Siege (9 page)

Maria was still screaming when Tristo grabbed the man by the nape, lifted him clear off the bed, and sent him flying out the open door. At once, the scream ceased. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ Maria cried to Tristo. ‘That vile man was having his way with me!’

The man rose as quickly as he could with his breeches still around his ankles, and hobbled to the door, outraged. ‘Having my way with you! What are you talking about, Maria? Who is this man?’ Tristo slammed the door shut in the man’s face, bringing an abrupt end to his tirade.

‘Having his way with you, eh? Who was he?’ Tristo sat down at the table and helped himself to a glass of wine. The look of outrage had vanished from his face, replaced by a cheerful smile. He paused to take in the lacy dress his wife was wearing. ‘Nice dress.’

‘You like it?’ Maria smiled and adjusted her dishevelled clothes. She was a big-boned, well-endowed woman, pretty rather than beautiful, with long black hair and a mischievous smile. ‘He was nobody. Just some merchant from town. You can hardly expect me to defend myself when you’re away, Tristo. Especially for two years! And you could at least have the courtesy to knock. Christ, you scared the liver out of me. I thought you were a ghost, standing there in the doorway looking like Lucifer himself.’

‘Well, I’m alive and well,’ Tristo said, finishing the wine and moving on to the half-eaten pheasant. ‘Now come here and give your husband a kiss.’ Maria rose and kissed Tristo full on the lips, while he gave her a sharp slap on the bottom. ‘That’s for infidelity, you naughty wench,’ he said. ‘There’ll be none of that now that I’m home.’ Maria returned the blow, slapping Tristo hard across the face. ‘Well what was that for, woman?’

‘That was for infidelity, and for daring to strike your wife,’ Maria replied tartly.

Tristo jumped from his chair and gave Maria another slap on the bottom. ‘Then that,’ he said, ‘is for not knowing your place, woman.’

She slapped him back. ‘And that is for daring to strike a lady.’

‘A lady?’ Tristo roared, chasing Maria around the table, one hand swinging for her bottom. He caught her, and after a brief tussle, the slapping became hugging, then kissing, and then they were on the bed, holding each other tight.

‘Welcome home, Tristo,’ Maria said, laughing. ‘Oh, how I missed you.’

True to his word, Longo saw to the ploughing of his fields the next morning. He sat in the shade of an olive tree, taking a breakfast of bread and cheese while he watched Nicolo struggle to pull a plough through the cold, hard ground. Longo had strapped Nicolo to the harness himself, and although the chamberlain had been wrestling for nearly half an hour, he had moved no more than a few feet. When he had finished his breakfast, Longo went down to where Nicolo was straining at the harness. The sun had risen and, although the air still retained the chill of winter, Nicolo was dripping in sweat. He sank to his knees in exhaustion as Longo approached.

‘Nicolo, you have only ploughed six feet,’ Longo said with mock severity. He poked at the dirt with his foot. ‘And poorly turned at that. You will be out ploughing every day until summer at this rate.’

Nicolo looked up in alarm. ‘Please, My Lord, no more ploughing, I beg you. I will do anything you ask.’

‘Very well.’ The punishment had been mostly for the benefit of the other servants. Nicolo was valuable enough that Longo would put up with his occasional transgressions. Longo pulled his chamberlain to his feet and helped him from the harness. ‘You may start by running to the villa. I am going to take a tour of the vineyards, and when I return, I want horses saddled for myself, Tristo and three men. I must go to a council meeting in Genoa,
and I will spend tonight in town. Please send a man to the
palazzo
to make the necessary arrangements.’

‘Yes, My Lord. Immediately, My Lord,’ Nicolo said, hurrying away despite his weariness.

‘And have somebody look at your back, Nicolo,’ Longo called after him. ‘I’m sure the harness has left its mark.’

‘Of course. Thank you for your consideration, My Lord.’ Nicolo jogged on up the hill towards the villa, paused to catch his breath at the olive tree where Longo had breakfasted, and then lumbered over the hill and out of view.

When Longo arrived at the villa, he found Nicolo holding the bridle of his horse. Tristo and three armed men stood ready to escort Longo to the city, and with them was William, who rushed forward as soon as he caught sight of Longo. ‘Longo,’ he cried. ‘May I ride with you to the city? I will be no trouble.’

