Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo

by Dorothy Dunnett

  To an experienced ear, it had been obvious. Gregorio said, ‘I don’t think it’s the Charetty’s fault. The Duke’s sick; trading’s slipped; all the money’s going on the French quarrel; the Scots are threatening to take their business from Bruges, and Florence isn’t being helpful with loans. A temporary rise in the groat isn’t going to do very much. And any good business that’s left is being threatened by the Vatachino.’ He paused and said crossly, ‘You really ought to stay and see Julius.’

  ‘That isn’t what he wants to see me about,’ Nicholas said. ‘No. It is partly their fault. I left them with the core of a good escort and courier business, and Julius should have stopped Tilde from wrecking it. He can run a straightforward business better than most when he wants to. In any case, you have to hope, don’t you, that the downturn is mostly his fault? Otherwise you’ve opened a branch in a pretty stupid place.’

  ‘On your orders,’ Gregorio said.

  ‘Well, of course my orders,’ said Nicholas. ‘I sent them from Cyprus and you went to Bruges to implement them. If you found them imprudent or fatuous, don’t you suppose it was your job to tell me?’

  It was difficult, sometimes, to keep your temper with Nicholas.

  Of all the visitors to the Ca’ Niccolò at this time, the most welcome was Father Godscalc, the Charetty company chaplain. Not that Gregorio knew him well, even though they had joined the Widow Charetty almost together. As priest, makeshift physician and scribe, Godscalc had spent most of his early service abroad with the Charetty army and Nicholas. Even so, Gregorio’s memory of the man was quite clear; the bulk, the dark, uneven complexion, and the profusion of curling black hair over brown eyes translucent as resin. On Gregorio’s one subsequent trip to Bruges (now discounted) the priest had been away, reportedly conducting some business in Germany. Gregorio wondered what Godscalc would make now of the Widow’s widower.

  Nicholas had been missing on the occasion of Godscalc’s first visit to the Ca’ Niccolò, but since the priest came with Julius, it was not perhaps unexpected. The next time, arriving alone and finding himself no more successful, Godscalc sighed. ‘Ah, the coward.’ Like many Germans, he had studied at Fulda, and still had a touch of Irish about him.

  They sat in Gregorio’s sanctum on the mezzanine floor, its low windows open on the Grand Canal. Noise floated inwards, and a little air. Gregorio said, ‘You should see him when threatened with Julius.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the priest. ‘In that case, I should be sorry for Julius. I hear another man tried to make his mark on our friend in Murano. May I?’ He picked a book from Gregorio’s shelves and opened it up. He said, ‘It’s quite a good copy.’

  ‘I know,’ Gregorio said. ‘The man at Murano wasn’t an assassin, he was a spy.’

  The priest replaced the book and took down another. He said, ‘Was that all? In that case, I am truly sorry for Julius. Does he pose a terrible threat? I’m surprised. I even thought – I may be wrong – that you summoned him.’

  Gregorio said, ‘Nicholas had been away a long time. Catherine and Tilde are his step-daughters.’

  The priest said, ‘You didn’t send for Catherine or Tilde.’

  ‘He knows Nicholas,’ Gregorio said.

  ‘Now that makes sense,’ the priest said. ‘You were disturbed about Nicholas. Why?’

  Despite everything, Gregorio felt an obligation to his senior partner. ‘He sent me a letter from Cyprus. He told me he was coming back, because Simon’s wife and his sister’s husband had died, and he would be blamed for it. Also he had kept a boy of the same family as his prisoner.’

  ‘Diniz,’ said the priest thoughtfully. ‘His grandfather rescued him.’

  ‘Nicholas had already freed him,’ Gregorio said. ‘His grandfather stole the roundship Doria and got Crackbene its master to sail him home with the boy.’

  ‘Did the boy want to go?’ Godscalc said.

  It was the kind of question Julius asked. It was followed, as a rule, by allusions to Zacco, King of Cyprus, who was young and unmarried. Gregorio said, ‘Nicholas hasn’t said.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ said Godscalc. ‘Now that is an edition worth having. You and I will have a talk about that. Meantime what does Loppe think about it?’

  ‘About the book?’ Gregorio said curtly. It was recognised that Lopez knew a great deal about Nicholas, but he still disliked the question in this particular context. It also reminded him of a recent excursion from Murano from which he had been excluded.

