The booth lay against one distant wall, and consisted of a long, low building of brick, safely tiled. It had once held a small furnace, but now only contained the Florentine and his possessions, and his workshop.
The Florentine was nervous of Nicholas but he gained confidence as soon as he was asked to present what he was doing, and would have kept them longer if Nicholas had not brought the short interview to a close. Gregorio thought again how little he missed and how quickly, when it suited him, he could establish himself with almost anyone. He had also seen, which was obvious, that the relationship between the man and the Barovier woman was good enough.
By the time they had all returned to the house, the crowd had dispersed and the miscreant had been tied up in the dyeshed, with one soldier beside him, and another outside the door. It was proposed that they should remain there. The presence of another assassin on Murano seemed altogether unlikely.
In the office, during the signing of documents, Marietta Barovier asked the questions Gregorio hadn’t asked. ‘I understood you thought this man a spy, but in reality, it seems you feared an assassin? Why? Why have the Signory given you bodyguards?’
It was Lopez who replied. ‘Excuse me, madonna: perhaps you may not have heard. There was an attempt to kill Messer Niccolò yesterday at the moment of his arrival. It is because of his services in Cyprus. The King has many enemies.’
Then she looked up, as the signing was finished, and said, ‘So you are a powerful young man, to cause such offence. What have I to fear from you?’
Nicholas smiled. ‘That I shall beat you down in the price of the goblet I am about to buy from you,’ he said; and smoothly completed his business, and smoothly took his departure, his doublet over his shoulder, followed by Gregorio and Lopez.
Outside, Lopez said, ‘It is late.’
In one sense it was true. As the sun set, the waterside had filled with people: with women seated sewing on stools, and children running, and dogs leaping and barking. Skerries poled their way up and down with a ripple of water, and floating straw lurched and settled again. Gregorio said, ‘We have an hour and a half to put off. If you would like a pitcher of wine and some fine fish, there is a tavern I know.’
‘I should like to do it,’ Nicholas said, ‘but Lopez and I have a private visit to pay. Where can I hire a light boat he and I can row without help?’
‘I know someone,’ Gregorio said. ‘You would prefer me to stay behind? Am I meant to pretend you are still on the island?’
‘Especially if Julius comes,’ Nicholas said.
‘And that is why you sent him off with Tilde? Not because of the Florentine?’
‘Because of both,’ Nicholas said.
There was a pause. Then Gregorio said, ‘You can’t trust those men with the fellow you caught. They’ll try to beat something out of him.’
‘I’ve told them I’ll report them if they do. I can’t do more, Goro. He mustn’t be freed, you know that. I need a charge that will keep him in a prison cell for a month; and spying’s no good.’
It was not what Gregorio had meant. It was the first time, to his recollection, that Nicholas had failed to read the inner sense of a message. Gregorio turned his gaze from Nicholas to Lopez, and found Lopez looking away.
Rather than say too much, Gregorio said nothing, and occupied himself with negotiating a boat that would suit. He watched them set off from a deserted spot on the shore, and saw they were pulling for the south-west, not the north, although the haze of evening prevented him from following their course precisely. In any case, his task was to turn back and find a tavern-keeper who would swear, if it came to it, that they had all three passed the time on his premises. He picked his way there, deeply anxious.
In the boat, Loppe spoke, as Nicholas knew he would. ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’
‘After today,’ Nicholas said. He was hot, with the strings of his shirt neatly tied and his doublet fast buttoned. The boat skimmed beneath them: they were two powerful men. Behind them, the holy island, the island of San Michele, was already close. He hoped that Bessarion had kept his promise, and the monks were ready for him, and the man he was hoping to meet.
Loppe said, ‘Messer Gregorio was right. They will beat the man.’
They had reached the landing-stage. Above them, the new bell-tower caught the last of the light; below, the red brick walls of the monastery were in darkness. Nicholas drew the boat in and, releasing his oars, took the mooring rope and jumped out. He said, ‘Perhaps I should have left you there with him? Perhaps you would like to go back?’
