It had been a long time since Tobie, a cynical man, had been made to sit through a spectacle. His uncle, physician to dukes, attended them as a matter of course. His uncle took jesters for granted, and jugglers, and men who swallowed fire and crossed high-slung wires pushing wheelbarrows with pretty girls in them. Tobie had watched such things as a student, but seldom since. It was a long time since he had seen boy and girl acrobats, nude as Christmas cadavers in the anatomy class, and with the spangles in just the same places. Unlike the cadavers, they wound their heads through their legs and walked on their hands and rolled themselves into hoops and bowled round the arena.
Thick men with high cheekbones stood arm in arm and made the base of a pyramid that climbed above the high wire, and then threw boys and girls to each other. Men wearing animal furs and false faces achieved terrible jokes with pigs’ bladders and the genitalia of oxen and billy goats. Children dressed in white silk and flowers danced in circles and sang. Country folk performed stamping dances to the whine of the bagpipes, and a line of Circassian girls in boots and long skirts swayed to music, Greek-linked by the arms in a living key pattern, to the sound of a drum. Two wrestlers, oiled, in leather breeches, fought until one of them died and the Emperor stood, while the corpse was drawn off, to signal that an interval had been declared, since emperors, like everyone else, must eat and make water.
A mule, its neck beribboned, dragged on a cart of salt fish, and two boys running beside it threw handfuls, for nothing, into the crowds behind the barriers. The Emperor’s gift. The cart stayed on the north side of the Meidan, since everyone knew that merchants and princes would make their own dispositions. They were correct. Loppe, moving at last, had produced a hamper which, laid on the ground by the bench, proved to be packed with cakes and chicken and cooked beans and fruit paste and hazelnuts. There were also wine flasks, with six good metal beakers. Last of all, he lifted out and delivered to Tobie an extra flask which contained nothing but water. His eyes asked a question.
Nicholas was talking, again, to Astorre. Tobie put a hand on his shoulder and turned him round. Tobie said, “All right. I think that’s enough, don’t you? Slip out now while the Emperor’s gone.”
Nicholas sounded normal. In looks, he had become particularly vivid. His hair, now soaking, had curled up like unravelled wool. He said, “Don’t bully; Astorre would never forgive me. They’re going to put on a shooting display.”
Tobie knew that. He had also known that, by divine agency, the display was bound to occur in the second half and not in the first. He said, “Astorre isn’t stupid. He knows what fever is like. Look. The Genoese are far away. Julius won’t cause any trouble. If most of the rest of us stay, the Emperor won’t even notice. You’ve come, you’ve been seen. What are you waiting for?”
“To be conquered. You’re losing your chicken,” Nicholas said. Tobie stared at him, and then down. It was true. A terrier had its head in their basket. It wore a gold collar. He lifted it up by it. “Willequin,” Nicholas said. The little dog dangled, choking irritably.
“Willequin!” said a girl sharply. Tobie knew who it was before he turned round. Catherine de Charetty, dressed like a courtesan. Or no. That was not strictly true. But her pretty, reddish brown hair hung in ringlets over her cheeks, and her earrings dangled on shoulders bare enough to make Tobie, in heated vermilion, briefly envious. Her gown was of silk, and her face was prettily painted. She seized the dog. “You could have killed him! My mother shall hear of it.”
Nicholas turned. “If you like, I’ll tell her,” he said. “I have a letter to answer.”
Doria was standing behind her. He, too, wore his robe of honour and also his chain. He said, “If Willequin is safe, take him to your seat, sweetheart. You can speak to your stepfather later.”
Now they had all turned: Julius simmering, le Grant with calm curiosity, Astorre with his beard at its most frightening angle. Godscalc, Tobie saw, looked uneasy. Catherine looked at none of them. Clutching the dog, she was examining Nicholas. She said, “Your hair’s wet, like when you had marsh fever. Have you got it again?”
So much for their painstaking precautions. Nicholas said, “Yes. And if you don’t want it, you’d better stay clear. How are you, Catherine?”
She was already turning away. She said, “Don’t speak. You shouldn’t be here. That’s wicked. You’ll give it to Willequin too. I don’t want your fever.”
