Boron, coughing, went to open the panes and allow some air to come in. Thinking that someone had entered, and was still in the room, the Poet and Boron rushed, swords drawn, to examine every corner, while Baudolino, kneeling beside Frederick’s body, raised his father’s head and gently slapped him. Boidi remembered the cordial he had bought in Gallipolis, opened the mount of his ring, forced the emperor’s lips apart, and poured the liquid into his mouth. Frederick remained lifeless. His face was ashen. Rabbi Solomon bent over him, tried to open his eyes, touched his brow, his neck, his wrist, then said, trembling: “This man is dead, may the Holy One, forever blessed be he, have mercy on his soul.”
“Jesus Christ the Lord! That can’t be!” Baudolino shouted. Though he had no knowledge of medicine, he realized that Frederick, holy and Roman emperor, guardian of the most Holy Grasal, hope of Christendom, last and legitimate descendant of Caesar Augustus and Charlemagne, was no more. Immediately he wept, covered that wan face with kisses, called himself his beloved son, hoping to be heard, then realized that all was in vain.
He rose, shouted to his friends to search again everywhere, even under the bed; they looked for secret passages, they sounded every wall, but it was obvious that not only was no one hiding, but no one had ever hidden in that place. Frederick Barbarossa had died in a room hermetically sealed from inside, and protected on the outside by his most devoted son.
“Call Ardzrouni; he’s an expert in the medical art,” Baudolino shouted. “I’m an expert in the medical art,” Rabbi Solomon groaned. “Believe me: your father is dead.”
“My God, my God,” Baudolino was beside himself, “my father is dead! Tell the guards, call his son. We must look for his murderers!” “Just a moment,” the Poet said. “Why are you talking of murder? The room was locked. He’s dead. At his feet you see the Grasal, which contained the antidote. Perhaps he felt ill, feared he had been poisoned, and drank. On the other hand, there was a burning fire. Who but he could have lighted it? I know of people who feel a strong pain in the chest, become covered with cold sweat, and try to warm themselves, their teeth chattering. And they die shortly afterwards. Maybe the smoke of the fire worsened his condition.”
“But what was in the Grasal?” Zosimos cried, rolling his eyes and seizing Rabbi Solomon.
“Stop this, you villain,” Baudolino said to him. “You saw yourself that Kyot tasted the liquid.”
“Not enough, not enough,” Zosimos repeated, shaking Solomon. “A sip won’t make you drunk! You fools, trusting a Jew!”
“We were fools, but to trust a Greekling like you,” the Poet shouted, giving Zosimos a shove and separating him from the poor Rabbi, whose teeth were chattering in fear.
Meanwhile Kyot had picked up the Grasal and religiously replaced it in its ark.
“So,” Baudolino asked the Poet, “you mean to say he wasn’t murdered, and he died by the Lord’s will?”
“It’s easier to think that than to think of a creature made of air who passed through the door that we were guarding so well.”
“We must call his son, and the guards,” Kyot said.
“No,” the Poet said. “Friends, our heads are at stake here. Frederick is dead, and we know that no one could have entered that locked room. But his son, and the others, don’t know that. They’ll think we’re the guilty ones.” “What a vile idea!” Baudolino said, still weeping.
The Poet said: “Baudolino, listen. Frederick’s son doesn’t love you, doesn’t love us, and has always distrusted us. We were on guard, the emperor is dead, and so we are responsible. Before we can say a word, the son will have us hanged from some tree, and if there are no trees in this damned valley, he’ll have us hanged from the walls.
As you know, Baudolino, the son has always considered this Grasal story a plot to drag his father where he should never have gone. He’ll kill us, and with one blow he’s freed himself of the whole lot of us. And what about his barons? Word that the emperor has been killed will drive them to accuse one another: it will mean massacre. We are the scapegoat for the general good. Who will believe the testimony of a little bastard like you, forgive the expression, of a drunk like me, of a Jew and a schismatic, of three wandering clerks, and of Boidi, who, as an Alessandrian, more than anyone else had every reason to hate Frederick? We’re already dead, Baudolino, just like your adoptive father.”
