There were Janissaries, five of them, who strode forward. There was also not only Tursun Beg, but the Grand Vizier Mahmud his master, the wound on his nose and his lip inflamed but healing. The Janissaries seized Pagano Doria by the arms. The Grand Vizier said, “You have lied. There are no arms where you said they were buried; and when our men went to lift them, they were ambushed and killed every one, save for the man who escaped to inform us. Take him away.”
It was as if lightning had struck. On the floor, Tobie let his head drop suddenly back. A great pain seized his bowels, and he squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them quickly, although they were wet. The pain died down, but his face pricked hot and cold as if blistered.
Nicholas had also flushed. He stood, breathing fast, and Tobie saw a tremor had begun in his hands. But there was no surprise on his face.
Of course, there wouldn’t be. He makes a wicked enemy, he remembered saying to John. Of his innocence, Pagano Doria had assumed Nicholas and himself to be two of a kind. Perhaps they were. But of the two, Pagano Doria was the novice.
Doria himself had not fully understood yet. Dwarfed by the soldiers who held him, he tugged indignantly against their grasp: handsome, finely arrayed and princely, despite the loss of his costly straw hat. He said, “Is this how great men dispense justice? Mahmud Pasha relies on the word of a secretary? His fools make some mistake, and you allow them to come and lay hands on me?” Below the swathe of dark and satiny hair, a little disordered, the well-marked brows were drawn in brilliant anger.
The Grand Vizier spoke. “I am here on the lord Sultan’s own orders.”
“Then you and he have been misled by others,” said Doria curtly. “I shall discuss it with him, if you like. But I will not be held like a felon.” And, opening his powerful shoulders, he half tore himself from the men who were holding him. They overmastered him immediately, although you could see he put out all his strength to prevent them. He had a beautiful, well-balanced body, and he knew how to use it. In more ways than one, Tobie thought. He saw the Pasha’s face, watching him.
But behind the Pasha was the sovereignty of the Sultan. The Grand Vizier said, “My lord the Sultan will not see you. The case is proved. You alone knew the hiding place of the arms. This you told us. You alone, therefore, instigated the killing.”
“I alone?” Doria said. He spoke slowly as, at last, he took thought, and began to understand everything. Now he stood without struggling, and his high violent colour withdrew, except over his cheekbones. His lashes flickered and lifted. This time, he looked straight at Nicholas. And Nicholas, with his dyed beard and coarse clothes and eyes bright as diamonds, looked back at Doria and smiled.
Tobie saw it, disbelieving. The last thing—the very last thing—they wanted was to admit knowing Doria. And then, sickened, he realised what he should have seen all along. Of course, it was not only Doria who would suffer from this act of duplicity. With a tongue in his head, Doria could explain that Tobie, also, possessed this facility, and expose Nicholas as an impostor. He could denounce them as spies, however little good it would do his own case. For, of course, there was no proof that Doria and they were not in the same conspiracy. Doria knew who they were, and had told neither the Sultan nor Mahmud. No. Doria wouldn’t escape. But neither would they.
Nicholas, he saw, had stopped trembling, now the moment had come. Between beard and cap his skin had a pinched look, but his gaze was quite steady. He was looking at Noah. Then he turned his eyes, but not towards Tobie. Doria said, “Allow me to speak, Mahmud Pasha. One person did know where the arms were hidden. It was known to my wife. I see she did not keep the news to herself. I know who received it, and who laid the ambush.”
“No doubt you will put the blame on someone,” the Grand Vizier said. “But what can you prove? Take him away.”
Pagano Doria spoke softly. “I can prove it here and now. And your own page will confirm it.” He turned his head, seeking the boy. And already, the page had stepped forward.
Noah came to his side, walking with the grace Doria must have taught him; looking at him with the luminous eyes one remembered, from Florence; from Modon. Then the look changed. “My lord Vizier,” said Noah, “he is troubling you.” And lifting a dagger, drove it into Doria’s muscular neck.
