What created the situation, and kept altering it, was that the Mongol-Tartar overlordship was breaking up. The Golden Horde, once the first khanate of them all, still sat on the banks of the Volga and held its neighbours in thrall, while shaking the occasional fist over Caffa. But a separate horde, the horde of Crim Tartars had settled into the Black Sea Peninsula and, finding the pickings rich and the traders nervous but willing, had reached an accommodation which would make them all wealthy. The Peninsula was ruled from his inland stronghold by the Khan of the Tartars. The Genoese ports might have local officials, but were managed from Caffa by a committee of Genoese bankers and a Tartar Tudun, a Governor picked by themselves and the Khan. By paying their taxes, Christians bought tolerance in a Muslim community: uneasy bedfellows, held together by the golden cord of trade. And laid upon them and dreaded by all, the considering eye of the Sultan of Turkey, who leaned now and then from his palace in Constantinople to remind the Khan of the Crim Tartars that Allah was Lord over them both, and that security did not come cheap.
These were serious matters: their significance to the world was surely plain. But by the time Ludovico da Bologna had arrived so far in his account, the ruler’s eyes would have flickered; his foot found occasion to tap; his throat subjected to clearing in order to break in and thank him. And the rest of the tale would be consigned to the ears of the princely advisers. All envoys suffered from lack of understanding, even those of the Pope. It gave rise, within the breed, to a strange and cynical friendship, even among those of wholly opposite camps. It gave rise also, of course, to venality.
Nicholas de Fleury had not arrived yet, but was on his way, so it seemed, dressed as a Mameluke. When Providence had found him a ship at Bielogrod, the Patriarch had considered it to be his duty to leave, not to wait. He had no positive proof that de Fleury was coming. If he had indeed set out with the woman, they possessed enough brains between them to manage. And so it had proved. The Patriarch held a coded message in his purse, telling him how they were coming, and asking his help to find them a house in the Christian quarter of Caffa. He had just arranged it with the Genoese consul, who knew about Straube’s client with the missing consignment of furs. He’d had the same experience on one occasion himself. It was time the Muscovites were given a lesson. There had been a time, too, when Ludovico da Bologna had despised the machinations of trade. Latterly he had been forced to recognise, with angry reluctance, that the growing exchange of commodities was a weapon he could not afford to neglect. Like it or not, trade was a network that bound peoples together. Even while rulers fought, their merchants were agreeing in corners. Whether from good motives or bad, from personal greed, from a distaste for war and a benevolent wish for general prosperity or (as sordid a reason as any) for the sheer pleasure of intellectual exercise, nations of different faiths helped one another in the name of a flourishing commerce. And so he had renewed his interest in Nicholas, for the boy, half his age, was significant in his own field, and able to create from thin air, were he asked, a business opportunity which would bring Archimandrites and cannibals round the same table. And now that de Fleury had come, the Patriarch did not think he would go back. Not with that woman there.
His thoughts had travelled so far when a rattling made itself heard and he turned to see some of the Sicilian mercenaries run from the fort to the stables. The consul emerged strolling behind, adjusting his sword while a page came with his cuirass and helm. ‘Trouble?’ said Father Ludovico.
Antoniotto della Gabella looked down his long, sun-bronzed nose. ‘Nothing that a whipping won’t cure. Some mannerless louts from the north are mobbing an incoming caravan. The gatehouse guard have it in hand. Tonight at the Bishop’s?’
‘Tonight at the Bishop’s,’ the Patriarch agreed, to his back. He unhitched his mule and, straddling it, gave it a kick. He thought he knew whose the caravan was, and even who the assailants might be. His crucifix bucked as he rode and, lifting his voice, he banged out psalms at the heretic skies until fragmented Allahs fell down, and the ruts of the road filled with peeled ululations.
