The Spring of the Ram Page 11

  About the round ship, his new sailing-master was informative. The ship was new, and built to the Bay of Biscay design with extra sails and flush planking, which was bad news unless you were fond of Pagano Doria, because it meant that she could manoeuvre. And to work her, Doria had hired Michael Crackbene, a magician from a famous dynasty of sailing magicians known throughout the North Sea. But when Nicholas repeated hopefully, “The North Sea?” John le Grant shook his red head firmly and said, “And the Middle Sea. He’s been in and out of Chios more times than you’ve pissed in a dye vat.” John le Grant stood in no awe of his present employer.

  What Doria was already loading into his very new ship was not hard to distinguish. Unlike the galley, he would sell and buy as he travelled. Crates of capers and strings of cheeses made their appearance, bound for Sicily. He had bought a great deal of olive oil, and some soap, and pipes of tallow and calfskins.

  Of the cargo he had brought with him to Italy, some had already been sold off in Pisa and Florence. He was rumoured to have tin and lead. As with the Charetty, the rest of the original cargo remained in the warehouse, bound for sale further east. Such mystery as there was resided here. Precautions to keep intruders out of the Doria stockrooms were unusually strict, and even Nicholas failed to find a way round them. Against Charetty orders, their former Guinea slave Loppe slipped off to make friends with Doria’s pretty page Noah, but, far from attracting his confidence, came back with a hacked shin and teeth-marks. Nicholas exuded a spurious sympathy, which Loppe knew he deserved. Perhaps because of his own recent past, Nicholas never had to treat servants as servants.

  By this time he was back in Florence and, like Pagano, he had begun collecting his cargo. Julius, with two clerks to help him, spent days in the warehouse already loaded with the Charetty cloth they’d brought with them. As time grew short, Monna Alessandra, too, thought it time to complete an enquiry. She asked Nicholas to attend her for supper.

  In the lady’s chamber, painted with Strozzi crescents, Nicholas, younger than her youngest child, sat at table and said, “Yes, I have heard from Bruges. From the lady my wife, and from Master Gregorio, who is her lawyer. Nothing can be wrong with Lorenzo. They would have mentioned it.”

  A look of impatience crossed her face. “I lack no news of Lorenzo. He writes when he needs money. But your letters. They spoke of the English war?”

  “It may be settled soon,” Nicholas said. “Henry the Lancastrian king is to reign, provided that he disinherits his heir in favour of the claimant of York.”

  “King Henry has a French wife. She will not agree,” Monna Alessandra said. “She will seek help from Scotland, and the salmon exports will suffer. It is ruining trade! Who can live safely in London when at any moment his ships may be commandeered by one king or another, his loans dishonoured? The Pope and the Duke of Milan send to make peace between these English claimants, and do you know why? So that once England is settled, she will agree to attack King Charles of France. And will they rest in peace even then? No! Because the Pope will send them on this crusade to save the Levant from the Turk. Ruinous!”

  “Perhaps,” said Nicholas, “Brother Ludovico of Bologna will induce the Duke of Burgundy to launch a crusade whether France is invaded or not. He seems persuasive.”

  “That man?” said Monna Alessandra. “He is the son of a timber merchant! He spent his youth tying knots—ha!—in the woods; arching saplings for shipyards. But the Duke of Burgundy is not a man to be bent by another.”

  Nicholas pursed his lips. “According to Gregorio, he is calling a Chapter of the Golden Fleece in the spring.”

  “Where the well-born of Burgundy will dress in matched velvet, and feast and parade, but will do nothing. It is a club for men children, like all societies. Why do you speak of it? You don’t imagine some Burgundian army will arrive on your heels? Twenty years ago the late Emperor of Constantinople visited Florence. He appealed for help; he was the guest of your friend Cosimo de’ Medici himself; but Constantinople still fell. When he speaks to you, does the lord Cosimo mention God?”

  “Sometimes,” said Nicholas.

  “You smile. As a matter of form, you imply. But all his other talk, I am sure, was of trade and of money.”

  “That is why I am here,” Nicholas said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. He would talk of what you understand. What does a rustic know of Aristotle, of Plato, of the great thinkers whose writings occupy the minds of men like my Matteo? He would talk of trivial things.”