‘We are not in the East any longer, William. You must address me as “My Lord”,’ Longo admonished, although he accompanied his words with a smile. William had spoken in English, and none except for Longo and Tristo had understood. ‘You may not accompany me this time,’ Longo continued. ‘You do not know our ways, and I do not want you getting into trouble. Once you know something of Italian, then you may enter Genoa. Not before.’

‘But I will be no trouble,’ William protested.

‘I am sure,’ Longo said, swinging himself into the saddle. ‘But you must stay nevertheless. Nicolo,’ he said, switching to Italian, ‘find something to occupy William. Teach him some Italian.’

Longo spurred away. He and his men rode at a trot through vineyards and fields, down through the tall eastern gate of Genoa – the Porta Soprana – and into the city. As they wound through the narrow streets, the buildings close on either side, Longo caught sight of William running after them, attempting unsuccessfully to stay out of sight. Longo shook his head. The boy would have to learn discipline if he wished to stay in Longo’s household.

By the time he arrived at the Ducal Palace, Longo had put William out of his mind. The palace was a tall building, with
white marble columns fronting the street and a tall tower rising above the whole. Longo dismounted, handed his reins to Tristo, and entered. The palace was the centre of power in Genoa. The city was ruled exclusively by a few great merchant families: the Grimaldi, Cassello, Boccanegra, Spinola, Adorno, Fregoso, Doria, Fieschi and Giustiniani. They met in council once a month, presided over by the Doge, who they elected for life.

Longo entered the council hall – a long, high-ceilinged room dominated by a massive oval table. He took his place as head of the Giustiniani family, and waited while the table slowly filled. The Doge, Ludovico Fregoso, entered last, a tall, long-nosed man with the pleasant, unexceptional features of his family. He called the council to order, and the talk turned immediately to questions of trade – the anticipated arrival of several caravans from the East, the persistent rumours of a sea passage to the Indies, and the advisability of financing exploration of the passage. From trade, the talk turned to politics: Genoa’s great rival, Venice, was expanding its lands in the eastern Mediterranean. Longo sat quietly until the discussion turned to Pera – the Genoese trading colony just across the Golden Horn from Constantinople.

‘Signor Giustiniani,’ Fregoso addressed him. ‘You have recently returned from Constantinople. What news do you bring?’

‘The news is not good,’ Longo began. ‘King Ladislas of Poland was killed at the Battle of Kossova, and John Hunyadi’s army was destroyed. The Greeks do not have enough men to fight the sultan’s armies. If the Turks attack, then I fear Constantinople will fall unless the Greeks have outside aid.’

The table was quiet. Finally, Niccolò Grimaldi, a soft-spoken, elderly man known for his shrewd business dealings, broke the silence. ‘If Constantinople falls, then Pera will be lost. Our trade with the East would be ruined.’

‘We would be left with nothing, easy pickings for the Venetians,’ agreed Umberto Spinola.

‘What course of action do you suggest, Signor Giustiniani?’ Fregoso asked.

‘We have two choices. We can send an ambassador to the sultan and arrange a treaty guaranteeing the sanctity of Pera. Murad may be an infidel, but he is a man of his word. However, he is said to be in poor health, and I know little of his son, the heir. Moreover, it pains me to go begging to the Turks. Instead, I propose that we arrange a treaty with the Greek emperor. In return for trading concessions, we should begin sending ships and men to Constantinople to fortify the city. I believe that a strong sign of Western support is the only thing that can deter the Turks. Whatever we do, we must act quickly. Only Murad’s goodwill has preserved peace thus far. I fear it will not last for long.’

Longo sat back. Spinola, an extremely religious man who could not abide the Turks, responded first. ‘I agree with Signor Giustiniani,’ he said. ‘We must enter no negotiations with the heathen sultan.’

‘Fine words,’ Giovanni Adorno retorted. He was a plump man, whose merry face and twinkling eyes belied a ruthless intelligence. ‘But your religion, Signor Spinola, has not stopped your agents from signing contracts with Turkish warlords or purchasing millions of soldi worth of spices from Muslim traders.’

‘You question my faith, Signor?’ Spinola bristled.

‘Not at all,’ Adorno soothed. ‘I merely wish to point out that even the most righteous among us have made deals with the heathens. Indeed, our livelihoods depend on it.’

‘There are other concerns,’ Longo pointed out. ‘A deal with the sultan will create anger in Constantinople. We cannot risk losing our docks and warehouses there.’

