?”

  Alaman shrugged. “Why not? After all those old buzzards in there, the little scamp will be refreshing.”

  Berard sighed. “I think the boy’s lonely. I try to see him whenever I can.”

  “You may be right, although with all his grubby Saracen friends, he can’t be that lonely. Perhaps you should stir him toward more suitable playmates. Engage some noble young pages …” He spread his large hands. “I’ve no children, not even a wife, so I don’t know much about such matters. … Old William seems to think he’s quite clever.”

  Berard stepped into the courtyard, and squinted up at the sun. “It’s too late for the schoolroom. He might be in the tiltyard at this time.” As they turned a corner, they heard the boy’s voice.

  FREDERICK RUMMAGED IN the quiver until he found an arrow less squashed than the others. He smoothed the feathers and fitted the arrow. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He readjusted his feet several times, making sure they were in line with the target, before drawing the bowstring. The arrow hit the straw man in the middle of his chest. The target already bristled with arrows. A few lay on the ground.

  Berard and Alaman stood on the parapet above the tiltyard, watching. Alaman nodded as another arrow found its mark. “Not bad, not bad at all.” He laid a hand on Berard’s arm, “I think I’ll leave you. I must prepare our little excursion to the rebels. Walter will want to know every detail … Greet the scamp for me.”

  “WELL DONE, FREDERICK,” Berard called, coming down the steps, “You’re becoming a great marksman!”

  Frederick looked up. He shook his head. “You don’t understand, Your Grace. In real life they move. I’ll never be able to kill them fast enough when they’re running and ducking all over. The other day, I tried it on a hare, and I lost four arrows and the hare!”

  Berard suppressed a smile. “I assure you, I fully understand.” He stretched out his hand. “Give me the bow.”

  Berard took aim, bending to adjust to the target. His arrow lodged within a hair’s breadth of Frederick’s last shot.

  Frederick’s eyes widened. “By the beard of the Prophet! I thought priests were all useless.” He crimsoned. “I … I am sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t mean to …” He stared at his sandals.

  “It’s all right.” Berard ruffled his hair, “But you’ll have to improve your manners, Frederick. Not for my sake, but for your own. If you want your people to obey and respect you, you must cultivate the manners of a king. And as for a Christian king swearing by a Muslim prophet, I am sure you yourself can see the unsuitability of that.”

  Frederick bit his lower lip. “Yes, Your Grace. But I’m also their king, and they are my people, too, you do understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Frederick, I do.” Berard sighed. It was true. After three months in Palermo, Berard was beginning to find it impossible to reconcile reality with Innocent’s order to keep the boy from infidel influences. They were everywhere, they were part of the island, they were part of Frederick’s heritage.

  He took Frederick by the shoulder. “Come,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve had enough practice for today.” He glanced at the head falconer, who doubled as tilt master. “I’m taking the king for a walk, Fakir.”

  The old Saracen salaamed. “I shall wait here, my lord.”

  Frederick walked beside him. After a moment, he said, “I’m sorry I was rude. But why did you become a priest? Couldn’t you have been a knight?”

  Berard smiled. “It’s a long story, my son. My father was a Lombard nobleman. He had three sons, but only one title. My eldest brother inherited that, my second brother died on crusade, and I was destined for the Church. My father bought me a rich living that would enhance the prestige of our family. When I was eight, I was sent to study with the monks.”

  “And the monks taught you archery? What else did they teach you? Can you joust and hawk and swim?”

  Berard shook his head, laughing. “No, the monks didn’t teach me any of that. My father’s falconers taught me to hawk. My middle brother was a knight. In fact, he was quite famous. He used to win tournaments and much gold, as far afield as France. It was he who taught me archery. I never took to the sword, though. The clang of steel on steel has always sounded barbarous to my ears. And as for swimming, water terrifies me.” He patted his stomach, “In any case, with my girth, I’d sink like a stone.”

  “What was your mother like?” Frederick asked, his voice suddenly tight.

  Berard shot him a sympathetic glance. “She was a Norman, like your mother, a gentle lady. She was pleased when I entered the Church. She used to say that although the Church isn’t perfect, it is far better than the temporal world. At first I was very unhappy, but I realized later that she had been right. She died when I was eleven. In the end, the Church became my mother.”

  Frederick nodded. They ambled along the dusty paths of the gardens, past mossy old fountains and empty water channels. Ancient gardeners as withered as the gardens they tended were sweeping the paths. As they passed the rose garden,
Berard halted. The bushes were straggly from neglect, the few blooms small and deformed.

  “Did you know,” he said, pointing to the grid of rose beds, “that your grandfather had these roses brought from Persia?”

