Nicholas grinned and waited.
“Yes. We knew that,” said Tobie. “Well, are we going to stand here all day? I’m freezing.”
They moved away, all but Nicholas and John le Grant. “So it’s a matter of alum,” said the engineer. “And you with a dyeshop: of course, you and your guild’ll need fixatives. Well, a friend with a pinty leg’ll do ye nae harm. The tax the Turks put on alum is shocking.”
“Shocking,” said Nicholas. “We need all the friends we can get.”
“Well?” said the red-haired man at length, “are ye going to tell me what you’re up to, or have I got to get your notary drunk?”
During the last days at sea, Nicholas had made up his mind about John le Grant. It always pleased him to talk about Tolfa. Nor did he see why Julius should have all the fun. He collected some wine, and took John le Grant off to the stern castle.
Later, Tobie saw them emerge. The engineer was looking thoughtful. Nicholas, on the other hand, was dimpled in the private, conspiratorial manner of a hot pool on the verge of explosion. He did not look like a man who was giving due thought to Pagano Doria.
Which was a pity. Because the first thing they saw in the harbour at Modon, within the Venetian seawalls and under the flag of St Mark, was the immense, castled bulk of the round ship Doria.
Chapter 9
THE FORTRESS OF MODON, or Methoni, was Venetian. Its harbour was good, and its position was even better: at the southwestern point of the old Greek Morea peninsula, halfway between the heel of civilised Italy and the pagan Ottoman lands to the east. It was the Serenissima’s chief naval base in eastern waters, and their main port of call for the Holy Land. Ships from Venice made their way thence to Crete or Cyprus or Alexandria, or up the Aegean Sea to Negroponte and Gallipoli and Constantinople. Men called Modon the eye of Venice, as Corfu was its door, and two thousand people lived and worked there.
The round ship called Doria lay now in the mole, below the long, turreted seawall with its double gate and regular towers. Tilted on the hillside above Modon the wall continued, embracing the town, with its houses, churches, workshops, hostels, barracks, taverns, brothels, store-sheds and markets; the Bailie’s handsome residence, and the citadel, interspersed with the red of turned earth and the beige of winter grass and the bare branches of fruit trees between. On the left, the church of St John had its own landing stage. And at intervals all round the walls the battle-towers kept watch, and the arms of the windmills wheeled against the wet skies of a Grecian winter, watched by Monna Caterina de Charetty negli Doria.
For Catherine, the distance between Messina and Modon could not be measured in sea miles. In Messina, she had completed her wedding rites in the eyes of the Church. On shipboard after the wedding mass she had refused the attentions of her wonderful husband, sobbing and whimpering. It was Pagano himself who had coaxed her to tell him the terrible things she had heard, and then to point out the shipwomen who had described them to her. She heard they were thrashed. Certainly, they were ashore in a trice, and if others came in their place, they didn’t come near her. And Pagano, who understood everything, said that real love was nothing like that but, until she could trust him, they would make love with their hands. He would show her.
She was nervous at first, and pulled away often. Then she grew accustomed to his light caresses and, from agreeable, they became delightful enough to make her head turn and send small convulsions through her body and limbs. When the first large convulsion arrived, she thought something was wrong, and had to be taught how to enjoy it. For a while there was nothing else she could imagine that would give her more happiness, and then she realised that something was lacking still. Her husband’s share, that the women had told her of.
The time had come, she well knew, to think about that. She denied him her bed while she did so, because she was no longer sure any more what she wanted. When a second night passed and she was still unwilling to let him coax her into pleasure, he had drawn back himself and said, “Catherine, Catherine. Do you think I would ever hurry you? Let’s stay friends until you are ready. It’s only…”
“You would like it,” she supplied. She liked to think that he would.
He smiled. “You don’t know, do you, what it means to me? There’s no reason why you should. But no. I can wait. Only Nicholas won’t.”
“Nicholas?” The name, from the past, seemed an idiocy. She stared at him.
He said, “I didn’t mean to tell you. I don’t want you frightened. But he is following.”
