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

by Dorothy Dunnett

  He stared at her. She looked unmovingly back. Whoever was immature, it wasn’t Violante of Naxos. She said, “You have forgotten, I think, where you are.”

  “I beg your highness’s pardon. By itself, it wouldn’t have mattered, but he made a few other mistakes, so I hear. Different customs. Not everyone knows Venice and Anatolia. Not everyone understands the Grand Comnenos as you do. The Emperor isn’t Duke Philip.”

  “No. He is Vice-Regent of Christ,” she said. “He is the Church. He is the living embodiment of the learning of classical Greece. However weak a Basileus may be, he has to carry these burdens.”

  It was very quiet. If he had been a different man, or a younger one, he would have been afraid at the turn the conversation was taking. He said, “At the Easter mass, I saw the Emperor a figure transported. He makes a place at his side for the scholar. But the rest of his life, so they say, is just vanity.”

  “Those things are vanity, too,” said the Emperor’s great-niece. “But without him, neither the Church nor the learning could flourish. And after him, an abler might come. Have you thought of that, Scotsman? Or would you prefer honest ignorance, sat on the tombstone of culture?”

  “I should prefer Uzum Hasan,” John le Grant said.

  There was a long silence. She said, “Well? You must have been told to say more.”

  “I was told,” he said, “to find you, show you what he was making, and ask for your wishes. He said nothing more. That is why we complain of him.”

  “But,” she said, “you must know what he thinks of the Emperor?”

  “Yes, I know,” said John le Grant. “But, like me, Nicholas has an engineer’s method of viewing things. A faulty cog doesna alter a principle. The Emperor isn’t part of the equation, or Uzum Hasan, or Mehmet even. It’s what they stand for.”

  “You are alike,” she said.

  “No,” said John le Grant. “I wouldn’t be like yon young fellow for anything.”

  Nothing more of importance was said. He left soon after, and was impatient of the horseplay back at the fondaco, because he had several decisions to make. In the end, he told Nicholas all that the woman had said. The talk took place at dusk in the bedchamber, where part of his day was still spent. He couldn’t see, in the darkening room, how the other man was receiving it. Eventually, Nicholas said, “Why mention Uzum Hasan?”

  “He is her uncle,” John le Grant said. He waited. He said, “She doesna know your opinion.”

  “But I seem to know hers,” Nicholas said. “Unless you have left something out.”

  “I wanted to,” the engineer said. “But unless you knew the facts, you couldn’t interpret.” He waited again. He said, “You can’t escape, you know. You think like Julius, or you think like you. Your butterfly days are behind you.”

  “I don’t know,” Nicholas said, “how you get out of step with all the rest of this team. Everyone else thinks that these are my butterfly days.”

  He sounded quite entertained. But then Loppe came in, and set a spill to the lamp, and le Grant saw that there was no expression in his hollow clown’s face at all.

  The uneven convalescence; the weeks of restraint and suspicion were brought to an end, typically, by Julius, abetted by Tobie.

  Elsewhere in the City, and subject to no one, Pagano Doria obeyed with alacrity every Imperial summons through all that ripening spring. It was easy to study his movements.

  Julius chose one of his absences to march into the Genoese consulate and demand to see the demoiselle Catherine, returning speechless with rage to the compound of yard, villa, warehouse, garden and stables that was the present Florentine fondaco.

  It was afternoon; the time of torpor when Trebizond took its ease, no matter how anxious its foreign merchants might be to do business. After a morning of work that had started at dawn, Tobie had taken a pack of cards out to the little pleasance Alighieri had made for himself behind the villa, where he had built a pool with a fountain and set a marble table and benches under the almond trees. Today, the sun was hazily warm and the tulips lining the water channels seemed made of scarlet satin: the scent of narcissus and hyacinth was dizzying.

