Baudolino (27 page)

"Where is the main body of our cavalry?"

"Actually, the problem isn't only that he didn't rejoin the main body of the cavalry, it's that the main body of the cavalry no longer exists. There was a slaughter, curse this day. In the beginning Frederick and his horsemen hurled themselves on the enemy, who seemed all on foot, all gathered around that catafalque. But those foot soldiers fought back, and suddenly the Lombard cavalry turned up, so our men were attacked on two sides."

"You mean to say you've lost the holy Roman emperor? And you tell me in this tone? God help us."

"You look like you just got here. You don't know what we've been through! Some say they actually saw the emperor fall, and then he was dragged off by the horse, his foot caught in the stirrup!"

"What are our men doing now?"

"They're running away. Look there. They're scattering among the trees, throwing themselves into the river. Now there's a rumor that the emperor's dead, and each man is trying to get to Pavia as best he can."

"The cowards! And nobody's looking for our lord any more?"

"Darkness is falling. Even the men who had kept on fighting are about to stop. How could you find anyone here, or God knows where?"

"Cowards!" Baudolino said again. Though he was not a man of war, he had a great heart. He spurred his horse and, with sword drawn, flung himself upon a great pile of corpses, as he called in a loud voice for his beloved adoptive father. Seeking a dead man on that plain, among so many other corpses, and shouting to him to give a sign, was a desperate enterprise, so much so that the last Lombard squads he encountered let him pass, taking him for some saint from Paradise who had come to lend them a hand, and greeting him with festive gestures.

Where the fighting had been most bloody, Baudolino began turning over the bodies that lay face down, still hoping and at the same time fearing to discover in the dim twilight the beloved features of his sovereign. He wept, and proceeded so blindly that, emerging from a grove, he bumped into that great ox-drawn wagon, which was slowly leaving the battlefield. "Have you seen the emperor?" he shouted, in tears, without reason or restraint. The men started laughing, and one said to him: "Yes. He was in those bushes over there, screwing your sister!" and one blew clumsily into his trumpet to produce an obscene blast.

They had spoken idly, but Baudolino went to look in those bushes. There was a little pile of corpses, three prone on top of a fourth, supine. He lifted the three, and underneath he saw a red beard, but red
with blood: Frederick. He realized at once that he was alive, because a kind of faint rattle came from his parted lips. There was a wound on his upper lip, which was still bleeding, and a broad dent on his brow stretching to the left eye; both hands were still clenched, a dagger in each, like one who, on the verge of losing consciousness, had still been able to stab the three wretches who had attacked him.

Baudolino raised his father's head, cleansed his face, called him; Frederick opened his eyes and asked where he was. Baudolino touched him, to see if he had any other wounds. Frederick cried out when his foot was touched; perhaps it was true that his horse had dragged him, dislocating his ankle. Still talking to him, while he asked again where he was, Baudolino helped him sit up. Frederick recognized Baudolino and embraced him.

"My lord and father," Baudolino said, "now you will mount my horse, but you mustn't strain yourself. We must proceed cautiously, even if night has fallen, because all around us are the troops of the League, and our only hope is that they're in some village carousing, since, no offense, it seems they've won. But some could still be nearby looking for their dead. We'll have to go through woods and ditches, staying off the roads, to reach Pavia, where your troops have withdrawn. You can sleep on the horse: I'll take care you don't fall off."

"And who'll take care that you don't fall asleep while you're walking?" asked Frederick, with a taut smile. Then he said: "It hurts when I laugh."

"I see you're well, now," Baudolino said.

They proceeded through the night, stumbling in the dark, even the horse, over roots and low bushes. Only once did they see, in the distance, some fires, and they went out of their way to avoid them. As they advanced, to keep himself awake, Baudolino talked, and Frederick remained awake to keep him awake.

"This is the end," Frederick said. "I will never bear the shame of this defeat."

"It was only a skirmish, Father. Anyway, they all believe you are
dead. You'll reappear like Lazarus resurrected, and what was considered a defeat will be considered a miracle by everyone, and they'll sing a
Te Deum.
"

In truth, Baudolino was only trying to console a wounded and humiliated old soldier. That day the prestige of the empire had been compromised,
rex et sacerdos
or not. Unless Frederick were to return on stage in a halo of new glory. And at this point Baudolino couldn't help recalling Otto's hopes for the letter of the Priest.

