“That’s the spirit,” said Nicholas. “Anyway, he’s wearing an Imperial coat. The Emperor must have called him to the same audience. He and I will have the chance of a civil word or two on the way. I’ll convey your good wishes.”
“You should kill him,” said Julius. He felt Godscalc’s hand on his shoulder and realised that within the church, the Easter service had begun, and he should be silent. Incense hung in the air, and the sound of men’s voices chanting, clear through the doors. Plain chant, without instruments. Julius, who had little interest in music, stared across at Pagano Doria, who gave him a smile full of charm, and then murmured in his wife’s ear. The girl laughed. Julius tightened his fists. He was almost better now. Well enough to hit someone.
Tobie, behind, caught Godscalc’s eye and then looked round for Loppe, who appeared to be reading Nicholas’s mind from the back. Godscalc’s hand remained where it was. After a while, he gave Julius a light, private cuff and removed it, as if satisfied with a restive horse. Julius remained gazing at the Genoese and occasionally frowning at Nicholas, who appeared to be committing to memory every person in sight, and had not looked towards Catherine again. Blurring the reverent silence imposed on those nearest to the church door were the murmuring sounds of conversation among the many hundreds standing further off in the open, and above and beyond, the commonplace cries of the City. Nicholas had stopped looking about. Godscalc said, in a voice that just reached him, “Acrostics. I told you.”
He was given the impression, unexpectedly, that his voice wasn’t wanted. Then Nicholas said, “Yes. I hear it.”
Within, the strong voices had turned from the canon to the great Akathistos Kontakion with its refrains, repeated over and over. Between the powerful charges of music the service began to unfold: there would be a passage of chanting, or a solo voice: Who is great like our God? You are the God who performs miracles. Or wordless prayer, in absolute silence. All must stand still, for the master of the house has come. The master has come, and will hear you.
The passion of the divine liturgy of the Greek Church climbed to its height. Of this, the envoys of the Prince of Kiev had reported: We knew not whether we were on heaven or on earth, for surely there is no such splendour or beauty anywhere upon earth. We cannot describe it to you: only we know that God dwells there among men, and that their service surpasses the worship of all other places. For we cannot forget that beauty. Stirred to reply, a nightingale in the western gully at Trebizond began a sweet descant to the great cry soaring now from the Chrysokephalos. Nicholas moved once, and was still. Unobtrusively, Godscalc watched him.
What had happened? It was the mark of a good priest to recognise facile emotion. It was the mark of a good man to refrain from exploiting it. Unwillingly, the priest in Godscalc considered the enigma beside him. Had there been some response? But to what? Here was great music. Here was an ancient and beautiful church, living shrine of the Logos, replica of heaven upon earth. Here was the last remnant of a great empire embodied in the Basileus, consecrated leader and lord of his people; guardian of the First and Purest Light.
A worthy emperor who, by his coronation oath, had sworn to uphold the most holy great Church of God: I, David, in Christ God faithful Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans submit to all truth and justice…All things which the holy fathers rejected and anathematised, I also reject and anathematise… The Emperor, who ruled like his forebears with God’s favour, and was kept hourly conscious of his mortality. Remember death! had chanted his minister, over and over, as the Basileus rose from his coronation and walked out to his people. Remember death! For you are dust, and to dust you will return. No man had fought more bravely for Constantinople, the Tabernacle of God, than its emperor, who had died there. “The city is taken, and I am still alive?” he had said, before dismounting, sword in hand, to lose his life to the Turks. What man on the threshold of life could fail to be stirred by those things? Passing Constantinople, Nicholas had said something of it. He should have understood better.
Thinking, insensibly Godscalc himself became drawn into the course of the mass whose words and music continued, clear to follow. For a while, his cares melted. But men were only men, and one couldn’t hope to ignore them. He knew, through it all, that Julius was still outstaring the cockerel opposite. Tobie, a reliable man when he wanted to be, had moved discreetly nearer. Tobie who believed in nothing, Godscalc thought, but his masters of nature, his antidotary and his urine glasses; and suffered for it sometimes more than he deserved.
