Nicholas said, “They’ve found Tolfa. How fortunate.”
“The best form of defence,” the Greek said. “Yes. Giovanni da Castro has found Tolfa, just as the last alum mine falls under Turkish control. Are you complaining? You did get to Sebinkarahisar? Your round ship is full of alum: the last, untaxed, high-quality alum in the world, which will serve the dyemasters of Europe until the mining of Tolfa begins, under a Medici franchise, with special rights reserved to my brother Zorzi?”
“Who told da Castro where to look?” Nicholas said. “The Bailie, after all, is cousin to Piero Bembo.”
“Prove it,” said the Greek blandly. “At least, the Genoese will get nothing more: you should be glad of it. I hear you wrested the child from her abductor. A hero, if a hesitant one. Faced with the lord Doria, her mother, yourself, could you not have selected her protector seven months ago, and saved a great deal of trouble? A rehearsal for Trebizond. I began to think I should die of old age before you made your decision. A decadent emperor; an undeveloped Turcoman leader; an Ottoman chief who is bent on conquering Asia and Europe. Could you not see what would happen?”
“Not as clearly as the Venetians did,” Nicholas said. “They didn’t want to risk their ships in the Black Sea, and they knew they couldn’t hold off the Turks or the Turcomans, so they chose someone expendable to handle it. I must admit,” he added, “I was thrown off the scent by the Great Church and its chorus. Who is great like our God? You are the God who performs miracles. They prayed to the Immaculate God in Holy Travail on the very spot where the Sultan is now praying; and the nightingale…”
“Sang for them both,” said the Greek. “Emulate the nightingale. Sing. You are alive; and Doria is dead.”
“Shouldn’t he be alive?” Nicholas said. “He was only playing a game.”
The Greek said, “You speak as if you blame me.”
“I do,” said Nicholas. “Oh, the ultimate blame was mine. A team needs conflict to mould it, and I encouraged mine to perceive Doria as a natural enemy. He responded. I didn’t stop them. He was drawn beyond his ability, and it destroyed his marriage as well. Without me, Catherine would be happy today. Without you.”
“Explain,” said the Greek.
“I don’t think I shall trouble,” said Nicholas. “I was told you had a letter for me.”
“Explain,” said the other man calmly.
“What is there you don’t know?” said Nicholas. “I was brought here by Venice, and Venice have been behind everything that has happened. Oh, I was supposed to be agent for Florence; but that hardly mattered. If the Turks lost, Florence would have a flourishing base for its trade. If the Turks won, killing us all, in time another Florentine agent would come, and be welcomed, for the Sultan esteems Florence, which has no pretensions to empire.” He got up suddenly and stood, looking down.
“Go on,” said the Greek.
Nicholas said, “But Venice knew that the Turk was going to win. She knew the Empire was decadent. She knew Uzum Hasan was weak. She suspected Georgia would fail to rise and was fairly sure that no help would come from the West. She rather wanted her people out of the City, but didn’t want to lose ships over it; and in any case the Bailie, provided he behaved himself, would probably be perfectly safe. She very much wanted her Genoese rival destroyed, but had already been warned off by the Emperor and the Genoese traders at Caffa. The answer was to fling me in, and see what I made of it. At the best, I might get their goods out. At the worst, they’d make no more enemies. So that when the Sultan has settled the City, and all the churches are mosques, and the new owners have rebuilt their houses, her merchants can come back: with no bias and no opprobrium and excellent tax cuts, as happened in Pera. If it fell out as it should, I should have my merchandise and my alum and cause for nothing but reverent gratitude. If it didn’t, I should be dead, and no one any worse off.”
“You talk,” said the Greek, “as if Venice were in daily communion with God.”
“No. Only with the White Sheep,” Nicholas said. “Violante knew, didn’t she, that Catherine was with Doria? She didn’t tell me; for I might have stopped her, and turned back, and never gone to Trebizond at all. Catherine was the bait. Doria was the manufactured object of hate, through whom the Genoese trade was to be ruined. And has been ruined. And I didn’t see it all until too late.” He was talking to himself, for there was no one else to talk to. He said, “I envied Doria.”