‘Exactly,’ Spinola agreed. ‘That is why we must aid Constantinople.’

‘Forgive me for asking,’ Grimaldi said. ‘But what would this cost? Financing troops at such a distance is no small matter. I do not wish to bankrupt our city to fight a war that has not yet begun.’ Several men nodded or thumped the table in agreement. ‘And what if we support Constantinople, and the city falls regardless?’ Grimaldi continued. ‘We will lose everything.’

‘A small sacrifice to defend our faith,’ Spinola insisted. ‘Or have we all forgotten that we are Christians, that we have a duty to our Lord?’

‘I am sure none of us has forgotten, Signor, but we also have a duty to our city and our people,’ Fregoso said. ‘I propose that we make contact with the sultan …’

‘But Signor!’ Longo interrupted. ‘We cannot abandon Constantinople.’

‘We will not,’ Fregoso assured him. ‘We will seek to learn the sultan’s mind, but will enter into no official agreement. Meanwhile, the Emperor Constantine will be given assurances of aid, to be delivered when and if an attack occurs.’ In short, Fregoso was proposing that they do nothing. ‘All in favour?’ the Doge asked. A chorus of
ayes
settled the matter. Only Longo and Spinola had abstained. ‘Very well,’ Fregoso concluded, ‘the matter is settled and this meeting is at an end.’

Longo rose and marched from the palace without a word to the others. The decision had not surprised him, but he was upset nonetheless. He sent Tristo and his men on ahead to the
palazzo
. Longo followed on foot, striding ahead as if to outpace his disappointment.

William stood in a shadowy alleyway and watched as Longo exited the Ducal Palace and headed on foot towards the centre of town. He followed at a distance. A dense crowd filled the narrow street, circulating between the shops that lined both sides of the road. Above, covered balconies projecting from the buildings nearly met overhead, leaving only a narrow gap for the pale January sunshine. William watched as a house servant came to the window of one of the balconies and dumped a chamber-pot into the street below. William jumped back, narrowly avoiding being doused with filth.

He turned to find Longo standing before him. William froze, his face flushing crimson. ‘I didn’t mean to disobey, sir,’ he explained. ‘But I wanted to see the city – it was dark when we arrived, and I didn’t think it would do any harm …’

‘I am not angry with you,’ Longo said, cutting William short. ‘I could use your company. We will stop by the market on the way to the
palazzo
. As long as you are out, I might as well buy you something to wear. Those rags barely cover you.’

They walked through the maze of narrow streets and down to the market. It filled the Piazza San Giorgio, only a few blocks from the port, and overflowed into the surrounding streets. The periphery of the square was lined with booths selling a dazzling array of goods – oriental silks, Indian spices, exotic animals, swords, flowers. Milling between the booths was a thick crowd of people, cut occasionally by a noble on horseback. William stopped and gaped, dazzled by the brightly painted buildings that lined the square, the outlandishly dressed street performers and the sheer liveliness of it all. Longo waded into the crowd, and William hurried after him.

They stopped in front of a stall selling bolts of cloth and well-worked leather in long strips. Longo patted the leather appreciatively, then spoke briefly with the merchant, who offered two long lengths of the leather for Longo’s closer inspection. Longo nodded his approval and then moved on to examine a bolt of white cotton.

‘But I thought we were buying clothes,’ William interrupted.

‘These are your clothes: leather breeches and a cotton shirt. Tristo will show you how to sew them. Now come. You look half-starved. I will buy you something to eat. You have never had a fig, I’d wager.’

William had never tasted anything quite so wonderful as a fig. It was so sweet it hurt his mouth, but it also had an exotic, earthy flavour that undercut the sweetness. As he and Longo chewed, they wandered over to watch a fire-eater in one of the streets on the edge of the square. The fire-eater took a flaming sword and slowly inserted the blade – all two feet of it – into his mouth so that only the hilt protruded. When he withdrew the sword, the blade was still burning.

‘How does he do that?’ William wondered.

Longo reflected, chewing on a fig. ‘Maybe he drinks something special to protect him. Or maybe it does burn him, but he has grown used to the pain.’

But William was no longer listening. All his attention was focused beyond the fire-eater, to where an Italian noble was approaching on horseback. He was a thin man, whose otherwise handsome face was marred by a perpetual sneer. William recognized that face; indeed, he would never forget it. It was the face of Carlo Grimaldi, the man who had betrayed William and his crewmates to the Turks.