  “Of trade,” Nicholas said. “It enables thinkers to eat, write and sell books. I can bring you no news of exalted discussion, or politics, or the prospects for Lorenzo and Filippo. In my position, to pretend erudition would be foolish.”

  “Many would not agree with you,” said Monna Alessandra. “If you called it aspiration, for example. But you are probably right. The victim in such cases is often the marriage. So. You plan a long absence, but you have no mission, that I can see. You are not a second Jason. Your mind is merely on gold and power and the delights of the flesh. I know this kind. Have you been to Mass more than thrice since you came here?”

  “I don’t think Jason went to Mass either,” Nicholas said. “But yes. I have no mission to fleece the Orthodox Church or the Sultan. The lady my wife has a business. I would like to see it prosper. That is all.”

  “For her sake?” said Lorenzo’s mother.

  Nicholas paused. Then he said, “You know my kind: you must judge. Perhaps Lorenzo has an opinion.”

  “Many people have. I know the gossip,” said Monna Alessandra. “If I were the Medici, I should want instead to know the facts. A good marriage is worth five per cent in the pound in the money markets. A bad one can be worse than tin money.”

  “The facts?” said Nicholas. “It is a legal marriage, but only for business purposes. I inherit nothing beyond an agreed salary. The demoiselle’s heirs are her daughters.”

  “Only for business purposes?” said Monna Alessandra. “You are a vigorous man. I heard differently.”

  He stayed where he was. “I will talk about what will affect money markets,” he said.

  Her pencilled brows rose, in the same Florentine irony he had seen in Cosimo. “A silly woman may affect money markets,” she said. “Your wife is old. She needed a man and a manager. They did not need to be the same person. So she had her reasons. Perhaps she was afraid you would leave. Perhaps she was afraid you would bed and marry one of her daughters. Perhaps she was afraid you would do away with her son…who indeed died abroad in your arms, so they tell me. Or perhaps she simply conceived an old woman’s craze for a boy. May and December. It is a cogent question, you see. Without an answer, the market cannot read your intentions or hers, or forecast the future of the Charetty company.”

  “Why not open a book?” Nicholas said. “I didn’t know how lucky we were, that Monsignore Cosimo signed us with no further questions. I am a guest at your table, and should enjoy hearing your views on another subject.”

  “Well enough done,” said Monna Alessandra. “But if you do not discuss her, you do not defend her. Myself, I would ask: is it fair to demand of a lusty man in the flower of his youth that he should be married, and chaste? Nature will speak in the end, and she will hear of it.”

  “No,” said Nicholas. For years, he had never really known—had refused to know—what anger was. Now, more and more, he found he had to contend with it. He sat very still.

  “No?” She was amused. “Did I not hear of one the other day? The splendid woman. The splendid woman, passing through Bruges, who said you would make a fortune. Is she in Florence?”

  “No,” said Nicholas. He debated for a moment, his eyes on his platter. His voice, when he spoke, sounded laconic. “There are all kinds of commitments. The vows of an apprentice when he marries his mistress are tolerably binding.”

  “In his own interests,” said Monna Alessandra. “But when a richer, younger mistress appears?”

  He found h
e had his knife in his hand. He laid it down with a rap. He said, “I know, madonna, the lady my colleagues referred to. Her name is Violante of Naxos. My wife and I met her in Bruges. She is married. She is at present in Venice. And she has no more interest in me than I have in her. May we now change the subject, Monna Alessandra? Or I regret I must go.”

  She changed the subject, having learned, no doubt, much of what she wanted to know. He spoke automatically, while his mind referred him to all that had been said. He felt bruised. On the other hand, all he had said had been true. Or was true by now. The scent in Pagano Doria’s Florentine house would have vanished long since.