"The fact is, dear Father," he said, "that from what has happened you should finally learn one thing."

"And what would you like to teach me, master wise man?"

"You don't have to learn from me, God forbid, but from heaven. You must consider carefully what Bishop Otto used to say. In this Italy the farther you go the more you get stuck in the mud; you can't be emperor where there is also a pope; with these cities you will always lose, because you want to impose order, which is a work of artifice, whereas they, on the contrary, want to live in disorder, which is in accord with nature—or, rather, as the Parisian philosophers would say, is the condition of the
yle,
the primogenial chaos. You must turn east, beyond Byzantium, impose the banners of your empire in the Christian lands that extend beyond the kingdoms of the infidels, joining the one, true
rex et sacerdos,
who has ruled there since the time of the Magi. Only when you have sealed an alliance with him, or he has sworn submission to you, can you return to Rome and treat the pope like your scullion, and the kings of England and France like your stableboys. Only then will your victors of today again be afraid of you."

Frederick hardly remembered the prophecies of Otto, and Baudolino had to remind him of them. "That Priest again?" Frederick said. "Does he really exist? And where is he? And how can I move a whole army to go and look for him? I would become Frederick the Foolish, and so I would be remembered through the centuries."

"No, not if in all the chancelleries of all the Christian kingdoms, Byzantium included, there was a letter in circulation that this Prester
John has written to you, to you alone, recognizing you as his only equal, and inviting you to join your two kingdoms."

And Baudolino, who knew it almost by heart, began reciting in the darkness the letter of Prester John, also explaining what was the most precious relic in the world, which the Priest was sending him in a coffer.

"But where is this letter? Do you have a copy of it? Are you sure you didn't write it yourself?"

"I recomposed it in good Latin, I joined the
membra disiecta
of things that the wise already knew and said, though nobody listened to them. But everything in that letter is true as Gospel. We might say, if you like, that my hand simply placed the address on it, as if the letter were sent to you."

"And this Priest could give me the—what did you call it?—the Grasal in which the blood of Our Lord was collected? To be sure, that would be the ultimate, perfect unction..." Frederick murmured.

So that night, along with the fate of Baudolino, the fate of his emperor was also decided, even if neither of the two had yet grasped where they were heading.

As both still daydreamed of a distant realm, towards dawn, near a ditch, they found a horse that had fled the battle and was unable to find his way. With two horses, even though they took a thousand minor roads, the ride to Pavia went much faster. Along the way they encountered bands of retreating imperials, who recognized their lord and emitted shouts of joy. Since they had plundered the villages they passed through, they had sustenance, and rushed off to inform others who were farther ahead: so two days later Frederick arrived at the gates of Pavia preceded by the joyous news, to find the leaders of the city and his allies awaiting him with great pomp, still unable to believe their eyes.

There was also Beatrice, dressed in mourning, because by then they had told her that her husband was dead. She was holding her
two children by the hand, little Frederick, who was already twelve but looked half that, frail as he had been since birth, and Henry, who on the contrary had inherited all his father's strength, but on this day was weeping in bewilderment, constantly asking what had happened. Beatrice discerned Frederick in the distance, and moved towards him, sobbing, and embraced him with passion. When he told her he was alive thanks to Baudolino, she noticed that the young man was also there, and she went deep red, then quite pale, then she wept, and finally extended her hand to touch his heart and begged heaven to reward the merit of what he had done, calling him son, friend, brother.

"At that precise moment, Master Niketas," Baudolino said, "I realized that, by saving the life of my lord, I had paid my debt. But for this very reason I was no longer free to love Beatrice. And thus I realized that I loved her no more. It was like a healed wound, the sight of her aroused welcome memories but no yearning, I felt that I could remain at her side without suffering, or leave her without feeling sorrow. Perhaps I had finally become a man, and all youthful ardor was spent. I felt no displeasure, only a slight melancholy. I felt like a dove that had billed and cooed without restraint, but now the season of love was over. It was time to move, to go beyond the sea."

