The Consul accompanied him to the door. He said, looking outside, ‘You have a good guard? Is that all your guard? You have no attendants of your own?’
He had three servants, which was enough, along with the Mamelukes. The Consul said, ‘But you should have more. The Emir knows. He should have provided you with more men. It is in his own interest.’
‘More men against what?’ Nicholas said.
The Consul looked up with what appeared to be genuine alarm. ‘You did not get my special message last week? About the sister of Tzani-bey al-Ablak?’
‘About Tzani-bey’s sister?’ Nicholas said.
‘She who paid an assassin to attempt the life of our King. The man failed. But it is said that she holds you, too, responsible for the death of her brother in Cyprus. Here perhaps you may think yourself safe. But be careful. And if you leave the city, guard yourself every moment,’ said the Consul. His face was full of sincere anxiety. ‘I cannot understand it, monseigneur. I left you a message. M. Pierre said he would give you it himself. You must know him. M. Pierre de Persis, the Genoese Consul.’
‘Yes, I know him,’ Nicholas said.
His hand ached. He visited the baths every morning to drive the stiffness away from his shoulders and neck. It didn’t matter. He had found the ship. It was coming. Very soon, Anselm Adorne would be here.
Chapter 35
RUNNING BEFORE A summer storm, the ship containing Anselm Adorne, Baron Cortachy, and his companions reached Alexandria on the afternoon of Tuesday the seventeenth of July. At the entrance to the foreigners’ harbour, she was thrown into a passage choked with classical marble from the great tumbled lantern. The vessel struck the stone twice, the shock nearly springing her planks and throwing all the exhausted passengers to the deck. Recovering, she made her way into the haven at last, and took her place half a mile from the shore. The customs boat conducted its usual search.
It also brought orders. Until the following morning, no one must land or receive friends or consuls on board. No explanation was given.
However disappointed and weary they felt, the newcomers did receive some sort of welcome. Regardless of nation, seamen already inside the haven poled their way over and, swarming aboard, lent busy hands to the labour of dropping anchor, furling the sails and dismantling the ship, as enjoined by the law.
The skiffs lay about her for a long time. Finally, the customs boat left, the violent activity ceased, and the big Genoese ship was left to float, battered, in the late sun, with the sound of faint music and reviving laughter to tell that crew and passengers and helpers were at last able to toast their arrival in Eunostos, in the Port of Safe Return.
Nicholas de Fleury stood on the fondaco roof, watching them. He was alone.
Earlier, warned by tambour and trumpet, all the staff of the consulate and its merchants had crowded the space where he stood, agonising over the incomer’s struggles; cheering when she at last made her way safely in. She was too far off, of course, to distinguish passengers. Men and women were like ghabr, like dust; like the minute script they tied to the wing-feathers of pigeons. Wherever Gelis was standing, or Dei, they could not distinguish him either.
Lingering there, he had been startled, like the rest, when a voice shrill with alarm had raised itself far below in the courtyard, repeating a phrase over and over in a thick Venetian vernacular. Nicholas had been among the first to leave the roof, bounding downstairs, the others pouring behind until all the men and women of the fondaco were crowded together below. There the Consul, holding the man by the shoulders, was speaking. Then the man, weeping, repeated what he had said.
Nicholas had stayed with Achille and the rest for a while, then had found it oppressive. When he came up the second time, he had the roof to himself, and the view of the harbour. The sounds that floated over the water were not very different. After a while, the small boats began to leave the big Genoese one by one, rowing across to their various ships, and Gelis’s vessel swung to its anchor. It was two hours to sundown, and outside the harbour the storm-waves crashed gold on the spit. He was not thinking about Gelis, or Dei. A few hours ago, he had been thinking about nothing else.
Tobie’s voice spoke at his elbow. ‘I came when I heard. Negroponte has fallen.’ He paused and then said, his voice shaking, ‘The bastards.’
‘Who, the Turks?’ Nicholas said.
‘No, the Genoese. The bastards are celebrating.’ Tobie paused. He said, ‘What have you heard? Your Consul will know more than ours.’
