Niccolo Rising

  The visitor remained calm. “I,” he said, “am Pigello Portinari, manager in Milan for Piero and Giovanni de’ Medici. You have some papers for me. If you will come to my offices, they may be properly examined and paid for.”

  “Good,” said Tobie. He stuck out a thumb. “The name of that fellow is Claes. He will come with you now. If you want anyone else, you wait until later.”

  The Portinari eyebrows went up. “You are butchering something?”

  Thomas, trying to follow the correct Italian, was scowling. Claes’ face got pinker.

  Tobie said, “If I had any sense, I’d be trying to. You an expert in music?”

  Pigello Portinari looked at him thoughtfully. “It is customary –” he began.

  “Your brother isn’t,” said Tobie. “I’m trying to save the leg of a croaking fool of a monk your Tommaso is sending for the chapel of your chief in Florence. We brought him alive over the Alps. He has been delivered alive here in Milan. You let him die because you want me running attendance on you, and you have to explain to Messer Cosimo de’ Medici. And the Duke.”

  “The Duke?” enquired Messer Pigello with composure.

  “The Duke of Milan. Your Duke. My uncle is his physician.”

  “Your uncle? Giammatteo Ferrari da Grado?”

  “My uncle. My father was the ducal notary who officially transferred the dukedom from the Visconti to the Sforza nine years ago. My name is Tobias Beventini of Grado. The name of that fellow, as I told you, is Claes. He speaks Italian. Take him.”

  “With pleasure. How fortunate,” said Pigello Portinari, “that we met, and have resolved a confusion. Instruct your excellent youth to box the papers and come with me. And perhaps, later, we may tempt you to visit the Palazzo Medici?”

  “Well, someone will come,” said Tobie briskly. “You’ve got four horses to collect and pass on to Florence. And Brother Gilles, of course. But that won’t be for a while yet. Excuse me.”

  He departed. So in due course did Messer Pigello, followed by Claes and his satchel. Lacking a good astrologer, no one saw any harm in it.

  Claes was still away when Julius and the captain made their triumphant return from the Arengo. Tobie heard them come back. Deservedly well-supped and lavishly irrigated, the doctor lay on his pallet with his hands under his head. The jaunty clack of their hooves, and the pitch of Astorre’s voice bawling at Julius, conveyed everything. They had succeeded. The contract, the condotta, was captured.

  And so it turned out. A cheer from some nearby quarter below told that good news had been announced to the fighting-arm. Then Astorre’s padded glove punched back Tobie’s door and the captain strode in, wrenching off his monstrous helmet and handing it back, without looking, to Julius, who passed it to Thomas, arriving behind. Tobie sat up. Astorre shot him a self-satisfied glance and began to walk up and down, his bow legs hinged like a lobster’s, while he reeled off dates and numbers and figures relating to the hiring of the Charetty company by the Duke of Milan.

  His voice, at battle-pitch, made the ears sing. One hundred lances and one hundred foot, to be got down to Naples by spring. That was what he’d engaged to supply. And they’d take more if he got them. He’d signed a six-monthly contract at nine hundred florins the month, not counting their plunder entitlement. And pro rata terms from now until April, what’s more, depending on how many soldiers he took south this winter.

  Within the next twenty-four hours, Cicco Simonetta, head of the Chancery, would pay out the money. And in six days’ time, when the horses and lances were rested, he, Astorre, would lead them all down to Naples. How? Was he the expert? They would be told. On foot, probably. Or on foot to Pisa, perhaps, and then south by sea. It would depend, wouldn’t it, on the weather, and where the enemy was, and how active? And he, Astorre, would send runners to all those towns and villages in the Low Countries and other places where men were paid by the Charetty to stand by for fighting. Come! the orders would say. Come to Naples and help yourselves to a fortune!

