Gemini (56 page)

It was what Julius had always tried to hammer into him, when they were being serious about anything, Julius and Felix and Claes. If Nicholas had discovered ambition, he could thank Julius for it.

And then, after the golden years, Julius had made a disastrous marriage to a woman he thought he knew all about, and found that his money had gone and he hardly knew her at all. Adelina had been related to Nicholas, and when she died, she had been in custody for trying to kill him. It made Julius feel ill even to think of her. He kept remembering that there was a daughter of hers, subsisting at Nicholas’s expense in a convent here in Cologne. The girl’s name was Bonne, and she was said to be between sixteen and eighteen years old. But then Adelina, who called herself Anna, sometimes said she wasn’t her daughter at all.

So now there were no nightly feasts on the lagoon, or music, or dancing, or archery contests with one’s clients, and packed baskets of fine wines and dates in comfits and veal-garnished cygnets. There was German food and German beer, and a modest, uninteresting business with Father Moriz and that assiduous man Govaerts, lent by the Charetty to help him run it.

When he heard Nicholas was coming from Scotland, Julius said at once, ‘Good. I’m going to join him.’

‘Well, it’s an idea,’ Father Moriz had said. Father Moriz was a short, bow-legged, truculent metallurgy expert who had worked with Nicholas and John in the Tyrol and Scotland. He was German, and didn’t mind terrible food. ‘It’s an idea. Certainly we should discuss it. And consider who would then run the business, and look after the interests of Bonne.’

That was Moriz. No sense of humour, and a fanatic about piddling details. Julius said, ‘All right. We can talk about it. But I’m going to ask Diniz to send Nicholas, anyway.’

P
ICKING HIS WAY
through the streets of Cologne, Nicholas had no trouble in finding Julius’s office and warehouse, smaller than the one in which Gelis had stayed in the affluent days, but still close to the river. It felt strange to be here, after Nancy.

Julius and Govaerts were at home, but not Father Moriz. Nicholas had a strong feeling that Julius wasn’t going to send out to find Moriz, or at least not immediately. As soon as Govaerts showed him in, grinning, Julius had remarked, ‘Ah, Nicholas. Come to visit the poor?’

He was smiling, too; but there was a snap to it that you might have thought unwise, in Julius’s position. Whether about to ask a favour or not, what was in Julius’s mind at the moment was the fact that Nicholas
was enjoying friends, esteem, security and a rejuvenated marriage in Scotland while he was not. Nicholas extended his fingers and fondled one of Julius’s buttons. ‘You don’t seem to be doing so badly.’

‘It’s old. I haven’t had to sell off my clothes, or not yet. Will you have some wine? We can still afford wine,’ Julius said. He was recovering.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Govaerts said. ‘The business is doing very nicely, Ser Nicholas. And are you well? It’s a pleasure to see you.’

He looked the same. Govaerts had been a good manager in Scotland, and was being a good manager here, which was not so far, after all, from his home in Brussels. Julius looked fit, and his smooth, symmetrical face with its slanting eyes and Roman nose were burned by the sun, as if he had been out of doors a great deal. The last time they had met had been in Ghent, in the violence that attended the unmasking and death of Adelina. Julius must have been glad of a respite after that. But more than two years had elapsed since then, and he was announcing now his intention of returning to Scotland with Nicholas.

‘Just when your business is doing so well?’ Nicholas said sarcastically. He could tell what Govaerts thought by his face.

So could Julius. Julius said, ‘I could sell it. Or Govaerts could run it. Everyone trusts him. He wouldn’t mind.’

‘And Father Moriz?’ Nicholas said. ‘He was supposed to be in Cologne to help you. So was Govaerts.’

‘Well, they could help each other,’ Julius said. ‘Or, as I said, I could sell it.’

‘Well, why not,’ Nicholas said. ‘Let’s talk about it when Moriz comes in. You couldn’t return with me anyway. I’m leaving for Paris, then Scotland, at once.’

For a moment, he thought that Julius was going to claim that he could settle his affairs, do his packing and leave with him too, but even he had to acknowledge it couldn’t be done. Which would give Nicholas time to see Moriz. When Adelina died, the rest of the Bank had shored up the Cologne business for Julius. He owed money. He couldn’t sell, although he had conveniently forgotten.