“Our Nicholas?” Catherine said. For the first time since Messina, she thought of Nicholas and her mother together. She felt herself turning red, and tears came into her eyes.
Pagano said, in his nicest voice, “You’re quite fond of him really.”
Her breath caught like the clap of a bellows. “I hate him!” she said. “How could he…?”
He stroked her hair while she gulped. He said, “It’s the most extraordinary bad luck. You see, he doesn’t even know you are here. He’s going to Trebizond as I am, on business. They say he’s to be Florentine consul. That means he’ll be there while you and I are at court. Of course, he won’t disturb you; I’ll see to that. He’ll hardly know you, with your gowns and your jewels. And he’ll have to work very hard, I can tell you, to get any business because I mean to take it all. In fact, he won’t like it in the least. Perhaps I should see him at Modon and tell him I’ve married his stepdaughter. Then he’ll be bound to go home to your mother.”
Nicholas and her mother. She said, “No.”
And then he dropped his hands and said, “No. Because he’d try to take you with him and get our marriage annulled. Since we’re not man and wife, you see, Catherine. That is, only on paper.”
She said, “I wouldn’t mind him in Trebizond. He’s only an apprentice.”
“You wouldn’t?” Pagano said. “But you hate hiding. And at Modon, you’d have to stay out of sight. I think I should tell him. Then he’ll go home to Flanders. After all, everyone thinks we are lovers. So will he.” She laid her cheek on his chest. She said, “I couldn’t wear a veil all the time. Not in Trebizond.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” he said. “Once Nicholas has got his cargo that far, he will have to stay until he’s finished his business. And by then he’ll have found out how happy we are. He’ll be in no haste to get back…Catherine, do you really not mind if he sails to Trebizond too?”
“No,” she said. “But I want to be in Trebizond first.”
He laughed. He had wonderful teeth. He said, “And so rather do I. Let’s think how to do it. Shall we? You and I? A little mishap at Modon; a little deterrent at Constantinople. But my Caterinetta must stay out of sight meanwhile. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” she exclaimed.
They played a card game, and then another; and then a tumbling game he had taught her, in which she found herself, as nearly always, in his arms. Then she thought of Nicholas and heard herself saying, “Really, I ought to know. I’m married. I ought to know.”
And he laughed, in a way that wasn’t quite right because he was so surprised, and said, “But you do know, my precious. All except the last and sweetest iota. Blow the light out, my little princess, and let me give you your crown.”
It was something of a shock, but rather less than she had feared. The second time, she recognised that this was fulfilment, and no artifice could ever compare with it. She also knew, a discovery she would not forget, that for the duration of her hospitality the lord Pagano Doria lost his sovereignty: art and artifice vanished in stress. As often as she chose to become queen, she caused him to become less than princely.
Next day she walked on deck, to and fro, calm and smiling and silent. She hardly spoke, all that voyage to Modon. But every dusk she made her way to their cabin, and he joined her. What was common practice, she had no way of telling. He was as witty as ever; as considerate and as charming. She made deductions, from what he appeared to think proper. Marriage, it seemed, resembl
ed a tournament, where some submitted to organised bouts, and some fought at will, expending senses and strength in their vehemence. Catherine, held in high pleasure, had no reservations, while recognising at once which was natural to him. She pleased herself, fostering it. And made herself his most adoring audience, when he spoke of plans for hampering Nicholas.
By the time the Florentine galley arrived at Modon, the Doria had been there several days, and (for a Genoese) its commander had become quite an acceptable visitor at the Venetian Bailie’s house.
These days, Modon was crammed. Always a well-used maritime junction, serving Venetian ships coming in from Constantinople, Cyprus, Syria; storing raisins, ashes, cotton and silk for the next fleet; offering repairs and provisions and hospitality to the travellers who poured through its gates, it was now one of the few Venetian colonies in the Turkish-occupied peninsula, and full of refugees. It was also a fortress. Over all ruled the lord Giovanni Bembo the Bailie, a patrician and capable: a man who could entertain kings on their way to Jerusalem and spies who had news of the Turks. For him, Pagano Doria represented light relief. And besides, it was the quiet season for shipping, for more reasons than one. Pagano Doria told him everything he wanted to know: some of it almost true. He unloaded and loaded his cargo; exchanged visits; entertained and was entertained. At no point was he accompanied by a woman.
