The Spring of the Ram

by Dorothy Dunnett

  “There are ways,” Nicholas said. “Messer Alighieri is confident.” He met the old man’s gaze with his own. The merry, shrewd eyes of Giovanni the son had, he knew, never left him. Giovanni’s hands, like his father’s, were twisted with gout. God, jealous of wealth, had visited Cosimo and both his sons with this affliction. The oddest sight known to man, so they said, was the spectacle of the three richest men in the world lying side by side in the same gout-ridden bed, squealing with anguish.

  The lord Cosimo smiled, and his gaze, mildly ironic, shifted to Julius. “Youth and optimism. How fortunate you are in your young master. But let us look, we older people, on the less pleasant side. A company thrives on its reputation as much as on its actual profits. You may not contrive to smuggle your men into Trebizond. The Turk may attack Trebizond and ruin or kill you. The Turk may lay such a stranglehold on your trade that the tolls from the Black Sea will cripple you. If this venture fails, will it bring down your company?”

  Nicholas supposed that, in one speech, he had hit on all Julius’s own personal fears. But Julius, too, knew his business. “Not at all, monsignore,” Julius said. “We are an old, well-funded business. We own our land and our buildings. The lady our owner is highly experienced, and has a good lawyer and excellent managers. The present venture comes from surplus capital and is expendable.”

  It was the truth, so far as it went. He didn’t say what all of them knew, that only the initial funding had been supplied, from its surplus, by the Charetty company; and the risks now belonged to Nicholas personally. If he succeeded, the overall profit would be his. If he failed, he stood to lose what he had, on careful deposit in Venice. If he died—if he died, all he had in Venice or anywhere else would go to Marian. All he had of debts as well. He did not propose to die.

  The old man was studying Julius, who gazed back with respectful sincerity. The old man turned to Tobie. “And you, Master Physician? You have no qualms about this heavy outlay?”

  Tobie said, “The company’s sound. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t consider the expansion were possible. Nicholas wouldn’t be here without his wife’s confidence. What do you mean, a company’s reputation?”

  It wasn’t a question anyone but Tobie would have asked. Messer Cosimo de’ Medici smiled at him and said, “I place upon it the same meaning you do. You answered my question precisely.” He turned again, and studied Nicholas. “So. Supported by an import tax of four in the hundred and an export tax of two, you will sell and buy goods of your own, and those of other companies for a commission. The Genoese do this already in Trebizond. So do the Venetians. You will not be popular.”

  “With a hundred soldiers?” said Nicholas. “We shall be popular every time the Sultan gets up from his prayer mat. We shall be popular all the time with the Emperor. He’s tired of being exploited by Venice and Genoa. So Messer Alighieri maintains.”

  “I sometimes wonder,” said the lord Cosimo, “if it is because Genoa is so sadly dominated by others at home that she behaves as she does in her outstations. It is a frequent quirk of the colonial. But let us proceed. Tell me. How will you transport all this to and from Trebizond?”

  Nicholas produced his confidential voice. It was modelled on no one Messer Cosimo knew. “I considered a round ship,” he said. “But it seems a great galley is best. Fast, coastal, safer. Smaller, of course, but she’d carry a ton and a half of fine goods at higher rates than bulk cargoes could offer. Then, a round trip once a year to begin with; two later. In between, we’d ship wherever space offered. On the state Florentine galleys, at your rates. If you had a year-round flow of Caspian raw silk and dyes, you could level out and increase your production, and so could the spinners and growers.”

  He paused, to let the secretary catch up. Scribbling, the secretary said, “And your freight rates?”

  “For cloth, one florin for each piece of cloth carried, or two per cent of its value. It’s reasonable. It makes roughly five thousand florins per unloaded cargo excluding the company’s own merchandise. We could manage on that.”

  “You have thought of everything,” said Cosimo de’ Medici. “And where would you acquire such a galley? You would buy one?”

  “I hope you will sell me one, monsignore,” Nicholas said. “If the Medici bank would lend me the money.”

  The secretary stopped writing and looked up. Giovanni de’ Medici smiled. “Dear me,” said the lord Cosimo. His face reflected a shadow of pity; a merest shade of impatience. He said, “You cannot pay for a ship? You cannot even contemplate hiring one?”

