Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Lazzarino of the Casa Niccolò had been selected as factor in Rome because of his skill in this respect. The most inoffensive and obliging of men, he took his listening ears to all occasions of note and said nothing; his reports told what he had learned. His wife, more naturally opinionative, had the sense to appear gentle also. Their aptitudes fitted in well enough with the more flamboyant personality of Julius, who was happy to leave the dull work to the agent and buff up the Bank’s social relationships in his own style.
By the time Gregorio left, the English embassy was already over: a constipated group under Gold well, dispatched to bring the obedience from a King newly back on his throne, who desired the fact to be noticed. Florence followed: not on the prodigious scale of Milan, but rich enough to make the eyes water. It was led by Lorenzo de’ Medici, and included a column of wains requiring thirty-five horses to pull them, and loaded with, among other things, four hundred pounds’ weight of table silver.
For lodging they had the hospitality of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s two uncles who ran the Rome Bank and, more grandly, the extravagant palace of Cardinal Orsini, whose eighteen-year-old niece was the wife of Lorenzo. With the party rode five other envoys, the orator Donato Acciajuoli and a Martelli among them, and an assortment of Levantine exiles including a girlish young half-Greek called Nerio. There came also a crippled kinsman of Acciajuoli’s whose presence would have turned Nicholas cold, had his thoughts not been directed elsewhere.
Julius had no qualms when this particular gentleman stalked into his house, the wooden leg perfectly managed underneath the long skirts of plum velvet. Gazing at the smooth bearded face and dark eyes, Julius noted the silvery hairs, the sharper bones, but conceded that the man had worn well since the day that Claes had snapped his leg off by accident. By what passed for an accident, in those light-hearted years when men perceived only Claes, and not Nicholas.
Acciajuoli hadn’t borne him a grudge; had indeed passed him a few business tips well worth having, even if there had been a sting, now and then, in the tail. Nicholas seemed to find the fellow lowering, which was natural. Acciajuoli was a man who had seen Nicholas, his back buttered, in jail. Nicholas hadn’t been anyone’s padrone then.
Julius thought the Florentine sly – his Greek blood – but would hardly call him malignant. They said he had approached Gelis in Florence two years ago. No one knew whether he had offered her anything, or asked her to do something, or had been merely obeying a whim. He was an inquisitive man. At this very moment, goblet in hand, he was enquiring about the arrival of Anna. It was a dull, clammy day, and they were sitting in the loggia in the garden, not far from where Ludovico da Bologna had once placed himself.
‘The Gräfin?’ Julius said. ‘Many of our clients, as you might expect, are coming to Rome. I believe she is one of them.’
‘Of course,’ said the Florentine soothingly. ‘I forgot. She is a shareholder in the Bank’s newest ship. I am told your splendid merchantman is sadly delayed? Some dispute in the boat-yard at Danzig?’
‘One expects it,’ said Julius. ‘There are others.’
‘Skiffs and doggers and balingers, in little boat-yards in Scotland, so rumour says. Not very palatable news for your Hanse friends in Cologne. Unless, that is, you mean to recover your fleet from the Doge? The old
Ciaretti
, the pirated
Ghost
, the battered
San Niccolò
? Venice would have a right to complain. But who could blame Nicholas, retired to his love nest in Scotland, if he lost interest in fighting the Turk on the Euxine, or in Persia, or the Khanates?’ He smiled, and laid down his cup. ‘I hear his wife is pregnant again.’
Despite himself, Julius could not resist it. ‘Not unless miracles have happened. The best news we have received is that he has refrained from breaking her other arm. He is where he is, on the affairs of the company. After that, he is committed to Burgundy. He will come back to the Somme when the spring land campaigns open. He couldn’t sail for the East if he wanted to.’
‘Even for gold?’ the Florentine said. ‘Or perhaps he thinks he will divine all the gold he requires in little Scotland, as he thinks he has identified all the alum in the Tyrol? I have to tell you that the Vatachino think he has allowed personal matters to stifle his genius. The gold in Scotland is trifling. The sale of other alum will be prohibited so long as the papal mines have the monopoly.’
Julius admired his own beautiful hose. They were of knitted silk, with three pearls down each side. He said, ‘Run by the Medici.’
The Florentine tilted his head. He, too, was admiring the pearls.
He said, ‘Operated by the Bank of the Medici. Also the newly opened magnificent mines in Volterra, a commune under the influence of Florence.’