“I don’t much want it either,” Nicholas said. “Did you take Willequin to the Empress?”
She had retreated, already, to the far benches, but could not resist turning to answer. She said, “Did you see me? I’ve been presented. I’m to go to the Palace next week. The Greeks love my dog. They call him Rim-Papa.”
It was one of the standard insults, Greek to Westerner. Nicholas said, without change of voice, “If I were you, I’d keep him indoors. There’s a lot of fever about. I like your earrings.”
It lifted the frown, for a moment. Then she said, “You ought to go home,” and went off resentfully to her seat. Julius, standing, made to follow, but found his way blocked by the priest.
Doria, smiling, had watched the small scene without moving. Then he turned and viewed Nicholas. Sympathy glowed in his face. “Poor lad. Was the Palace too much? I’ve heard of bath house infections, but swamp fever rarely figures among them. Or was it Alexios whose arts so depleted you?”
He spoke quite openly, if in Italian. There was enough noise, perhaps, to deter an eavesdropper. The crowd, becoming impatient, were beginning to chant; beguiling their Basileus into ending his repast. The phrases were Byzantine: “Arise, Imperial Sun! Arise! Appear!”
“None of your whores,” said Doria, “has had quite the advantages of Alexios. Nor, I must admit, have more than one or two of mine, that I can remember. Of either kind.”
The implication, conveyed thus in public, struck Tobie’s stomach like rotten food. Astorre lifted his half-regrown eyebrows: boys will be boys. Le Grant’s face had hardly changed. But Godscalc and Julius stood motionless.
Pagano Doria smiled at them all, and then returned the warm gaze upon Nicholas. He said, “You didn’t tell them! Well, of course, I didn’t boast of my Anthimos to young Catherine. But one’s men friends, I should have thought, would be envious.” He turned his gaze to the priest. “Unless, of course, you had the pleasure, under seal, of a description. I reminded him of the generous flexibility of your views. And indeed, if you had seen this breathing boy-angel…”
The noise of the crowd had increased. “Lord! Lord! Protected by God!”
“You have a letter of mine,” Nicholas said. The hectic colour had drained from his face, except over the cheekbones. He showed no other emotion. Staring at him, Tobie thought: he hasn’t denied it. It’s provable, then. He never expected Doria to confront him with it, but Doria knows he’s probably safe. Neither can afford to tell the other man’s wife.
He thought what it would be like, writing a letter to Marian de Charetty in Bruges. Madam, I have to tell you that your apprentice husband is sleeping with bath boys. Except that the boy who had walked past just now, glistening with jewels, had been the bath boy of no ordinary man. And Nicholas? Nicholas, owned by the Devil, was speaking instead of some letter.
Doria said, as if in echo, “A letter?” He was in no haste to serve Nicholas in any way. He was enjoying himself.
Nicholas spoke again. The informed ear, listening, could hear, every now and then, the slipshod word that betrayed Tobie’s drugs. “You had a letter from the lady my wife. I came to receive it.” (Basileus! Sovereign of the Romans!)
Understanding dawned on the handsome face. “So that was why you struggled here, away from your pot and your bucket! Poor lad. Of course you must have it.”
He made no movement. “Then?” said Nicholas. Behind, a trumpet blew. Men were standing. Wooed by his people, the Elect of God had returned to his kathisma at last.
Doria said, “Ah, how unfortunate. I must take my seat. Some other day, when yo
u are fit?”
Nicholas stood. Cymbals clashed, and clear notes sounded, in unison, from other trumpets. Along all the benches men were kicking baskets aside, and gathering cloaks and getting properly to their feet. Among them, Nicholas was hardly noticed as he put out one hand and took Doria’s upper arm in his grip.
It might have been a parting gesture, except that the grip stayed; and Doria exclaimed as if in pain. He said, “Let me go, my young Flemish lout, or I shall call over an usher.”
“Call,” said Nicholas. “But first give me the letter.” His hand, weakening, slid from its grasp as he spoke. But as Godscalc had placed himself before Julius, so now three grim-faced men of the Charetty company stood between Doria and the way to his seat.