Nicholas said, ‘It was taken at noon five days ago, fighting street by street. They have butchered every male over eight. Erizzo gave himself up on condition he kept his head: they have sawn him in two at the waist, and beheaded his daughter. It was worse than it might have been because Mehmet thought he was losing: the Venetian Captain-General brought seventy ships up the strait. But instead of breaking the bridges, he took fright, it seems, and sailed back to Crete. So Mehmet gave his troops all that they wanted.’
Tobie moved, but Nicholas didn’t look at him. ‘So we’ve still got the Ghost and the San Niccolò, those two happy ships. Even the Duke of Burgundy’s two galleys would have been safe: Tommaso might risk them next time.’ He broke off and said, ‘Oh, damn them.’
Beside him Tobie swore, too. The harbour, so peaceful a moment before, had erupted into a cacophony of noise; of blaring, hooting and warbling, of the clang of bells and the thudding of drums, punctuated by the erratic thunder of cannon. The Turkish ships of the western harbour had just heard the news, and those from their fondaco were rushing to join them. As they watched, boats laced with turbans began to skim towards the Christian galleys. The tumult gusted into the city as if roused by bellows.
‘Hound music,’ Nicholas said, and made as if to break away suddenly.
Tobie gripped him. ‘No. Listen. It’s happening too in the streets. Leave it to the Mamelukes. The Mamelukes are probably as sick over the victory as we are.’
‘They can’t police the harbour,’ Nicholas said. ‘I hope to God the Genoese keep their heads.’ The harbour now was full of small boats, and the sound of screeching and banging and jeering as they circled.
Tobie said, ‘The Ciaretti have a good crew. And Adorne’s ship will be full of Muslims for Mecca. He’s an experienced man. He’ll look after her.’ He didn’t specify whether he meant the girl or the ship, and Nicholas didn’t ask. They watched.
The Genoese kept their heads, and all the merchantmen, pinned helplessly there in the harbour. They stayed below, and offered no provocation. By sundown, the amusement had palled and the harbour was beginning to empty, although the streets within the city were still full of deafening noise. The wind had freshened. Nicholas said, ‘You’ve missed the curfew. Come down and have something to eat. Will Katelijne worry that you didn’t come back? How did she take this?’
‘She’s a Sersanders,’ Tobie said. ‘She’s heard war discussed, and seen the results of it. She was afraid for her uncle. The Genoese here didn’t even care about that.’
Nicholas said, ‘Don’t you remember the Cypriots when the Genoese left Famagusta?’ They had reached his room. There was no one there. The fondaco echoed with muffled sound; the outpourings of misery and bereavement. There was nothing they could do. He found some cold meat and two flasks; one of wine for Tobie, one of water for himself.
‘Still?’ said Tobie. ‘Why water, Nicholas?’
Nicholas arranged things and sat. He had been standing for a long time. He said, ‘You ought to go to the Tyrol. You either become an abstainer or crapulous.’
‘And this?’ Tobie said. He had found the bob on its cord and pulled it out.
‘That’s to help me find water,’ said Nicholas. ‘Tobie, I don’t want to fall out again.’
‘But you don’t mind having company,’ Tobie said. He was shrewd enough. He went on, ‘All right. What would you like done tomorrow? De Persis says all the merchants will be allowed to come on shore, although perhaps later than usual. Adorne
has already sent over his letters. Credentials from the Senate of Genoa. That gets him officially into the fondaco.’ He stopped.
‘Really? The Senate of Genoa?’ Nicholas said. ‘And he called himself a Burgundian envoy in Milan? I thought this was a family pilgrimage? The route has been a bit odd, and I’m not sure what shrines he visited in Tunis or Sousa or Monastir, but doesn’t he intend to go to the Holy Land?’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ said Tobie. ‘But you know he’s to be here for some weeks, and you know how pilgrims would be treated. At least he can live decently in the meantime.’
‘Claiming to be a merchant. Yes, it’s natural,’ Nicholas said. ‘Modified dues, guards of Mamelukes, use of the fondaco. He may even have to pretend to do business, poor man.’
There was a short silence. Tobie said, ‘Have you done something?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Nicholas said. ‘You were asking me about tomorrow.’ He hadn’t intended to torment Tobie. It didn’t matter. What was going to happen would happen, with or without Tobie or Anselm Adorne.
