After that, there were other questions and answers. At some time Nicholas, still talking, untied Felix’s hands. Food was brought, and eaten. The bed, which was broad enough for five, was prepared for the night. At that point Nicholas said, “I’ve told them to free your two men, and tell them that you’ve decided to travel on to Milan of your own free will, but that if they doubt it, they can come and speak to you. Apparently they fell asleep without troubling. Was I right?”
“I suppose so,” said Felix. Between food and warmth and wine and sleepiness, the words had some trouble forming themselves. He said, “You were supposed to give me your dagger.”
“I forgot,” said Nicholas. “There it is. Which side of the bed do you want?”
But Felix was already in bed, and although he thought he answered, he didn’t.
Chapter 33
THIS TIME, THE cavalcade of the Charetty entering Milan caused no shutters to open. For one thing, it was too hot. For another, the rival captains had mostly departed long since for their respective battlefields: some south to Naples, and some spurring east after the renegade Count Piccinino.
Those who were not captains were not impressed by the appearance of a merchant’s young son and his factor, however strongly escorted. What gained Felix immediate entrance through the Porta Vercellina and a ready welcome at the Inn of the Hat was the safe-conduct carried by Nicholas, with its manifold Medici and Burgundian signatures.
But of that, Felix was unaware. For seven days he had ridden at Nicholas’ side discussing business, the way a man should with his manager. To his questions, Nicholas had given long, careful explanations which he had found not at all boring. They had talked about Henninc and Bellobras, and about Gregorio, and Cristoffels at Louvain. Nicholas had asked his opinion about many things. Nicholas, anxious that he should follow all the negotiations they were going to have, annoyed him from time to time by trying to teach him Italian.
Arguing with Nicholas, echoes of his mother’s diatribes and inquisitions had come back to Felix, together with some of his father’s impatience. Nicholas was not deferential, but had dropped into the same reasonable, commonsense voice that Julius had habitually used with his employer. Felix approved of that. Some of the shame and the anger and the fright of the last eight weeks began to ebb away.
In the city of Milan where, instead of air, they had marble powder and brickdust, Nicholas had four calls to make for the Charetty company, and Felix, if he so wished, could attend him on each. Felix so wished, once he had got his boots off and his doublet unfastened and a good night’s sleep and a lot of wine behind him. He flopped on the inn bed, leaving Nicholas to order food and see to their escort.
Nicholas, who still had his boots on, looked quite pleased and said he would arrange it all for tomorrow. And meanwhile, did Felix want to come and watch him deliver dispatches? Weariness fought with the dregs of suspicion, and weariness won.
“You do it,” said Felix; and fell asleep almost at once. When he woke, it was dawn and Nicholas was slumbering peacefully on the truckle bed and refused to waken. He had arranged a cold meal, half of it eaten, on a chest with a guttering candle. Felix demolished it, dropping things now and then, but as Nicholas still didn’t wake up and the wine was excellent, he decided to get back into bed with a bottle. After all, he had to be fresh for business tomorrow. This morning.
Later that morning Cicco Simonetta, head of the Milanese chancery, might have been alarmed to find himself discussing Charetty business with a sharp-featured eighteen-year-old with a more than uncertain grasp of his language, had he not received ample warning beforehand. As it was, the required payments for the revised condotta were smoothly computed, and the necessary papers changed hands. What other papers had changed hands the previous night, when the reports oral and written had been delivered, did not fall to be mentioned.
Messer Cicco, busy man that he was, was disposed to be friendly. He was interested in all Felix had to tell him of his recent visit to Genappe. He asked Felix if he had met the Dauphin’s chamberlain, M. Gaston du Lyon, in Geneva. Felix’s negative clashed, to his surprise, with an affirmative from Nicholas, who had not only met the man, but owed him a favour.
They were joined by another member of the ducal household: Messer Prosper Schiaffino de Camulio de’ Medici, the Duke’s right hand (said Messer Cicco, smiling) in diplomatic missions abroad to the French. They talked of the defence of the kingdom of Naples (which the captain Astorre was so ably assisting) and the growing hopes that the enemy would find himself starved of money and troops as France and Savoy found themselves unable to keep their fine promises.
