Plethon was investigating gooseberries beneath a net designed to foil starlings when a man beside him spoke. ‘The bees do their work twice. They make the honey and they pollinate. What could be a better example of godly industry?’
The philosopher turned and found himself looking at a man of startling ugliness. Giovanni de’ Medici was around forty years of age but looked much older. He had a large nose set within a warted face and his hair was thin and began somewhere far above his temples. He had bulging eyes and thin lips that were, so it was said, designed never to smile. But he was smiling now.
‘You are Georgius Gemistus Plethon,’ he said. ‘News of your toga travels ahead of you.’
Plethon bowed, just missing the head of the other who’d chosen to do the same. ‘And you are the banker whom my friends on Chios have much to thank for. It seems your investment was a sound one.’
De’ Medici nodded. ‘I hear that one of these friends is with you. My agent on the island is much taken with her.’ There was a loud curse behind him and the banker turned. ‘Careful with that eagle!’ he shouted. ‘One feather lost and you’ll never hoist again!’
Workmen, stripped to the waist, stood upon scaffolding set against the front of the church. Two of them were at the top, pulling on a rope to which was tied a large stone eagle clutching a bale of wool cloth. Two more straddled the top of the church, waiting to guide the bird to its nest.
Giovanni de’ Medici turned back to Plethon. ‘The eagle is the sign of the Arte di Calimala, who maintain this church. They are the guild of cloth-finishers, hence the bale of wool. We take pride in the church.’
The explanation was brief and without waste and Plethon hoped that the discussion to come would be equally succinct. But where were they to have it? The banker’s message had promised somewhere discreet.
De’ Medici took his arm. ‘Let me show you something.’
The two men walked over to the belvedere. Before them stretched a city cradled between hills, a pearl set within a band of emeralds. It was a walled sea of red and orange tiles that washed up against a lighthouse at its centre, striped black and white.
Giovanni was pointing at it. ‘Giotto’s campanile.’ He turned. ‘Why so tall? Because we are a city fond of masses, public meetings and curfews, all of which require bells. And when they clamour, we are at war.’ He paused. ‘I mean to tell you that you have arrived at a place which takes its civic responsibilities very seriously.’
Plethon looked down at the campanile and the great church beside it, equally striped. He thought of a new animal he’d heard about from the land of the jornufa, a horse that looked like this. There was something missing.
‘Yes, it needs a dome,’ said Giovanni. ‘But such a dome! No one has yet come up with a design that will carry the weight.’ He turned. ‘Shall we go and talk?’
The man was already on his way and Plethon hoped that it was to a place where they could sit. His legs ached after the long climb. They walked through the gardens and into the darkness of a big church where heaven flung its promise through windows high in the walls. There were eagles everywhere.
At the back of the church were steps leading down to a crypt, and Plethon found himself being led into a low forest of pillars and vaults with tiered candles playing their light against saints and sinners that covered every inch of the walls. The place was discreet but eternity would watch over them.
They sat on a bench in front of the altar and Plethon looked around him. The crypt was empty and the columns too slender to hide anyone. The air was cold and he pulled the folds of his toga over his arms.
Giovanni de’ Medici was watching him carefully, one eye closed as if taking aim. He said: ‘I have been asking myself why the great Plethon should wish to meet a humble merchant from Florence. I would ask you to tell me.’
Plethon was pleased to note that the crypt did not carry sound. Eternity held no echo. ‘It is’, he said, ‘to do with what you are, de’ Medici. And that is not a merchant.’
The Italian opened the eye that had been closed. ‘Not so? My family imports wool from Flanders. We dye, stretch, full and calendar it. Then we sell it. Is that not the work of a merchant?’
Plethon nodded. ‘It is. But you have not done that for many years. Do I need to describe your life?’ He paused and then, getting no answer, continued. ‘Fifteen years ago, you were working for your cousin Vieri di Cambio in his bank in Rome where you learnt the business of the papacy. Now you have your own bank in partnership with Benedetto di Bardi who runs the branch in Rome. Your bank is small and therefore has the benefit that kings do not ask it for loans and then default on them, as King Edward of England did fifty years past. This happened to the Alberti family who’ve lost the Pope’s business, so there’s a vacancy. You are small, you need to get bigger and you want the Curia’s money. Which makes you invaluable to my plan.’
