Caprice and Rondo

  The half-closed eyes twinkled. ‘It is perhaps your skills in infiltration which have denied you the means,’ said Karaï Mirza. ‘As you will have noticed, one blindfolds a cheetah when hunting.’

  ‘On the road, to be sure. But in the field, one must release and then trust him. Will the great Mengli-Girey allow me to survey his citadel?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘I shall ask,’ the other man said. The meeting broke up, and he left. Very much later, he returned. ‘The Khan understands your dislike of confinement. He invites you to hunt for a day or two with him. The deer season has opened, and he would also wish to try his new hawks. You have heard of them?’

  Everyone had. Caffa sent fifty white falcons to Constantinople each year, as part of its other, Ottoman tribute. Occasionally, the Golden Horde got a sweetener, too. Running a trading colony in the Levant came expensive.

  The hunt, as might be guessed, was both a test and a chance to display the Khan’s riches and vigour. Five hundred men and eighty couples of greyhounds went with them, with wagons carrying food and bedding, tents and furnishings. The Khan, wearing his spired helm and cuirass, killed his animals jirgeh-style, with the beasts rounded up and driven towards him. He took a boar, though, himself, and another nearly took Nicholas. Abdan Khan, who was meant to be his partner, did nothing to save him. Since their initial encounter, the Circassian from Mánkup had been little seen, and seldom deigned to address the Khan’s guest. In the hunting-ground, they were occasionally paired, but did not meet for the most part until the tents were raised in the evening, when the uproarious drinking and dancing began, and Abdan Khan would initiate some contest for Mengli-Girey’s amusement.

  Nicholas, prayerfully steering a course designed to earn him neither death nor contempt, refused some of the invitations tauntingly put in his way, and accepted others. He was becoming increasingly irritated. It was unfortunate, therefore, that on the last day, already ruffled if not otherwise damaged by the episode of the boar, Nicholas found himself rallied for his continued refusal to gamble.

  The reason was simple enough: he could not afford to. The Khan had seized all he had, and the rest was in Caffa and sacrosanct. Lastly, he suspected that Abdan Khan could cheat as deftly as he could. Cairo was a great teacher.

  ‘So what shall we do?’ the big man exclaimed in mock despair. ‘A contest for the best wrestler? But I don’t suppose Niccolò the non-Venetian can wrestle?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Nicholas agreeably. It was, of course, an invitation to a duel. Tough though the Tartars might be, they were men of low height, and wrestling was a sport where reach could make a difference. Circassians were tall and good-looking and strong: it was why their men flourished in Egypt as Mamelukes, and their girls commanded such a punishing tariff as slaves. Abdan Khan would win all his bouts, and so, very likely, would Nicholas.

  It did not take long: the amount of buza everyone had drunk saw to that. A space was cleared, and the contestants assembled, already stripped of all but their breeches. Then they opposed each other, two at a time. The man who ended dead or unconscious had lost. There were no other rules.

  In a perverted way, it riled Nicholas to be fighting half-sober and therefore unfairly. Height and reach could be counteracted by endurance and skill, and the Crim Tartars had both of these. He did not underestimate them — the state of his body proved how right he was in that —but he faced his real opponent in the end, as he knew he would, regretting that the way should have been paved with disappointment and loss of face for those who had not been born Circassian. And the man’s air of ineffable superiority was due to more than that, as he now knew. Abdan Khan was related to one sultan at least: his father had fled when Khushcadam had become ruler of Egypt, and Abdan had ended, a highly trained Mameluke, commanding the army of the ruler of Gothia, that strange, mixed community that survived in the Crimea at Mánkup.

  It made no sense, this aggravation between them. Caffa and Gothia were in equal need of help against Turkey, as was the Crimean Horde. They needed each other. That was why a highly trained commander like Abdan Khan was here, teaching his skills to the armies of Qirq-yer as well as Mánkup. This hostility made as much sense as the useless quarrel in Caffa over who the next Tartar governor ought to be. Facing the other man now, his hands spread, his bare feet planting themselves on worn grass, Nicholas decided to concentrate.