Felix mentioned the lavish armour and weapons of the Charetty squadron, and the excellence of Astorre and his secretary Julius and his physician Tobias Beventini of Grado.
Cicco Simonetta di Calabria, who couldn’t be expected to remember everything, said that it had been much admired, Messer Tobias’ help with captain Lionetto.
Felix, who was already encased in buckram and bombast as in Egyptian bandages, couldn’t sit up more stiffly. But he did say, “Lionetto!” in a voice of alarmed astonishment.
Nicholas said, “Messer Tobias, knowing captain Lionetto of old, was entrusted by His Holiness the Pope with a message entreating him to leave the wicked forces of Count Giacomo Piccinino and cross to our side. He was successful. Captain Lionetto changed his mind. He deserted Count Piccinino and is with the Count of Urbino at this moment.”
“But you forgot to mention it. And Tobias?” demanded Felix.
Lifting languid fingers, Messer Cicco replied instead of Nicholas. “The brave doctor has lost his chance, I fear, of fighting in Naples. If I know anything of my lord of Urbino, he will have kept your Messer Tobias in his service. If he has, you will be paid his worth, to enable you to hire another physician. Meanwhile, the service you and he have performed will not be forgotten. Do you join the fighting, Messer Felix?”
Messer Felix flushed. He said, “There’s nothing I’d like better.”
“Why, I commend your courage,” said Cicco Simonetta. “And we should honour it. You have had a long journey, and perhaps feel your skills require refreshing? I should be happy to make you free of the tilting-yard, and of any practice our masters might offer you. Our gossip Niccolò here knows what exercise we can provide.”
Felix didn’t need Nicholas (Niccolò?) to tell him what the Milanese masters could do for him. Deep in making appointments, he heard Nicholas humbly accepting for them both an evening in the company of Messer Prosper de Camulio de’ Medici. He was angry with Nicholas. Nicholas should have told him about the doctor. At the same time, the ducal chancellor seemed very pleased. And an evening with a ducal ambassador might turn out to be dull, but business was business. He hoped the women’s booths stayed open late. Sometimes, in a new town, you could buy lists. But when he had mentioned it to Nicholas, Nicholas had only begun to laugh, but wouldn’t say why.
With Nicholas, he left the Arengo and issued into the frying-hot Milanese sunshine. He forgot, for the moment, his complaints. Everything in Milan was huge. In front was the biggest church Felix had ever seen. It was half-built and covered in scaffolding, with brown-backed workmen in breech-clouts moving from plank to plank like seagulls on the Crane. You had to watch, in case a pulley stuck and a bucket emptied before it should. The hammering behind came, Nicholas said, from the workshops, where they brought the marble in from the pool.
Felix wanted to see the wonders of the Medici Palazzo, which was supposed to be their next port of call. He had put on part-coloured hose and his best tunic, which was yellow, and had bought a straw hat that morning, to protect his complexion from the sun. He looked forward to meeting Tommaso’s brothers, whom Tommaso envied, and to whom Felix, nonchalantly, was confiding a box of silver and draft bills to be transferred to Tommaso in Bruges.
On the way to the Medici, Nicholas called at the bench of a notary and retrieved three packets of papers, which he paid for in silver. Then, finding a tavern near the Piazza M
ercanti, he took Felix inside and ordered wine, while he opened the packets and examined them. They proved to be two complete sets of the credit notes supplied by Jaak de Fleury, copied to the last word and fully notarised. One copy for themselves. One copy to be lodged with Maffino, the Fleury agent in Milan, as a convenience for any future exchanges. And the originals, which they were taking now to be sold to Pigello Portinari of the Medici.
“To be sold?” Felix said.
Nicholas, refolding the packets, seemed unaware that he’d said anything worth remark. “Well, it’s the best way of getting our money,” he said. “Or at least the bit I got Monsieur Jaak to acknowledge. Maybe you want to come trailing down to Geneva every six months to try and collect, but I don’t think it’s worth it. Instead, let the Medici squeeze the silver out of Jaak de Fleury through their Geneva branch.”
Felix stared at him. He said, “Why should the Medici do it?”
Nicholas put the packets away and signed to the landlord. “They’re always doing it. It’s their business, debt-collecting. They handle papal bulls in the same way exactly. And anyway, they owe me a favour. I’ve composed them a cipher that no one living can decode. Including me.”