  Annoyingly, Nicholas was already there, lying with his shirt open on one of the benches. When he tired, it was less from walking, Tobie suspected, than from a bottomless drain of frustration. He opened his eyes at the pause in Tobie’s footfalls, and then closed them again. In silence, Tobie resumed his way to his chosen table and, sitting, shuffled and dealt his cards, his shoulder to Nicholas. Two weeks before, they would have shared a game. Now he played against himself, making mistakes and conscious that they had been noted. But when he turned his head, Nicholas had changed his position so that he no longer overlooked the table.

  Tobie had wondered, with Godscalc, what to expect of Nicholas once he recovered. They, alone of the company, knew the wretched story of Katelina van Borselen. Since letting it slip, Nicholas had never referred to it again. He had also made it apparent that the subject was permanently closed. Although never sullen, he was far from being forthcoming indeed on any subject when in their company. The broad flow of speculation, wordplay, raillery, ideas had stopped short. The shock of exposure had been too great to be set aside lightly. And even when it wore off, he could hardly, in decency, return to the insouciance of the past. In private, John le Grant was the only one with whom he had more than a passing word. But then, John le Grant knew less about him than anyone.

  In public, with the others, it was different. Silent in council unless directly spoken to, he would give his opinion in as few words as possible, and then desist. Only sometimes, when the final resolve seemed less than sensible, would he fall into step with one or other of them on the way out and offer some remark of his own on the subject, switching immediately to something else. Julius and even Astorre accepted the change, clearly considering that Nicholas had returned to the more amenable days before Modon—although even then, of course, he was keeping quiet about Simon.

  Godscalc had refused to speculate. Tobie considered that Nicholas had picked, in fact, the only possible way of responding to what had been, for him, a near-annihilating disaster. He also saw, as time went on, that his meek role in public was beginning to jar on the man. He persisted with it because he must. But sometimes a keen ear could detect a note of irony, or perhaps of self-ridicule, in the muted, moderate answers he gave. In private, again, the tendency was wholly absent. He was in isolation for his sins, and he knew it.

  The game was turning out badly, even without an observer. Tobie had just made up his mind to go in when he heard raised voices from the front of the villa. The voices came nearer, and were cut off by the bang of a door. Footsteps could be heard, descending the steps to the garden.

  Nicholas raised his head, and then began to sit up. Tobie, card in hand, peered through the pale screen of fruit trees. Nicholas said unguardedly, “Do you smell…?”

  Fish. Not just fish, but a stink of something fleshy about it that clouted the flowery sweetnesses out of the air and hit you straight in the face. The smell came with the footsteps, and was worsening. Julius arrived in view. Tobie stared at the notary. At his handsome face, which was streaked and lacquered over its tan like a wedding-chest. At his hat, which was not a hat but a cluster of unruly pink blossoms. At the sober doublet he wore normally under his gown, which was now a shimmering casing in the form of a man down which drifts of magenta flowers flowed sensuously. The path behind him was strewn as by some diabolical Olwen. The smell of fish was sickening.

  “Dolphin blubber,” said Nicholas. His face had cleared, for the first time in two weeks.

  “Dolphin oil,” Julius said. His voice was mild. He bent his elbows and turned about once; and then looked at them again. “You see it, do you?”

  “How?” said Tobie. His voice shook.

  “My former pupil,” said Julius. His voice was still mild. “The lady Catherine de Charetty, married to the good lord Pagano Doria. You have seen it?”

  “Y
es,” said Tobie.

  “Good,” said Julius. He turned, and walked across the path and into the pond which he crossed, wading steadily, until he got to the fountain. Then he turned and stood perfectly still, his eyes shut. The water sluiced into his hat and slid over his face and poured into his shirt and pourpoint and over his doublet and down the tops of his thighs. Flowers, in piercing pink cascades, followed the water and pushed out into the pond in thickening garlands.

  “Judas flowers,” said Nicholas. His eyes had stretched very wide and his face was an undimpled plain.

  “You are right,” Julius said. He took his hat off and, holding it between thumb and forefinger, let it drop into the pond. Uncovered, his hair gleamed on his skull and his face as if painted. He unfastened, staring at Tobie, all the buttons of his doublet and pourpoint and took them both off, dropping them into the water as well. Lastly, he pulled undone his points and peeled and discarded his shirt. The water poured down his bare skin and his soaking drawers. His laces, trapped, jumped about the pond surface. He began to speak in measured and deliberate tones, occasionally spluttering when the water spurted into his mouth.