  They had a manner of wrestling in Iceland which he had seen, and which he had had described to him exactly. It was not unlike the kind he had just experienced. Through the years, he had experimented with other styles, too, as anyone would, in a war camp with time to put off. He also knew a great deal about the principles of leverage, as imparted to him impatiently by a brilliant engineer. The engineer whom Abdan Khan might hope to have at his side, if he would bloody cease trying to kill his intermediary.

  Except that, of course, if Nicholas sent for him, the same engineer would refuse.

  He got thrown, then. It was extremely painful, and taught him to keep his mind on his work. It also made him nearly as angry as the Circassian was.

  The Khan, observing the fall, was moved to question his adviser in the subsequent roar, which almost extinguished the din of the field-drums. ‘Was this contest wise?’

  ‘I have tried reasoned argument,’ said Karaï Mirza. ‘It is better that one man or the other is out of the way.’ He spoke with regret, for he could see the good and the bad in most men, and did not like waste. The Khan said, ‘Their hâkim, it is true, will not mind if this man dies. The imam will be angry.’

  ‘It is my belief,’ said Karaï Mirza, ‘that the Patriarch also has gambled, and will abide by the result. We should have to pay compensation. He may even be counting on that.’

  ‘The non-Venetian knows a great many holds,’ said the Khan, with some interest. ‘It is not Rustam against Puladvand, but it is well enough. Tell them to bring up more torches.’

  The extra light, to Nicholas, was not an advantage. It aborted a sequence of moves for which darkness was preferable, and allowed his opponent a sight of the red and blue swellings, the raw and ripped patches of flesh on which he might profitably concentrate. And if the Circassian’s eyes were truly sharp, he would notice the shape of one wrist, which was not as it should be. It had started to swell since their last harsh, twisting struggle and, sprained or snapped, was now useless. His chances, therefore, were not good — but they hadn’t been good, either, on the raft, when he and Benecke had had their slight disagreement. Suddenly cheered, for no reason whatever, Nicholas decided he ought to fix this bastard, too. Ramming his right arm violently under Abdan’s left shoulder so that he inadvertently turned, Nicholas thrust out his right leg and, meeting hard flesh and bone, drove Abdan’s left leg so high that both his feet flailed and he crashed breathlessly to the ground with Nicholas fully on top. Then Nicholas took him by the throat.

  He had, however, the use of only one hand. Abdan, half concussed, opened his eyes and, baring his teeth, gripped and wrung — not the hand at his throat, but the grotesque, swollen wrist of the other. Nicholas grunted. Despite himself, his throttling hand slackened, and, kicking, the Circassian wrenched himself free, rolled apart and sprang to his feet, scooping up something as he did so. When Nicholas rose, swearing fluently, Abdan was approaching him, a stone in either hand.

  Nicholas viewed him. They had not, he was conscious, been following any laws of tradition or chivalry: Firdawsi would have been disappointed. But out-and-out hooliganism offered, refreshingly, a new form of licence. As Abdan Khan lifted his arm to throw, or to beat, Nicholas snatched a torch and calmly set fire to him. The Circassian bellowed, flailing and dropping the stones. The spectators screamed. Nicholas, drawing back his good hand, knocked Abdan Khan down and helpfully sat on him, smothering the incandescent breeches and flicking a motherly hand at his smouldering top-knot. Even bald, he was an extraordinarily handsome young man, and could have taught Benecke a thing or two about fighting. He opened his eyes and lay still.

  Nic
holas said, ‘You didn’t need the stones, you were winning. I don’t know what this is all about, but I don’t bear a grudge. Will you drink with me?’

  ‘The winner!’ said the Khan’s voice at his side.

  Nicholas got up. Abdan Khan, blinking, attempted to sit. The Khan said, ‘Be at ease. You fought well, but the Frank here was more cunning. What does he wish for his prize?’

  ‘The Khan’s trust,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘An excellent answer,’ said the Khan. ‘But what of your conquest tonight? What do you demand of Abdan Khan?’

  Dust and sweat plastered his body; his gashes stung, his wrist throbbed like the wrestling-drums. Nicholas said, ‘A game of chess, when we have returned to the citadel. If, that is, the commander agrees.’

  ‘He must agree,’ the Khan said. ‘He has lost.’

