The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

  With rising excitement Nicolo glanced at the quay. There was his box. Presently he would be with it, ready for this Lisbon venture from which his old friend had so tried to dissuade him. Then, he must look up lodgings; lucky that he could speak Portuguese.

  A boy’s head and shoulders, leaning out over the edge of the quay, suddenly crossed his vision—what in the world was that chap about? Nicolo watched him peer down at the Venezia’s bow. Trying to read her name, was he?

  The bent figure straightened up, and he saw a young fellow, rather younger than himself, well set up and stocky, with the most remarkable eyes—eyes that made you stop and look, for they seemed like fires under his thick black brows. He was sorry when the boy moved away to scrutinize the vessel next the Venezia, and wondered idly why he was interested in the names of ships.

  A shout from the crew!—The unloading was finished. A hatch cover slammed down. There was a cry to stand by and slip the hawsers. Next thing they would be drawing in the gang plank—he must go. He glanced at the captain hurrying forward.

  “Well, Conti, so it’s really good-bye? Sure you won’t change your mind?”

  Nicolo laughed and grasped his hand. “Not till I’ve given Portugal a fair trial, anyhow.”

  The captain shrugged. “Personally, I like to be at the hub of the wheel. This settling yourself on the edge of the world—”

  “Edge!” Nicolo broke in. “I’ll remind you of that word when the trade is roaring around us and this is the hub!”

  “A fine, loyal Venetian you are!” retorted the other as he gave him a friendly shove.

  “Good luck, sir! And look out that you don’t have another brush with pirates!”

  The man’s eyes glittered. “Pirates better watch me! They can’t afford to lose any more pilots to Christians!”

  “We were in great luck to get that chap to take the place of our own pilot—he certainly knew his business.”

  “As good a pilot as I ever saw,” the captain heartily endorsed. “I tried to get him to stay with me, but he’d had enough of the sea for a while.”

  Nicolo sprang up the gangplank and from the quay called out his last word: “Let me know when you’re in again—I’ll be right here!”

  On the impulse he decided to wait for the Venezia to clear, and, after he had arranged for the storage of his box, he loitered about until he could see her tall mainmast with the familiar Lion of St. Mark beyond the harbour shipping. He watched the flag out of sight, and had turned to find the main thoroughfare, when a sound of angry voices made him look back.

  Around the Venezia’s discharged cargo he saw several prosperous looking men engaged in a vehement discussion. They had evidently halted the stevedores, for only part of the load had been removed. Nicolo watched, as they made gestures toward it and consulted indignantly among themselves. Gradually, he approached them. His Portuguese was not too good, but he gathered that there was something wrong with the freight that the Venezia had left.

  “There it is—see for yourselves,” one of the group was protesting. “Empty as a sucked egg! And I’m out the price of a barrel of sugar.”

  Nicolo edged up and looked over the speaker’s shoulder. With real dismay he saw that the barrel was empty.

  “You could get a consideration, if you hadn’t signed the bill of lading,” someone suggested.

  “But I have signed it. And talk of consideration—why, a Venetian’d rather sell his soul than part with a ducat!”

  “The captain of the Venezia wouldn’t!” Nicolo spoke up from behind him. “How do you know your own men aren’t responsible for that empty barrel?”

  The other wheeled around and stared at him. “Because I was standing by when my men discovered the shortage,” he retorted. “And what’s the Venezia’s captain to you, young fellow, that you’re so free to put your nose into other people’s business?”

  There was a murmur of approval from his companions. A heated reply was on Nicolo’s lips—when all at once the humour of the situation struck him, and he laughed. Here he’d come to establish himself in a strange city, and the first thing he did was to get into a full-fledged quarrel.

  “It happens that he’s a good deal to me,” he said good-naturedly. “I’ve known him all my life, and the last thing he’d do would be to cheat anyone out of anything. Now, here”—he took out his wallet—“what do you figure that sugar is worth?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean anything like that,” the man awkwardly protested. “I can stand the loss, but it’s—it’s the principle of the thing!”

  “Just so,” Nicolo agreed, biting his lips to keep a grave face, “the ‘principle,’ for the captain’s a great stickler for principle—like yourself, sir! Now,” opening his wallet, “what do we owe you?”

