The doors to the throne room were double, and made of worked bronze. They were opened by two officers of the ceremonial guard with their gilded cuirasses and gold-covered lances and shields. He knew one of them to be the deputy Protospatharios: Astorre had found him off duty two days before and joined his dice party and brought him back drunk for some food. Nicholas showed no recognition, and neither did the officer. Side by side with Doria, he entered the room.
White and gold. The vault over the range of slim, pillared windows was diced with gold and edged with a moulded cornice of delicate ovals and palmettes. Below, a dais and two backless ivory thrones glimmered in reflected light, soft as spun syrup. The floor was patterned in marble and where it stopped on the walls there were frescoes of past emperors and their consorts and children; arch-browed, stem-nosed, bow-mouthed; their heads buckled with diadems; their names and titles lettered into the spaces between the assorted quills of their sceptres.
The big chamber was crowded with people. No, lined. He and Doria were the only supplicants. A deep carpet, woven with pomegranates and peaches and pepper trees, crossed the marble before them from the door to the dais. He saw Doria’s eye caught by its possibilities; and saw him change his mind. No. The duel was over, for the moment. For the moment, Doria needed to gather his resources to do what he did best. To project his charm towards the dais, the thokos upon which the Emperor David and Helen his Empress were seated.
Put yourself in the other man’s place. The Emperor had chosen to receive them straight from the ceremony of the Easter service, and wore still the formal jewelled mitra, the gold and purple dalmatica with its broad stiffened bands. In his left glove he held the Imperial sceptre, and the right, on his knee, held the orb. On his feet were the scarlet buskins of Imperial dignity, there to be kissed. He smelled of incense and there was about him still, in his immobility, the remoteness of mystical experience, together with an awareness of ancient and unquestioned power. I am the Basileus, the Grand Comnenos, Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans and of Perateia. Where is Genoa? What is Florence?
Inside the robe was a full-bodied man in early middle age with fair, rosy cheeks shaped by a trimmed golden beard, lightly curling. Above the combed and curving moustache was a nose of Roman grandeur and eyes which were at present languid and empty of warmth. They rested, without changing, on the envoys before him. They moved on to dwell, for a moment, on the boxes and packets which had followed the envoys into the room. There is almost nothing in this world we have need of. But where tribute is customary, we shall accept it.
Only so far, on such evidence, could one judge the Emperor. Put yourself, then, in the place of the Empress, sitting beside him. She was here, why? Not from greed: she had not deigned to glance at the boxes. Then, doubly to impress the Imperial dignity upon the Latins whose help the Empire had been forced to solicit? After all, Trebizond had sent Michael Alighieri to Florence. Trebizond had joined its appeal to the others whose envoys were being bundled through Europe by Fra Ludovico da Bologna, bane of Julius; friend of Doria.
All her attention at this moment, as the two envoys stood bowing before her, was on the Genoese consul, and not on Nicholas. And Doria, discreetly, was permitting his admiration to be seen. Indeed, it was deserved. After nine children, Helen Cantacuzenes was less than slender, but the long metalled tunic gave her body a sheath that became it. Above its high jewelled gorget, her face gleamed like enamel between the cascades of pearls from her diadem. The hair gathered below it was dark, as were her eyes. When Nicholas lifted his head from his next bow, they were on him. He saw a single gleam, he thought, which might have been of curiosity, or even distaste.
He instantly lowered his own. What had she been told? The many ladies-in-waiting around her did not include Violante of Naxos. But there were other women behind whom he could not identify, just as there were many richly costumed men standing below the Imperial family who were not its servants, its guards or its chamberlains. Members, probably, of the native Trapezuntine families; the Grecian aristocrats he had heard of—the Ypsilanti, the Mouroussi—who had owned their estates long before the Latins threw the Emperor out of the New Jerusalem twelve hundred years after Christ had been thrown out of the old, and the Imperial brothers came to found their Empire of Trebizond here.
They looked to be powerful men; and their eyes, too, were fixed on Doria and himself. If there was danger coming (but what danger could there be?), men with a stake in the land would want to know what help they might expect from Genoa, the Mother-Republic, and Florence, the cashier of the Pope, regardless of any small differences in the matter of worship. The Patriarch, he now noticed, was not here.
