The Spring of the Ram

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Doria was there. Since they had separated in the bath house, Nicholas had forgotten him. Now he could see him ahead, strutting down through the Citadel grounds to where the Genoese suite, reduced by the dinner hour, waited to take its consul home. The Greek steward Paraskeuas held Doria’s horse firmly. Mounted, he sat in the magnificent coat and smiled broadly as Nicholas walked up. Doria’s face, a silvery pink, had slackened since early morning. He said, “And how, my lord consul, do you take to Byzantine customs? If you will keep them from the ears of my wife, I shall keep them from her mother your bedfellow. Some day, we have notes to compare.”

  “Indeed,” said Nicholas. “Just think what Anthimos and Alexios are comparing at this moment.”

  Doria, he saw, had no qualms about what he had introduced him to. No qualms, and no doubts. The Genoese laughed, even while making a sound of reproof. He said, “What will our confessors say? Although your Godscalc appears to be liberal, as is wise in monastic communities. You look tired. You have done justice, then, to the occasion?”

  The sweat, cooling in his hair and on his face, tickled his skin. Where he had been hot, now he was cold; and his clothes smelt of scent. “You should see the others,” said Nicholas.

  “Then until this afternoon,” Doria said. “Wife or no wife, I propose now to go back and sleep. There are limits to what one should ask of oneself.” He set his horse in motion, with languor, and led off downhill.

  Nicholas watched him a moment. He remarked, “Famine and death go with you,” and turned aside. Of the waiting Florentine escort, there were only a few men-at-arms and, of course, Loppe, preparing to ride with him back to the villa. The men at least had been out of earshot. Loppe, naturally, would have found out all there was to find out. The African came up and said, “How will you kill him?”

  He forgot what he had been going to answer. “With kindness,” said Nicholas. He took a shallow breath and produced a short speech. “We are due at the Meidan, the arena, this afternoon. I have some instructions for you. Between now and the festival, I want to see no one. Unless I send for him, no one. And especially not Master Tobie. Do you understand?”

  Loppe said, “Master Julius can lead the company to the Meidan. It is only a festival.”

  “No,” said Nicholas. “No. This is important.”

  Loppe was silent. He supposed Loppe knew, as he did, that Tobie would have to be sent for. But not for a while. Not so soon. Not until he had come to terms with the road that now lay before him; the aspect of merchant adventuring which was not what anyone had either promised him, or warned him against.

  In the name of God and of profit, the trading ledger always began. In the name of God and of profit, naturally all things are permissible. All things. All things and kyrie eleison. God have mercy on us and our clients.

  Chapter 20

  “SWAMP FEVER,” Tobie said. “You remember. He had it in the Abruzzi.” Julius was the fifth person he had told since he promised Nicholas to tell no one. As a physician, Tobias Beventini operated an entirely personal code, with referrals to his own comfort, to the general good and, sometimes, to the benefit of whatever patient he had elected to cure. He was an excellent doctor.

  “Swamp fever. On a hilltop,” said Julius.

  “Once you’ve had it, it comes back,” said Tobie.

  “It came back at the church, and you didn’t notice it? Or when he returned from the Palace, you diagnosed it immediately? Or he just told you he had it?” said Julius.

  Tobie said, “I didn’t see him when he came back from the Palace. Loppe came for me half an hour ago. It’s only just starting. He’ll manage.” He looked for support to Godscalc, eating placidly across the table. Julius in one of his moods was not going to be helpful. In an hour, the Charetty company, representing the Republic of Florence, had to present itself at the Meidan where music, dancing, feats of daring and skill would be presented for the Emperor’s Easter entertainment. Among those taking part, by special request, would be the Charetty soldiers. The company’s officials would be expected to hobnob with the officials and magnates of the region and with their fellow colonists. The company’s leader would be required, on demand, to exchange courtesies with the Emperor and his household. The company’s leader being Nicholas, who had returned from the Palace with a pulse like an anthill and his inner garments sodden with sweat. Tobie applied himself to his food, considering a number of things.

  Julius brooded. “If the fever comes back with emperors, when will he be seized with it next? Or a sore throat, or a cold, or a stomach ache?”

