Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Acciajuoli had had four servants with him, and there had been ten horses in all. That accounted for two of them. The bees swung about him, still singly, and as the road turned and the light of early evening descended from a circular opening in the trees, Nicholas saw that he had come as far as Acciajuoli had come, to a stretch of trampled earth, with a stream, a small planting of kitchen vegetables, a byre, a pile of manure, and a haphazard group of battered timber houses whose doors stood open, and from which issued no sound. In fact, as he slowed, there was nothing at all to be heard in the clearing but the hiss of the distant leaves, and the trickle of water, and the sharp crochets and diminishing minims of solitary bees, interrupted now and then by the snarl of an attacking cluster.
The victims were presumably the escaping horses, for there was nothing left here worth attacking. That had already been done. Nicholas, dismounting, led his horse forward to where lay the dark bodies of four lifeless Russians in leather tunics and breeches, and two horses, both dead. One had fallen and broken its neck. The other had been killed, presumably to prevent its rider from escaping. The rest, crazed, had patently fled like the one he had seen. They would soon be caught. Horses were valuable. The men, their faces blotched and swollen, had been stung half to death. Those who had looked like surviving had been killed. All the packs had been emptied.
He had seen everything but the one man he sought. Then he heard a sound.
Least able to control a rearing horse, Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli had lost his grip as soon as the maddened animal reared and, falling, had brought the beast down on himself. The horse had died. Its rider, less fortunate, had merely remained, trapped under its weight, with his head and torso and arms exposed to the venom that had felled him.
His hands were free. Although he might be numb from the waist down, the Greek had been able to drag about him his priceless, soiled ermine cloak, gift of the Grand Duchess Sophia, and turn his face into the ground. Racing to him, Nicholas thought that, left for dead, he might
have a chance. Then he saw the blood on the cloak and the grey cast of the distorted face that turned slowly towards him. ‘Ah, Niccolò,’ said the Greek. ‘Do not trouble. I am dead.’
‘Not while I am here,’ Nicholas said, kneeling. He had worked with a good doctor in the field: his fingers explored as he spoke. ‘You knew this would happen?’
‘I thought it possible,’ the Greek said. His voice was thin, but his deep gaze was steady and clear.
‘And you arranged for the wagon to break, to leave me behind? Why?’
‘A whim,’ the Greek said. His whitened lips in his grizzled beard moved a little. ‘I am old. My life is my own. If we are given a few moments together, I might say more to you. I have a drug that would help in my purse. Sadly, that is under the horse.’
‘Is there a difficulty?’ Nicholas said. He spoke lightly, for by then he knew what he was dealing with. He also knew that Acciajuoli was an expert in opiates. On the day Anna was stabbed, the Greek had provided him with the respite he needed. He owed him something for that.
The horse presented another problem of leverage, but not so simple when single-handed in every sense and still losing blood. Nicholas stopped twice to let his eyes clear, but eventually it was done; the horse was raised, and the man pulled clear and laid on his cloak in the shade. Then Nicholas turned back his mantle.
Acciajuoli had been right. By itself, the weight of the horse might not have mattered: one leg was broken, but the other, which had taken the brunt, was intact, being fashioned of wood. His life was ending not because of the horse, but from the depth of the single stab wound in his body, evidently inflicted in haste. Perhaps, seeing his face, someone had realised that he was not the man they expected. Perhaps, afraid, their ambushers had made good their escape, assured that he could not live long.
He lay with his eyes closed while Nicholas did what he could. His horse, tied and covered, drooped nearby. The bees dispersed and were replaced by bluebottles, in buzzing indigo quilts. The purse was glazed with blood and squashed flat, but the kidskin packet with its powder was still intact inside. Nicholas brought water and, kneeling, spoke, causing the heavy patrician lids to make the effort to lift. ‘I have what you asked for.’
He obeyed the directions he was given, having neither the insolence nor the inhumanity to question them. The first dose would bring relief for a short while; the second would kill. After that, the Greek said, Nicholas was to pull what he could into the houses and set them on fire, so that none would know that Nicholas himself had escaped. He asked, as the pain started to dull, about Nicholas’s own useless arm, and Nicholas
told him, making him frown. ‘There, too! But poor men will do anything, given money.’
