Chapter Fifteen: In Which A Chancellor Is Thwarted
Zuhayra gave Lord Demetrios a thorough scrutiny from the corners of her eye as he loked out over the parapet and across the gorge. From the tightness of his mouth alone it was plain that her ally was still angry, but his moroseness must have deeper roots than his recent frustration alone. Since before the summer, Zuhayra had noticed him become ever more short-tempered and detached. Following the wedding, she had tried everything to gain Demetrios a lordship or at least an office at court, but her efforts had been foiled by accounts of the Greek’s blatant mishandling of his failed bid for power over Peloponessos less than two years ago, and by even more viscious rumors of him having an unhealthy taste for young boys. Zuhayra had been unable to trace this sudden surge of double slander to its source, but she did heavily suspect Princess Yolanda’s hand behind it. The King’s daughter’s marriage to Lord Demetrios was publicly known not to be particular happy, but it had to be even worse than most people suspected – the Greek refused to even superficially discuss it with Zuhayra, depriving his ally of much-needed intelligence she might have used to gauge further steps against Yolanda. Recently, Demetrios did even seem to silently
blame Zuhayra for arranging this marriage and had withdrawn from her. When Zuhayra had been able to gain him a grand command in the war against the Archbishop Anselm of Toscana, relations had improved, but with the command being rescinded they might easily get worse than before.
Demetrios jerked his head towards river gorge below Rocca castle and the wondrous Roman bridge spanning it in lofty heights. His voice bitter as gall he said: “There, Boso da Fabriano and his men leaving. They would have been mine to command.”
Zuhayra followed Demetrios’ nod with her gaze, taking in the group of some fifty knights, footmen and retainers crossing the massive stone bridge. After a millennium, the bridge was already dilapidated, but it was still sound and surpassed by far everything contemporaries, even her sophisticated brothers in faith, would have been able to build. In five gigantic arches the bridge vaulted across the dark swirling waters of the Nera, the Black River, deep below, a wondrous feat of engineering connecting the town of Narni with Rocca castle, where the King and his court had taken up temporary residence to prepare the assault on Toscana.
The gorge of the Nera and the Roman bridge across it, as seen by Zuhayra from Rocca castle
Zuhayra turned to Demetrios and looked fully at him: “It is a very unfortunate turn of events that the attack on the Archbishopric had to be cancelled. The demise of Pope Victor couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
She didn’t tell Demetrios that she had advocated going along with the war anyway – no need for her ally to know that she was losing more and more ground in the council to his wife. But then Zuhayra hadn’t put up much of a fight in this matter. As a Muslim, she would have opened herself wide for attacks if she had been too vocal in her support for a war against Archbishop Anselm – or rather Urban II., the name he had assumed after his election to the Holy See a mere week ago.
No two months earlier, Pope Victor had died. After his military defeat by the hands of King Bohemond and his support for the Hammadid King al-Nasir, Victor’s prestige had been damaged to such an extent that the papacy had practically been powerless and paralyzed for these past years, a state enticing the cardinals to elect a forceful candidate who could be trusted to restore the power and dignity of the papacy. Archbishop Anselm of Toscana was just such a man, an he had been elected after only three days of infighting in the conclave. The fact that Anselm was also an independent secular lord who would upon his election add his own lands to the Patrimonium Petri could also have done nothing to decrease his eligibility for the papacy. And so Anselm had been crowned Urban II. and had immediately joined Toscana to the papal lands, doubling their extent at one stroke. For once mindful of his already tarnished reputation, King Bohemond had decided to abandon his plans of attacking Toscana and thus the Papacy and had given orders for the already assembled army to disperse.
Italy in August 1094, after the ascension of Pope Urban II
“Indeed”, came Demetrios monosyllabic answer to Zuhayra’s declaration, his gaze going past her towards the bridge and to the small host retreating across it. Silently cursing the Greek’s aloof hostility, Zuhayra continued undaunted: “But this may in fact turn out to be to your advantage.”
“How so?”, Demetrios asked, his interest aroused. The man was indeed a vapid buffoon! Lacking both the fierceness of a Norman knight and the sophistication of a Byzantine courtier, he was a mere pawn, buffetted by greed, vanity and self-importance, and easily manipulated. Unfortunately, these qualities weren’t entirely lost on King Bohemond, and with his daughter subtly feeding her father’s poor opinion of his son-in-law it was doubly hard to get Demetrios elevated into a position of power away from the court. If only there would have been another handy tool to get bloodthirsty, warmongering Yolanda away from her father!
