The Unicorn Hunt (69 page)

Pilgrims were harshly treated in Alexandria. Pilgrims paid tax after tax, impost after impost; were kept incarcerated on arrival; were forbidden to leave without permits; were harried, made to walk everywhere, charged impossible prices for the simplest of services; even forced to adopt heathen robes, for otherwise the unruly, the uneducated among Alexandria’s natives would stone them. They stoned them, none the less.

But merchants – even though Christians, even though blameworthy, too, for the terrible massacre perpetrated by Peter of Lusignan and his crew – merchants were the lifeblood of Egypt, and treated honourably. The Emir, instructed from Cairo, welcomed Western merchants to Alexandria, taxed them circumspectly, and allowed them wine and such other luxuries of the flesh as they might require. And if it so happened, one day, that the actions of Venice or Genoa or Catalonia did not agree with the Sultan’s expectations, he could always hold their merchants as hostage.

The fountain in front of the palace was working, although blown in the wind like the tattered palms that stood on either side. It still
pleased Nicholas how green Alexandria was. He had stepped ashore expecting sand. He walked forward, composed rather than braced.

The steps of the palace were of marble and the floors inside made of mosaic. The pillars and wall-linings were marble as well. It reminded one of Trebizond, if anything. There was no stucco, no honeycomb arches anywhere. The hall of audience was well kept also, and the Emir in his white five-horned turban seemed affable. Nicholas began the long walk to the dais. John le Grant followed him. Nicholas had been offered, and had refused an interpreter.

It was still a shock, a little, to see so many robed figures about him, and to accept that none of the faces was black. Nicholas approached, said what he should, and delivered his letters of credence and his gift, which was not essence of violet but a cloth-of-gold robe twice as costly as the one he was wearing. This man was not the Sultan but he was important: an Emir of many thousands of lances; the military governor of the second city of Egypt, which provided a great deal of the Sultanate’s wealth. The men around him were Mamelukes, officers of the administration and the army; and civilians who were Muslim merchant princes themselves, inhabitants of the great marble mansions that still stood, here and there.

They were here to assess him. The meeting was purely formal: the talks he had asked for would begin in private, and later. He did not have to think very much, kneeling, bowing, taking his seat for the prescribed glass of sherbet. He knew the etiquette. He knew even what they were thinking. He had lived and thought as they did for a long time. And he wished them to know it. It was why, from the beginning, he had used his Arabic.

He knew already, as he sat, that their curiosity had been roused, and that they would, by now, know something about him. He answered what questions they put; mentioned names; quoted once, briefly, from Abu al-Faraj. John, silent beside him, would follow some of it, and would know he was speaking of Timbuktu. He didn’t know what John made of that, and didn’t much care. He praised Alexandria, and said it would please him to pass his life there.

The Emir liked that. Further meetings were touched upon. Nicholas and John rose, retreated and left. A box of quails followed them, and a wicker basket full of grapes and melons and passion-fruit, and a small barrel of figs, carried by Mameluke servants.

At the gates of the fondaco, the Mamelukes saluted and left, the captain with something pressed into his hand. John looked at the
baskets. ‘Katelijne will be pleased. She can take some of it with her.’

Nicholas walked through the arch, unbuttoning his robe as he went. ‘Where is she going?’

‘Tobie’s taking her to her uncle’s fondaco. He says he didn’t bring her here to be interrogated about what her uncle has done so far on the journey, and it wouldn’t be ethical to expect him to report on Adorne either.’

Nicholas turned. ‘I haven’t asked him to. Or her. Yet.’

‘Well, don’t. And he doesn’t want the girl mixed up with poisoned sweets either. Where did those come from?’

‘A disappointed admirer. Poor Tobie. Is he courting her?’ Nicholas said. ‘What fondaco is he putting her into?’

‘The Genoese. Of course he isn’t courting her. He’s her physician. He likes her. He doesn’t want her overexcited. Oh, Christ.’

‘What?’ said Nicholas, completing the unbuttoning. A page, appearing, took off the garment. The silver weave was almost too stiff to fold. Underneath he wore a white shirt and black hose. He pulled off his hat and handed it over. The ostrich, bored with its tree, slung its neck towards him and hissed. He said, ‘No. You’ve got too many feathers.’ Across the courtyard and beyond the next range of buildings a kite floated in the blue sky.

John le Grant said, ‘It’s hers. Tobie and I saw it last night after we left you. She had this amazing idea.’