Tobie shouted. It emerged as a whisper. Nicholas made no sound at all. Doria’s hands lifted as the Janissaries slackened their grip: on his face was a look of pure astonishment, which gave way to perplexity. When he fell, they hardly managed to grasp him, in their surprise. Then they laid him on the floor of the tent, and Tursun Beg, frowning, bent over him. The secretary said, “He is dead. Or dying. The Sultan will—”
“The Sultan will make no objections,” said the Grand Vizier drily. To the page, he said aside, “Child! Child! What were you thinking of?” But he did not sound much displeased. He had not seen, as Tobie had, the love, the hate, the anguish in Noah’s eyes.
Nicholas had. Tobie watched him as he stared down at Doria’s body, its elegance marred by the blood soaking into his doublet and pooling the floor. His head was turned sideways and his eyes were open, looking from one face to another. He tried to speak, but only scarlet bubbles burst from his throat. Nicholas lifted his eyes to where Noah stood. It seemed to Tobie that there passed an unspoken question. If so, there was no spoken reply. In the pretty, dark face there was no vestige now of love or of anguish: only the bitterest pride. Noah turned on his heel and, bearing himself like a king, took his place beside Mahmud his master. And Pagano Doria, dying, turned his eyes up to Nicholas and smiled suddenly, triumphantly, full in his face.
By then Tobie, freed, was bending over him, however uselessly. He knelt back slowly, and spoke with his hands. “No. He is going.” No one had questioned that Doria had been attempting to threaten them. The Turks would assume, he supposed, Doria had betrayed himself in some way, and feared he would be exposed. There was no one except Noah to tell them the truth. And Noah had chosen his part.
Nicholas stood at Doria’s side, without moving. Tursun Beg bent over and picked up the bloodied dagger and said. “It is curious. This is the merchant’s own knife, with his name on it. And here is another strapped to his person, just like it.”
“You say?” said Mahmud Pasha. “Then it should be given to friend Ayyub for the protection of his master the doctor. We are, it seems, to lose our two guests. There is camel sickness in the south, and the lady Sara Khatun has begged that these men might return to the tribe. The Sultan, in his clemency, has released them.”
Doria’s throat whistled. He had heard. He probably heard, Tobie thought, all that was happening, but of course was unable to speak. Witness at his own deathbed. Silent; unable to denounce, or to charm. Presently the Grand Vizier nodded and left; and Tursun Beg with the Janissaries followed him. Tobie bowed, and remained where he was, standing still. When the last spectator had gone, Nicholas changed position abruptly and, moving forward, sank to crouch at the dying man’s side.
He stayed there till the end, his eyes on Doria, and Doria’s on him, with only Tobie to watch them. Tobie and a dark unspeaking shadow behind him. Three strange companions for a roving sea prince with the world at his feet. Yet although Doria owed them his death, it seemed to Tobie that, at the end, he drew comfort from them.
By early afternoon, the camel doctor and his help had left the Sultan’s encampment. The public leave-taking had been vigorous if one-sided; and the private one in the princess’s tent had been brief. She said, “You saw, then, what you came to see. Nothing could have altered this outcome.”
Nicholas said, “Your niece is a princess of Trebizond. So was your late husband’s mother.”
Today, Sara Khatun showed her age; and the lines under her eyes were almost as deep as the kohl. She said, “John Comnenos said to my son, ‘Be my ally.’ And my son Uzum Hasan said, ‘I shall be, for payment of this land and your niece as my bride.’ The Sultan has the land, and the Emperor David may have back his niece if he wishes. You th
ink that, without me and without George Amiroutzes, the Emperor would have acted any differently?”
There was a long silence. Then Nicholas said, “No.”
“No,” she agreed. “You have come far, for an apprentice; but you are not yet of the quality to force an emperor to your will. For a while, perhaps, you even thought that you were. It is as well to learn these things young. Now you have your men to look to.”
“I shall do that,” said Nicholas.
He made no excuses. Perhaps because of it, the Khatun’s gaze softened. She said, “If you never strive, you will never be injured. This will pass. If I and others like me had not weighed your merits, we should not have done what we have done. You will return a rich man, and lay at your wife’s feet what is even greater than wealth; your respect and your loyalty. I envy her. You will go now.”