  Godscalc closed the book and laid his broad hands on it. He said, ‘You were concerned enough to invite Julius, who has many qualities, but is not the most discreet of men. There are some ambiguities therefore that you have already weighed and dismissed. For those that remain, I am a willing listener, and a silent one, and one who has more experience, maybe, than either of you. So what is Loppe’s view of the boy Diniz?’

  Gregorio said, ‘I thought we were talking of printing. Lopez says that Jordan de Ribérac took the boy from Nicholas against the boy’s will. He says the boy fears his grandfather.’

  ‘Do you tell me?’ said the priest. ‘As for printing, it is my own fault for opening a book. You would hear that Nicholas took himself to Germany a year or two back, and I was in Cologne myself recently. I was sorry to miss you in Bruges. I wanted to talk to you then about Nicholas.’

  He scratched his chin and spoke slowly, giving Gregorio this time all his attention. ‘So he would be shocked, you would suppose, when the young lad he’d freed was snatched away from the island by de Ribérac. Are you not surprised that he didn’t take ship and try to stop them? And wouldn’t you expect an innocent man to rush to disabuse the minds of all those poor wretches who think they’ve been wronged? Apart, indeed, from saving himself from their arrows? But I hear the insurance claim was happily met. That done, it might be felt that there was no call to waste time on a voyage.’

  ‘Nicholas couldn’t leave Cyprus,’ Gregorio said. ‘He had no ship. And by the time he had settled his affairs, Diniz had been with the old man for weeks; they were both home, and the tales had been spread.’

  ‘But even so, he came here,’ the priest said. ‘Was it the wife, now, that held him up? That was a marriage soon begun and soon ended. What has Loppe to say of that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Gregorio said. ‘Or the barest facts, which bring their own warning. Nicholas married the woman on Rhodes, and the annulment was effected on Cyprus.’

  Father Godscalc looked surprised. ‘So fast? They have powerful lawyers on Cyprus.’

  ‘A King can usually get what he wants,’ Gregorio said.

  ‘Ah,’ said the priest. He was silent. Then he said, ‘But Zacco has not married the girl?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Gregorio.

  ‘Ah, dear Lord,’ said the priest. He lifted his fist and struck a blow at the table that made Gregorio flinch. He said, ‘This is a wicked mess and, man of experience that I’ve made myself out to be, I do not know what to do about it. Tell me something. Does Nicholas know where Jordan de Ribérac is?’

  Gregorio supposed he should answer. He said, ‘He knows where everyone is, by my guess. Diniz, Simon, his father. The van Borselen, even. Couriers pass all the time with that sort of news. I don’t know about the ship, though; or Crackbene.’

  ‘I see,’ said the priest, and sat a moment, gripping his knees. He looked up. ‘You’re a sensible man. What do you think we’ve got here? Is he hell-bent on revenge?’

  ‘Nicholas?’ Gregorio said. ‘He wants to be the richest man in the world, or so he says. Certainly, it’s a financial empire that he is building.’

  ‘What for? Palaces? Possessions? Country estates? Rare food and wine and costly women and the admiration of Bruges? Or if not, what? You don’t need money to kill.’

  ‘You do, to humiliate,’ Gregorio said. ‘And to protect yourself while you’re doing it. The spy whom Nicholas got rid of on Murano had been put on his track by the Vatachino. And the Vatachino, Julius thinks, are Gen
oese.’

  ‘Is that important?’ said the priest.

  ‘It could be, to Nicholas. You’ll notice that wherever they are, the Vatachino seem to strike at Venetian trade. Hence they and we are direct rivals. Nicholas advanced Venetian interests in Trebizond and in Cyprus. It was his work at Famagusta that starved the Genoese out of the city and gave Zacco the throne. Even his ship is a Genoese prize: it was the capture of the Adorno that forced the Genoese to surrender. If the Vatachino are Genoese, their first ambition must be to pay him out, one way or another.’

  ‘Whether they are Genoese or not,’ Godscalc said. ‘That is what I came to tell you. There is a man called Martin in Bruges who is one of their two prime officials. I saw him in Venice today.’

