Pawn in Frankincense

‘No more nor ye should be,’ said Sheemy with equal treachery. ‘But the latest prices of pearls, you’ll allow, is something I’m more likely to know. For example’—he flipped open the chamois—‘there is a pearl that a Queen could put in her ring. In Florence it would fetch forty ducats, and I’d take more than that at Anet.’

  Lying on the table, the pearl shone sulkily and then, unaided, began to trundle slowly down the polished wood. The chamois shivered. Somewhere in the house something fell with a crash, and a child cried. As if at a signal, all the pearls in the chamois stirred, eyed one another and, jumping a little, ran out on to the wood and filled the table with a small and myriad droning.

  They began to drop off. Sheemy, his hands all-embracing, his eyeballs glimmering white, began to sweep them towards him: Archie, fists cupped, tried to salve those that fell; Donati, ignoring them both, had half risen to his feet and, holding on to his chair, started to speak.

  A chest slid past him. Another crash, lightly porous, told of fallen pottery, and was followed by other sounds of heavy objects falling, both indoors and out. Shouting started, and the barking of dogs, both drowned out almost immediately by the loud and irregular clanging of a number of bells. Philippa, rising, slipped out of the room. The floor, vibrating under her, reminded her very much of the Dauphiné.

  The merchant’s house, built low on two storeys, was no more than half a dozen small chambers erected round the main stockrooms. The smell of fruit followed Philippa through two bedrooms and along a small gallery: once she opened a door and closed it hastily against a warm hail of small fleshy objects running into her shoes.

  Of all the rooms Philippa discovered, the signor’s study was perhaps the most interesting. She stayed there briefly until, impelled by the waves of vibration, she fled to the kitchen below. It was empty. She moved quickly through it, and out into the courtyard, which held two running menservants, a maid having hysterics, and a young man seated peacefully on the edge of a well. Somewhere a child was still crying. She had located the sound in the stables and was making towards them when the young man called out in Italian. ‘It is Jacomo, who is frightened of earthquakes. He is not hurt, signorina.’

  Philippa, who spoke dreadful Italian and was not impressed by beautiful young men, said over her shoulder, ‘It is sometimes worse to be frightened than to be hurt, as you may find out,’ and ran on.

  The stables were empty of horses. Prone on the straw, screeching, was a negro child of about four. His cut velvet eyes staring at Philippa, he continued to scream, in regular staccato pattern, while she gathered him up in her arms, tut-tutting in calm reproof of his conduct. He stopped screaming. O marvellous one,’ said the young man, still seated behind her. ‘Made breathless by the garden of thy grace. Instead of tears, but dew; amorously biting the lip of the tulip. Jacomo and I crave leave to worship thee.’

  ‘Why?’ said Philippa. She grinned at Jacomo, who grinned liberally back. ‘That’s just common sense. If you comfort children, they think there’s something to be frightened about. If you scold them, they know it’s all right.’

  ‘This, I see, is thy philosophy for earthquakes,’ said the young man. ‘And for fire, holocaust and plague: what is thy remedy?’

  Sitting down on the well’s edge with Jacomo held firm on one knee, Philippa thought. ‘I’m awfully afraid I should just go on scolding. I don’t like the steamy emotions.’

  ‘Why, what could befall thee?’ said the young man. ‘These are the sweet passions; the frangible arts. Lacking them, thou wilt become as Signor Marino Donati.’

  ‘Bald?’ said Philippa tartly; and the young man, who was evidently far from simple, at this simple reply dissolved into a cascade of silvery mirth. Philippa gazed at him with reproof, which developed into a stare of frank interest.

  He was a Geomaler, she realized. His sleeveless tunic was of royal purple linen, and his bare arms and legs in their thonged sandals were brown with the flawless tan of the nomad; his smooth cheeks rose-brown, his shining dark hair resting combed and clean on his shoulders. No possessions lay on the soft dust beside him. The richest object about him was a long girdle of silk, thickly embroidered with bullion, which he wore wound round and round his slim waist. At each end was a small silver cymbal; and small bells, sewn to tunic and sandals, made a sudden lyrical sound as, now, he stretched and rose to his feet. Perhaps Greek, probably rich, certainly wellborn, he was a Pilgrim of Love; one of the queer dilettante sect of whom Archie had told her, travelling Asia from patron to patron, giving of poetry, music and love in exchange for a livelihood. ‘You disapprove,’ he said.