Tobie said, ‘I was asking you, as I remember, about your wife. Do you want to come back with me for when Gelis arrives? Or come later? Or would you like me to bring her alone?’
It was the aggravation he meant it to be, in that it thrust before Nicholas a decision he had not so far made. He therefore said all the more briskly, ‘I would like to see Dei first. Or whoever has come from Africa. Would you let me arrange that, and then send you word about Gelis?’
Tobie said, ‘I suppose so. Although if I know Gelis, she will do what she wants.’
‘Which will be?’ Nicholas said.
Tobie said, ‘To join you at the first possible moment, and stay with you. To which she is entitled.’
Nicholas said, ‘Yes, of course. Look, I’ve stopped you eating. There’s the wine. If I can find a servant, I can have John’s bed made up in a moment.’ He paused. ‘Or do you think Katelijne might be anxious? The streets are quieter. The Consul might be able to bribe someone to let you go back.’ The sounds of weeping were fainter, but they were still there.
Tobie said, ‘You’re right. Perhaps that would be best.’
It took Nicholas by surprise: Tobie seldom changed his mind, or not at least without argument. Seeing him off in due course, he found himself puzzled as well as relieved. He had wanted company, but not of a kind that would ask questions, or quarrel. He tried to think what company he wanted and his mind, of course, gave him the answer. The useless answer, for neither could come.
Not until the following afternoon did the Emir of Alexandria consider it safe to allow into the city the captain and passengers of the ship which had arrived, so inopportunely, at the moment of the Ottoman victory. Later still, formalities over, the noble and puissant lord Anselm Adorne, Baron Cortachy, walked into the city of Alexandria at last, and was conducted to his spacious rooms in the Genoese fondaco where his niece Katelijne ran glowing into his arms, and Dr Tobias, her physician, smiled breathlessly.
It had been Kathi’s idea to watch from the roof. It had been Kathi who first saw coming, escorted solemnly by the Genoese Consul, the small party of five weatherbeaten, richly dressed men attended by a large retinue of servants and Mamelukes.
There were no women among them. There was no one, either, resembling a Florentine or a Maghgribian trader. ‘Benedetto Dei and the other man aren’t there,’ Tobie had exclaimed.
‘Gelis van Borselen isn’t there,’ had said Kathi, much more sharply. Then she said, ‘Dei would go to the Florentine fondaco. I don’t know where the other would lodge, but I’m sure M. de Fleury does. Where do you think his wife is?’
‘At the Venetian fondaco,’ said Tobie sourly. His heart sank at the notion of the news from Africa and Gelis arriving together. Gazing below, he observed that Adorne, now much nearer, had lost none of his grace of appearance or manner, although deeply tanned and more spare than he had been. He walked, conversing lightly, with his gaze lifted to the fondaco, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of his niece. Tobie said, ‘We ought to go down.’
Kathi in turn was smiling fondly down on her uncle’s broad hat. She said, ‘He looks well, doesn’t he? He so loves managing things. He’ll know where she is.’ She turned and ran, Tobie following.
Below, embrace and exclamations over, Anselm Adorne turned from his niece to shake hands with the doctor. ‘You have looked after her so well. I want to hear all about your journey from Rome, and what you’ve been doing in Alexandria.’
Kites, thought Tobie. Pigeons. Visits to churches? He coughed and opened his mouth. ‘We want to hear about you,’ said Katelijne, taking her uncle by the arm and sitting down with him. ‘And Dr Tobias would like to have a word, if it’s convenient, with the lady of Fleury. You know why?’
Anselm Adorne looked at the doctor. He said wryly, ‘I suppose, having seen the Claretti in the harbour, that I do know why. I’m sorry, that being the case, to disappoint you, and Nicholas. The lady Gelis isn’t with me.’
The tone of voice was perfectly level, and Tobie’s pulse settled. He said, ‘She is still on board? Or – I hope she hasn’t suffered some mishap?’
Adorne smiled. ‘So far as I know she is well. In fact, I thought to find her already here. You didn’t know that she left us? After you sailed, she decided she would rather travel the quick way, by pilgrim galley from Venice. Our other three friends had already departed to do the same thing. She left to join them.’