  As soon as Nicholas returned, Gregorio, talking, followed him to his room. ‘Martin. A man of about forty, red-haired and built like a wrestler, with iron hooks in his mind. That’s Father Godscalc’s description. I’ve never heard of the man. All our dealings here have been with David de Salmeton.’

  ‘And mine,’ Nicholas said. ‘Also with iron hooks in his mind, but pretty. What else did Godscalc tell you?’

  ‘Martin doesn’t matter?’ Gregorio said.

  ‘I didn’t say that. I wondered if Godscalc wanted to say something particular about the Charetty company.’

  ‘He’s worried,’ said Gregorio. ‘Not for himself, of course, but about Tilde and Catherine. He said that, in any case, it was time Tilde got married, and to someone as rich as possible; except that the estate would have trouble producing a dowry. He was joking, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. Soaked with the heat of the city he had already pulled open his shirt and walked to the window. They were alone. He said, ‘Don’t you ever feel hot? No, you never go out. Does Cristoffels ever talk about the old days in Bruges?’

  Gregorio looked at his back, which was immense. He said, ‘He liked it well enough.’ He added carefully, ‘He’s learned a lot since he came here.’

  Nicholas turned. He said, ‘I’d better see Julius, and find out how they’re really placed. If it’s a temporary problem, then Cristoffels and Henninc might manage well enough on Tilde’s behalf, releasing Julius to use his talents elsewhere. You haven’t really had a chance to assess him?’

  ‘Julius?’ Gregorio said. He felt as if walking a path laid with snares. He said, ‘I’ve been in touch by letter often enough. I should say he makes good decisions.’

  ‘Trained in Bologna,’ Nicholas said. ‘You really ought to get out more.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Yes,’ said Gregorio. After a moment he added, ‘By the way, I mentioned the loan. I told Father Godscalc about the Bank’s extended offer to the Signory. But you should speak to him yourself.’

  ‘Yes, I shall,’ Nicholas said. ‘Although it sounds to me as if you have each said all there is to say.’

  There was some business to discuss. As he left, Gregorio turned at the door. ‘Martin. Should you have extra protection?’

  ‘Perhaps, but not against the Vatachino,’ Nicholas said. ‘I think we should give a reception.’

  ‘And invite them?’ said Gregorio.

  ‘It would be a small reception in that case. No, I was thinking of something rather larger than usual. Where would you put four hundred people?’

  Gregorio looked at him. ‘Not here. One would borrow, or hire.’

  ‘Then hire. A place on the Canal, with the largest possible public rooms, and a garden. We do have money for that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gregorio. ‘When?’

  ‘In two weeks’ time. Will people come at short notice? Yes, they will, I am sure. And it gives us two weeks to plan.’

  ‘Plan what?’ Gregorio said.

  ‘The future,’ said Nicholas.

  Reclining scented upon her lagoon, Venice was a city of festivals, a city of water-parties and music, of masquerades and stately processions, of entertainments of the circus and entertainments of a more intimate kind, behind silken curtains.

  In time of war, it was still there, although muted, this civilised deployment of leisure. What had to be judged, for those who proposed to be hosts, was the invisible place on the scale, the vibration between one quarter-tone and the next which it was proper for them to occupy.

  After months of living in Venice, Margot had acquired such a sense. From God knew where, Nicholas had it as well. Hence the Palazzo where he received his guests on the appointed night was graceful but not of ducal dimensions. The servants were many, but only his own wore the Bank’s livery. The garlands were exquisite, but didn’t clothe every pillar or staircase; the food was well-served and plentiful but did not include ostrich eggs, or a fanciful relish of parrot tongues. In a conversation to which Margot had not been privy, Lopez had received the duty of remaining to safeguard the affairs of the Bank.

  If there were no pretensions, there were some surprises: a portative organ; a lutenist composer and some chamber players known to Gregorio. In due course, some of those couples present elected to dance, swaying round the room in grave, weaving columns, the women slowly spinning, slowly sinking to curtsey, and later resting on cushions, while fruit was brought, and more wine, and a few acrobats in sparkling costumes somersaulted before them. The doors to the lamplit gardens stood open and men and women stood by the fountain or strolled, their scent mixed with that of the flowers. To Gregorio, Margot said, ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  By arrangement, Margot was not the hostess on this, the Bank’s grand reception. When Nicholas asked, she had been happy to agree that the honour should go to Tilde, and thought it no hardship to help with her robing and grooming. Mathilde de Charetty, walking at her step-father’s side in rustling damask with pearls in her shining brown hair, showed, for once, her mother’s bright blood in her cheeks, and her shadowed eyes shone. And Nicholas treated her as he had treated her mother.