  Philippa set Jacomo down, but he clung to her, and she kept an arm round him. The bells had stopped ringing and the loudest noises had ceased, but the earth still stirred itself in tremors under her feet, and in the street people called. But for themselves, the courtyard was empty. ‘Disapprove? No,’ she said. ‘Provided that Signor Donati is not your patron.’

  He had dark grey eyes, with which he held hers in thought. He said, ‘From today, he is not.’

  Philippa grinned. ‘A convert?’

  His eyes did not change. ‘My preacher saith: “I esteem not Mohammed to be more excellent than Jesus—on the twain be peace.” As for Signor Donati, my wish is that he shall obtain always precisely that which he desires. I can imagine no worse evil for his end. I shall take boat for Lesbos.’

  ‘Why Lesbos?’ said Philippa.

  ‘Why not? The child would offer thee something.’

  Entranced by the self-sufficiency that took as natural her interest, while evincing no curiosity at all about herself, Philippa had forgotten the boy. It was true. Rummaging inside the cut-down shirt he wore, the child had hauled over his black wool a piece of grease-polished string and, attacking it with his teeth, was attempting to free the blackened token through which it was strung. Putting her hands over his, Philippa said, ‘No, no. My goodness, what would your mother say? You can give me a kiss; that’s all I …’

  After a long space, she added, absent-mindedly, ‘… want.’

  ‘The ring troubles thee?’ asked the Geomaler. ‘Why?’

  She said it in her head twice, and then said it aloud. ‘Because I have its twin.’

  ‘How?’

  Splat like a pike. Philippa, desperately following her mythical fortune, said simply, ‘I’m looking for a European child, a white child about eighteen months old called Khaireddin, who was brought up by Dragut. The ring was supposed to help me find him.… How did Jacomo get the twin ring?’

  ‘Jacomo? Jacomo was brought from Algiers as a slave with his mother along with one or two other children, some white. When the other children left, Jacomo was given the ring.’

  ‘It belonged to one of the other children? Whom did it belong to? Where did they go?’

  With a shiver of bells, the Pilgrim seated himself again, without answering, on the rim of the well. ‘But I do not understand. He is thy child?’

  ‘Use your common sense!’ said Philippa. And then looking down, her face red, she said, ‘Heavens. Steamy emotions.’

  ‘So thou hast learned one thing about thyself today,’ said the young man thoughtfully. ‘I think I may teach thee much.’

  ‘Manners, for a start,’ said Philippa, still blushing. ‘I’m sorry. I feel strongly because … because of the injustice of it all, not because it’s mine. Its father and my mother are old friends, and then the baby fell into bad hands and is being used as a kind of hostage against its father——’

  ‘By Signor Donati?’ asked the young man sharply. ‘No. That is unlikely. But by him for whom he works? That, perhaps.’

  Philippa did not answer. There was no need. For good or ill the truth was out. ‘I am right, I see,’ said the Geomaler. ‘The child was confided to Marino Donati by this same Knight of St John who conspires with the Turks?’

  ‘Who what! What do you know about Gabriel?’ said Philippa, sitting bolt upright. ‘Oh, bother, here’s Archie.’

  The Geomaler smiled
. ‘By the harbour,’ he said, ‘there is a house painted blue, owned by one Ziadat. I shall be there. My name is Míkál.’

  ‘Mine’s Philippa,’ said Philippa. She hesitated.

  Míkál smiled again, and still smiling, drew the child Jacomo from her side to his. ‘No living thing has ever suffered through me. Assure thyself of this,’ he observed.

  ‘I know,’ said Philippa. ‘I’m sure,’ she added, more convincingly. ‘It’s just that I was hoping you’d make an exception for Graham Reid Malett.’

  Sheemy had sold his pearls, for a sum with which he seemed guardedly pleased. Philippa heard all about the transaction, in boring detail, all the way back to the harbour, where they bought some pies in a cook shop and sat on the harbour wall, eating them. Half-way through these, Archie had time to address her. ‘Yon was damned dangerous, running about in an earthquake. Where did you go?’

  ‘I didn’t like it,’ owned Philippa. ‘But it seemed such a good excuse to explore. And I found out …’ She stopped. Then fumbling under her cloak, she brought out, laid flat on her palm, the two gemmel rings, from the Dame de Doubtance and from the child Jacomo’s neck. ‘I found out Oonagh’s baby was there.’