Now, knowing the shape of the service, Godscalc heard the eucharistic rites draw to a close. About the time he expected, there came the blessing and dismissal, and the rustle that meant the procession was assembling and would shortly emerge. This time the churchmen came first and took their places on either side of the porch. The Patriarch and the archons with their names from the past: the Sceuophylax, the Sacellarius, the Chartophylax, the Staurophoroi. The bishops, the priests and the deacons. And now, given to God once again, David, the twenty-first Emperor of Trebizond and the superb Helen Cantacuzenes, his Empress. He stepped out, and Godscalc bowed with the rest as the procession formed and moved past, its silks beating out incense. The Emperor’s family first. The princess Anna his daughter, and an angelic host of young princes, her brothers and cousins. The Emperor’s exquisite Akocouthos, the page with the ceremonial bow. And the dark and beautiful woman who must be the Genoese widow Maria, who had married the Emperor’s brother.
Behind her was another lovely woman whom, this time, he knew. Violante of Naxos, their late fellow-passenger, wore the open diadem of a Comnenos princess, and was dressed, like the others, in the long, severe tunic with its high neck and tight sleeves, thickened with pearls and embroidery. Like the others, she looked neither to right nor to left although his eyes, and those of Julius, followed her until the end of the file hid their view. Rising from his genuflexion, Godscalc brushed the dust from his skirts. It would take a long time to push through the yard. Ahead, the gates were jammed as horses were brought, and the Imperial family mounted. A voice said, “We are not waiting. My husband has often seen such things before. It was a waste of time, your coming to Trebizond, because my husband sells and buys all the best things, being of the Doria family. I am married now.”
The girl Catherine. Godscalc braced himself. Doria, naturally, would have planned to get Nicholas on his own at the Palace. The girl had darted across before her bridegroom could stop her. Avid, of course, to arrange a confrontation between husbands. And to show herself. She was wearing expensive earrings, too heavy for her young face. And the same face, somehow, was sharper than he remembered it. She was saying “Where is he?”
Godscalc followed her gaze. Where Nicholas had been, there was no one. Loppe, too, had evaporated. Out of the side of his eye, he saw Tobie looking smug. Pagano Doria, strolling up, said, “My dear, think of Modon. He’s always running about. You’ll see him later, I’m sure.”
Left to himself, Doria might have got her away. Instead, he had Julius in front of him, already murderous, and made more so by the desertion of Nicholas. Julius lunged and, before Godscalc could stop him, caught Catherine fast by the arm. He said, “Married? I’ll believe that when I see the papers. Until then, this is where you belong.”
He had addressed her in Flemish, but his voice and his action were recklessly explicit. Heads were turning. Protective of their consul, the Genoese were already stepping forward, vermilion swinging. Catherine de Charetty stared at Julius and then, severely, at his hand on her arm. She did not scream, and made no effort to struggle. Instead, she cast a complacent glance at her husband and waited.
Godscalc didn’t give Doria a chance to make matters worse. Godscalc raised a hand like a cleaver and brought it down on the arm holding the girl, which fell limp to the notary’s side. Then, as Julius whirled, exclaiming, the priest seized him by shoulder and elbow. On his other side, Tobie did likewise. Julius, a powerful man, began to struggle painfully.
Pagano
Doria watched, and the Genoese now grouped behind him. He turned to his wife. “Caterinetta? At least your priest believes in your marriage, it seems. I am less fond of your notary. Shall we hand him to the church officers, for causing violence in the church precincts, in the Emperor’s presence? Or what?”
From its scabbard under his coat, Doria had drawn a handsome small dagger. It looked familiar. He smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Messer Julius. It is not your name on the blade.” His hand made a small movement. The steel gave a flash, and Julius made a furious movement. A long wrinkle appeared on one leg, above which the broken end of a hosepoint hung down.
“Naked on Easter Monday in the churchyard. What, I wonder, is the penalty for that?” Doria said. Catherine giggled. The dagger flashed again, and Julius jumped. On his other side, Tobie half loosed his grip. Godscalc, keeping his own, said sharply, “Cease at once. You disgrace your republic.” There was blood now on the stocking where Julius, struggling, had caught the knife. It nicked again. Tobie said, “All right. I’m going to—”
Father Godscalc offered, in German, a furious prayer for patience. He braced himself for the move that would heave Julius round and run him out of the crowd. Then he was saved the trouble.