They had half an hour together, perhaps, as evening drew towards night, and the sky above them turned through all the pale, silky colours to opal. The Greek lay, a saddle for pillow, with his hair loose and the ermine drawn over his body, and Nicholas sat at his side, propped by the vast base of a tree. With proper bandaging and a sling, his own bleeding had stopped. He knew he must take what rest he could, for he could not stay here once it was over. His safety depended on his being thought to be dead. At the moment, it did not seem greatly to matter, in face of the service the other man had taken upon himself to perform. He had asked why. ‘We are not related?’
The Greek’s amusement had shown in his eyes. ‘With what private misgiving you say it! No, Niccolò. We may be so, of course, in the future, but my present concern is merely to preserve for the world those boyish talents you have displayed so profusely since we first met. Eighteen, were you not? So uncouth!’
‘I am sorry,’ Nicholas said, also briefly amused.
‘Oh, that is of course no longer so, or you would not be attracting this attention. It is as well that I heard a rumour of ambush. Now it is over, you will find that you make a quick journey. Ghosts travel fast.’ He fell silent, breathing quickly, but holding Nicholas still with his large, soft, cynical eye.
Nicholas said, ‘There is no need to talk.’
‘Perhaps not,’ the Greek said. ‘But I should like to spend my last moments in some form of civilised employment. You know, of course, who your enemies are?’
A lifetime of habit dies hard. ‘I thought they were in Bruges,’ Nicholas said.
‘Even yet!’ the Greek said. ‘Even yet, you will not break silence. I suppose I commend you. Nevertheless it is true, I take it, that the woman Anna offered herself to you in Moscow, and you refused? And that David de Salmeton has threatened you?’
Nicholas said, ‘He is working with Camulio. Another alum-dealer, like you and your brother. And myself, of course, under your tuition. The bottom, you will have noticed, has dropped out of the alum market.’
‘It has served its purpose,’ the Greek said. ‘It sent Zoe to Muscovy and you to the Levant. I am glad you at least perceived that you were being educated. A failed Crusade and your future all dependent on a man’s acquaintance with Phocoean holly. I am only sorry that the greater prospect seems also to have failed. I cannot see Moscow and Persia crushing the Sultan between them.’
‘That is what you hoped?’ Nicholas said.
‘That has been the hope of everyone still alive from Imperial Trebizond and Byzantium, and poetic visionaries such as Aeneas Sylvius, and earthworm visionaries such as our mutual friend Father Ludovico.’ He broke off, but resumed again almost immediately. ‘You learned something during your sojourn in Moscow, but did not lose your soul to military or domestic engineering?’
‘Part of it, perhaps.’
‘But you will not fill your life with cathedrals, any more than you will fill it with spectacles for the theatre or the blind. Russia may be too big for a man such as you, but these are too small. You must look for something that fits.’ His whining whisper modulated between impatience and scorn.
‘I shall do. I have friends who will help me. Rest,’ Nicholas said. He felt sick with the tragedy of it, and the strangeness of the other man’s intensity, underlined by its total detachment. Dying, Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli lay self-sufficient as a figure in bronze, and invited neither pity nor comfort. A mechanical courier, formed to deliver its message, and unstoppable.
‘You have friends, of course. Several men: you know their deficiencies. Two young women. I sometimes wonder if you know their strengths. I permit myself a crude question. You have no appetite for the Sersanders child, Katelijne?’
‘It is a crude question,’ Nicholas said.
‘So hers is a name not to be trifled with. She represents something to you that perhaps you are only now coming to realise. You may come to realise, too, that it does not matter that she is married with children. Your masculine friends are so situated, and you do not shun them. For fleshly pleasures, of course, there is your wife.’
Nicholas was silent. The characteristic chuckle, now distorted, mildly mocked his forbearance before, wilfully, continuing. ‘But, of course, she is clever as well, in a different way. I remember a discussion in Florence.’
‘You told her I was not to remarry: that posterity was already served. She told me. I found it offensive,’ said Nicholas suddenly. ‘I felt that she and I and our family were nothing; that you were presuming to look beyond us.’ He stopped abruptly.
Any strolling astrologer can frighten you
, Gelis had said.