  “I told her,” said Julius, “perfectly civilly—this brat who had once been my inadequate pupil, who could barely spell her own name—I told her it was time to be done with this nonsense and come back to her family. I said I would wait while she packed. She refused to come. I told her Doria couldn’t harm her once she had our protection. She said she didn’t want our protection, especially as we couldn’t keep our own ship from going on fire. I told her that she was coming immediately, and if not, for her own good, I would remove her. And-and…”

  “She flung the dolphin oil over you?”

  “She ordered her servants to do it. They did it. Laughing. Then she shook the tree. She shook the tree so that the flowers…Laughing. Are you laughing?” said Julius.

  “No,” said Tobie. Tears poured down his cheeks.

  “I hope not,” said Julius. He glanced down at his clothes and then began wading methodically back to the pond edge where he stood over Tobie, who leaned back. A pool formed on the ground. The stench was still awful. He transferred his stare to Nicholas whose face, the reverse of Tobie’s, was pale.

  “No,” said Nicholas.

  “And so?” said Julius. His voice developed suddenly into a roar. “What do we do about it? Eh?”

  “Nothing, you fool,” Tobie said. His face was still scarlet. “What did you expect? All you did was please Pagano Doria. He’ll love it when he hears. We’ll make a formal complaint of enticement and kidnapping, all done up in Latin.”

  “I’ll send Astorre,” Julius said. “I’ll send Astorre and fifty soldiers to carry her—”

  “No, you won’t,” Tobie said. “Will you get it into your head that they’re married? We’ll send Godscalc with a rude reply, also in Latin. Why did you want to make all that fuss? We know what’s going on in the Leoncastello. We know she’s all right. My God, you took enough trouble to plant Paraskeuas and his family in the compound.”

  “It won’t do any harm,” Nicholas said. He sounded choked between anguish and laughter.

  Tobie looked at him. “It won’t…? Oh, I see. That’s true. They’ll hardly suspect Paraskeuas with Julius making scenes all over the yard. Julius, I know you’re offended, but the smell is more than I can stand. What about a swim in the sea?”

  Julius glared. “Judith and Holofernes!” said Tobie, suddenly losing control, and began to laugh in long, whooping cackles. Nicholas had stifled all sight and sound with one hand. Julius looked down at the back of his neck.

  Julius said, “It’s your stepdaughter. Laugh, of course, if you feel like it. Be sure to send the story in your next little note to your wife. And, by the way, Paraskeuas managed to pass me some news. The snow has cleared on the passes, and the camel trains are on the way. That’s what you were waiting for, isn’t it? Now you’ll be able to go and laugh on the other side of the mountains.”

  He walked off, streaming water, flowers, and pardonable anger. Tobie, who had no particular sense of shame, continued to express qualified glee but was not unaware of the uncommunicative hand beside him. Presently, he rose without haste and, strolling indoors, found where the black wine was standing. He lifted it and returned.

  He found Nicholas wading out of the pool, bearing garments heavy with oil in each hand. Flowers clung to his calves. He dropped the clothes on the grass and took the cup Tobie gave him. Since he rose from his bed, it was the first service Tobie had offered him. Tobie said, “It’s time you were gone.”

  “Yes. I know,” Nicholas said.

  He left at the beginning of May, with a group of armed men and some servants. Beforehand, he spent a lot of time with Astorre and le Grant, clearing his mind about what ought to be done. Once he was committed to leaving, some of his freedom returned: he was able to consult whom he wished and buy what he wanted, as well as hire his own guides. He had wanted to visit the Palace, but they wouldn’t allow that, unless someone went with him. They had spared him all the men and the horses he had asked for. And the clothing. Spring had come to the coast, but the plateau he was aiming for was over six thousand feet up, never mind the mountains he would traverse to reach it. Two hundred miles away on the high plain was Erzerum, Arz ar Rum, the Land of the Romans. There the caravans which had journeyed in convoy from Tabriz rested, until they came to travel their different ways. At Erzerum, or before it, he should meet them.

