Though the day was cold and damp, the sky an ugly, unwelcoming gray,
Simon's first view of Rome brought tears to his eyes. He came out of a
small grove of cypresses on the east bank of the Tiber to see gray
walls, punctuated by square towers, spread wide before him. Beyond the
walls, out of a haze of dust and wood smoke, above masses of peaked
roofs, crenellated palace towers rose lordly, vying for ascendancy with
the bell towers of churches. Marble buildings adorned with white columns
crowned the hills.
The swift-moving brown river on his left bent around the walls and
disappeared beyond them.
Even though he did not want to be part of Charles d'Anjou's invasion of
Italy, the thrill of seeing Rome for the first time made up for his
distress.
Rome was by no means as beautiful a sight as Orvieto, but it awed him to
think that this city had ruled the world when Jesus walked the earth.
What must it have been like to be a Roman legionary, returning to this
place from a victory in some far-off land? This dirt track would have
been a well-paved road then. Looking off to his right, he saw fragments
of wall bounding the edge of a field, and a broken, fluted column rising
among olive trees, quiet reminders that the city had once extended into
these fields and beyond.
Simon was mounted on a borrowed war-horse, a mare whose shiny coat
reminded him of Sophia's hair--a brown so dark it might be taken for
black. After many hours of riding, the mare's rocking pace had chafed
the insides of his mail-clad legs.
He rode a few yards behind Count Charles d'Anjou and the three knights
Charles had appointed marshals of his army. When he looked back over his
shoulder, he saw a column of mailed knights riding three abreast strung
out along the Tiber for nearly half a mile, and beyond them, almost
obscured by clouds of yellow dust, clinking files of men-at-arms,
crossbows and spears over their shoulders.
Unimpressed by the sight of Rome, Anjou and his commanders carried on an
argument.
"You are a hard taskmaster, Monseigneur," said Gautier du Mont, whose
bronze hair was cropped in the shape of a bowl, slightly tilted so that
the back was lower than the front. "To make your knights ride half a day
in full armor when they have not seen a denier from your coffers since
we sailed from Marseilles--you demand too much." The points of du Mont's
mustache hung below his chin. Simon had heard he was little better than
a routier, a highwayman, who had begun his knightly career by robbing
travelers who passed his castle in the Pyrenees.
What Simon had seen thus far of Charles's army made the enterprise look
decidedly unsavory. Before reaching Ostia, Simon had expected that the
men Charles commanded would be vassals, men who had received land from
him and were bound by ancient oaths. He quickly realized that all of
these men were adventurers with little or no holdings of their own, in
this enterprise with Charles for whatever they could gain. Charles could
command them only as long as they could hope to grow rich in his
service.
Simon supposed this was the best Charles could do, since King Louis had
refused to help him raise knights and men and insisted that he hire them
himself. Knights willing to go to war for hire could not be expected to
be the better sort. Not only did Simon not want to make war on the
Italians, he wanted even less to be associated with men like the ones
Charles had recruited.
Unlike his three marshals, who were all bareheaded, Charles wore a
helmet. A steel replica of his count's coronet ringed its pointed top.
Beside him rode an equerry with his personal standard, the black
silhouette of a lion rearing up on its hind legs against a flame-red
background. Charles turned so that his big Capetian nose was outlined
against the iron-gray sky.
"You complain, du Mont, because I ordered our knights to wear full
armor?" said Charles. "I did it for their own protection. I expect to
meet resistance."
_Only eight hundred knights and two thousand men-at-arms_, Simon
thought. _Hardly enough to take Rome, if the Romans do decide to fight.
Nowhere near enough to beat Manfred._
He had been shocked when he arrived at Ostia last night and found out
how small Charles's invasion force was. Being a part of this war was
going to be downright dangerous.
"Time enough for us to don armor when the resistance appears," said
Alistair FitzTrinian, a knight from England whose face was a mass of
smallpox scars. Simon had so far been unable to look at the man without
having to freeze the muscles of his face to keep from wincing.
Count Charles sighed, and held out his arm in the direction of Rome.
"Look there, gentlemen," he said in a patient tone, as if instructing
schoolchildren. "The Romans are not waiting for us to put on our armor."
Simon followed his pointing finger and saw a gray mass spreading out
into the field near one of the city's gates, flowing around cottages and
groves of trees. It appeared to be a great crowd of several thousand
citizens. Fully alert now, Simon heard a dull roar, like the hum of a
swarm of bees, that sounded decidedly hostile. He felt a twinge of fear.
"Get your helmets on, the three of you," Charles snapped. "Set an
example for the rest, or may the devil carry you away!"
The three commanders slowly and sullenly pulled on their helmets, which
had been hanging down their backs from straps under their chins. The
manner of the three marshals toward Count Charles shocked Simon. If
these were the leaders, what In God's name could the rank and file be
like?
_Any one of my Venetian archers or the Tartars' Armenian guards would be
worth a dozen of these._
As the army of Anjou, with Charles and Simon and the three marshals in
the lead, advanced slowly, Simon noticed that six or so men, several
hundred paces in front of the shouting citizens, were walking to meet
them.