Loppe didn’t answer. After a moment, Nicholas said, ‘I don’t expect to be long,’ and walked towards the gates, where he saw someone coming to meet him. He held down his breathing, and sought in his memory for all he had picked up of Latin. Then he went forward smiling. One made a plan, and one held to it.
Above him, a bell started to toll, and the din of the Arsenal floated over the water.
Chapter 4
THROUGH THE CENTURIES, many men of religion had found retreat in one or other of the islands of the lagoon, but the monks of the Camaldolite monastery of San Michele tilled their plots and walked their cloisters and sang and prayed in their church within shouting distance of the mercantile heart of the world. They made a virtue of it. When the time came, the great Cardinal Bessarion would leave his priceless Greek books to St Mark’s and not to them; but they in their turn had found their own source of spiritual and secular riches; had identified a channel into which the streams of their learning might be turned to the benefit of both mankind and God. They drew maps.
The room to which they took Nicholas was the one where their cartographers worked; where until his death five years before the greatest of them all had drawn together, from manuscripts, from old and new sailing charts, from stories brought him by travellers, all that was known of the world, and used it to make his great planisphere.
The original of the map was here, now; and the abbot, waiting beside it to greet him. And beside the abbot, the Venetian trader who had sailed into Bruges on the Flanders galleys when Nicholas was a boy of fourteen, and who had since found out more about some parts of the world than Fra Mauro had ever been able to put in his map.
The abbot said, ‘My lord Niccolò. I have the Cardinal Patriarch’s word that you go on God’s work, but in secrecy. We also know and trust the Patriarch of Antioch, Ludovico da Bologna your friend, who has laboured for God between the four points of the compass. Because of them, we have received you here so that you may have some sense of the precious map we possess, and may make yourself known to our guest. He has agreed to talk with you briefly. It is for him to say whether or not you may look for more than that. Meanwhile, speak your minds to each other. Learn. And put it to such work that you will be blessed.’
He left. The Venetian merchant looked after him, and then turned back to Nicholas. He said, ‘They are good people.’
‘It is true,’ Nicholas said. ‘Such men may be too confiding. But the map was sponsored by Portugal. The King has been sent an exact copy. I shall do no less for the Church than Portugal did. Or yourself.’ He made a small pause. ‘Today, at severe cost to my Bank, I have also agreed to grant the Republic a loan which may well ease the lot of her citizens.’
‘My father would thank you,’ said Signor Alvise da Ca’ da Mosto. ‘But the journey you contemplate is not, I trust, one of necessity. There is no guaranteed outcome, material or other, in such a venture.’
‘It would be folly, certainly, to go unprepared,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am told that only here on this map may one inspect the interior of Ethiopia in detail, whether one means to travel from the east or the west.’
‘I can tell you nothing about Ethiopia,’ the nobleman said. ‘Prince Henry did not go there.’
‘Tell me where he went,’ Nicholas said. ‘The abbot is right. I have a great deal to learn.’
What he did not have was time. Fra Mauro had elected to draw his planisphere upside down
, with Ethiopia at the top and England at the bottom. Nicholas scanned the map while he was listening, reading the cramped Italian legends and committing the place names to memory. He asked few questions. What he wanted, and worked to receive, was an undertaking to meet again. He had just obtained it when the abbot re-entered the room, and the interview ended.
Escorting him to the door the abbot was remarkably affable. Outside the chamber, he turned. ‘My son, you have thanked me enough. The land of Prester John attracts many who profess religion, but have other reasons for seeking it. I am glad you are not of their number. The good Cardinal who sent you has said so. Your confessor affirms it, who longs to serve God at your side.’
‘My confessor?’ said Nicholas.
‘You had no idea he was here? He passed the afternoon with us in prayer, and will be glad to share your journey back to the Rialto. I place him in your care.’
‘My confessor?’ said Nicholas.
A burly man of middle years was walking towards them, dressed in a priest’s black cap and gown, and with his unblinking brown eyes fixed on Nicholas.
‘Father Godscalc,’ Nicholas said.
‘My son,’ Godscalc said. The softness of his voice would have been of itself a bad enough sign. ‘Is it not the hand of the Almighty that brought us two together on sacred ground, and myself in need of succour? You have a boat?’