  They returned to Qirq-yer the following day, Nicholas with his wrist in a sling, and the Circassian riding apart, but glancing at him now and then. Soon after they arrived, the man came to his door and was admitted. He carried a box and board in his hands, and his face, stiff with bruises, was unsmiling. From beneath the snowy turban, the perfect tunic and leggings, there emerged a faint smell of singeing. Nicholas said, ‘Will you sit and drink with me first? It was good sport. Where did you learn?’

  The other man hesitated, then setting down what he carried, took the stool and the cup he was given. He said, ‘From my father. And in Cairo, under the Sultan Inal, a kinsman. The students wrestled.’

  ‘In al-Azhar the Resplendent,’ Nicholas said. ‘I was there, briefly, in the time of the present honoured Sultan, Qayt Bey’

  ‘And went to the Greeks’ church in Sinai, I heard. Your Arabic is good for a Frank, but strangely mixed: sometimes classical, sometimes Maghgribian.’

  ‘I have been in Timbuktu,’ Nicholas said. ‘I bought gold. I studied with many wise men who died when war came. The Patriarch will confirm it. He sent me here to prove that I am not a spy. So say to me what you wish.’

  ‘War came to Trebizond,’ the man said. ‘You were there too. Buying jewels. Studying, perhaps. They talk of you in Mánkup.’

  ‘In Mánkup?’ The cliff-fortress of the rulers of Gothia attracted many races, most of them Christian, and all of them practised in war, so that the Khan of the Crimean Tartars found them an asset, as he did the Genoese. Once, Mánkup, Gazaria, and the Crimea had been subject to Trebizond; had shared some of its luxuries, and its decadence. He had tasted candied fruits here which he had only come across once before.

  ‘Naturally, in Mánkup,’ the man said a little impatiently. ‘Did you not know the last rulers of Trebizond? The Emperor David, who was killed with his sons. The daughters who were placed in harems — although the lady Anna, they say, has been freed. That was after you admitted the Turks, you and your army.’

  Thirteen years before, the city he spoke of had fallen: the last outpost of great Byzantium had been ravaged by Turks. Nicholas had not been quite twenty-one. He said, speaking slowly, ‘The Emperor betrayed his own people and surrendered. I shall tell you the whole tale if you like. But why are you angry? You are a Circassian. These were Greeks. You pay the same tribute today, but to Turkey’

  ‘My lord is part Greek,’ the other man said. ‘Did you not know that remnants of the house of the Comneni fled to the Crimea? The Emperor died, but men of his blood have lived on, and fought. I and others like me are doing what you failed to do. We are his army’

  No one came in. You could hear, if you listened, the soft voices of servants outside; pigeons cooing, a dog barking somewhere, his noise taken up soon by others. From beyond the Saray enclosure, there percolated, as ever, the impression of great companies in regular exercise, with faint drumbeats, and occasionally the sound of a horn. Passing swiftly through to the hunt, he had been given no chance to see anything beyond the extent of the domain and the scale of the walls that enclosed it. It did not look, now, as if he would see more.

  Once, a boy of twenty, he thought he held the fate of Trebizond in his hands, and had taken his dilemma to the good priest Godscalc, now dead. He had risked his life and the lives of his friends for the Emperor, but the Emperor had surrendered, and dragged all his family into ignominy and death. With time, Nicholas had come to understand, if not to forgive. He had shown no grief in public when the Emperor lost his life. All but a small child had died or been sold off for pleasure. But now the lady Anna was free. And there were free men in Gothia.

  Someone spoke. Abdan Khan said, ‘Do I not speak the truth?’ There was an unexpected note in his voice.

  Nicholas looked up. ‘Forgive me. I did not know. Explanations, I suppose, would be tedious. I am only sorry that, being here, and willing to help, I do not have your confidence.’

  The other man said, ‘What, then, is your account of what happened at Trebizond? Why do you insist that you are not Venetian, when the rulers of Trebizond died, but Venetians and their riches were borne by your own ships to safety?’ And then, with a gesture of rebuttal: ‘I do not wish to be appeased with qumiz. I want facts.’

  THE COCKS WERE CROWING, and the late dawn of October was tinging the skies above the rocks of Qirq-yer when Karaï Mirza, the Khan’s close adviser, called at the house of the Patriarch’s emissary and, dismissing his escort, opened the door of the inner chamber himself.