“Not his possession of Catherine?” said the Greek sharply.
The incongruity recalled him to himself. He sat down. “Hardly. No. His freedom. He cared for nobody. He was free. Free of conscience. Free of responsibility.”
“As you used to be,” the Greek said. “Would you wish to go back?”
“Yes, I should wish to,” Nicholas said. “But I know too much now. Or I should be dead like Doria.”
“And so?” said the Greek. “What now? Jason is dead, but the Fleece is still in the world, and the White Sheep, for that matter. There is a knight of Rhodes, I believe, about to join you for supper. He will talk about sugar. And there is another man who will tell you about furs. But perhaps trade has become anathema? Or trading in baubles? You would tell me that you prefer a cargo of grain stained with other men’s blood to a cargo of feathers and emeralds? I see the thought has occurred to you. You resent us. You fear us. You will go home to Bruges and run errands.”
“You forget,” Nicholas said. “It’s only a game. Men die for their own reasons, and are hardly concerned if their blood stains a loaf or a feather. I have one small reservation. Neither the loaf nor the feather should kill them. I shall enjoy working with Venice, but she will never again make me her tool. Or any friend of mine.”
“You have friends? How dangerous,” said the Greek. “Tell me. When you sailed here, you came no doubt by Volos?”
It seemed irrelevant. He said, “We didn’t stop there.”
“No. It was where the Argo was built. I wondered,” said the Greek, “if some god offered you a mystical twinge of second sight. But clearly not. I put your letter there. You had better read it, and return to the Bailie. He will forgive you anything now but an expensive meal ruined.”
Thoughtfully placed, the letter lay in a distant quarter of the room, and Nicholas read it there. It was not from Marian. That first disappointment made him aware, once again, of his fatigue. Then he recognised the handwriting, and his weariness vanished. He opened it firmly, and read. The Greek said, “It is good news?”
Nicholas said, “Yes. It’s from the company lawyer, Gregorio, to say he is leaving for Venice. Was. He was writing in May. My wife is ahead of him. They mean to wait for me there; or until they hear if the galley is coming.”
“So you will have a welcome,” said the Greek. “And this transformation? You are fond of her.”
“Yes,” Nicholas said. He found he was smiling. He said, “Do you suppose I do all this for myself? How dull that would be.”
Walking back, he tried to remember every line of the letter, including the parts he had not told Monsignore de’ Acciajuoli, which had lifted a weight he had carried for weeks. He had met the lord Simon, wrote Gregorio. And, sad to say, had so far forgotten himself as to engage in a little swordplay. And had even got himself pinked (but was quite recovered, or Margot would have sent a severe reprimand). And had forced from the other lord, Jordan de Ribérac, a promise that, to save his son’s reputation, Catherine de Charetty’s marriage would be set to rights in whatever way her mother might choose.
Well, time had righted that situation, more or less, of its own accord. What mattered was that the meeting between Gregorio and Simon was over, with no harm to Gregorio. Over; over; and they were all safe. Walking through the night where once he had run, with his ship in flames on the water, Nicholas forgot Trebizond, and laughed aloud from pure pleasure, thinking of his private homecoming, and Venice.
He had never visited Venice before; but, since he was ten, had heard the men of the Flanders galleys talking a
bout it in Bruges. He should have known what to expect.
It was largely because he was so busy that he failed to prepare himself. Busy and mad; for, despite Modon, or perhaps because of it, something of the old lunatic intoxication of Bruges had touched him the further north that they came. And the others, too, shared it. The excitement among the passengers alone would have buoyed them, as they drew away from danger and entered the Venetian gulf. Without the work they had to do, Julius would have been even more dangerous than he was. It was Nicholas who, on the brink of some eruption, had to stop and say, “Look. Later. We’ve got those God-damned lists.”
