To all, Frederick’s body seemed bloated with water, and yet—if he had been dead for hours—he surely hadn’t swallowed any. But so it goes: if you pull a dead body from the river, he looks drowned and so you think he’s drowned.
While Frederick of Swabia and the other barons laid out the remains of the emperor, debating in their anguish what steps were to be taken, and while Ardzrouni came down into the valley, informed of the terrible event, Baudolino and Abdul returned to the castle, to make sure that by now all was in order.
“Imagine what had happened in the meantime, Master Niketas,” Baudolino said.
“It’s not necessary to be a wizard.” Niketas smiled. “The sacred cup, the Grasal, had disappeared.”
“So it had. Nobody could then say whether it had disappeared while we were in the small court tying Frederick to his horse, or afterwards, when everyone was trying to tidy up the room. All were in an emotional state, buzzing around like bees; the Poet had gone to distract the guards and wasn’t there to coordinate, with his usual common sense, the actions of each of the others. At a certain point, when they were about to leave the room, where by now it did not seem anything dramatic had happened, Kyot glanced at the ark, and realized the Grasal was no longer there. When I arrived with Abdul, each was accusing the other, whether of theft or of negligence, saying that perhaps, while we were putting Frederick on his horse, Ardzrouni had entered the room.
No, no, Kyot said, I helped carry the emperor down, but I came back up at once, precisely to make sure nobody entered; in that brief time Ardzrouni wouldn’t have been able to come up. Then you seized him, Boron growled, grabbing him by the neck. No, if anything, you did, Kyot rebutted, pushing him away, while I was at the window throwing out the ashes collected in the fireplace. Calm down, calm down, the Poet shouted, and where was Zosimos while we were down in the court?
I was with you, and I came back up with you, Zosimos swore, and Rabbi Solomon confirmed this. One thing was certain: somebody had taken the Grasal, and from there it was a short step to the conclusion that the thief was the same person who had somehow killed Frederick. It was all very well for the Poet to say that Frederick could have died naturally on his own, and then one of us had exploited the situation to take the Grasal, but nobody believed this.
My friends, Rabbi Solomon said to calm us, human folly has imagined horrific crimes, from Cain on, but no human mind has ever been so twisted as to imagine a crime in a locked room. My friends, Boron said, when we came in the Grasal was here, and now it isn’t. So one of us has it.
Naturally, each then insisted that his bags be searched, but the Poet started laughing. If someone has taken the Grasal, he has put it in a secret place in this castle, where he can go and recover it afterwards. The solution? If Frederick of Swabia put up no opposition, all of us would set off together for the kingdom of Prester John, and nobody would remain behind to come and recover the Grasal.
I said it was a horrible thing: we would undertake a journey full of dangers, each having to rely on the support of the others, and each (minus one) would suspect all the others of
being Frederick’s assassin. The Poet said it was that or nothing, and he was right, damn him. We would have to embark on one of the greatest adventures good Christians had ever faced, and all of us would distrust all the others.”
“And did you set out?” Niketas asked.
“Not right away: it would have looked like flight. The entire court met constantly to decide the fate of the expedition. The army was dissolving, many wanted to go home by sea, others wanted to sail for Antioch, still others for Tripoli. Young Frederick had chosen to proceed by land. Then the argument began over what to do with Frederick’s body, some proposing to extract at once the viscera, the most corruptible part, and bury them as quickly as possible; others wanted to await our arrival at Tarsus, the homeland of the apostle Paul.
But the rest of the body could not be preserved for long, and sooner or later it would have to be boiled in a mixture of water and wine, until all the flesh had separated from the bones,
and could be buried at once, while the rest could be placed in a sepulcher in Jerusalem, once the city was reconquered. But I knew that before having the body boiled, it would have to be dismembered. I didn’t want to witness that horror.”
“I have heard that no one knows what became of those bones.”
“I have heard the same. My poor father! On reaching Palestine young Frederick also died, consumed with grief, and with the hardships of the journey. For the rest, not even Richard the Lionheart or Philip Augustus ever arrived at Jerusalem.
It was truly an unfortunate venture for all. But I learned these things only this year, after I returned to Constantinople. In those days in Cilicia I succeeded in convincing Frederick of Swabia that, to fulfill his father’s wishes, we should set out for the Indias.
The son seemed to me relieved by this proposal of mine. He wanted only to know how many horses I needed and what provisions. Go with God, Baudolino, he said to me, I believe we will never see each other again. Perhaps he thought I would be lost in distant lands, and it was he who was lost, poor unhappy youth. He was not bad, though he was consumed by humiliation and envy.” Each suspecting the others, our friends had to decide who would take part in the journey. The Poet pointed out that there should be twelve in the party.
If they wanted to be treated respectfully along their way to the land of Prester John, it would be advisable for people to believe they were the twelve Magi Kings, on their return journey.
But since it wasn’t certain that the Magi really numbered twelve, or three, none of them should ever come out and say they were the Magi; on the contrary, if anyone asked, they should answer no, like someone forbidden to reveal a deep secret. Thus, denying it to all, each would believe what he chose to believe. The faith of others would make the group’s reticence become truth.
Now there were Baudolino, the Poet, Boron, Kyot, Abdul, Solomon, and Boidi. Zosimos was indispensable, because he continued to swear that he knew the map of Cosmas by heart, even though the rest of them were a bit disgusted that this crook would pass as one of the Magi; but they couldn’t be too particular.
Four people were missing. At this point Baudolino trusted only the Alessandrians, and had let some in on the plan: Cuttica of Quargnento, Colandrina’s brother Colandrino Guasco, Porcelli, and Aleramo Scaccabarozzi, known as Bonehead, but a sturdy, trustworthy man, who asked few questions. They had accepted because, by now, it seemed also to them that nobody would reach Jerusalem. Young Frederick provided twelve horses and seven mules, with food for a week. Afterwards, he said, Divine Providence would take care of them.
While they were making their preparations for the expedition, they were approached by Ardzrouni, who addressed them with the same reticent politeness he had earlier reserved for the emperor.
“My dear, dear friends,” he said, “I know you are setting out for a distant kingdom….”
“How do you know that, lord Ardzrouni?” the Poet asked suspiciously. “There are rumors. … I heard also some talk about a cup….”
“Which you’ve never seen, have you?” Baudolino said to him, moving so close to him that Ardzrouni had to draw back.
“Never seen it. But I’ve heard it mentioned.”
“Since you know so many things,” the Poet asked, “do you by any chance know if someone entered this room while the emperor was dying in the river?”
“Did he really die in the river?” Ardzrouni asked. “That’s what his son thinks, for the present.”
“My friends,” the Poet said, “it’s obvious that this man is threatening us. With the confusion that exists these days between the camp and the castle, it would be a simple matter to stab him in the back, and fling him somewhere or other. But first I’d like to know what he wants from us. Then perhaps I’ll cut his throat afterwards.”
“My lord and friend,” Ardzrouni said, “I do not desire your ruin; I want to avoid my own. The emperor died in my land, after eating my food and drinking my wine. From the imperials I can expect no favor, or protection. I’ll have to thank them if they leave me unharmed. Here, however, I am in danger. Once I received Frederick as my guest, Prince Leo realized that I wanted to draw the emperor to my side, against him.
As long as Frederick was alive, Leo could do nothing to me—and this is an indication of how that man’s death