“My lords?” said Violante of Naxos. “The Emperor sends to ask if he can help the man who is sick? Why, Messer Julius!”
The hooded eyes, sedately amused, contradicted the concern and reproach in her voice. She spoke, musically, in her native Greek. She bent, and touched with her handkerchief the blood staining the notary’s calf. “Messer Tobias, he has hurt himself. This should be seen to.” The handkerchief, of transparent silk edged with gold thread, was being folded and neatly tied over the scratch. The lady rose. “There. Now take him away and let him rest. These turns are dangerous. You will need to take care.”
She smiled at Julius. She was saying, of course, that he must leave. The rest of them had to reach Nicholas, wherever he was, and achieve their ceremonial march to the Palace. Without their notary. Well, that would do no harm. In the end, it was Nicholas, alone, who would enter the Palace gates. Alone, or with the Genoese consul. The lady Violante, instead of retiring, was walking beside them, along the path and away from Doria.
Godscalc glanced back. The gaiety and malice had left Doria’s face for the moment. Perhaps, thought Godscalc, the scene had been a matter of impulse, now regretted. And did he know the woman Violante, as Nicholas claimed? Her intervention, as it happened, had saved them all; and her motives could be innocuous. Brawling wouldn’t help trade, and she was married to a Venetian merchant.
Catherine, too, was staring as they receded. Specifically staring at Julius, who was looking not at all at his mistress’s lovely young daughter. Instead, he was gazing, in silence, at the painted woman who had just interfered. A woman in the Imperial diadem who yet knew his name, and that of Master Tobias. Who, therefore, must be—could only be—the Byzantine passenger who had sailed from Pera with Nicholas.
She was beautiful. And rich. And a princess. Her scent lingered. It was not, Catherine recognised, the composite odour of Trebizond. It was a perfume quite different: a distinctive, a familiar perfume, that belonged to another city altogether.
Her face, already sharp, became sharper. Then she looked for Pagano, and slipped her fingers into his hand and pressed it, so that he looked down and put his other arm round her shoulders. “What a crew!” he said. “Was that alarming? You didn’t think I’d let them snatch you?”
Already the horses were coming. Hers to take her, escorted, back to the Leoncastello. His to carry him to the Palace, there to present his credentials. As, it seemed, the consul for Florence would also be doing.
The Florentines. Catherine laughed up at his face. “Who was ever afraid of a stupid notary? Now,” she said, “you must make Nicholas jump.”
Nicholas said, “I’ve got my hat, and the letter, and the money, and Loppe with the presents and a white flag, and a bone for the dragon. If I’m not out in ten minutes, come and help me up from my stomach.”
They stood in the Upper Citadel, squared up inside the main gate holding their horses. A little distance away, drawn up in vermilion ranks, was the contingent of Genoese merchants. In a moment, the Emperor’s emissary would come: the Protonotarios, or the Chief Secretary, or the Treasurer Amiroutzes, and lead the two consuls, each with one servant, into the Presence. It was a long walk, they had been told, from the lower courtyard up to the Palace. It was strongly probable that Nicholas and Doria would make it together.
They had told Nicholas, of course, what had happened to Julius. He thought himself that he would have dealt with it differently, but he wasn’t Godscalc. Tobie’s eyes had bored into his back all the way up the hill.
In the end it was the Chief Secretary, Altamourios, the Emperor’s cousin, who came and greeted Doria and himself and then, bearing his wand, led the way up the steep incline to the Palace. Nicholas took his place behind, next to Doria. Behind them both came Loppe and Doria’s man, a Trapezuntine, with the consular gifts. Doria had emeralds fitted into his hat and the chain he wore over his coat. He looked magnificent. He said, “My Niccolino, I have hopes of you at last. You had the cunning to vanish. What a fool your poor Julius is. You know very well my little treasure cannot be coaxed from me, now or ever.”
“Condemned to permanent bliss,” Nicholas said. “Do you mind?”
