Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
There was no doubt which held the higher authority. Regardless of his wayward hair, his indolent gaze and his slender build, the Bank of St George’s fiscal agent Squarciafico belonged to the family of empire-builders and lechers who, along with the Adorno, administered the Genoese rule on the island of Chios. Twenty years ago, a namesake had voted to increase the taxes on Chios. Over a century ago, the galley of Meliaduc Adorno had helped capture the island for Genoa, just as Genoa had captured Famagusta, and a Contarini’s ships had been sent to take Caffa. The tower from which Ochoa had fallen had borne the name of Adorno. Every country, every race took what it could. Only, some ruled better than others.
Nicholas fell to his knees, as a frightened Mameluke interpreter should. He mumbled something.
‘What?’ said Squarciafico with contempt.
‘The man says,’ offered the Governor, ‘that he understands his services are no longer required, and he will therefore be content with a small fee.’
‘Indeed,’ said his superior slowly. He lifted his eyes to the guard. ‘In that case, we should show equal magnanimity. Give this person a seat.’
The soldier he addressed, looking taken aback, lifted a stool and placed it at the Saracen’s dishevelled shoulder. Nicholas scrambled up and sat, his neck bent. Despite his indifference, his nape pricked.
‘And perhaps, before leaving, he will take some refreshment?’ the musical voice continued reflectively. ‘Wine, we understand, is not allowed. But a sweetmeat? I am told they are delicious.’
Now, not only his nape pricked but everything about Nicholas insisted on danger. He said, ‘Lord,’ and lifted his head.
Before him was a salver in the hands of a servant. And upon the salver was an open box of exactly the delicacy which the Genoese had described. A variety of pale-coloured sweetmeats: candied fruits, to be quite precise. A luxury which a Mameluke steward would rarely be offered, unless by a doting mistress, or a client initiating a bribe.
Nicholas said, ‘My lord, it is too much. I am quite content to take my fee.’
‘But we are pleased with you,’ Squarciafico said. ‘We should take offence if you do not allow us to show it. Let me see you eat a handful. Now.’
Nicholas sat very still. ‘My lord, my religion does not allow.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ said Squarciafico cheerfully. ‘So, see, I have asked your imam to come and reassure you. Master Ibrahiim, there is no rule against sweetmeats?’
They had indeed sent for the jurist. He stood, his face grave, and looked at them all, his gaze falling last upon Nicholas. He said, ‘I know of no reason why these may not be eaten, if your servant desires. I do not know his medical condition.’
‘Surely,’ said Squarciafico, with gentle amusement, ‘there is no medical condition that precludes eating candied fruits? For the last time, my man. Take and eat, if you please.’
‘I cannot,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then shall we make you?’ said the Genoese sweetly. And stepping forward, he seized Nicholas suddenly by the hair and, scooping a handful of fruits, dragged his head back and made to force his lips open.
Nicholas twisted aside. Against his thrust arm, the whole box tilted and fell, scattering sugar over the floor. Two of the soldiers wrenched him back and dragged his hands behind his back while Squarciafico, lifting his palm, delivered a blow to the side of his face. A third soldier, his eyes on the glistening delicacies, stepped forward as if he would collect them.
Squarciafico laughed. ‘Lift them up if you like. But don’t lick your fingers after, and above all, my friends, don’t think to eat them. Or you will suffer what our friend here and his dead accomplice came to inflict on someone else.’
He turned to the Governor. ‘Why do you think the man de Marchena contrived to be captured and brought here in the first place? Why should this man trouble to come and interpret for him? They both wished to enter the citadel. They wished to find their way to the prisons. These sweetmeats, these singular Trapezuntine, Gothian sweetmeats, were to be offered to the two brothers of Mengli-Girey. Had they been eaten, the
Khan of Qirq-yer could flout us all as he pleased, for his older brothers, his rivals would be dead and could no longer oust him. They would be dead, because these fruits are poisoned. And this man would not eat, for he knew it.’
And that, at least, was true, Nicholas thought. He had known, because he had seen them before, these pretty sweets, which he might so easily have obtained, but had not, from Abdan Khan, the Circassian general.
Will this food harm me?
He had not needed the pendulum, this time, to warn him.