  “I contemplated it,” Nicholas said, “but it’s cheaper to buy, and with borrowed money. I daresay I could raise a loan elsewhere, if it isn’t convenient.”

  “Dear me,” said the lord Cosimo again. He looked at his middle-aged son, who shook his head, visibly saddened. “Such a pity,” said Messer Cosimo. “A gallant scheme, a young company. But the least of our galleys can cost five hundred florins.”

  Godscalc spoke. Nicholas turned his head. Godscalc said, “We are not asking for a state galley in prime condition, monsignore. We should be prepared to take the old galley now lying at Pisa, which suffered the accident on its journey upriver. Messer Martelli put its worth at three hundred florins.”

  Nicholas gazed at his chaplain, his face straight. In the chair, the old man sat still, in the way of one caught by surprise. Nicholas, obeying speechless direction, added, “And at, of course, a realistic rate of interest, in view of the short earning life of the vessel. Then we can replace it with a better one from profit, and with the slate between us wiped clean.”

  “Well?” said Cosimo sharply. He had turned to his son Giovanni, who shifted his bulk.

  “It is possible,” he said to his father.

  Nicholas continued to look pleasant and businesslike. He said, “Provided also the ship came checked, guaranteed and fully equipped, to the satisfaction of your shipyard supervisor and my master. And, of course, Messer Martelli, if he would be so kind as to examine her. The rest, of course, falls to my charges.”

  He sustained, for what seemed a long time, the direct stare of the old man. The son murmured. The old man listened to him, and then to the secretary who bent over him for a moment, a sheet of paper held in one hand. Nicholas watched them with interest. Julius was shuffling. Tobie was wearing a mask of indifference, as if enduring some tedious lecture. Godscalc was smiling slightly, but the smile was more thoughtful than Nicholas liked. Pagano Doria? He’d never heard of him. There was a movement. The secretary withdrew, and Giovanni sat up. The old man started to speak.

  He said, “You have convinced me that you are worth a short-term investment. If Messer Alighieri the Imperial envoy agrees, I am prepared to sanction your installation at Trebizond as agent for the Republic of Florence for the trial period of one year, from the time you arrive. I agree to your terms of operation, subject to their confirmation on paper, and their endorsement by Messer Alighieri. The price of the ship is too low. You may have a loan to buy it at three hundred and fifty florins, repayable within twelve months at an interest of twenty florins in the hundred against the security of the property and funds of your parent company. We would require prior confirmation of their credit standing, and their signed acknowledgement of obligation.”

  “I have powers to sign. And I can provide all the figures,” said Nicholas.

  “Then you accept?”

  “Yes, monsignore. I thank you. I do.” He could see the apprehension on the faces of his faint-hearted colleagues. It hurt to keep his face grave all the time the old man was concluding.

  “Then Messer Alighieri will be invited to call, and the authority will be drawn up in a form agreeable to all parties, and presented for signing in due course. There will have to be a copy in Greek. Your notary is Messer Julius here? Perhaps he will remain. He may use my interpreter unless, of course, you object.”

  “No need,” Nicholas said. “Master Julius studied Greek in Bologna. He was secretary to Cardinal Bessarion,
who was born in Trebizond.”

  The lord Cosimo looked weary rather than thunderstruck. “Indeed! I find the combined accomplishments of your company, Messer Niccolò, somewhat daunting. Let us drink, then, to the successful outcome of a new contract. Wine, Giovanni.”

  “Vermin!” somebody said.

  The voice came from the door. Although less than a shout, the remark was delivered with a certain snarling sonority that struck all competition into silence. The old man’s nose drew towards his lips, like that of a goose. His son heaved to his feet. The secretary and two clerks were already hastening to the door, arms outstretched defensively. They staggered back, as the man who had spoken thrust past them and strode into the room. He came to a halt before Julius.

  He was a monk: a man of middle height and some bulk, wearing the grey habit and tonsure of a preaching Franciscan—a Minorite friar of the harsh Observantine reform. A curiously untidy man, for all the simplicity of his garments, with a high-coloured face that seemed an explosion of pitted skin and black hair. Hair grew from the cavities of his stoutly boned nose and tufted his ears beneath the vigorous curls, and lay submerged in planes of threatening indigo below the curves of his jowl. His eyebrows sprouted hair, and the backs of his hands. There was hair on the nape of his neck. Naked among all this herbage were his underlids, pale and curved as the lip of a drinking-glass.

