Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
He and Tobie and Astorre and Gregorio and Godscalc had once all belonged to the Charetty company, before his wife died, and his step-daughter inherited it. If Tilde died unmarried, he would own the Charetty company. Tobie said, as Nicholas expected, ‘You’re not competing with them?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Nicholas said. ‘Gregorio keeps to his orders. But
he has had a clash or two in the marketplace with St Pol & Vasquez, Simon’s firm. He says they’re heavily committed, without much free money to spend. It explains the absence of ransom for Katelina.’
It didn’t, but that was his worry, not Tobie’s. While he was still fairly weak he had broken his rule and had Diniz brought to his room, where he talked to him mildly, remembering that the guilty always felt most vindictive. Diniz had been silent, resentful and frightened, and he had got nowhere with him at all. Katelina, on the other hand, had never been seen since her visit, and the Clares were silent as only Clares afraid of Marietta could be. He was sure of this, that Cropnose had something to do with it.
The day after that, Loppe’s party arrived, and at the same time, John le Grant rode down from St Hilarion. He broke his rule again, and had them into his room. They all exclaimed at his appearance, made a number of jokes, and got fairly drunk, which sent Nicholas’s temperature up and restarted the bleeding. Then Tobie returned him to prison conditions, and no one came near him for days. He spent the time making lists, and sending them out to be studied. They had to do with men and buildings and plant, raw materials, packing and transport. He also had Loppe’s reports, even though he wouldn’t admit Loppe as yet. For Loppe was the key, and needed meticulous handling. In fact, all of them did. Nicholas was no longer a boy being indulged, or a young man still proving himself. They had accepted him as someone to follow, and he had to show he was right most of the time, if not quite all of it. Or the game wouldn’t come out as he wanted.
He thought he had a team. Twice, he thought he had lost Tobie; once at St Hilarion and again over the business with Katelina. But for no very pleasant reason, Tobie had been unable to cast stones over St Hilarion, and whatever had emerged from that raw, disjointed wrangle with Katelina seemed to have earned him a reprieve. Or perhaps he had to thank his own condition and Tobie’s overriding professional instincts. Or, far more likely, the matter of bryony berries. At any rate Tobie did not, he said, intend to return to St Hilarion. If anyone fell sick, that bastard Abul Ismail could deal with it.
And John le Grant? Up till recently he had been like Crackbene, a man who would peddle his ingenuity anywhere for the sheer personal pleasure of exercising it. John was a red-headed German-speaking Aberdonian who had joined him in Florence and shown a backbone of iron through the Trebizond war, as he had through the fall of Constantinople. Mick Crackbene, with the Scandinavian name and the Scandinavian bulk and fair hair, had come to Nicholas from Pagano Doria his enemy, and in the course of a career that contained, Nicholas suspected, its fair share of piracy. But he was
a brilliant seaman and had shown himself, so far, a reticent but perfectly satisfactory employee. It had not been his fault that he had been forced to sail for Cyprus, and he had performed his duties well and sensibly since. There existed, of course, a way to gain his friendship and understanding, but so far Nicholas had not been able to find it. He knew, from Loppe, that Crackbene’s accountant was in the same mould.
And so he was reminded of Loppe, and the quality of his intellect, and the barrier of his colour. It seemed a long time since they had first met: he an apprentice of eighteen, Loppe a slave on a Venetian ship, and far from his home in West Africa. The Olympian frame with its play of black muscles came no doubt from the forebears he had lost, but owed its development to the various masters in Spain and in Portugal who had christened him Lopez. Loppe had given them physical service, and he had taken from them their tongues and their knowledge. Loppe was polyglot, and an expert in many things. Among them was the nurture of the sugarcane plant.
When the day came that Nicholas was his own man, he gathered them all in the garden: Tobie, John, Loppe and Crackbene, with Umfrid. The cooks had brought food. The women knew him by now, and their manner was cheerful and easy, although they never stepped out of bounds, and he fancied that was not because they were afraid of the steward. Galiot, chosen by Loppe, managed the household remarkably well and dealt, too, with the food for the dyeworks. Under Zorzi, the dyeworks were busy.
Today, the House of Niccolò in Cyprus met under an awning, although the sun was mild, and the air still had the freshness of spring. For a moment, oddly, it seemed that some vital component was missing; and then Nicholas saw that he had been thinking of his garden in Trebizond, and the persons missing were Godscalc and Julius.
