The dismissal did not immediately come. The Emperor said, “Others have spoken thus.”
Amiroutzes said, “I thought you doubted them. That is why—But if, magnificence, you wish to reopen the matter, then perhaps Messer Niccolò should remain and debate with us all?”
There was a pause. Yes. No. The Emperor said, “We wish to consider these things at leisure. It is time for dinner.”
He rose and left, with his immediate suite, amid his flattened council. Nicholas rose without haste, and looked for the Emperor’s commander. In front of him was a chamberlain saying, “May I escort you, before the gates close? These days, it is as difficult sometimes to leave the Upper Citadel as it is to get in.”
“I thought to complete a little business,” said Nicholas. He stood where he was.
A hand took his arm. “Tomorrow, perhaps,” said the Count Palatine. “When no doubt we shall draw again upon your wisdom and your eloquence. We are fortunate, Messer Niccolò, to have you and your men as our bastion. But when inner councils are held, you will realise, those not of the Empire are obliged to depart.”
“Of course,” said Nicholas. “And when you are ready to receive Captain Astorre, you have only to tell us.”
The news became known soon enough, and in forms he would not have chosen. Warned a little, he and the rest did what they could to belittle it. There was no panic; but it became harder to forge the weapons of ebullience and ridicule against the constant taunting uproar outside. It became apparent, from the flag flying there, that the Turkish admiral had made his headquarters in the Genoese castle. “They’ll make him governor, I shouldn’t wonder, once the Sultan gets in,” Tobie said.
Nicholas said, “No.” For once, they were all, except Astorre, in their lodging, and Tobie was occupied in his eternal task of refilling and checking his ointments. Pestilence was the enemy most besieged cities finally fell to, and he and the palace physicians had set out, from the start, to do all that they could to prevent it. With the winds and the heights for their ally, it seemed as if they would. But there was still disease and wounding and death; and few places for burial. Tobie worked long hours, and then talked for release.
It helped him to bait Nicholas, whose denial, he knew, had nothing to do with the admiral’s chances of promotion. Tobie said, “You’re obsessed. It was a joke. No one will hear us.”
“The servants will,” Nicholas said. “And the Venetians. This city is not going to fall to the Turks. There is no danger whatever. And we never speak, even in jest, as if there were. And if I hear you do it again, I’ll make you forcibly sit on your falx. Do you really know about camel diseases?”
“Dysentery, rupture, saddle galls, mange and the flux. Man or beast, I can cure them. Why? You want me in partnership once the Sultan…That,” said Tobie sharply, “was a damned sight too much. Keep your feet to yourself.”
“Then do as I say,” said Nicholas. “Or get kicked.”
A week passed; and the message Nicholas was waiting for came. By then, he was aware, only Astorre was still treating him with his natural irreverence. The others had become guarded, with reason. Godscalc came back that night, tired from his own heavy round of pastoral duties. With most of the Venetians gone, there were few to share his burden among the Latin community; and besides, he gave his services freely, as they were freely accepted, by the suffering of every persuasion.
Nicholas let him sleep the night through, and hold his first mass of the day and then, instead of leaving himself on his rounds, he tapped on the door of the small room that Godscalc, alone of them all, had to himself; because in it was his altar, and there he received those who needed him. Now, when he heard who it was, he crossed and opened the door himself, and stood without speaking. Nicholas said, “I thought to spare you this. I am sorry.”
Godscalc, too, had changed from the big, unkempt man who had, with a light, amused hand, unravelled the machinations of Pagano Doria at Pisa. Friendship with his fellow religious had caused him to neaten his clothes and reduce his tattered black hair to something more seemly, although he still moved more like a man of his fists than a man of the Church, and his greatest battle, still, was the one to disguise his natural temper. Now, brought face to face with what he had long recognised as the fight of his life, he stood where he was and said, “I am busy.”
“I know,” said Nicholas. There was a pause. He said, “So is Tobie.”
The door was still open behind him. There was another silence. Godscalc said, “Then why leave it so late?”
“Because I thought I could do it alone,” Nicholas said. “Mistakenly.” There was a rare line between his remarkable eyes, but the rest of his face—scar, dimples, all that was vulnerable—was hidden and clothed by his beard. He said, “But I’ll go away if you wish.”
