The King's Diamond (22 page)

‘Ten thousand devils!' roared Cellini. ‘Take her! I want no woman such as that!'

I hurried past him and vaulted over the wall, blindly into the dark. I landed heavily on the grass and bumped against a body. Hannah was right there: she had been waiting for me. Before she could react I pinioned the hand that held the spit against the wall with my body. Her right arm, with its still-burning candle, was stretched out straight, beyond my reach. I had my own candle in my left hand, held at full length for safety, while my right clutched her shoulder. It was stalemate: neither could reach the candle of the other. I brought my face close to her ear.

‘My dearest Mrs Hannah. Why do you not simply tell me the mistress's name?'

She looked back at me, defiant, breathing hard. ‘Because I choose not to.'

‘Then why did you not just say no? Instead, you go to all these lengths. You challenge me. You fight me. You trick me. Mrs Hannah, I think you are in trouble. The more you battle against me, the more you are ensnared. Very soon, you will be mine.'

‘You are wrong!'

She tried to pull free. Her face was twisted round just in front of mine. I saw to my amazement that she was afraid. Something was driving her, pursuing her, goading her into her mad attacks and escapes. But in her deep soul she wanted to be free of it. And I was the man who would free her. I leant forward and pressed my lips against hers. She was surprised; her wide open eyes stared into mine. Then they slowly closed. Her breaths came quick. I felt her lips part, and moved my mouth closer over hers. But even as I did so, my hand stole further round her back, over her shoulder blades, down her arm, seeking for her elbow; next would be her wrist, which I would grip, and shake that candle from her grasp.

From far away over the city a bell rang out, one, two, three times. There was a pause, and it rang three times again, and then three times more. It was the Angelus: the end at last of the Carnival and the start of Lent. I let my pressure on her mouth ease, while my hand stretched out to reach those last few inches down her arm. I was almost there. Suddenly, with a jerk of her head she broke the kiss, and her hand with the candle swept round. With the butt-end of her candle she aimed a blow at mine that dashed it out of my hand and put it out, while her own flame carried on, up between our faces, until all I could see was fire. I heard the fizzle of her flame as it caught the thin hair on my cheek and went out, and I smelled the stink of burning flesh even before I felt the pain. I gasped and fell back against the wall with my hands to my face. The last chimes of the bell echoed round the ruins, and I heard Hannah run away, laughing.

Light fell slantwise from the plain glass windows of the little church of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, sliding down over the terracotta tiles of the floor and gleaming off their pale gold decoration of angels holding scrolls. The choir of some two dozen boys and men, seated in two ranks just below the altar, began to sing.

‘Reminiscere miserationum tuarum, Domine …
' Remember, Lord, thy mercies. May our enemies never master us. Save us from all our straits. Into the church advanced in procession the Master and Brethren of the Hospital of Saint Thomas, the hostel for English pilgrims in Rome that adjoined the church. This place formed a private domain for English visitors to the city of the popes, where they could meet and exchange news of home. The Master of the Hospital, an English priest named Paul Ballantyne, was dressed in the violet chasuble and stole proper for the season. It was the second Sunday in Lent; the Sunday that is known as
Reminiscere
. Remember.

It was impossible for me to forget. The pain was there to remind me, whenever I moved my face, despite the poultice of ambergris and lard applied by the apothecary from the Spicery in Trastevere, the best place in all Rome for medicines. I glanced up the aisle
towards the stone altar that was spread with a white silk cloth. In the front rank of the congregation, in a box of their own, sat the Cages. Stephen was on the left, his broad back covered in a thick cape edged with fur. Next to him, with Susan and Grace on her other side, was Hannah. She wore a russet gown embroidered in gold, and covering her hair and her hood was a veil of pale yellow silk. I saw her dip her head devoutly as the priest went by. During the responses I strained to make out her voice among the others. She was lost to me, just as surely as the Golconda diamond I had lost in Venice, which had teased and shone for me just as Hannah did, for so very brief a time.

This was my third trip to the church since the night of the
moccoli
. My first had been the very next day, Ash Wednesday, when I had knelt to have my forehead marked with the holy ashes, emblem of repentance or regret. And, by God, how I did regret. I regretted I had not moved quicker, or kept my candle higher; then again, I regretted having tried to trick her while we kissed; I regretted not having thrown my candle in the grass and given her her victory for nothing, instead of fighting for it and losing. I regretted my anger and shame, that prevented my going up right now, past where their household sat, their chamberlain, the almoner and the gentlewomen, sweeping my bow to Mr Stephen in the old, familiar way, and slipping back into their family. But I could not bear the thought of the two girls' smiles, their gloating comments, their clucking over my burnt cheek; Hannah's effortless pride. That girl haunted me. My days were blank until the following Sunday, when I knew I could see her without being seen.

