When little more than his own age, his uncle Giammatteo had been professor of medical logic at Pavia University, founded by a Duke of Milan. In a long career spanning thirty years Giammatteo had never moved from the faculty except to minister to the current Duke, its protector. Or, of course, to give his services, at a price, to those of the well-born and the famous whose appeals or whose politics touched the Duke’s heart.
When Tobie, resoundingly qualified, had rejected the sedate satisfaction of university life in favour of rampaging about with merchants and mercenaries, Maestro Giammatteo had publicly washed his hands of him, thus neatly preventing his nephew from exploiting his name. That, and the other things he had said at the time had not endeared him to Tobie. Neither had the fact that, although well over sixty, the professor was florid and hale, with all the positive features in his merry face which Tobie himself lacked, in addition to a beard and a full head of speckled brown hair.
Tobie said, “Is he here?”
“Oh, yes,” said his uncle. “As you know, he brought the horses for Pierfrancesco. Messer Agnolo and his sister made a point of inviting him back, even before they sent for me. A most amenable youth. We have all made it our business to speak to him. He shows a charming gratitude for all you have done for him. Your skilful nursing at Damme; your act of mercy at Geneva. We know how close you have been. You must see how, when you left captain Lionetto so suddenly, it might appear that the boy’s affairs had attracted you?”
“No. As I told you. It was captain Lionetto’s affairs which repelled me,” said Tobie curtly. Affairs, his uncle had said, with a certain slyness. Deviation had always amused Giammatteo. Tobie found it reassuring. That, then, was why he was here. It meant, at least, that his uncle knew nothing of hair dye, and love potions, and holly. Or of a possible fortune, in the hands of an enigma whom he might, or might not, bring to confide in him.
“As you now repel Lionetto, I am told,” his uncle was going on cheerfully. “Your former captain is in Milan, on his way to Piccinino. You would do well to be careful. Well, your young man is in the family chamber with Messer Agnolo and his sister and friends. You had better come with me to collect him.”
“In the family chamber?” Tobie repeated.
The professor smiled. “Playing cards, I believe,” he said with benevolence.
The leisure room of the Acciajuoli was little more than a painted cabinet, although the fireplace was handsome, and bright with a flickering brazier. All the other light in the room was placed round the card table at which four people sat, while three others stood bending behind them. As Tobie entered with the professor, one of the players turned with an abstracted smile and raised a ringer. “One moment! We crave your indulgence. Marco, Giovanni – perhaps our guests would take wine while we finish.”
The ushering servant had gone. The men thus summoned to help were two of the three standing guests, the third being a young and pretty girl. Tobie knew none of them. Smiling his social, doctor’s smile, he took a precise inventory.
Of those playing cards, the speaker was no doubt his host. This man, thickset, sallow and commanding, must be the banker – Agnolo Acciajuoli, grandson of Donato, Prince of Athens and kinsman of Messer Nicholai, the one-legged Greek who had travelled from Scotland to Bruges. And the woman next to him must be Laudomia, his sister, wife of the absent Pierfrancesco. Or half-sister, perhaps: a handsome woman, many years younger than Agnolo and dressed in Florentine fashion, her hair and sleeves crossed with jewels and her unveiled bosom and neckline in elegant partnership.
Next to her, there sat someone familiar who was not a Greek or a Florentine. A lean, dark-skinned man, young but soberly dressed, whom Tobie had last seen somewhere quite different. In the party of Lancastrian Englishmen. In the English party which had stopped to rescue Brother Gilles and had been caught in the first of Claes’ avalanches.
An Englishman, here?
Then the supposed Englishman, smiling, said something to Claes in an idiomatic French which was quite patently his native tongue, and Claes, replying politely in the same language, addressed him as “Monsieur Gaston.” The woman, laughing a little, put down a card and herself spoke to the apprentice, this time in Italian. He answered at once: not entirely correctly, but with the clear Bologna inflections he must have picked up from Julius, instead of his early Savoyard. He had an exact understanding of the question.
They were, of course, toying with him. Tobie’s uncle, cup in hand, murmured in Latin, “Why not try him in this language? Or Greek?”