And indeed, half their days were spent with the clerks, and the bills of lading, the ledgers, the receipts, because nothing, now, would be permitted to go wrong. The round ship, once the Doria, had left them at Ancona, skippered by Crackbene, and carrying in place of her passengers half Astorre’s troop of soldiers to protect her on her voyage round Italy. On board she carried twenty thousand cantars of the world’s finest alum: the equivalent of a year’s production of the closed mines at Phocoea; the product of nearly six months of mining and the entire stockpile of the Greek mines at Sebinkarahisar. A few years ago, a load like that would have fetched nine thousand ducats. Now it would command three times as much. The round ship would unload in Porto Pisano, but most of her cargo was destined for Bruges and England. The ship from Constantinople, if it had arrived, would have delivered three hundred tons there already. He had listed exactly what was to go where, and what price it should fetch.
Some of the Genoese passengers had left at Ancona as well; preferring to cross the Marches on horseback rather than face another sea passage, and an unfriendly Venice. At Ancona, too, he had part-unloaded the galley to make room for the passengers from the round ship, sending some of the light, expensive goods, well guarded, by mule-train to Florence. Some of the manuscripts had gone that way also, including The Book of Zacharias on the Eye, which, at the time of its acquisition, had failed as a peace offering, from what he could remember. Tobie had his own copy by now. He had sent jewels too, and some spices; and some orchil and indigo and part of his seven thousand pounds of kermes, although he had transferred some of that to the round ship, which would also carry the horses: the four beautiful palace horses that had been awaiting him at Kerasous. One of them was a gift for Pierfrancesco de’ Medici in Florence, who, he had reason to know, had a taste for fine mounts. The other three were his own; and would stay in Florence until he knew where he needed them. From Florence to Venice was a ride of only nine days. He had asked Alessandra Strozzi to stable them, adding an enquiry about her son Lorenzo. His plans were wide and fluid: capable of changing in whatever direction Marian might have set her heart on.
The rest of his purchases he had kept aboard the galley, now flying its proper pennant and restored to its name, Ciaretti. The rest included a thousand pounds of raw Leggi silk, worth more than two thousand florins, which would go from Venice to Florence, largely by river. What remained of his cargo he would divide when he had consulted his partner, his employer, his wife. Some to be warehoused at Venice to be sold at the next fair. Some, including the rest of the dyes, to go by packhorse to Flanders before the Alpine passes were closed. Some items were personal. He had, in his cabin, a barrel of figs and raisins and oranges, and some loaves of marzipan and something else, none of which was for himself. His cabin, indeed, was extremely crowded. A lot of it was money. Returns from the sale of the velvets and silks with his own three per cent commission, or direct profit. The fee for conveying the Empress to Georgia, and some of Doria’s lost silver. There would be freight money awaiting him for the 120,000 pounds of Venetian cargo he was carrying. And there were his own possessions: the saddle, the caftans, the box of pearls that the elephant clock had provided him with. The elephant clock which, no doubt, was already hacked into fragments as an object of Western frivolity. He had a sword too, and some belts, and some Shiraz armour he had been given, and his own clothes, also shipped beforehand to Kerasous. The feathers, and the emeralds. Forget them. Forget them.
He had pulled out, ready for Venice, a pleated doublet and a short, wide-sleeved gown in a dull colour, with well-made hose and boots. He thought he would wear the new sword, but that was all. My lord, the Bailie had called him at Modon; but the Bailie had had his reasons. No one here would overrate his rank or his qualifications. He was now, it seemed, wealthy; and as such he would be given attention. It was all he required. To transfer the wealth and the attention to Marian; and step back; and watch her pleasure and her pride. That was all.
It was not all. Part of the turmoil; part of the exhilaration since he left Modon had sprung from physical reasons. His body knew that the year-long famine was ending, even if he refused to recognise it. For what it was worth, set among the loveliest women of Trebizond, he had never been tempted beyond his means of command. Nor had he wanted to buy. He had never shared pleasure with a girl or a woman except for love. If that hunger had died, then abstinence demanded no fortitude. Until now.
Of course, Tobie saw it. Friends were dangerous. On the last day of their voyage, Tobie had planted himself before him, saying, “Well?”
“Well what?” he had answered. But by that time Tobie had taken a look and started to cackle. “My God, my Nicholas. Why?”
It had been a long operation, shaving off his beard of four and a half months, exposing the pale skin, the scar, the inopportune dimples. No one would be tempted to flatter him now. “I should have kept it,” Nicholas said. “And my bare feet. And my club. And the pelt of a lamb on one shoulder. What did you want?”