They left, riding south, and as soon as was safe, took the arc that would bring them round to Trebizond, where Astorre would be waiting. They rode a long time in silence; broken once only by Tobie. He said, “Catherine.”
“There now, I’d forgotten,” said Nicholas. “We ought to offer her to the Sultan. He’d get the fright of his life.”
After that, with a doctor’s experience, Tobie left him alone.
Chapter 39
THE PRIEST GODSCALC had watched Nicholas and Tobie leave with no expectation that they would live to return from the Grand Vizier’s camp. As time passed, the certainty grew. A hundred miles to the west, Julius would sail homewards on Tuesday from Kerasous. Saturday was the last day he and Astorre could lead the others from Trebizond and still hope to catch him. When Friday dawned with no word, he thought Nicholas lost, and Tobie with him.
If the thought struck Astorre, he was too occupied to devote any time to it. In any case, as a soldier, he was used to the demands of war, and its vagaries. There were no other senior members of the company left with which the priest could share his fears, so he kept them to himself. So far as the world and the Emperor were concerned, Nicholas had been struck with fever once more, and Tobie was tending him.
When, that Friday, they both found their way back, worn and filthy and silent, the priest found his composure overturned. It was Loppe who looked after their needs, and Loppe who reminded him, with a look, that the giving of news ought to wait. But time was short, and they themselves were as conscious of it as anyone. It was Nicholas, first, who told of the forthcoming surrender and Tobie who took Godscalc aside and informed him of the killing of Doria. He told his story in full, as John le Grant once had done on a different occasion, and for the same reason. And, interpreting it, Godscalc was silent.
Then, it was wholly a matter of putting into effect, with speed, their plans to abandon their station. This time, at their one, hasty conference, there was no resistance from Astorre. He listened grimly to the tale of betrayal and weakness and then, rising, picked something up and snapped it in two on his knee. It was the bâton of command the Emperor had presented him with. He flung the pieces away, and the broken gold rang on the floor. He said, “I don’t serve under Turks. Or under cowards.”
“There will be no fighting,” Nicholas said. “Only occupation after surrender, and death for you and your men. If you had argued with me, I would have cut off your leg if I had to.”
Astorre’s beard jutted. “That wasn’t the tale after Erzerum. We all had a choice.”
“No, you didn’t,” Nicholas said. “I only made it seem that you had.”
After that, they hardly saw each other as they made their fast, well-rehearsed moves; men of purpose traversing the turbulent city; closing their minds to all but the immediate task, for all the arguments were long ago over. Late on Friday, they received permission for the one formality for which they had to make time; and, without waiting longer, paid their last call at the Palace. As on the first occasion, Nicholas was the principal; but this time Godscalc entered with him, and Astorre and his men escorted them both, glittering in a fierce perfection of drill that was a denunciation in metal.
Inside, they saw no sign of Amiroutzes, or of the boys, or the women. They received their audience before men brittle and smiling with fear. The latrine smell of fear clung to the red onyx columns and the coloured glass plaques and the gold reliefs of the wainscotting, and stifled the odour of fruit, and musk, and incense. It showed itself in the half-packed chests; the litter; the whisperings.
Godscalc knew that it presaged the collapse of all order that came with surrender: the ill-cooked food from deserted kitchens; the crumpled clothes handed by servants with little to hope for, and young of their own to be frightened about. The uneasy prayers of the churchmen: resented, badgered, importuned. The shifting of positions between the high officials, hovering between old masters and new; and the small disappearances: of goblets and ivories, dishes and ikons. And pressing outside, and ignored, the vast, stinking compression of anger, of fear, of despair that was the last anyone would see of the people of Trebizond, trapped behind the walls they had been roused, with gaiety and courage, to defend.
But one must think of the immediate task. The arguments were long over.