“And so?” Baudolino asked.
“So,” the Poet said, “the only solution is to make everyone believe Frederick died somewhere away from here, where it wasn’t our job to protect him.”
“How?”
“Didn’t he say he wanted to go to the river? We’ll put some clothes on him and wrap him in his cloak. We’ll go down to the small court, where there’s nobody around, but where the horses have been waiting since yesterday evening. We’ll tie him to his saddle, go to the river, and there the waters will carry him away. A glorious death for this emperor who, old as he is, confronts the forces of Nature. The son will decide whether to go on to Jerusalem or return home. And we can say that we are continuing on to the Indias, to carry out Frederick’s last wish. The son, apparently, doesn’t believe in the Grasal. We’ll take it, we’ll go and do what the emperor would have liked to do.”
“But we’ll have to stage a mock death,” Baudolino said, his eyes dazed. “Is he dead? He’s dead. It grieves us all, but he’s dead. We’re not saying he’s dead when he’s still alive, are we? He’s dead, may God receive him among the saints. We will simply say that he drowned in the river, in the open air, and not in this room that we were to defend. Are we lying? Only a little. If he’s dead, what does it matter whether he died in here or out there? Did we kill him? Everyone knows that’s not so. We will have him die where even the people most hostile towards us can’t slander us. Baudolino, it’s the only way. There’s no other, if you hold your life dear and want to reach Prester John and celebrate in his presence the extreme glory of Frederick.”
The Poet, though Baudolino cursed his coldness, was right; and they all agreed with him. They dressed Frederick, carried him to the second court, bound him to his saddle, thrusting a support behind his back, as the Poet had done once with the three Magi, so that he seemed erect on his horse. “Only Baudolino and Abdul will carry him to the river,” the Poet said, “because a large escort would attract the attention of the sentinels, who might think they should join the group. The rest of us will stay and guard the room, so Ardzrouni or others cannot think of entering, and we will tidy it up. Indeed, I’ll go to the walls and chat with the men on guard, to distract them while the two of you ride out.”
It seemed that the Poet was the only one in a condition to make sensible decisions. All obeyed. Baudolino and Abdul rode out of the court, slowly, with Frederick’s horse between them. They took the side path until they reached the main one, descended the broad steps, then trotted over the plain, towards the river. From the ramparts the armigers saluted the emperor. That brief journey seemed to last an eternity, but finally they reached the shore.
They hid behind a clump of trees. “Here no one can see us,” Baudolino said. “The current is strong, and the body will be swept away immediately. We’ll ride into the water to attempt rescue but the bed is treacherous, and will not allow us to reach him. Then we will follow the body from the bank, calling for help. … The current goes towards the camps.”
They untied Frederick’s corpse, stripped it, leaving only what scant clothing the swimming emperor would have required to cover his shame.
As soon as they pushed him into the middle of the river, the current seized the body, and it was pulled downstream. They entered the river, tugging on the bit so that the horses seemed to be shying in fear; they climbed out again and galloped after that poor relic, battered by water and rocks, as they waved their arms in alarm and shouted to the men in the camp to save the emperor.
Farther on some men noticed their signaling, but failed to understand what was going on. Frederick’s body was caught in eddies, whirling in circles; it would vanish into the water, then rise briefly to the surface. From a distance it was hard to understand that a man was drowning. In the end some did understand; three horsemen entered the water, but when the body reached them, it slammed against the hoofs of the frightened horses and was dragged on. Farther ahead, some soldiers went into the water with pikes, and, finally succeeding in harpooning the corpse, pulled it ashore.
When Baudolino and Abdul arrived, Frederick lay there, bruised by the rocks, and no one could now imagine that he was still alive. Loud cries rose, the son was informed,
