Niccolo Rising (91 page)

Tobie trained on him, unsmiling, the basilisk scrutiny of Pavia. He said, “Prosper de Camulio has arrived. You may meet him.”

“Yes. I know,” said Nicholas. “Look. About the company. You’ve said you want to remain with it. But it’s perhaps going to be more than you bargained for. Simon is going to cause trouble. And de Ribérac … his father is free. I saw him this morning.”

He could see Julius thinking. Julius said, “
Silver Straete!
”

“Yes. That was Jordan. He just wanted to reaffirm that my … that
the family is out for my blood. Ruining the Charetty company if necessary.”

Gregorio said, “It would take quite a lot to ruin the Charetty company. Although I say it myself.”

You wouldn’t think, looking at the black cap and the comedian’s nose, that Gregorio had the steel in him that he had. Nicholas gazed at him with the first, faint stirring of optimism. He said, “I think I feel the same. That is, I don’t mind fighting. The question is, where will it do the most good?”

“I can imagine,” said Tobie.

“I’m not asking for any more promises,” Nicholas said. He met Tobie’s pale eyes and tried to read them.

Tobie said, “I’m not making any. I suppose you know what you’re up against? Whatever happens, you’ll have to keep Adorne on your side. You’d have the Bishop and some of the Scots preferring Simon. And the Duke of Milan and his allies are friends with the Dauphin just now, but that mightn’t last.”

Julius was looking in an annoyed fashion at Tobie. He said, “If you’re afraid, go back to Lionetto.”

Tobie pondered. “I don’t think he’d welcome me,” he said. “He’s probably found out about Nicholas by now. I may have to stick to Astorre.”

“We may all have to stick to Astorre,” Nicholas said. Three pairs of eyes turned on him. It was the moment he thought it better to get up and leave the room.

Loppe was waiting to board the barge with Marian. Her daughters had wanted to be rowed to the galley as well, but Marian had explained that the visit was a matter of business.

Nicholas had changed in Catherine’s eyes yet again. From her mother’s lover, he had become the amazing person who had rampaged through Bruges on a featherless ostrich. Even Tilde, reserved and watchful, looked at him a little differently. He wondered, rather wildly, what change of attitude the same event might have wrought among the great men of Venice and their confederates. All offers cancelled and all communications cut. And perhaps as well, at that.

It was dark, by then. Julius saw them off in the barge and stood looking after them, the lamplight on his brown, well-turned face. He looked puzzled.

Sluys, when they got there, was like Carnival time all over again, with the canal banks hung with lanterns, and torches flaring all round the moated town walls and towers, while the fortress, the belfry, the castle blushed and flickered with light in the distance. But the crowds who had come by foot, by boat or on horseback, stood with their backs to the town looking out over the harbour where a hundred ships, small and large, lay rocking at anchor, beaded with lamps. The banners and
pavilions and pennants glowed under the great lanterns at masthead and rigging like flowers in a hedgerow: azure and indigo, vermilion and alizarine, cinnabar and earth-green and vermilion. And alone in the centre, with its burden of lights and flowers and music, of unreeling silks and swaying fringes, lay the flagship of the Venetian fleet, like a garland made by a goldsmith.

Receiving his guests with his noblemen, Piero Zorzi welcomed on board the small, wealthy woman Marian de Charetty, about whom he had received his instructions.

Under the rose colour of the awning her face looked less strained than it had done in the Hôtel Gruuthuse, when she had had to witness the insulting of her artisan husband. Reporting the incident to his fellows, Zorzi had mentioned again his own misgivings. In the maintenance of its empire, the Signory of the Republic of Venice used, of course, what tools came to hand. Their quality varied. But they were such, as a rule, that men of breeding could tolerate.

About this youth, one had doubts. Some feckless escapade had been reported that very day by Corner and Bembo and the other Venetian merchants. Senseless children ran races and upset their betters. The young man might be a foot taller than Messer Piero Zorzi, and decked today in furred robe and damask, but he was still a dyer’s apprentice.

One had, however, to think of the good of the Republic. Conducting his two incongruous guests through the chattering, jewel-prinked company, the Venetian commander hoped (in Italian) that they would accept the hospitality of his cabin, where Messer Prosper Camulio of Genoa would shortly join them with two of his friends.