‘Another source of rightful pride to Messer Lorenzo,’ Julius said. ‘One has only to hope that the rumours of unrest in Volterra are baseless. Also the tales of useless stockpiles of alum, over-produced and offered at too high a price. After all, the profits are to finance the Crusade you mentioned. The spring sailing to Persia. The peregrinations of Father Ludovico, the Patriarch of Antioch. The marriage of Zoe. I believe Messer Prosper de Camulio has been seen in the city. One might imagine that even the Genoese think that papal alum may not, sadly, achieve all that it might.’
There was a silence during which Julius, smiling, studied the toe of his slipper. Whatever one might think of him, sometimes Nicholas got it just right. Then the Florentine said, ‘I have a message for your Master Niccolò. The Medici have lost none of their power. And this is a different Pope, with different policies. You may have fewer friends now, and those you have, may be dispersed very soon. The Vatachino must watch out for themselves.’ He paused. ‘In this new world, it pays to be Greek.’
Nicholas had said that as well. Nicholas, in the closely written pages ciphered for Julius alone, had suggested paying particular attention to the quandary of Zoe, tender unmarried heiress to the brilliant lost throne of Byzantium. Failing her brothers, who were too young to lead armies, the husband of Zoe would have the right and the duty to drive the Turk from his Empire. Once, with the blessing of Cardinal Bessarion, it had seemed that Zacco of Cyprus would make Zoe his bride, and Cyprus an outpost of Byzantium. It had not suited Venice. Cyprus was to be a Venetian arsenal, a floating war-machine against the Grand Turk. Zacco, discontentedly rattling his chains, had instead married Catherine Corner, half Venetian, wholly the daughter of a princess of the lesser Greek Empire of Trebizond.
Catherine’s uncle was in Persia now, urging her great-uncle Uzum Hasan to lead his armies against the Sublime Porte. It would embarrass the Turk to have the White Sheep attack from the south. It would embarrass them more to be attacked at the same time from Moscow. As would occur, one might hope, if Zoe, daughter of Caesars, gave her hand to the Grand Duke of Muscovy. The widower Ivan the Third, the lord of White Russia; and the fated successor, perhaps, to Constantine Palaeologus, the last lord of Byzantium.
Julius said, ‘How right you are. Greece! Fount of all civilisation. Although, in my days serving Cardinal Bessarion, I never found him less than complimentary to us Latins. I take it that you are attending
his ritual welcome to the Florentine embassy? If anything has gone amiss with your invitation, I should be happy to write you another. I have the Cardinal’s confidence.’
‘I should have expected no less,’ said Acciajuoli. ‘He reposes the same confidence in the Latin Patriarch, your much-travelled Father Ludovico. The Cardinal has even found, in his wisdom, a willing partner to finance his new printing schemes. The Vatachino have his confidence too.’
‘Really? A little more wine?’ Julius said. ‘So Anselm Adorne made some investments in Rome?’
‘As to that,’ said the Florentine, ‘you must ask his son Jan. I believe he is hourly expected at the Flaminian Gate – that is, the Porta del Popolo. The Scots bishop called Graham is with him. But why speak of business? I prefer to give myself completely to pleasure. Indeed, I look forward to the Cardinal of Nicaea’s reception to which – I believe – I have been invited. Nerio will know.’ He laid down his cup with a smile. ‘No, I thank you. It is a fine vintage, but I must leave.’
‘Nerio?’ Julius repeated. Seeing the other man rise, he remained standing. He put down the flask with a certain care.
‘The young lad who was exiled from Trebizond. Duke Charles made him welcome at Bruges; Alighieri knows him, of course, as does the Cardinal. Perhaps you remember; you met him in Venice.’
Julius remembered. He said, ‘Is he here?’
‘Outside. He hesitated to intrude.’
‘But bring him in!’ Julius exclaimed. He knew he had flushed. He saw it reflected in the boy’s face as Nerio entered; in the lustrous dark eyes fixed on his, above the delicate chin, the curling lips, the exquisite nose. In Venice, Nerio of Trebizond had caused a great deal of mischief by ceasing to dress like a man. Now, the long lashes flickered once; then, smiling, Nerio touched the one-legged man on the shoulder, his white fingers smoothing the velvet.
‘Sit, sir,’ he said. ‘I am sure Master Julius does not expect you to stand.’ And turning: ‘Monsignore, I am happy to see you.’
‘And I, you,’ Julius said. ‘You are with the embassy? Are you enjoying it?’