  Julius was flushed too, as if he had spent all day drinking, which he certainly hadn’t. There were things Tobie wanted to know. So they were to join King Ferrante. So the terms were more than generous. So what else had Astorre and Julius learned? What about the Pope’s troops, and the Duke’s own army and the whereabouts of the other free companies? The rival companies, after all, were important. They might have to join one of them. There was the army led by Count Jacopo Piccinino which at present (said Julius) wasn’t down near Naples at all, but on the opposite coast. And the Count of Urbino led another. The Count of Urbino, thirty-seven, one-eyed and brilliant, was about to marry the Duke of Milan’s niece. Years ago, the Duke of Milan had promised an offspring to Count Piccinino himself. Mercenaries were popular sons-in-law.

  Tobie knew all that already. To put it mildly, Julius’ answers were airy. It annoyed Tobie to be less intoxicated with wine than Julius was with relief and complacency. He continued, undeterred, with his questioning. “And the palace? What did you think of it?”

  Astorre, still pacing up and down, tried to snap his fingers and then began to fight his gloves off. “Offices, that’s all it is. Officials, ambassadors, apartments for the family of course, but the Duchess has only four women and the Duke has no style. None. God knows what use he’ll find for the African, though we’ll hear. The secretary hinted there would be something appropriate. I should hope so. They spend money on some things. Tutors for the children. There’s a foolishness. They’ll turn out badly, you’ll see. Latin orations at eight. All that nonsense. We met their physician …” He turned.

  “Ah,” thought Tobie.

  Astorre bent and brought his stitched eye, as he sometimes did, close to Tobie. Angled downwards, like a bird’s foot, it glittered. “You didn’t say,” said Astorre, “that you were nephew to Giammatteo Whatever. Him. The Duke’s physician.”

  “Or the son of Beventinus Whatever. The Duke’s famous notary,” Julius said, his face glistening.

  Tobie sat up on his pallet and, stretching out, poured himself a fifth cup of wine. He said, “I didn’t ask you for your breeding chart. Anyway, I hadn’t decided whether to stay with you or not.”

  “Careful,” said Julius. He whipped the cup from Tobie’s fingers and before he could stop him, had drained it. Julius said, “I think you are implying that it was only your connections that got us the condotta?”

  Astorre’s face, which had receded, came closer again.

  “No,” said Tobie. “I fell out with all of them years ago. That was why I nearly stayed with Lionetto. I knew if he tried to get an engagement in Milan they’d refuse him. So, see, it’s a compliment. They took you in spite of me. Do have some of my wine.”

  “I’ll send for some more. Where’s Claes?” said Julius vaguely.

  “Took the papers to the Palazzo Medici. Then they sent him back for the four horses.”

  “You let him take the horses?” barked Astorre.

  “Three expert grooms to lead them, and Claes. He was the only one who could recognise a receipt. It’s all right. They got there all right. The grooms came back and reported. Claes is coming back too, once the paperwork is all done.”

  “I think,” said Julius, “I ought to go and fetch him. The Palazzo Medici?”

  “One of those slums,” said Tobie hazily. “No, that’s where he went with the papers. The horses were for Cosimo’s nephew. Christ, Tommaso made enough fuss about it. The horses went to Pierfrancesco de’ Medici.”

  Satisfactorily, Julius was now more sober than he was. He even sat down. He said, “Tobie. Pierfrancesco de’ Medici is in Florence.”

  “I know,” said Tobie. “But his wife is here. Staying with her brother. Her Florentine brother who has a great big house in Milan where he sometimes stays for months at a time. Such as now. With great big stables. Because the family go in for horse-breeding.”

  “Who do?” said Julius.

  “Pierfrancesco’s wife’s family. The Acciajuoli,” said Tobie patien
tly. “Pierfrancesco de’ Medici is married to Laudomia Acciajuoli. Cousin of the Greek with the wooden leg. Remember? The bearded mosaic who was collecting money in Scotland and Bruges to get his brother ransomed from the Sultan?”

  Tobie paused. “And talking of wooden legs, my captain, you may be glad to hear that your friend Brother Gilles will survive. In about a month’s time he will not only walk, he will be able to leave us. If we only had some wine, we could celebrate something.”