Felix continued to stare at him. He said, “You mean the Medici are going to pay you all the money Jaak de Fleury owes us?”
Nicholas said, “Well, all he’s admitted to owing us. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To raise money to rebuild your business. That’s why I couldn’t go straight back to Bruges.”
“I thought it was because –”
“It is. As well. But don’t think in public,” said Nicholas. “Come on. Pigello and Accerito await you.”
The Palazzo Medici turned out to be a long, low, edifice with a row of very fancy windows above a sort of bastion wall of squared blocks. Felix thought that they would be given wine Italian-style from a big copper cooler in the loggia, but the loggia was only just being built and wine would have turned into mud anyway, he could see.
They were met by Pigello Portinari, who had the same nose as Tommaso, but had been stuffed and packaged at a different shop, which probably happened when you became purveyor and financier to a ducal court. He had a sloping brow, and bags under his eyes. He looked as bald as doctor Tobias, but the top of his head was concealed by a sort of roofed pillbox, below which he had on a short tunic with his shirt and hose because of the heat. It had a low belt, to disguise the thickness of a good trencherman’s waist. Felix felt very cordial towards him.
Messer Pigello, too, was charmed that Messer Felix had honoured him with a personal visit, and led the way to his office. He had on his table, ready for inspection, the box of silver from M. de Fleury, which Niccolò had brought him last night for safekeeping, but which Messer Felix himself was to check. To add to these, he now saw, he had several more bills from the ducal chancery. And were these the credit notes of which Niccolò had spoken?
He used Arabic numbers, Felix saw, adding quickly on scraps of paper; and so did Nicholas, counter-checking. The bills themselves registered sums in stately Roman numerals, less easy to tamper with. Accerito, the other brother, came in at some point and Felix was glad to cease looking as if he, too, were counting, and to join him in small-talk. He had seen enough anyway. Whatever else was happening, Nicholas wasn’t cheating him. He was making him rich.
They didn’t stay long, just enough to finish the transaction and take (indoors) some sugared nuts and some extremely good wine, served in heavy goblets decorated on the outside like orange segments. Messer Pigello, bowing to both Felix and Nicholas, made a graceful compliment about the marriage of the demoiselle de Charetty, and suggested that, despite the sad news of the fire, the company under such shrewd management would go from strength to strength.
News travelled fast. The subject, so painful at home, was reduced by its business setting to nothing. Felix had hardly bowed or Nicholas murmured his thanks before the talk had veered again.
Afterwards, Felix remembered trying to follow an amiable exchange about eastern silk markets. Since Chinese silk was hard to come by, Constantinople was crying out for silk to sell. Chios could get rid of it anywhere. A Florentine consul at Trebizond could pick up a fortune. It was Greek to Felix, in that he understood half of it. But even if it were no business of his, he always felt warmly towards anyone who was by way of making a fortune. Of course, the Medici in Florence had a silk botteghe. Marco Parenti, married to the Strozzi sister, was a silk merchant. So were the Bianchi of Florence.
The names, which Nicholas had not mentioned to him, meant as yet nothing to Felix. He listened, but was equally eager to accompany Messer Accerito on a tour of the half-finished palace. He returned, deeply impressed by the paintings on the walls and the ceilings and the marble floors and the way none of the clerks seemed to be impressed by them. He found Nicholas on the verge of departure, and smiling, the two dimples deep as buttons, at Messer Pigello.
Nicholas said, “How surprising! The Duke mentioned it even to me. You didn’t know he wished a trained ostrich?”
“Not,” said Pigello, “until I received word from Tommaso. Apparently it has been necessary to send to Spain for the animal.”
“Bird,” Felix said. He looked from Nicholas to Pigello.
“And there has been some delay in conveying it.”
“A shipwreck,” said Nicholas. “Unhappily involving some litigation. But the bird, I am told, is alive and well.”
Pigello Portinari was not, it seemed, deeply disturbed. He said, “And I am sure Messer Strozzi and my brother will contrive that it reaches Milan in the end. Of course, anything you can do to the purpose will be warmly acknowledged.”
