Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
‘Naturally, in Mánkup,’ the man said a little impatiently. ‘Did you not know the last rulers of Trebizond? The Emperor David, who was killed with his sons. The daughters who were placed in harems — although the lady Anna, they say, has been freed. That was after you admitted the Turks, you and your army.’
Thirteen years before, the city he spoke of had fallen: the last outpost of great Byzantium had been ravaged by Turks. Nicholas had not been quite twenty-one. He said, speaking slowly, ‘The Emperor betrayed his own people and surrendered. I shall tell you the whole tale if you like. But why are you angry? You are a Circassian. These were Greeks. You pay the same tribute today, but to Turkey’
‘My lord is part Greek,’ the other man said. ‘Did you not know that remnants of the house of the Comneni fled to the Crimea? The Emperor died, but men of his blood have lived on, and fought. I and others like me are doing what you failed to do. We are his army’
No one came in. You could hear, if you listened, the soft voices of servants outside; pigeons cooing, a dog barking somewhere, his noise taken up soon by others. From beyond the Saray enclosure, there percolated, as ever, the impression of great companies in regular exercise, with faint drumbeats, and occasionally the sound of a horn. Passing swiftly through to the hunt, he had been given no chance to see anything beyond
the extent of the domain and the scale of the walls that enclosed it. It did not look, now, as if he would see more.
Once, a boy of twenty, he thought he held the fate of Trebizond in his hands, and had taken his dilemma to the good priest Godscalc, now dead. He had risked his life and the lives of his friends for the Emperor, but the Emperor had surrendered, and dragged all his family into ignominy and death. With time, Nicholas had come to understand, if not to forgive. He had shown no grief in public when the Emperor lost his life. All but a small child had died or been sold off for pleasure. But now the lady Anna was free. And there were free men in Gothia.
Someone spoke. Abdan Khan said, ‘Do I not speak the truth?’ There was an unexpected note in his voice.
Nicholas looked up. ‘Forgive me. I did not know. Explanations, I suppose, would be tedious. I am only sorry that, being here, and willing to help, I do not have your confidence.’
The other man said, ‘What, then, is your account of what happened at Trebizond? Why do you insist that you are not Venetian, when the rulers of Trebizond died, but Venetians and their riches were borne by your own ships to safety?’ And then, with a gesture of rebuttal: ‘I do not wish to be appeased with
qumiz
. I want facts.’
T
HE
COCKS
WERE
CROWING
, and the late dawn of October was tinging the skies above the rocks of Qirq-yer when Karaï Mirza, the Khan’s close adviser, called at the house of the Patriarch’s emissary and, dismissing his escort, opened the door of the inner chamber himself.
Abdan Khan, dispatched yesterday to taste the fruits of defeat with his chessboard, was still in the room. He was not awake, nor yet in bed, having apparently fallen asleep on the floor while playing a stiff game of chess. The room reeked of liquor, and the chessboard, to a practised eye, announced a long, hard game between two well-matched opponents. Seeking further, the visitor observed that the other player was also present, and also asleep, although he at least had found his way to his mattress and freed himself of some of his clothes, including his cap. His skin was flushed, and his beard, densely black, had produced sparkling gold at its roots. The Circassian, sensitive no doubt to his looks, had not unwound his headgear, of which he held a tail in his grasp like a child. The turban had become skittishly tilted, and there was a bruise like a stain on his throat.
Karaï Mirza stood for a while, reflecting, then left. To the Khan he said, ‘It is for you to declare, lord. But I would say, show this man Niccolò all that is reasonable.’
Chapter 19
I
N
THE
DAYS
that followed, Nicholas de Fleury was shown everything and told everything that he needed to know. At first, it was a physical inventory — an examination of the stables and barracks, the forges and workshops and cook-houses, the places in which food and fodder and weapons, tents and wagons, fuel and utensils were stored and maintained, including the pastureland for the flocks and the ranges of extraordinary caverns within which, in case of attack, the families from the plains could be housed.