  Tobie raised his brows. “It’s genuine,” he remarked.

  “I don’t question it,” Julius said. “I’m only saying that I watch out for the man who crumbles when stretched.”

  “Myself,” observed Nicholas from the doorway, “I keep out of range of the fellow who snaps.”

  Tobie, who had suspected, from his experience of him, that Nicholas was not far away, applied himself diligently to his plate. He heard Nicholas pass, and felt a sharp rap on his shoulder.

  “I’ll speak to you later,” said Nicholas. He sat down beside le Grant. “All right. I’ve prayed, and I think I’ll be adequate if everyone’s kind to me. You heard we got our concessions? A new fondaco, a consulate and a chapel. Two per hundred import duty, and nothing on exports. A safe conduct for all Florentine merchants, ships and goods, revocable only on six months’ prior notice. Someone from the Palace is coming tomorrow to take delivery of some of our silks. I sent Loppe to tell you, so that you could draw up some plans. You’ve had time. What are they?” He stretched for the wine, got a glare from Tobie, and withdrew his hand. Julius, pausing, began to answer him. His face was full of suspicion. Tobie continued to eat, with one eye on his patient.

  He didn’t look particularly sick. In the past year, his growth had ceased, confirming him as a tall man, and well proportioned. Training at the crucial time had shaped and hardened the muscles accustomed only to heavy manual labour. Something else had stripped the puppy flesh from his face. The framework was the same: the broad brow, the wide jaw with its blunt chin and full lips. But its width was now defined by cheekbones which cast their own shadow, and matched the thin, inquisitive nose. It was a face you could no longer be sure of reading—if, indeed, you ever could.

  A layman, surveying him now, would see little except perhaps an enhanced colour and an extra brightness of eye. The priest Godscalc was not only a trained apothecary with battle experience, but had seen Nicholas in the same state before. He turned his eyes from patient to doctor and spoke in the mildest of undertones. “What did you give him?”

  Tobie grinned. “What he asked for. Something to stop him up at both ends and keep him on his feet until evening. It’ll do it, too. Afterwards, of course, he’ll wish he’d never been born.”

  “He means to go to the Meidan?” Godscalc said. “Why? Something to do with Catherine, the girl?”

  “I don’t see it,” said Tobie. “She’s still mad for her husband. I can’t imagine why Nicholas shouldn’t stay quietly here having the flux while the rest of us represent Florence. Perhaps he thinks Julius and Astorre are not to be trusted near Doria. Perhaps—I don’t know. He’s remarkably vague—so is Loppe—about what kept them so long at the Palace. Apart, that is, from the formalities and a few words with the Genoese consul. It seems—as we suspected—that Doria stole a march on us by selling fast under Genoese privileges. Julius was most disappointed when I told him that was all Doria had done. He expected open warfare between him and Nicholas.”

  “They didn’t quarrel?” said Godscalc.

  “Surprised?” Tobie said. “It was you, after all, who lectured Nicholas on Christian charity. No. I gather there was a deal of provocation, but Nicholas didn’t respond. He’s good at that, as I remember. He’ll go on accepting whatever anyone cares to load on to him, and then…my God, look out.”

  “For what?” Godscalc said, a little too quickly.

  Tobie said, “For what you mi
ght find in your soup. But that was before he had you to advise him.”

  Godscalc didn’t reply. Tobie, who disliked being stared at, was moved to elaborate. “I do respect the cloth, of course, but sometimes I think a good clean killing has a lot to commend it. Or, at worst, a proper legal complaint. Something, surely, could be proved against Pagano Doria. The ship fire. The runaway marriage. Something deficient, for example, in his papers, his ledgers, his ownership of the Doria?”

  He thought the priest wasn’t going to answer that either. Then Godscalc said, “Well, here are two reasons against taking such action. Whoever harms or discredits Doria is going to earn that girl’s hatred to the end of his life and may not even do her a service. I suspect that Nicholas has misread that marriage. And secondly, the power to destroy such a man should, I think, be put at present out of his reach. He is too young.”

  “Too young?” said Tobie.