“Well, thank you for the confidence,” Nicholas said. “But I seem to have my hands full. And the last thing I should wish is to deprive Messer Tommaso of his triumph. The ostrich, alive and well in Bruges, and able to leave as Duke Philip’s gift to Duke Francesco. There is an achievement.”
Out in the via dei Bossi, Felix said, “The ostrich.”
“Yes?” said Nicholas. He skipped as he walked, winding his way between sweating people and under awnings, and when he passed a pretty girl, he grinned at her.
Felix said, “The Medici had never heard of the ostrich. Messer Cicco never mentioned it either.”
“No,” said Nicholas, from behind. He emerged from a booth with three oranges and started to juggle them as he walked, disrupting sundry groups of housewives, and well-dressed nobles and merchants, and hot men in cassocks, and servants and labourers, and stallkeepers and children. Two men playing chess on a balcony looked down as an orange rose by their ears and descended.
Felix said, “But the dispatch you brought to Tommaso said the Duke wanted one.”
“Yes,” said Nicholas. Three dogs were following him, and several children.
Felix said, “So you made it up? You made up the whole thing? No one wants an ostrich at all?”
“Nonsense,” said Nicholas. “I do. Tommaso does. Lorenzo does. And once I’ve told the Chancery that it’s coming, the Duke will as well. If no one wants it, we’ll put it into the lottery like your porcupine. We’ll harness it to the waterwheel and watch it eat all the buckets. We’ll make it run in the Crane. We’ll use it to dredge the canals. Winrik can keep his money in it. Everyone should have an ostrich. Or an orange. Catch.”
He didn’t catch it, and it fell in the wall-fountain they were passing, so that the splash went up his nose.
Felix didn’t mind. For a moment – for how long? – Claes was back amongst them.
But it was Nicholas, not Claes, who accompanied Felix that night, to the house of Prosper de Camulio de’ Medici.
A warm, strong breeze had risen which made it pleasant, in spite of the dust, to walk through the narrow streets under the shade of the crimped red eaves and the balconies and between the crooked steps with their pots of bright flowers. Swifts swirled overhead, random as gnats, their distant fluting turning into a thin, snarling whistle as they swooped.
The house of Messer Camulio was in the southern quarter of the town, and close to the inner, encircling canal. Between that and the outer ring of water were some important churches and hospices, lodged on the specially-cut channels that brought freight-barges close to the heart of the city. The brothers Portinari supported two of such churches and, in return, were given favours.
Trade. Wealth. Renown. With high spirits and a new confidence, Felix de Charetty trod the paved streets beside Nicholas, who listened receptively to Felix’s detailed account of the afternoon he had spent at the Duke’s tilting-yard at the (half-rebuilt) Castello, with the Duke’s jousting-master.
Then they arrived at the Casa Camulio, which had a coat of arms over the entrance and pillared arches, underlit by the sun, in the small, warm courtyard within. Here, since the sun had lost its heat, they were invited by Prosper de Camulio to sit by the fountain and take their ease. He had one companion only. Four men, eating and talking, with no ladies present. A group of men talking, in low voices, about money.
Prosper de Camulio de’ Medici, a man in his mid-thirties, possessed what Felix was beginning to recognise as the style of a diplomat and a politician. He was lightly dressed in a linen shirt and fine overtunic, and he wore a silk scarf embroidered with violets which had certainly come from France. With him was a Genoese called Tomà Adorno. Camulio and Adorno. Felix knew what they had in common, for Nicholas had told him.
Tomà Adorno was short and meaty and middle-aged, and his pale hair was bleached to wrack by the Levantine sun. Nothing of the slender, quizzical beauty of Anselm Adorne was visible in him, yet (said Nicholas) Anselm and he must be related.
So long entrenched in Bruges, so well-thought-of, so splendidly Flemish, the tribe of Adorne might have known no other roots. But six generations ago (according to Nicholas) the loss of Acre had driven the Adornes’ merchant ancestors from the Holy Land: one branch to Flanders, and one branch to their native Genoa. And even sooner than that, the shrewd seamen and traders of the Genoese fishing village of Camoglio had begun to settle in the Genoese colonies, and one Vivaldo de Camulio had a trade in cloth in Byzantium.