Turning, Doria put a hand on his arm, and leaned on it warmly. “I surprise myself,” he said. He removed his hand, but walked on, confidingly close. “This little Catherine offers more than you would imagine. Small but pliant, and tireless. Have you tried her? No, I got her a virgin. And you have the mother, so doubtless kept your hands off the girls. But I tell you, she would serve a squadron all winter, and still have energy left in the spring. The refinements she has learned! You could try them with the old woman. When I mount, I get her to slip her fingers…”
“It would be more exciting,” Nicholas said, “if we got the girl to instruct me herself.”
Doria broke off, looking at him, and then gave a sigh of appreciation. “You’re right. And, do you know, she would probably tell you. Catherine pities your ignorance of the piquant arts: we talk of it often. I believe she thinks, the young innocent, that you have had none to coach you but her wrinkled mother.” He walked, the smile fixed on his face by his thoughts. “You know, my Niccolino, I might some time lend you my wife for an hour or two. She would do it for me. And for herself, to show off her skills. She has tricks from every whorehouse in Italy. Naturally, you wouldn’t tell her their provenance.”
“Naturally,” Nicholas said. “The lady Violante is much the same.”
Two, three, four paces in silence. Although he kept swallowing, he couldn’t clear what was stuck in his throat.
Then Doria said, “Ah yes. They told me someone sailed on your ship. An inventive partner, you thought?”
“She made rather more of it in Bruges,” Nicholas said. “What will you find for yourself while you’re here? The whores will leave if there’s war.”
“War?” said Doria. “Look about you! A one-legged man could hold Trebizond. They can’t broach the walls from the sea. The mountain roads wouldn’t let them bring cannon. They can’t starve us out because they’d have to leave before winter. Of course, the Emperor will love your soldiers, but that’s not because he has any serious fears. Uzum Hasan is the target. That will interrupt the caravans from the south—maybe stop them. You didn’t put your silk on sale when you should.”
They had climbed the steps—the endless steps—and come at last to a doorway. Nicholas said, “You’ve been selling already? But there’s nothing to buy in exchange. They tell me the autumn ships emptied the stockrooms.”
“Ah, Niccolino!” said Pagano Doria. With fond attention, he examined the inlaid marbles of the flanking pillars before them, and then raised his gaze, with affection, to the man at his side. “You have a lot to learn. Of course, there is nothing to barter. There is no a
ssurance of those precious goods you are waiting to buy if the Sultan is fighting across the caravan routes. So one must look for other returns for one’s goods. I insisted on silver. There is not much left in Trebizond, and there was some little resistance. But I can tell you, my dearest Niccolò, that I now have under lock and key—many locks, many keys—all the mint can provide in this city. There is none left for you, or the Florentines.” He smiled again. “But will Cosimo think less of you for your failure? Of course not. You play with his grandson.”
“What is trade,” said Nicholas, “except playing with somebody?”
Then the doors opened on a dazzle of white and gold, and the sound of many voices, and music and a ripple of scents. The honey of Trebizond which, poison or not, was a draught of spring water after what he had allowed to be given him.
He could feel Loppe, black as murder, behind him. He knew the first words Loppe would say, when this was over. “How will you kill him?”
He had no need to think of his answer. It was the same as all the other times. All the other five times.
“I never kill,” he would say.
Chapter 19
THE INNER PALACE, high as a stork’s nest, sat on marble pillars around a fountain court scented with myrtle. Through every window and terrace and balcony there showed a different aspect of the Fortunate City: the greens and blues of forest and mountain, ocean and sea; the red vine-bowered roofs of the City, the leafy depths of the twin gorges, full of spring flowers and tumbling water and birdsong. Led from passage to chamber, Doria at his side, Nicholas was quiet, and recovered his tranquillity. Calmness was a weapon and a defence; beauty was only a weapon and best left alone. He was to face the Emperor of the eastern Greek world, and he employed his only real rule. Put yourself in the other man’s place. War and trade; love and freedom from love—it was the way to success in them all. When he failed, it was because he had forgotten it. Or, occasionally, because someone was better at it than he was. But only occasionally.