The Secretary, bowing, made way. It was Amiroutzes the Treasurer, Count Palatine, Grand Vestarios, Great Domestic of Trebizond who now stepped forward, with his striped beard and teasing brown ringlets and wide stiffened hat, and announced them to his Emperor. Which first? But of course, Genoa. Mistress of the Levant, ancient thorn in the flesh of both emperors; but still capable of bringing lucrative trade, and clever technicians, and presents.
Walking forward, Doria held every eye. For all his lack of height, he was well made, and the green silk of the coat flattered his slow, easy movements. He reached the end of the carpet, paused, and then prostrated himself with courtly competence. The scarlet buskin rested above him on the low marble step. He kissed it, rose, and bowed his neck until the Emperor spoke. He had walked on the carpet throughout. Nicholas, too, had been tempted. But, like Doria, he recognised an irrelevance. That could wait.
Doria presented the folded parchment, tangled with bright silk and wax, that held his credentials. The Emperor touched it and passed it to his secretary. From where he stood, Nicholas could hear the Emperor’s voice, light and musical, and the thicker tones of the Treasurer, translating. Veteran of Rome, Florence, Genoa, Amiroutzes spoke in Italian strongly accented in Greek. Observing etiquette, Doria responded in the same tongue. Two young men—his sons?—stood at the Treasurer’s back. One of them, by all accounts, was Bessarion’s godson.
Nicholas wondered how much of the Greek tongue Pagano Doria possessed. All he needed, very likely. He had been in the East, on and off, for a good part of his life. At any rate, Amiroutzes was taking no liberties with the Emperor’s words, which he translated exactly. They contained nothing new, beyond a formal welcome, a formal message of goodwill to their magnificent lords the seigneurs of the Republic of Genoa, followed by a brief confirmation of the terms of the Genoese tenure and privileges which already obtained in the colony. It was the existence of the previous agreement that had enabled Doria so adroitly to accomplish his business. The best one could say was that there was no hint that the terms might be bettered. The Genoese, in the past, had been officious agents. Charming, deferential, Pagano Doria was the right man to correct that impression.
Then came the presentation of gifts. The Greek steward named as Paraskeuas brought each item to Doria, and it passed from his hands to those of the Treasurer. The goblets, the spices, the bolts of fine woollen cloth (the Ciaretti had none to offer) were superb, and costly. Two hundred ducats had gone to pleasing the Basileus. The Basileus expressed pleasure. The gifts vanished. Doria, bowing three times, retreated to a place by the lesser magnates. And now, Claes himself.
He never tried to forget, at moments like these, his base upbringing; his disputed origins. But for those, he might not have had to seek out this past eighteen months all he possessed in nature to cancel them. He knew his strengths, one of which was the effectiveness of his body. And he had stood a long time, minutely observing, outside the church.
He moved therefore slowly, as the Imperial family walked, and with the same carriage. But where Doria had solicited, he kept his eyes strictly downcast, through the words of the introduction and after. The Prostration he had been taught by the mistress of such things: he was sorry she was not here to be gratified. He delivered the ritual kiss and stood, lids lowered still, until the Emperor spoke. When he raised
his eyes, and met those of the Emperor, he felt the hair rise on his forearms. It was true, then. She had been seldom explicit, and he had not been sure. He set the knowledge aside, and went on with the process on which he was launched.
First, the formal letter signed in Florence by Cosimo de’ Medici setting out the agreement, embellished with greetings and compliments. This was handed over to the Emperor and read. Through Amiroutzes, the Emperor knew the House of Medici. It was why he had sent Alighieri his envoy to Florence. A private letter from the same Michael Alighieri was already in the Emperor’s hands, forewarning him of the terms for this contract. That the Palace had then commanded this audience ought to mean that the Emperor had found the conditions acceptable. On the other hand, one never quite knew. One merely stood, mildly patient, and waited.
