‘It is possible, my lord,’ Nicholas said. ‘In two weeks, one will know.’
He looked at Ochoa. The Governor, silent, was thinking. Ochoa’s lips, drawing back, revealed the smile he didn’t have. It reached to his ears. Then with the greatest delicacy, he spat. ‘That’s a promise,’ he said. ‘Get me out. Get yourself out. And then we’re going off together. You and me and Paúli — no one would touch us.’
‘No one would want to,’ said Nicholas with distaste, and watched the guards, summoned, come forward and propel Ochoa, with a blow, to the door. His voice, imitating a parrot, faded into the distance, syncopated by the cuffs of his handlers.
The imam said, ‘I am expected at the mosque. Will there be further interrogations? Do you wish this man to remain?’
They required Nicomack ibn Abdallah to remain. He was given a pallet, and found, to his embarrassment, that the jurist was to share the small chamber. Between then and nightfall, the hilarity of the episode faded. Once he and imam Ibrahiim were alone, Nicholas apologised. ‘You incurred danger, lending yourself to this scheme, and Ochoa and I acted like children.’
‘It is his nature, you can see that. It is perhaps why you are drawn to him. He behaved thus when you first met?’
‘Wilful, crazy, respectful of no one. He deserved to be caught by the Genoese.’
‘Well, you have bought him two weeks: the Governor will do nothing until these problematical great gentlemen arrive. Do they exist?’
‘Oh, yes. But so far as I know, they are in Rhodes,’ Nicholas said, ‘and have no intention of coming to the Crimea. I shall have got him out before then. With all that information, I can hardly fail. But you must leave first.’
‘Perhaps. You are not afraid for yourself?’ the imam said. ‘For you, as for Señor Ochoa, this is sport?’
‘I suppose it is,’ Nicholas said. He saw the imam was already in bed, and put his own candle out. Darkness fell.
‘You are not, then, afraid of death?’ continued the musical voice, in its courtly Arabic. ‘But only of discussing it. Yet it is a worthy thing, to contemplate one’s end with tranquillity; without recoil, and equally without pusillanimous eagerness. It is less meritorious to be unable to accept the dying of others. In that case, it is our own loss we dread, or we mourn.’
‘We may be so selfish,’ Nicholas said. ‘But may we not also mourn the loss to others — to friends, family, even the world, of someone cut off at the height of his powers?’
‘We may feel sorrow, of course,’ said the imam. ‘But there are many such, and we cannot spend our lives in impassioned grief for them all. Your St Bernard allowed human grief, but preached Christian forbearance. The Stoics respected their consolers. And even the anguish of personal loss is relieved by the passage of time. If it does not diminish, if it still cannot be spoken about, then it has not been confronted, it has not been given the exorcism through pain that is its due. And that, my son, is an insult to the person who has perished. You are in paradise, you say to the loved one. You are in paradise, but how dare you leave me!’
‘And when children die?’ Nicholas said.
‘Ah, the unfulfilled lives! The young, gone to the other world in their blond childhood! How much ink, how much agony has been lavished on these! Why do you ask me, a Muslim, when you have heard the philosophers; when you have read the urging of Cicero, who wrote that destiny is unavoidable, and often cruel, but that it is the task of human beings to conquer?’
He paused. ‘Niqula, you ask me questions to which you already know all the possible answers. You are not untaught. You have heard these matters debated many times, in many countries, in many voices. You have read. You have listened to some of the wisest men of the age. Yet you clutch your ills to your heart; you will not submit to the light of reason what is troubling you. No man can hope to find purpose until he is at peace with his past.’
‘I see,’ said Nicholas, ‘that I owe something to Ludovico da Bologna.’
‘Not, certainly, his courage,’ the imam said.
Nicholas fell silent. Presently, in the darkness, he allowed himself a wry rebuttal. ‘I am talking to you.’
The imam’s voice held no levity. ‘As you talked, I am told, to the Cardinal Bessarion. How angry you will be when I, too, meet my death,’ said imam Ibrahiim. ‘But it will excuse you from thinking. Until your excellent intelligence awakes once again, and you are driven again to seek advice, and again find yourself prevented, by your delicate sensibilities, from taking it. I am wasting my breath,’ said the imam.