“And do what alone?” Godscalc said.
“Go to the Sultan,” said Nicholas.
Chapter 37
“I’M SURPRISED,” Godscalc said. “I had the impression you felt you could do anything.” He closed the door and watched Nicholas wander to the opposite side of the room, where the balcony gave on to the crowded courtyard. He said, “I suppose you had better shut that door as well.” He thought for a moment Nicholas hadn’t heard him; then the boy closed the door and came back and sat down.
Nicholas said, “Well, you’re angry. And I was wrong. There has to be a team, in case something happens to me.”
Godscalc sat down briskly himself. “Your wife is capable,” he said. “You can hardly imagine that we would abandon her?”
“No. You would stay from duty. It is a different thing,” Nicholas said.
There was a pause, which Godscalc did not break. The boy had to learn. If he didn’t learn now, it was too late. At length Nicholas said, “There are disadvantages, when one is brought up as a servant. Men of different rank have different customs. Men of the same rank are vulnerable—” He broke off. He said, “Even Loppe knows I don’t trust him.”
“He would give his life for you,” Godscalc said.
Nicholas said, “Regardless of anything else. That is why.”
Godscalc considered that, and set it aside for the moment. He said, “And what is this burden, then, that you have elected to carry alone; and why do you bring it me now?”
“Because I can’t carry it,” Nicholas said. “I’m not competent. And I can’t risk being wrong. So your peace of mind is what I decided to sacrifice.”
“You underrate me,” said Godscalc. “Today is the first day I could claim peace of mind since we both came to Trebizond. And don’t mistake me again. I know it’s not your soul that is in question. Yes, I knew about Doria’s secret consignment of arms. Yes, I have been angry with you. You gave me a pretty lecture, some of it true. But this was a barrier of your own making. You kept quiet, I suppose, to save us from making the choice. Specifically, to exclude me. You must have a poor opinion of militant church.”
He had seen a man look like that when he had hit him in the face. He had never seen a man accept it in silence, uncomplaining. Nicholas said, “John would agree with you. Will you help me?”
“You would pay my fee?” Godscalc said. And then smiled and said, “You don’t quite know your way about as yet, do you? That is one debt you won’t have to face. But the crux of the matter, as you say, is the arms.”
He watched the boy recover. It was smooth, and nearly invisible. Nicholas said, “Yes. At least, that is the catalyst. Arms and armour bought from Louis de Gruuthuse. They were in the Ribérac ship when Simon stole it from his father. Doria said nothing of them at Pisa or Genoa. He perhaps hoped to sell them at Constantinople, but the plague scare prevented him. Perhaps he hoped on the way to barter them for…something else, but time was against him. He arrived at Trebizond holding them in reserve, as might be, to obtain the Emperor’s favour. For whatever reason, he kept them on board until the round ship was dismantled; and then he brought them ashore. I know where they are.”
Since the siege began,
they had seen more of the ship-master Crackbene than they had of Doria; and the visits of Paraskeuas had stopped. Since that acrimonious exchange in the garden, the Turks had burned Alighieri’s fondaco to the ground: they had heard the catcalls, and had witnessed the fiames. The threats made there by Catherine’s husband seemed equally to have vanished. Godscalc said, “How do you know?”
“Catherine. Before she left,” Nicholas said. “But don’t read too much into that, either. I don’t think she’s abandoned her husband entirely. I think she’s set him a test without realising, perhaps, all the consequences. Certainly, he has tried to get rid of me often enough since she went.”
Godscalc sat up. “Not by his own hand,” Nicholas said. “And Loppe, as you noticed, goes with me everywhere. Or almost everywhere. Violante of Naxos also knew Doria had a cargo of arms but did not, I think, tell anyone. In any case, she has gone.”
“Where?” said Godscalc.
Nicholas shrugged faintly. “To Georgia…Tana…I don’t know. She has friends. A fishing boat would take a single person of such eminence anywhere. And so the problem is mine.”
“A consignment of arms so great that they would affect the course of the war; and in your gift? That is the problem?” said Godscalc.