‘No. Yes,’ Nicholas said.
‘I had a word with Lopez outside,’ the priest said. ‘I thought it unlikely he was waiting for anyone else. You were in a hurry, the good abbot said.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yes, of course. Come along.’ He reverted to Latin for his farewells to the abbot. Godscalc’s Latin was better than his German or his Flemish. Walking through the cloisters, the priest took his arm. It felt like being arrested. The priest said, ‘I heard you were coming here, when making my humble call on Cardinal Bessarion.’
‘You came with Julius from Bruges,’ Nicholas said. ‘He didn’t tell me.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t have time,’ Godscalc said. ‘I hear you are in haste this evening yourself. We can talk of your plans in the boat.’
They had reached the gate to the sea. Nicholas released himself and stopped. He said, ‘I can’t take you anywhere. I have to go across to Murano.’
‘So I gather,’ said Godscalc. ‘Julius and young Tilde are there, and you don’t want them to know where you’ve been.’
Nicholas stared at what he could see of him. He said, ‘Loppe told you? Of course, you noticed Loppe.’
‘The porters had noticed him before I did. How could you bring him here?’ Godscalc said. ‘How could you subject another human being to that humiliation? Or don’t you know how a black man is regarded in Venice? I want to talk to you. Get into the boat.’
He had begun to walk down the jetty. Loppe, a dim figure against the distant lights of Murano, was already waiting, the rope in his hand. Nicholas couldn’t see his expression and controlled the flood of anger he himself felt. For Loppe, for Julius, for Godscalc.
He faced the priest and said, ‘Of course, you’ll tell Julius about this?’
‘About what?’ said the chaplain of the Charetty company. ‘That you are pretending a spiritual mission to the mythical king of a land no one can get into? That you’ve had a ghostly summons to abandon your Bank to rally the Christian natives of Africa? I am afraid,’ said Father Godscalc, ‘that Julius will merely find it amusing, which is more than I do. In any case, he will find out about it for himself, the moment he calls on the Cardinal.’
Loppe said, ‘Father, you had better get into the boat. Voices carry.’
Nicholas said, ‘I don’t want him to know yet. I didn’t want anyone to know. Why the … Why are you here?’ He followed Godscalc into the boat and tramped across it and sat down, still staring at Godscalc as Loppe cast off and jumped in. Loppe took up his oars, and after a moment Nicholas got hold of his and dug them in, pulling the craft away from the island with two or three strokes and then stopping. He had lost track of time. However expertly delayed, Julius must be on Murano by now. Loppe, watching him, also put up his oars. They drifted.
Godscalc said, ‘I am not your chaplain now, Nicholas, as you know. I saved your face for you because Cardinal Bessarion gave you credence, and I would do nothing to hurt him. But unless you satisfy me, I shall tell Bessarion to have nothing to do with you, and the abbot to see that you are given no help. I am sorry, Loppe.’
‘Loppe knows all there is to know,’ Nicholas said. It was a lie, but this was a night for mendacity. The boat rocked up and down, and Loppe brushed the water with his blades to keep her from drifting.
‘Then I want the truth,’ Godscalc said.
‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘You have the means to make me tell it.’ The last glow in the west had long gone, and the lights of Venice lay on the water. They were not strong enough to show the hurt he hoped he had caused.
Godscalc said, ‘You have some scheme to go to Africa?’
‘Ask Gregorio how many schemes I have. This is one. A contingency plan. It may never be needed.’
‘And if you go, it will not be by way of Egypt?’
‘I could trade with Egypt. As things are, I couldn’t go there myself just yet,’ Nicholas said. He was supposed to be telling the truth. That was true. He would be killed, for what he had done in Cyprus.
‘So you mean to approach it from another direction. From Barbary, or beyond the Pillars of Hercules?’
‘From some such place. It was to learn more that I asked to come here today,’ Nicholas said. That was also true, so far as it went. He knew, without seeing Godscalc’s face, that it didn’t go far enough.
Godscalc said, ‘Let me repeat. You intend to reach Ethiopia by travelling south of the Sahara desert. That is where da Mosto has been.’
