The market only lasted until just after noon, for daylight began to vanish soon after, and the custom was to repair to the taverns and stay there. It infuriated the western merchants, some of whom she knew from Thorn and Germany, and whom she entertained with Julius now and then. They were avid for news of their escape and curious, she could tell, to know how it had left Julius and herself financially. The answer was, destitute. The Russians had paid the cost of their journey to Moscow, using money, they said, from a fortunate late sale of furs. It was likelier to have been looted. But they themselves had had nothing until the other day, on one of Julius’s visits to the Troitsa, when Nicholas had slipped a packet into his hands.
He had unwrapped it at home. Inside were six jewels, of such a size and such a quality that they would pay for their house, their food and their journey home or, alternatively, the deposit necessary for any new business venture. Julius had been flushed. ‘He got them from Uzum Hasan, and meant to keep them to live on. But he wanted us to have them. He thinks that, if we stay, we could be rich.’
Examining them, she had caught her breath, despite herself. ‘He is so generous,’ Anna said. ‘He strips himself, for our sake. But Julius, we must go back. I have Bonne.’
He had agreed. But the sale of just one of the gems had paid for a better house, and her furs, and good servants. So, escorted, she was enabled to pay visits to the small merchant quarter, where wives were not common, and to improve her acquaintance with the Italians whom Julius had already met. One of them was a fellow graduate from Bologna, here with his son and a pupil to create a cathedral for the Grand Duchess. Anna called on the architect, at his invitation, in the rectangular house he had been given close to the far from rectangular pile of the Grand Duke’s antiquated timber castle-palace. Her host, a powerful black-haired man in his forties, was there with his son. And with him was another visitor from the West: the elderly Florentine called Acciajuoli, whose intermittent dealings with Nicholas had so often been related to her, with mirth, by her husband.
After the rough ways of the Muscovites, the amused eyes and smooth manners of the old gentleman were undoubtedly pleasing. Tall and slender and bearded, his wooden leg skilfully hidden by impeccable velvets, he spoke with all the gentle authority of a member of a great Italian family, a kinsman by marriage of the Medici, and a nobleman of the Morea, that part of Byzantine Greece once ruled by the Grand Duchess’s family. The fall of Constantinople had ended all that, and nearly ended the life of his brothers, who traded there. Travelling Europe to raise ransom money, he had come from Scotland to Bruges, and to Nicholas.
‘Claes,’ he said, ruminatively, when she reminded him. ‘He used to be an apprentice called Claes. And now he is in prison again. Should I find it surprising?’
She had enjoyed his company, despite the insistent presence of Andrea, the architect’s son, a good-looking young man of modest attributes, who nodded and smiled at Signor Acciajuoli’s every word. After the meal, his father sent him off on an errand, and Anna did not stay long after that. It was not her purpose to further Julius’s awakening interest in the market for engineering supplies. She wanted, as soon as possible, to go home.
Having watched her departure, her host turned back to his other guest with a small shrug. The Florentine Acciajuoli smiled from his chair. ‘You need not have sent Andrea away. I am not about to seduce him, and I am perfectly capable of indicating as much. By the same token, Maestro Fioravanti, you are not about to kiss the shoe of the Gräfin?’
‘What makes you think that?’ said the engineer. Fioravanti was not a name he had used often since graduating in mathematics at the University of Bologna. He had been city engineer there in the mid-fifties, when the lady Anna’s husband had become secretary to Cardinal Bessarion. He remembered receiving a bonus of fifty florins from Bessarion for his skill in shifting a tower from one place to another (shifting towers was his speciality). His trade name these days was Aristotele, but Julius still called him Rudolfo. He had been glad to see Julius married and apparently prosperous: as a wild young lawyer in Bologna, he had spent his first earnings like water, and nearly ended up in jail like this other man. Claes. Nicholas de Fleury. Sharing a cell with the Patriarch, another well-remembered compatriot. Moscow was a Bologna commune.
The sly old Florentine was smiling at him. Fioravanti explained himself. ‘I sound ungracious. I cannot tell you the reason. The lady is beautiful, but Julius was always easily flattered.’