Chapter 17
IF THERE WAS a reward for good conduct, Nicholas received it then, on the last stretch of the journey to Caffa. There were several reasons. The pretence at wealth, for sure, had not been of Anna’s choosing, and she was relieved at its end. Also, she was reassured, in a curious way, by his handling of the recent embarrassment. The easy rapport between them had returned. He had also taken care to put matters right with her servant Brygidy, going to find her the day after the mishap, as soon as they made camp.
He did not make a long speech, merely apologised for the fright he had given her, and assured her that there would be no repetition. She already realised, he thought, that it was accidental, and now said as much, briefly. He had caught her at work: kneeling beside a small stream with soap and a pile of Anna’s fine linen. It was not, to be fair, a seemly place for a man, and he apologised a second time, later. Cornered, however, he would have had to confess to a startled fascination at his first glimpse of those thin embroidered chemises, reeking of horse, soiled exactly like his by the grime of travel and the all-pervasive soot from the cooking. Her undergarments were too fine for this trip, yet she had brought them, and worn them. Now he could imagine, as Julius could, the bridal lawns beneath the plain gowns. As to what would be revealed, drawing asunder the lawn, he had no need to imagine: he knew. But not, of course, as Julius did.
On their last night before Caffa, when it seemed they were safe, she asked him what he would have done if Turks had captured them, or someone who knew him of old.
They were in the forepart of her tent, under cover, for in public they maintained the fiction of harsh mistress and blundering dragoman. He had been striving, ever since Bielogrod, to improve his fluency in the tongue of the Tartars. Turkish coloured most of the languages round the Black Sea, including the Turcoman he had learned during and after his last visit here, which had been concerned with the south coast of the Euxine. She knew about that. She also knew about his other disguise, when he and Tobie had met Sultan Mehmet during his war against Trebizond. ‘But he wouldn’t know me again,’ Nicholas said. ‘It was thirteen years ago. Tobie was a dumb camel doctor, and I was his assistant. And it was a different Grand Vizier.’
He waited, prepared to be angry with Julius, but Julius seemed to have kept some of that incident at least to himself. Anna only said, ‘Dr Tobias? Why dumb?’
‘Because he didn’t know the language,’ Nicholas said. ‘We filled his mouth with raw liver and pretended his tongue was cut out. We had to talk to each other by sign. It wasn’t funny.’
‘I think it must have been,’ Anna said, spluttering a little. Then she said, ‘What? Is something wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas said, a little blankly. He pulled himself together. ‘No, of course there isn’t. But perhaps we should rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.’
A month ago, she wouldn’t have asked. Now she said, ‘I shall go if you tell me what’s wrong. What happened in Trebizond? Or has something happened now? Nicholas, are you divining?’
Nicholas stared at her without answering. He didn’t need to divine. He hadn’t divined since the fiasco at Thorn. It was partly because he was trying to forget, and partly because he knew that if bad news were to come, it would come to him direct, rather like this, but much worse. Eventually he shook his head and said, ‘It was the pickled oysters, very likely.’
The dense blue eyes searched his. ‘A premonition? What? Has something happened to Gelis? Or to Jodi? Or is Kathi suffering because of the child? You aren’t divining, but perhaps you ought to be. Where is your pendulum?’
He schooled his breath, and his pulse. ‘Nothing has happened to Gelis or Jodi. It was something remote: a chance echo, perhaps a mistake. Don’t worry. I’m going to bed.’
She rose. ‘I don’t quite believe you. I’m going to bring you something to drink. And while we speak of it, I should like to apologise. I talked o
f Jodi in Thorn, and distressed you. I saw the burned letter.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.
‘It does,’ Anna said. ‘He wrote it for you, and it’s gone.’
‘It really wasn’t a very good poem,’ Nicholas said. ‘But it hasn’t gone.’ And smiling a little, he repeated it.
At the end, she went to find the little wine they had left, and poured him some. Then she returned to her cushion and sat. ‘You have a good memory. It is not a bad poem, for a child. Would you let me set it to music?’