As the service came to an end I slipped out into the aisle so as to be among the first to leave. If it had not been for the Cages, I would have shunned the English church entirely. It carried with it too many reminders of home. Among the pilgrims in the congregation there were a good many merchants, ill at ease in a foreign city, many of them speaking scant Italian and all of them more at home on the
Thames. Their plain, solid faces seemed to say to me, ‘You are one of us after all. You never belonged with those high Court gentry. See what a fool they have made of you. Come back to us. Thameswater is in your blood.' I took a last, thirsty look at the back of Hannah Cage's head, and stepped out of the church with both sadness and relief. Then I set off at a brisk pace across the little square of Saint Catherine of the Wheel, aiming to put Saint Thomas's behind me as swiftly as I could. A chill wind was blowing up from the Tiber and a few specks of rain fell. I would go back to my inn and eat a silent dinner of dry, salty Lenten stockfish, and then, perhaps, spend the afternoon walking about Rome in the rain.

‘Richard! Richard Dansey?'

I kept on walking.

‘Richard? By God, I know it is you.' The voice was English, and familiar. I turned round. Hurrying after me from the direction of the church was a young man of my own age, tall and long-legged, dressed in a rather shabby blue doublet. He had a cloak and sword, and a cap of blue velvet on his head, which sported a red ostrich feather, broken halfway along its length. I stared in astonishment as he came up to me, smiling.

‘John!' I shouted. ‘John Lazar!'

We embraced. It was three years since I had last seen him; almost six since our childhood band of three clasped hands in the street outside our house on Thames Street. John laughed and hugged me round the shoulder. ‘Now that I have you I will not let you go. A bottle? For the sake of old times?'

Tired and sick at heart as I was, I managed a smile. ‘A bottle would be perfect.'

‘And is this your servant?' He peered at Martin, who walked along beside him, looking at his tatty clothes in suspicion. ‘Do I not know you?'

‘I remember you, sir, yes,' said Martin. ‘A great raider of our warehouse, if I recall rightly.'

‘Good man!' said John, and put his other arm through Martin's. It appeared that John had no servant of his own. Linked like this, we carried on down the Via Monserrato and out into the large square that lay before the palazzo of the Farnese. It warmed me to be in John's presence again. His confident step put fresh life into me.

‘About this bottle,' John was saying. ‘We have two choices. Either I shall pay, in which case we can afford about a thimbleful of sour beer, or else you pay, and we may fare rather better.'

I laughed. ‘I will pay.' John and I had been equals and rivals all our lives. It flattered me to think that my fortunes had overtaken his. Also, God knew, I needed a confidant. I did not trust Cellini to hear of my sufferings, and Martin was no use. While he was dressing my wound that night of the
moccoli
he had said only, ‘She is a bad woman, master. Perhaps now you'll leave her alone.' Since then he had kept a watchful eye on me. He knew, as well as I did, that to forget Hannah Cage was impossible.

‘Where are you staying?' John enquired.

‘At the Ship. In the Campo dei Fiori.'

John's cheerful face broke into a smile. ‘Then we'll chart a course.'

It was a relief to be guided back to my own inn, and to let my old friend do the talking.

‘But you must explain to me everything,' he said. ‘You are here to trade? And what clothes! Look at the silver on those buttons! And what is that stitched along your collar? Not pearls? The firm of Dansey is doing well for itself. Where is Mr William?'

‘Back in London, I hope. This venture is all my own.'

He opened his eyes in appreciation. ‘No! In that case, two bottles!'

I let John step first into the warm dimness of the inn. The Ship was laid out a little like a nobleman's house, with vestibule, sala and private rooms. This sala was a far step from the grand room of the Cages, though. It was long and low, with massive oak beams painted with red and yellow flowers, and ranks of trestle tables. Like many of
the inns in this part of Rome, the Ship was owned by a wealthy courtesan who ran it as a sideline to her other business. We sat down together at one of the tables slightly apart from the other diners. Instead of my penitential stockfish I ordered us a carp, luxuriant in oil and honey and raisins, and a sweet Sicilian wine to go with it.

‘To the old band,' said John, raising his cup.

‘To the old band.'

‘How did the verse go? “Sweet band of friends, farewell: together we set out; but far and various roads will bring us home.”'

‘Something of that kind.'

‘Beautiful times. Do you remember the oath Thomas made us swear? To meet again, the three of us? Well, I have been off and away in Hungary, inspecting salt mines. And, by God, what a ruinous venture that was. We got out a whisker ahead of the Turks, pater and I, with the Janissaries and the Vayvod of Transylvania on our tails, and heads rolling like cabbages.' He reached for the bottle and poured himself another full cup.

I wondered whether John was telling the whole truth. I looked at the broken feather in his cap, the frayed, stained clothes. No, he had broken from his family, just as I was doing; though his break, I guessed, had been more abrupt and less carefully planned than my own. I smiled faintly, and looked down. He leant forward across the table.

‘But surely you are not here to deal in jewels?'