  Abdan Khan, dispatched yesterday to taste the fruits of defeat with his chessboard, was still in the room. He was not awake, nor yet in bed, having apparently fallen asleep on the floor while playing a stiff game of chess. The room reeked of liquor, and the chessboard, to a practised eye, announced a long, hard game between two well-matched opponents. Seeking further, the visitor observed that the other player was also present, and also asleep, although he at least had found his way to his mattress and freed himself of some of his clothes, including his cap. His skin was flushed, and his beard, densely black, had produced sparkling gold at its roots. The Circassian, sensitive no doubt to his looks, had not unwound his headgear, of which he held a tail in his grasp like a child. The turban had become skittishly tilted, and there was a bruise like a stain on his throat.

  Karaï Mirza stood for a while, reflecting, then left. To the Khan he said, ‘It is for you to declare, lord. But I would say, show this man Niccolò all that is reasonable.’

  Chapter 19

  IN THE DAYS that followed, Nicholas de Fleury was shown everything and told everything that he needed to know. At first, it was a physical inventory — an examination of the stables and barracks, the forges and workshops and cook-houses, the places in which food and fodder and weapons, tents and wagons, fuel and utensils were stored and maintained, including the pastureland for the flocks and the ranges of extraordinary caverns within which, in case of attack, the families from the plains could be housed.

  After that, he established himself in the secretary’s office and familiarised himself with the chain of supply, its strengths and its weaknesses. And last of all, he discussed what he had learned in the context of war, and the shifting alliances of the Peninsula. The common enemy, you would say, was the Turk. But allegiances altered, and trade, which he knew about, was one of the determining factors. The defence of the Genoese colonies could depend on decisions taken many months before in Genoa and Milan, in reaction to other decisions arrived at in Venice or Naples or Rome, or in the money markets of Flanders. Confidence in evident allies, such as Uzum Hasan, could be shaken by Uzum’s friendship with Venice, which supplied him with arms. Trade, throttled by Constantinople, required to pass from the Peninsula to the West via Poland, but Poland felt herself in danger from Muscovy and the two Tartar Hordes almost as much as she felt menaced by Turkey. All these things must be weighed. And if, having done so, one felt inclined to predict the future, there was still the matter of Venice, who, for the sake of her trade, might end her war with the Turk as easily as she was presently inciting the Golden Horde and the Persians to attack him.

  By the time the talk had turned in this direction, Nich
olas would be alone with the two mentors who were with him wherever he went, Abdan Khan and Karaï Mirza. With the latter, he now had a rapport built on mutual respect and a private repertoire of unrepeatable ballads. In Abdan Khan, he had been confronted by a professional soldier, jealous of his command and buttressed with prejudices. The change had begun with the wrestling bout, but was largely due to the evening that followed. Later, when they had played chess and got drunk together and discovered that they were well matched in both, Nicholas had watched Abdan fall into peaceful slumber and supposed that this was the first time in his own life that his blighted past had in some way come to serve him. That night, he had answered Abdan Khan’s questions, and had described what had happened in Trebizond, even though he preferred not to remember it. It had hurt, and Abdan had noticed as much. Since then, in a guarded way, he had acted towards Nicholas as the vizier of a large country might act to the vizier of a smaller, and occasionally made soldier’s jokes. He was not a witty young man, but he did not need to be, to be good at his job.

  The Khan did not appear at these meetings: that was for later, when Nicholas had learned and imparted all that he could, and conclusions might be drawn. More and more, he recognised that he was in fact the Patriarch’s emissary: that what he was doing was assessing, and enabling Mengli-Girey to assess, the variables in the future, and the best way to meet them. The Patriarch might preach religion, but it was the privilege of a trader to point out the material advantages of one course over another: something that the Bank of St George would understand, and Uzum Hasan, and Ivan in Moscow and Callimachus Experiens at the King’s Court in Cracow. That was why the former owner of the Banco di Niccolò had been brought here. He understood it, but he also understood that it was probably useless. There was religion, and there was self-interest, and there was the unknown brigand who, bursting with energy, looked at the weather one morning, and decided that it was a really good day for a massacre.