Towards the end, he wrote his report. Sometimes, Karaï Mirza would stand beside him, requesting to know what he was saying; commenting, disagreeing politely, asking questions — which he answered, because that was why he was here. On the last day, when the interrogation at last slackened and halted, the stocky secretary spoke on a different subject. ‘You suggest we support the proposed link between Gothia and Moscow, and we are inclined to agree. Is it still your intention, when you return, to act as agent for your friend in Cologne?’
Nicholas laid down his pen with delicacy, and looked up. ‘I look forward, yes, to developing his trade in the Peninsula, once he has recovered his outlay in furs. At present, sadly, he has little to invest.’
‘But if that were repaired?’
‘The possibilities appear to me endless. It troubles me only to know which Tudun to apply to, in arranging my affairs. The Khan has agreed to name one Tartar governor, but the Genoese, I am told, now favour another.’ He waited, his expression pellucid. If he were now to be trusted, he might as well discover how far.
Karaï Mirza answered with calm. ‘The Genoese have lost confidence, it is true, in the first candidate, the last Tudun’s brother. Many prefer his nephew, the son of the last Tudun’s widow. The lady is rich.’
‘And so?’ Nicholas said.
‘And so I cannot advise you at present. My Khan does not wish to force his opinion on the traders to whom he has given these fiefs. When he has reached a conclusion, you may hear it. He will wish to see you soon. But meanwhile, have you not written enough for today? Does your left hand still pain you, or did our care of it help? Abdan Khan knows of another shaman, he tells me, and could take you to him whenever you wish.’
‘I am not sure —’ Nicholas began.
‘You should go with him,’ the older man said. ‘If not now, then certainly before you depart from Qirq-yer.’ When he was being jocular, his cheeks became bossed, and his eyes were curved downwards like sickles. Now, he was not being jocular. Against all inclination, Nicholas conveyed his acceptance and thanks.
He would have to go, but not today; not until the last moment, when whatever transpired could not mar the effect of his visit. He remembered too well what had happened after the new-found camaraderie of the chess game. Then, observing the state of his wrist, Abdan Khan had insisted on having it attended to. There were physicians in the fortress of Qirq-yer, but the treatment was carried out in a yurt in the plain, beside a small fire of dung whose smoke rose through the peak of the conical roof of the tent. Like all its kind, it was fitted out as a home, with wall-carpets and matting, cushions and boxes, and ledges crowded with objects.
The man who studied his arm, sitting crosslegged beside him, was not old, despite his beard and his crumpled, long-skirted gown. The possessions around him were modest, but the prayer-beads in his sash were not cheap, and neither was the brooch that pinned the upturned brim of his high cap. He spoke very seldom, and then in a mixture of languages, but often hummed to himself. The most eloquent sound in the room was that of a little half-drum, which kept up a continuous tapping, loud and soft, slow or quick, according, you would say, to the physician’s wishes and moods. Yet he never spoke, or even looked towards the boy who was playing.
Nicholas had heard of the shaman religion, practised long ago on the shores of the Black Sea and elsewhere. He recognised the soothing effect of the wordless voice and the drum, for it conjured a feeling he already knew, when he surrendered his conscious mind to the pendulum. Recognition brought a surge of annoyance, but he did not let it reach the hand in the shaman’s possession, or his face, or the rest of his body.
Or so he thought, until the shaman’s eyes lifted to his, and he said, ‘Do not be afraid.’
‘He will not hurt you,’ said Abdan Khan.
‘It is not pain that he fears,’ the shaman had answered, and smiled. ‘We are in the same trade.’
‘What?’ had said Abdan Khan.
And the weathered face, neither Tartar nor Georgian, had turned the smile on Nicholas. ‘Ask us what the weather will be in December. When will the Khan die? What predator will sail into Caffa, and when?’
‘You would not answer,’ Abdan Khan said. But he was looking at Nicholas.
‘Neither should I,’ Nicholas said. He could hear the harshness in his own voice.