He looked at her in profound astonishment. A little thought told him that she was not offering a personal service: composition could be no less alien to her than any other branch of the art: he had never seen a musical instrument in Julius’s house. But the German states were full of ready-made folk tunes and glib Court composers: she would have her pick, he realised, of friends. Presumably she would send it by courier. He said, ‘I don’t know. You heard it. The beat is erratic, to say the least.’
‘There is paper. Write it all out,’ Anna said. ‘Then sleep. Jodi will know you are thinking of him.’
She hesitated, then left with a smile. Bel would have patted his shoulder. Kathi would have stayed and insisted on helping him. Gelis … He could not imagine Gelis making a gesture of comfort or one — he tried not to remember the Play — that was not immediately cancelled. The sense of ancient desolation returned, and he had to concentrate to dispel it. He wondered, with harsh amusement, what Benecke would have made of him now — a grown man alone, wanting sympathy. He missed the masculine rivalry. He missed the cold in the sweet, sticky heat of this land. He missed the life he had nearly chosen, as Colà. But before he threw himself on his bed he did take his pen and write out the verses his small son had sent him, to be ready for Anna next morning. Then, against all expectations, he slept.
THEY REACHED CAFFA two hours after midday, when men of sense take to their beds in high summer, and even the din of the harbour is stilled. The Genoese wall with its towers encircled the high ground of the city, ending with a fort at the sea on each side. It was to be expected that the portal they approached should be manned at its upper windows, and that men in half-armour awaited them. Caffa was a fief of the Crim Tartar khanate, and a town as large and as rich as Seville. Outside its confines were ferocious hillmen, opportunist nomads and professional robbers. Far outside were the lands of the Turk. And crowded inside were the houses, warehouses and churches, the mosques and cathedrals, the markets, stables and orchards of close to a hundred thousand inhabitants of every colour and faith: Armenian and Tartar, Russian and Circassian and Georgian, Polish and Lithuanian, Moldavian and Gothian, Venetian and Genoese. The citadels, the arsenals and the prisons were Genoese.
Anna had sent word ahead of their coming: openly to the Protectors of the Bank of St George who represented Genoa, and to the Patriarch with more circumspection. Their arrival was therefore expected. The soldiers of the guardhouse were sluggish but civil, glancing at her letters and making cursory examination of their baggage, which included samples but no goods to sell. Then they were bidden to wait, while a detail was prepared to take them to the temporary shelter of the Franciscan monastery. They now required not only a house, but servants and protection, for they had turned off their escort that morning with a settlement lavish enough to earn Nicholas some strong-smelling, matted embraces: he had proved a very bad gambler. Petru had received his last payment too, and although never given to hilarity, had allowed his gloom (encouraged by Nicholas) to lighten a trifle. Wishing to find new employment, he rode into the city ahead of his former employers, who were now reduced to a party of eight: the German lady, her maid, her Mameluke, and the five soldiers of the guard who presently joined them, yawning and with their straps half undone. They rode through the vault of the gate, the cart rumbling, and out into the sunlight of Caffa.
They were out of sight of the fortification when they were attacked. The four soldiers who rode two on each side of the packmules and wagon did not even notice at first, and their leader, deep in charmed conversation with the beautiful Contessa, was almost as slow to observe the carts drawn across the narrow road down which they were pacing, between two high walls broken only by the frontage of an old wooden house just ahead. Then, as the leader shouted and turned to his fellows, they saw that the same thing had happened in their rear. Their way was cut off, and from before and behind, twenty men were running towards them, shouting and brandishing staves. And curiously, there was no one but themselves to see them, for the road was empty but for a single rider who had left just before them, and who now flung himself from his horse and rushed to the one silent house, where he could be seen hammering frantically on a door. The door opened, and closed quickly behind him. Petru was safe.
The soldiers were armed with short swords, and carried maces and whips. There were only five of them, but there was a full body of troops in the garrison. The leader raised a trumpet to summon them, and had it struck from his face by a stone. The Mameluke, far from helping, jumped from his horse and began to haul the ladies out of their saddles, resisting all efforts to stop him. He was a very big man. The Genoese leader, holding his face, yelled at the fellow: ‘Get the ladies into that house for your lives! Leave the wagon! Let the bastards do what they like with your merchandise!’