The man next to him leant back in the pew. He ran his hand through his wisps of hair. ‘Ah, your plan. I was hoping we’d come to that.’
Plethon glanced around once more. The only movement in the crypt came from the candlelit martyrs; the only sound was the murmur of monks chanting somewhere outside. He leant forward and his voice was little above a whisper. ‘I am told that you are a man of discretion, de’ Medici. I will have to believe it so.’ He paused and brought his hands together as if they held the plan. ‘My wish is to reunite the Christian Churches. First to heal the schism in the West and then to bring together the Churches of Rome and Byzantium.’
De’ Medici whistled softly. ‘You wish for a lot, Plethon. Why? Is it for the good of your eternal soul?’
Plethon sat back. Then he gestured slowly to the crypt around them. ‘What will happen to this great Church of San Miniato when the Turks come?’ he asked quietly. ‘How will Giotto’s campanile suit as a minaret, do you think, its bells replaced by a muezzin?’ He leant forward. ‘What will happen to the profitable profession of banking in a Muslim world? Do you know how quick it is to cross the sea from Methoni to Taranto as I have just done? Do you know how close the Turk is to taking Mistra?’
Giovanni de’ Medici was no longer smiling. Plethon went on, ‘I know that you prefer trade to politics, that you’ve paid fines rather than perform the duties of gonfaloniere for your city, but self-interest should inspire you in this matter, de’ Medici. My plan can make you very rich.’
Both men were silent after that, each contemplating treasure of a different kind. Then the banker said: ‘So what is your plan?’
Plethon looked down at his hands. Their fingers were interlinked but the palms were open. The plan was to be revealed. ‘Both Popes are old and cannot be expected to live long. My plan is to persuade each to ask their cardinals to swear that, when they die, whichever of them is elected Pope will resign his office immediately. Then the combined cardinals will meet in council to elect a single Pontiff who will rule from Rome.’
Giovanni de’ Medici was already shaking his head. ‘But what would it take to achieve such a thing? Why would the Pope agree?’
‘One already has. I come from Boniface in Rome.’ Plethon moved along the bench to his companion so that he was closer than he might wish to the other’s warts. ‘As for the cardinals, it would take what it always takes. Money and force. Money to bribe, force where the bribes fail.’
‘And I supply the money? Why would I do that?’
Plethon smiled. ‘Because, my dear Giovanni, you wish to be the richest banker in Florence. You want Brunelleschi to build your new palace. You want the Peruzzi to stop talking behind their hands about upstarts from the Mugello. And the only way to do all this is by becoming God’s banker.’ He paused, letting the words settle. He said softly, ‘The Pope that returns to Rome as the only Pope will be a grateful man. And, with the entire papal revenues once more intact, a rich one.’
But de’ Medici looked far from persuaded. He pursed his lips thinned in concentration and looked over to the altar, perhaps hoping for some sign of divine will
. ‘What about the force? Who provides that? Ladislaus?’
Plethon said, ‘Possibly Ladislaus. And he might soon have some money since he told me he’s to marry Mary of Lusignan who’ll bring Cypriot sugar to the match. But Ladislaus might not be acceptable to the French. Remember, Pope Boniface crowned him King of Naples when Clement in Avignon had already crowned his cousin, Louis of Anjou. Anyway, he probably doesn’t want to get poisoned again.’
‘Who then? Visconti of Milan? Niccolò d’Este of Ferrara? He’s merely a boy.’
Plethon continued to shake his head. ‘No, I had in mind someone else.’
‘Ah, then Carlo Malatesta, Lord of Rimini? He is friend to Florence, Venice and the Papal States. He would bring in Mantua through his Gonzaga wife and the French like him for his opposition to Visconti.’
Plethon said, ‘He is Italian and Italian will not serve.’ He paused. ‘What do you know of Sigismund of Hungary?’
