The Spring of the Ram: The Second Book of the House of Niccolo

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Nicholas, Tobie noticed, was watching them all, but not really listening. He had heard it before. The chaplain said, “The strongest rumour agrees with what the Bailie told us in Modon. The Sultan has his eye, of course, on all the Black Sea ports, including Trebizond. But his first quarrel is with Uzum Beg, who insulted him. And he may want to act quickly, just in case the West listen to Fra Ludovico da Bologna and send a rescue fleet over this summer.”

  “First Uzum Hasan. And then Trebizond?” Tobie said.

  For the first time, Nicholas spoke. “It’s anyone’s guess. But remember. The Empire of Trebizond is just a two-hundred-mile strip along the Black Sea coast, about forty miles deep. Between that and the rest of Asia Minor are those mountains. They’re why Trebizond has remained protected so long, and they may still protect it. The campaigning season is short. At the end of a long expedition against Uzum Hasan, the Sultan is unlikely to tackle the Pontic Chain.”

  “What if he beats Uzum Hasan quickly?” said Tobie.

  “Then Trebizond might suffer a brief siege, which Astorre says it can stand very well. On the other hand, the Sultan might lose. Uzum Hasan can call on a lot of help. Otherwise, why that ridiculous levy of horse-harness?”

  “You mean the Pope and the Duke of Burgundy are going to send a crusade?” Tobie said.

  “I mean I think Uzum Hasan and the Emperor of Trebizond hope that the Sultan thinks the West is going to send a fleet to attack him,” Nicholas said.

  “In fact,” said Tobie, “we need an astrologer. What happened to your ominous Greek? I thought he was going to read the entrails for you.”

  Nicholas said, “I don’t know if I’d believe him if he did. The truth is that no one knows what will happen, or will know for a month, because land campaigning can’t start until then. By that time, we’ll be with the Emperor in Trebizond, and committed. I’m willing to take the risk and go on, but if anyone else isn’t, now is the last chance to say so. We can’t stay in Pera. We can only turn back, or go and accept whatever is going to happen.”

  Tobie said, “You’re a bit late, aren’t you, with the offer? Julius is asleep, and le Grant is getting the ship ready to leave.”

  “Le Grant knows the position, and all the senior officers,” Nicholas said. “And you heard Julius. He wouldn’t abandon the girl. He knows there may be war. We’ve always known this.”

  “Well, that’s true,” said Tobie. “It only worries me when I hear it translated into dates and numbers and long Turkish titles. Then it’s Trebizond, come what may, with our arthritic hundred?”

  “Why not?” said Nicholas. “Jason went. If he and Pagano Doria can manage it, I don’t see why we should be frightened and poor instead of frightened and rich. So we go?”

  “Well, of course,” said Godscalc mildly. “What is all this about? Did you think we were going to swim back to Bruges?”

  Nicholas smiled at him. “It’s not about anything but Tobie’s liking for taking plumb readings. Like you. I don’t mind. A pledge. To Trebizond, and a pox on Pagano. Which reminds me—”

  “Yes,” said Father Godscalc smoothly. “I thought of that. And so did you, of course, when you entered that house. The Doria and her commander will have to leave Pera too.”

  As the Ottoman troops had departed, so with speed did the provisioning craft make their appearance, take their orders, and return with the water and food the galley demanded. No one set foot on board. The casks and boxes were winched up with a boom for crane and settled below, where unscrewed panels and gaping barrels and chests showed where the craftsmen of Modon had concealed ninety-eight soldiers and Astorre.

  To the watching boats as dusk fell the Florentine galley might have seemed to lie dark on the water, sober now and aware of her fate. Instead, behind the drawn curtains and heavy shutters, there was taking place a celebration of muted exuberance. When sleep came, it claimed contented men.

  Through it all, Nicholas fizzed and exploded among them, with a cup never far from his hand. Godscalc made no effort to check him, then or later, when he took the mattress next to him for what was to be left of the night. Rising from his knees, he looked across once, before he rolled into his pallet, but Nicholas was quite still.