Claes gave a smile, his eyes on his cards. “Maestro, spare me,” he said. “I cannot both walk on my hands and contest a game with such players.” He laid down a card and shot a glance at Tobie. It was full of conspiratorial delight. If he could, Tobie would have cancelled on the spot both the misguided, cavalier deeds at Damme and Geneva which had linked him with this dangerous lunatic. He glared at Claes, full of suspicion.
The boy’s manner, damn him, was perfect. Deferential, with glimpses of spirit and simple humour which made his elders laugh. He was clean. Beside the others, his clothes were those of a servant; but the Charetty livery was the best that the Widow could afford, and despite all the travelling, the blue cloth of Claes’ doublet had enough stiffness in it to set off his straight dyers’ shoulders. The soldier’s belt cinched his waist where the stained apron had always hung, and the high collar defined a well-placed throat and neck. His monstrous gaze and wide grin nothing could be done about, but there was equally nothing vacuous about them. It was a discovery Tobie had made at Bruges.
It was the youth’s turn to play again. The hands holding the cards were no less calloused than they had ever been, but at least the fingertips were not blue. As Tobie watched, they strayed over the sheaf of oblong cards and, picking one, laid it on the table.
There was a short silence which Tobie, ignorant of the game, could not interpret. Then the woman Laudomia, her grey eyes cold and clear, looked at him smiling and said, “Again!”
“Arabic,” said Claes. “You should have asked me to talk in Arabic. Then you would have won it all back.” The cards were hand-painted, in red and blue and gold. The pack was worth everything Claes was wearing, Tobie calculated, from his head to his toes.
“Wait,” said the Frenchman called Gaston. “Before we all lay down our hands. Niccolò my friend: what cards are we holding?”
Niccolò?
He was looking at Claes, whose colour had risen. Claes said, “You don’t know? Monsieur, you must lose a great deal.”
Messer Agnolo moved. He smiled, catching the eye of the man called Giovanni, who came and stood by him. “Tell me mine, my young friend,” he said. “What do I hold in my hand?”
“A bearing-rein,” said Claes without rancour. “Well, monsieur, you began with a nine, and never let it go. Then you picked up and kept a three and a Queen. Those were all bastoni. Later …”
He named one by one all the cards in the other man’s hand; and then, when he was asked, those held by the others. As he did so, Giovanni leaned over and checked them. They were correct.
Claes looked both relieved and embarrassed. “It comes from the dyehouse,” he said. “Long lists of recipes, very good for the memory. And verses. We make them up to sing when we’re stirring. By the time we’ve added in all the people we like, they can get to be very long.”
He looked round, in an accommodating way, as if ready to sing, too, if invited. Messer Agnolo said, “Do you hear that, Giovanni? You were a dyer. We shall expect no less of you, next time you play cards with us.”
Beside him, Tobie was aware that his uncle was smiling. His uncle said, “May I introduce my nephew Tobie, or do you wish us to go away while you start another game with this budding arithmetician?”
Play, it seemed, was over. Their host rose, with his sister, and came forward. Guests were seated and reseated. Introductions were made. The pretty girl was called Caterina, and Marco Parenti her husband was a merchant in Florence who used to exp
ort silk to Athens and Constantinople. More than that, he was a writer. More than that, he visibly did not care for the fact that Caterina had picked Claes to sit beside.
Giovanni da Castro was the Pope’s godson, and held a post in the Apostolic Chamber. The Holy Father made use of his business experience. Before that, Messer da Castro had been a dyer. There was a coincidence. A dyer of imported cloth in Constantinople, before the attack by the Sultan six years ago. He had escaped with his life. He was lucky.
Tobie’s expression, he hoped, remained calm. It was an Acciajuoli household. Why be surprised if all the guests once did business in Constantinople or Athens or the Morea? He remembered one member of the family who had not been mentioned. He said to da Castro, “You were luckier than Messer Bartolomeo, the brother of the Greek with the … of the kinsman of Messer Angelo’s who toured Europe raising funds to ransom him. Is there any news of him? Will he expect to be freed when the gold is collected?”
Ever since Bruges, the subject of the Greek and his captive brother had acutely interested Tobie. He was surprised when da Castro did not immediately answer him. It was Laudomia, the captured man’s relative, who said, “My dear Messer Tobias! The man was freed months ago. It was the firm of Medici who paid the ransom and who generously agreed to stand out their money until they can be recompensed.”
