Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo Read online

  The air was fresher now, but tempered still by the drifts of warmth from Murano. Seated with his back to those dim, distant fires, Nicholas watched his shadow swinging before him. Godscalc said, ‘What else happened on Cyprus that was so unspeakably terrible?’

  He was calm enough even for that one. ‘The weather,’ Nicholas said, ‘on occasion. The rest was delightful. I have a moderate amount of land here and there. Some day, you should come and see it.’

  ‘When you are so free with your invitations,’ Godscalc said, ‘I have a feeling that you expect shortly to find yourself elsewhere. Very well. I am out of order. Let us return to the matter at hand. Have you been candid? You have not. Have you convinced me? Only that an impetuous young man like Julius should not hear of something that may not occur. Should it happen at all? I doubt it. But on the other hand, you cannot depart overnight, and by the time your plans are in better order, I shall know more about you and about them. You have my silence meantime.’

  ‘Do I thank you?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘You think it’s none of my business?’ said Godscalc. ‘There are heathens in worse places than Africa. So how are you going to deliver me home without coming face to face with my notary and your step-daughter?’

  Compared with what had just taken place, it was not difficult. They brought the boat back to its owner, and secured another, with oarsmen, to take Father Godscalc alone to the city.

  Lit by the landing-stage flares, his rough-hewn face with its heavy nose and black brows looked grim. He nodded, but made no move to touch them, far less give them his blessing. It was hardly surprising. There had been a moment during that journey when he knew, and Nicholas knew, he had been close to being manhandled into the water. Or more likely, they would both have arrived there. He was a strong man, Father Godscalc.

  Nicholas stood for a moment and watched his black bulk in the stern of the boat as it moved across the lagoon. He didn’t turn to look back. Loppe said, ‘We should hurry. Meester Gregorio will have told lies enough.’

  ‘Meester Gregorio,’ Nicholas said, ‘as you know, is only a beginner. Did the porters give you trouble?’

  Loppe laughed, a rare thing. He said, ‘Don’t you think I am used to it?’

  They passed the Bank’s boat on the way to the tavern. It lay tied up at the main landing-stage, with a watchman beside it. Julius and Tilde had arrived. Without running, which would have been conspicuous, Nicholas led the way to the tavern.

  Now there were fewer people about, and all the boats on the Rio di Santo Stefano were tied up and empty. The evening social life of the town was taking place elsewhere. Here, in the working-quarter, squares of flickering light fell on the water from the upper storeys that leaned over the path, and there was an eavesdrip of continuous domestic noise, of chatter and laughter and argument and the wailing of children, and the clatter of dishes and spoons.

  All Nicholas had eaten today had been some bread and cheese, brought to him when the financial negotiation with the boatyard owner had reached its spectacular apogee. Before that, he had spent some time at the customs building, where the officers had agreed to normal rates for everything but the shells. Then the war tax, of course, went on top. He had found his own clerks checking the sugar and salt, and waited until they had turned over and labelled the damasks. Then, business done, he had taken them all off to the tavern for some wine, customs searchers included, but hadn’t offered them food.

  From there, he had gone to the Palace, in order freely to beggar himself. And after the boatyard, of course, had come his call on the Cardinal. It had been a grinding sort of day. It was a slight want of food which had spoiled his handling of Godscalc, on top of the voyage from Cyprus. Cyprus, island of love and prostitution and unforgettable misery.

  In Cyprus now, the river-beds would be parched and the flowers ghosts of themselves. The lemons would hang in their leaves. And the sheets of his bed would smell of spice and incense and the warm flesh of orange, and woman.

  He said, ‘I really must find something to eat,’ and then laughed and said, ‘No, I mustn’t.’ There was his little spy to collect, and Julius and Tilde waiting for him, being fed anxious untruths by Gregorio.

  Loppe said, ‘Here’s the tavern. Five minutes won’t matter.’

  It was the place where they had left Gregorio. Though it was now crowded, they were offered wine and meat, which they ate outside. Gregorio was not there, but had left them a message. Nicholas read it aloud.

  ‘He says he met Julius and the girl on the landing-stage and told them we’d gone to visit the Bishop of Torcello, who has a mansion here. The Bishop of …?’