‘Yes,’ Nicholas said.
‘And by sea. That is why you are awaiting the repair of your boat.’
‘I couldn’t go without it,’ said Nicholas. It sounded true, but it wasn’t.
‘But you mean to travel to Ethiopia,’ Godscalc said. He had said it before. Loppe, dissatisfied with the angle of the boat, initiated two or three thoughtful strokes. After a moment, Nicholas joined him. He continued rowing without making much effort.
Nicholas said, ‘I don’t know what I mean to do. It’s a possibility. I’m exploring it. Am I a criminal?’
‘You are a very good liar,’ Godscalc said. ‘You have always been. Did you kill Katelina van Borselen?’
He should have expected it. Spray fell into the boat. He leaned forward to take the next stroke, this time keeping it even. Loppe, as ever, followed him. He said, ‘The rumours in Bruges? I should only lie to you.’
‘You are asking me for my silence. I am asking you about a young, misguided woman whose child –’
‘No!’ said Nicholas. The boat rocked, and then started to settle. He said, ‘If you try to compel me that way, you’ll be sorry.’
‘Why?’ said Godscalc. ‘I have nothing to lose but my life. It hasn’t escaped you. From here, I couldn’t swim back. Who killed Simon’s wife?’
There seemed no way to avoid answering, although he tried to think of one. He said eventually, ‘She died in the siege of Famagusta. She was there because of me, but I didn’t kill her.’
‘And the father of Diniz?’ said Godscalc. He had no right. It was pointless. One could tell the truth or make up any story.
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was Simon’s partner and hence my rival in business. He died because I was there, but I didn’t kill him.’
‘So your conscience is free,’ Godscalc said. ‘And in Ethiopia, or on the way to Ethiopia? Who will be there because of you; who will perish?’
‘I have no idea,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I understand you long to serve God at my side. If I go, why not come along and restrain me? Africa may emerge unscathed from the ordeal.’
They had come too far. Loppe had stopped rowing. Nicholas lifted
the blades, but kept his hands steady on the shafts. It was the only thing that kept his hands steady. Water lapped. Godscalc said, ‘Can it be that you believe all the legends? About the great race of priest-kings known from antiquity; about the Christian warrior-prince named Prester John who, if summoned, will rise to smite the unfaithful?’
‘You’ve forgotten,’ Nicholas said. ‘I met one of his envoys when we were in Fiesole four years ago. There was a Coptic priory in Nicosia. I’ve spent more time than I like to remember with Ludovico da Bologna, our eminent Patriarch of Antioch, who has made it his life’s mission to shuttle between the Christian princes of the West and the East, each begging the other for armies. And even if Zara Ya’qob isn’t Prester John, someone certainly sent envoys to the Council of Florence who knew what Ethiopia was really like: it’s all in the map I’ve just seen.’
‘Why are you angry?’ said Godscalc.
Nicholas didn’t reply. Godscalc waited and then said, ‘Perhaps I prefer it when you are angry. The Christian role of that country is not in any doubt. But there is every reason to doubt that you care for it. What has attracted you is the myth. The myth of Prester John, descendant of Sheba and Solomon. The tales of the miraculous mirror and the Fountain of Youth and the rivers of jewels. The country where there is gold in such abundance that men prefer to barter in shells. Oh, you are greedy,’ said Father Godscalc.
Silence fell. Loppe, stirring the water, kept the boat where it was. Nicholas said, ‘You are quick to judge. If I were to go, my Bank would have to underwrite both the trip and my absence. I should owe it some profit. That is not incompatible with what Cardinal Bessarion wants. I should become a legate, like Antioch, bringing an isolated church within the grasp of the West. We are all greedy for something.’
It made Godscalc pause. Then he said, ‘But you would prefer Julius to learn all this later. Why? What are you waiting for?’
His hands were steady now, for he could deal with this, and make the answer convincing. He said, ‘To see if the Crusade will be launched. If the Pope and Bessarion sail from Ancona, I am unlikely to be encouraged to sail in the opposite direction. You know Julius, and Tilde. I prefer not to agitate them over an expedition that may never happen.’