After that, he established himself in the secretary’s office and familiarised himself with the chain of supply, its strengths and its weaknesses. And last of all, he discussed what he had learned in the context of war, and the shifting alliances of the Peninsula. The common enemy, you would say, was the Turk. But allegiances altered, and trade, which he knew about, was one of the determining factors. The defence of the Genoese colonies could depend on decisions taken many months before in Genoa and Milan, in reaction to other decisions arrived at in Venice or Naples or Rome, or in the money markets of Flanders. Confidence in evident allies, such as Uzum Hasan, could be shaken by Uzum’s friendship with Venice, which supplied him with arms. Trade, throttled by Constantinople, required to pass from the Peninsula to the West via Poland, but Poland felt herself in danger from Muscovy and the two Tartar Hordes almost as much as she felt menaced by Turkey. All these things must be weighed. And if, having done so, one felt inclined to predict the future, there was still the matter of Venice, who, for the sake of her trade, might end her war with the Turk as easily as she was presently inciting the Golden Horde and the Persians to attack him.
By the time the talk had turned in this direction, Nicholas would be alone with the two mentors who were with him wherever he went, Abdan Khan and Karaï Mirza. With the latter, he now had a rapport built on mutual respect and a private repertoire of unrepeatable ballads. In Abdan Khan, he had been confronted by a professional soldier, jealous of
his command and buttressed with prejudices. The change had begun with the wrestling bout, but was largely due to the evening that followed. Later, when they had played chess and got drunk together and discovered that they were well matched in both, Nicholas had watched Abdan fall into peaceful slumber and supposed that this was the first time in his own life that his blighted past had in some way come to serve him. That night, he had answered Abdan Khan’s questions, and had described what had happened in Trebizond, even though he preferred not to remember it. It had hurt, and Abdan had noticed as much. Since then, in a guarded way, he had acted towards Nicholas as the vizier of a large country might act to the vizier of a smaller, and occasionally made soldier’s jokes. He was not a witty young man, but he did not need to be, to be good at his job.
The Khan did not appear at these meetings: that was for later, when Nicholas had learned and imparted all that he could, and conclusions might be drawn. More and more, he recognised that he was in fact the Patriarch’s emissary: that what he was doing was assessing, and enabling Mengli-Girey to assess, the variables in the future, and the best way to meet them. The Patriarch might preach religion, but it was the privilege of a trader to point out the material advantages of one course over another: something that the Bank of St George would understand, and Uzum Hasan, and Ivan in Moscow and Callimachus Experiens at the King’s Court in Cracow. That was why the former owner of the Banco di Niccolò had been brought here. He understood it, but he also understood that it was probably useless. There was religion, and there was self-interest, and there was the unknown brigand who, bursting with energy, looked at the weather one morning, and decided that it was a really good day for a massacre.
Towards the end, he wrote his report. Sometimes, Karaï Mirza would stand beside him, requesting to know what he was saying; commenting, disagreeing politely, asking questions — which he answered, because that was why he was here. On the last day, when the interrogation at last slackened and halted, the stocky secretary spoke on a different subject. ‘You suggest we support the proposed link between Gothia and Moscow, and we are inclined to agree. Is it still your intention, when you return, to act as agent for your friend in Cologne?’
Nicholas laid down his pen with delicacy, and looked up. ‘I look forward, yes, to developing his trade in the Peninsula, once he has recovered his outlay in furs. At present, sadly, he has little to invest.’
‘But if that were repaired?’
‘The possibilities appear to me endless. It troubles me only to know which Tudun to apply to, in arranging my affairs. The Khan has agreed to name one Tartar governor, but the Genoese, I am told, now favour another.’ He waited, his expression pellucid. If he were now to be trusted, he might as well discover how far.
Karaï Mirza answered with calm. ‘The Genoese have lost confidence, it is true, in the first candidate, the last Tudun’s brother. Many prefer his nephew, the son of the last Tudun’s widow. The lady is rich.’
‘And so?’ Nicholas said.
‘And so I cannot advise you at present. My Khan does not wish to force his opinion on the traders to whom he has given these fiefs. When he has reached a conclusion, you may hear it. He will wish to see you soon. But meanwhile, have you not written enough for today? Does your left hand still pain you, or did our care of it help? Abdan Khan knows of another shaman, he tells me, and could take you to him whenever you wish.’
‘I am not sure —’ Nicholas began.