‘He looks happy enough,’ the lame man said. ‘But you wanted to meet my other friend, Nicholas. At least, he wants to meet you. I suspect he wishes to help Julius found an empire.’
‘For him to manage, while Julius goes home? Or the other way round?’ Fioravanti asked. He pulled forward a settle with ease. He had never been tall, but he had always had powerful muscles. He couldn’t do his job otherwise, even though he was no longer juggling obelisks in Rome.
The old gentleman said, ‘Neither, I fancy. What Nicholas de Fleury would like, I rather think, is to consolidate with Julius a permanent Muscovite partnership: a new Banco Niccolò-Giulio based in Great Novgorod. The Gräfin and her husband are taking him there very soon: Julius of course is becoming enthused.’ He paused. ‘No doubt you have views. As you have indicated, you know his nature.’
‘Julius is decorative,’ said Fioravanti, after some thought. ‘He carries out well what others initiate. He does not have the vision, I would say, to sustain a great business for a long time alone.’
‘On the other hand,’ the old gentleman said, ‘de Fleury has an original mind and has been concerned with many innovative projects, I am told. He would understand your requirements, and anything that benefited your great work would please the Grand Duchess, of course.’ He paused. ‘Father Ludovico is not insensible of the niceties.’
They looked at one another. Fioravanti said, ‘Then I am inclined to hold to my opinion. I should like to talk to de Fleury. Can you arrange it?’
‘Give me a few days.’ Smiling, his visitor rose, collecting his stick, and managing the false leg with adroitness. ‘I shall come with you. And bring Andrea. Nicholas is very good with young men. Quite unlike me. Bracing. Robust. Unless you have pretty maids, you need never be apprehensive about Nicholas.’
THE MEETING WAS DELAYED, because of the Troitsa’s preoccupation with the Feast of the chief saint of Russia. Nicholas became one year older, and was able, from a discreet vantage point, to take his first look at the ducal procession entering the cathedral. Ushered by the Metropolitan Philip and the Archimandrite in a dazzle of ecclesiastical vestments trod the tall, jewelled form, aged thirty-five, grimly sober, of Ivan III Vasilievich, by the grace of God, Grand Duke of Muscovy; the bent figure of his mother Maria; his two brothers Andrew and Boris; the sullen child of his first marriage, Ivan; and — painted, crimped, studded with Byzantine metals and swinging with Byzantine pendicles — the short-necked, globular person of Zoe-Sophia, his Duchess.
Long ago, weeping with laughter, Julius had described the cruel joke involving Anselm Adorne’s son and the youth Nerio in Venice, and later in Rome, when the same Jan had confused the pneumatic Zoe with Anna. At least the exquisite Nerio, by-blow of a princess of Trebizond, had been advised not to come with his Florentine benefactor: Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli limped alone in the Grand Duchess’s procession. Watching, Nicholas saw him glance towards the deep, shadowed porch where he and the Patriarch stood. A moment later, the Grand Duchess glanced over also. In the inflated pink visage, the magnificent eyes with their well-drawn outlines were unexpectedly sharp. On an impulse, Nicholas drew from his memory and performed the obeisance he had last given to David Comnenos of Trebizond, whose race at root was the same as her own. She inclined her head in reply.
The next day, Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli was ushered into the Patriarch’s room at the Troitsa, bringing with him a solid, black, olive-skinned engineer from Bologna with a hoarse voice, and spatulate fingers, and nostrils smeared like John le Grant’s from the
engineer’s habit of pinching his nose when in doubt. It made Nicholas feel better, if not much. The news that Acciajuoli was in Moscow had staggered him. He had never been cowed by this man, but however spaced their rare meetings, he always felt apprehension. Nicholai de’Acciajuoli had never done him any harm, to his knowledge, except as much as an idle, mischievous man might do, who thought himself to have exceptional powers. He had frightened Gelis, as well.