  Godscalc said, “I realise you know something I don’t. But the boy’s mistakes are what fashion the man of good sense and humility. Provided he doesn’t repeat them.”

  So Nicholas had not confided in Godscalc, and the priest had thought fit, at last, to admit it. He was a shrewd man. Some of the things he had said, Tobie had already, on his own, half-perceived. None of them had to do with legal justice. Godscalc’s concern, he understood, was with human character: with Catherine, with Nicholas and with the course their lives were to take.

  Tobie was sufficiently struck to make a decision. After the Meidan, Julius consenting, he proposed to admit Father Godscalc to the limited circle of those who knew exactly what the misadventures of the boy Nicholas had been. They needed another watchdog. Invigilated by a physician, a priest and a notary, Nicholas would surely be fettered at last.

  The Meidan used for the Easter festival was an oblong tract of ground, level from east to west, but sloping a little from south to north in the direction of the sea, which could be seen from its porticoes. It was outside the city walls. Across the ravine to its west stood the City and Palace. Further west, beyond the other ravine, was a level area bigger still which served as a Tzucanisterion, where the court engaged in curious ball games involving massed riders and mallets. The only other venue for spectacles was a small area to the south of the Palace, used for camel-wrestling, pig-beating and events of a circumscribed nature, such as heading, strangling and the cutting of limbs. The generations of the Comneni, esconced in their misty sea empire, had given much thought to the uses of leisure.

  The eastern Meidan was traditional to this yearly celebration for several reasons. Normally the place of a market, it stood above the foreign quarter. The streets which wound from its galleries down to the sea passed the villas, the stables, the storehouses, the churches and the enclosures of the western merchants. The Meidan was diagonally uphill from the Venetian palace, and directly above the Leoncastello of the Genoese.

  This was all to the point, since one of the objects of the celebration was to impress the citizens of Western cultures. Byzantium, once proud to call itself Rome, now regarded Rome as beneath it. Other potentates, nearer at hand, must also be reminded of the splendour and might of the Emperor, who held high the flame that Constantinople in her weakness had surrendered. And beyond the balconies, the cushioned benches, the barriers, were the people, who must have their festival, paid for by their generous ruler who, on this day of the year, could be seen sitting godlike among them, with his Empress and his heirs. A great deal of money, each year, was spent on the Meidan at Easter.

  It was customary for all those with places to walk there, climbing by lesser streets to free the processional way. Up this steep street, laid with mats and sweet-scented leaves, lined with townspeople behind the glittering ranks of the Guard, would ride the Imperial family. The family would occupy the villa balconies hung with cloth of gold and spring garlands which fronted the upper side of the Meidan. Flanking galleries would serve the Household and the Patriarchal Court with its icons. Below, at ground level, tiered and cushioned benches had been erected for the foreign merchants, the Greek princes, the clergy.

  Ushers with wands greeted and placed every party. Tobie, judging it nicely, got his medicated young man and his fellows up the hill rather late, but still well before the Emperor’s entry. Loppe, sent on ahead to ensure and locate their half-dozen seats, stood erect by the Florentine flag with the absence of expression on his handsome black face which was, with Loppe, a sign of contentment. His eyes were fixed on Nicholas, who still had to cross the width of the Meidan. Nicholas said, “Tobie. Unless I’m giving off steam, behave normally. I remember what to do. One foot in front of the other, but not both at the same time unless I’m a robin.”

  He was wearing the Emperor’s coat, with a light feathered hat, and embroidered gloves on his hands. These were part of the trousseau which had been among their first purchases. Godscalc and Julius, although attired in the black of their profession, had robes of a finer cut and quality than any they had formerly owned; Tobie smouldered in physicians’ scarlet, and Astorre and le Grant wore chestnut velvet over dun silken doublets. An investment, Nicholas had said. A tailor had appeared, who had cut the clothes and had them sewn in his workshop. The lady Violante, Tobie suspected, had made a good case for spending a lot of their capital quickly. He made to rub his bald head, and was baulked by his cap with its lappets. He made sure that Nicholas was still not only conscious but talking, and looked about for other parties of merchants.