  Margot, moving about and speaking to those women she knew, listened to the undertone of the conversation, and was satisfied. Some of these people were strangers: clients of the Bank briefly met; noblemen and their wives representing one authority or another, and a group from the Council, who owed the House of Niccolò more than that courtesy. Some, merchants and bankers met on the Rialto, she had come to know very well. There was, of course, the Charetty party: Julius, and Godscalc the priest, and Alessandro Martelli of the Medici Bank in Venice, with whom they were staying.

  Alessandro, elderly and inquisitive, was connected by marriage to the Strozzi family and (Margot saw with amusement) was not above quizzing Nicholas about young Lorenzo. Courteously baulked, he shifted the subject to the Strozzi in Bruges.

  ‘You know our old man, Cosimo de’ Medici, is dying? When it comes, who knows what will happen to all those heavily borrowed companies? The Strozzi? Zorzi? You know, of course, your old friend Zorzi of the Cyprus dyeworks has opened business in Bruges? Trade! Trade! Who would enter trade,’ said Martelli, ‘when he could be his own man, sitting in his one chair at night, being read to?’

  She saw Nicholas smile, his face obedient to his mind, as it always was. Merchants’ gossip. Merchants’ gossip and lawyers’ gossip: she had had her fair share. Unless … She caught again that look on Gregorio’s face and saw Nicholas, glancing past Martelli, notice it also and, waiting, meet Gregorio’s eyes. Then Nicholas ended his conversation and moved to yet other guests – a Duodo, one of the captains of the Flemish galleys, and then Paul Erizzo and his daughter, who had been on Cyprus with him, as had so many others. As, it sometimes seemed, had been everyone in the room.

  The first person he had greeted, when Tilde was still on his arm, had been Marco Corner, whose family had drawn its wealth for generations from Cyprus sugar. And with Corner had been Giovanni Loredano, also of Cyprus, and Caterino Zeno, whose business was alum, not sugar, and who was in that particular group because all three men had married sisters.

  Margot knew about the princesses of Naxos. She saw each exquisite
consort approach, regard Nicholas and then, smiling, offer her cheek. She saw each in turn consider his step-daughter, smile, and give her, also, a loving kiss. She heard the one called Fiorenza say to Nicholas, ‘We were so sad. So truly sad. The sweet lady Katelina, to suffer so. And you, you lost so much. We feel for you.’

  He looked at her, and the half-dimpled smile he was using tonight was quite absent. He said, ‘Thank you. It is good of you to be concerned.’ Then he touched Tilde’s arm, and moved on.

  Later, when the girl, tiring, had found refuge with the womenfolk of the Martelli family, the priest Godscalc joined Margot where she stood with Julius in the grand salon, waiting for the trumpets to send their call to gather the guests for the last entertainment. Godscalc said, ‘It has been a success, has it not? Although I miss the Nicholas I once knew.’

  Julius pulled a face. ‘The ostrich? The waterworks? All those beatings? No one would believe it of him now. Solemn and rich, and soon to be fat.’

  Godscalc said, ‘Perhaps he carries more burdens now. The responsibility of a Bank must be heavy. I thought Gregorio, too, looked oppressed. Demoiselle Margot? Is Gregorio well?’

  ‘He’s probably heard what Corner had to say,’ Julius said. ‘About King Zacco and the Egyptians. Nicholas knows.’

  ‘What about them?’ said Godscalc.

  ‘Someone’s tried to kill Zacco in Cyprus. The Sultan of Cairo is exacting triple tribute in restitution for the Mameluke slaughter, and there are rumours of Venetian merchants being arrested in Syria. King Zacco owes Corner thousands of ducats and has nothing to pay him with. Nothing to pay anyone with. He’s sitting on all the rent incomes and sugar money, and what army he has is living on promises. Will that affect Nicholas? The lapse of the Bank’s income from Cyprus?’