He looked in turn at them all, eyebrows lifted in amusement. “My dear boy, if it matters so much, of course you shall have your precious letter. I thought to make it the prize for some small, congenial task, but I see you haven’t the strength to compete for it. I shall have to rely on your men. Let us say, my dear Niccolino, that if one of your men performs a service for me this day, then you shall have the letter forthwith. If not, it will have to wait for another occasion. Is it so terrible? It has been months on its journey already. Everyone who can read it has done so. May I pass?”
It was Godscalc who said, with cold dislike, “Indeed you may,” and used his bulk to deter Astorre and Julius from following. Doria bowed from the passage and left. He was only just in time: the Basileus had entered the box.
Astorre said, “I’ll have to go. Are ye all right?”
“Go. Good luck,” Nicholas said. He didn’t waste effort, Tobie was glad to see, in attempting to answer the question.
Godscalc said, “What does he mean, perform a service?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Nicholas. Sitting, he had spread a hand over his face. The fever had risen: his face was inflamed with it, and between his fingers his eyes were dry and bright. He made an effort. “I mean, I don’t know. It’s a letter to me from the demoiselle. The Genoese merchants were holding it. He told me this morning.”
“In the bath house,” said Julius.
Godscalc said, “Never mind all that now. They’re putting the pole up. That’s for Astorre and the shooting?”
“Yes,” said Nicholas. Two passaging fingers came to a definite halt at the root of his nose. He dropped them. “Astorre.”
“No,” Godscalc said. “Astorre and I had a short conversation before he left to join the men. Nothing will happen to Pagano Doria.”
“Why not?” said Julius.
No one answered him.
Chapter 21
SOMETIMES TOBIAS BEVENTINI was moved to wonder how Julius ever managed to become a member of the Italian notariate. At others, recalling his energy and his exploits, he accepted that it was simply a fact that Julius now and then quite enjoyably lost his head. On this occasion, once convinced of the unsuitability of murdering the Genoese ambassador in full view of the Basileus and people of Trebizond, Julius consented, fuming, to sit. It was as well, for the second half of the celebration was about to begin.
Tobie was not unsympathetic to Julius. He recognised that between Julius and his former apprentice there existed a special relationship that no one else shared except, perhaps, Astorre. At times, irritatingly, Nicholas would decide to side with his notary, as over the case of Paraskeuas. Julius seldom returned the compliment, although he had once taken the trouble to save Nicholas from drowning. Why? From simple humanity? Bravado? Respect for the company property? All three, very likely. Julius still regarded Nicholas, with detached pride, as his protégé.
And how, then, did Nicholas regard Julius? On the surface, with the broad affection he gave to the world. But below the surface, it seemed, there were hidden currents. Tobie had experienced none of them, but then he was not Julius. The guarded, sardonic sparring in which Tobie and Nicholas sometimes engaged arose from wariness on both sides, however it might sometimes soften. Nicholas was not wary of Julius: he knew him too well. It did not occur to Tobie, as it had once to Marian de Charetty, that he was jealous of Julius.
Now, sitting still on his bench, Tobie considered what he had just heard, and tried to fit it into the gaping mosaic that was his reconstruction, so far, of the working interior of Nicholas. He suspected Godscalc was doing the same, Nicholas today being refreshingly vulnerable to unscrupulous men. It would tax a fit man to explain away the sort of lapses Doria had hinted at, never mind the missing letter which no one had heard of. To obtain the letter was, of course, his reason for coming here. Again, Nicholas had lied to conceal it.
The gate at the far end of the arena had opened and Astorre and Thomas had entered, leading the Charetty troops, and flanked by the trumpets and drums from the ship. They were mounted. The horses were Turkish, bought on their arrival, and dressed with harness brought with them from Flanders. Instead of plate armour, the men were dressed this time in fine leather tunics under sleeveless garments made of blue camlet. Across each chest was an embroidered baldric carrying a long quiver of arrows. Each man carried a curve-horned cavalry bow and the faces, though grave, were brown and confident. The musicians separated, four to each side, and after the squadron lined up and bowed to the box, the drums set up a brisk rhythm and the horsemen set off at the trot.