  “Alexander’s Persia?”

  “Yes.”

  Frederick’s eyes lit up. “When I’m grown up, I’ll be a new Alexander. I’ll have the remaining Germans all thrown into the sea, in great sacks with stones and a viper apiece!”

  Berard’s eyes widened, “But you’re half German yourself.”

  Frederick scowled. “No, I’m not.” He drew himself up. “I’m the son of Queen Constance, and the grandson of Roger the Great. When I’m big, I’ll be like him. There’ll be peace and all my people will have enough to eat. I’ll have dancing girls, and mews full of Ger falcons and wise Saracen friends to help me rule.”

  Berard nodded. He’d been told by William that Frederick never spoke about his father or his German heritage, of which he knew virtually nothing.

  “Hm. And what about the Christians at your court?”

  Frederick broke off a laurel twig and began to chew it. “Oh, they’ll be allowed to stay, but not Walter or some of the others.” He cocked his head at Berard. “You can stay. You will stay, won’t you?”

  “For a while, yes, Frederick. But I must go where Pope Innocent tells me to go.”

  “But when I’m of age, and rule, I could order you to remain here, couldn’t I?”

  “If you’d appointed me, yes. But I’ve been appointed by the pope. You see, it’s complicated, and I’ll explain it to you one day, but both the pope and the king can appoint bishops.”

  Frederick nodded. “That’s easy. I’ll just reappoint you, and then you’ll be my archbishop.”

  “All the same, I may have to leave one day,” Berard said gently, “I may not be able to be your archbishop.”

  THE SUN BURNED down on the harbor. A smell of caulking tar and fish hung in the air. Seagulls cawed and dived, squabbling over the entrails being thrown into the sea by the fishermen gutting the night’s catch.

  The two boys dangled their bare feet over the old Saracen jetty. Frederick picked up a pebble. He grimaced as it hit the water. He searched behind him, found a flatter one. This time he swung his arm as far back as he could. The stone flew through the air, hitting the inky water at the far end of the harbor, beside the sea wall, where it was deepest.

  One of the fishermen let out an approving whistle. Frederick grinned. “I could do better, Omar, but this son of a mule here won’t let me stand up. Says I spoil the fish he never catches anyway.”

  The younger boy jerked his line out of the water. He glared at Frederick. “I’ll never catch anything because you can’t sit still. Even fish have eyes.” He wound the string carefully around his cane and picked up his empty basket. “Let’s go to my home.”

  Frederick narrowed his eyes. Who did Mahmoud think he was, to give him orders? Then he shrugged. It wasn’t worth a fight. Moreover, Fatima might have baked bread. She often did, Mahmoud’s aunt, the day before Fridays. Saliva shot into his mouth as he thought of hot bread.

  As they passed the squatting men, slicing open the fish with deft movements, Mahmoud cast a longing look at the baskets full of shimmering, scaly silver, soon to be strung and dried. Frederick gave one of the fishermen his widest smile, “Venerable father of Ali, couldn’t you spare just one of those for my poor friend?”

  The gray-bearded fisherman laughed, “You’re the king of beggars, Frederick, worse than all the beggars of Palermo together. Here,” he reached into a pannier, took a handful of sardines and flung them into Mahmoud’s basket.

  Frederick inclined his head. He swallowed, “We thank you, father of Ali.”

  They walked in silence, keeping to the shade along the mosque’s enclosure. From the other side of the faded crimson wall came the scent of orange blossoms. They could hear boys’ voices reciting the Koran. Frederick watched his feet push up little puffs of ocher dust, coating his toes. He was afraid to raise his eyes, to wipe them, afraid Mahmoud would notice. The king of beggars … The old fisherman, who was his friend, had meant no harm, yet he could still feel the fierce ache inside him, where the words had found their mark.

  “LITTLE FALCON!” FATIMA’S muscular arms closed around Frederick. His face sank into the yielding vastness of her bosom. The comforting, familiar smell of female sweat and old, smoke-soaked clothes filled his nostrils. Female sweat was different, sweeter. For a moment he could hear the rhythmic slapping of wet cloth on stone in the laundry yard, the women’s chatter, remembering the days when Fatima had worked in the palace laundry.

  “Let me look at you, little Falcon.” Fatima rested her arms on her hips, a large ugly woman with tender eyes and a hairy upper lip. “You’re still too thin. I’m sure this new archbishop pockets most of the money for your food, just as the old one did.”

  Mahmoud proffered the basket. “For you, Aunt.”

  “Allah bless you. I will fry them nice and crisp. There’s no more salt till Uncle gets his wages, but there’s fresh bread.”