  They were all, like themselves, on the upper side of the Meidan, in the shadow of the Imperial balconies. On his left, the Lion of St Mark pointed to the place of the Venetian Bailie, whom Nicholas had visited two days before, or so Julius said. Further on his left, the red cross of St George identified the Genoese. All Tobie could see was a posy of headgear. He said to Loppe, whose duty it was to stand behind them, “Can you see Doria? Or the demoiselle’s daughter?”

  Nicholas said, “I asked him. He says they’re both here. And the dog.”

  “What dog?” said Tobie; but Nicholas was talking across le Grant to Astorre. Godscalc’s eye, he saw, disapproved of the subject. To hell with Godscalc. A change in the noise made him turn.

  The sky was clearing. A hazy light from the west illuminated the arena and the buildings beyond it, their flat roofs descending like shelves, green with creeper and potted laurels and borders of rosemary and patches of white garments drying. Beyond the roofs was the sea, stretching grey-blue to the horizon, and the Crim Tartars, and Muscovy. As he watched, its surface became lighter in tone, and acquired shadows and sparkle. The sun was about to emerge, and heat Nicholas.

  The sun was about to emerge, and so was the Emperor. The noise was cheering, which had been going on for some time, but was now much increased. Along with it were other sounds: of marching feet and hooves and trumpets, of cymbals and drums and the tinny snore, rising and falling, of portable organs. The sea wind, mixed with salt and fish, sweat and ordure and woodsmoke, brought with it suddenly the scent of horseflesh, and a waft of bruised herbs and aloes and the queer, strident note of opoponax. Nicholas, who had been talking beside him, unaccountably stopped. Then, between the buildings on the lower side of the Meidan, the first of the procession reached the top of the slope and led the way towards them, across the soft bran of the enclosure, making for the pillared entrance of the villa which was to be the Emperor’s box, his kathisma.

  The icon led the way, as before. Behind, as in Constantinople the All-Happy City, came the elders dressed in red brocade, followed by young men in white and then by slim youths in green tunics and buskins. They walked erect, and quickly, passing through the gate of the barrier from sunshine to shadow, and then up the passage between the merchants’ benches. One of the boys, turning an exquisite profile, broke into a smile at the sight of Nicholas and almost paused. He had close-curled hair of a classical fairness, and Tobie had seen him somewhere before. He said, “Who is that?”

  Nicholas turned his head. “His name is Alexios,” he said.


  “They’re all called Alexios,” said Tobie.

  “It just seems like that,” Nicholas said. “Anyway, they all have quite different flavours.”

  It made less sense than usual, but that was to be expected. In any case, here were the servants with their ranks of gold axes, the eunuchs in white; the young guards with their breastplates and shields and spears covered with gold. Then the princes in cloth of gold, the chiefs each holding a golden rod; the rest with swinging gold censers. Then the pages. Then the Emperor, on his horse caparisoned in scarlet and gold, with the Empress and her train following after.

  The Vice-Regent of God on Earth still wore his high golden crown, but another long tailored robe, of cloth of gold woven with jewels, and sewn with blocks and ribbons of goldsmith work, set with pictures and gems. The sun, losing at that moment the last of its veils, made of him suddenly a dazzling artefact, with his spun-gold beard and moustache no less bright than his dress. Only his face, pinkly powdered, half severe, half smiling at nothing, was that of a man, bathed and well fed and just risen from a couch on which he has not lain alone. Behind him, the Empress turned her beautiful, tinted face from side to side, to be seen, but not to respond. If she observed the Florentine banner, or the Genoese, she gave no sign but passed on, riding serenely. Among the ladies walking behind her, Violante of Naxos also ignored the Florentine flag, and her pupil. Which was just as well, Tobie thought. He has enough to contend with.

  Then the Imperial party filled the balconies, and were seated; and the trumpets blew; and the Patriarch blessed the proceedings; and a master of ceremonies stepped on the bran and delivered a long and elaborate speech which the Emperor acknowledged and the crowd, chanting, repeated. O God, protect the Emperor, protect the Magistrates, protect the children born in the purple. Mother of God, may the Empire be filled with joy…Then his Imperial majesty raised his hand, and the entertainment began.