  Just before they embarked, Cosimo de’ Medici summoned the company to his presence. It was one of his better days. He rose to receive them with his heavy-lidded sardonic gaze, the embodiment of the old Maestro’s droop-nosed St Cosmas with his coarse hair and lined cheeks. Tobie wondered if, surveying them, the chief citizen of Florence observed a difference in the Charetty company: an air of assurance which had been missing in December. Since then, like a new galley put through its trials by a master, Nicholas had been tested in public in a field of the greatest complexity which was new to him. Now he had completed the course, and few could complain of the outcome. Of course, he had needed his officers, and had used them. They knew where, but for them, he would have made an ill-informed decision, or would have failed, through inexperience, to identify a lack, a trend, a danger. But equally each man had to admit—even Julius—that none of them could have equalled the outpouring of energy, intellectual and physical, that Nicholas brought to the endeavour. Because of his gifts, Julius and Tobie, Godscalc and Astorre had come prepared to tolerate him as nominal leader. John le Grant had made his own assessment, and accepted him. It was unlikely they would ever cease watching him. It was unlikely they would ever be less than critical. But he had proved himself again to be able; and youth, strength and good humour had further sweetened the pill. They were, for the moment, a unit.

  Cosimo de’ Medici said, “You go to trade. You represent the Republic of Florence, and I know that I can rely on you all to remember the trust we place in you. You also represent something wider. Since the pagans descended on Rome, the Greek and Latin worlds have been the poorer for the growing gulf between them: the contempt the ignorant on each side have had for the other. The need to heal the breach has never been stronger, now that Constantinople itself is in Turkish hands, and the heathens cast envious eyes on the Christian lands at their frontiers.

  “Unlike Venice and Genoa, Florence has no colonies in the East. We have never striven to seize land there; we are not disliked. We wish to sell and buy in these cities, but the loss if we did not would not destroy us, as it might destroy them. We are not therefore sending you to hold back the hordes single-handed. We are sending you in the hope that, where you find Florentine traders, you will assist and protect them; and that in serving the Grand Comnenos of Trebizond, the Emperor David, you will at the same time do God’s work in making our two churches and our two purposes one. May He protect you and bring you back safely.”

  Outside, Julius said, “What do you think he was saying?”

  Astorre had disappeared, to plant a fifth crop of candles in a church that had caught his fancy. Father Godscalc, after some hesitation, had gone in after him.

  Tobie said, “Wasn’t it obvious? Don’t kill yourselves for Venice or Genoa, but keep the Emperor happy.”

  Julius said, “You should have talked to captain Vettori of the Florentine galleys. Stout fellow. Went to Constantinople in May, and threw a feast on his ship for the Sultan. I’m glad,” volunteered Julius, “that we’re not to hold back the hordes single-handed. I’d rather offer them banquets.”

  “You wouldn’t enjoy it,” said Tobie. “They’re forbidden strong drink, and they prefer handsome young lawyers to women. Holding off the hordes is what you’d be doing.” He paused. “Look. Get it straight, for God’s sake. The Sultan rules Constantinople, but Pera is still full of Florentine traders. And Venetians. And Genoese. Trade has to go on, even if the Pope doesn’t like it. The lord Cosimo makes a fortune in banking but builds altars and churches to redress the balance in Heaven. He gives feasts for the Sultan of Turkey, and sends us and our army to Trebizond. We’re the appendix; the special Redemption clause. Now where are you off to?”

  “Into the church after Astorre,” Julius said. “To see if he’s lit enough candles. And what about the new consul for Genoa, may God crown him with fire? He’s on his way to Trebizond now.”

  “What?” said Tobie. “How do you know?”

  “The man watching his house. The servants behaved just as usual, but he found out just now that Doria’s whole party left for Porto Pisano last week. And the round ship was told to be ready to sail when they got there.”

  Tobie engaged in a long, thoughtful curse. Then he said, “What’s the wind?”

  “Perfect,” said Julius. “He’ll sail out on the tide. Constantinople and Pera by March. Trebizond maybe by April.”

  Tobie walked. “He may never get there,” he said. He walked again, slower. “On the other hand, he may. If that’s the church, I’ll come with you.”

  Chapter 8

  THE ROUND SHIP Doria had indeed sailed, and in triumph. For the little gift of God for which Pagano Doria and his young fiancée were waiting so anxiously had made its appearance at last.