  Frederick glanced at the flat round loaves in a basket on the table. He could smell their warmth. Fatima must have just returned from the public ovens. He said, “I like him. He sometimes invites me to eat with him. Some of the food’s awfully fancy and William goes on and on about manners, but the sweetmeats, Fatima …” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  The mustache twitched doubtfully. “Hm.” She sliced pockets into two loaves, filled them with vegetable stew, and handed them to the boys. “Here, eat.”

  Frederick bit into the soft bread. The tasty gravy of stewed cucumber, garlic, and chickpeas ran down his chin.

  It was cool and dim inside Mahmoud’s home. Mahmoud was an orphan; he lived with his uncle and aunt. The muezzin’s quarters were two cramped rooms inside the mosque’s archway. Although there was only a single tiny barred window, from it, if one stood on tiptoe, one overlooked the great courtyard with its orange trees, water channels, and alabaster fountain.

  Fatima took a dented cooking pot and the basket of sardines. “I’ll go to the cookhouse and fry these before they spoil in this heat.” To Mahmoud she said, “Will you lead your uncle up at noon?” Five times a day, Fatima led her blind husband, who was much older than she, up the spiral staircase inside the minaret. She was his only wife. Although Fatima never bore him a child, the muezzin had been too poor to take a second wife. He was a kindly man, who had allowed Fatima to take her sister’s son into their home. He treated Mahmoud as if he were his own child.

  They followed her outside. Frederick glanced at the sundial over the gateway. It was nearly midday. He jerked his head at Mahmoud. “You had better wake him. It’s almost time for prayer.”

  Mahmoud nodded. He made as if to go, then halted. “Thanks. For the fish. And for not telling.”

  Frederick shrugged. “It is nothing. One day, when I am really king, you’ll have an honored post in the palace.” He turned, “I’m going inside.”

  Frederick crossed the courtyard. He washed his face, hands, and feet in the ablution fountain. The mosque’s interior was cool, a vast expanse of serene emptiness, its wooden roof upheld on a forest of graceful mismatched marble pillars. In a corner beside the mihrab, surrounded by cross-legged boys, sat a man with a straggly orange beard.

  Frederick placed his hand on his heart. “Salaam aleikum, great teacher.”

  Ibn el Gawazi glanced up, then inclined the emerald turban that proclaimed him a hajji. “Aleikum es salaam, O King.” He smiled, “I am glad you have not forgotten your old friends, but you will be unpopular with Master William. You know he …”

  “Allah is great! There is no god but Allah, and Mohamed is his prophet!” A splendid voice flowed from the courtyard through the open archways. “Come hither to prayer! Come hither to salvation!” Four times the muezzin repeated his summons. Frederick imagined the frail old man in his long, ash-colored tunic, facing in turn east, west, nort
h, and south. Christians rang bells, Jews blew a trumpet, and the Muslims employed a human voice to call their people to prayer. How similar they were, Frederick thought, biting his thumb, as the imam took up his position before the mihrab.

  Frederick watched Ibn el Gawazi and his pupils turn toward Mecca. They prayed, now touching their foreheads to the floor, now standing or kneeling, following the imam’s lead. He would have liked to pray too, but he could not. They were his friends, but he wasn’t part of them. He did not belong in the palace chapel with its mosaics and wilting lilies, its interminable harangues about sin, its priests who knew everything. Ibn el Gawazi, a far greater scholar than those Christian priests, often and unashamedly confessed his ignorance.

  After the prayers, Ibn el Gawazi dismissed the other boys. “Come,” he said, smoothing his hennaed beard, “Walk with me to my house. Do you still remember the Five Pillars of Islam?”

  Frederick straightened his shoulders. “Of course, great teacher. The shahadah, or profession of faith. The five daily prayers. The annual zakat. Fasting during Ramadan, and for those who are able to do so, the Hadj to Mecca.”

  “When is a man exempt from some or all of his daily prayers?”

  “If he is ill, on a journey, or at war.”

  “Apart from abstaining from food and drink, what else must a man not do between sunrise and sunset during Ramadan?”

  “Lie with his wives.”

  “What about the zakat? Is it also levied on a man’s house?”

  Frederick’s mind raced. Grains and fruit, camels, goats and horses, gold and silver, those he was sure about. But a house? He couldn’t remember. It had been a long time since he had sat with the other boys in the mosque. Now he had to spend most of his days in the palace. Was it just to tax a man’s home? He decided to take a chance. “No,” he said. “Only movable property.” He searched Ibn el Gawazi’s profile. Had he noticed?

  The Saracen gave a small smile. “As king, when would you use zakat to conciliate those of wavering loyalty, and when would you send them to the executioner?”