Formation riding was something that most troops learned to do for their employers: princes liked to impress other princes, and it was a useful item for feasts and victories. Performed on sloping ground with new horses, it demanded some skill. This they had, hammered into them by Astorre, who had emerged from the womb ready-mounted. Trick-riding the Emperor had already seen, and this they did not try to copy. But as the files crossed and recrossed, man passing man without pause or mistake to the lilt of the music, the decent orderliness of it all impressed as much as the skill: the spectators started to cheer, and the faces of the riders, still intent, were less grave. That was the beginning.
Bits of it Tobie had already seen. Astorre had done some of this last year in Italy. The shooting, which came next, was something Tobie had tried his hand at. A bird or a bladder, placed on top of a pole, was shot at by circling riders: shot from the normal position and again, the marksman twisting round after passing. The Persians and Turks made an art of it, and it had been taken up by the soldiers who fought them. It took a quick eye and fine horsemanship and it was dangerous. Deflected arrows could kill as well as deliberate ones. The archers wore helmets, but only leather over their shoulders.
It was a feat well worth watching. The music kept them to measure, and then, towards the end, increased its beat so that the horsemen looping the pole glinted like fish on the turn. The last chord came, the last arrow flew to its mark, and Astorre, inflated with triumph, pointed his stiff left arm and his barb and his beard to the skies and launched an arrow, not to the pole, but to the cloudy heaven of the favouring gods.
It fell, not among gods, but on the peopled top slope of the Meidan. Straight as a shaft from Apollo, it whistled down to the long rows of seats where the merchants were. Where the flag of St George drooped, it landed. Many gasped, but only one person screamed. It was a man’s voice, and unrecognisable. The cry ended in bubbling breath. Whoever had received Astorre’s arrow had died of it.
Everyone had jumped up. No, not everyone. Beside Tobie, Nicholas sat without moving, his new gloves set on his knees, and his gaze on his gloves. He said, “Who?”
Julius was smiling. He said, “Guess.”
Nicholas said, “Christ in heaven!” in a meticulous whisper that threatened like gunfire.
Julius flinched, as he had at Modon, and then, recovering, swore. “Can’t you imagine? I saw him myself, sitting two rows to the back of Doria, as smug as a priest. It was the seaman. The filthy murderer who started the fire for Doria and then got away to the cog. Astorre couldn’t miss him when he lined up to bow to the Emperor. He recognised him, and did what I would have done. Any of us. By God, he gave him his fee for the fire!”
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Nicholas said, “I should have thought of that.”
“How could you?” said Godscalc. “You didn’t see him.”
John le Grant turned his red head. He said, “He means he ought to have thought that’s what Doria meant. The little service. Captain Astorre has performed the service Doria wanted. That is it, surely?”
He had a sensible face, with blue eyes with sandy lashes, and a head that treated every problem as if it were soluble by plain mathematics. Tobie said, “That is it. Doria brought the man for no other reason. If Astorre didn’t kill him, I suppose Julius would have done it.”
“I should hope so,” Julius said. “He and his fire did for three men in Modon.”
“And now he can never implicate Pagano Doria. What about Astorre?” Tobie said. “The fool left Doria alone, but he’s still killed a Genoese in front of the Emperor.” He saw, as he spoke, a swirl of movement in the Emperor’s box. Someone had been sent on some mission. At the same time, the upheaval within the Genoese benches was lessening. Men with a stretcher appeared, and began to make their way over. Doria himself was now visible. Once, he turned and Tobie saw the glance he threw to them all. Under the seemly appearance of grief, there was the glitter of mischief.
Nicholas said, “The Emperor wants the protection of Astorre and his men. So does Doria. I’d guess we’ll be asked to pay compensation, and that will be the end of it. And, of course, I’ll get my letter.”
Of course. As soon, thought Tobie, as the stretcher goes, and the Charetty company march themselves off, and the next performer prepares to take the arena. He saw all that happen, and Doria actually rise to come over, but the Imperial messenger reached Nicholas first. Immediately, the Florentine consul was to appear before the Vice-Regent of God on his balcony.
Tobie looked at the Florentine consul and Nicholas looked damply back. He appeared to have accepted the summons. It was probably, Tobie thought, no worse a prospect than the censure he must know awaited him back at the villa. Tobie said, “Take Godscalc. He can’t object to that.”
The Spring of the Ram: The Second Book of the House of Niccolo Page 32