  ‘Julius couldn’t disprove it,’ said Loppe. With Nicholas, he didn’t use titles.

  ‘All right. While we’re supposed to be at the Bishop’s, Gregorio will take the other two to the Santa Maria gardens – where are they? – and entertain them until we manage to come. He suggests that before we arrive, we collect the man that we captured and send him under proper authority back to the Rialto. Either that, or to the Podestà here. Signed Gregorio, lawyer. He’s annoyed.’

  ‘It isn’t surprising,’ Loppe said. ‘What will you do? What he suggests is no good. You don’t want this fellow telling his story.’

  ‘He won’t. He’ll go back with us, and by the time he tells it, it won’t matter. We’ll go to the Baroviers’ now and transfer him and his guards to the boat. What in the name of the devil did they put in that meat?’

  ‘Brimstone?’ said Loppe. It was curt. Nicholas usually had a respect for Loppe’s warnings. On the other hand, if everybody felt like being offended tonight, it was nothing to him.

  In the short time they had been indoors, true night had fallen. This time the lamps at the mooring posts shone yellow and bright and there were blundering moths in the air, along with the odours of food and wet timber and weed. Below them, the water was pink from the fires that still burned in the yards behind the occasional house. Roof-tops and chimneys stood black against the low glare; and above, there hung the exquisite counterfeit of a sunset, cloud-packed, released each night freshly blown from the kilns.

  His gaze on the heavens, Nicholas crashed into a solid, unmoving object which made no effort to get out of his way.

  ‘So here you are,’ Julius said. ‘How very strange. The Bishop of Torcello had never heard of you.’

  Chapter 5

  FROM ONE’S EARLIEST recollection, from boyhood, Julius had looked the same: bright-eyed and stalwart and inquisitive.

  The Barovier house was just beside them. Nicholas drew a long breath and said, ‘You came to look for us?’

  ‘Taking the air,’ Julius said. ‘I left Tilde and Gregorio at the gardens. Gregorio thought it might be quite dangerous for me to go for a walk on my own, but I reminded him that you had a bodyguard. I don’t see them, by the way.’

  Nicholas had the impression, he didn’t know why, that Loppe wanted to laugh. Nicholas said, ‘Gregorio wouldn’t want Tilde to be worried. Someone tried to make a target of me again, but we caught him. He’s locked in one of the glassmakers’ sheds until you came back with the boat.’

  ‘That’s just happened?’ Julius said.

  ‘You’ve just missed it. I had to go to the Podestà, that was all. Will Tilde mind sharing the boat? It’ll be safe. The two soldiers are with him.’

  ‘Who is he? Where is he?’ said Julius.

  ‘We don’t know who he is. Here,’ said Nicholas, indicating the Barovier house. He had begun to feel that he had invented the entire day, playing all the parts himself.

  To Marietta Barovier, emerging immediately, he introduced a startled Julius. She barely looked at him. She said, ‘You will remove these men, I demand it. If you had stayed away very much longer, I would have gone myself to the Magistrate. They are animals.’

  Loppe, behind him, was standing very still. Nicholas said, ‘Who? The soldiers? The prisoner?’

  ‘You wanted to know who had paid him,’ said the woman. She marched thr
ough the house and flung open the door to the yard. Heat burst upon them, and a chiaroscuro of black and red, laced with points of swaying yellow. The red glittered in her eyes, and in those of Julius.

  Julius said, ‘You work at night?’

  ‘We are the Barovier,’ the woman said. ‘We work at night. We, alone of all makers of glass, work in winter. You know why? Because we make what no one else does, pure cristallo. Pure, colourless glass, of the kind your Florentine needs, Venice needs. I made a contract for that. I did not make a contract to imprison a man to be beaten until he screams. Your soldiers are animals.’

  ‘They belong to the Serenissima,’ Nicholas said. ‘The Republic pays them to protect me. But it is not right that they should take the law into their own hands. Let me remove them.’

  There was no screaming, now, from the store where they had locked the man he had caught. The soldiers, both sitting outside, scrambled to their feet when they saw him. The leader started to speak. Nicholas said, ‘Be silent. I gave you orders. What were they?’