‘That sounds like sense,’ said Anna in German. Her cloak and hat gone, she was in the grip of Nicholas, who was successfully propelling her towards her own wagon. She saw he had a grasp of Brygidy also. She heard him swearing, with some presence of mind, in the same language.
‘It’s you they want, not your spoons,’ Nicholas said. ‘It’s a trap. The house belongs to the ambushers. Get into the wagon.’
‘Me?’ Anna said. She rose in the air and landed, hard, in the wagon. Brygidy also arrived, with a crash.
‘You,’ Nicholas said. He was lashing their horses and his own to the wagon. ‘Listen to the men at the barriers. They’re Russians.’ He made a grab for his bow.
‘Holy Mary!’ said Anna piously, and disappeared under the canopy.
‘And throw me a tinder-box,’ Nicholas added.
Afterwards, there was disagreement about what next happened. The ambushers, bearded men in tunics and trousers, raced up and encircled their victims but at first did nothing more than demand that the soldiers disarm and hand over the woman. When the soldiers refused, surrounding the little convoy with drawn swords, the leader of the ambushers, stepping forward, asked in a reasonable voice if they wanted to die, as they were five against twenty, and they couldn’t suppose their horses were immune to arrows? There followed some threats, which the soldiers appeared to understand, for one of them suddenly drew back his arm and threw a knife. There was a grating scream and a furious roar, followed by a squeal and a thud as the knife-thrower’s horse staggered and fell with a spear in its throat. The leading soldier yelled to the others. ‘That’s enough. Get the women across to that house and barricade it. Don’t let the Mameluke stop you. Where is he?’
No one replied, for just then the wooden house began to crackle and smoke at a place to one side of the door, where suddenly flames began to appear. A flare sailed through the sky, and another spot started to glow, then another. Shouting came from inside the house, and from outside, as the ambuscaders hurried towards it. Then the front barricade burst into flame and the smoke, rising into the shimmering sky, finally told the soldiers at the gate tower that something was wrong.
Bursting through the first barrier in their way, the men from the tower found themselves in a circle of fire within which a group of blistered, smoke-blackened Russians appeared to be trapped. They rounded them up, while the fire-drum hammered its warning. There was no sign of the German Contessa, or her servant, or her Mameluke. There was no sign, either, of her baggage-train. That, as it happened, had arrived already, seared and blackened, at the gates of the Franciscan monastery, where the Abbot, summoned at once, found a group of terrified animals and a lady in a still
-smoking wagon whose driver, a bearded Egyptian, or perhaps Circassian, addressed him politely in French.
‘Lord, receive the peerless Gräfin Onna von Hanseyck,’ said the heathen humbly. ‘Esteemed friend of the lord Ludovico, prince of the Faithful, who, scattering joy, gifts and alms, will generously condescend to join us, I believe, almost at once, may Allah treasure him for his zeal.’
‘Oh, be quiet,’ said the Lady. ‘Father, may we come in?’
TO LUDOVICO DA BOLOGNA, later, she said, ‘It was frightening at the time. Nicholas says that they wouldn’t have harmed me, only used me to bargain with. They haven’t much money, and they’re afraid the Genoese will ruin them over this claim for compensation unless I agree to give it up and go home. They come from the Russian states that Moscow claims sovereignty over, but Moscow changes its mind every week about whom it supports — Venice and the Golden Horde, or Genoa and the Crim Tartars. So they felt compelled to act for themselves.’
‘That is a fair assessment,’ said the Patriarch kindly. ‘But have no fear. They will be severely chastised for it.’
‘Will they?’ she said, rather pleased. They were sitting in a private room in the Abbot’s guest-quarters. The Patriarch, in appearance vaguely unwashed but perfectly vigorous, had made no apology whatever for having abandoned them on their way here. She said, ‘Nicholas believes it will adjust itself soon. Apparently the case is being affected by local politics.’