Tobie’s face was pink as a skinned mouse, and his naked head glistened. “Nothing. Making my standard remedial rounds before landfall. Any lumps? Any rashes? What was that you won at dice, by the way? From Mahmud’s soldiers?”
“You know what it was, you medical lecher. Do you want it?”
“I don’t need it,” Tobie said. “And you won’t need it either, so get rid of it. Or there’ll be harm done on both sides, Nicholas.”
He didn’t need to be told that. The moderation would have to be his. He said, “You got a brooch at the same time. I saw it.”
Tobie’s eyes met and held his. Then Tobie said, “Ottoman trash. I sold it for gold to buy girls with. All right. I will take the powder.”
“If you really need it,” said Nicholas, surprised. “I took some the other day, and it had me over the side for two hours.” He ducked Tobie’s blow, and went on packing, and smiling.
And so he had forgotten. It was not until he heard the anchor go down in the lagoon the next morning that he sprang out half-dressed, and looked about, and saw what sort of place he had come to.
The galley floated in boundless grey light, with sky and water suspended within it, smudged by islands and mudflats, and hatched by the trickling shadows of reeds. In the silence, the lapping of water now dwindling along the length of the galley was quiet as sounds enclosed in the head; and a bird calling unseen from the mist was faint as the creak of a door. A water hen’s sharp flip and scutter was shocking. Then from one of the islands a boat pulled out and away, three men looking inquisitively over their shoulders in a jumble of spears and netting and hampers; and a dog barked in the distance and somewhere else, a woman’s voice, out of tune, started to warble. There was a smell of fish, and mud, and fungus, and baking.
Somewhere too, no doubt, there were dunes and men were hunting rabbits there. And beyond the mist was a city with wharves and cranes and belltowers and churches and taverns and workshops. And canals with small bridges with men hanging over them, talking to other men as their boats glided under. And squares where they held carnivals, and other squares where processions took place, with flags and drums and apprentices. And houses with parlours in them; and braziers; and Marian.
At Modon, Catherine had found someone to dress her in black. She said, “Where are we? I don’t see anything. Why don’t we sail in?”
“We wait,” said Nich
olas. “And they come for us. And then we shall see everything that we want.”
Chapter 41
THERE FOLLOWED A DRAGGING delay, so that his patience with the Venetians had worn thin long before the party of welcome arrived. But at least it gave time to dress, and to have the ship shining and decked with her flags and all the seamen and soldiers in the piercing blue of the Charetty colours; and the great damask awning in place at the poop, embroidered in gold, and weighed down with bullion fringes. It would do no harm for word to reach the Rialto. The Venetian cargo from the Black Sea had arrived. And more. Much more, of consequence.
In the end, the Signory sent a dozen boats; some of them to take off the Venetian passengers (and, with less speed, the Genoese), and the rest bringing in state the cavalier of the Doge, accompanied by senators and procurators of the Republic, several clerks, a canon and three customs officials. With them were two long, gilded boats from the House of Medici conveying a group of factors, under-managers and servants led by Alessandro Martelli, for thirty years man of the Medici in Venice.
They came aboard, and the trumpeters did their duty while the introductions were made and the courtesies exchanged. The Signory wished to welcome those who had taken part in the heroic evacuation of Trebizond. The Signory wished to thank the gentleman who had brought her goods and her citizens safely from the hands of the Turk. If the occasion were other—this tragedy—this loss to the whole Western world—they would have caused his arrival to be publicly celebrated. As it was, the Most Serene and Excellent Lord Pasqual Malipiero would give Messer Niccolò audience in the Ducal Palace tomorrow, followed by a repast of honour. In token, a gift of a little wine, mallard ducks and some capons awaited him at his lodging.
The cavalier thought it understandable that Messer Niccolò might wish to repose. He ventured nevertheless to ask if he would set aside an hour later today to call at the Hall of the Collegio, where the chairman and councillors wished to question him about his experiences. From none could they expect a better account of what had actually passed, and might pass. For the trade of Venice, the consul would appreciate, trembled before such great events, which must be assessed quickly, and acted upon.