The letters were read and translated. The Emperor spoke, interpreted by his treasurer. The Emperor, taking the contract item by item, agreed item by item to every one of its points. Every one. They were to get everything that had been agreed: everything that they and the Medici had wanted. Nicholas listened, his expression soberly gratified, his inner being drunk with delight. The details ran on and ended and the Emperor waved the document away and remained for a moment, studying the Florentine consul, before delivering the usual coda. The Emperor hoped that the Republic of Florence, through their agent the company of Charetty, would respect the customs and sovereignty of his lands, and that the concessions to which they were admitted today would lead to a long association, full of honour. Nicholas responded in nicely tuned Tuscan and Loppe brought forward Florence’s gifts to the Imperial family. The Emperor watched Loppe, calmly curious, as if there were no negroes already among the quiet line of servants, or among the beardless men by the door to the women’s apartments.
The gifts were more than adequate, being mostly bales of double-cut velvet in Imperial colours: crimson on gold; purple patterned on black and tissue of silver. Once, it was forbidden to common men to dye purple in the Imperial grades; but not now. He had chosen some stuff with a ground of red velvet, scattered with rosebuds in silver thread and white silk. Unfolded, it brought a little sigh from some woman, but Nicholas didn’t look round. At the end he said, “These are what I ventured to bring. But if Thrice-Augustus will permit, there is a greater gift which awaits at your gates. The Domesticus of the Imperial guard knows its nature.”
It had been well rehearsed. The Protospatharios stepped forward, bowed and spoke to the Emperor, who turned. Before Amiroutzes translated, Nicholas knew what he was saying. “I am told that you have brought armed men for the Florentine service, and that these men will regard it as their duty, while stationed here, to protect my city. This is so?”
Nicholas agreed, his voice humble. If the Basileus deigned, the troop could be assembled under his balcony in a matter of moments. These men begged but a glimpse of the Emperor of the Imperial Family of the Hellenes, to serve whom they had travelled so far.
Permission was given, and a messenger sent. Nicholas could hear women speaking in whispers where they felt themselves secure from the eyes on the dais. The Emperor, who had been thoughtful, asked a question. “The Florentine consul was outside my church of Panaghia Chrysokephalos this morning?”
Amiroutzes was not at hand. Nicholas hesitated. He said in Greek, “Forgive me, Basileus. Yes.”
The Emperor appeared to rebuke. “Learning needs no apology. You heard the service?”
“I heard the music, Basileus,” Nicholas said. “I cannot find words for its excellence. In sound, and in the many uses of the mystery of Christian numbers.”
“You refer to the canon, the canticles?” the Emperor said.
Nicholas inclined his head, and was encouraged with a gesture to continue. He said, “The liturgy is new to me, but mathematics and ciphers are not. It seemed to this hearer, magnificence, that the second verse of the first ode was missing.”
The Emperor turned his eyes. His cousin the secretary said, “That is so, Basileus. The acrostic was incomplete. My lord the Florentine consul has observed correctly.”
“A gift for languages, and a gift for numbers,” said the Emperor. “Florence is fortunate. You spoke of troops.”
He could hear Astorre, outside, marching his men up to the wall. The Basileus, also hearing them, rose, upon which everyone bowed. Nicholas, straightening, was allowed to follow the Emperor to the balcony, and stand looking down on the shining rows of his ninety-eight men. They had spent three days polishing the armour they wore, and the Charetty blue plumes in their helmets might have been painted, so straight were their lines. They were better than the Imperial guard. Astorre, in front, had his good eye and his sewn eye trained like a hawk on the Emperor, and his sword held at the salute in both hands. It was as they had planned, which made it none the less miraculous. His liking for Astorre overwhelmed him, clearing a path through the other things.
Then the Emperor spoke, and a kid bag was placed in his hands and then transferred to those of the Domesticus who, bowing, carried it down to Astorre. It looked heavy. It should be, considering what the Emperor was getting. Astorre, receiving it, passed it to Thomas his deputy and performed, like an ancient and sinewy goat, the complete Prostration on the paving of the court. He rose, bowed, and walked off somewhere with the Protospatharios, his plumes crowing. Thomas, who looked almost smart, barked out orders in anglicised Flemish, bowed, and marched the men off down the slope.