  The next morning, shutting his eyes against the glare of the rainfall, Julius accompanied his captain and four well-armed men to the Chancery to obtain the first down-payment of the contract. He expected a box of florins. Instead, he was given one thick sheet of paper addressed to Pigello Portinari, manager of the Medici Bank of Milan.

  “Money?” said the secretary’s secretary. “We don’t handle money. Make your wishes known to Messer Pigello. At the old bureau beside St Ambrogio. Or the new palace beside the Castello. Turn right before you get to the walls, and look for St Thomas’s.”

  With a jerk, Astorre nocked his tough beard and aimed it. “Last time –”

  “It’s all right. Take the paper,” said Julius. “The Medici will pay you. It’s their way of loaning money. Then the Duke sees they get it back with a profit.”

  “That’s usury,” said Astorre, glaring at the secretary’s secretary.

  “No, it isn’t. It’s God’s way of rewarding an honest, hard-working banker with a vigilant eye on the money market. Let’s go. Never mind the old Medici office. I want to see the new Palazzo.”

  Proceeding there in the rain with an argumentative Astorre, Julius felt a quiet satisfaction. The youth Claes was hardly representative of the Charetty company. It was time he and Astorre redressed the balance.

  There had been some intermittent concern last night when it was remarked that the receipt for the horses had not yet returned in Claes’ keeping. But when they woke in the morning the papers were there by Julius’ hand, and someone said that Claes was asleep with a smirk on his face, having come in later than anybody with the toes out of his stockings again and a list of addresses. Something would have to be done about Claes.

  There was a lot of wet sand and mortar round about the Palazzo Medici as well when they got there. Taking shape was a long block of an edifice built of squared stones. There were a dozen arched windows on the upper storey, all pillared and garlanded, and the middle portal had been done by Monsignore Cosimo’s own architect, Michelozzi. The dizzy top of the arch bore the Sforza shield and medallions. On either side were paired life-sized sculptures, two of youthfully virile Roman warriors and two of exquisite ladies in Florentine dress.

  Neither of the men looked like a relative of Tommaso Portinari. About the provenance of the ladies Julius had no knowledge either, but entered the court with high hopes. Semper droit had been carved all down the archway. He supposed it could be held to sum up the beliefs of the Sforza, the Medici and the Portinari, if it came to that. He was not so sure of himself.

  There was building going on in the courtyard as well. It was huge. When it was complete, its reception rooms and domestic quarters would be big enough to contain the owner and his whole household, should he ever visit. The rest would presumably hold the permanent staff of the bank, its storehouses and its offices.

  Inside, in a warm room on the first floor dark with tapestry, Pigello Portinari and his brother Accerito came forward to greet them with a stately cordiality. The Roman army would not have had either of them. Especially the old one, Pigello. Gaunt, balding and chinless, he had nothing of young brother Tommaso about him except perhaps the long pointed nose. And a liking for rings: he had two on some fingers. Except that Pigello’s rings were large, genuine rubies and diamonds and emeralds, and his sleeves weren’t turned out with sheepskin. Pigello was rich.

  Astorre and Julius were given carved chairs. They were brought refreshments. The name of Tommaso entered the conversation and left it almost at once. When the time came (and they were not detained long), Pigello moved over the shining tiles to a table big as a sarcophagus, chubbily carved, from which he drew papers, and read from some of them, and caused others to be signed. Then he took out a number of keys and opened seven locks on a great chest in a corner. Its lid, which required two men to lift it, was lined with extravagant clockwork, reminding Julius of one of Claes’ elaborate game boxes. Pigello brought out a bag. “Gold, I think,” he said. “I should suggest gold. I know Messer Cicco talked in terms of florins, but it is not a good time for currency. Not today. It will correct itself, of course. Now, Master Julius, you will keep note of this. And then you may use my bodyguard – I shall arrange it – to escort you back to the inn.”

  Relating this later to Tobie, he was disbelieved. “Gold?” said Tobias. “He suggested you took gold, when ordinary currency would have been cheaper for him?”

  “There it is,” said Julius, who had just finished a long, noisy stint paying wages and was tired of arguments. “Don’t complain to me if he was generous. It got him Astorre’s investments anyway.”