Then Julius began to ask about Scotland, and France, and Diniz and Gregorio, and presently fall into recollections of their shared past. There had been good times, there was no doubt about it. In setting out to remind Nicholas, Julius himself gradually warmed to the telling until, before long, the petulance had gone, and they were roaring together as they had always done over some irreverent incident. You couldn’t hate Julius. You could never hate Julius for long, he was so innocent. Someone else had said that.

Govaerts went early to bed; Moriz didn’t come; and Julius and Claes, the ex-company notary and the former apprentice he sometimes felt he brought up, drank until nearly daylight.

Next morning, Nicholas found Julius already out, fulfilling his business commitments. He would be free and home, Govaerts said, at midday. Father Moriz had been detained overnight, but hearing that Nicholas had come, had sent a note for him early that morning.

‘You know what is in it?’ Nicholas said.

‘The superscription invited me to read it. As you see, Fra Moriz hopes you will join him. You would be back before noon.’

‘Then I shall go. But first, perhaps you and I should have a talk also?’ Nicholas said; and was glad he had, when he saw the man flush. It had been difficult, here in Cologne. He had not realised how difficult.

C
OLONIA, THAT GREAT
Roman city, was a place for fine churches. Besides its Cathedral, church after church, monastery after monastery had brought its grace here, and had been nurtured by many nations. The Irish monks of Cologne were known the world over.

So were the Franciscans, and especially that severe sect called the Observatines, the particular favourites of Mary of Guelders, who had sailed to Scotland with Louis de Gruuthuse and Henry van Borselen, and married its King, and given birth to five living children, among whom were James, the present King, and the Duke of Albany, his rebellious brother. It was Sandy’s royal mother who had brought the Observatine Franciscans from Cologne to Edinburgh, from where they had now spread to Aberdeen, under the devoted sponsorship of Bishop Spens. It was to the house of the Observatines in Cologne that Nicholas walked now, to be admitted and shown to a guest-room in which were two men. One, springing up on his horseman’s legs, short and plain as a dwarf, was Father Moriz. The other he had last seen in Moscow.

‘Father Ludovico,’ he said.

‘Deference!’ said Ludovico da Bologna, Patriarch of Antioch. ‘Is one of us dying? There is nothing wrong with me, so far as I know, but a few bruises and a surfeit of Prosper de Camulio. Did you see him?’

‘No. He’d gone before I came,’ Nicholas said. He smiled at Father Moriz, who had risen from beside the Patriarch’s bed.

‘Didn’t want to talk about the late David his Procurator. Did he really try to kill the King and his brothers?’

‘He was careless with poison,’ Nicholas said. ‘And deserved all he got. So, how bruised? By the Empress Zoe, when you told her you were leaving Moscow? By the toe of her shoe?’ He sat down where Moriz had been.

‘He was set upon,’ Moriz said. ‘Nothing sinister, just ordinary robbers.’

‘You don’t look rich,’ said Nicholas critically. He eyed the Patriarch, who looked as hairy, as unkempt and as poverty-stricken on the pillows as
he had ever been from the first time they had met and quarrelled with each other nearly twenty years earlier in Florence.

‘They wanted the mule. So you have given up Burgundy in favour of Bordeaux, my fine Nicholas?’

‘Well, not at least in favour of Porretta,’ Nicholas said. He hadn’t meant to talk about Milan. Faced with the most single-minded man he had ever known, he couldn’t help it. Uzum Hasan was dead, Cyprus was in Venetian hands, Caffa had been overrun by the Turks and the Tartars, Muscovy remained resolutely Greek in its faith and—the final blow—Venice had made peace with Turkey, thereby wrecking Ludovico da Bologna’s life’s mission: to remove the Muslim menace from the Latin communities of the East. And what was the Patriarch doing but quartering Europe in the name of a petty feud by the head of the Latin Christian church against Latin Christian Milan. It was to be expected of Camulio. But the Patriarch?

Except, of course, that in the Patriarch’s case there would be labyrinthine plotting below the apparent compliance. The Pope would pay for it, and so would the Emperor. Nicholas knew the Patriarch’s methods. To fund his objectives, he would make any promise. To command a man whom he wanted, he would employ any lure. None of it was for himself, and he wasted no thought at all upon the men whom he used; an attribute that Nicholas found harshly liberating.