Someone had been very clever and yet, surprisingly, not clever enough. He felt not sick but suddenly mortally tired. He did not even listen to what Squarciafico was saying. He thought, gratefully, that at least the imam was safe. When they took him from the room, he expected that they would kill him immediately. Then the clamour of voices rose behind him, and someone shouted angrily, and he was stopped, and held where he stood at the top of the stairs. But by then he knew what had happened, for he had heard Anna’s voice.
Chapter 26
A
NNA
WAS
THERE
when they brought him back to the Governor’s room, in her anger more commanding than he had ever seen her before. And Squarciafico, standing before her, exhibited below his overt annoyance a shadow of something else which might have been discomfiture.
She glanced at Nicholas once, an assessing glance such as any mistress would bestow on her property, and then returned her gaze to Squarciafico and the Governor standing before her.
‘Do I hear aright? I permit my servant to come and help you with some pitiful difficulty over a prisoner; the prisoner escapes, and rather than admit to ineptitude, you attempt to implicate an unfortunate Muslim? Offending, of course, the whole race on which you will depend to agree to your choice of Tudun?’
‘We have explained,’ said Squarciafico. ‘The poisoned sweetmeats …’
‘You have explained. Your explanation is ludicrous. Was or was not this man searched when he arrived at Soldaia? No such sweetmeats were found. Was his pack not searched for a second time, here in the citadel? I am told that it was, and again, no sweetmeats were found.’
‘Then why,’ said Squarciafico swiftly, ‘did he refuse to eat them?’
She could not answer that. She turned to Nicholas. Her eyes were storm-dark and anguished.
Nicholas said, ‘Because, lord, I had seen such sweetmeats before, on a voyage to Alexandria. They originated in Trebizond, from where the formula seems to have travelled to Gothia. A boy died after stealing and eating them.’
‘A fabrication,’ said Squarciafico.
‘There were witnesses,’ Nicholas said. ‘Of high degree — two of them Genoese, of the family of Adorno. If my lord will allow, my lady could send for their statements.’
‘And on that occasion,’ Squarciafico said, ‘who was attempting to poison whom?’
‘I am a Mameluke,’ Nicholas said. ‘There was trouble at that time between the Venetians and the Mamelukes on Cyprus. I should not malign them, but there is a connection between the Corner family and Trebizond.’
Everyone knew what that was. He saw Anna’s face alter. The Treasurer said, ‘And the fact that the Spanish prisoner was wearing your clothes, and bore in his possession a note written by you, detailing the plans for his escape?’
‘The note is not mine. As for the clothes, I discarded them, lord, as soon as I arrived in the citadel. I never saw them again. I had no opportunity to pass them to de Marchena. I did not know him. I cannot tell why he believed I would help him, except that he would seize any chance to escape. In humility, lord,’ said Nicholas, his eyes on the floor, ‘I fear I am being made scapegoat for a killing which the Knights of St John will take badly, since it deprives them of one of the best seamen of his day. The man need not have been shot.’
There was a silence.
‘Well?’ said Anna.
Squarciafico stirred. ‘Madonna, I am sorry. We have given you and this man a hearing, but these are serious matters. It is not clear, even now, who is at fault.’
‘It is clear to me,’ Anna said. ‘It will be clear to the papal nuncio, under whose protection I travelled to Caffa. This man has served me loyally and well. He went to Qirq-yer at my desire, not his own. The negotiations he has undertaken on behalf of my company will bring prosperity to Caffa and to the Genoese both here and at home. He has no acquaintance with the dead prisoner, and no interest in him beyond that of the service he was asked to perform for which, I understand, he has not even been paid. Is he now to die because of a rumour?’
‘The accusation is serious,’ Squarciafico said again. ‘We cannot ignore it, madonna.’
‘Nor can you put him to death without trial,’ Anna said. ‘He has offered you witnesses. I have told you that your suspicions are baseless. Surrender him back to my keeping, and I will stand surety for him. Otherwise, I shall surely complain to a higher authority.’
They stood facing one another, the aristocratic Genoese and the fine-featured German Contessa. She had dressed for the journey as if attending a feast, in a high-waisted gown more ornate than any she normally wore, and her finest girdle and brooch. The loop of her headdress contrasted with the white of her brow, and its veil softened the jewels with which it was sewn. They were, Nicholas knew, all she had. They were to
have paid for her return from Caffa if all else had failed. But he had saved her from that.
