Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Nevertheless, in the war against the usurping Turk, the Venetian–Cypriot match could be useful; and so could the disposal of Zoe. Zacco’s small paper bride, sulkily pure, represented a physical link with Uzum Hasan and his Turcoman armies. Young Zoe’s husband, if she married the ruler of Muscovy, would embody the impetuous might of White Russia. Both princes hated the Turk.
There was a third power, as yet unmentioned, which the unsavoury skills of the Patriarch might yet tempt into the arena against Mehmet the Conqueror – had indeed been expected to do so, before Nicholas de Fleury had forgotten his promise and turned his back on the East. But no one openly mentioned that. No one spoke of the Golden Horde as the allies of Rome.
*
Jan Adorne arrived late, having spent half the day in the Leonine City as co-opted
giovane di lingua
, attempting in languages other than Latin to disentangle the Bishop of St Andrews’s sins of commission from his sins of omission. The trouble with Patrick Graham was that he had been spoiled all his life: given a prebend, aged fourteen, by Pope Nicholas; elected Bishop of Brechin by Pope Pius before he was thirty. By the time Bishop Kennedy died, his nephew’s transfer to become Bishop of St Andrews was already negotiated, at a price of 3,300 gold florins. After that, every fresh appointment had brought its own problems.
Descendant of kings, the Bishop was, of course, loftily sure of his worth and his rights. But the favouring Popes were all dead; his uncle was dead; and there was a limit to what the Adorne family, however willing, could do. Yet Graham seemed to be foolishly persuaded that, having fallen out with half Scotland, he could expect the new Pope to befriend him. He was so grotesquely certain, indeed, that you would think he knew something Jan didn’t.
But at last the lawyers rose from the table, and Jan was able to rush, deafened, between the armourers’ shops on the bridge and through the mud to the portico of the Banco di Niccolò, where he found that Julius had already left for the Bessarion reception. ‘Dragging his feet,’ said the porter, with a grin. ‘We’ve just had news that a client is coming, and Master Julius was keen to stay here to greet her. You may see her yourself. The Cardinal has agreed to receive her at the Palazzo if she cares to attend.’
Jan searched his memory. A countess. A German countess with whom the lawyer was flirting. He wasn’t interested. Except that, if she came, it would keep Julius occupied while Jan found the late Pope’s nephew Cardinal Barbo, and reminded him that, among all his new-acquired treasures, he might count on Master Jan Adorne of Paris, Pavia and Bruges as his most sparkling, his most willing amanuensis.
The rain pattered on the orderly bushes and trees in the courtyards of the Holy Apostles, the only uncooperative element so far in the dignified reception taking place in the Palazzo Colonna. Receiving Jan Adorne, not the last of his guests, Cardinal Bessarion was gracious, for the sake of Anselm Adorne his father, and because of the pilgrim’s beard the lad kept, soft and yellow and light as the aigrette of a dandelion. Putting his own interpretation on the boy’s wandering gaze, he directed him towards Julius, who had caused him to be invited.
The Cardinal recalled that a lady was also to be expected. He was
resigned. There were others present: it would not be disruptive. He was accustomed to managing diverse assemblies such as this: so soon after the papal election, there were bruised sensibilities everywhere; he was in practice. Alighieri, the Florentine merchant from Trebizond, had promised to bring the envoy of Uzum Hasan, the adroit Turcoman called Hadji Mehmet who had formed part, long ago, of one of Ludovico da Bologna’s fund-raising tours of the West, and was so employed once again.
Julius would know him. Hadji Mehmet had been in Venice in February, when de Fleury had somewhat cynically vanished from view, having committed his Bank to the West. Jan Adorne would presumably know Mehmet as well. The Genoese had a stake in the Levant. He must introduce young Adorne to Bishop Bonumbre.
‘I don’t see him,’ said Jan.
‘Who?’ said Julius. He tore his eyes from the doors.
‘Cardinal Barbo. You said –’
‘Did I?’ said Julius. ‘Oh well, there are still some people to come. Make yourself at home. Find a girl. You’ll never taste better wine: the best in Candia. Wasted on Greeks.’ Someone addressed him in Greek, and he responded, bright-eyed and fluent with a ready reply. Jan wandered off. Painted ceilings. Fine doorways. Elegant windows. All that the looters had left after Pope Martin’s death, with what the present incumbent had added, which was modest in scale. But, as Julius said, the wine was good.