  From Christmas onwards, the sea prince had been watching the weather. The Charetty galley would leave in February. Compared to his, its route would be coastal. Its crew, however, was bigger and in variable winds it was faster. To reach Trebizond first, or even neck and neck with the Florentine, he would have to sail soon. It would suit him to be first into Sicily, Modon and Pera, leaving what small inconveniences he could for his underprivileged friend. But especially, he did not wish to come last and find the boy and his galley already occupying prime berths and depôts and the Emperor’s favour. The Genoese colony had no idea they were about to acquire a new consul. He did not even know if they still kept their traditional suburb, their church and their castle. That was why he was supposed to be going: to confirm and, if necessary, restore the standing of Genoa in the Emperor’s eyes. He proposed to do so, with a flourish.

  He believed he could set sail in January. The only problem was his little Catherine, who thought of nothing but marriage, and who might feel alarm at the prospect of fresh travels without it. That he was highly regarded by the Genoese signoria she did of course know: she expected it. Of Trebizond she knew nothing. That he meant to sail to the East, and remain there, was something he had hoped to break to her after their marriage.

  He would have to do it now. Indeed, some diversion was needed. Secure in his arms, as he had thought she would be, the child would hardly have cared where they were. As it was, romantic love kept her happy enough, but he knew that she was growing tired of the little of Florence she knew, and the limited company that she moved in. She chafed at the veils, and wanted to display her new charms and possessions. When upsets occurred, because of an absence of his, or an overindulgence in sweetmeats, it required all his patience and arts to restore her to the loving child she could be. It took all his resolve to be kind when, a week after Epiphany, he found her weeping in bed and declaring that she wanted him to take her back home.

  It was not as bad as it sounded. She wanted to marry him. But when she felt less than well, and her stomach ached, and her skin became inflamed and tender and sore, she wanted her mother. Of course he was her chosen lover. He was the most wonderful man in the world. But now it was time to marry, and go off back home.

  He had tried to explain, back in Brussels, what a long trip he was about to embark on. It was the thought of losing him for many months that had persuaded her into coming. Now, in her discontent, she considered that many months had passed. He had surely completed his business. He could sail the ship home, and buy her a house, and she would be a married lady in Bruges, with a bracelet and earrings and a terrie
r. Nor did talk of honour this time convince her. Who was to know if she was a woman or not? And he had the papers, and his friends to be witness and (he had said) a nice priest. Didn’t he want to marry her? The weeping, gaining in volume, had turned into frenzy.

  He had dealt with such fits of emotion before, but had the wisdom now to get the Flemish woman instead of himself to restore the child to her senses. When he returned, she was lying huddled in blankets with a hot swaddled brick in her arms and steaming flannel over her stomach. He crossed softly and sat on the bed. The terrier squealed, and he rose and sat again. He said, “Caterina. Would you like rubies, and more dresses of silk than the Duchess has?”

  She peered at him over the brick. She had circles under her eyes. He touched her cheek.

  “Do you know what has happened? The Emperor has sent for you.”

  She was not excited. “In Germany?”

  “Where would be the fun in going to Germany? No, my sweeting. Another emperor. The richest, noblest man in the world, who has invited your Pagano to his court, and wishes to see his Caterinetta.”

  She had never failed to believe him before but at present, he saw, her imagination could not deal with the matter of emperors. She said, “Who?” Her voice verged on the querulous.

  He wondered what she had been taught. He doubted if, outside his stories, she had any idea of the world outside Florence and Bruges. He said, “We have been invited to the court of the Byzantine Emperor. The Emperor David of Trebizond. He has rubies and silk dresses for you, and chests of silver for me. But unless you come I shan’t go. You mean more to me than any emperor.”

  She stared at him. “It hurts,” she said.

  He hesitated, then bent slowly and kissed her. “We shall make it better. Don’t think of it now. But when you feel well, come and ask me about it. Trebizond, Caterinetta. Where they make lovely girls into princesses.”

  He left the child after that to her nurse. The upset continued next day: instead of speaking to him, Catherine hugged herself whimpering; and when the dog tried to lick her, she slapped it. Pagano Doria looked at the sky, and tested the wind and then sought out the stout nurse and questioned her.