by Robyn Young
‘Para España!’ Men were howling, surging forward. ‘Para el rey!’
The bells were still clanging their warning, but to no avail.
Loja’s doom was at hand.
Christopher Columbus turned his spoon in the stew he’d been served, steam rising from the bowl laced with smells of pepper and ginger. The dish had been heavily spiced, he knew, to cover the taste of the meat, which spoiled quickly in the Spanish heat. He took a few mouthfuls, swallowing down hot chunks of flesh and fat. The long day on the dockside – two new consignments to offload and process – had given him a righteous hunger.
As he ate the tavern filled up around him, merchants and captains, customs officials and dockworkers heading in at the end of their shifts, the autumn sky flaming through the windows, gilding the masts of the great galleys that were moored there. He caught a few glances from some of them, the odd smirk. He knew what most of these men thought of him: the oversized, white-haired, red-faced madman from Genoa, with his foolish notions about the world. He still could not fathom, though, why they didn’t share his passion, even if they believed his plan improbable. With the Turks holding Constantinople, the transport of many of the luxuries enjoyed by their fathers – certain spices and silks, perfumes and medicines – had been stalled, curtailed or halted completely. Even with the Venetians quick to strike trade deals with the infidel, consignments from the east were far slower and subject to high tariffs.
But men, in his experience, could be short-sighted and lazy. Give a man a warm meal, a place to bed down, some ale to ease his mind and a woman to hold him, and most would be content. Like damn cattle, he thought as he chewed. Rising from the womb to breathe and eat and shit and fornicate, then falling down into the earth. Uncelebrated. Forgotten. They could smirk and whisper all they wanted, but he would not be like them. Not as long as he had dreams in his head and horizons to cross.
‘I hear it was a good day, my friend.’
Columbus was distracted from his brooding by the familiar voice.
Gianotto Berardi smiled broadly as he slid on to the bench beside him, removing his cap and reaching eagerly for the jug on the table. His dark green cloak, trimmed with silver braid, was dusty from the road. ‘Do you mind? I am parched.’
‘How was Córdoba?’ Columbus asked, watching his business partner gulp gratefully at the wine. Berardi, a trader from a well-known Florentine slaver family, couldn’t be more opposite than him in looks: short and slender, with olive skin and a full head of wavy black hair that was stuck to his scalp with sweat. He had left a week ago, conveying a new batch of slaves to the market there.
‘Good, good,’ replied Beradi, nodding. ‘Better still, I met with Queen Isabella.’ He shook his head as Columbus sat forward eagerly. ‘No, I’m afraid she had nothing new to say on your proposal. But she is keen to work with us. Loja has fallen to King Ferdinand’s forces. A mighty victory. The queen is heading to the front line, to oversee the next stage of the war. She believes she may soon have need of our services to help traffic any captives. She has offered us a generous commission.’ Berardi set down the wine, his tanned brow pinching. ‘You are not pleased?’
‘She said nothing? Nothing at all?’ Columbus pushed away his congealing stew. ‘She promised to speak to others in her court. Experts, she said, in navigation and astronomy. Promised to discuss the viability of my plan. It has been months since I saw her.’
‘I am certain she will turn her attention to your proposal, as soon the Moors are vanquished.’ Berardi smiled, his dark eyes catching the setting sun’s fire. ‘And, think, if we are called to the front line you will have plenty of opportunities to encourage her interest. Come, let us get more wine. It is a day for celebration, not gloom. Two boatloads processed, another set sold, and the promise of much more cargo to come. More days like this and we will make our own fortune, my friend, enough to sail wherever you wish.’
After a pause, Columbus nodded, but his eyes went to the windows, where the galleys shifted slowly against the harbour wall. How long must he wait for his dream to be realised? How long for a ship, all his own, that would carry him across that wide green sea?
And, just how long could he leave it, until someone else found those islands before him?
