There were bees and wasps, flies and gnats in the houses of pouring as well, where the boiled juice sagged and settled in conical moulds, steaming up from long benches like mangers. The place smelled of rank wood and straw, of the molasses filling the under-pots and the flat odour of clay, from the stacks of red funnels and vases. Marco Corner opened the door of a warehouse and let Katelina see the precious white cones of crystal sugar, the wealth of Cyprus, the costly indulgence of kings. Katelina praised them, as she had praised everything. She said, ‘Who can equal the Corner in the making of sugar? Yet the royal estates are in other hands. That surprises me.’
Marco Corner took her arm as they moved to the stables. ‘You speak of Messer vander Poele? Of course, he knows nothing of sugar. But then, he fights for King James, and should be rewarded. I have no objection to that. You might even say, to be cynical, that Kouklia and Akhelia are sadly in disrepair, and unlikely to offer much revenue. On the other hand, there are some who find Zacco’s choice of beneficiary distasteful. You saw the burning last night?’
The sky had flickered red in the west. Her woman had told her. So near? She said, stiffening, ‘That was Kouklia?’
‘It was quickly put out. Vander Poele has installed some system which draws on the aqueduct. But there have been other mishaps. The servants of God, demoiselle, offer their produce to God, and would prefer no competition.’
Katelina moved from shadow to sunlight. She said, ‘The Knights of Kolossi would harm a royal fief?’
The lord Marco Corner smiled. ‘The Grand Commander Louis de Magnac would be shocked if you said so. But their crop is owned by the Martini, who mourn the loss of their franchise in Kouklia. Other accidents may occur. Young Messer Niccolò would be wise to guard his new property. Now, it is late and you are pale: I have tired you. Let me find Vanni to escort you back to the house.’
She answered with gratitude, and only realised, received in the coolness of the villa, how exhausted she was. The princesses exclaimed, seating her, bringing her sherbet. ‘The heat! We should never have sent you. And what you have missed! An elegant deputation from Kouklia, on black-muzzled horses that cost someone, my dear, a great deal of money. We are bidden to visit the royal manor tomorrow. You will come? You do not mind meeting Niccolò vander Poele?’ Valenza said.
Katelina sat, feeling cold. Cured, then – if he had ever been as sick as he seemed – and well enough to take the initiative. She recalled the protestations he had made, threadbare now in her mind. He had said what anyone in his position would say. And for proof, he had kept Diniz captive, and had let the King’s mother send her here. Here to the Naxos princesses, whose sister had been with him in Trebizond and who were watching her, their narrow eyes smiling.
Katelina said, ‘I have no objection to meeting him. I hear there has been trouble at Kouklia.’
Fiorenza rose and lifted a flask. ‘He sent to warn us to look to our safety. It was kind. But privately Marco, of course, thinks we are in little danger. The Martini, after all, are from Venice. My dear, give me your glass.’
Katelina said, ‘The young man must be concerned on his own account. It is a royal fief, and his duty to manage it. And he cannot be here all the time.’
‘Because of the war?’ Valenza said. ‘That is true but, of course, Zacco will be the first to forgive him. And Kyrenia will fall to them soon enough. The guns are in place, and the harbour cut off, I am told.’ She glanced at Katelina and made a small sound of apology. ‘But you cannot be an admirer of Zacco, who has immured you here. Forgive me. We do what we can, but of course you wish for your freedom.’
Katelina said, ‘I don’t blame the King. My fate, for some reason, seems to be in the hands of his mother.’
It was Valenza this time who smiled. She said, ‘My dear, it is the same thing. If the lady Marietta has sent you here, it is because the King wants it.’ She paused, considering. ‘Zacco is not, of course, such a man as you would meet in the West – a step-mother called after Medea, Cleopatra the name of a sister? He knows himself to be unique. He is proud of his heritage, and his beauty.’
Was she meant to understand some connection with Nicholas? The modulated voice held no discernible malice. ‘I have heard tales of all kinds,’ said Katelina. ‘Though King, he has no consort?’