A rocking stool was his answer. Nicholas stood with his back to the window and said, “Of course not! What do you think we’re talking about? That load of iron might affect the war for ten minutes; an hour; a day; but that’s all. Of course, any one of the parties would be glad to have it. Of course, whoever gets it is going to be grateful. That isn’t the point. The point is the fact that it wasn’t delivered.”
“By Doria? But you said yourself that he might be saving it for favours,” Godscalc said. Briefly, he prayed God to forgive him the exultation he was feeling.
“Don’t you think the time for soliciting favours has come? And there is the lady Violante, who vowed she told no one about it but myself. I believe her. In fact, I know that she didn’t. So, why?”
Godscalc rose and walked to where the other man stood, and fitted his shoulders into the post of the window. “Tell me,” he said.
Nicholas spoke, his eyes on the courtyard. “Because they don’t know who is going to rule Trebizond,” he said. “There were three contenders. The Emperor, who possesses it. The Ottoman Sultan. And the lord Uzum Hasan, currently an ally of Trebizond, but only out of fear of the Sultan.”
“Uzum Hasan would never rule Trebizond,” Godscalc said. “If it fell into his power he might impose tolls; ask for Muslim concessions. But the White Sheep don’t live in towns. He would leave it to his Greek kinsmen. After all, the lady Violante…”He stopped.
“The lady Violante knew I knew that,” Nicholas said. “I was allowed to meet Hasan Bey’s mother and reassure myself. The case was made tactfully clear. The White Sheep required, without stint, all the help that could be arranged from Sinope or from Georgia, but no harm would come to Christians, or trade. Especially trade. Florence would find some niche under any lord, but under Uzum Hasan Venice would thrive through his niece’s Venetian husband. On the other hand—” He paused. “On the other hand, without that extra help, the White Sheep tribe could not be expected to sacrifice itself. Not this time. Not yet.”
Godscalc said, “You said yourself, all that was needed of them was a little resistance until the season had ended. That is still the case.”
“No,” Nicholas said. “They are not resisting at all. The Palace doesn’t know of it yet; but the White Sheep have not simply intimated that they will refrain from aggression. They’ve surrendered the north to the Sultan on any terms he cares to make, and given him Hasan Bey’s mother as hostage. I have just had word. The Sultan is forcemarching straight through to Trebizond.” He made a space. He said, “So now there are only two contenders.”
In the courtyard, a woman was berating a servant. The noise came to them faintly. “Even so,” Godscalc said, “the city is impregnable.” He watched the other man’s face.
Nicholas said, “Yes. It is impregnable. But no one has given the Emperor the armour from the Doria.” And he brought his eyes back from the courtyard. Neither moved. Then Nicholas laughed and, lifting one hand, spread its fingers. He said, “I told Astorre, when he saw that, to take me off to a brothel.”
“But you came instead to a priest. I am glad,” Godscalc said. “I know what you are saying, and we are going to sit, and drink a full glass of wine, and discuss it. And you will not bear the brunt of all this alone. I promise you that. Whatever blame there is, it will fall on me, too.”
Pouring the wine, he kept his back to the boy so that he should not see that the priest’s hands, also, were shaking.
A week later, it became known that this young character, the head of the Charetty company, had been taken ill with the fever again, and that the doctor had given up everything else to look after him. Without his cheerful face, the tedium of the siege became a little more obvious, and the edge of fear now lurking below it. But luckily, there was the reassurance of Captain Astorre’s constant presence: in the town, on the ramparts, in the Palace, putting good heart into everybody. There had been time to train others, and set a good routine; and even Pagano Doria found it convenient to slacken his childish vendetta, having other things of more note on his mind. Nor did he object when, having no chaplain, his officers asked leave to make use of the Charetty priest Godscalc. July moved towards August, and the City steamed in the heat.