They knew Italian. “And yourself, commander?” the Flemish woman enquired.

“Alas, my other guests call. But later, certainly, I hope to give myself the pleasure of joining you. Madonna, through this curtain.”

Marian de Charetty walked past his arm. Behind the curtain was a small panelled chamber lit by silver wall sconces. There was carpet on the floor, and a table fixed to it, and cushioned seats round three sides. She walked in, thinking of Prosper de Camulio, who would shortly join them, and who would condole with her on the death of her gallant son Felix, whom he had entertained in his Milanese villa. She heard the door curtain close, and the commander’s stiff walk retreating.

Beside her, Nicholas suddenly checked. The cabin was not empty. From where he had been sitting in shadow a bearded man rose, his two hands on a stick, and stood studying them. A black-haired man dressed in Florentine robes, whose olive skin and dark eyes fixed on Nicholas were not Italian, and whose red lips parted now in a slow, amused smile. He said, “Have no fear, my friend Niccolò. There is nothing I can take from you. There is nothing of what I am going to offer you that you need accept.”

There was a pause. Then beside her, Nicholas said, “I am glad to hear it.”

Disturbed by his voice, she looked up at him; but could not read his face. He said, “Demoiselle, you remember Messer Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli, who passed through Bruges on his way from Scotland last year? Messer Nicholai: the lady my wife.”

“I have to felicitate you,” said the Greek. The Greek with the wooden leg, who had witnessed the sinking of the cannon at Damme. Who had given Nicholas that first, teasing hint about Phocoean alum. Who had divined from the beginning – was it possible? – that here perhaps was a man he could use.

Nicholas said, “Messer Prospero …?”

“He will join us later,” said the bearded man. “With Messer Caterino Zeno and his wife. Messer Caterino ratified the alum agreement, demoiselle. You have seen his signature. You will enjoy meeting the man. And Violante his wife. The princesses of Trebizond are famed for their beauty.”

“We should sit, then,” said Nicholas. “I dare say you will want to come to business quite soon.” His voice was peaceful again.

The Greek smiled, making way for her. She seated herself between the two men, and facing the curtain. The Greek said, “Our friends will not come until I seek them. In any case you know what we are to discuss. The Duke of Milan has offered your company a renewal of the condotta for next year, but you have not yet accepted?”

She realised Nicholas had left her to answer. She said steadily, “No. But we expect to do so very soon. After San Fabiano, the lord Federigo was most pressing. Any alternative would have to offer much more.”

The Greek said, “How soon would you expect to sign your Milanese contract?”

It was Nicholas, this time, who replied. “Before the end of the year, monsignore. I plan to go to Milan in November.”

She hadn’t known that. She waited.

The Greek said, “But you wouldn’t object, personally, to taking your company further afield? You have a developing business, which breeds jealousies. No one would wish to harm a lady, but the more successful a merchant, the more he invites retaliation. There is much to be said for moving a share of the business elsewhere. You’ve already thought of Venice. You have a rapport with the Genoese. Through your courier service you have commended yourself to the Florentines. It remains to select the theatre in which you may capitalise on all these new assets. Naturally, I speak of Trebizond.”

When talking affairs, you learn to give nothing away. Marian de Charetty rested her gaze on the saturnine face as if it was of no account, this proposal to send a young man, not yet twenty, to the other side of the world. To Trebizond. The jewel of the Black Sea. The prized trading-post with the Orient which Venice feared to lose to the Turk.
Which, now that Constantinople had fallen, was the last fragment on earth of the Empire of Byzantium; the last imperial court; the last treasure house of royal Greece.

Caterino Zeno, who had signed the alum contract for Venice, was married to a Byzantine princess. It was all planned. None of this was an accident. It was war, and not trade, that Nicholas was wanted for. But war and trade both were the foundation of the Charetty business.

Nicholas said, “We have an excellent company, but I doubt if captain Astorre could hold off the Turks single-handed. That is what you are asking?”

“I?” said the Greek. “I expect nothing. I demonstrate what is possible, that is all. Venice has her own hired soldiers in Trebizond, poor though they are, to protect her traders. The Genoese merchants have some sort of bodyguard. It is likely that they will never be needed. The Sultan requires trade, and the mountains do not encourage Ottoman armies. No. I had in mind a business opportunity. If you ask your captain Astorre to accompany you, he will of course be sure of a welcome. The Emperor himself would be generous. But it is a matter of trade. Trade and money.”