When, with a swirl of trumpets and a couple of bangs from her cannon, the Ciaretti swept into the bay of Sapienza, the Bailie had already heard a good deal of the galley. She looked better than he expected, slipping past under oar to her berth. She and the round ship saluted each other impeccably. As soon as they were settled, he received their messenger, with the formal letters endorsed by the Medici. In return, he sent his chamberlain on board with a gift of strong rumney wine and an invitation to sup at his house the next evening. Unavoidable, naturally. He thought he might get the man Doria to help with the honours. One wondered what had come over the Medici, to give a peasant a consulate, even if he had a shrewd eye for a bargain. Battle fodder, poor lad. Intent on making his name and his fortune.
On board the Ciaretti, the sharp eyes of Julius had scanned the round ship as they passed. The little devil Doria was there. He saw the fronds of his feathered cap above a cloak thick with gold, and glimpsed his face, glowing with pleasure. Doria bowed, but Nicholas didn’t. Nicholas said, “I hope the bastard blows himself up.”
“Well, we’ve caught him,” Julius said. “We’ve caught him, and le Grant says we could pass him, if we get out quickly. I don’t know. I’d rather like to meet him on shore and have a little talk about those stores at Messina.” One of his grievances in Florence had been the cowardly attitude of his fellows. Because Doria was Genoese consul, it would be undiplomatic to knock him down in the street. Julius had chafed. But for Doria, that fiend of a priest would never have shamed him before the Medici.
Now Nicholas said, “If we meet him on shore, we expect you to shame him with courtesy. Don’t get into a brawl; it would suit him. In fact, I’d like to know what little snare he’s prepared for us here. I’d like to know why he waited here. Look. There’s a galley from Rhodes at the steps. We’ll get news.”
“We’ll get it from Acciajuoli,” Julius said. “Your privately contracted passenger with the wooden leg. Your oracle, as it were. Wood, you know. Why not a log of this trip for the Golden Fleece? You might get a knighthood. No, I’d suit it better. You’re the Ram and I’m Jason. We need a Medea.”
“Tobie,” said Nicholas. “Give him a wig and he’ll cook up some poison. We’ll send it to the Doria.” Julius was reassured.
It was their eighth landfall. They knew all the formalities. They received the Bailie’s invitation and enjoyed his rumney and were informed that their wooden-legged oracle Acciajuoli had been detained in Patras, but should be ready to join them by sailing time. Only Nicholas seemed to find that exasperating. They fell, rather quickly, into their routine for repair and provisioning and added an extra precaution. From the moment of berthing, the Ciaretti was guarded. And her crew were not allowed on shore; only her officers.
The precaution, though wise, seemed unneeded. If Doria intended some mischief, it had not so far become apparent, although the town was full of his men. In the course of the day’s business Julius glimpsed and nodded to Crackbene, the Doria captain. The other man responded without rancour. Later, Nicholas came face to face with Doria himself, getting into his skiff.
He had expected it, but was still chilled with some sense of foreboding. It was stupid to take Doria seriously. Whatever it turned into at Trebizond, their rivalry so far was no more than a boys’ competition. Once, he would have delighted in it, and the chance to use all his ingenuity. Now he was not so sure. He had counted on Acciajuoli to prime the Venetian Bailie with all he ought to know about the Charetty company. Instead, Acciajuoli had not yet arrived, and all the Bailie knew had been imparted by Pagano Doria. Chance had given Doria a new weapon: he needed no other. And he had had time, too, to protect himself against anything the Ciaretti might do. Le Grant, pestered by Julius, had produced a number of ingenious ways of blighting the Doria, such as feeding rats by the score up the anchor-chain. Nicholas had put a stop to it. Julius had returned to his depression. Well, Julius would have to wait.
Now Doria looked up from the skiff, his feathers blowing, and said, “The greyhound of the seas, my dear man. If I hadn’t been held up in Corfu, you wouldn’t have glimpsed me until the Black Sea. But never mind. I hear we shall see you at supper tonight?”