The silence that followed was long. Then Nicholas said, ‘You are probably right.’
And this time, the imam forbore to reply; perhaps because he distinguished in a man, in the darkness, what an angry doctor had once glimpsed in a boy.
OBERTO SQUARCIAFICO, the consul’s Treasurer, arrived the following day. The disturbance of it echoed from the great vaulted fort of the gate through all the sloping ways of the fortress, interrupting the blows of the armourer, the roar of the market, the staccato commands from the exercise ground. There were twenty armed men trotting uphill behind him.
Afterwards, it was seen to be no coincidence that the renegade Mameluke steward was in the garrison mosque, cynically inviting Allah to preserve his black soul while the Governor’s murderous Spanish prisoner staged his escape, as if the presence of the lord Squarciafico in the citadel would provide a distraction. But, of course, the soldiers of the citadel of Soldaia were far from fools, and the alarm was raised even while the man was skulking in the crowd, incompetently disguised in the tattered high-buttoned tunic and trousers of a Muslim servant, with a felt cap over his hair and a scarf wrapped about his miserable mouth. The renegade, called to the steps of the mosque by the uproar, was therefore able to witness the pirate Ochoa de Marchena start from the grasp of his captors and set off between the buildings, fast as a monkey, until the whole hill-top had been alerted to the chase, and there was no way out for him but the ladders which led to the heights of the buttress nearest to him.
One would never know what was in the lunatic’s head: whether he thought he could climb to the outward wall and descend somehow into the chasm beyond. At any rate, he was not given the chance, for he had not reached the second storey when someone with a ready-strung bow aimed and shot the little brute clean through the eye. He hung for a while, and then dropped.
Nicholas saw it. So, crowding behind him, did his fellow worshippers from the mosque, and the imam. Nicholas said, without looking round at any one person, ‘Get back, and leave.’ Then he walked down the steps.
So great was the blow, he hardly knew what he was doing. Because of him Ochoa was dead: the happy insouciant scoundrel who had trusted him with his life. Nicholas could not imagine why, after all the hilarious, meticulous planning, the captain should have made this inept dash, but he scented treachery somewhere. The Genoese, among others, wanted rid of Ochoa. Nicholas should have foreseen it. He knew Ochoa. He knew that, had it been possible to purloin the gold for himself, Ochoa would have done it — but that was not the point. Nicholas should have protected him. He should have done something.
There was nothing he could have done.
Nicholas did not, at the time, give much thought to himself. The imam and the Papal Nuncio between them had apparently passed him off as Ochoa’s interpreter, and this had been accepted. He might be questioned about Ochoa’s escape, but he could hardly be blamed for it, or so he thought. He was conscious, at the back of his mind, that a danger of another kind might be hovering, but he could not bring himself to dwell on it. Despite recent lectures, he was beginning to wonder if anything mattered.
He was prepared, therefore, to be met by soldiers as soon as he set foot on the ground, and to be hustled up the long incline into the keep, with inquisitive faces around him. He was less prepared, entering the Governor’s room, to find himself in the crippling grasp of two guards who, thrusting him forward, cast him headlong at the feet of the Governor, with Oberto Squarc
iafico at his side.
There was no doubt which held the higher authority. Regardless of his wayward hair, his indolent gaze and his slender build, the Bank of St George’s fiscal agent Squarciafico belonged to the family of empire-builders and lechers who, along with the Adorno, administered the Genoese rule on the island of Chios. Twenty years ago, a namesake had voted to increase the taxes on Chios. Over a century ago, the galley of Meliaduc Adorno had helped capture the island for Genoa, just as Genoa had captured Famagusta, and a Contarini’s ships had been sent to take Caffa. The tower from which Ochoa had fallen had borne the name of Adorno. Every country, every race took what it could. Only, some ruled better than others.
Nicholas fell to his knees, as a frightened Mameluke interpreter should. He mumbled something.
‘What?’ said Squarciafico with contempt.
‘The man says,’ offered the Governor, ‘that he understands his services are no longer required, and he will therefore be content with a small fee.’