Fiorenza answered. ‘He has a daughter, Charlotte. Others also, I think. The tales you hear are probably true, but James of Lusignan can inspire an army of Muslims and Christians, which I doubt if Carlotta could do. And one day, of course, he will marry.’
Her tone was reflective. It came to Katelina that, of course, the perfect bride for the King should have been one of the Naxos princesses, had Fate’s timing been better. Now, wed too soon and not yet entered on widowhood, none would ever be princess and Queen. Of course, marriages could be set aside. But Valenza worshipped her son. And Fiorenza could hardly dismiss her lord Marco: not with small Violante, Cornelie, Regina, Catherine, Blanche and the others about her. Catherine, nine, was plump and pale and underfoot at the moment, as always. Fiorenza sighed, and ran a fingertip over her daughter’s straight hair. Katelina said, ‘It seems the King trusts his good chevalier Niccolò.’
The sisters looked at her, their heads tilted. They might have been made out of seashells. Valenza said, ‘Unwisely, you think? I suppose those who fight risk their lives. He appears to have shown himself faithful.’
‘He is faithful, at least, to himself,’ said Katelina. She couldn’t say more. She couldn’t yet, openly oppose the man who could kill Diniz by speaking one word in the ear of the King. She had already, in her pain and despair, said more than she should.
‘But you would like him more if he freed Diniz, your nephew? How well we understand!’ the lady Fiorenza said. ‘And it may be possible. You will speak to him tomorrow. We shall plead with Messer Niccolò also. We shall solicit the support of his other guests. He has invited Jacopo Zorzi our neighbour, whose brother now governs his dyeworks. How pleasant if we succeed in freeing this Diniz. A charming boy to join this sad household of women.’
The words made her shiver. And not only the words. She couldn’t ask a favour of Nicholas, to whose silence she owed Diniz’s safety. Who, by his silence, thought he had bought her complaisance. But the princesses were not to know that. She could read nothing but tranquil pleasure in the two ivorine faces. They had never met Nicholas vander Poele. She couldn’t tell if they were indifferent to the reports they had of him; or envied their sister Violante, or despised her. She didn’t know whether they were prepared to love him or hate him. Or if they had learned, as she had, to fear him.
They rode to Kouklia in the coolness of morning, a fine company of noble Venetians, men and women, with their servants attending them. On the way they were joined by Messer Jacopo Zorzi, owner of vineyards. Katelina did not know his brother Bartolomeo, but surveyed with misgiving the blue-jowled sardonic face and straddle-legged stance. The princesses thought this man could influence the release of Diniz. Once, Katelina would have welcomed the prospect with joy.
Their way took them west, through the cornfields that bordered the sea, past the gleaming stadium of Apollo and above the foaming, rock-scattered shores where Aphrodite was born. In the sunlight, stone was stone, and no voices spoke that were not Italian, and hearty. Katelina smiled, but was silent, turning her will and her mind to the encounter before her. Shortly after, the road left the sea and attained the base of a low limestone hill at the top of which spread a long, irregular building, massively formed. Pennants fluttered over the sky, and a twinkle from the flat roofs hinted at distant observers. From there, sea and country and approaching cavalcade would be wholly in view.
It seemed that Marco Corner and his party were familiar with the route and the building. Without a glance they followed the road, which continued upwards and inland and, curving round, met a wall that seemed to be that of a monastery, and then another wall, and a gate within which a group of people awaited them.
In the front was Claes,
her Flemish workman, motionless on a high-bred racing-camel streaming with gilded leather and tassels and silks. The animal swayed forward and stopped, to allow its rider to convey his welcome. Nicholas vander Poele, behaving like a Byzantine mountebank.
She watched his gaze number the company and thought him a little pale still, although he sat at ease, with one gloved hand on the reins and no sign of the stiffness of Nicosia. He was dressed in the Venetian manner, from his high-collared white shirt to his doublet, which was cut from thin double damask in a deceptive grey-blue, quite unlike the strident shade of the Charetty company. As he introduced them, she saw that all his servants and officers wore the same colour. It went well with the badge of his Order. Below his cylindrical cap, his hair was shorn to a spider-brown frieze. He said, ‘Be welcome and enter. First, to the house for refreshment. Then, if you wish, we shall ride through the lord King’s estates before supper. You honour us with your visit. My lord Marco. My lady Fiorenza. My lord Giovanni. My lady Valenza. My lord Jacopo. The demoiselle Katelina.’