‘Which you told her not to go on with. I see now why Tobie wants to remove her. What idea?’

They had walked through the second courtyard and were emerging into the garden, which was shady with fruiting, mysterious trees. There were small birds in the palms, clinging to the long berried sprays, and orange butterflies flirted. A young woman in Venetian dress stood with a child, feeding a gazelle with morsels of bread. She turned and smiled at them. The courts they had crossed had been empty of all but skipping servants and the animals of the little menagerie. The men were mostly indoors or in the warehouses or at other fondaci.

The windlass squeaked, bringing water up from the depleted wells. All Alexandria was built upon cisterns, replenished by rain, filled to overflowing when the aqueducts brought the miraculous flood of the Nile, as it would in September. It was why the city was green.

The wind blew from the sea, and distorted the jets of a fountain. ‘There she is,’ John le Grant said.

Chapter 33

N
ICHOLAS LOOKED
. It was Katelijne, with a kite. She wore a thin muslin dress, slightly torn, and no hat. She had also taken off her shoes. Her arms and legs, which were bare, were unacceptably brown and touchingly thin. Her tongue was out, and she was gazing at her kite, which was in the shape of a frog. She hadn’t seen them.

‘What is she trying to do?’ Nicholas said. From where she stood on the grass, the wind had blown the kite out of the garden and over the lane that adjoined it: soon it was going to break against the walls of the neighbouring fondaco. He supposed she was learning. You didn’t have to be in Alexandria for more than a day to discover that all children flew kites. The cool northern breeze, always present, was the gift of Aeolus to kites.

John said, ‘She’s trying to lift a map from the main Vatachino offices.’

‘
What!
’ said Nicholas. He started to laugh.

‘She discussed it all last night. The wind holds the kite to the shadowy side of the building; the balcony doors are all open for air; you slide the kite down until you reach the loggia you want, direct the kite over the balcony wall and let it travel on into the doorway.’

‘Where someone seizes it.’

‘No. She was going to wait until she saw them go out. The map’s on a stand; you can see it. And the kite is covered with gum.’

‘Mixed by Tobie,’ said Nicholas. He had broken into a run, still hiccoughing slightly. Katelijne, without looking round, repossessed her tongue but continued to concentrate her attention on the control of the kite.

John, hurrying after, said, ‘He didn’t think she really would do it.’

Nicholas arrived. He said, ‘Magnificent. Down. To the left.
There’s a gust coming. Steady. Up. Let me help you.’ He stretched up, his fingers high on the cord. He said, ‘Let us magadise. Is that the balcony?’

The frog was ridiculous. The frog looked, in a bad light, like Sigismond, Duke of the Tyrol. It clung, leaped and clung like a leaf down the wall of the opposite building, then suddenly curled itself under and sped like a bird for a doorway. There was a shout from inside. Katelijne tugged. The kite reappeared with a sock on it. Katelijne said, ‘Oh, bother.’ A woman ran out on the balcony and pulled off the sock. Katelijne said, ‘It’s one floor down and two along to the left.’ The kite, fanning uncertainly, rose a little, revealing its surface to be pocked with small objects. One of them was a sponge. John started to weep.

Nicholas said, ‘How many along?’ He had his other hand on the cord.

Kathi said, ‘Not that one.’

It was too late. Silkily gliding, the kite disappeared over a balcony, slithered across its tiled floor and presented itself in some inner sanctum. There was another scream, followed by a howl from a baby. ‘Oh,’ said Nicholas. A different woman came out holding a baby, a spoon and the kite. The three travelled rapidly forward; then the woman let go the spoon and the kite soared upwards once again, the spoon embedded in it. Heads, male and female, began to appear on other balconies and voices could be heard, distantly ejaculating in Spanish. The Vatachino balcony was still empty. Nicholas aimed at it, and Katelijne jumped about at his feet. ‘Up! Out! Over a bit! Higher! That’s it!’

The frog steadied itself on the balcony. An Orthodox priest, emerged from the next doorway, stood in his tall hat and black robe, gazing at it. The kite flipped over the balcony and hopped into the Vatachino’s empty room, fluttering about the frame upon which the vellum was resting. The priest, resting his hands on the dividing railing, peered inside after it. Nicholas put a slow, steady strain on the kite.

