The Codex Lacrimae (16 page)

“You know we can't prove such a thing,” Fatima exclaimed, “but the biggest concern we have at the moment is the location of my brother.”

Clarinda glanced at them, knowing that this was an ideal time to return the group's attention to her missing father. She'd traveled too far to reach this place and to speak with this man. She decided to throw her lot in with the Arabian couple.

“This seems like a perfect moment to reiterate my question, Grand Master,” Clarinda said, “for the second time, I have to ask you, where's my father, Angelo Trevisan?”

“Where's Angelo Trevisan?” Evremar repeated, acting as if that hadn't been the first question Clarinda had asked upon meeting him earlier that day.

“
Si
,
” Clarinda said. “He was supposed to bring a consignment of goods to Caesarea a month ago, yet your Templars tell me he never arrived.”

“Your Templars seem to say that a lot,” Khalil added. “We just heard the same thing about my brother-in-law.”

“You seem to be losing many people,” King Guy observed dryly. “Would you care to comment, Evremar?”

The corpulent man wiped his lips again delicately with a silk napkin. “All in good time, my friends. I don't have immediate answers for you on these questions, but my people are looking into it. In the meantime, can't we enjoy a supper together?”

“We'd enjoy your food and wine better if we knew justice was being done,” Queen Sibylla replied, her diplomatic tone edged with steel.

Seated beside Evremar, Sibylla had watched the Templar Grandmaster's ingestion of the food and drink with macabre fascination. “You still haven't satisfied us on the question of taxing the local chieftains, and now you seem to have visitors disappearing on a regular basis! Really, Evremar, you'll simply have to treat these issues seriously
if
you want relations to stay normal with Jerusalem when my brother dies. If we can't resolve this, a change of power might see more...
enthusiastic
enforcement of the laws of Jerusalem's Kingdom all the way to Antioch.”

“Perhaps you could start enforcing the laws by looking into some ruler's abuse of the power to grant trading rights to locals in the region,” Khalil said loudly, “and that any sense of justice should at least be based in evidence and eyewitnesses.” He glanced around the table. “No one can prove that any one of my tribe is involved in these raids, and we're losing the selling season for our camels!”

Archbishop Monachus, to the left of her and next to the pirate Kenezki, startled everyone by beginning to chuckle. Then the head of the Church in Caesarea, completely ignoring Khalil's exasperated outburst, looked sidelong at the beautiful Frankish woman next to him.

“Surely, Dame Sibylla,” the archbishop said, “you don't mind that I call you that, do you? I mean, you have been ousted from power, haven't you? Surely, it's a bit presumptive to discuss
any
succession until your poor younger brother has succumbed? It's my understanding that the...‘vicissitudes' of his condition ebb and flow like the tides. Perhaps he'll recover quickly?”

Clarinda leaned over to Fatima, wanting to get to know the young woman better. “Excuse me, Lady Fatima. Is that voice for real? He sounds as if his under-drawers are getting pulled up! And, in all seriousness, is Evremar going to avoid both our questions and keep eating?”

The young Arabian woman seated cross-legged on the floor next to Clarinda started, as if the girl's question had interrupted her own reveries, and then she brought a silken napkin to her lips to hide a smile. Then, surprisingly, Clarinda noticed that the woman's eyes were filled with tears! This reaction seemed so at odds with the smile and the general demeanor Fatima had shown that Clarinda couldn't understand what had upset Fatima so.

With a look of determination, Fatima dabbed her eyes with the napkin, bowed her head, and, still without looking in Clarinda's direction, whispered clearly: “Just call me, Fatima, and I'll call you Clarinda. By the end of this dinner, I predict we'll be fast friends, so no need to stand on ceremony. Yes, Monachus's squeak is all too real, and Evremar's a master of evasion; Allah knows that Khalil and I've heard both men's voices
too
much while trying to get out of here!”

“God willing, Archbishop,” Guy continued, “I hope you're correct and we won't have to be worried about the succession anytime soon but — of all the people at this table — surely Sibylla, the king's older sister, has
some
leeway to talk about him?”

Clarinda thought the glare the archbishop directed at Sibylla and Guy must work wonderfully on the peasantry (perhaps making persecuted villagers feel as if hellfire was going to burst from his eyes when he glared), but the future Queen and King of Jerusalem seemed completely unaffected by the high priest's anger.

“Oh, Monachus, do shut up, already — you're becoming a boor!” Evremar declaimed. “Speaking of boors, I should take affront at Master Khalil's insinuations but, for the moment, we'll let those slingshot pebbles pass overhead.”

He adjusted his bulk on the broad pillows beneath him, and leaned forward, swirling the wine in his goblet as he spoke.

Evremar's eyes were calculating beads as he took in the assembled men and women at his table. Something besides the dinner salad rose in his gorge. He burped hugely. Ugh. The Grand Master thought it high time to change the subject because there were still more dolmas and chicken
shawarma
to be tasted, as well as rosemary braised lamb shank.

“Boor?” Monachus exclaimed with an injured tone, but relaxedly reaching an emaciated hand to decant more wine into his goblet. “Mark your words, Evremar — Mother Church is only so forgiving of those who'd disparage Her humble servants…”

“Boys, please,” said the former queen, “let's stay on point, shall we? The real problem…”

King Guy let his wife handle the quarreling grand master and archbishop, and turned his attention to the new arrivals from Constantinople. Genevieve was out of his line of sight, but everyone had noticed that she seemed entranced by Sibylla's every move.

“So, Hoplitarch Stratioticus…,” Guy said.

“Please, Milord, call me Alexander.”

“Alexander, then. What news from Constantinople? Messengers beat you by a few days bearing a report about the new emperor, but the details were less than sketchy.”