Alighieri had not yet come with the envoy from Persia, an irritation which the Cardinal quelled, although he had wished Acciajuoli to spend some time with them both. He was pleased therefore when his major domo came to his side, and a moment later the solemn Turcoman stepped through the doors, followed by the Florentine agent. The Cardinal had walked forward, smiling, and was greeting them both when he saw that the newcomers were not alone: behind them stood two other men, the elder of whom was the Franciscan Patriarch, Ludovico da Bologna, of that particular Order of Observants of which Bessarion himself was Cardinal-Protector.
With no obvious haste, the Cardinal led Alighieri and his envoy across to the Florentine group, introduced them, and returned. Providentially, help was at hand.
‘Ah, Master Julius,’ said the Cardinal. ‘You know, of course, Father Ludovico, whom we are delighted to welcome. Perhaps you also know …’ He hesitated, recalling only that the child, far too pretty for comfort, was a protégé of Acciajuoli’s one-legged kinsman.
He perceived, with mixed sentiments, that this time the boy was unescorted.
‘Nerio, isn’t it?’ said the notary. ‘And of course, we entertained the Patriarch at the Casa in August. How are you?’
‘How do I look?’ said the Patriarch. ‘No nearer to Constantinople. No nearer to hanging the Turk from the top of Sant’ Angelo. Libido, cupidity, voluptuousness and delectation stand in the way. I hope you are enjoying your wine. Is Jan Adorne here?’
Under the Cardinal’s surprised gaze, the two younger men, Nerio and Julius, looked at one another, and then suddenly broke into smiles. The smiles made Bessarion feel weary. The Patriarch, undeterred, continued. ‘I have a letter for him. Is he the idiot he seems to be? I pity his father.’
‘He wants to work in Rome,’ Julius said. ‘Perhaps that answers your question. He’s over there. I’ll take you to him. Nerio can join us in a while, if he wants to.’
‘Wait,’ said the Cardinal.
‘Hospites tamquam Christus suscipiantur –
Master Adorno is your guest and mine, and I will not have him distressed. What is your business, Patriarch?’
The priest looked surprised, his curling black hair at all angles. ‘He was expecting to see Marco Barbo. The Cardinal gave me a note for him.’
It seemed innocuous enough. Bessarion nodded and turned to the sprightly young man, but Nerio was already locked in gay talk with three Greek theologians, two of whom Bessarion had never seen smiling before.
Jan Adorne saw Julius coming. The burly man at his side was a priest, although the mighty crucifix on his chest had something oriental about it, and he was coarse-skinned and black-haired as an ape, with a kind of grim simian mockery, too, in the thrust of his lip. Planted before Jan, he spoke.
‘Ludovico da Bologna, my boy; Patriarch of the Latins in the East. You walked in my footprints on Mount Sinai last year, when that whisker you have was no more than a coating of mould on a cheese. I met your father in Bruges.’
‘He is in Scotland at present. I know you, of course, by reputation, Father,’ said Jan. He kept his face straight. He remembered even his cousin Katelijne having to keep her face straight, when listening to his father on the subject of Ludovico da Bologna.
‘Then you’ll not be surprised,’ said the Patriarch, ‘if I tell you that Moses or not, every man that climbs Mount Sinai seems to return, in my experience, either a saint or a goat. Nicholas de Fleury comes
down a virgin, and the pilgrim Adorne staggers home and gets your mother with child.’
‘They are husband and wife,’ said Jan. His face burned with anger and shock.
‘You’re happy for them. I’m glad. So what did the Adorne family expect the Holy Father to jump up and do for them? Install you in the Palazzo San Marco to count the cameos and oil the ivories and wax the bosoms and buttocks of the Nereides? Everything changes when a Pope dies.’
‘There was nothing for me in Bruges,’ Jan said. He hardly knew what he was saying. He was watching someone approaching.
‘The Bastard Anthony wouldn’t have you, I heard,’ said the Patriarch. ‘But God alone in His wisdom knows why your father sent you back to Rome. The meek, joyful pursuit in nakedness of the naked Christ it might be, but a troubadour of God you are not. So what are you looking at?’
Jan continued to look.
‘My dear,’ said Nerio. ‘How delightful to see you again. Are you recovered?’
Cold nausea filled Jan Adorne. Through the mists of carnival Venice he had pursued the wraith of an exquisite girl, masked, alluring. It had ended in public, in shame, with Jan vomiting drunk, and his love revealed as a cruel, pretty boy: Nerio from Trebizond. Julius had been there. Julius, standing beside him, was smiling. Julius had known that Nerio was coming today.
Jan swallowed. He said, ‘Do we know each other? Forgive me. The Patriarch and I have some business together.’
The dark-lashed eyes laughed into his face. ‘So fickle? Pray continue. I can wait. Antioch! Now I know why Syrians call it
le pissoir
!’