‘Indeed,’ said his superior slowly. He lifted his eyes to the guard. ‘In that case, we should show equal magnanimity. Give this person a seat.’
The soldier he addressed, looking taken aback, lifted a stool and placed it at the Saracen’s dishevelled shoulder. Nicholas scrambled up and sat, his neck bent. Despite his indifference, his nape pricked.
‘And perhaps, before leaving, he will take some refreshment?’ the musical voice continued reflectively. ‘Wine, we understand, is not allowed. But a sweetmeat? I am told they are delicious.’
Now, not only his nape pricked but everything about Nicholas insisted on danger. He said, ‘Lord,’ and lifted his head.
Before him was a salver in the hands of a servant. And upon the salver was an open box of exactly the delicacy which the Genoese had described. A variety of pale-coloured sweetmeats: candied fruits, to be quite precise. A luxury which a Mameluke steward would rarely be offered, unless by a doting mistress, or a client initiating a bribe.
Nicholas said, ‘My lord, it is too much. I am quite content to take my fee.’
‘But we are pleased with you,’ Squarciafico said. ‘We should take offence if you do not allow us to show it. Let me see you eat a handful. Now.’
Nicholas sat very still. ‘My lord, my religion does not allow.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ said Squarciafico cheerfully. ‘So, see, I have asked your imam to come and reassure you. Master Ibrahiim, there is no rule against sweetmeats?’
They had indeed sent for the jurist. He stood, his face grave, and looked at them all, his gaze falling last upon Nicholas. He said, ‘I know of no reason why these may not be eaten, if your servant desires. I do not know his medical condition.’
‘Surely,’ said Squarciafico, with gentle amusement, ‘there is no medical condition that precludes eating candied fruits? For the last time, my man. Take and eat, if you please.’
‘I cannot,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then shall we make you?’ said the Genoese sweetly. And stepping forward, he seized Nicholas suddenly by the hair and, scooping a handful of fruits, dragged his head back and made to force his lips open.
Nicholas twisted aside. Against his thrust arm, the whole box tilted and fell, scattering sugar over the floor. Two of the soldiers wrenched him back and dragged his hands behind his back while Squarciafico, lifting his palm, delivered a blow to the side of his face. A third soldier, his eyes on the glistening delicacies, stepped forward as if he would collect them.
Squarciafico laughed. ‘Lift them up if you like. But don’t lick your fingers after, and above all, my friends, don’t think to eat them. Or you will suffer what our friend here and his dead accomplice came to inflict on someone else.’
He turned to the Governor. ‘Why do you think the man de Marchena contrived to be captured and brought here in the first place? Why should this man trouble to come and interpret for him? They both wished to enter the citadel. They wished to find their way to the prisons. These sweetmeats, these singular Trapezuntine, Gothian sweetmeats, were to be offered to the two brothers of Mengli-Girey. Had they been eaten, the Khan of Qirq-yer could flout us all as he pleased, for his older brothers, his rivals would be dead and could no longer oust him. They would be dead, because these fruits are poisoned. And this man would not eat, for he knew it.’
And that, at least, was true, Nicholas thought. He had known, because he had seen them before, these pretty sweets, which he might so easily have obtained, but had not, from Abdan Khan, the Circassian general. Will this food harm me? He had not needed the pendulum, this time, to warn him.
Someone had been very clever and yet, surprisingly, not clever enough. He felt not sick but suddenly mortally tired. He did not even listen to what Squarciafico was saying. He thought, gratefully, that at least the imam was safe. When they took him from the room, he expected that they would kill him immediately. Then the clamour of voices rose behind him, and someone shouted angrily, and he was stopped, and held where he stood at the top of the stairs. But by then he knew what had happened, for he had heard Anna’s voice.
Chapter 26
ANNA WAS THERE when they brought him back to the Governor’s room, in her anger more commanding than he had ever seen her before. And Squarciafico, standing before her, exhibited below his overt annoyance a shadow of something else which might have been discomfiture.
She glanced at Nicholas once, an assessing glance such as any mistress would bestow on her property, and then returned her gaze to Squarciafico and the Governor standing before her.