  The expedition, of course, would get him out of the way. It would make the company popular with the Emperor: it might have been thought an Imperial duty to guide the incoming caravans past their enemies. On the other hand, these days the caravans collected each spring at Tabriz and came north through the eastern Armenian plains, leaving the troublesome land routes of Asia Minor alone. And at present the Sultan and his army were safely far to the west.

  Of course the caravans would be rich. The first of the year always were, being an amalgamation of the trains from Baghdad, Arabia, India, and those from the Caspian, bringing laden pack-ponies from Lahidjan, Talich and Asterabad. From the first three, he would get dyes and spices. From the last, he would get what he had come for-raw silk at no more than two and a half florins a pound, and four months’ credit.

  It would suit the company, of course, to find the train and have first pick of this and its other goods. But there would be plenty for everyone. If the Charetty company wished to waste time and money and manpower on such an uncomfortable venture, the other merchants were willing to wait and make their purchases in comfort at home. His only visit to the Palace in the end was a formal one, and he was received and wished well by the Treasurer, George Amiroutzes, whose shopping list he already had in his satchel. Julius was at his side all the time, smelling rankly of perfume. The pond of the villa had been emptied three times but still attracted seagulls and cats. On the actual day of departure, Astorre held him up at the Pyxitis bridge for ten minutes adding all the warnings he had forgotten to mention. Godscalc, the only other officer to ride with him so far, had said very little but had not prayed over him, either; or not audibly. Since all this was happening because of Godscalc, his own farewell to the priest was, he supposed, uncharacteristically grim. It reflected his feelings.

  He had refused to take Loppe, who had wanted to come. He was on reasonably good terms already with the fifteen men of his retinue, who expected and would get some good jokes and light discipline, combined with a sense of controlled adventure. He had no misgivings about the journey. Anyone who had been beaten over the European Alps in winter had little to fear from the Pontic. Being both determined and well used to hardship, he had thrown off his illness and latterly had imposed on himself a régime which meant, he hoped, that whatever the privation, he would not do less well than his men.

  He hoped there would be no privation beyond a fair amount of cold, which he was prepared for. The passes tended to be in the hands of men who would take what they could from an unguarded tr
aveller but who did not mind selling hospitality and information to the other kind. Information he needed. For the rest, they carried their own tents of oxhide and cotton, and some supplies, and some fodder. But again, soon there would be mountain hamlets where a little oil, a little wine, a few pieces of nut paste would buy them hospitality in the small timber enclaves, and shelter from the rain, or the snow, or casual predators.

  It fell out much as he expected. Riding through the thick forests and up the steep winding track to the Zigana, they hunted and caught fish and roasted their game. He had brought one of Astorre’s falconers with him, and had himself taught the art. They shot for their meat, and for sport, and at night sat unshaven, with pink Colchian crocuses stuck in their caps, and exchanged tall tales from all the parts of Europe they came from. He had no experience to cap what they told him, but could manufacture himself outrageous and bawdy parallels, in prose, in verse or in song that had them all sick with laughter. It was a small gift and useless, except for a small leader of smaller men. Great leaders require different bonds.

  Climbing, they left behind them the nutgroves and the forests of oak and beech and came to conifers where snow still rested in shining grey patches and the track was firm with frost. Men lived in these parts as well; sometimes in hutted villages and sometimes in tents, which their beasts and their flocks and their children shared with them. When it became known that he would pay for information, he was offered a surfeit, most of it spurious, and had to resort sometimes to hostages to exact the news that he needed. In turn, men tried to buy his interest; sometimes with food or furs; sometimes with their daughters or sisters. Often, wherever he was, he was offered a girl to take to his blanket. He knew his refusals embarrassed both his own men and the donors. He never explained. When they gave him a boy, he dismissed him goodhumouredly. For the first two days, he discovered, his servants thought him a eunuch. He thought of telling them that there were several people who wished that he was.