‘He is with me,’ said the Florentine calmly. ‘I thought it was obvious.’ And, indeed, as the bearded man resumed his seat smoothly, the youth sank to a stool at his knee. After a moment, the man’s hand touched his neck, and then rested there. Feeling it, the boy smiled; but the dark eyes were still fixed on Julius.
Julius poured a full cup. ‘You will drink with me, Nerio, I hope.’ Carrying over the wine, he brought to mind something about Tilde
in Bruges. Tilde complaining of Catherine her sister, and how she filled the Charetty-Niccolò house with her ardent young followers. And the rumour he had heard more than once: that they were not there from love of Catherine, these charming young men. Of whom Nerio had been one. And Diniz, Tilde’s husband, another.
He gave Nerio the cup, and said, ‘I am glad to have caught you. I expect you will be on your travels quite soon.’ Their fingers touched, by no volition of his.
The older man spoke, with no trace of jealousy, but rather a hint of well-bred amusement. ‘We shall be here for a week or two yet. There is plenty of time.’
Trotting back and forth to the Apostolic Palace, prayerfully prodding its solitary mule, the complement of the Scots lodging in Rome heard the same news of impending arrival, and expressed its excited alarm.
‘Expected hourly!’ said the Abbot of Cambuskenneth, wringing out the hem of his robe and sitting down in the communal parlour. He lifted both little feet and watched his man draw off his boots: they came off so easily that the man nearly sat in the fire. Henry Arnot grinned, and then gave a great howl. ‘Patrick Graham coming here! I cannot believe it! Arches will crumble, temples fall, catacombs fill with absconding prelates and cattle. Why here?’
‘Because he can’t afford anywhere else,’ said the brother of the Abbot of Melrose. ‘At least he’ll help you win your campaign for Coldingham. He’s still Bishop of St Andrews, or was when I was last at my desk. All your musical friends will be pleased. And you like Anselm Adorne.’
‘I don’t like his son,’ said Henry Arnot. ‘No. That is uncharitable. I would wish no further ill on a young man who has had to travel from Bruges with the Bishop of St Andrews. Such a catastrophe, when you remember his uncle. But a family tree is a salad of many herbs.’
‘Henbane,’ said John Blackadder.
‘Not the first day,’ said the Abbot. ‘Later, perhaps.’
Even before leaving Bruges, Jan Adorne had thought of henbane. By the time he had crossed the Alps and accompanied the Bishop of St Andrews through Pavia, Bologna, and Viterbo, the eldest son of Anselm Adorne was contemplating something more sudden with blood in it. It was not so much that Patrick Graham was short-tempered and greedy, had acquired too many illegal offices and was failing to pay for them. It was because he complained all the time.
Last year, on his long, painful pilgrimage, Jan had fallen out with his father, the autocratic, demanding, exigent Baron Cortachy. But his father had been a model of self-control compared with this man of the Church, obsessed by his own royal blood. His father, grieved though he’d been over Jan’s silly behaviour in Venice, had forgiven him in the end, and had said nothing of it back there at Calais, although he had not allowed him to come with him to Scotland. If Jan had been given a punishment it was this, to come back to Italy, the place where he had made a fool of himself. But he might have made a fool of himself anyway, if he’d stayed with his parents. They had no right to do it. His father and mother had no right to shame him, at their age, with their lust. To make a new child together, and to send him away.
Repressively, he made the best of it. A qualified lawyer, with years of training at Paris and Pavia, he must set to and start his career. Every offer in Bruges had fallen through. In any case, there was only one path to the heights, and that was through office in Rome, and the kind of situation the last Pope had offered. That Pope was dead, but his nephew was still in Rome, still a Cardinal. And Cardinal’s secretaries had been known to become Popes themselves, in the fullness of time.
Not that Jan’s ambitions stretched quite so far, or were quite so weighty. He knew he lacked concentration, and would have to curb a taste for student frivolities; but provided he were in the right company, it should be easy. He hoped to meet no one who had seen him in Venice, and had been thankful, in passing through Pavia, to find de Fleury’s physician no longer there. Dr Tobias had gone to the Count of Urbino, either to cure his marsh-fever or to attend his wife through her ninth pregnancy. She had already given day to eight daughters, but such was the mystical reputation of the Banco di Niccolò that a son was no doubt considered assured. Jan hoped with all his might it would be a ninth daughter. He hated Nicholas de Fleury and his whole heartless, mercenary crew. Henbane would be too good for him, too.