The banker looked surprised, then less so. He nodded. ‘I know him well. I lend him money. He was at Nicopolis where he got away but his daughter was taken by the Turk: the beautiful Angelina.’
‘Yes, and he vowed he would avenge Nicopolis. Without Burgundy next time.’ Plethon looked at his companion closely. ‘Is he a good Christian, do you know?’
De’ Medici thought before he spoke. ‘He is a practical man. And he’d like to be Holy Roman Emperor one day.’ He paused and narrowed his eyes. ‘You know, of course, that he and Ladislaus are mortal enemies, both claiming the crown of Hungary?’
Plethon nodded. ‘I had heard.’ He scratched his beard. ‘This daughter … Angelina. She is illegitimate. Is he fond?’
‘No father is fonder. She is his only child.’
Plethon nodded. ‘Well, I saw him as well in Rome. He agrees to the plan.’
There was silence in the church. De’ Medici was looking at the man next to him in admiration. Then he said, ‘Your grasp of Italian politics is impressive, Plethon. Do you even have a candidate for Pope?’
Plethon smoothed his toga over his knees. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. ‘No, but you do. Tell me about Baldassare Cossa, Giovanni. He sounds interesting.’
De’ Medici let out a long breath. ‘Now that is impressive. What do you know?’
‘That you’ve just bought him his cardinal’s hat. Ten thousand florins, I believe: a fabulous sum. There must be some purpose to such magnanimity.’
The Florentine laughed. ‘There’s competition. Venice wants Angelo Correr, cousin to the Doge. And he should be persuadable on union. After all, he was titular Patriarch of Constantinople and has been discussing Filioque issues with your own Patriarch Matthew.’
Plethon shook his head. ‘Too old, too godly. The battle will be fierce. Baldassare Cossa is well chosen: he is greedy, ruthless and intelligent, a winning combination for Pope.’
De’ Medici was silent for a long time. The only indication that he’d found interesting matter in what Plethon had said was in his breathing, which had quickened. His goggle eyes were a little wider, his cheeks pinker, and his templed hands were raised to his lips in thought.
Eventually he turned and asked, ‘But how will you persuade the two Popes to do this when they have excommunicated each other? How will you get them to persuade their cardinals?’
Plethon looked into the banker’s eyes. ‘You will just have to trust me on that. I have the means to do it and, to judge from my meeting with Boniface in Rome, it will work.’
The Italian nodded slowly. ‘And you go on from here to Avignon?’
‘Yes.’
De’ Medici was still nodding, this time with his fist beneath his chin. ‘It might just work,’ he said. Then: ‘Where does the Princess come in?’
For a moment, Plethon didn’t know who he was talking about. Then he realised.
Fiorenza.
‘She is here to give you gold.’
De’ Medici smiled. ‘Ah, the final carrot. Would this be the repayment of the loan to Chios?’
‘The final part, I believe. Delivered to you with interest, although I gather you don’t call it that.’
The banker laughed, a thin sound from an unused organ. ‘My agent there will be disappointed. He’s in love with her and needs a reason to stay.’
Plethon shook his head. ‘They think he’s a spy. For Venice.’
Laughter again, this time louder. ‘Tommaso Bardolli a spy? Don’t be ridiculous! He’s too busy being in love. She encourages it.’
Plethon frowned. ‘The Princess Fiorenza encourages it?’
‘She flirts with him. It was she who told him to stay on the island.’
*
In fact Tommaso Bardolli had little choice but to stay on the island. Not long after Fiorenza and Plethon had set sail from Chios, the galleys that the philosopher had noticed weren’t at Constantinople turned up in the bay of Chora.
Their admiral was a nervous man. He had been given strict and challenging instructions. He was to take ten ships, fill them with two thousand janissaries, sail to Chios and take it. And he was to do it in two weeks. Now the two weeks were up and the island still hadn’t been taken.
Prince Suleyman, still smarting over the loss of the cannon, had been the one who ordered them there. He’d not take Constantinople until he had more cannon, and the Serenissima had made it clear that they wouldn’t even start making them until Chios had been delivered to them.