  He pointed a finger at Julius. Something orange had stained it. He said, “Cosimo de’ Medici, you do not know with whom you are dealing. Stop your congress. Destroy your agreement. Drive this man from your house and this company from your door. That man is Satan.”

  “Julius?” Nicholas said. He caught, successfully, a note of pleased interest.

  No one smiled. Julius had gone ivory white, as if about to throw up in public. Tobie, after one glance at him and at Nicholas, had fixed the monk with a glare. The lord Cosimo’s sallow face was without expression; his son looked angry. Father Godscalc got to his feet and, astonishingly, spoke to the interloper. He said, “Fra Ludovico, this is a meeting private to my lord Cosimo. He will hear you later, I’m sure.”

  Fra Ludovico. Attentively, Nicholas considered the name. He had heard it in Fiesole. The deputation from Georgia and Persia and Trebizond was led by a monk: a Ludovico da Severi who travelled the world for the Franciscans. He had been absent when Nicholas called. Good timber merchants, the da Severi, Alighieri had said. A son of that stable would have nothing against mixing crusades and business: a Charetty army in Trebizond was just what would best please their leader.

  Well, if this was the same man, he had changed his mind. About the Charetty company and its officers. Julius, Julius: why won’t you look at me?

  Father Godscalc, having drawn the enemy gun, was suffering its bombardment.

  “You would shut the mouth of the Lord’s servant?” the monk was demanding of him. “You, a man of the Church! I will cry your sin as I cry theirs. You consort with thieves and fornicators: their torment will be your torment.” He turned to the head of the Medici bank. A cloud of saliva lingered behind him. “Fling them from you! That man is a pollution!” He pointed at Julius again.

  Everyone except Cosimo was now standing, but no one moved. They all looked at the tall old man in the chair.

  Cosimo de’ Medici addressed the monk. His voice was quite flat. “This gentleman is named Julius, a Bologna notary now employed by the Charetty dyers of Bruges. You have a complaint against him?”

  “I know who he is,” said the monk. “The convent-bred son of a student priest and an unmarried woman. The Church taught him his letters; the college of notaries showed him how to make money. Perhaps there are honest notaries: I have never met one. At any rate, this one was not. He stole the money entrusted to him and gambled with it. Church money, lost in sin and depravity. Then, when found out, he appealed to our saintly Bessarion of Nicaea, who made the loss good from his pocket. The man Julius was whipped from the city. I had thought him safely employed in some wicker hut in Geneva. But now I find him here, gulling your lordship!”

  The blood rushed to Julius’s face. He opened his mouth. Cosimo de’ Medici said, “You will remain quiet, Master Julius. I am first concerned to question your colleagues. Is this known to you, Messer Tobias? Father Godscalc? Merchant Niccolò, are the owners of the Charetty company aware of this?”

  Quicker than anyone, Julius got in his answer. “They don’t know,” he said.

  Messer Cosimo probably reckoned it was true. Certainly, Father Godscalc, of no long acquaintance with the company, didn’t contradict him. Tobie, his short lips in a bunch, stood surveying his feet and said nothing. It was left to Nicholas to move forward gently until he stood in the space beside Julius. He scratched his nose and said, “Well, yes, we knew. That is, the demoiselle de Charetty knew. The rest of us weren’t supposed to. But”—he threw an apologetic grimace at Julius—“it was all round the yard that Master Julius couldn’t afford a new tunic and hose until he’d finished paying his debts to the Widow…as they called the lady then. Afterwards she told me. Half his wage went to Rome, for Cardinal Bessarion. So whatever he did—and I don’t know what it was—he atoned for it. And the Charetty company knew of it, and kept him. And all the time I’ve had a view of the ledgers, there’s been nothing that a judge could take exception to. Or I shouldn’t be here. Nor would he.”

  Fra Ludovico hardly waited for the last words. “He has admitted the theft. There is no proof that he restored the money: the Cardinal of Nicaea is in Germany. And whether he restored it or not, he is a confessed and unpunished rogue.” He turned. “Is this, my lord Cosimo, to be your ambassador?”