“I happen to know that the King feels bad about having been forced to deprive you of your promised command”, Zuhayra blatantly lied to the Greek. If he was stupid enough to believe that Bohemond would feel pangs of burdened conscience for letting down one of his subjects, Demetrios deserved to be duped. She continued: “And I already know how we can turn this to your advantage. I have recent reports of more trouble and unrest is brewing in Africa, and the King is considering appointing a new count to these lands, to be able to keep the peace locally. His cousin Duke Serlo is clearly overtaxed with singlehandedly controlling a coastal stretch of a thousand miles. I have high hopes of gaining you an African county by playing on the King’s burdened conscience to compensate you for your frustration. How does ruling former Byzantine lands sound to you?”
Having Yolanda shipped off to Africa did in any case sound good to Zuhayra, but Demetrios Zarides’ ambition was also fired by the prospect of a county: “That would be fitting. And the prospects should be good, too, no? I mean, the King can hardly fail to finally elevate his own son-in-law, can he? He has deliberated long enough, I’d say.”
Lord Demetrios Zarides on the parapet of Rocca
Zuhayra winced inwardly at the Greek’s foolish vanity and complete lack of judgement. Playing the man was almost
too easy! Time to feed his ego some more, to draw him out: “Longer than justifyable, yes”.
Zuhayra feigned deliberation, looking out over the summer landscape stretching below castle Rocca as if at loss for words before continuing: “Let me talk plainly, Lord Demetrios. I am convinced that the King would have recognized your merit long ago if it wasn’t for … Well, you must know that it is whispered that your marriage is, ahem, well, not the happiest. I don’t mean to slight you if I say that it seems that your misguided wife holds you in low esteem, I only do so because I need to inform you that I have the strong suspicion that she is secretly working against you, methodically slandering you before her father.”
As she talked on, Zuhayra let her gaze trail back on Demetrios who was now clenching the golden cross dangling on the chest of his red Greek-style dalmatic: “The King has summoned a council for tomorrow, but there is a distinct possibility that Princess Yolanda will be trying to undermine me when I champion your cause. If I am to succeed, I need to know if there is something, anything, the Princess could bring up against you. If there is, and even if it is something unpleasant, I need you to tell me, so that I shall be prepared.”
Zuhayra would have said more, but she realized that she had come up against a wall with Demetrios. The aristocrat’s features had set, his face hard and denying, his jaw clenched tight. He shook his head once, sharply, almost a spasm: “There is nothing. I cannot help you.”
It was plain for Zuhayra that Demetrios wasn’t telling her the truth, but it was also plain that arguing with him further was no use. The man had his defenses up, and whatever he was protecting, he seemed clearly willing to defend it to the last. A direct assault, even a prepared one, wouldn’t carry this fortress. The Chancellor would have to use subterfuge. In the meantime, she did just hope that Yolanda couldn’t or wouldn’t use whatever Lord Demetrios was protecting against him or her.
* * *
“But the situation is still in hand?”
“According to the reports, yes, at least so far, my Lord King”, Zuhayra answered her liege’s question. “Count Charles seems hard pressed by the bedouin raiders, and they even receive some covert support from the settled populace of Djerba, but there seems to be no reason to worry. Not even Duke Serlo, who should be able to judge the situation locally, has as yet involved himself. He too seems to have faith that his vassal will be able to deal with the situation on his own.”
“Very well then. If my cousin the vice-regent of Africa sees no reason to intervene I trust his judgement. But what news of the unrest in our new African conquests?”
Zuhayra gave a little throaty noise and shifted uneasily in her chair: “No recent news, my Lord King. The native populace is still disgruntled with the new taxes on adherents of non-Christian faiths and the other restrictions placed upon them. The riots do presumably continue, but there has been no recent word of Duke Serlo as to their extent – or his progress in repressing them, for that matter. If we are to go with the Duke’s last report he has been able to largely contain the unrest to the town of Derna and the surrounding lands.”