  In absorbed silence, they heard her tell of Míkál. Pilgrims of Love were not outside Archie’s experience. He had, she had found, a wide tolerance of the crankier aspects of the human dilemma, although Sheemy’s indulgent contempt was more commonplace. ‘Ye think he knows where the wean’s gone?’ he said. That’s why ye want to go to this house?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he does have something more to tell me. And I’ve found out something else. Gabriel is selling information to the Turks, probably through Marino Donati.’

  ‘Sir Graham Malett? From Malta?’ said Archie. ‘How?’

  ‘He didn’t say,’ said Philippa, her brown eyes shining. ‘But I think I can guess. Sheemy, where’s the Sicilian merchant?’

  ‘On board his ship, I expect,’ said Sheemy, surprised. ‘D’you want him?’

  ‘No. But I want his bill of lading,’ said Philippa.

  The dragoman, unsurprised, nodded his head. ‘Secret writing? Consider it done.’

  He brought it to them that evening, in the blue house by the harbour, which turned out to be a lodging-house, of which Ziadat was the owner. Míkál, on inquiry, was out. Philippa, heavily aware that, sooner or later, she would have to get used to communal sleeping arrangements, dumped her mattress, newly bought in the market, along with Archie’s, Sheemy’s and two others in one of the small rooms. Then, before any others came in, she bespoke a candle and, with the two men peering behind her, held the bill of lading close to the flame.

  Between the lines of the clerk’s black irregular script a brown tracery began to appear, deepening in the heat to form even lines of palimpsest writing in an educated hand. The language was Italian; the writer was clearly Marino Donati.

  The code was an easy one too. They broke it in ten minutes, Sheemy dictating while Philippa wrote it down with her tongue out. When it was finished, they read it in silence.

  Your news coming Strozzi attack Zuara received and passed on. Aga Morat will counter. Distinguish yourself blue panache.… There followed an inquiry about the new defence at St Elmo. The last line ran: The Subject is at Djerba, to be held till after Zuara. The Object goes to Stamboul.

  ‘The bloody traitor,’ said Archie. He stood up, his broken-nosed face like the bark of an olive tree. ‘Graham Malett. He’s going to stand there and let Leone Strozzi lead the Knights of St John straight into the arms of Morat.… Blue panache, ye bastard!’ said Archie, his black eyes half closed in his cracked face. ‘I’ll be there watching out for the blue panache all right. And I ken someone else who will, too.’

  ‘The Subject is at Djerba.’ Philippa hadn’t even heard what Archie had said. Instead, trying the final phrases over on her tongue, she repeated them. ‘The Subject is at Djerba. The Object…‘ What did that mean? A routine report, using a code inside the code. Philippa said slowly, ‘Archie …’ and broke off as, just within the rim of her hearing, a brush of high, tinkling sound passed over the noise from outside. ‘Míkál?’ said Philippa, just as the curtain over their doorway was raised with great gentleness to one side.

  ‘Surely,’ said the dark-haired young man in the violet tunic, and, susurrating silvery music, he walked smoothly in. ‘And these are thy friends?’

  Performing the introductions, Philippa was all too conscious of the Geomaler’s dark grey eyes resting on the bill of lading dropped on the table, the interlaced foreign writing plain in the candlelight. Míkál, smiling, bowed. ‘I see thou hast lit on the secret. I have witnessed the signor, often, shading a little paper over a candle. He does not expect simple minds to understand.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ said Philippa. ‘I’m afraid I opened Signor Donati’s desk on my way through his rooms. There were several packets of bills already treated, but until you talked about Gabriel, I didn’t realize what it meant.’

  ‘Did I mention Gabriel?’ said Míkál.

  ‘No. I did. Your purity remains undefiled,’ said Philippa tartly. ‘Whatever happens to Gabriel, if there’s justice, will be my pleasure. We only wanted you to tell us, if you will, about the child.’

  She wasn’t feeling casual. It had taken a great deal of nervous energy to defy Archie’s outspoken disbelief and drag him to Zakynthos. His lack of reproaches over the delay in the Lazaretto had been a burden itself; and now she had embroiled Sheemy Wurmit mercilessly in her single-minded affairs. Her friend of the religion of love said in his musical voice, ‘Thou wouldst learn of the child from Algiers, the white child whose ring was given to Jacomo?’