She was aware, again, that Nicholas preferred to be silent. She said, “And the business, precisely?”

The Greek’s eyes, in the lamplight, seemed softened. He said, “This winter, Monna Marian, envoys from the East are due to reach Italy, begging help to drive out the infidel. Among them will be a Venetian merchant, Michael Alighieri. The poet Dante was one of his forebears. His home is in Trebizond, and he is spokesman for the Emperor David. It is his task, when in Italy, to arrange for a Florentine agent in Trebizond.”

She said, “A trading-station on the Black Sea for Florence? Then Florence will choose the Medici to run it.”

The Greek smiled. “But what Florence proposes may not suit Trebizond and the Emperor. He is threatened from Constantinople. Sultan Mehmet has shown his distrust of the Genoese. The Emperor David may therefore insist that Florence appoints an agent of his own choice: a company which the Medici and Venice both favour. A company already blessed with its own private army. Quartered in Trebizond, such a force would be priceless. To the traders. To the imperial family. And the fees it might command would reflect this.”

He stroked his beard, watching them. “I do not doubt your success in the Milanese wars. Perhaps you owe the Duke of Milan more than I know. I would only mention, my friends, that a Trapezuntine contract could be yours for the asking. And a share – perhaps a major share – perhaps one day a monopoly – of the whole silk exchange from the Orient.”

The breathing she could hear was her own. Nicholas stood, his eyes like coins, without breathing at all. He had talked to her, a little, about
this possibility. It had then seemed a dream, a book-keeper’s fantasy. And even then, it had been Julius he had envisaged as leading this branch of the company. Julius who would go to Rome, and to Venice, and finally far off, beyond Constantinople, to the shores of the Black Sea.

But it was not Julius who was being spoken of now. It was himself.

The silence stretched, and then he dropped his gaze. He said, “I see. Well, you won’t expect an answer from us just now. We need to know very much more. But I shall be in Italy in November. I undertake at least to see Messer Alighieri. Unless –”

She felt his eyes, and tilted her head, to meet his enquiry. “I have no objection,” the demoiselle said.

“Then,” said the Greek, “I shall fetch our friends, and we shall take wine together. Without commitment, it goes without saying. Venice, Florence and Genoa. The Turk makes strange bedfellows, my friends. But of such things are fortunes created.”

He was skilled at rising, despite the faint sway of the vessel. Nicholas sprang to his feet also, and held the curtain aside as he left. Then he dropped the heavy cloth, and stood looking down at her. He said, “It means nothing, to see Alighieri. We can decide here and now to accept the Milanese condotta instead.”

She said, “He has planned for this.”

Nicholas said, “Then he will have planned for our refusal. It is for you to say, when the time comes.”

He looked as he always did. As he always used to do. Affectionate and a little anxious, with the glow of excitement behind it. Excitement at the prospect of a great escapade. The greatest ever.

She said, “Nicholas, don’t be foolish. It’s the finest opportunity the company has ever had. You aren’t afraid of it?”

A merchant has to disguise what he feels. So she had said, over and over, to Felix. She withstood the enveloping, generous gaze trying to sift through her mind; trying to discern her real motives. He knew that trouble lay ahead for her if he stayed at Bruges and invited Simon’s attentions. He didn’t know, or guess, the real trouble that lay before her. He said, “I don’t want to leave.”

She said, “And are we all to depend on what you do or don’t want?”

His brow had puckered. He said, “We have until winter.”

And she replied, “No, my dear. We decide now. You go to Trebizond. And, one day, come back to me with your profits.”

It was a fair offer, with its own sort of justice. She had said as much to Felix, after he had suffered at the Poorterslogie. She had said that he and Nicholas might want to leave her.

Her eyes were not as clear as she would have wished, and she was shaken to find Nicholas dropped to her feet, and her hand snatched as if he would break it. Then he kissed the palm formally and rose, holding it tightly. She studied the strong, workman’s fingertips, remembering
when they were blue. The footsteps they had both heard came nearer. She kept her eyes fixed on their interlaced fingers, and heard the distant voice of the Greek, ushering several people to join them. Prosper de Camulio, they had said. And Caterino Zeno and Violante his wife. Violante, princess of Trebizond.