22
Franco Martelli’s palazzo was in the Santa Maria Novella quarter, one street back from the river, near the Ponte Santa Trinita, a more sedate bridge than the frenetic Ponte Vecchio, with a hospital for monks at one end and a sundial at the other. Its arches were mirrored in the waters below, glowing jade in the sunlight. People were already talking about the Christmas celebrations, but for the past few days summer seemed to have returned.
Martelli’s property was smaller than the Palazzo Medici, but nonetheless imposing: a bruising block of stone that seemed to elbow its neighbours out of the way. The shutters were closed along the lower level, as were the double doors, on which the black paint was peeling. Jack halted on the step, rapped his knuckles on the wood. He stood there for some time and was beginning to wonder if he’d got the right house from Martelli’s message, when he heard bolts snapping back. One of the doors opened to reveal a gaunt, elderly man.
‘Good day, I am here to see Signor Franco.’
‘Sir James Wynter?’ The man, a steward Jack supposed, opened the door at his nod.
Beyond was a large hallway, several doors leading off and a marble staircase sweeping to a gallery above. It was a grand space, the floor decorated with patterned tiles, but it was virtually empty – none of the statues, urns or ornamentation that dignified the Medici palace. There were three paintings in gilt frames: one of a man in dark, burnished armour, another of a colonnaded marketplace populated by stern-faced men in togas and one of the Virgin holding the infant Christ. Although large, they seemed too spaced out, dwarfed by the expanse of plaster and then, as the elderly steward motioned him to follow, Jack noticed faint marks on the walls, squares and rectangles, where many other paintings had clearly once hung.
The steward led him into one of the rooms leading off the hall, another airy space, mostly empty but for a long table that dominated the chamber. With the shutters closed the room was dim, oppressive despite its size.
‘Please wait.’
As the steward disappeared through a smaller set of doors, Jack studied the table, counting seven places set with cutlery, plates, napkins and goblets. Each piece was highly polished and perfectly arranged, but seemed somehow demeaned by the vastness of the table, which was otherwise bare of decoration. He wondered, tensely, who the other guests might be.
Since Franco Martelli suggested they talk, Jack had been running through the questions he might ask without giving himself away. The best way to know a man, his father once said, is to ask not only his friends about his character, but his enemies. One argument wasn’t enough to determine if Martelli was, indeed, an enemy of Lorenzo’s, but it was clear the man had something to say. He just needed to turn the opportunity into something of use to himself. His men wouldn’t wait for much longer. Adam had grown increasingly vocal in his frustrations and even Ned and David were becoming irritated by the lack of progress. Jack had asked them to help Amelot search for the man she had seen, but the fruitless trailing around the city was wearing their patience as thin as their soles.
The doors opened and Franco Martelli strode in. Close up and standing he was even more impressive than Jack had first realised, with a frame like a fighter’s and that swept-back mane of grey hair giving him an extra burst of height. His eyes were bloodshot and red veins spidered his cheeks, but his grip was firm as he shook Jack’s hand. ‘Sir James, welcome to my home.’
‘Thank you, signore. It is an honour.’
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face as if for a lie, then he was turning, gesturing to the steward who had slipped in behind him. ‘Wine, Naldo. Sit,’ he said to Jack, motioning to the table.
Martelli sat at the head and Jack in the place closest to him. The other five spa
ces were so spread out they would have to raise their voices to talk to one another. Could the places be set for members of the Court of Wolves? Might this engagement even be something to do with the test Marco had alluded to as they parted company following the game, Jack pressing him as to when they would meet again?
Be patient, Sir James. These things must happen in a certain way. Your pedigree is not in question. But suitability, commitment? These must be tested.
‘How did you enjoy the contest?’
‘It was exhilarating, signore,’ Jack answered truthfully. He’d fed off the excitement of it for the past few days, replaying the match in his mind, part of him imagining himself in that arena, adored by the crowd.
As the steward leaned in to pour wine, the doors opened again and a woman entered, followed by three girls. As Martelli stood, Jack rose with him, smiling in greeting to hide his disappointment. So, the invitation was most likely relating to him and his business then? More probing about his father’s fictitious wool company. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t ask his own questions.