‘You should go there,’ said Ludovico da Bologna. ‘Provided you can find out which
pissoir
you are made for. Meanwhile, stand there and be quiet. Master Julius?’
‘Yes?’ said the notary. His voice had lost some of its amusement. Jan Adorne stared at the floor.
‘Nothing seems to surprise you,’ said the Patriarch. His voice, momentarily, appeared almost agreeable. ‘Every event bears the pricks of the drawing-compass. You can probably guess, for example, the contents of the paper I am about to hand Master Adorne.’
‘An indulgence?’ said Julius. His voice was amused again. ‘Or no. Master Adorne here could hardly afford it. He has spent it all on libido, cupidity –’
‘Who better should recognise it?’ said the Patriarch. He turned the hedge of his brows upon Jan. ‘Have you no sense? Perhaps the
bishops in Scotland may deny their jewels to their see, but the wealth of St Peter by the Election Capitulation cannot be alienated. All that Paul owned passed to Sixtus. Sixtus has charge of the fifty-four silver shells filled with pearls, and the single diamond worth seven thousand ducats. A million ducats’ worth in jewels alone, many of them sold to the Medici already. What dream of wealth did you have?’
‘None,’ said Jan. ‘I wished to serve the Cardinal of San Marco.’
‘And who is the Cardinal of San Marco? The nephew of the late Pope. Is it likely that this dogged Sixtus will bare his gums to welcome a Barbo, or the Cardinal Borgia his friend, or even the lord Cardinal-Protector our host? Bessarion and Borgia and Caraffa are foreign barbarians, the only three in the whole Italian Electorate. These are four Cardinals who will be found suitable tasks far from Rome.’
‘I have heard nothing of it,’ said Jan.
‘You will, in a matter of weeks. Three of them are to be sent abroad to seek help against the Grand Turk. Caraffa will lead the papal fleet in the spring. Ask my lord Bessarion, if you doubt me. He is going to France.’
‘And Cardinal Barbo?’ said Jan. He was merely thankful that, minute by minute, he was achieving answers, and controlling the heave of his guts.
‘Cardinal Barbo leaves for Germany, Hungary and Poland with the smallest of retinues. He has sent you a letter, to explain and express his regrets. Had his uncle survived, no doubt he would have found you a post. He is a good man: you would have benefited from it.’
‘He will be away a long time?’ said Jan.
‘How long will it take to stir the Emperor Frederick to war?’ said the Patriarch. ‘An aeon, do you think? And Barbo will get no quick answer from Poland, nor much of a welcome from the King Casimir’s friend Buonaccorsi, whose conspiracies threatened his late uncle’s life. Although, to be sure, Zacco sheltered the miscreant, and Sixtus might give him an amnesty. But no. There will be no quick return for Marco Barbo. You must look for employment elsewhere.’
‘I have no other prospects,’ said Jan.
‘You have the Bishop of St Andrews,’ Julius said. His voice was a mixture of reproof and surprise. ‘A Scot, a friend of your family, pledged to a long sojourn in Rome. Surely it is ideal? You cannot wish to go home, to watch your father grow poor, losing ground to the Banco di Niccolò; to find your mother inattentive, and busy with napkins and milk.’
‘Indeed, you must not fly from Rome.’ It was the voice of Nerio, sweetly appealing. ‘Now all your friends have discovered you. The great Nicholas himself must surely come one of these days.’
‘I hope he does,’ Jan said loudly. Suddenly, all his squeamishness was replaced by anger. He turned and looked at them: the winsome face of the Greek with its glittering eyes; the slanting eyes and curled lip of Julius, whom he had begun to think of as an ally. And lastly, at the brooding, powerful person of the Franciscan, watching him narrowly. It was to the Franciscan he spoke.
‘Is this how you treat a man who has walked through the desert; who has given his time and his strength to visit the Holy Places, only for the reverence of God? Is this how you treat a man coming to serve Christ in His City, however poor, however inept he may be?’
He turned on Julius. ‘You pretend that Nicholas is a match for my father. I know what is happening. I know what my father is doing. We are laughing at you, the Vatachino as well. You were relying on your new ship from Danzig? You will never get it. Who do you think has delayed it?’
He turned back to the Patriarch. ‘Why do you waste time on Nicholas and his henchmen and their catamites? I went to the Holy Land for my faith. He went for gold and for commerce, and broke every promise he made about lending his help to the East. Such a man can never succeed. Already we have usurped his printers. Caxton in Cologne is undoing all that he planned with the Hanse. My father has kinsmen, colleagues, contacts all through the Levant; the Knights of Rhodes know what they owe us. My father can call on all such help, and the loyalty of his own town of Bruges, and the high regard and respect of the Duke. What is the Banco di Niccolò?’