  Halfway through the short night Godscalc spoke in a low voice, “Are you not asleep yet?” He heard a short exhalation, possibly of amusement.

  Nicholas said, “In spite of all I’ve drunk?”

  It was still too dark to see outlines. The cabin was full of the sound of other men’s breathing. Godscalc leaned his weight on one elbow and addressed the darkness, clasping his hands. He said, “There wasn’t a dead child. There is a perfectly happy living child who may never need help. But if she does, there is no better person she could wish to have near her. It is not your fault, what has happened. You could have done nothing else.”

  “You don’t know. It is my fault,” said Nicholas.

  Beyond, Tobie, himself long awake, heard the exchange, which ended there. Once he, too, had been tempted to interfere, but had been wiser. His was not the voice Nicholas needed, nor Godscalc’s. As he had seen long ago, the voice Nicholas needed didn’t exist.

  Long before that, the sea prince Pagano Doria returned to his loved one in Pera, leaving behind him a critical and not unsatisfactory interview with the Grand Vizier Mahmud in the New Palace, and a short, humble one in the painted paraclesion of the church of the Pammakaristos, the home of the head of the Greek Orthodox Church in the Ottoman Empire.

  Clearly, the Ottoman Empire needed the skills of the Greeks, and the Greeks needed some sort of local controller. Hence, with his usual clemency, Mehmet the Conqueror had spared the required number of churches in Stamboul and had appointed as Patriarch the man George Scholarius, of all Greek theologians the one least likely to support or promote union with the Church of the West. Once, at the Pope’s famous council in Florence, Scholarius had spoken and voted for union like Amiroutzes and Bessarion. But there is no man firmer in his opinion than the man who has changed it. The Sultan gave the Patriarch a new jewelled cross and allowed him to instruct him in the Christian Faith. Know thy enemy.

  Recrossing the Horn, Doria saw that the Ciaretti was no longer delightfully jostled by guard boats and deduced that le Grant and the poor fellow Julius must have been removed already in chains, with Master Niccolò presumably running after wringing his hands. Because of the Florentine connection, Mahmud would probably leave the ship and the young man alone. Doria suspected, also, that the Venetians were keeping an eye on the Charetty company. The actual fate of the two accused men hardly troubled him. The case would keep the galley hanging about for a very long time. That was all he cared about. That and giving another tap on the chin to this poor bemused youth who had thought to best a Doria. It remained to be seen, of course, if it had been a tap and not a blow that could kill. He hoped not. One should conduct such matters with artistry.

  He rode with his immaculate retinue into the elder’s courtyard, dismounted, and was immediately accosted by his captain, who had apparently been waiting for him. Running down the steps behind Crackbene was the manservant he had left to serve Catherine. And at the top of the steps, her hair unbecomingly loose, stood his wife Catherine herself, looking agitated.

  Pagano Doria said to Crackbene, “Quickly.”

  He was an experienced captain who ran the ship, and did what he was paid to do, without comment. He said, “The Ciaretti was boarded, but they didn’t take off the prisoners. They say they have the plague on board.”

  “They haven’t,” said Doria.

  Crackbene said, “It’s possible. There is an outbreak at Patras.”

  Catherine’s servant had arrived. “My lord! He came. As you thought he might. Messer Niccolò of the Charetty, to see the Madonna. I allowed him to—”

  “Be quiet, fool,” said Doria. He said to Crackbene, “So, you see, there is no plague.”

  “They showed them bodies.”

  “They searched, then? What did they find?”
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  “Only two bodies,” said Crackbene. “Half the crew were missing, deserted or dead. They had taken some fishermen to help them through the narrows. The rest were all the original seamen, and the officers.”

  “Then they’ve given up,” Doria said. “They let the soldiers go while they were still in Venetian territory. Unless he hid them somehow on board. Is it possible?”

  “Hardly,” said Crackbene. “In any case, I looked at the load line. They hadn’t discharged cargo since Modon, but the ship was riding much higher.”

  Doria gazed at him. He said, “So we frightened him. He dismissed the soldiers, and he’s going to Trebizond with nothing.” He swore to himself, and then again, as his eyes were drawn to Catherine. Doria said, “If he’s even going to Trebizond now. Wait here.”