  “Let him speak himself,” said the old man.

  Owning up, Julius always stood straight. He had stood like this back in Bruges, when discovered in some fearsome escapade for which most of the blame belonged to Nicholas, his apprentice-servant; or else was truly the folly of Felix, Marian’s son. Marian’s late and only son.

  Julius had never had to make an admission like this before. Julius said, “My birth is as you’ve heard. My parents died long ago. My father left what would pay for my education, but there was no understanding that I would remain with the Church. I think, had I been born of a normal marriage, I would have become a soldier. It isn’t relevant.”

  “Go on,” said Cosimo.

  Julius said, “We were all wild at Bologna. We gambled, and other things. But once you qualify, it has to be different. Cardinal Bessarion was papal legate in Bologna then. He ran the city. I served in his chancery. He showed me that the quickest way to success was to become a cardinal’s secretary. That was how the present Pope rose.”

  “You would call the Pope as your witness!” said the Minorite. “How can you listen to this?”

  “In fairness,” said the lord Cosimo. “Continue.”

  “Of course, I was silly,” said Julius. “He was kind to me. He said he thought me the brightest of all his secretariat, but without the experience, yet, that I would have needed in Rome. The cardinal was beloved in Bologna: he could have stayed in the city for life. He promised me that in six months I should be his chief secretary, with all the salary that would go with it. I had been living well but economically. Now I thought that at last I could live as I deserved; have the pleasures I’d missed. I moved into a better house, and bought the clothes I needed, and hired servants…I drank good wine. I gave feasts for my friends. When I was asked to play dice with men I admired I didn’t hesitate. And when my ready money ran out, I borrowed from the annates I had collected, because I could replace them from the first of my salary.” He stopped.

  “And then?” said Cosimo.

  “And then the Pope died,” said Julius simply. “And my lord Bessarion rushed off to Rome for the election. If he had been made Supreme Pastor, I suppose all my troubles would have been over. But they elected Calixtus, a Borgia. And the Pope sent his own nephew to Bologna in Bessarion’s place.”

  He gave a sour grin. “I didn’t know him, and he di
dn’t know me. He brought his own clerks. All my bills of payment fell due, including the church funds, the annates; and I was ruined. Brother Ludovico knows, because his family came from Bologna, and he and the other Franciscans saw a lot of the Pope in those days. Constantinople had fallen two years before.” He paused. “I knew of course about this deputation. I should have realised that the same man was leading it.”

  “And then you could have confessed to your employer. Perhaps,” said Cosimo de’ Medici. “Did you repay the money as Messer Niccolò claims?”

  “Eventually,” Julius said. “It was the cardinal who paid all my debts. I paid him back when I could.”

  “And who besides the cardinal can confirm this? You have heard he is in Germany.”

  “Marian de Charetty. Whom Nicholas married,” Julius said. “You’ve heard. She entrusted me with all her business.”

  “But she is in Bruges. Who else employed you?”

  “A man in Geneva,” said Julius. He kept his face stiffly from Nicholas. “I never saved enough to repay more than a little. And besides, he is dead.”

  “Fra Ludovico?” said the old man.

  The monk looked up at the chair. The eye nearest Nicholas resembled an egg on a spoon. He said, “Do I need to say more? The man is dishonest, the company heedless at best; at worst, as corrupt as himself. Send yourself to Trebizond. Do not try to satisfy God with a second-hand agent. Where the Church itself is in dreadful retreat, the unholy will never conquer the heathen.”

  Father Godscalc cleared his throat. “Your Persian envoy,” he said, “is, I understand, of the Moslem faith?”

  “What of it?” said the other man sharply. The top of his head, under the stubble, had turned a cochineal red. “I have spent my life abroad with the heathen. Do you think I cannot distinguish between the innocent pagan and the man born to the Cross who despises it, ignores it, treats it as would a limb of the Devil? The prince Uzum Hasan has not yet found the path to God, but he has a Christian wife, a mother raised in the Faith. His wife’s confessor strives for him daily. That prince’s envoy is living proof that Uzum Hasan seeks better things. Look at this Julius, with his smooth face and rich clothes and plausible manner. He was raised by the Church, and he consumed the goods of the Church in sinful riotous living. Which is worse?”