"You were no longer a dove; you'd become a swallow."

"Or a crane."

On Saturday morning Pevere and Grillo came to announce that order was somehow returning in Constantinople. Not so much because the pilgrims' thirst for looting was sated, but because their leaders had realized that the looters had also seized many venerable relics. A chalice or a damask vestment might be winked at, but the relics should not be dispersed. So the doge Dandolo had ordered that all the precious objects so far stolen should be brought to Saint Sophia, for fair distribution. Which meant primarily division between pilgrims and Venetians, as the latter were still awaiting payment for having brought the others here on their vessels. Then they would proceed, calculating the value of every piece in silver marks, and the knights would have four parts, the cavalry sergeants two, and the infantry sergeants one. It was easy to imagine the reaction of the soldiery, who were not allowed to seize anything.

There were murmurs that Dandolo's men had already taken the four gilded bronze horses from the Hippodrome, to send them to Venice; and everyone was in a bad humor. Dandolo's only reply was to order the search of troops of every rank, and a further search of their quarters in Pera. One knight of the count of Saint-Pol had been found with a phial upon his person. He said it was a medicine, now
dried up, but when they shook it, the warmth of their hands produced the flow of a red liquid, which was obviously the blood that had flowed from the ribs of Our Lord. The knight cried that he had honestly bought that relic from a monk before the sack; but to set an example, he was hanged on the spot, with his shield and its coat of arms around his neck.

"Shit! He looked like a codfish," Grillo said.

Sadly, Niketas listened to the news, but Baudolino, immediately embarrassed, as if he were guilty, changed the subject and promptly asked if the time had come to leave the city.

"The confusion is still great," Pevere said, "and you have to be careful. Where did you want to go, Master Niketas?"

"To Selymbria, where we have trusted friends who can take us in."

"Selymbria ... not easy," Pevere said. "It's to the west, near the Long Walls. Even if we had mules, it's three days on the road, and maybe more, and with a pregnant woman." And imagine, too: crossing the city with a fine stable of mules, you look like someone important, and the pilgrims will fall on you like flies." So the mules had to be prepared outside the city, and their party had to cross the city on foot. They would have to pass the walls of Constantine and then avoid the coast, where surely there were more people, skirt the church of Saint Mocius, and leave by the Pégé gate in the walls of Theodosius.

"It's not likely to go so well that nobody will stop you," Pevere said.

"Ah," Grillo commented, "to get it in the ass is a moment's work, and all these women will make the pilgrims foam at the mouth."

It still took a full day, since the young women had to be prepared. The leper scene couldn't be repeated because by now the pilgrims had realized that lepers didn't roam about inside the city. Some dots, some scabs had to be made on their faces, so they would appear to have scabies, enough to make them unattractive. Then all this group, for three days, would have to eat, because, as the saying goes, an empty sack won't stand up. The Genoese would prepare some baskets with
an entire pan of
scripilita,
their bread made of chickpea flour, thin and crusty, which they would cut into strips, wrapped in broad leaves; with a little pepper on top it would be delicious enough to nourish a lion; and broad slices of flat cake. With oil, sage, cheese, and onions.

These barbarian dishes didn't appeal to Niketas, but, since they would have to wait another day, he decided he would devote it to savoring the final delicacies that Theophilus could still prepare and listen to the final adventures of Baudolino, because he didn't want to leave just as the story was reaching its peak, and not knowing how it ended.

"My story is still too long," Baudolino said. "In any case, I will go with you. Here in Constantinople I've nothing more to do, and every corner stirs nasty memories. You have become my parchment, Master Niketas, on which I write many things that I had forgotten, as if my hand proceeded on its own. I think that one who tells stories must always have another to whom he tells them, and only thus can he tell them to himself. You remember when I wrote letters to the empress, but she didn't see them? If I committed the foolishness of letting my friends read them, it was because otherwise my letters would have had no meaning. And later, there was that moment of the kiss with the empress—I could never tell anyone of that kiss, and I carried the memory of it inside me for years and years, sometimes savoring it as if it were your honeyed wine, and sometimes tasting a toxin in my mouth. It was only when I could tell it to you that I felt free."