The King and his closest advisors were in session in one corner of the hall of castle Rocca. The trestle tables had been cleared from the scraps of the morning meal and were now being scrubbed clean again, and the rushes on the floor were swept out to be replaced by fresh, unsoiled ones. One of the King’s huge wolfhounds yawned, stretched, and trotted over to his master, placing its shaggy head on Bohemond’s lap. The King petted the grey beast’s head in an absent-minded way and said: “As long as we hear nothing new from Africa, the old orders can stand as they are. But I have asked you to propose somebody for the County of Benghazi – have you made up your mind?”
“With your leave, my Lord King”, Princess Yolanda butted in to Zuhayra’s dismay, “could we maybe discuss the situation in Palestine first? Maybe it is possible to profit from this secession in some way or other, and if so, it might be politic to make up our minds as to a possible course of action before deciding anything about Benghazi.”
Bohemond’s lips twisted in a brief hint of a smile as he nodded at his daughter’s proposal: “I don’t see how we might presently profit from the Fatimid’s troubles, but there’s no harm in reviewing our options. Chancellor Zuhayra, what is your assessment of this rebellion?”
This was once more ground on which Zuhayra had to tread carefully. Only a week ago, news had arrived from Jerusalem, news of a rebellion against Fatimid authority. Ahmed, the Emir of Palestine, had formally renounced his allegiance to Caliph al-Mustansir in Cairo and declared his independence. His unruliness had taken a large chunk out of the side of the powerful Fatimid realm.
The eastern Mediterranean by mid-1094
Weighing her words carefully, Zuhayra began to explain: “We do not yet know wether Caliph al-Mustansir will take up arms against the wayward Emir Ahmed. My personal opinion is that the Caliph will tread very carefully.”
“So you want to make the King believe that al-Mustansir will simply let Jerusalem and all of Palestine slip from his grasp?”, Yolanda said with what Zuhayra judged to be feigned incredulousity. The Chancellor rocked her head from side to side and replied: “This is not a matter of making the King belive anything. The situation in Palestine is a complicated one. Fatimids and Seljuk Turks face each other in the region in an uneasy truce. Both claim supremacy over Islam. The Seljuks Sultan is the protector of Caliph al-Muqtadi, who resides in Baghdad and who is recognized by the majority of Muslims. In this they are misled, as the supremacy over Islam was more than four hundred years ago stolen away from the line of Ali, who was the Prophet’s grandson. This Ali is my own distant ancestor, no less than he is the Fatimids'. The one true Caliph is therefore al-Mustansir and resides in Cairo. He and the Seljuk Sultan Malik Shah, who recognizes al-Muqtadi in Baghdad, are at odds. For Malik Shah, who is a recently converted Turkish barbarian, the entire matter of supremacy is only a pretence, though, a pretence which allows him to claim theoretical overlordship over all Muslims by professing to act in the name and as agent of Caliph al-Muqtadi, who is little more than his prisoner at Baghdad. When Emir Ahmed did now revolt against his lord al-Mustansir, he did more than just that – he did also renounce him as overlord of the faithful and did instead recognize al-Muqtadi.”
“So any attack of al-Mustansir upon Emir Ahmed would give Malik Shah a pretence to involve himself by virtue of his role as protector of what the adherents of al-Muqtadi acknowledge as the true faith and the true Caliph?”, the King asked.
“Exactly, my Lord King, and a most welcome pretence at that. Malik Shah is the single most powerful man in the world, ruling from the farthest reaches of Persia to almost the Mediterranean – but only just almost. It is unlikely that he would let pass a ready pretence for a war which would allow him to gain access to the Mediterranean and to at the same time demonstrate his pet-Caliph al-Muqtadi’s supremacy over the true Caliph al-Mustansir by humbling the Fatimids. And with Caliph al-Mustansir being old, well over seventy by now, and his heir being his infant great-grandson, the Caliph is unlikely to risk confrontation with the powerful Seljuks.”
Yolanda did once again raise her girlish voice: “I had suspected that the Fatimids might busy themselves in Palestine and be thus unable to aid their allies the Hammadids in case of a Norman offensive, but you have persuaded me that such a Fatimid involvement is none too likely. But considering the weakened state they are in after the defection of Palestine and also the threat posed by Malik Shah, would it not be highly unlikely that the Fatimids would expose themselves to a Seljuk attack by aiding the Hammadids in case of a Norman offensive?”