In the mountains behind, it was cooler; and women were better off than men, although it did not stop Sara Khatun’s servingwomen from complaining. On the last stretch of the journey, even the light two-wheeled covered carriage the Sultan had given her had proved impossible, and she had resorted to the cane palanquin, hand-carried, that she had brought from Erzerum, leaving the women to ride. They were among the few with that privilege, of those who travelled with the Ottoman army. Without tents, without guns, without any scrap of baggage that would hinder them, the combined armies of the Sultan Mehmet and his Grand Vizier Mahmud had forcemarched in a sweep to the east after the governor of Little Rum, whom hell receive, had taken her son’s mountain castle at Koyulhisar. The border fortress they had thought would resist him. And since then, the Janissaries had overrun most of the main posts and passes, although some, she observed, they circumvented. Lightly armed, lightly provisioned, with almost none of their cavalry, the Sultan and his army had chosen to make speed their chief weapon: speed and surprise.
The Ottomans were not going to hold this country unless they made peace with her son. They would be lucky to hold Koyulhisar through the winter. Through the winter, her son Uzum Hasan and his forces would retreat into the mountains of Armenia and the plains beyond the river Euphrates, to emerge and attack when it suited them. The Sultan didn’t want that. But equally, the Sultan knew her son’s weaknesses. The White Sheep were nomads, with the wilfulness that nomads displayed; unlike the drilled, silent efficiency of the Ottomans. And their dashing cavalry skills were no use in this great range of mountains. The mountains the Sultan had to traverse if he wished to reach and challenge Trebizond. As it was now clear he did.
Sara Khatun had been with the Sultan’s army now for several weeks, and he had treated her and her entourage of Kurdish and Turcoman nobles with exemplary respect as she had never doubted he would; even to naming her Mother. If she had been, she would have reduced his drinking by half. The prince of twenty-three who had taken Constantinople and (fortunately for her sake) saw himself as a second Alexander conquering a second Darius of Persia, was now a beak-nosed and inflated 31-year-old. A man who spoke Arabic, Persian and Greek and liked gardens, mathematicians, catamites, military strategy and making up excellent poetry. She was less enamoured of his Grand Vizier Mahmud who, like all Christian converts, followed his new faith with unpleasant devotion. He was of course a first-class commander, but not a popular one. It had been a man from Bursa who had burst into his tent and taken a knife to him only last week. He had done nothin
g but slit his nose and the upper part of his mouth, and the Sultan’s Italian physician had seen to it at once. Since Mahmud’s troops and her own party had separated and drawn ahead of the Sultan, the wound had begun to irk him again. She was delighted.
Just over the Zigana summit, she announced that she would leave her litter and ride downhill herself. By horse, unfortunately, since the camel she favoured was sick. Later, Mahmud Pasha sent to tell her that the camel doctor she had sent for had come, and she had nodded her approval from behind her black horsehair veil, which she would never have troubled to wear in Erzerum or Diyarbekr. When they made camp in the end, she was told they were only three miles short of Trebizond, but in the dusk she could see nothing but a ridge of black trees reflected in grassy water, which soon gave back also the light of the torches and cooking-fires. Only the Vizier’s party and her own possessed tents. The rest razed the small trees and the dense undergrowth on the slopes, and made beds of myrtle and juniper and purple spiraea, with charcoal for cooking and smudge fires for the gnats.
As ever, the piyade remained tidily disposed in their units, without shouting or laughter, and their conversation, such as it was, rarely exceeded a murmur. Like those of the Sultan, many of the Vizier’s personal servants were mutes: deft, obedient, and incapable of displeasing rejoinders. On the march, or in battle, the army had no need for human command, since it obeyed the voice of the drum. The drum horses went with them everywhere. Unstrapped, the drums were their kettles, and stood steaming full of boiled wheat and fat flesh, while the Janissaries made spoons of their drumsticks. They did so tonight, daisy-ringed round the fires in their gleaming white bonnets.
After her own meal, Sara Khatun wrapped her head in the horsehair; called for Sheikh Hüseyin Bey, and walked irritably into the night to find the camel doctor and discover what he had done for her animal. Sheikh Hüseyin, a cousin of her son’s Kurdish wife, went ahead beating men with his stick and asking questions in the Turcoman vernacular. Finally they discovered the fellow sprawled beside a small fire playing draughts and holding a large, leaking bread-poke of yoghourt. A blood-stained cloth hung from his neck. The draught pieces were white pebbles and pellets of dung, and the board was a neckcloth on which the squares were half rubbed off by use.