Now, standing on the battlements of the castle at Chora, Marchese Longo was thinking about snakes. Since antiquity, Chios had been famous for snakes, its Greek name Ofioussa meaning ‘having snakes’. Some said that the gods had given the island mastic as the means to live with them. At that moment, it seemed to Longo that the bay was full of them, its surface a churn of writhing bodies that rose and turned and spat, their darting tongues breaking out to lick the air.
The meltemi.
Thank God for the meltemi. The wind was early this year, early and strong. It had started almost the moment that the Turkish galleys had broken the horizon two weeks ago and had yet to stop. The Chians saw it as proof that God was with them and put their swords to the grindstone with new fire in their bellies.
Around Longo stood the men from the campagna, all armed and grave. Zacco Banca turned to him.
‘Marchese, we thought that our mastic would protect us. Has the Sultan changed his mind?’
Longo shrugged, pulling his cloak tighter to his shoulders. ‘Perhaps it is not Bayezid we are facing. They say that he’s gone to Wallachia.’
Gabriele Adorno nodded. ‘In which case this has been ordered by Suleyman. He means to take our island and hand it to Venice. What do we do?’
Longo looked at the galleys lined up at the mouth of the bay. They were rocking like cradles and presumably the poor wretches within were mewling and puking as the contents of cradles do. The ships were crammed with men desperate for dry land, yet every attempt to disembark them had, so far, ended in disaster. The landing craft were flat-bottomed and didn’t stand a chance in such a sea.
‘Perhaps nothing. The wind does our work for us.’ It was Benedo Barbi who’d spoken. He was standing between Longo and Dimitri and had had to raise his voice to be heard. The wind made noise of everything it met: ropes, flags, cloaks; each snapped its own particular protest.
‘How much longer will they bear it?’ asked Dimitri. ‘The decks must be awash with vomit.’
Longo nodded. He looked up into the sky. It was blue and without cloud and the sun was at its zenith which meant that the wind was about to blow more strongly. It always did in the afternoons. ‘If it will just continue for a few more days,’ he said. He turned to a man behind him whose vestments were billowing like sails. ‘Monseigneur, keep those masses going. I want one an hour.’
The priest bowed, his hands clamped to his knees. ‘It is to be wished that the Princess Fiorenza’s passage was safe in such seas. We will pray for that too.’
Longo frowned. He’d hoped she would be in Floren
ce by now, delivering gold to Giovanni de’ Medici and telling him that they had no more use for Tommaso Bardolli on the island. It seemed an unlikely coincidence that the Turks had appeared two days after a large part of the garrison had left. Where was the agent now? He’d have to have him followed.
*
In Edirne, it was evening and the daughter of the King of Hungary had just been visited by a priest found somewhere within the small Christian community that resided in that city. He was a small man, tonsured and smelling of cheese, whose gloom had preceded him into the room and stayed long after he’d left.
The Princess’s condition was deteriorating by the day. She was whiter than the sheet beneath her and her eyes were sunk deep into a face washed with perspiration. She drifted in and out of fever and could hold nothing down. The only thing she could do was read and she did this continuously, finding it easier than talking.
It was now five months since she’d taken to her bed and the palace doctors had tried everything they knew to try. She’d been starved, bled, wrapped in wool, fed every disgusting herb under heaven and, moment by moment, the life had drifted away from her like pollen from a flower. Anna and Maria had sat by her bed day and night, rigid with cheer, and only once had they broken down. It was the day her hair had been taken from her.
Now, shaved and shivering, Angelina lay asleep in sheets drenched with sweat and the first traces of blood. They’d given her a sleeping draught an hour past and she would not wake. Maria had pulled back the sheet to change it and was the first to notice the stain.
‘It must be in her urine,’ she whispered. She’d gone as white as the patient, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Look, it’s between her legs, from where she’s wet the bed.’
‘What does that?’ asked Anna.
Maria was shaking her head. ‘There is something in India they call cholera which comes from bad water. Otherwise …’
‘Otherwise?’
Maria looked at her and there was dread in her eyes. ‘Otherwise, it could be arsenic or certain snakes’ poison.’
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 26