The Emperor received them in a robe of state. Serious, pink-fleshed, golden, imperial, he looked as he always looked. It was only now, in the late summer daylight, in the full light of what he was doing, that you saw how he was painted and waxed, artificial as the frescoes about him. When neither Nicholas nor Godscalc performed the Prostration, he checked, but gave no other sign of displeasure. He spoke the few necessary words in measured Greek to his Florentine consul. To save the lives of his people, he had decided to sacrifice his well-being and open his gates. An enlightened man, the Sultan Mehmet had promised wise rule and free worship, as he had given already to the Greeks now in Constantinople. But there was, of course, no further need for the consul’s armed troops to protect him. He thanked the company for its services, and released them formally, and with honour, from completing their contract. A letter had been drawn up indemnifying them.
The letter, hastily written, was passed across. The Emperor’s attention was already wandering. His indifference was undoubtedly genuine. Foreign merchants meant nothing whatever to him or his future. It was Nicholas, level-voiced and persistent, who raised the question of the Latin families still in the City, and received the Emperor’s agreement that such households might leave, although, as everyone knew, the Sultan exacted no penalties from merchants where no resistance was offered. The Emperor had heard of the death of the Genoese consul. The shipmaster Crackbene had permission to remove such Genoese as might wish to leave Trebizond for the moment. The Basileus trusted that Messer Niccolò was content. He allowed Messer Niccolò and Father Godscalc to bow, instead of kissing his foot, and had brought forward for each a small personal gift, which each politely refused. As they backed out, they saw him biting his fingernails.
“You should have taken it,” Tobie said when they told him. “You could have pushed it down a Turk’s throat.” It was the only comment anyone made, and all there was time for. They got the gear of the round ship, and took it down to the Genoese house, to which Nicholas had already pushed his way, through the disordered city, and found Doria’s sailing-master Crackbene ready and willing to join forces and help put to sea. He knew, too, that his employer was dead, but showed no inclination to mourn him. His attitude was clearly that of Astorre. He was a practical man.
He saw a difficulty, therefore, in their plan. The cog was anchored at sea, and her living cargo and gear were all inside the City. How did the Florentine consul propose to unite the one with the other across a shore occupied by the Turks?
“By becoming Turks,” Nicholas said. “It’s easy. You need a big, black moustache and an enlightened and liberal nature.”
Crackbene started to smile, and then stopped as the other man turned.
Nicholas said, “It wasn’t a joke. We’re going to dress up as Turks and act as if we’ve just been dispatched by the Sultan. We have orders to rig the Genoese cog, an
d sail it through to the fleet at Gallipoli.”
“You’ll never do it,” said Crackbene.
“We might,” Nicholas said. “You haven’t looked over the walls. They’re all drunk outside, and beating drums and letting off crackers. They’ve just heard the news of the surrender.”
“You’ll still never do it,” said Crackbene. “What about Turkish clothes?”
“Oh,” Nicholas said. “That’s the easy part.”
•
At Kerasous, a hundred miles to the west, the rest of the Charetty company waited, and watched the days go by as anxiously as Godscalc had done; for their orders were clear. Whether Nicholas reached them from Trebizond or not, the eighteenth day of August was when they must sail.
For Catherine de Charetty negli Doria, the days of August dragged as never before. To waste six weeks of her married life in Kerasous had not been her intention, when agreeing to take part in a ball game. To begin with, the game itself had been shameful. Far from competing to claim her, Pagano and her mother’s husband had conspired to make her look foolish. The subsequent journey by camel had been hardly less humiliating. She had made it clear to her mother’s accountant as soon as she arrived at Kerasous, her trembling dog in her arms. The camel was to be sold.
Matters did not improve. A Doria by marrige, a Charetty by blood, she expected to be housed on the hill in the governor’s palace, with Master Julius and this man John le Grant to do what she wanted. Instead, she found herself crammed into cellars with a terrified crowd of Italian women and children while, apparently, the entire Turkish fleet passed their shores. From the women, whom she despised, she learned to her amazement that they had come to Kerasous on the Ciaretti, her mother’s galley. And that the galley was here, lifted out of the water and put on rollers, and hidden somewhere on land. On an island, they told her.
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