‘And when you are using your pendulum, are you not looking beyond?’ the Greek said. ‘It takes a strong man to do so, and to face what you see. Your life is important, but you will not live for ever.’
‘I was not thinking of myself,’ Nicholas said.
‘I understand. You are concerned for the next generation. But all six
children have been born who are to take care of your line in the future. Your role is that of father to Jordan, and protector, teacher, tutor and adviser to him and to the sons of other men. If you fail, there is always Dr Andreas. If you fear for your wife once you have gone, my lovely Nerio will see that she comes to no harm.’
The thought was grotesque, even when couched in irony. Nicholas held back a reply, and then saw, with growing dismay, that there were actually tears in the Greek’s eyes. He spoke then in a different voice. ‘Would your shade not be jealous?’
‘I, jealous?’ said the Greek, and his beard moved in a small, startled smile while a tear, dislodged, fell on his cheek. ‘Would Nerio tell me everything, as he does, if I were? When Nerio watched you bedding Violante his mother, and later described all he had seen, I was not jealous, and yet I had cause. Not because the boy is my catamite, but because I got him on Violante myself. Nerio is my son.’
Of course. Of course. Of course.
‘She did not say. I didn’t know,’ Nicholas said. He gave a sudden wide smile, impelled by an emotion he did not understand, and said, ‘So your line, also, is established. It seems right.’ To himself, he wondered, a little breathless, if Caterino Zeno knew the identity of his wife’s lover; then realised that, of course, he had done. Zeno’s marriage was one of convenience.
Even wet, the darkened eyes kept all their mockery. ‘Fortunately,’ said the Greek, ‘Nerio has a charm which appeals to both sexes, and which will serve him well, even in age. Yes, my line, too, is established. I may leave when I choose.’
‘And your master will commend you?’ Nicholas said.
‘You think I have a master?’ the Greek said. ‘Let us say rather that I prefer order in life, and do not lose time where I see a chance to establish it.’
‘One who sees the beauty in roads and bridges and buildings,’ Nicholas said.
‘One who conceives the structure that will endow others with freedom, yes: that is true. But I am also human,’ said Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli. ‘I lost my leg at Constantinople, for which I blame the Knights of St John. I like to think that one day, someone will even the score. Meanwhile, all that I have with me is yours, to take you safely home, except only my leg. I should like you to take that to Nerio.’
‘I shall try,’ Nicholas said.
‘You will succeed,’ said the Greek. ‘It may better encourage you to know that it is filled from hip to toe with gold coins. If my other resources prove inadequate, I give you leave to dip into a knee joint. Only do not give the remainder to Violante. If she wishes gold, she must earn
it from Zeno.’ He waited and said, smiling still, ‘You
are
going to Bruges?’
‘I have this matter to deal with,’ Nicholas said. ‘I shall not, I suspect, be allowed to stay long.’
‘My dear Niccolò,’ the dying man said. ‘Provided you live, it is your choice, not theirs. You are not, I hope, an apprentice to anyone, now.’
A little after that, he asked for the second half of the potion, and Nicholas brought it, and lifted his shoulders to allow him to drink. He tried to say, once again, what he felt, but the Greek shook his head.
‘It was time. This is one death you do not have on your conscience.’ He paused, patently searching for the fitting benediction which, eventually, he found. ‘Violante spoke highly of you, in general, as a lover. She always held you had the advantage of Zeno.’
‘But not of you,’ Nicholas said. His voice conveyed what he felt: unwilling admiration mixed with regret.
‘There, of course,’ said the Greek, ‘there could be no comparison.’ He drank, and was smiling still as his lids fell.
Part IV
REPRISE
Chapter 38
A
GHOST
TRAVELS
fast. A ghost with three legs travels faster.
Throughout the civilised world known to Europe, the autumn stasis set in, troubled only by small local disturbances, for the most part irritable and inconclusive: it promised to be a hard winter, and fighting men preferred to spend such months at home.
The ghost flitted, and those who inhabited its former homes in Venice, Flanders and Scotland waited, as they had done for three years, in fretful suspense, not knowing what to hope for, or what to fear. Then autumn began to move into winter, and the catchment area, the network, the web awaiting Nicholas de Fleury stirred into life, animated by a signal from Scotland.