‘A pity,’ said the shaman blandly. ‘There is no harm in throwing a crumb. I cast a shoulder-blade on the fire now and then, and announce which concubine will quicken by sunrise. I am rarely wrong.’ But even as he mocked, his fingertips pressing and prodding, Nicholas felt the fires of the pain dying down. Through all that followed, there was nothing that was not bearable, and the physician fell into silence, but for the absent whistle and drone from his lips, like that of a groom with a horse. When the bandaging was complete, the hands withdrew while the drum gave a last, gentle flourish. Only then, when the tall Circassian bent and, producing his flask, poured drink for them all, did the physician lean back on his cushions and say, ‘So, my lord Niccolò, divining makes you afraid. Let me see if I can explain it. What do you see in your cup?’
There was nothing in his cup but strong drink, which he had not yet tasted. The liquid swirled, and the small flames danced and flickered. Nicholas heard himself saying, ‘I see an eagle. I have seen it before.’
Abdan Khan, his face intent, said, ‘I see nothing. The eagle of the Byzantine Empire? Of Moscow? Of the Great Emperor of the West, or of Rome?’
‘Not this eagle,’ said the shaman. ‘It is an eagle of the future, not the present. And it is not an emblem of empires, but of something quite simple: an act of humanity, perhaps.’
‘Of the future?’ Nicholas had said.
‘You are relieved? Oh, yes. You have been afraid of the past: perhaps you should be. But the shadows you see, the broken messages that have almost found their way home, are not from the past, but the future.’
‘I see,’ he recalled saying. He remembered draining his cup without pause until the eagle had gone, and embarking with firmness on the business of thanks, and of payment. Only at the very last, following Abdan Khan from the tent, had he been impelled to fling round and confront the complacent bastard. ‘I want no messages. How can I stop them?’
‘By death,’ the shaman had said. ‘If you wish to deny them. For the poor-spirited, the grave is the ultimate refuge.’
He was silent, then tried again, full of childish rebellion. ‘But surely there must be some other way. The interference must have a conduit. What led me to see the eagle this time?’
‘How did you see it before?’ Abdan Khan had stopped, and was listening.
‘I don’t remember. It was connected with death, and a child, and with snow. With riding on snow.’
‘There are shamans in the north,’ the physician said. ‘They have their own goddess, a woman. She is called Slata Baba.’ He smiled. ‘I see I have given you something. It is nothing of practical use, my lord Abdan: I should tell you and your prince if it were. My patient has a gift which he cannot control, and which is too frail, in my view, to exploit. I shall tell the Khan myself, if you wish.’
And after that, they had left. It had been another test. But ever since, the wrist had mended as if by a miracle.
THE KHAN MET HIM ALONE, on the final day. Tomorrow morning, with Abdan Khan and an escort to guide them, Nicholas was to start on his way back to Caffa. He had left his servants to pack, not knowing which of his borrowed clothes and equipment to leave, and which to take for the journey. It was the last of three long discussions which had taken place since his report had been completed: one with the Khan and his mentors, one with the Khan and his inner council, and now this, where those things could be aired which no one else ought to hear.
Mengli-Girey came breathless to the table, his broad face and shoulders encased in chain mail and his weapons still rattling at his side: he had led the army exercises that morning, and his hard hands were black from using mace and javelin without gloves
. He was a capable leader and knew how to keep his men happy. The Tartar nobles enjoyed the security he and his father had given them, but chafed at the price. Tribute to Turkey they understood, but they were lords of the Peninsula, and should not have to pander to a few thousand heretic foreigners. They were fortunate to have in Mengli-Girey a leader who understood strategy, and realised that gains were only accomplished through guile and forethought and, sometimes, a sacrifice.
He had long known, as Nicholas was aware, that it was wise not to aggravate his Muslim neighbour. A Turkish attack on the Crimea could not be stopped, except by a Venetian fleet, or a combined fleet such as the one which had set out and lost heart a few years ago. Genoese and Venetian rivalry might well prevent another from coming.
What might come, for sure, was a Christian overland army. A mercenary company from the West, with its own sappers and gunners, with the expertise and means to cast cannon, could confront and possibly outface a Turkish fleet, answer its bombardments and repel the landing parties which could starve out its citadels. But even if such a troop were available, it could not arrive before summer. And the prince who presently patronised it might not wish its release. The Banco di Niccolò had such a force, but Burgundy was currently its employer.
‘Nevertheless,’ Nicholas had ended, speaking again of these things to the Khan, ‘you should make your necessity known, and I shall send my own messages to the West. Meanwhile, my great lord, you should welcome any help to keep the Turk otherwise occupied in the spring.’