Squarciafico did not look at the jewels. He spoke instead, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Contessa, it is not within my powers to release a possible spy. He cannot continue to live in this colony. He must stand trial, of leave.’
There was a little silence. ‘Or leave? But we are not leaving till spring,’ Anna said.
‘Madonna, I should ask no lady to travel in winter. But a man, a Circassian Mameluke accustomed to hardship, would surely survive. I trust to have the pleasure of your company for many weeks still to come,’ said Squarciafico. ‘But unless he wishes to submit to a trial whose outcome I cannot predict, your man must leave now.’
Nicholas lifted his head. For the first: time since the beginning, Anna’s eyes rested on his. Nicholas said, ‘I would wish to continue serving my lady. But if there is no choice, I will leave.’
‘Then I agree,’ Anna said; and bit her lip. She did not look round as he was turned from the room, and he did not see her leave, for by then he was locked in a cell. When, finally, he had begun to lose confidence, the door was opened, his pack was thrust in his arms, and he was marched under guard from the fortress. He thought, striding down past the mosque, that he saw the imam’s face, but he made no effort to stop. Nor did he pause as he passed the bulwark of Prosper Adorno, the blood already washed from its walls.
His escort changed at the drawbridge, and when he was turned out through the portals of Soldaia he was surprised to recover his horse. His Genoese safe conduct, of course, was now lacking. He could not enter Soldaia or Caffa, Gurzuf or Alupka, Alushta or Simiez. He could not sail through the ice. He could not go home. He was, however, alive. Anna had saved him. He had not saved Ochoa.
There were a few things he could do, most of them dependent on other people’s initiatives. It had not taken long, indeed, to work out what all the possibilities were. In the aftermath of all that had happened, Nicholas found in himself a chilly resistance to more fruitless planning. There was a hospice most Latins stayed at, halfway between Soldaia and Caffa, which possessed a separate building for servants. By the time he got there he was cold, wet, and prepared to be fully uncooperative, even when one of the possibilities became a reality, and he was met by a groom that he knew. With the groom was another horse, and a saddlebag containing all the garments necessary to an Italian gentleman, including a razor. There was also a safe conduct, permitting Signor Paolo of Simiez to visit his cousins in Caffa.
It was not a wise plan, at this stage, to give way to his instincts.
Nicholas accepted the bounty provided and descended next day upon Caffa in new guise, or in one which passed muster, at least, with the unsuspecting guards at the portals. Then he made his way, as directed, to the Franciscan monastery, where he was joined in due course by Ludovico da Bologna and the extraordinary woman who had just rescued him from a cruelly planned death.
The Patriarch, viewing him, issued a bark. ‘The puppy, restored! So, how are you proposing to thank us?’
‘By converting from the Muslim religion,’ Nicholas said. It was automatic. All his essence was concentrated on the still person of Anna, standing in the doorway, her smiling face running with tears.
She said, ‘What a transformation. I could almost marry you myself.’
‘Almost?’ Nicholas said. Her eyes looked feverish.
‘If she didn’t happen to be married already,’ said the Patriarch shortly. ‘I didn’t know your friend was a fool. How did that happen?’
‘Someone helped him escape in my name. They wanted to kill him.’
‘A Genoese scheme?’ said the Patriarch.
‘Obviously,’ Nicholas said. ‘It got rid of Ochoa, and gave them an excuse to get rid of me, whom they suspected. They didn’t expect Anna to race to my defence with such brio. I am sorry. I should be overwhelming you both with my gratitude. I can’t believe he is dead.’
‘It pains us, too,’ said Anna gently. ‘It was not your fault. You nearly lost your own life in attempting to rescue him. You’ve taken all the risks since we came — to obtain the goodwill of the Khan, and all the profit that brought. Now the Patriarch has arranged for you to hide here for the weeks that are left. Julius will come. And when we leave for Persia, we leave together.’
The Patriarch grunted. He knew, of course, as much as Brother Lorenzo about the gold and Ochoa. ‘Financial security’ had been the term Lorenzo had used. The Patriarch also knew that Anna and even Julius would expect, armed with gold, to descend upon Persia with Nicholas. Anna would have been frank about that. Now she said, hesitating, ‘Unless our plans ought to change. Ochoa is dead. It may not seem fitting to collect the gold and then leave, as if nothing had happened.’