It was news, but it needn’t appear so. “Unless we sail first,” said Nicholas. “How are you for cheese? We have more than we need. I’ll send a box over.”
“But how kind!” said Doria. “What can we give you, that you would appreciate?”
“I shall try to think of something,” Nicholas said.
On board, Nicholas saw Godscalc was watching him. Godscalc said, “This supper party. You’re worried?”
The question was what he needed. It was all ridiculous: he saw it, and laughed. “Not really. With Tobie’s Latin and Julius’s Greek and John’s guns and your God, our total resources will blind a mere Bailie.”
“You have come so far on your wits,” said Godscalc in his dulcet German-tinged Flemish. “You have no need to doubt them.”
“I don’t,” said Nicholas. “A pack of cards and a song, and they’ll love me.” He added, in case of misunderstanding, “It’s all right. But I know what I’d do, if I were Pagano Doria.”
The evening unfolded, and he watched himself being proved right. The Bailie’s seamen, who fetched them, provided their escort to the gates of his palace. It was impressive, as Venice intended. It was more old-fashioned than, say, the new Medici house in Milan, but reminded him of it in its profusion of marble floors, its gilding, its painted ceilings and walls. The room in which they were entertained was large and well warmed and blazed with a display of the Bailie’s family silver. The candelabra were distinguished; the table linen exquisite; some of the platters antique and quite precious, although clearly the best had not been put on show. The gathering, too, was fairly modest. The five from the Charetty, the Bailie and his chaplain, secretary and captain of galleys; and Pagano Doria. They seated themselves, and wine was poured, and well-sauced food was lined up before them. On orders, Tobie sat beside Julius, restraining him.
It was the Bailie’s intention, as well, that the evening should pass as smoothly as might be. A practised host, he preferred light conversation while eating, trusting to the free-flowing wine to produce confidences later. To soften the blow, too, of the news he had to deliver. Meanwhile, he did not probe, as might be unmannerly, into the reasons behind the Medicis’ apparent decision to expand in the East, or enquire whether the Head of St Andrew was likely to convince the Pope to send a fleet to rescue the Morea. In any case, he had already discussed these matters in his many talks with the lord Pagano Doria.
There were topics, of course, which he would not br
oach with a Genoese, anyway. When talking of Trebizond, one did not naturally refer to the friction between the Genoese bank of St George and the Emperor. Both sides, of course, erred. The Emperor extracted illicit duties and harboured Genoese rebels. Once, a slap on the face at a chess game had set the Genoese raiding his empire for prisoners. When they captured them, they had sent him a jarful of salt ears and noses. In its time, the Genoese colony at Trebizond had been put to the sword for its arrogance, and later avenged by its fellows in fire. And, of course, his own countrymen suffered. Venetian galleys had been forced to burn Genoese shipping at Trebizond. When the Genoese took the best sites, the Venetians had to complain. They had to complain, too, when the Emperor failed to build or repair as he promised.
The Emperor David of Trebizond was extremely loath to part with his money. The Bailie had heard that he owed the bank of St George thousands of lire. At one point, the Mother Republic had told all her merchants to leave. But they needed the trade, and the Emperor needed them, and Genoa required support for her other, bigger headquarters, so the colony was still there, even though consuls were hard to find. Until now. The Bailie had no objection to Doria, a civilised man. He had no fears, either, for his own very able counterpart in the city of Trebizond.
Having reviewed what he could not discuss and what he had already exhausted, the Bailie, a diplomat of long standing, resorted this evening to polite trivialities. He began with the sea and the weather, asked for news of the voyage and then showed his personal interest in each of his guests. He was discussing lading matters with the notary Julius when the word Bologna was mentioned. He was at once reminded of Bessarion, that great churchman of Trebizond whose mother still lived in that city, and whose library had been left in this very town, Modon. He was speaking with, he thought, modest acceptance when Messer Pagano dropped his knife with a clatter, and began talking with animation of nothing until the Bailie, taking the hint, changed the subject.