The Unicorn Hunt (71 page)

Katelijne had been here, with Tobie. Protected by a merchant fondaco, they would have paid less than the pilgrims and been better treated. It was a matter of Christian belief that here, in the third century after Christ, Catherine, daughter of a Cypriot governor and over-versed, perhaps, in the liberal arts, had been imprisoned for her faith and then exposed to a contraption involving four wooden wheels and some blades.

Emerging scatheless from these, she had succumbed to the sword, but, beheaded, had vanished from sight, being translated by angels elsewhere. He knew the legend. It touched him that, having travelled so far, Katelijne should have found, it seemed, the health and contentment that she’d sought. He walked on, and emptied his mind.

He had told John he knew what he was looking for. He scented it first in the air. He heard it next above the rumours of noise from the streets all about, in the silence of a narrow street containing little but rubble and houses reconstructed from rubble. The sound of four voices, lifted in exultation. He stopped.

The church was old, and so sunken that he climbed down a bank to its doors. The marble it was made of was pitted, but the gardens behind it were green, as was the burial ground. A Christian cemetery, although not a Latin one. Nevertheless, a Frank dying in Alexandria could be buried here, if his friends paid enough and if he didn’t mind Mamelukes shouldering his coffin. Tolerance was here also, at a price. Nicholas walked down and touched the carved doors.

They gave before him. Inside was a young monk, bearded, robed and hatted in black. Nicholas spoke to him in Greek. ‘I am a Christian merchant, who would beg an interview with the head of your convent.’ He lifted aside his headcloth as he spoke, but made no move to thrust past.

The young man said, ‘You are welcome, my lord. If my lord would wait, the closing hymn is being sung.’

‘I shall be glad to wait,’ Nicholas said.

The garden within the cloisters was small, with some flowers and a fountain, and a few graceful birds he thought must be tame, because they came towards him as he sat. He remembered that in Timbuktu there had always been pets: monkeys, parrots, a songbird or two. In Timbuktu the markets had been full, like these, of innocent, cheerful, hard-working people leading a strenuous life, but not an unhappy one.

In Timbuktu there had been the intellectual and physical wellbeing that comes from a flourishing trade, and the communal spirit that arises also from the perils deriving from man and from nature: the vagaries of the river; a sudden falling-out among tribes. But in Timbuktu one did not live and breathe commerce. One took what sufficed; and then walked the length of a street or a square and there would be a mosque, a school, a scholar’s home or a
kutubi
, a bookseller, where one would leave one’s slippers and enter, leaving commerce behind. Or that was what had been in Timbuktu.

A man came into the garden; a man who walked with authority, black veil flying, a crucifix chain swinging beneath his grizzled beard. The singing had stopped.

Nicholas turned towards the newcomer, and spoke. ‘My lord Abbot? I am Nicholas de Fleury of Bruges. I am told you have a message for me.’

The Abbot looked at him. He said, ‘This is the Church of St Sabas the Sanctified. You are not Greek?’ He was elderly but not old, and looked stern. The young monk stood deferentially beside him.

Nicholas said quickly, ‘I am told you have in your church the pillar St Catherine was chained to. I have a young friend who is sick. I would pray.’

The Abbot said, ‘You should have said so. Come in.’

The basilica was not large, and seemed dark even though, stepping down, Nicholas saw the sky through a high row of windows. Then he saw how the low-hanging lamps glowed on frescoed walls and glinted on the little, dark ikons which fronted the short line of chapels, and shone on the carved side of the pulpit, and lay red and warm on the thick granite pillars. The fragment of St Catherine’s marble, incised with the cross, was not very large, and a painting by St Luke was too blackened to convey very much.

His companion made a sign, and there was a discreet movement as the two remaining choristers left. The Abbot looked directly at Nicholas. He said, ‘You speak Greek. You wear the robes of an infidel.’

‘I have lived in infidel countries,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have lived and traded by the Joliba, at the behest of Cardinal Bessarion, in whose care resides the family of the Despot Thomas, former prince of the Morea, at Rome. I have also heard your rites in Nicosia, and in Trebizond. I am, by upbringing, a Frank. My name is Nicholas de Fleury, Knight of the Sword to James, King of Cyprus. I hold his badge in my hand.
C’est pour loïauté maintenir
is its motto.’