Father Ludovico had been watching him. ‘Ah, you are wondering if I have reached the age of confessions, excuses. Am I a Bessarion, about to enfold you to my bosom and whisper advice? No, I am not, although I do not say ignore what he told you. I have little to say to you, except this. If you wish, as I see you do, the mindless life of a comfortable paterfamilias, you could not do better than return to banking in Venice. You will die rich, and you might be of some service to me in the meantime. And your man Julius, so dismissive of Germany, might enjoy living in Scotland in your place.’

Nicholas said, ‘Is
that
why Gregorio is in Bruges?’

The heavy face stirred. ‘He hasn’t mentioned it yet? I thought not. A sink of sentiment. Never rely on a man deeply in thrall to his wife. They exchange genders. Yes, there is an opportunity in Venice. Take it. Or stay in your puddle.’

Nicholas said, ‘Let me guess. Josaphat Barbaro is back.’

‘You are right.’ The Patriarch looked complacent. ‘The Venetian envoy to the late Uzum Hasan. Have all the Persian’s sons killed each other? I cannot remember. And other friends in Venice, of course. Caterino Zeno and Violante his wife, and her charming footloose son Nerio, whom the charlatan Andreas, I hear, once befriended in Bruges. The new Doge, Mocenigo’s brother. And the Cypriots.’

Nicholas said, ‘I thought that was a pity. That Zacco’s family died.’

The tangled black brows rose. ‘Died? You could visit them. They are all living save Charla, the daughter. In the custody of Venice, and never to go back to Cyprus, but alive. Who told you otherwise?’

Moriz’s face was curious, waiting. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Nicholas said.

The Patriarch sighed. ‘I see that it does. I see you are another Gregorio, save that I thought your wife was more of a man. You will stay in Scotland. Or you might settle in France. I wish you more luck than I had in March.’

Nicholas said, ‘Julius would prefer Venice to Scotland or Germany or France.’ The Patriarch knew Julius of old. Indeed, he had known him in his wilder days with Bessarion in Bologna, and had denounced him to the Medici. Nicholas had long since realised that, with the Medici vanished from Constantinople and Bruges and weakened in Florence, the Patriarch was looking for other observers in the East. Once, Nicholas had proposed to set Julius up in Novgorod, as proprietor of the Banco Niccolò-Giulio, but Julius would not go there alone.

He added, ‘And speaking of Julius. The death of his wife was perhaps a shock? And of Acciajuoli. Neither survived Moscow by very long.’

‘I heard,’ said the Patriarch. ‘In any case, they both would have ended, in my view, with a stake through the heart, the woman especially. The Florentine had a romantic brand of mysticism which he paraded rather too much, that was all. Have you been divining?’

‘No. Yes,’ Nicholas said.

‘I heard. I thought Father Moriz here weaned you away from it. And did it bring you profit and delight? No. Well, don’t blame me for disturbing your illusion of privacy. Others will do more to you, and worse, if you persist. Returning to Julius and Venice. Julius would go anywhere if you made him a prince. He would stay in Germany.’

Moriz said loudly, ‘No one has that kind of money.’ He had become increasingly restless. The German and the Italian had crossed swords before. It had amused the Duchess in the Tyrol.

Nicholas said, ‘And Gregorio is settled in Venice. No, Patriarch. I am useless to you.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Father Ludovico with passing discontent. ‘That is, you cannot see beyond the mattress, I am told, at the moment. When your caul is removed, you will notice that the King of France is not as well as he might be; and the King of England leads an unhealthy life; and the Duchess Eleanor—yes! I regret to inform you—is in the care of her doctors. Added to which are all the terminating activities of just and unjust Man—the Medici killing in Florence, who would have expected it? The assassination of the last Duke of Milan! The judicial killing—I am told—of the King of England’s own brother, following the example of France. The sad royal slaughters in Cyprus and
Persia. The decimation of the nobility of the Fleece—there were only five Knights left alive in the stalls, I am told, when the Order held its meeting last year. Sudden death faces us everywhere, and the whole prospect of Europe can change overnight. You know, of course, that Rhodes is about to fall, and the Turk is attacking Belgrade and moving into Otranto in Italy? The King of Naples accuses Venice of making peace with the Sultan merely to punish Venice’s Italian enemies.’

‘Rhodes has fallen?’
Nicholas said.

The Patriarch looked at him. ‘I thought you would be pleased? It is not quite confirmed. But when last heard of, the Sultan’s Pasha had arrived off the island with fifteen thousand men and sixty ships, ten cannon and thirty stone-casting machines, and the Grand Master of the Order of St John was attempting to resist with three thousand five hundred men.’