At the moment, however, there seemed nothing ominous in his greeting. He made a mild joke about enclosed orders, and the Patriarch replied with affable coarseness. They had no guard and no audience: a member of the Grand Duchess’s circle could dispense with such things. Then Fioravanti was introduced, and the talk suddenly moved from the general to the particular, simply because Nicholas was intensely interested in the plans to rebuild the Kremlin cathedral, and to know what had caused the walls to fall down in the first place. He was in the middle of an argument about hoists when someone laid a hand on his shoulder, and he realised that the Patriarch and their Florentine visitor had been excluded from the conversation for the last hour, and were now making their presence felt again. They did not appear unduly disturbed, having spent the interval, so it seemed, in tolerably uncontentious conversation of their own. It had never occurred to Nicholas that they would have anything in common.
Soon after, the visitors left, without having done more than affirm a desire, in due course, for other meetings. In his strange, suspended mode of existence, Nicholas was conscious of elation. The world was opening again. He had found someone whom he could work with, and who wanted, he thought, to work with him. And there was plenty of time. Even if everything ceased over Christmas, which was celebrated here on the seventh day of January, weeks of winter still lay ahead in which to collect the information he needed.
The Grand Duchess, having found a barbaric country, was intent first on imposing upon it an appearance at least of the magnificence of the courts of her forefathers. The second Byzantium, the third Rome must have splendid buildings, opulent dress and gold plate, formal ceremony. Only after that could come the roads and bridges, the fortifications, the arms. For anyone who wished to be an importer, a factor, or a ducal adviser, it required careful planning.
It was not a handicap, on the whole, to be in the Troitsa. Fioravanti visited several times more before Christmas, by grand-ducal permission, and proved a mine of information about outlying lands, for his grand design for the Uspensky had taken him to study churches in Novgorod, in Suzdal, in Vladimir. He also acted as courier between the prisoners and Julius, who did not qualify for frequent access, and had to suffer the Brothers Ostafi and Gubka when he did. It did not disturb him too much: his eyes glowing, he was already anticipating deep and profitable negotiations in Novgorod. He brushed aside Anna’s misgivings: every ruler allowed dispensations at Christmas, and the Patriarch and his companion had surely expiated their crimes, if it was a crime to represent the Latin faith instead of another, and to bring the sins of Venice to mind.
When the Christmas festival ended, without the reappearance of either Father Ludovico or Nicholas, Julius made enquiries and returned, full of amused exasperation, to Anna. ‘They’re holding them for debt.’
Sometimes, she didn’t see the humour of things. ‘So tell me,’ she said in a cool voice, and sat on the chair, not the settle.
Julius was enjoying himself too much to care. He threw himself on the settle. ‘After the Patriarch left us at Fasso, he travelled round the Black Sea and lost all his possessions to robbers on the coast of Abkhazia. That’s one story. His servants say that they were managing to beat off the thieves, when the Patriarch went insane, stopped the fight and handed the robbers not only his purse, but all the costly gifts meant for Duke Charles of Burgundy. That is, he claimed they weren’t robbers at all, but starving Latins fleeing from Caffa. Uzum Hasan’s envoy returned home in disgust, and the Patriarch proceeded to Moscow, living on loans. He can’t repay what he borrowed.’
‘But Nicholas could,’ Anna said. She stared at him, her brows lined. ‘The jewels! Why did Nicholas give us the jewels? You must take the rest back.’
Julius laughed. ‘He gave us the jewels because he didn’t want Father Ludovico to waste them. They’re going to finance the new business: you know that. Anyway, Acciajuoli says Father Ludovico doesn’t want to get out. It suits him to wait, collecting news of what’s happening in the south and keeping a Latin presence in Moscow. If Zoe wants her Italian craftsmen, she’s going to have to let them have their own chaplains. And if there’s a Latin community, it’s the Patriarch’s job to supervise it.’ He reflected, smiling. ‘He’s a crafty old devil.’
‘No doubt,’ Anna said. Her colour had become extraordinarily high. She added, ‘He has no right to keep Nicholas prisoner. Take the jewels back. I want Nicholas with us at Novgorod. If he isn’t with us, I am not going.’