‘You should go with him,’ the older man said. ‘If not now, then certainly before you depart from Qirq-yer.’ When he was being jocular, his cheeks became bossed, and his eyes were curved downwards like sickles. Now, he was not being jocular. Against all inclination, Nicholas conveyed his acceptance and thanks.
He would have to go, but not today; not until the last moment, when whatever transpired could not mar the effect of his visit. He remembered too well what had happened after the new-found camaraderie of the chess game. Then, observing the state of his wrist, Abdan Khan had insisted on having it attended to. There were physicians in the fortress of Qirq-yer, but the treatment was carried out in a yurt in the plain, beside a small fire of dung whose smoke rose through the peak of the conical roof of the tent. Like all its kind, it was fitted out as a home, with wall-carpets and matting, cushions and boxes, and ledges crowded with objects.
The man who studied his arm, sitting crosslegged beside him, was not old, despite his beard and his crumpled, long-skirted gown. The possessions around him were modest, but the prayer-beads in his sash were not cheap, and neither was the brooch that pinned the upturned brim of his high cap. He spoke very seldom, and then in a mixture of languages, but often hummed to himself. The most eloquent sound in the room was that of a little half-drum, which kept up a continuous tapping, loud and soft, slow or quick, according, you would say, to the physician’s wishes and moods. Yet he never spoke, or even looked towards the boy who was playing.
Nicholas had heard of the shaman religion, practised long ago on the shores of the Black Sea and elsewhere. He recognised the soothing effect of the wordless voice and the drum, for it conjured a feeling he already knew, when he surrendered his conscious mind to the pendulum. Recognition brought a surge of annoyance, but he did not let it reach the hand in the shaman’s possession, or his face, or the rest of his body.
Or so he thought, until the shaman’s eyes lifted to his, and he said, ‘Do not be afraid.’
‘He will not hurt you,’ said Abdan Khan.
‘It is not pain that he fears,’ the shaman had answered, and smiled. ‘We are in the same trade.’
‘What?’ had said Abdan Khan.
And the weathered face, neither Tartar nor Georgian, had turned the smile on Nicholas. ‘Ask us what the weather will be in December. When will the Khan die? What predator will sail into Caffa, and when?’
‘You would not answer,’ Abdan Khan said. But he was looking at Nicholas.
‘Neither should I,’ Nicholas said. He could hear the harshness in his own voice.
‘A pity,’ said the shaman blandly. ‘There is no harm in throwing a crumb. I cast a shoulder-blade on the fire now and then, and announce which concubine will quicken by sunrise. I am rarely wrong.’ But even as he mocked, his fingertips pressing and prodding, Nicholas felt the fires of the pain dying down. Through all that followed, there was nothing that was not bearable, and the physician fell into silence, but for the absent whistle and drone from his lips, like that of a groom with a horse. When the bandaging was complete, the hands withdrew while the drum gave a last, gentle flourish. Only then, when the tall Circassian bent and, producing his flask, poured drink for them all, did the physician lean back on his cushions and say, ‘So, my lord Niccolò, divining makes you afraid. Let me see if I can explain it. What do you see in your cup?’
There was nothing in his cup but strong drink, which he had not yet tasted. The liquid swirled, and the small flames danced and flickered. Nicholas heard himself saying, ‘I see an eagle. I have seen it before.’
Abdan Khan, his face intent, said, ‘I see nothing. The eagle of the Byzantine Empire? Of Moscow? Of the Great Emperor of the West, or of Rome?’
‘Not this eagle,’ said the shaman. ‘It is an eagle of the future, not the present. And it is not an emblem of empires, but of something quite simple: an act of humanity, perhaps.’
‘Of
the future
?’ Nicholas had said.
‘You are relieved? Oh, yes. You have been afraid of the past: perhaps you should be. But the shadows you see, the broken messages that have almost found their way home, are not from the past, but the future.’
‘I see,’ he recalled saying. He remembered draining his cup without pause until the eagle had gone, and embarking with firmness on the business of thanks, and of payment. Only at the very last, following Abdan Khan from the tent, had he been impelled to fling round and confront the complacent bastard. ‘I want no messages. How can I stop them?’