In a short time the small delegation stood before Count Charles,
blocking his path.
Charles raised his arm, and the knights behind him shouted the order to
halt down the line. How would Count Charles deal with the
representatives of an unfriendly populace, Simon wondered. This should
be interesting. He might learn something.
The count turned to Dietrich von Regensburg, his third commander. "I
want a troop of the Burgundian pikemen up here now. Surround these
fellows." Von Regensburg, a knight with hard blue eyes, a flattened
nose, and a huge jaw, saluted and swung his dun horse around to ride
back to the long line of men-at-arms following Charles and his knights.
Anjou's order made Simon uneasy. Why try to frighten these Romans? Would
it not be better if he could enter the city with their approval?
Then he beckoned Simon to bring his horse up beside him. "No doubt you
speak Italian better than any of us. Translate for me." He glowered down
his long nose at the Romans who had approached him. "I am Count Charles
d'Anjou. I have come here as protector of the city of Rome, at the
request of His Holiness, the pope."
Simon repeated this.
"Rome needs protection only from you!" one of the men shouted.
"There is no pope," another called out. "The old one is dead and the new
one has not been crowned."
Simon could hardly believe his ears. He had heard that Roman citizens
were unruly; that was why the pope had moved away from Rome. But the way
these men addressed the Count of Anjou, the brother of the king of
France--it was unthinkable. It was madness. The count might not
understand their words, but the disrespectful tone was unmistakable.
Hesitantly, he translated. Charles stared at the six Romans, his swarthy
face expressionless.
Charles's great black and white war-horse shifted his legs restlessly,
and Charles stilled him with a jerk of the reins. Even the horse sensed
the Romans' anger.
"Silencio!" ordered a Roman somewhat taller than the others, with a
shock of iron-gray hair and an angular jaw. He wore a mantle of deep
maroon velvet trimmed with white fur, and a longsword hung from his
jeweled belt. He bowed courteously to Count Charles and Simon.
"Your Signory, I am Leone Pedulla, secretary of the Senate of Rome. We
come, with all respect, to pray you to turn back. The city of Rome rules
herself. We are most distressed to see a foreign army, a French army,
approaching our walls. If you wish to visit us and confer with our
leading citizens, leave this army behind. Come to us as a guest,
bringing a few of your barons with you. We will then offer you our
hospitality. We ask you to leave us in peace."
Simon wished himself far away as he translated for Anjou. These Romans
did not know Count Charles.
As Simon was conveying Leone Pedulla's speech, a line of big, bearded
foot soldiers carrying spears taller than a man, wearing leather
cuirasses and wide-brimmed helmets of polished steel, marched forward,
boots crunching on the stubble of the harvested field. At von
Regensburg's command, the pikemen formed a ring around the Roman
delegation. The Romans' eyes darted anxiously from side to side.
Charles said, "Simon, tell this impertinent fellow who calls himself
secretary of the Senate just this: I order him to clear away that rabble
blocking the city gates."
Simon repeated the count's command in Italian. His heart began to beat
more rapidly as he sensed an evil moment coming closer and closer.
"The people standing before the walls are citizens of Rome, Your
Signory, acting legally to protect the city from what seems to us a
foreign invader," Pedulla answered. "I cannot tell them to go away."
Simon wished he could soften this when he translated it. Charles's mouth
drew down in a harsh, inverted V.
"Very well." He turned to von Regensburg and pointed. "I would prefer to
hang them, but it would take too long. Use your spears on them."
_Dear, merciful God, do not let this happen!_ Simon prayed.
"No!" Pedulla cried, his voice shrill with horror as the German knight
shouted a command and the Burgundians leveled their spears. It was the
gray-haired Roman's last word. His hand had not quite reached the hilt
of his sword when a bearlike foot soldier lunged at him, driving a spear
through his embroidered tunic into his chest. The pikeman thrust the
steel point in low enough to miss the breastbone but high enough to
pierce the heart. Pedulla did not even have time enough to finish his
scream.
"Clemenza, per favore!" cried another Roman who a moment ago had been
shouting defiance. A spear point caught him in the throat.
Simon wished he could turn his eyes away, but he did not want Charles
and his marshals to think him squeamish. His heart thundered and his
stomach churned, and he feared that his body would betray him. The other
pikemen moved in quickly, taking long steps as if performing spear
drill, holding their pikes near the points for close work. A moment
later they stepped back from a heap of sprawled, dead bodies.
_God! How little time it takes to kill a man!_
Now Simon did look away. The blood, the staring, dead faces, the twisted
arms and legs, were too pitiful a sight to bear.
Simon remembered de Verceuil's ordering the archers to shoot into the
crowd at Orvieto. This was worse. These men had been discourteous,
perhaps, but they were officials of the city, on an embassy. And Count
Charles had ordered them killed as calmly as he might order his army to
break camp.
This was the man whose wishes had governed Simon's life for over a year.
Simon felt his bond to Charles as a terrible chain and he longed to be
free.
_This is a taste of what will happen to Sophia's people if Charles
conquers Manfred. If only she will let me take her to Gobignon, so she
will not have to see such things._