  The man looked sulky. He said, ‘You wished to know the name of your enemy.’

  ‘My orders,’ said Nicholas, ‘were to leave your prisoner untouched, or I would report you to your captain. Have you done this?’

  ‘He needed only a little persuasion,’ the second man said.

  ‘That is not what I hear,’ Nicholas said. ‘Show me the man.’

  The key hung outside the shed door. The principal bodyguard took it. Nicholas saw Julius brace himself, and the second man place himself ready, his sword in one hand. Marietta Barovier didn’t move. Behind her, the yard began to fall silent as men lifted their tools and drew near. The key turned, and the door was flung open.

  No one rushed out. The short man Nicholas had chased from the window lay inside on the dirt floor, his face bruised and bloodied, his tunic blotched, his arm twisted beneath him. He didn’t move.

  Nicholas walked in. He said, ‘Why not kill him outright at the beginning? Where is the use of the law if a man doesn’t live to be tried? What can we believe of his story if he is no longer alive to be questioned?’ He came out. They were all staring at him, except Loppe. He said, ‘Leave him. He is not the one who is going to be dealt with.’

  The soldier said, ‘Monseigneur …’

  ‘Get to the boat,’ Nicholas said. ‘For every word you speak I shall see you lose a week’s wages.’

  They turned. They were halfway into the house when the scream came from behind, and then a confusion of shouting. Nicholas swung about. The cry had come from the woman, kneeling on the dirt by the body. But now there was no body, but a man with a broken face and a tunic drenched in blood who staggered out of the shed and began to cross the yard at a stumbling run, towards the glowing kilns and torchlit benches. And the woman, having screamed, fell.

  Surprise at first held them all fast. Then every man in the yard began to run whooping after him.

  Nicholas, kneeling, lifted Marietta Barovier in his arms. Almost immediately, she began to stir, and raised her fingers to the mark of the blow on her temple. Then she opened her eyes, and shaking free said, ‘Stop it. Go and stop it.’ And as he helped her to her feet, she held the door and shouted over the yard to her workers.

  Some of them heard, and hesitated and turned, but most were beyond earshot, and beyond heeding. A cage of dogs, somewhere unseen, began to set up a frenzy of barking. Nicholas stood, rigidly holding Donna Barovier’s arm. He heard Julius declare, ‘No!’ in an angry voice, and then begin to run after the crowd.

  Loppe waited a moment. He said, ‘He won’t get away?’ in a questioning voice; and then began to run after Julius. He was a good runner. Nicholas dropped the woman’s arm and, using all his weight, shouldered his way after the others.

  Shadows streamed over the ground. Against the red light, the vermilion eyes of the kilns, the bodies of men flickered and danced, their arms upraised, brandishing, hurling. Shovels flailed. Iron bars glimmered like lances, some with the live glowing gather still alight at the tip. Like cabalistic signs, pincers burned in the air, and burning stuff arched and sizzled.

  You could see from the rush and swing of the crowd how their quarry was trying to evade them, dashing from shelter to shelter; trying to gain enough ground to reach the distant wall and climb over. Suddenly animated, Nicholas thrust ahead, flinging bodies aside, wrenching weapons away, shouting commands. Men fought, resisting him. He found Loppe at his side, and then Julius. Julius cried, ‘The bastards! One man!’

  It was human nature, Nicholas knew well enough. While he had lain on the ground, the victim of heartless authority, they had been sorry for that small, incompetent man. By running, he had turned himself into a sport. Now they were combining to herd him, attempting to corner him by one of the kilns. Some of those nearest were thrusting their rods into the fire, renewing their heat. They advanced towards the cowering figure, one swinging the red glistening glass into a noose, another whirling a burning globe at the end of a gut of twisting, glittering red.

  Their victim screamed and began running. Such was his desperation and speed that he broke through the far ring of the crowd. Beyond was the waste ground, the heaps of sand, the piles of barrels, the wall at the end that might lead to freedom, were it not ten feet in height.