He seemed to know both Corner and Loredano. His demeanour was free and a little amused; theirs was guarded. He had never before met Jacopo Zorzi or the two princesses. The sisters greeted him with the fragile delight of two fawns. Fiorenza said, ‘We have heard of you from our sister.’
His dimples deep, his hingeless eyes fully open, Nicholas said, ‘Yes? But she exaggerates.’
To Katelina he bowed, no more or less than courtesy demanded. Then his animal turned, and they entered the way to his manor.
At first, it agreed with what she had learned to expect. She caught glimpses of the same sunny copper she had seen on the Corner estate, and the same long sheds, and the same tables and barrows, although different in arrangement. His head turned, Marco Corner said as he passed, ‘Here are changes.’
And Nicholas, leading them down the long avenue towards the deep fortified arch of his manor answered with perfect composure. ‘It is a benefit, sadly, of vandalism. It allows one to replan a little. Later, you will see better designing down the hill there at Stavros. Meanwhile please come into the shade, and be welcome.’
Only then, passing between branches of myrtle and under arches of orange and almond, did Katelina catch sight of the flower-strewn quadrangle that lay beyond on her left, tenanted by dazzling, half-broken terraces, by Corinthian colonnades and fragmented chambers, by worn flights of great steps and fallen cylinders, gartered in bindweed. Paint-red oleanders leaned through crumbling marble and, near an arcade, a naked girl waited, grass in her breast, her white shoulder and flank dappled under the fig trees. In the centre, the marble flags beaten glassy about it, stood a single conical stone, black as sugar was white. There was a scent of sweet oils, and of earth, and a deep silence, tempered by the murmur of bees. On the horizon, the sea stood, still and blue.
Katelina said, ‘Where is this?’
Nicholas manufactured a small, glottal sound. The camel turned and stood, dipping. He said, ‘Demoiselle? This is Kouklia.’
‘This?’ repeated Katelina in anger. She flung out her crop, pointing.
‘It is Kouklia,’ Nicholas said. His face was seamlessly vacant. ‘The ancients knew it as Paphos. The royal sugar estate, built on top of the Sanctuary sacred to Venus.’ His eyes remained on her. ‘The cone is the goddess. You can see the libations, perhaps, and the flowers laid freshly before her. We don’t stop women coming, although it is inconvenient. Would you like to see it more closely?’
‘No!’ said Katelina. ‘No. It will be pleasanter in the shade.’ She didn’t turn her eyes either, although she knew the pearly shell-faces were watching.
Kouklia was ancient Paphos. Kouklia was the island’s name for the shrine and temple of Paphian Aphrodite, the goddess of spring and gardens and love. The roots of the island were here, where Nicholas was; and of course, the princesses had known it.
Part castle, part fortress, part palace, the manor of Kouklia had been built over many periods, by many hands. On the east, the yellow masonwork blocks belonged to the great Frankish castle, two hundred years old, with its great gothic hall and its airy upper quarters. The north held the guardrooms and deep chambered archway, by which they had entered. To the west and the south were the kitchen offices and also the private quarters, recently rebuilt, Katelina could see, with open windows and long wooden balconies to invite the sea airs of the plateau. Presently, when they had eaten and talked in the coolness of the hall, they took their ease, as they wished, in these chambers. Then, as the sun lost its heat, their horses were brought and Nicholas conducted them through his domain. No one had yet spoken of Diniz.
Katelina watched not Nicholas but Corner and Loredano as they passed through the well-ordered fields in the shade of the eight-foot solid viaduct, whose high limestone troughs fed into the fields and the factories from distant springs in the Oridhes forest. Soon, they began to ask questions and without effort, Nicholas answered them. He showed them devices: deterrent mouse-walls of clay and chopped straw; tar-doctored water to guard against caterpillars. He willingly entered discussions. The lady Fiorenza said, ‘But, Messer Niccolò, you show us all your secrets.’