“By which time, of course, the rates would have changed,” said Tobie.
Monna Laudomia smiled. The Pope’s godson, entering the conversation, quickly said laughing, “It is the one thing which never stands still. But of course, the matter had to be settled to allow Messer Bartolomeo to continue trading. At a price, of course. The taxes on Christians are unbelievable. But with one thing and another, Bartolomeo Giorgio will never go short.”
“You mean,” said Tobie, “he is still trading in Constantinople under the Turks? While you had to leave?”
There was again a second’s pause, and then da Castro shrugged. “There is religion, and there is business. Sometimes, one has to choose. No. I don’t grudge his fortune to Bartolomeo. I shall do well enough here.”
“And what,” said Tobie, “if your godfather launches his Crusade, and it takes Constantinople back from the Turks?”
Messer da Castro looked surprised. “Then I may return to my trading there if it suits me. And Messer Bartolomeo will be able to continue without Turkish taxes. A happy outcome.”
“If he survives,” Tobie said. “What does he trade in? Is he a dyer as well?”
Again, the pause. Again, Laudomia Acciajuoli supplied the answer. She said, “Bartolomeo is from Venice. You may think it hard to justify a kinsman who cleaves to the heathen. But the Sultan favours Venetian traders. The Sultan permits them their own customs and worship, and in return they pay highly. Bartolomeo buys raw silk from the East, and sells or exchanges it in Constantinople for woven silk from dealers like Messer Marco here. He is also much concerned with alum.”
“Alum?” said Tobie, He cleared his throat.
Laudomia Acciajuoli looked at him. She said, “I thought his brother possibly told you. Bartolomeo controls the alum mines of Phocoea for the Sultan.”
Claes, you bastard, thought Tobie. And dear uncle Giammatteo over there, studying the roof-beams. What am I in? What do they think I’m in? What do I do? Continue as if nothing had happened. Tobie said, “I can see why you must be hoping for a crusade.”
“Or another source of alum,” said Monna Laudomia. “That is your great dream, is it not, Messer Giovanni? That the Pontiff your godfather will allow you the means to prospect for minerals in his territory? Think what it would mean if alum were found!”
The Pope’s godson rose. He said, “It is, I am afraid, a remote chance at the moment. Monna Laudomia, Messer Agnolo, I must take my leave.”
Tobie was not surprised. He played his part in the leave-taking and stood absently watching his host escort the Pope’s godson from the room. His uncle, smiling in a way he did not like, made a business of seating himself again, and after a moment, Tobie did so as well. Claes, when he shot a killing glance at him, was seated between Marco Parenti and his wife, and they were all talking Italian.
The cardplaying Frenchman had taken a stool next to Tobie’s uncle. Tobie’s uncle leaned over and said, “Tobias. You haven’t met M. Gaston du Lyon.”
“On the contrary,” said M. Gaston du Lyon. “M. Tobias and I had a snowy encounter some days ago, and he is asking himself why I was travelling with Englishmen.”
At the moment, Tobie didn’t want to think what the answer might be. He said, “I hope you were none the worse for the soaking.”
“I was not harmed in the slightest. No, I was merely riding with my lord of Worcester for safety. He was under the impression, I think, that I was a loyal citizen of King Charles of France making my devout way to Rome.”
“But Claes knew who you were?” said Tobie.
“I should be annoyed if he did. No, he did not. He has been, if not penitential, at least polite on learning my identity.”
“Which is?” Tobie said.
“Oh, I am French,” said M. Gaston. “But I serve not the French king but his exiled son the Dauphin. I am chamberlain to the Dauphin Louis, and am come on leave to Milan for the jousting in February. I live for jousting. It is my great joy.”
“It isn’t mine. I spend too much time repairing the victims,” said Tobie. He thought of the avalanche. He thought of Claes, so obligingly patching up pumps, and picking up all the Savoy gossip. Whatever the naive M. Gaston might think, Tobie for one was sure that Claes had known exactly whom M. Gaston represented. Before the avalanche, too.
Tobie felt agitated: even trapped. The conversation between Claes and the pretty girl and her husband had broken up. Suddenly Claes was standing between each and calling him over. “Master Tobias! You met Messer Marco and his wife. Do you know who she is? She is Lorenzo’s sister!”