‘My wife, Signora Donna Santa.’
Jack inclined his head to the woman. She was slight of build and more than half Martelli’s age, pretty in a thin, pale way, with sharp eyes that studied him with cool intensity, making him think of a small bird of prey.
‘And my daughters, Agata, Fea and Piera.’
One, in early adolescence, was the image of her mother. The other two were still in childhood, but their pale features and twig-like bodies suggested they would turn out much the same.
‘Ah, and my eldest.’
Jack looked round as another figure entered. A jolt of sharp surprise went through him. Martelli was saying her name, but Jack already knew it.
Laora.
If she was shocked to see him, she didn’t show it, dutifully dipping her head in greeting as she took the chair opposite him.
Martelli’s eyes pinched in on Jack’s expression, but then he nodded. ‘But, of course, you would have seen her at the palazzo, yes?’
Something whispered across Jack’s mind, but before he could seize on it, Laora was speaking to him.
‘Good day, Sir James.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ he said, trying to cover his fluster. ‘Good day, signora.’
As the women sat and Martelli followed suit, Jack took his place, glancing at Laora, whom he’d only seen once since the dinner at Fiesole, outside Maddalena’s room with Clarice de’ Medici. He guessed, after the girl’s betrothal, he would see her less and less. Laora didn’t meet his gaze, but sat stiffly in her chair, eyes on her plate. She was wearing the silver bird pendant, fiddling the chain between thumb and forefinger as Naldo poured her some wine. A smell of orange blossom wafted to him and Jack wondered now if the bird was the source of the scent.
‘Must you wear that to dinner?’ Donna Santa stared down the table at Laora. ‘You know how queasy the smell makes me.’ She wrinkled her nose to prove the point.
‘Yes, Mother,’ Laora murmured.
Jack frowned. Hadn’t she said her mother was dead? A quick glance back at Donna Santa solved the mystery. Laora – with her dark hair and sharp features, chiselled rather than pinched, the smatter of freckles on her nose and cheeks, fading with the approach of winter – looked nothing like the woman or the other girls. Donna Santa must be Martelli’s second wife.
As Laora lifted the chain and dropped the pendant down the neck of her gown, hiding it from view, the thought that had whispered across his mind on first seeing her returned. It was a memory: the candlelit garden, Martelli’s voice rising in anger, all the guests turning to the drama. All except Laora. That flush in her face when he’d questioned her in the market.
I was going to Maddalena’s room.
Martelli was speaking about the game again, holding out his goblet, already drained, as Naldo finished pouring wine for the women. ‘That son of a bitch, Alesso. I put money on him to get at least three in the net!’
Jack joined in his talk politely where he could, swallowing back the wine, which seemed sour now his palate was accustomed to the smooth vintages from the Medici cellars. A servant in a stained apron entered, bearing a steaming pot of something that he placed in the centre of the table. This place, for its size, should be bustling with staff, but Jack had an impression of echoes and emptiness, stretching away beyond the reception hall. The palace seemed more mausoleum than home. Hadn’t Laora said her father had worked with Lorenzo for years? If so, he didn’t appear to have come out of it well. He wondered what his story was and how he might get Martelli to divulge it, but the man hadn’t yet paused for breath.
‘Have you heard of this monster stalking our city, Sir James?’ Martelli ladled stew on to his plate.
‘You mean the murders?’ Last week the palace had been buzzing with news of another killing in the Santa Maria Novella quarter, similar to one the month before and one late in the summer. Only this time, the victim, a man known to Lorenzo, hadn’t just been peeled of skin, but his insides scooped out and arranged beside him. Jack had heard Rigo say the gonfalon of the district was adamant, despite the rumours, that it wasn’t the work of a beast or a demon, but a man. ‘Thank you,’ Jack murmured, as Martelli deposited a large portion of fat-marbled meat in front of him.
‘I dare not even visit the market any more,’ said Donna Santa, sipping at her wine, eyes on Jack.