And he, smiling, replied, ‘But, lady, you would discover them anyway.’
‘Of course, you are lucky,’ said Zorzi. ‘The aqueduct. Also, the river Dhiarizos is yours, and in flow through the summer. Whereas the Kouris –’
‘We have different problems,’ said Marco Corner heartily. ‘Now. This development you speak of at Stavros. It was a farm. I remember little but a small farm.’ And Nicholas smiled and led on, and in a short time, the ground levelled and distant sounds, now familiar from yesterday, became loud and compelling. Soon, a high wall appeared, and a well-trained gatekeeper, and they were within a big compound where everything looked new.
‘The mill is Syrian,’ Nicholas said, ‘with Sicilian refinements. John could tell you more about it than I, but he’s had to go back to Kyrenia. The aqueduct leads into here – if you will come down the slope – and becomes a covered channel narrowing into the mill-house. The jet from that, as you see, operates the horizontal wheel turning the millstones. The floor is braced over a vault, and the tailstream comes out there. You see the mash being dealt with. The canal – over there – passes under the grinding hall, where the cane gets its first pounding. I’m building a second mill for next season. Do the ladies want to come into the hall? It is not very salubrious.’
‘I should like to see it,’ said Katelina.
The building was vast, with a flat roof supported on arches, beneath which oxen plodded. They were forcing a stone to revolve on a millbase the length of two men. It was poundingly noisy, and malodorous. Nicholas clapped a man on the shoulder, and the fellow stopped working and grinned as Nicholas, raising his voice, began to explain.
Katelina left the party. She went and stood on the edge of the juice-pit, and watched the greenish-black liquid rushing and swirling below. There was more juice in cisterns outside, and clean water, and places where men and women were washing vessels and jars. They talked as they worked, turning their heads and watching the visitors. Nicholas called something as he came out and most of them laughed. If you looked at all the faces in the mills and the yard, they seemed engrossed, and not dissatisfied. Spoken to, they quite often smiled, and the women gave a small curtsey. To Nicholas.
There were sheds full of new moulds and jars, far more than at Episkopi. ‘I’ve set up our own pottery,’ Nicholas said. ‘They’re not bad either at tableware. You’ll see some of it at supper. And now, of course, the boiling-vats and the refining houses. Nothing changes much there. We reckon, with all our various kettles, to boil two tons of juice daily, but we’d like to speed all that up. Fuel, as you know, is the problem. And here we use mostly the tall moulds, as you do.’
The familiarity of the refinery process soothed the Episkopi men: Marco’s colour, quite heightened, settled a little. He said, ‘And how are your hens laying?’
‘Hens?’ said Jacop
o Zorzi. ‘I thought the Martini lost all their birds to the raiders.’
‘Messer Niccolò obtained more. He had his sources,’ said Marco Corner. He caught the look on his wife’s face. ‘If you came oftener into the yard, you would know that eggs clarify the cane juice. I wish to ask, Messer Niccolò, before you go further. You have laid wooden rails from the yard?’
The wooden rails, it appeared, enabled one horse to draw three wagons bearing thirty hundredweight of cut cane apiece. ‘Or, of course, chests of sugar,’ Nicholas said. ‘A packhorse could take only two hundredweight. And the rails can run all the way to the jetty.’
Katelina stood dumb: it seemed kinder. Marco Corner had flushed again. He said, ‘Ah. I see. Well devised. Well devised. And the working areas, so well fitted for continuous movement. With labour so short, it was worth planning.’
‘Labour can always be imported,’ said Nicholas. ‘I allow my sugar-masters, incidentally, unlimited cheese, wheat and wine plus a sum of one hundred and fifty gold ducats paid after the season, and a percentage dependent on improved production. If you want to steal them, you will have to offer them something quite uneconomic. I think the ladies are tiring. But perhaps you would like to see more?’
‘No,’ said Marco Corner. ‘You have been too good, taking this trouble. I have to congratulate you. And the King. We believed we had brought him a warband.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Nicholas said. ‘Organising a sugar business and organising a war – as I supposed you’ve already noticed, there isn’t much difference between them.’