  “I shall, of course, monseigneur,” said the captain civilly. “But I shall have to see to matters soon. Since the patron of the plague ship visited the madonna, we too have been ordered out of Pera. We have until tomorrow to leave.”

  It was, of course, what Pagano Doria had once wanted most: to be allowed to leave Pera quickly. But this deprived him of the time he had hoped to use in pursuing his new contacts in Stamboul. In discovering what had become of those vanished Charetty soldiers. And even, perhaps, of persuading the Grand Vizier and his officials that there was no plague on the Ciaretti.

  On reflection, he saw that no man, fearing plague, would risk his life on the word of a Genoese; even a Genoese already commended for the delicacy of his presents. Even the presents, as it turned out, had been useless. In the delightful game he and this young man were playing, it seemed that he had lost the skirmish of Constantinople. He only hoped, as he made for the stairs, that the foolish child had not ruined the end-game.

  To Catherine, shivering with cold and fear and excitement at the top of the steps, this final delay was inexcusable. Pagano, having seen her, chose to stay talking below. She saw her manservant there, spoiling her news. Telling the wrong story, even. She called his name, high and sharp as a whistle, before she saw he had stopped speaking and was moving quickly towards her. He looked anxious, and she began to relent. When she felt the desperation of his embrace, she even forgave him. He held her off and looked at her. “Not here, but tell me inside. Are you all right? Did he harm you? If only I had been here! And those fools let him in?”

  She told it all in her chamber, in the comfort of his arms, while he stroked her hair gently. At the end, he said, “What a husband am I, to expose you to that. What if he had tried to abduct you? He might do it still!” His arm tightened.

  “Not now,” said Catherine. “He was ashamed, when I told him what our marriage was like. He said he hoped I was happy, and left.”

  “The insolence!” said Pagano. “As if it were any business of his! And to force his way to your bedroom while your husband was gone. He was afraid to meet me.”

  Catherine pondered. “He said he couldn’t stay long, because the ship had just come in. He said he wanted to meet you; but then someone brought a message and they both left. Pagano?”

  “Yes, sweeting,” he said. He smelt of salt, and the perfume he used for important audiences. She had forgotten to ask him about the Grand Vizier. She said, “It isn’t true that Master Julius is going to be killed? They said you had something to do with it, but of course I told them you hadn’t.”

  Pagano smiled into her hair. “Your mother’s notary? Is it likely, my darling? No, of course no one on board the Ciaretti is going to be killed. It was only some sort of trick. He is an amusing young man, your mother’s husband, when he isn’t frightening my Caterinetta. But perhaps he will take your word for it now. You are happy and safe and protected, and he can go back to Bruges.”

  Until Nicholas himself had said otherwise, she, too, had thought she was going to lose him. It would have displeased her. She had nothing to fear, now, from Nicholas. She wished very much to hear what her husband would say to Nicholas the next time they met. She said, “Oh, he’s still going to Trebizond. He has his mind bent on trade and making money, you know. He doesn’t know any better.” She caught her husband’s hand in both her own. “I’m a trouble to you, Pagano. Bringing Nicholas after me. And now he’s caught up, and you won’t get to the Black Sea much before him.”

  “Wait and see,” said Pagano, and kissed her. When he excused himself a little later, she let him go, because she could see they had to sail soon, and she and her women had the hateful packing to see to.

  He came to bed late and tired, but still able to please her for a little. They were to sail the next day after noon. She lay awake long after he had fallen asleep, thinking of all that had happened. Then she slept very soundly, and was wakened by the dawn light and a short, quiet sound which (rarely heard) was Pagano swearing.

  He was standing, handsome and naked, in the cold of the open window. She lay in drowsy felicity and contemplated him. To make him turn, she said softly, “What is it?”

  In the faint light, she couldn’t make out his expression. Then he said, “It’s nothing. The Ciaretti has sailed. We shall catch him up in no time. Go back to sleep.”