The Abbot took his hand and held it under the lamps, studying the fingers as much as the badge. He said, ‘And to whom do you keep loyalty, my lord Nikolaos?’

‘To those who are loyal to me,’ Nicholas said. ‘And those who, like the Blessed Saint Ekaterina, have suffered in prison. A bird brought me a sign. The sender will have rewards both material and spiritual, provided I leave here without hindrance.’

The Abbot smiled. ‘What evil do you fear? We are monks; we are poor. We have our treasure already in heaven. You could kill us all with your fists: our nature is mild; we should not resist you. It has been enjoined on me only to see that the object entrusted to me is delivered.’

‘Have I given proof enough?’ Nicholas said.

‘I am satisfied,’ said the Abbot. ‘Come with me.’

The object he spoke of was a leather scrip, of the stout, plain kind carried by pilgrims, already much worn. Inside was a wooden
writing-tablet already prepared. Nothing was scored on the wood or incised on the wax, which was smooth and white and unblemished. There was no writing implement with it.

‘This is all?’ Nicholas said.

‘It is all. We are told,’ said the Abbot, ‘that nobility on earth may be earned by the sword, but nobility of the soul must be sought in stony ways and through hard endeavour. I have to tell you to rejoice that you have been chosen.’

‘I do,’ said Nicholas thoughtfully. He put the worn bag away, and drew out another, which was heavy with gold. The Abbot looked at it. The Abbot said, ‘You are generous. By honouring our church, you honour yourself. I will summon the brother best fitted to receive your donation.’

It was one of the singers, cowled and soft-footed, who came to the sound of the bell and, on the Abbot’s instruction, stood before Nicholas and took possession of the bag with its coins. His eyes remained dropped; his words of thanks were pious and humble. His crucifix glittered, unduly exposed, for instead of a beard there rose above it a half-naked chin, from which a ragged black fringe still depended.

‘As I have said,’ the Abbot remarked, ‘our nature is mild. We do not resist. We have found that the Lord takes care of His own, and we praise Him.’

Demurely the monk held the gold. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

‘Amen,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am ashamed. Does the Lord give receipts?’

Chapter 34

F
INDING NICHOLAS GONE
, John le Grant cursed, got hold of Achille, and set to work reassembling and apportioning his cargo. Tobie looked in on him once to mention that he and the girl were moving to the Genoese fondaco immediately. It annoyed John profoundly. He had counted on Tobie’s support in handling Nicholas de Fleury.

He retreated thankfully to his chamber at noon and found Nicholas walking about, a rib of meat between his bared teeth, sorting out garments and flinging them over his shoulder. There was a powerful smell of hot candle grease.

Told to put on his second-best coat, John said, ‘Be damned to that, I’m hungry. What happened?’

He caught, just, the shank Nicholas threw at him. It looked as if it had come off a market-stall. ‘Tell you later,’ Nicholas said. ‘Hurry up. Meetings, meetings. We’re late for the Emir.’

In fact they were not, and the ensuing conference at the palace covered all the pre-arranged ground and ended with some worthwhile concessions. It was the unscheduled conversation that followed that made John uneasy. Rejoining their cumbersome retinue, he was unable to remonstrate, being hauled in turn to the Persian and Syrian fondaci and the houses of two wealthy Egyptian merchants. He noticed that Nicholas, all of a sudden, seemed to have discovered his bearings.

The business talks were reasonably successful, being with people John le Grant knew and regularly negotiated with. Nicholas acted as the padrone, evincing ignorance when it would serve, and using his weight when that would serve too. They worked well as a team. The topics were cotton and corn; the glass and sugar handled by their Damascus sub-agent; the raw silk that Turcoman merchants could send them. They discussed and apportioned their interest in the spice fleet, which would arrive in September.

It came twice a year. Too big for the Red Sea and its shallows, Chinese junks and heavy Indian ships which had left Calcutta in February would unload their jewels, their silks, their spices, their perfumes and their parrots at Jeddah. From there, taxed and packaged, the sacks would travel by fleets of small vessels to Tor, and thence by camel-train to Cairo and the north. No foreign traders, of course, were permitted in Cairo, the capital. Foreign traders dealt in Alexandria, or nowhere.

Every meeting, having dealt with the spice, went on to wring its hands over the war which had half emptied the harbour. Across the sea two weeks ago, a Turkish fleet big enough to cover six miles of sea had sailed to Euboea, the prized island possession of Venice, and deposited soldiers there. Three days later the Ottoman Sultan himself had led an army to the opposite shore and was now confronting the capital, Negroponte.