  The fugitive ran for his life, and Nicholas, pelting after him, at last took the lead. He heard the voice of Julius, furiously calling in the clamour behind him. He heard, ahead, the pounding of feet on the dirt, trying this way and that as the man sought to shake him off.

  Nicholas reduced his speed, and drew in his considerable breath, and said, ‘Don’t run. You won’t be harmed.’ Julius came to his right side, and Loppe to his left. The crowd also slowed. He said over his shoulder, ‘Stand still. He can’t get away.’

  ‘Not from us, he won’t,’ a voice said, and a missile came flying over the shoulder of Nicholas to land in the darkness in front. It was followed by others. The feet ahead, which had hesitated, began running again, their sound altered to an irregular crunch. The footsteps became more deliberate, and took another direction, and became part of another pattern of noise, coarse and grumbling, overlaid by an intermittent silvery torrent, as from a glacier in thaw.

  Beside Nicholas, somebody cheered. Somebody said, ‘The silly fool’s trying to climb up to the wall through the cullet.’

  Cullet was broken glass. He had brought the donna Marietta so much, she had piled it against the far wall of the yard in a ridge twenty feet wide, stacked beyond a man’s height and unstable. A bridge to the wall, perhaps, to a man in extremity. But not to a man with one undamaged arm who, trying to balance and climb, would have to clutch at whatever he could as the mass shifted and spilled. A man who might or might not have shoes on his feet.

  Nicholas stepped forward, sinking and sliding on glass. He called again. ‘Come down. We shan’t harm you.’ Not surprisingly, the dim, scrambling figure didn’t stop.

  No one was running now. They had all come to a halt, blocking the light so that the wall of crumbling glass gave back only sound; the continuing punch and slide of the footsteps, the cadenza of an uneven fall. Julius said, ‘We’ll have to go in and get him.’

  Perhaps he was overheard. At that moment, the crowd shifted and parted, and a shaft of diluted red light fell on the glass, turning it into a cliff of rock amethyst. Near the top, a black figure stood, its white face made rosy. From behind, someone lifted a brick, and took aim, and threw.

  It struck its target. The man threw his arms up and fell. As he thudded into the glass, its hoarse chatter turned into a roar as it rushed over and round him. Even then, you could see the mound heave, the rattle of still-falling glass by turns cushioned and brittle as the buried man tried to move, tried to push the mass off with his hands, to jerk free his limbs, to twist his face and find air among the split blocks and knuckles and shards that pressed down on him.

  They had started forward with their shovels when the final fall came, and they jumped back, cho
king and coughing in the abrasive white dust. This time it lasted a while; a complete collapse of the stack, loud and continuing and final. And after that, there was no movement at all.

  Once they had dug it out, they put the body on canvas, and took it back to the shed it had come from. The soldiers, silent now, helped. After that, Nicholas sent them back to the boat, with a message to collect Messer Gregorio and the lady. Julius and Loppe he dispatched to the office to find water and a brush for their clothes; they went without speaking. He himself stayed in the yard.

  His mind, by that time, had all the options assembled. He would have to remain, to deal with the officers and the paperwork with which, as from yesterday, he was familiar. It would be most convenient if the boat left without him, and Loppe and Julius with it. He could hire another and follow, when he had dealt with the two other matters.

  One of them was already to hand, in the person of Marietta Barovier, standing before him in the wavering light. There was no shouting now, and even the dogs had ceased barking. Round about them the men, low-voiced, were closing down all their work for the night. On the maestra’s orders, the cullet had been left until daylight. She had said other things to them too, which they wouldn’t soon forget. Her face, tired before, was now haggard.

  He didn’t know what she would say to him. But for him, and the Florentine, the intruder would never have come; she would never have had to keep him; her good, skilled workforce would never have escaped her authority.

  Nicholas said, ‘The blame for all that was mine. I shall report the death as an accident. He was an assassin; he escaped, and ran into the glass.’

  In the lights that remained, he could see her eyes, and the bruise on her brow. She said, ‘He escaped because your bodyguard thrashed him.’

  ‘They will be punished,’ Nicholas said. It was one of the smaller lies of the evening. He had made a very precise bargain with the two soldiers of the Serenissima.