‘I read what you recommend,’ the Khan said. ‘Karaï Mirza agrees. Let the Turk attack Crete, or reply to a threat from Uzum Hasan, or from the Horde at Saray, or from Moscow. This the Patriarch has also said. I appreciate this, and I appreciate the alliances you and he are trying to make. If we survive, he and his church will have our favour. What you must tell him, however, is that we have little time to await these diversions. The Peninsula is a cauldron, presently simmering. If it explodes, this gossamer web of alliances may be swept wholly aside.’
‘Then you need a competent Tudun in Caffa,’ Nicholas said. ‘And a Genoese consul who does not take bribes.’
The strong face turned. ‘We are too late, I fear, for the latter,’ Mengli-Girey said. ‘As for the Tudun, the older candidate is a fool, and the younger a knave. There is only one man fit for the post. You have met him.’
‘Karaï Mirza, of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘You will propose him?’
‘When the time is right,’ said the Khan. ‘I shall send him to Caffa this winter to observe, and to be seen. He has orders to smooth the path of your business, where it may be beneficial to all of us. There is also the matter of your baggage. You left it here.’
‘My lord, I hope it has not been inconvenient,’ Nicholas said.
‘No. But I have told my men to remove it. The coffer-mules will fetch it to you tomorrow, on your way to the shaman.’
‘The shaman?’ Nicholas said.
‘I understand,’ said the Khan, ‘that there was an undertaking to visit a shaman on your way to the plain? Abdan Khan seemed quite sure.’
‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘It is my rule, as it is the rule of the Patriarch. Whatever we promise, we undertake.’
He emerged, thoughtfully, and crossed to his house. The coffer-mules had not yet arrived but the coffers were there, in his chamber. There were six, the same number that he had brought. At first glance, the contents appeared the same, except that the velvet had gone. In its place was a small bag of silver. Only if you knew his possessions would you recognise that the footwear, the dress, the linen were subtly superior, as were the razor, and the small knife kept concealed in its sheath. The only object which remained the same was his favourite sash, which was his favourite because of the hidden pockets and seams it contained. It lay on top, depressing the contents of the rest of the basket. ‘The non-Venetian is disappointed?’ said a Tartar voice gravely.
Karaï Mirza stood behind. ‘Seriously so,’ Nicholas said. ‘The Great Khan has omitted a breeding mare and a fully manned galley. The velvet was meant as a gift.’
‘The Khan misunderstood. He would still wish to pay, having regard to its extremely high quality. This receipt, for the Customs at Caffa, explains that no further taxes are due. You observe your sash on the top, for your convenience when travelling.’
‘I observe it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Karaï Mirza, where shall we next meet? I hear Abdan Khan is to come with me part of the way.’
‘We shall meet in Caffa one day,’ said the secretary. ‘Although I may pass you in the street, being haughty and of very short memory. Meanwhile, of course, there is to be a supper tonight. I have brought some of the darasun in advance, to ask your advice as to its quality. If I may take the liberty?’
Departure next day was quiet. There was no excitement and no guard of honour: he was a merchant whom the Khan had invited, and for whom the Khan had given a parting supper which had lasted most of the night. There had been some dancing and singing, a deal of hilarity and a vast amount of drinking: the silence this morning was one of languor. Nicholas had already spoken to the many he knew, and was able, now, to reward those who had served him. But when he joined his short cavalcade, and rode with Abdan Khan through the arched outer doors of the citadel, he was conscious of carrying away something more than material gifts. He had arrived, a merchant on business, as once he had arrived at the Westmann Isles, or the banks of the Joliba, or Cyprus, and was departing now, as then, with a purse full of scraps: gold and dust, disasters and wisdom.
Departing, to face what lay before him. He had tried through these weeks to forget it, but there was too much to remind him. From Karaï Mirza, who heard news from everywhere, he had learned of the death of Zacco’s son, the infant ruler of Cyprus, leaving the kingdom to Venice. If Zacco had lived, Nicholas might have sent him his son.