Negroponte was the chief naval base of the Venetian fleet in the Levant. Without it, merchantmen would have to beat their way to Modon and Corone; local rulers would riot; the Turks, owning the harbour, could use it to attack whom they pleased. What happened to Negroponte would affect every man’s business, every man’s country. Alexandria was full of rumours, and each day a new scare would run through the city – the Sultan had brought his heavy artillery, the straits to the island were bridged, and even greater armies were pouring across. Nicholas, listening, made soothing remarks about Venetian strength, but said little else. John was glad when the last meeting ended.

On their way home, they passed the Tartar fondaco. Even at the fading of day, the slave market was busy and full, the sellers proclaiming, the handlers with their short sticks expertly tumbling, exposing, clinically presenting their wares at fifteen ducats apiece. The slaves were from the Black Sea and beyond, and of all shades from ochre to tawny.

John ignored them. Nicholas said, ‘Krim Tartars. We’ll call there tomorrow. They sell them with exactly the same routine in Lagos. I suppose they have an intercontinental market phrasebook.’

When he spoke like that, it was as well to ignore it. ‘Why call tomorrow?’ said John. ‘We don’t need to work every day. Adorne isn’t going to arrive any moment.’

‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas said. ‘Remember Gertrude’s tales about Basle? She says men throw coins into the steam baths and order their mistress’s maids to up-end and fetch them. The maids love it, according to Gertrude. If they don’t mind, maybe nobody does.’

‘Maybe they don’t. Are ye deaf?’ le Grant said.

‘About tomorrow? Yes, I’ve planned meetings,’ Nicholas said. ‘And I know Adorne can’t come for a while. But I do want to arrange him a welcome. And I do want to be elsewhere when he receives it. You as well. Should we call on Tobie and see if there is any news?’

‘You want to be elsewhere when Gelis arrives?’ le Grant said.

‘I didn’t invite her,’ said Nicholas.

The Genoese fondaco had a chained leopard in the patio and a Consul, Signor Pietro de Persis, who would visibly have preferred to unchain it on discovering that his visitors were bankers from Venice. He did, in time, send someone upstairs to enquire if the Signorina Caterina and Messer Tobias would receive them: eventually they found themselves in a suite even larger than the rooms Venice provided. Nicholas said, ‘He doesn’t like us. We could feed candied fruit to his leopard.’

‘I have a better suggestion,’ said Tobie. ‘Feed it to the harbour drummers and trumpeters. No one’s had a proper night’s sleep for a month.’

‘Since the Turkish fleet went to war,’ Nicholas said. Unbuttoning and then dropping his gown, he was exploring the room. In its furnishing it was remarkably like the one the girl had occupied in the Venetian fondaco, largely because the same objects were strewn all about it. ‘Well, Dioscorides?’ he said. He sat down and picked up some drawings.

The girl, too, looked much the same, although marginally neater than when flying the kite. ‘Well, Teiresias?’ she said.

The silence was almost non-existent. ‘You
have
been learning. Who from?’ Nicholas said. He laid down the drawings and looked about him. John sat down, attracting a quick glance from Tobie.

‘I had a good teacher in Ghent,’ Katelijne said. ‘I wondered why you needed the Jew. I thought the map would have been sufficient. Anyway, what did you find?’

Nicholas did not answer. John le Grant, drawing breath, saw that Tobie was frowning. Tobie had heard of Teiresias of the rod, blessed with prophetic insight. Tobie said, ‘I thought the Jew couldn’t help.’

‘No,’ said Katelijne. She was looking at Nicholas.

Nicholas said, ‘How did you know?’

‘The van Borselen,’ said Katelijne. ‘The Duchess Eleanor writes to them.’

Tobie said, ‘What does she know?’

The girl’s eyes were on Nicholas. His gaze was on his hands. He had picked up some palm leaves and was plaiting them. He said, ‘She knows that pigs sometimes find truffles, but not when there are no truffles to find.’

John was silent. He had already guessed that. If Nicholas had consulted the Jew, it was because he had already tried and failed to find gold by his own methods. Tobie said, ‘I think you will have to tell me what you mean. John?’

‘He is a diviner,’ John said.