He said, ‘I want you to hear me, so that we all know what we are doing, and also to have your advice. At present, John can’t stay with us. Once his cannon are cast, we shall launch an attack on Kyrenia and I shall come north to join him. The rest of the time I’ll be in the south, and you will be with me. By the time the war has moved to Famagusta, the sugar crop should be dealt with, or at least capable of continuing without us. We have to make this business self-sufficient, secure and well-managed. Whether we personally stay in Cyprus or not, the sugar franchise can support us for years; give us capital for other ventures, and cushion us against losses.’
‘So long as Zacco is King,’ said John le Grant.
‘So long as the Turks don’t defeat Venice,’ said Tobie.
‘So long as the Venetians don’t steal it from us,’ said Nicholas. Loppe smiled. There was a silence.
‘What?’ said Tobie. ‘They brought you here.’
Nicholas licked smoked pork from his fingers, and let the jellied brawn he was supposed to be eating melt slowly into its dish. He said, ‘They brought me here to get rid of Carlotta. They’ll keep us here as long as there’s danger. But they don’t want a strong, permanent business competing with theirs.’
‘How competing?’ said Tobie. ‘They could sell a hundred times what they grow.’
Nicholas said, ‘They can’t plant much more than they’ve got. They’re short of trained men and slaves. Any ship calling anywhere is in danger of being requisitioned for war. And foreign imports are hard to come by – I know that from the dyeworks. There’s also a shortage of craftsmen – the family links with potters and weavers have gone. Remember, Zacco’s war to seize Cyprus caused a lot of damage in his part of the island. A lot of people fled with Carlotta. What happened changed the sugar industry. Loppe has looked at sugar estates all over the island. Most are small, some are spoiled, some have lost practical access. The only three worth anything are in the south, and we have one of them. The other two are Venetian-connected or -owned. One is the cane of the Knights at Kolossi, marketed through a Venetian company. One is the private estate of Marco Corner, the Venetian merchant.’
‘And they are situated together,’ said Loppe mildly. He had chosen to sit on the grass. His cap and sleeveless jacket were red; his shirt white, as was the wand-like lily upright on his fingertips. He inclined its stem to the map on the table. ‘The Knights near Limassol, with the Martini brothers selling their goods for them. The Corner lands at Episkopi, managed by the Corner and their factor, who do their own marketing. And furthest west, the royal estates for which we have the franchise.’ He tapped and lifted the flower, leaving a dust of gold pollen on Kouklia.
John le Grant said, ‘Don’t go on. I want to ask something. Nicholas, didn’t the Knights cheat the Martini last year?’
‘They tried to,’ Nicholas said. ‘I stopped them. Nevertheless, they’re repeating the contract. The Martini have bought the Knights’ crop, and will make their profit from how well they sell it.’
‘So the Knights think we’re dirt,’ said le Grant. ‘Upset their schemes, mishandled their wee man Kinloch, flouted Carlotta for Zacco, got their ship waylaid and gave Zacco its cargo. And now you’re competing with them in the sugar business. That being so, why are the Knights using the Martini brothers again? You saved the Martini sugar. The Martini must be the best friends you’ve got.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Nicholas. ‘Until now, the Martini held the royal franchise. The Martini had to go back to the Knights,
because there wasn’t another job for them. They don’t like me at all.’
‘Can they harm you?’ said Tobie. ‘The Knights? The Martini brothers?’
‘Openly, no,’ Nicholas said. ‘We have the royal fief.’
‘But?’ said John le Grant.
Nicholas said, ‘But, of course. Imagine what you would do if you were an outpost of Rhodes, and wanted to make an impression on the Grand Master, or on Carlotta. Fortunately, there are the Corner. Venetians also, and lying between us and Kolossi.’
‘But competing also for men and equipment. Here’s another thing,’ said John le Grant. His hat clashed with his hair, and his skin shone under his freckles. ‘Corner are privately owned. They manage their business, top to bottom. But aren’t we in the same situation as the Martini? The royal estates turn out the sugar, and it’s our job simply to sail off and sell it? I’m supposing that that’s why Crackbene is sitting there. So why should we bother ourselves with all these lists I’ve been seeing? That’s the estate manager’s job, reporting to Zacco.’
‘It should be,’ Nicholas said. ‘But because of the war, the estate is in a mess. What men there were left when the Martini left. If I hadn’t done something as soon as we arrived, we should have acquired a most expensive franchise to nothing. As it is, there’s a lot to do still. You see that. But we’ve got the replacement cuttings we need, and the experts, and the buildings and vats are being repaired. And Loppe has installed a new manager.’