  “What?” said the doctor.

  “Pigello offered Astorre double the interest Fleury were giving him, and Astorre’s transferred his business to the Medici. There’s a vote of confidence for you. The Medici think Ferrante is going to stay King of Naples. Unless you think they are humouring us because of your uncle.”

  “My uncle the Duke’s physician? No,” said Tobie. “He came to visit me while you were away, and has made it very plain that he considers I’m on the losing side. So you have to think of it another way. Ferrante fails, Astorre is killed, and the Medici don’t have to pay anything. I’m not really interested, but has Lionetto come to Italy yet, and if so, which side is he joining?”

  “Why?” said Julius. “If it’s Anjou and the French and not Ferrante, will you cross back to him?”

  “With my gold? It’s tempting,” said Tobie. He had pushed his hat to the back of his scalp, and his face with its neat, curled nostrils was passive. He said, “You should have taken our numerical genius with you to count it. Where was Claes last night?”

  “Second column from the left, third name down,” Julius said. “I haven’t got a copy of the list yet, but they’re selling it in the yard for beer money.”

  “Well, let’s get it,” said Tobie. “I’ll find Claes. Does he always do this?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been in a new town with him before,” said Julius. “I suppose he’s looking for something.”

  “Safety in numbers,” said Tobie laconically.

  He did not trouble, when Julius had gone, to send for Claes, as he knew from his uncle what Claes was doing, and where. He simply rammed down his hat, brushed off the short black gown of his profession and, wrapping himself in his cloak, set off for the delightful mansion of the Acciajuoli.

  Chapter 14

  THE MILANESE house of the Acciajuoli lay between the dust and mud of the cathedral and the dust and mud of the Castello, not far from the merchants’ piazza. There were unbroken lines of arcaded houses in squared stone and red brick and worked marble. There were impressive blocks with projecting eaves and arched windows and coats of arms over the doorways. There were churches, some inside enclosures. There were towers and staircases and balconies and upper-storey projections in timber that sheltered the streets and sometimes arched across them.

  The big bell of the Broletto clanged out as Tobie left the crowded market streets for ones where there were fewer women, and the men, meeting briefly or hurrying to get in from the cold, wore wide or tall or draped hats, or the black caps of the professions, and kept warm in heavy gowns over padded damasks. Tobie looked in peoples’ faces as was his habit, and drew conclusions about the health of the city. Now that the Duke had it in hand, it was well run. The under-nourished, the crippled, the surgically punished were not to be seen in this quarter anyway. You would find them where the common houses were, and the workshops. And other afflictions known to the medica
l man, such as the burns and dull ears of the armourers.

  But misery was not what Tobie mostly remembered, from his days calling there as a student. He remembered the heat, and the din, and the cheerfulness. In winter, you could get hot roasted chestnuts in Milan anywhere. He used to eat them with his friends, swinging his legs on a bench by the anvil, and shouting to them and the smiths. It was talking to the smiths, he sometimes thought, that made him the kind of doctor he was.

  The house of the Acciajuoli was the sort that banking families liked to build. It was wide rather than tall, with a good big double-door that led not to a room, but to a short vaulted passage which ended in a square courtyard, pleasant even in rain, with evergreens placed on the cobbles, and a rank of solid buildings on its far side which presumably held the stables, and the horses brought with such pains for Pierfrancesco Medici of Florence, who had married an Acciajuoli. Somewhere, he could hear the mewing of goshawks. To one side, a balustraded flight of steps gave access to the principal floor. The porter, who had displayed no surprise at his arrival, showed Messer Tobias Beventini up the steps, from which a narrow balcony ran along the face of the building. Part of the way along this was another door which opened on his approach. Immediately inside was his uncle.

  “Well, turd,” said Giammatteo Ferrari da Grado. “You were in no hurry to come. Here is where you put your cloak. You are prepared for what is going to happen?”

  “I don’t know what is going to happen,” said Tobie coldly. “I can only repeat. There is no connection whatever between this boy and myself. Whatever he has done is his own responsibility.”