Jodi. Gelis. And Anna. Now he was leaving his mountain, the remorseless clamp of his personal life was closing about him again. Well, if he could propose (in mare’s milk) a strategy for the survival of Eastern Christianity, coupled with the name of the Khan of the Crimea, he could presumably control his own interests. When Abdan Khan, drawing rein, said something about the hermit he had promised to visit, Nicholas felt almost charitable. Whoever wished to cast the first shoulder-blade was welcome to do so, while bearing in mind all that Karaï Mirza had said. His unexploitable talent was fragile and so, this particular morning, was he, Nicholas dismounted, and looked about.
The knobbed limestone heights of Qirq-yer were riddled with caves. Cool and dry, impervious to wind and rain, private or neighbourly in situation and amenable to endless extension, the cave cities of the Crimea shared the qualities of the badger-run and the warren, providing storehouses and homes for generations of inhabitants or — perpetually available, perpetually in repair — a timely refuge for hundreds.
The solitary also esteemed them. As in the desert of Sinai, the early monks had settled here, between cliffs, high above the rest of the world. Nicholas had seen their empty cells, cut in the wooded walls of the ravine which concealed the precipitous path to the citadel. There was a Father Superior’s house, built on a ledge; and a flight of neatly hewn steps led to the narrow façade of a monastery gouged out of the mountain, its hollow windows open to rain, its surface tinted with the faint, unblinking faces of saints, timelessly teased by the joggling green branches. He looked at Abdan Khan. ‘Your shaman dwells here?’
For some reason, the Circassian was angry. He said, ‘These burrows serve many purposes. Holy fools use them, and men whom the Khan does not wish to entertain in the citadel. They also make excellent prisons.’
He was not annoyed with Nicholas, he was annoyed with the Khan. Behind them, the coffer-mules patiently stood, bearing their six modest baskets, and the soldiers’ horses jingled their harness. The men belonged to Abdan Khan and his army at Mánkup. Nicholas said, ‘I know the lord Mengli-Girey. Honest men have nothing to fear from him.’ It was reasonably
true, if not of particular relevance. Then he heard a horse neigh somewhere near, to be answered immediately by one of the horses behind him. Among the smells of plants and plaster and earth, of unwashed men and their beasts there floated a scent that he had recognised, even when riding blindfolded. He added, ‘And do I pass this test, if I tell you that you have summoned someone from Mánkup who knows me from Gaza or Cairo or, likeliest of all, from where that incense is blended and ground?’
‘He wished to come,’ said the Circassian curtly. ‘Before this man arrived, the lord Khan had satisfied himself as to your good intentions. You bear the proof in your luggage.’
He did, in a way. But as had been pointed out, caves made very good prisons, and gifts could be recovered. He was carrying away a great many secrets.
He was presently carrying them, Abdan Khan at his side, up the long, stone staircase to the monastery. The baggage-train and its men had disappeared. The smell of incense grew stronger. Pausing by the crumbling shell of a bell tower, you could see again how wild the place was. The striated crags that bulged over his head were duplicated on the opposite side of the ravine, where they sprawled, irregular as a crouched animal, above the steep grassy slopes where goats grazed. Far below him, a solitary thorn tree stood in a perennial crimping of fine cotton twists: knotted prayers for good fortune. No one had built a church round it. A voice over his head rebuked his thoughts, or at least interrupted them. It spoke in Greek.
‘Greetings, my lord Abdan Khan. Pray ascend. And yes, the man with you is M. de Fleury. He visited the tomb of St Catherine four years ago. He may even remember my name.’
‘Of course, Friar Lorenzo,’ said Nicholas.
The monk had not changed. Seated presently in a small, dank room with leprous frescoes, Nicholas studied the spare, familiar figure, attired in the tall hat and flowing black robes of the Greek Orthodox Church. The uncompromising eyes and decisive manner reminded him of Karaï Mirza. A comparison between Cretan and Tartar was not as ludicrous as it might seem. Friar Lorenzo was the treasurer and steward of the church and convent of St Catherine’s, Mount Sinai, to which he had conducted Anselm Adorne and his niece Katelijne four years ago, when Nicholas … and some others … had been lodged there. Nicholas had been staying there for a purpose, and he and Adorne had fallen out. Adorne was Genoese. It had, perhaps, appeared unduly sinister. But if, as he hoped, the Khan was satisfied that he was not primarily a Genoa-hater, Nicholas must have been conducted here for another reason, of which Abdan Khan was unaware.