Princess Yoalnda was following the same course she had taken so often in these past months: By advocating attacks on Muslims or harsh treatment of Muslim subjects she was constantly forcing Zuhayra into the role as a defender of Muslim interests. So far, the Chancellor had always been able to parry the Princess’ repeated subtle attacks with reasonable arguments, but Zuhayra was well aware that she was ever more becoming a vocal champion of Muslim causes, something which could hardly be lost on Bohemond and could in the long run only undermine her position. But this time, Zuhayra was spared further defenses by the King himself: “This may well be, daughter, but it is too early to say so, and the year is already too far advanced to cross over into Africa in force before the end of the shipping season anyway. We shall have to keep an eye on the future developments, maybe an opportunity will spring up, but for now I just want to hear your suggestions about Benghazi. Whom should I grant the title?”
Yoalnda spoke up immediately: “I propose your faithful Marshall Charles, my Lord King. He has served you for many years and proven his abilities many times over. A reward might be in order, and would spur others to similar service.”
The King looked questioningly at Zuhayra, silently asking her to give her opinion. With some exultation the Chancellor read in her liege’s face that he wasn’t happy with his daughter’s proposition. She said: “A wothy choice, for sure, but maybe not the best one. I have recently noticed a certain weariness about the Marshall, almost as if he weighed down to the ground by his many duties. It might not be the best of times to burden him with further, new duties, least of all duties in a land so froeign to a Frankish knight as Africa. I ascribe it to her Grace the Princess’ humilty and I hold it much to her credit that she has failed to name a man who seems much more fit for this office – her own husband, Lord Demetrios. A Greek and a native of Byzantium, Lord Demetrios is already acquainted with Muslim traditions and mindsets, a knowledge he could put to good use as Count of Benghazi.”
Yolanda shook her head slowly but assertively. Zuhayra noticed that father and daughter exchanged a quick glance fraught with private meaning, a meaning unknown to her. Somehow, Yolanda had obviously managed to completely undermine her husband, and Zuhayra wasn’t even surprised anymore when she heard the King’s words: “A county in Africa doesn’t seem like the right kind of office for my son-in-law. But I do concur that Marshall Charles seems tired and that it is not the right time to burden him with the endless unrest rampant in Africa. I reject both your propositions and shall keep my own counsel. The lordship of Djerba will go to no other than my brother, Duke Roger Borsa of Campania.”
“Your brother, my Lord King?” Zuhayra was astonished.
“No other”, Bohemond said. “Roger has recently granted away his wealthy County of Napoli to his bastard son, limiting his own personal holdings to just his original lands at Salerno. On the one hand this should free enough of his attention – what little attention he is able to come up with, anyway – for Benghazi. And on the other hand he will lack the power, not to speak of the spine, to resist me when I strip him of Benghazi once more. Which I intend to do some day. But for the time being he can serve as stand in for some better man.”
“And then there is of course also the hope that he will die without having sired a child on his wife”, Yolanda added with an edge to her voice that raised the hairs on the back of Zuhayra’s neck. But the Princess’ cold-blooded calculation was of course true. Roger Borsa had sired only a single child, on his motherly mistress Countess Umfreda Faliero, who had been named after his father. Duke Roger had only last month made his bastard Count of Napoli, but if he didn’t recognize him, there was of course a distinct possibility that all of his lands would upon his death devolve upon King Bohemond, or the King’s heir.
But another thought struck Zuhayra – hadn’t Yolanda reacted too smoothly to the announcement of her father’s plans for Benghazi? Could it be that she had been privy to the King’s thoughts and intentions all along? Had Zuhayra been led on? But what purpose could such a move serve? Zuhayra would have to think the implications through carefully, but the King’s council was neither the time nor the place to do so. Zuhayra told herself that she would just have to accept that her new ploy had failed and that she would have to contend with Yolanda for some more time. For now, she forced her attntion back upon the matters at hand, which concerned Pope Urban and how the Normans should meet him, who should be sent to Rome with congratulations, and what other issues these envoys should bring up. This at least was a subject where Zuhayra did not have to fight Princes Yolanda. The women and the King were of one mind that the Normans should use the change in the Papacy to smooth over the relations with the Holy See. Pope Urban would need allies, and the most eligible candidates of sufficient power were the Normans and the Germans. As Pope Urban, formerly Archbishop Anselm, had rebelled against Queen Matilda of Germany no two years earlier, relations between them were strained and the Norman prospects for an alliance subsequently good. An alliance with the Pope would carry considerable prestige, and so the envoys would be charged to treat with Urban to this end.