  But she was still awake when he moved from the window and, instead of returning, began to put on his clothes. They had not been laid out as they usually were, and she was reminded of something. She said, “Pagano. Yesterday, I had to walk Willequin alone in the rain.”

  He went on assembling his garments with what, in anyone else, would have been a fit of suppressed annoyance. But his voice to her was unchanged. “My little lady, you should ask someone to take your dog for you.”

  “Well, Noah does it,” she said. “But he wasn’t there.”

  He reached for his cloak and came to kiss her. “No. He found a relative in Constantinople, and wanted to stay there. I must go down to the wharf. I’ll send the carts for the baggage.”

  “A relative of Noah’s!” she said. “In Constantinople?”

  His hand on the door-latch, he glanced back at her. “The Black Sea is the biggest known market for slaves, you know that. And others are captured at sea with their masters. Noah was hardly surprised to see a favourite cousin, and will be very happy to stay. You don’t miss him?”

  She thought how selfless he was. She didn’t miss Noah; not at all; except when she needed someone to take out her dog.

  In the dark just before dawn, Nicholas had his ship rowed out of harbour, led by a pilot boat which left him at Tophane. For the rest of the narrows, they had a very good rutter and John le Grant and the Ragusan, who knew every rock.

  Just past Tophane, a fishing-boat hailed them quietly and passed up some baskets of sprats and a large number of unwieldy parcels and boxes, followed by several people. It then fell back and waited.

  The business of getting Astorre’s men out from the hold and back on their benches had begun, and Nicholas was below. It was Julius, his sling glimmering white in the dark, who welcomed the group of passengers and showed them, with their possessions, to the lower cabin. He then took to the master cabin the four men who had brought both the books and the passengers, while the bales that accompanied them were carried down to the hold. There Nicholas, Tobie and Godscalc presently joined them.

  The four were all dealers in silk, and two of them were also dealers in alum. Julius, formal in black, introduced them. Messer Bartolomeo Giorgio or Zorzi, brother of the one-legged Greek. Also Girolamo Michiel of Venice, Messer Bartolomeo’s business partner. And, of course, Messer Dietifeci of Florence, the agent for Florence at Pera. And with him, his Florentine partner, Messer Bastiano da Foligno. Julius reeled it all off in his splendid Bolognese accent, a confident man despite the pain in his chest; because his name had been cleared and his conduct forgiven and if anyone could conduct a business meeting with proper decorum it was an experienced Bologna-trained lawyer.

  Then Nicholas settled down to ask questions, and all the trading matters they had come to Pera to negotiate were picked out and examined and fitted into their programme, one af
ter the other, like beans being pushed in a drill.

  At the end, Bartolomeo said, “You don’t waste much time, my friend Niccolò.”

  Like Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli, his brother was dark and bearded, but built on a shorter and stockier frame, with a nose wide at the roots and square, practical hands. Nicholas said, “It is as well to settle these things. The market is big enough. I don’t see why Bursa should have more than its share. At any rate, I’m glad to have met you, if briefly.”

  Zorzi smiled. “In lieu of myself, I allot you my patron your passenger. The fee will be well worth your while. There are two servants and a priest, whose passage and keep will also be paid for. They have all been assured, needless to say, that you are free of the plague. I have to congratulate you on the ruse.”

  “I had help at Modon,” Nicholas said. “As you know. I have to thank you, too, for what you brought. But we mustn’t keep you. It will be getting light soon.”

  They rose. Bartolomeo said, “You said you had letters for Bruges? The Venetian galleys should leave in a fortnight, and if you address them to Messer Martelli in Venice, he will see them passed on. Dietifeci?”

  The Florentine agent nodded. “Yes. I have dispatches myself for the Medici. Da Castro is sailing, and will carry them.”

  “Da Castro?” Nicholas said. He was looking at Tobie.

  “The Pope’s godson. He had a dyeing business in Constantinople at one time. Now he works in the Apostolic Chamber, but spends all his spare time prospecting for minerals. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, of course,” Nicholas said. “I met him at your cousin’s house at Milan. So did Messer Tobias. And he’s going home? I’m sorry to miss him.”