‘Do I hear aright? I permit my servant to come and help you with some pitiful difficulty over a prisoner; the prisoner escapes, and rather than admit to ineptitude, you attempt to implicate an unfortunate Muslim? Offending, of course, the whole race on which you will depend to agree to your choice of Tudun?’
‘We have explained,’ said Squarciafico. ‘The poisoned sweetmeats …’
‘You have explained. Your explanation is ludicrous. Was or was not this man searched when he arrived at Soldaia? No such sweetmeats were found. Was his pack not searched for a second time, here in the citadel? I am told that it was, and again, no sweetmeats were found.’
‘Then why,’ said Squarciafico swiftly, ‘did he refuse to eat them?’
She could not answer that. She turned to Nicholas. Her eyes were storm-dark and anguished.
Nicholas said, ‘Because, lord, I had seen such sweetmeats before, on a voyage to Alexandria. They originated in Trebizond, from where the formula seems to have travelled to Gothia. A boy died after stealing and eating them.’
‘A fabrication,’ said Squarciafico.
‘There were witnesses,’ Nicholas said. ‘Of high degree — two of them Genoese, of the family of Adorno. If my lord will allow, my lady could send for their statements.’
‘And on that occasion,’ Squarciafico said, ‘who was attempting to poison whom?’
‘I am a Mameluke,’ Nicholas said. ‘There was trouble at that time between the Venetians and the Mamelukes on Cyprus. I should not malign them, but there is a connection between the Corner family and Trebizond.’
Everyone knew what that was. He saw Anna’s face alter. The Treasurer said, ‘And the fact that the Spanish prisoner was wearing your clothes, and bore in his possession a note written by you, detailing the plans for his escape?’
‘The note is not mine. As for the clothes, I discarded them, lord, as soon as I arrived in the citadel. I never saw them again. I had no opportunity to pass them to de Marchena. I did not know him. I cannot tell why he believed I would help him, except that he would seize any chance to escape. In humility, lord,’ said Nicholas, his eyes on the floor, ‘I fear I am being made scapegoat for a killing which the Knights of St John will take badly, since it deprives them of one of the best seamen of his day. The man need not have been shot.’
There was a silence.
‘Well?’ said Anna.
Squarciafico stirred. ‘Madonna, I am sorry. We have given you and this
man a hearing, but these are serious matters. It is not clear, even now, who is at fault.’
‘It is clear to me,’ Anna said. ‘It will be clear to the papal nuncio, under whose protection I travelled to Caffa. This man has served me loyally and well. He went to Qirq-yer at my desire, not his own. The negotiations he has undertaken on behalf of my company will bring prosperity to Caffa and to the Genoese both here and at home. He has no acquaintance with the dead prisoner, and no interest in him beyond that of the service he was asked to perform for which, I understand, he has not even been paid. Is he now to die because of a rumour?’
‘The accusation is serious,’ Squarciafico said again. ‘We cannot ignore it, madonna.’
‘Nor can you put him to death without trial,’ Anna said. ‘He has offered you witnesses. I have told you that your suspicions are baseless. Surrender him back to my keeping, and I will stand surety for him. Otherwise, I shall surely complain to a higher authority.’
They stood facing one another, the aristocratic Genoese and the fine-featured German Contessa. She had dressed for the journey as if attending a feast, in a high-waisted gown more ornate than any she normally wore, and her finest girdle and brooch. The loop of her headdress contrasted with the white of her brow, and its veil softened the jewels with which it was sewn. They were, Nicholas knew, all she had. They were to have paid for her return from Caffa if all else had failed. But he had saved her from that.
Squarciafico did not look at the jewels. He spoke instead, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Contessa, it is not within my powers to release a possible spy. He cannot continue to live in this colony. He must stand trial, of leave.’
There was a little silence. ‘Or leave? But we are not leaving till spring,’ Anna said.
‘Madonna, I should ask no lady to travel in winter. But a man, a Circassian Mameluke accustomed to hardship, would surely survive. I trust to have the pleasure of your company for many weeks still to come,’ said Squarciafico. ‘But unless he wishes to submit to a trial whose outcome I cannot predict, your man must leave now.’