The audience was ended. Inside the room, the Empress was already leaving between ranks of bowed heads. The Emperor, again enthroned, gave his gracious leave to both consuls to retire. Standing together again, Nicholas and his unruffled rival made their deferential retreat. This time, instead of the secretary, an equerry who had no Italian led them off through the Palace, taking them through passages not before seen and drawing to their attention a number of unexceptional appointments on the way to the courtyard. You would say that he had time to put off, or wished the consuls to linger. Pagano Doria who had, indeed, fluent Greek, conversed with him on trivial matters and then, falling back, engaged Nicholas in airy Genoese.
“And now, tell me,” said Pagano Doria, “how did you contrive those plague cases?”
“Tobias did it. Our physician,” said Nicholas. “Paint and lentils, I believe. I thought you said there was no silver left?”
“The Emperor’s bag? Don’t be deceived. Paint and lentils, my dear.” The sea prince was in no way put out, it was clear, by Astorre’s success with the Basileus. He said gaily, “To return to an earlier topic.”
“Your wife?” said Nicholas.
“No, yours. I’ve a letter from her lying about somewhere. She sent it to Trebizond to await your arrival. It came on a Genoese ship, and the merchants kept it until you got here. I took the liberty,” said Doria rapturously, “of opening it. I let Catherine read it as well. She couldn’t understand some of the words, although she could do it all right, I can tell you…Mother and daughter. We are fortunate, you and I, to have the use of them.”
To the east, you could see clear across the ravine and the town to the sea. Near at hand, Nicholas identified the line of the stables, the barracks, an arsenal, the mews, storehouses, an armourer’s, workshops. His nose located the kitchens and bakehouse with a fishpond and well close beside them. They were passing them all. After a few more paces, he said, “You have the letter with you?”
Doria laughed. “Here? No. It has by now, shall I say, something of a second-hand look to it. If you still want it, I’ll bring it to the stadium. You mean to go to the festival?”
“I have been invited,” Nicholas said. “But don’t trouble to bring it. Loppe will call.”
Doria smiled again. “He may call, but he won’t get the letter. At the Meidan, my dear. Nowhere else. Page upon page; and such suggestions! It made Catherine jealous.”
About the contents he was lying: Nicholas didn’t have to be told that. That there was a letter was probably true. It was unlikely to say very much. Marian had
probably sent it to Venice in January. It was only Doria’s possession of it that was…undesirable. And Catherine’s wilfulness. It was addressed to himself. She could have chosen to pass it on privately. It was from her mother, after all. Her mother, distracted perhaps by having found Catherine gone. Or else because…But no. Marian could have found out nothing more, or Doria would not have been ready to part with her letter.
If he was ready? If it was not just another feint; another touch of the goad in the charming game Doria was playing with him. Otherwise, why force him to accept it at the festival?
He walked on, countering Doria only with the silence Doria did not want. For the moment, a refusal to fight was his only safeguard. They were nowhere near the Middle Citadel gate. Instead, the equerry had turned towards a large pavilion set in lawns to the right, with a path before it which circled a fountain. Behind was the western wall of the Citadel, and the tops of the trees that lined the nearest bank of the gorge. Across the ravine was the ridge of St Eugenios; and behind that, the heights of the hill the Romans called Mithras. Sacred to gods which had not been celebrated today.
Nicholas turned. Behind, Loppe and the Greek had been stopped. Both looked mystified. In front, the equerry beckoned. Nicholas said, “Where are we going?”
Doria arched his brows, his eyes glinting. “You don’t know? Then why not enquire of the equerry? In your fluent Greek?”
He sounded entertained. Nicholas looked at the nature of the building before him and made, at last, some deductions. He wished, with all his heart, that he were back in the villa with Julius and Tobie and Godscalc. He contradicted himself quickly. This was what he had wanted. And what sense would it make to leave Doria alone here now? At least the proceedings might warm his hands and feet, which were icy. He said to the equerry, in Greek, “It is a bath house?”