“Lorenzo?” said Tobie.
“Lorenzo Strozzi! From the House of Strozzi in Bruges? They’ve just had a bereavement – a brother – and there are letters from Lorenzo for Monna Caterina and her mother this very moment in my satchel at the inn. She’ll have them tomorrow.” In deference to the bereavement, Claes’ face registered a sort of happy sympathy. He turned to the girl. “Lorenzo misses you so much. We cheer him up, but he needs to come back to Italy.”
“It is what I have always said,” said the girl. “My brother pines, Marco. He longs to have his own business.”
Claes looked interested. Messer Marco Parenti looked annoyed. Tobie, bent on extricating himself, heard the girl speak again, and Messer Marco muttering, “Not here. Not now,” in a husbandly way.
A hand gripped Tobie’s arm, and drew him aside. “Now,” said Tobie’s eminent uncle cordially in his ear, “do you not perceive the value of well-placed acquaintances? They have taken measure, in their own way, of the youth. I find him of interest. I congratulate you on your sponsorship. I have been able to tell Monna Laudomia that you, as my nephew, are the most reliable man they could find.”
“Could find for what?” said Tobie. “Sponsorship? I’ve nothing to do with Claes. What do they want him for?”
His uncle looked surprised. “His gifts,” he said. “You must know how much he was in demand when he left Bruges?” He paused. “And he really does know much more than he should do.”
Tobie thought of Quilico, and then decided that his uncle couldn’t possibly know about Quilico, who was so familiar with what grew by the Phocoea alum mines. And who was apt, in his cups, to talk about other, undiscovered alum mines to sick, cunning youths and their doctors. Then he realised that the professor might know all about Quilico if Claes had told him. But why would Claes tell him? “You will have to explain,” said Tobie carefully.
“Is this a physician who speaks?” said his uncle. “Diagnosis, my boy! You saw the cardplay. The youth absorbs languages, can manipulate numbers. What will such a man make of a private courier service?”
From pure r
elief, Tobie found himself smiling. So that was it. The courier service. He should have guessed as much. Tobie thought of the satchel Loppe carried everywhere on the journey, and the handsome letters with their threads and their seals. A person who carved intricate puzzles had a touch fine enough for a thief or a forger. And the cunning to disentangle other men’s writings. The men who created the ciphers in the ducal Chancery, in the Medici offices, were of this sort exactly.
Tobie said, smiling still, “They’re buying him off, or employing him? Or pretending to do both, while slipping something fatal into his winecup?”
“I expect they thought of that,” said his uncle mildly. “But not when they found he was a friend of my nephew. That was when they brought me in to advise them. I was, I am, happy to help.”
“A friend of mine?” Tobie said. “Thank you, but that lump is a dyer’s apprentice.”
“Well, you saved his life. Or so I’m told,” said his uncle. “And followed him to Milan. And showed an intelligent interest in a piece of information you picked up in Bruges. Or haven’t you even got the sense, turd, to realise what this is all about?”
The smile left Tobie’s face. He would never make assumptions again. They were not, after all, talking of nothing but a courier service. They were talking of alum, and they knew – even his uncle knew – a lot more than he did. And they were trying to implicate him. A profitable bargain with Claes was one thing. Being manipulated by the entire Acciajuoli clan (including possibly Claes) was another. Tobie said, “I see. Well, if they ask me, I’m having nothing to do with it.”
“Afraid?” said his uncle. “He’s not afraid, your young Niccolò.”
“He’s nothing to lose,” Tobie said.
“You have a point,” said his uncle. “But it hardly matters. You’re involved. You can’t get out anyway.”
“Allow me to differ,” said Tobie.
Tobie tried to leave twice after that, and was restrained twice by his uncle. Nobody asked him anything or offered him anything except food and drink and innocuous conversation, which maddened him further. Denied a chance to explain, rebut or refuse, he contented himself with ignoring Claes wherever possible. It was an outrage that, when he finally managed to get away, his uncle should foist Claes upon him. They were returning to the same inn, Giammatteo pointed out. It was safer, after dark, for his nephew and the young man to walk there together. Messer Agnolo would lend them both a lantern.