“His Majesty, Isaac II Angelos, is now Caesar Augustus,” Alex answered simply.

“And your loyalties?”

“Remain with the empire,” Alex said, holding the other's gaze steadily, and then shrugging as he reached for his goblet. “Emperors come and go, but the army and bureaucracy ever remain.”

“I heard that,” Evremar shouted boisterously. “Like death and taxes, eh?”

A small murmur of laughter rippled down the table, the guests glad for some bit of relief in what had been becoming an increasingly tense conversation.

“I knew Emperor Andronikos,” Genevieve said somberly, referring to Isaac II's executed predecessor, “and I think it was a horrible way to die!”

Clarinda wondered at the declaration. In mixed company like this, her friend usually remained quiet, content to observe people until she got more comfortable.

Kenezki looked at her with apparently drunken, amused eyes. “How so, My Dear? Other emperors have gone violently into the Great Beyond. Surely there have been worse deaths in the imperial court than Andronikos's?”

“Worse?” Genie was incredulous, her tone cutting as she slowly uttered a reprimand. “The emperor was caught by the mob in the street and tied to a pier on the wharf. Then he was beaten and spit on for three days. Then he had boiling water poured on his head, and
then
they gouged his eyes out! How does it get much worse than that?”

Oh, Lord,
Clarinda thought,
she's had too much to drink, and going to keep them discussing politics! Was Aimery giving her wine?

“What'd you expect?” Kenezki asked Genevieve, a strange delight in the pirate's voice. “Revolts are generally not tame events.” He paused. “By the by, I heard that Andronikos was still crawling around after that —”

“A ruler, a noble, deserves a better death than that,” the girl interrupted angrily. “That was just cruel, and not a very Christian way to depose an emperor.”

“‘Not a very Christian way to depose…,'” Pasquale chuckled, glancing at Clarinda beside him. He whispered to her, “
Bambina
,
did Genie just imply that there's a holy way to depose an emperor?”

Clarinda groaned and saw the feeling mirrored in the grimace on Alex's face. If given the chance, he appeared at the moment quite happy with the idea of throttling his little sister to get her to shut up. They'd all agreed beforehand to keep discussions centered on finding Angelo Trevisan, and Genevieve was now taking an unexpected political stance over an unpopular Byzantine ruler!

“Considering his life, perhaps that was as good a death as he deserved,” Kenezki shot back, “and, if you're raising the point of how ‘Mother Church' views a philandering and mass murdering ‘noble,' we ought to be asking Archbishop Monachus for his opinion!”

“What are you asking?” Monachus asked slowly, obviously trying to regain some higher moral ground after the earlier discussion about his tax evasions.

“I'm simply asking,” Kenezki repeated, “in the eyes of God Almighty, if the emperor was a known philanderer and murderer, were the three days it took him in dying cruelly rendered, or justly deserved?”

“Your tone borders on the blasphemous,” the archbishop reproved, “but for the sake of edifying the souls at this banquet, I'll answer the words and not the soiled source —”

“
O-ho
,
” Kenezki laughed, “pour the priest another goblet of wine, young lady!” He beckoned to the serving girl standing in the corner, “and, another for me. This should be good.”

“Ahem,” Monachus said, adjusting himself on the pillows behind him, but not doing anything to stop the girl from refilling his goblet. “It does remind me of a sermon I gave a while ago,” Monachus said more loudly than necessary. “It was a Lenten mass, and I was trying to instruct the flock about the importance of seeking penance and forgiveness in this life while one still can. I used the story of a corrupt German priest, known to live a life of luxury, and indulging in soft beds, wine, and hot baths with wild women.”

Kenezki swayed and tried to focus on the archbishop next to him. “Verily, Monachus? This story is the sermon you're going to use this afternoon? Careful. In truth, I believe we have a few lusty, ‘wild women' at this table!”

“That's enough,” Guy of Lusignan interrupted. “We'll hear no tales here that might insult the ladies.”

Kenezki shrank from the words (over-dramatically, Clarinda thought), and put a finger to his own lips. “Apologies, apologies, Milord — of course, we shouldn't offend anyone here because all the women present are pure as the drifting snow...”

The rest of the pirate's riposte was lost to Clarinda as her body flushed and mind wandered. Another waking vision overwhelmed her.

The table and its diners receded into a dreamscape of a marble-floored chamber, its vast space crowded with throngs of dead men and women shambling through what looked like a Viking mead hall.  Thankfully, Aurelius stood supportively beside her, but someone distracted the Hospitaller.
O Dio, non un'altra bella donna seminuda —
unbelievable!  What was it with all these other women in her visions of him? Was the youth a priest or knave?  As earlier with the green huntress's revealing top, this pale-skinned woman seemed to be wearing a thin black robe that left little to the imagination!

A shadowed figure came into view, dragging a struggling man by the ankle to a boiling pool. The figure effortlessly hoisted his victim into the yellowish waters... .

Clarinda gasped as the vapors resolved the dreamtime back to the banquet table.

No one seemed to have noticed her discomfort, though, and she wiped a forearm across her sweaty brow as she struggled to refocus on the present. The archbishop had taken up Kenezki's argument, and protests sounded from around the table at both men's audacity. Monachus was giving excruciating details about some villager who hadn't paid the local taxman. She stared at the archbishop, a film of sweat sticking to her body as she watched him take an obvious delight in describing the man's torment.
Dio
,
how she'd had enough of this place and wanted to leave this horrid banquet! Only the thought of her father kept her firmly seated.

The archbishop's voice rose as he came to the end of his tale. “...so, the townspeople finally recognized the Devil's work when they found the ruffian suicided in the morning. The lord of the manor then (quite rightly) had the corpse chopped up, threw the pieces into the river, and everyone watched as monsters devoured the remains.”