‘Signor Lorenzo is taking these crimes very seriously, signora,’ Jack assured her. ‘He has ordered the gonfaloni to put on extra patrols.’
Martelli scoffed at this. It was a bitter sound. ‘Our great protector.’
Jack seized his chance. ‘I believe you worked for a time with the signore?’
‘Partners,’ Martelli retorted quickly. ‘The signore and I were partners.’ The bite in his tone was all anger and stung pride. He drew in a breath, sat back. ‘Do you know how I first made my fortune, Sir James?’ He lifted his goblet. ‘Wine. My father’s business and his father’s before him. It was a good business. We made a great deal of money, but our friends in the wool trade were making more. More than kings.’ He drained the wine and Naldo was there to refill it. ‘Twenty years ago, I inherited my family’s company. I took all the money we made in wine and invested it in wool. Within five years I doubled it.’ He swept the goblet through the air as he spoke. ‘I owned some of the largest drying barns in Santa Croce. My workshops were among the busiest in the quarter. I’d swear some seasons half the girls in the city were working their spindles for me. I rose through the ranks of the Arte della Lana, was appointed one of the heads of the guild.’
Jack could almost see the memories in Martelli’s face as he talked: the bustle of workers, the rough talk of men, hands red raw as they washed the fleeces in the vats, the acrid smells of detergents and dyes, the chatter of quick-fingered girls, working the yarn into threads in their homes. After almost year in this city, whose wealth had been built on the trade, it all felt oddly familiar. But he reminded himself he was no expert. He had to be careful here or risk exposing the fraud he was.
As Martelli continued, Jack took a mouthful of stew. It wasn’t well spiced and what flavour there was couldn’t disguise the pungent taint to the meat, past its best. Donna Santa was picking at her food, skewering tiny morsels for her mouth. Her daughters were whispering among themselves, occasionally glancing at Jack and sometimes at Laora, who was staring at her untouched plate.
Martelli, who had almost finished, talking through every mouthful, pausing only to wash it down with more wine, fixed on Jack. ‘Signor Marco told us your father is on good terms with King Henry?’
‘That’s right.’ So, Marco had been speaking about him to the company? A good sign? Jack steeled himself for the questions he guessed were coming.
Martelli didn’t disappoint. ‘And he has secured a preferential rate for his exports? Might be able to sell his wool abroad for a fairer price?’
‘He was still in negotiations when I left. But, yes, and I know he
hopes to work closely with Signor Lorenzo.’
Martelli sat forward at this, his brow furrowed. ‘I said I thought we could be of help to one another, Sir James. What I am willing to tell you may be of value to you. I presume you would consent to return the favour, if I ever ask?’
Jack saw Laora’s eyes dart to him. There was something in them. A warning? But he ignored it. At last, someone willing to speak openly. ‘Of course, signore.’
Martelli’s smile was more a twisted grimace. He sat back, goblet clenched in his fist. ‘Lorenzo de’ Medici came to me twelve years ago. I knew his father, a shrewd businessman.’ He shook his head. ‘I never understood why Cosimo favoured his grandson over his son. Lorenzo was a wild youth. Irrepressible. More wed to the pursuit of women than money, more interested in poetry, philosophy, horse racing. Unsuited to business, I thought then, and say freely now. But you know yourself his power. When he came to me, told me he wanted to open three new wool workshops in the city – using my expertise and his influence, joint investors – it was a deal I could not refuse.’ He drank, eyes narrowed. ‘What a fool I was.’
‘Father,’ Laora murmured.
‘Don’t interrupt,’ Donna Santa said sharply.
Laora’s cheek twitched. Wiping her mouth with her napkin, despite having hardly touched her food, she glanced at Martelli. ‘May I be excused?’ Her tone was flat, lifeless. Jack thought how different she looked, the spark gone out in her eyes.
‘You may not,’ Donna Santa answered.
As Laora’s face flamed, Agata and the other two girls giggled together. Jack, looking at their pale, thin faces, had an image of rats in a corner, eyeing something injured.