I took a sip of the wine, and a mouthful of carp. ‘Naturally.'

‘On your own account? Are you thriving? But this is marvellous! Well? Do you have something? Let me see, let me see.'

He took the bottle and poured me more wine. I looked from side to side down the long room. A couple of tables away sat eight or nine rough-looking men. They had the air of soldiers, or the idle bravos that made up the retinues of noblemen, all full of swagger and sword-fights over nothing. I did not care for men such as that to know my business.

‘After we have eaten,' I said quietly. ‘I shall take you to a place where I can show you.'

John's pale blue eyes gleamed. ‘Most interesting.' He lifted his cup again. ‘To profit.'

We drank, and John snapped his fingers for the second bottle. It was late before we set off arm in arm back the way we had come, past the English church, heading for the Vicolo di Calabraga. Martin knocked at Cellini's door. After a time we heard the drawing back of locks, and Paulino came and opened it. Deeper in the workshop several candles burned. John followed me in, looking sharply round the shop. Cellini was sitting at his bench, holding in his hands the opal cross. He had been working on this for nearly two weeks. With my moody wanderings about Rome since the night of the
moccoli
I had scarcely paid any attention to how his work had been progressing.

I said, ‘What's this, Benvenuto? Working on a Sunday?'

‘This is not work,' he murmured, nudging one of the stones with a scalpel. ‘It is pleasure. Pure, sinful pleasure. Look!'

He held up the cross. It was only a couple of inches long, but the stones blazed with such light and colours that they stopped me where I stood. The opals teased me, shimmering in ripples of ghostly green beneath their skins, the hues shifting as I came nearer, darting out like bold words from a girl, each one promising much, then instantly withdrawn. I saw that Cellini had placed one opal in the centre that was almost black, but which flashed with sulphur, carmine, and the pale green of burning oil; as if there were a fire in it deep inside. The stones were set perfectly: not too deep, the way many goldsmiths do, thereby hiding their glory; they were clasped just as high as was safe without the risk of losing them. It was a thing of utter and hopeless bewitchment.

John, standing at my elbow, let out a whistle. ‘May I hold it?' He spoke in Italian, fluently and with a Tuscan accent like Cellini. With a twinge of unwillingness I handed it to him. ‘
Meraviglioso
,' murmured John. The syllables rolled beautifully from his tongue. He
made me feel as if I were the one who was the outsider, me with my drawling Venetian speech, the word endings cut short as in French. Cellini too had detected the accent, and turned to him sharply.

‘And what manner of a man are you?' he asked.

‘Another Englishman,' said John, looking up with a smile, and setting the cross down on the bench. ‘A simple wanderer on the roads of life.'

‘That, I doubt,' said Cellini.

‘A merchant, then,' said John, waving one hand, as if grasping in the air for answers. ‘With packhorses loaded down with ambergris and ivory, and many a rich argosy on the seas.'

‘I think you are a damned
fuoruscito
,' said Cellini. ‘An exile from Florence, an enemy of the Medici. One of those who would like to see the Pope's family kicked out. Lovers of liberty, as you call yourselves.' Cellini scowled. ‘Malcontents. Rebels. I know the look of you, Englishman or not. You have fugitive written on your face, your clothes, the way you look round as if you don't know who might be coming at you. You'd like to see all the princes and bishops in the world laid low, and no grandeur or marks of rank left anywhere. That's the sort of man you are, isn't it?'

‘Exile,' repeated John pensively. ‘Fugitive. Rebel. I have been called all those names before.' He picked the cross up again, gazed at it, tossed it from one hand to the other and set it back down again. ‘No, it's true about being a merchant. I did have some goods. I had been dealing in this and that; but circumstances constrained me to leave most of my stock behind in Florence and run away south. No, my friend, I'm a great lover of grandeur and rank. I only wish I had a little more of them myself.'

John smiled roguishly. He had always had charm, even as a daring, pale-haired boy of twelve, caught in the act of some petty theft or trespass, wide-eyed, talking his way clear of trouble. With the years his manners had gained in ease and poise. Cellini suddenly laughed. ‘Well, let it be as you say. Paulino, if you please! Wine.'

We sat down together round the bench. John pointed at the opal cross. ‘This is for no common customer. I am guessing at the King?'

I said, ‘Perhaps.'

‘Well, it is a fine beginning. It will start you on your way, when you get it home to London. Of course, if you had more …'

‘But I do.'

‘No!'

His incredulity flattered me. I turned to Cellini.

‘Benvenuto, be so good as to show him the Ship.'

Cellini hesitated, then crossed to the chest and unlocked it with the steel key he wore on a light chain round his neck. He lifted out the finished brooch with both hands, carried it over and laid it down on his bench. There it lay, a living picture in gold, with its enamels, its gold-green chrysoprase, its four diamonds, its nine clouded sapphires. For some minutes we all gazed on it, saying nothing.