‘And did?’ the doctor said.
‘So far as I know. And if she did, did so safely: the galley arrived at Jaffa without harm. We heard as much on our way. But from Jaffa to here is no great distance. I thought she would have arrived.’ He frowned. ‘You make me anxious. Nothing can have gone wrong?’
Tobie realised he had been staring at nothing. He said swiftly, ‘No. I am sure there is a simple explanation. The galley arrived, and three important men and a lady would hardly avoid notice, I’m sure. In any case, I know where to ask. I’ll go now and find out. You’ll want to speak to Kathi, and rest.’
He smiled, shook hands again, and held Kathi’s eyes for a moment in warning. They had had an oblique talk, that day, about the ethics of their odd situation. She was loyal to her uncle, and he had to steer a path between his duty to her and to Nicholas. She knew quite a lot about Nicholas now, but he didn’t think she would chatter. She seemed young; a stranger might think her no more than childishly pert. They had not seen her, as he had, weak and sick and still displaying the same bright curiosity; the interest in others which had nothing self-centred about it.
On his way out of the fondaco, prompted by civility and by a curiosity perhaps less well intentioned, Tobie stopped to shake hands with the rest of Adorne’s party with whom, after all, he had travelled from Bruges for three months. He greeted them all: Jan, the lank, fair son, bored with weeks at sea with his father; the young friend Lambert van de Walle, who had imagination and might make a good merchant one day; the older merchant Pieter Reyphin who was of distinguished Ghent blood, like the Sersanders, and was shrewder than he looked. And the priest, John of Kinloch, who had always loathed Nicholas and had been as aggressive and as contemptuous on the journey as he dared, out of Adorne’s hearing.
They all asked after Katelijne. He saw that she was their mascot, and they would never really forgive him, because he had whisked her away.
He left and, grimly anxious, went about the business that mattered. He knew where to find Benedetto Dei. He knew, too, who might have word of any pilgrims travelling west from a Venetian galley at Jaffa. He made both calls, and, emerging soberly from the second, stood for a moment, pushed by the crowds, and studied the vast scarlet sky.
It was near the hour for the curfew. He knew that this time he would have to spend the night at the Venetian fondaco. He entered the gates and stayed a while in the garden. The sun went down, and he was shaken with sneezes.
Because they came ashore after noon, it was some time before Benedetto Dei
and Abderrahman ibn Said reached their respective lodgings and the messages that awaited them both. Dei, with the aplomb one would expect from an agent of Tommaso Portinari, decided that Nicholas de Fleury could wait, and went to bed. Ibn Said went immediately to the Venetian fondaco.
He had gone when Tobie made his way there.
Achille, showing Tobie into the room, said, ‘But as you see, the padrone is not here. Come tomorrow.’
Tobie said, ‘The gate’s shut. I can’t come tomorrow. Of course Ser Niccolò’s here. Where is he? What’s the trouble?’
‘None,’ said Achille. ‘He is sleeping.’
‘You said – Get out of my way,’ said Tobie rudely. The man jumped. Tobie didn’t even need to push him aside. In the rooms, which were empty, everything seemed as usual except for one thing. Tobie said, ‘If you really wanted to protect him, you shouldn’t let anyone in. The place reeks of drink. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the man.
Tobie wondered how Nicholas had frightened him. He said, softening his own manner a little, ‘Look. No one will blame you. Everyone is under strain today. Did Ser Niccolò have a visitor?’
The under-agent clasped his hands. ‘A Muslim gentleman called. I brought sherbet.’
‘But not after the Muslim visitor went. What was his name?’ Tobie said. ‘Was it ibn Said?’
‘Very like,’ said Achille. ‘A merchant from Timbuktu, or his brother. He talked, and went away. It was daylight then. Later, the page came from lighting the candles and told me.’
‘Told you what?’ The candles were lit.
‘That Ser Niccolò would not let him come in. I waited. Then I came myself. I lit the rooms. But he had gone.’
The man was pale. Tobie said, ‘If you went round the fondaco tonight, you’d find a good few men drowning their sorrows. Go to bed. I’ll spend the night here. He’ll come back, or I’ll find him.’
He must have sounded reassuring, because the man went.