  ‘Yes. What is his name?’ said Philippa. ‘And what is he like?’

  The candle shivered, starring his earrings with silver, but without lighting his eyes. ‘His nurse, the mother of Jacomo, called him Lambkin, Kuzucuyum,’ said Míkál. ‘I know no other name.’

  ‘He’s healthy, is he?’ said Archie; and in the dim light Míkál’s mouth sketched a quick smile.

  ‘Like a bullock. Hewn from sparstone, like satin, containing its light. Masked like a Schwatzen horse with yellow silk hair, chopped along the bridge of his nose. A nose; two eyes, and a mouth. He speaks English.’

  ‘From Jacomo’s mother?’ asked Philippa briskly. Her voice, ratting on her, split in the middle.

  ‘From the nurse he had left in Algiers. He is between one year and two. He walks, eats, shouts, laughs, sings, and is a proper boy-child. That is why the Commissars took him away.’

  ‘The Commissars!’ said Sheemy Wurmit sharply.

  ‘Thou knowest, then,’ said Míkál, turning. ‘The Commissars for the Levy of Children. They came here a month ago for their tribute and took him, with the rest of the levy.’

  ‘Why … where has he gone?’ said Philippa without any breath left at all.

  ‘East, to be sure: they make the Devshirmé only every four years, and children have to be gathered from Albania, Servia, Bosnia, Trebizond, Mingrelia—from every part of the Empire as well as in Greece. One in three male children, at the choice of the Deputy. That is the custom. Then …’ Míkál shrugged. ‘The least comely will till the fields in Natolia, learn Turkish and how to endure hardship: they are circumcised and become followers of Islam. Presently, they are brought to Constantinople, to the Aga of Ajémoghláns, and are taught crafts, or the art of war. The best of these may become Janissaries. The worst carry water and wood, clean the Seraglio, care for the gardens or the horses or the barges, or serve the Spahis and Janissaries themselves. He will not be one of these.’

  ‘What then?’ It was Archie, as Philippa’s voice failed her.

  ‘The good corn; the beautiful; the bright, are the Grand Sultan’s own. With three thousand hand-picked children the boy is on his way to the Topkapi Seraglio at Stamboul. For four years he will live in the harem, serving and learning, under the wisest men of the Empire. He will be taught Turkish, Persian and Arabic and the Sher
iát of Islam. He will learn to run like a gazelle, to ride, to shoot, to cast the javelin, and the arts of wrestling and falconry. He will be taught music and poetry and the exercise of his senses. If he is chosen as a page, he will be adorned with delicate tints, dressed in sweet scents and in clothes of scarlet and white. In time, he may fill one of the highest offices of the land. He may become a judge, a jurist, a court official, a governor of a province. He may become Agha of the finest of troops, the Janissaries, the Bostanjis, the Spahis. He may, if he is brilliant and wise, become Grand Vizier, or supreme head of the civil and military empire under the Sultan. For thus does the Sultan rule. Through former Christians, without parents, without money, without brothers, without power, who owe all to him; and in dying, will leave it to him once again.… This child: the child of thy quest has gone to all this.… Wilt thou bring him back?’ said Míkál.

  ‘Yes,’ said Philippa.

  ‘To what?’

  There was a silence. Frightened, Philippa looked at Archie, and then at Sheemy Wurmit and, instead of an answer, saw the same question reflected in two pairs of eyes. To what?

  To his heritage? He was a bastard. To the world of Gabriel? But that meant hurt, deprivation, and ultimate death.

  In Constantinople, or Stamboul as she must learn to call it, he would be rich, cared for, and safe. He would learn the graces his mother would never teach him, and the arts his father would never take the time to bestow. With every talent trained and cherished, he might grow to position and power incomparable. But…

  Her face red, Philippa said, ‘I’m not bringing him back to anything. I’m taking him away from something.’ And again, Míkál said only, ‘From what?’

  ‘From the life you’ve described. From being a scholar, and also a page to the Sultan. From dying rich, and dying without kinsmen. From distorting in Islam a temperament shaped for Western philosophies. From wielding a power that may bring him face to face on a battle-plain with his own flesh and blood.… Míkál, will they allow me to buy him?’

  ‘If thou hast money enough, go to the Commissaries who accompany the levy and make thy wish known. If they are already in Stamboul, then——’ He broke off as Philippa jumped to her feet.