‘How?’ said Tobie.
‘He came from Syria,’ Nicholas said, to save Loppe replying. ‘All the sugar in Cyprus came from the Crusader factories at Acre and Tyre and Beirut. The country’s under Mamelukes now, but they’ll trade equipment and management skills from time to time, provided you use the right intermediary. We employed an Observatine friar to take the offer. The Patriarch of Antioch at times has his uses.’
‘Ludovico da Bologna!’ Tobie said. He paused. ‘He’s at Ferrara in Italy.’
Nicholas said, ‘You’d be amazed, but ships do sail from time to time between Cyprus and Italy. Ask where we got the manager’s new highly-trained sugar staff from.’
‘Ferrara,’ said Tobie, who never did puzzles.
‘Consider,’ said Nicholas. ‘Ferrara is not far from Florence, and in Florence is a powerful lady whose two sons work in Naples. One of them trained in Spain and was a friend of mine in Bruges. The other trained in Palermo. And the name of the family is –’
‘Strozzi,’ said John le Grant. ‘You got Lorenzo and Filippo Strozzi to send you men from Sicily. You cunning bastard.’
‘And more than men,’ Nicholas said. He threw a paper over and le Grant caught it and spread it on the table. Tobie craned. Crackbene, who had not so far opened his mouth, said, ‘That is good. It is a diagram of a sugar mill.’
John said, ‘It’s more than that. It’s a three-roller mill, and I’ve never seen one before. I’ve heard of it, though.’ He snorted. ‘In Sicily. Of course. The University. You want me to make you one?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Nicholas happily.
After that, it was exactly the kind of discussion he liked, with ideas and arguments flowing and fists pounding the table or knee. Halfway through, Umfrid spoke. He was quite as blond as Mick Crackbene, but short and neat, like a family mascot. He said, ‘You expect a yield of 11.2 in the hundred on your cane? If the acreage is as you say, you will need a new refinery. You cannot afford both that and the plant you are building.’
‘We refine once only, and subcontract,’ Nicholas said.
‘Then you will have to book capacity and be sure of your rates,’ Umfrid said. A look of shock crossed his face and he sat back on his stool, diminishing. Nicholas said, ‘No. Go on. You say that, in time, we should build our own refineries. Get me figures, and we’ll have a look at it. But I still think it would be cheaper to contract out. Carlotta was using Bologna.’
‘Only because she wasn’t allowed to use Venice,’ Mick Crackbene said. ‘There is a refinery here, and in Rhodes. And one in Crete. As I sail, I ask questions, and report to you.’ At the time, Nicholas was pleased with the intervention.
Later, a breeze came to flap the awning and they went indoors and scattered to their various purposes. Tomorrow, John le Grant would return to the army, and Crackbene would travel west to see timber merchants before returning for orders. The royal fleet was not large, and much extended in the cause of supplies and defence and, of course, the double blockade. Meticulously, as Nicholas knew, the fee for its requisition was paid into his business in Venice. He hoped Gregorio was happy.
Tomorrow he, too, would take the road at last for the south, Loppe and Tobie riding with him. He had been to the dyeworks already, and satisfied himself that it was beginning to run well and effectively, and that Zorzi had no cause to complain. He had seen Diniz once, in the distance, but the boy had turned his back, and he had not persisted.
Now he had one final task, which he contemplated with a mixture of amusement and revulsion. He changed his shirt for another, and put on a light taffeta robe which hid what was left of the bandaging. He knew he still held himself stiffly, but Tobie had been reassuring, and, slowly, he was permitted to move and exercise the injured muscles. It hurt, but not when he was thinking of
something else. He had his hat brought by one of his entourage, and Tobie said, ‘This meeting. Shall I postpone it for you?’
Nicholas looked at him. He said, ‘Tobie, it’s a contract for millions. How can I fail to appear?’
Tobie pulled off his bonnet, so that his bald head and face shone together. He said, ‘Well, you fool. Don’t drink. You’re tired.’
Fair enough. Where he was going, he was unlikely to be offered hospitality.
The lady Marietta of Patras had several noses: some of wax and some, of various shapes, in painted wood. Today, receiving Nicholas, she appeared as at their first meeting, with a cloth of silk fastened under her eyes and below the mantle of gauze that covered her hair and her robe. She was in a plain room containing a table and chair and several boxes, as well as a velvet-topped stool, to which he was bidden. She herself sat at the table. She said, ‘And has my son taken you yet?’