It popped out like an owl from a tree. Pasted across its wide cheeks was the paper. It sped past the priest, who leaped back, and soaring and dancing consented to be driven high into the sky and steered backwards and into the garden. The balconies of the Catalonian fondaco were rimmed with animated faces, pointed fingers, and audible emanations of annoyance and laughter. Nicholas stood, the kite flying on a short cord above him, and bowed; Katelijne curtseyed. John le Grant sat on the grass chortling. Then Nicholas reeled down the kite and pulled off the
rectangle that was stuck to it. Strings of soft glue plastered his hands. He let the kite out on its cord and then stuck peg and cord in the grass, leaving the kite trapped to float in the middle air. All the time he did it, he was looking at the map.

It wasn’t titled, but it was clear enough what it was, even when disfigured with smears. It was a map of Alexandria, the town they were living in. There were the two harbours, Muslim and Christian, with Pharos between them. There were the two intersecting main streets: the one that led inland to the Pepper Gate and the one that crossed it and led to Rosetta and Cairo. There were a lot of other streets roughly filled in, and some mosques and some churches, and a bit of the area outside the walls: Pompey’s Pillar and Lake Mareotis, the reedy stretch full of waterfowl that was once joined by canal to the Nile.

There was nothing on it about Alexandria’s defences, or about fondacis and markets. It was not the map of a spy or a trader. It was a simple record of streets. None was named, but three had symbols drawn in against them. Each was a letter of the Greek alphabet.

John said, ‘You’ve spoiled their map. They’ll never find their way out the door after this. Was that what all this was for?’

‘Yes,’ said Katelijne. ‘Though we didn’t know it.’ She sat back, looking at Nicholas. ‘The parrot. You wrote down what it said?’

The laughter left Nicholas suddenly. He said, ‘Yes. What reminds you of that?’

The girl said, ‘It spoke Greek. What did you make of it?’

John le Grant stared at them both. Nicholas said, after a moment, ‘Some was nonsense. The rest was a fragment of service from the Greek Orthodox ritual.’

She looked at him. Then she said, ‘Trebizond and Cyprus?’ and smiled. ‘I didn’t get that. I got something else.’

Nicholas said, ‘I thought you didn’t know Greek.’

‘There is this Jew,’ she said.

‘I thought he was teaching you Hebrew,’ said John le Grant.

‘That’s in the mornings. He teaches Greek in the afternoons. He has fifteen languages. How many do you have?’ she said to Nicholas.

‘Not enough for this,’ Nicholas said. ‘Talk quickly.’ Distant noise continued to emerge from the next fondaco. People were beginning to come towards them over the grass.

‘He says,’ said Katelijne, ‘that when the Greeks planned Alexandria, they named all the streets with a letter. Being Greeks, they laid out the whole place in rectangles. So, by naming the
letters and the points of compass, you could describe any location you wished.’

Nicholas said, ‘The parrot said nothing of that.’

‘Not to you,’ Katelijne said. ‘It had to be drunk.’

John had begun smirking again. Nicholas said, ‘And?’

She said, ‘It sounded like gibberish. It wasn’t. It was street names and compass points based on the original highways. You know. Four thousand palaces, four thousand baths, one thousand two hundred greengrocers and forty thousand Jews. My Jew knows the old Greek names of the streets.’

Nicholas looked down at the map. ‘And the Vatachino knew three of them. How?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ she said. ‘But David de Salmeton is away, and you’re here. You can prove out the message. I can pretend I’m an idiot and hand the map back as if it were all a mistake. Unless, of course, there’s going to be a riot.’

He became aware, lifting his eyes, that the noise from the fondaco had greatly increased. Instead of dispersing, the inhabitants of the balconies had crowded even thicker. Their gaze was all trained in one way.

The balcony of the Vatachino company was still empty. The neighbouring balcony was wholly occupied by a kite in the shape of a frog. Nicholas wheeled. The stake with its reeled cord had gone. John said, ‘It pulled loose five minutes ago. I didn’t want to interrupt you.’ His freckled face gleamed. Nicholas looked up, and so did the girl.

The kite was not alone on the balcony. In fact it was being held by four or five people, all talking with great animation. Glued to the kite, they now saw, was the priest of the Orthodox church, still wearing his hat. He was talking as well. To one side of him, carefully snipping, a barber was detaching his beard. He completed the task as they gazed. The priest stood, his face naked, his manner as perplexed as that of a newly halved twin. The frog, disengaged, sprang to its full unfettered height and set out in the direction of India, wearing eighteen inches of beard and a spoon.