It was the worst quarrel — the only quarrel — that Julius had ever had with his beautiful wife. It was brief, and her voice was never once raised. At the end of it, he rode off with the jewels, and a day later returned, tight-lipped, and threw them before her. ‘Nicholas sent them back, with a note. They are for the business. The Grand Duke won’t release him or the Patriarch, whether they pay their debts or not. We are to go to Novgorod, and set up an office, and report back. He will help all he can. He may be free by then.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Then I’ll go without you,’ said Julius. ‘And you can waste time in Moscow by yourself.’
Then she had turned. ‘Does money matter more than I do?’
He shook his head. ‘Anna, of course not. But what can you do, what can I do in Moscow? Nicholas is under restraint. They won’t let him out. Where is the harm in using the time to some purpose?’
She said, ‘If we’re going home, we have to start while it’s winter.’ She broke off. She said, ‘We’re not going home, are we? Because Nicholas can’t travel, and you won’t abandon him, the snows will melt before we could leave.’
‘I was trying to tell you,’ said Julius. ‘We might as well go to Novgorod. And report back to Nicholas. And hope he is free soon after that. Then we can go. You will see Bonne by autumn.’
She came to him then, not wild, but sweetly tender and sad, and he and she made their peace. Thinking about it all later, Julius had to admit to being perplexed by her variable moods. Unless, of course — he sat up with shock — unless, of course, she was with child. His child. A son. An heir. A real dynastic marriage. He remained for a while in a state of half-serious, pleased contemplation; and felt a little ashamed, because he did not care much for Bonne.
Very soon after that, as he had hoped, he and Anna joined the fleet of sledges that called at their door and were on their way, in convoy, to Novgorod. They would be back in Moscow, he hoped, in a month.
A week later, the elderly Florentine from the Morea called on the Patriarch of Antioch in his apartment in the Troitsa monastery, and told him that he and his companion were free.
‘The Archimandrite has given his permission?’ Father Ludovico exclaimed. ‘The Grand Duke is agreeable? The soldiers of the garrison have been informed? What a pity that they could not all have done so seven days ago, when the party was leaving for Novgorod.’
‘One could, I suppose, overtake them?’ Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli said. ‘If that were Signor Niccolò’s preference. But our eminent friend from Bologna has serious plans to discuss with him, and the Grand Duchess herself has desired him to remain in Moscow. What am I to tell her?’
‘That I am honoured, of course, and shall remain,’ Nicholas said. ‘What more could a man want than this?’
HE DID NOT MEAN IT, of course. But he was conscious, as he spoke, that behind the irony lay the deeper irony that once, when his exile began, he had thought to persuade himself that, indeed, he had all he desired. He wondered where Paúel Benecke was now, if indeed he were alive, and had not met a fate like Ochoa’s. He tried not to think of Ochoa or Ann
a, for it meant opening a vent to the wretchedness that underlay all he did, and if that were to be broached, he could not continue.
He had no news from the West, from his previous life. Now that he could use his pendulum again he was doing so, sparingly. He knew that Gelis and Jodi were both in the Low Countries, and he had touched Kathi, once. She was safe. The stab of relief made his heart ache, for he had no right to feel it. He had forfeited the right to feel it for Gelis and Jodi as well, yet nothing but death could change that. He had not known, until recently, that love could exist in such different forms.
He filled his days. Living now close to the castle, he saw much less of the Patriarch, having taken up residence in the house and workshop of Fioravanti, with whom a strange unofficial partnership had grown. Blessed with an early grasp of mechanical principles, Nicholas had benefited from years of working with John le Grant and, later, Moriz the priest: his fascination with the subject went back to Donatello’s experiments with perspective. So he was drawn to something he recognised as a radical advance on what he already knew, and spent the dark days, and the days of lengthening spring deep in discussion over plans and designs at tables littered with instruments; and in sheds filled with gritty samples of brick, and fragments of plaster, and buckets of evil-smelling mixtures of mortar. The cathedral of the Uspensky was to be Muscovy’s triumphant proclamation to the West: Russian in style, but incorporating the best the world had to offer in materials and design. The princes of Muscovy would be crowned there.