  The man named a sum, which Nicolo handed over. “No hard feelings, I hope,” he said, a little sheepishly, as he took the money. “If there’s anything I can do for you at any time—”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” laughed Nicolo. “Can you tell me where I can get a bite?”

  “I can that! If you aren’t particular about style—”

  “Not in the least—I’m hungry!”

  “Well, then—” the man turned Nicolo around, and pointed down a narrow outlet from the quay—“that’ll take you to the main thoroughfare. Follow along to a big square, and, to your right, in an alley way, you’ll see a little tavern, The Green Window, kept by an old fellow they call Pedro. It’s not much to look at, but you can get the best mutton and vegetable stew in there that’s made.”

  Once clear of the noisy quay, Nicolo stopped to look about him. Portugal…Lisbon…after all these months of doubt, of inward debate, of final decision, here they were, bright reality. His eyes, accustomed to the levels of Venice, mounted, with a sense of adventure, hillsides up which quaint, high-roofed houses seemed to climb on each other’s shoulders. Enchantments of colour caught, and held, his exploring eyes: sunlit walls broken by sociable little balconies and outside stairways; bursts of blossoming shrubs, a glowing patch of tiny, steep garden. Everywhere, Nicolo noted, was colour, virile, vivid, of an almost primitive quality, as if the crude essence of it had been laid on without care of shade or tone. The sky itself blazed, from zenith to horizon, a deep even blue. Where, he wondered, was the palace? Perhaps it was the solid gloomy structure that crowned that hill or, more likely, that larger building with dome and pillars half-way down the hillside.

  Mentally he contrasted the disciplined beauty of Venice—mellow sumptuousness, noiseless waterways—with the gay helter skelter of this hill city and the clatter of its cobblestone pavements. Life moved faster here, and more simply. That boy, for instance, milking his goats from door to door!… This woman urging you to buy from the tray of glistening fish she balanced on her head, and those men telling you how fresh were the vegetables in the baskets slung across their shoulders.

  In the square that the merchant had mentioned, Nicolo noticed the shops of linen drapers and silk mercers—not so different from the displays of the Merceria, only that a Venetian instantly missed the enormous variety which the Oriental trade gave to the shops of Venice.

  He found The Green Window without trouble, an amusing little place with one huge, green-cased window set into its diminutive, peaked front. Several men, unmistakably sailors, were eating and talking at a table. Nicolo sat down near them, and was promptly served with a bowl of the famous stew. The innkeeper was a quaint little man with kind eyes, and scrupulously anxious to please. Nicolo at once took a fancy to him, and ended by ordering a second portion of the stew.

  Half-way through his meal, he absently noticed that someone came in and dropped into a seat at the far end of the room, but immediately he forgot the incident in the talk of the sailors. They were now topping off with good red wine, and were in high spirits. Nicolo made out that they belonged to crews which were to sail that very day.

  “You’ll be bringing back sugar and lumber, I suppose?” one of them asked.

  �
��Yes, all the yew and cypress we can load without sinking her.”

  “They say there’s no better hard wood than this Madeira timber,” someone commented, “but, for big money, give me a good shipful of black men and a ballast of gold ore!”

  So that was where they were going, Nicolo said to himself—Madeira, one of the important Portuguese colonies. As for the reference to “black men”—

  “From your talk of blacks and gold,” cut in another, “I reckon you’re bound for Guinea.”

  Ah, the much talked of Guinea Coast—another of Portugal s discoveries.

  “That’s what!” was the hearty rejoinder, “And a bonus if we get back on schedule time!”

  “That for your bonus”—a snap of the fingers—“when they get the water route to India going in good shape! Watch me enlist on the first trip!”

  More talk followed, of places that to Nicolo had been half myths: Cape Verde, the Azores, the Canaries.

  They went out, laughing and scuffling, and Nicolo, his fancy on fire, watched them roister down the street. As he got up to pay for his meal, he glanced at the one remaining customer in the room, the one who had come in so quietly. The boy with the eyes!

  Arms folded on his chest, head dropped a little forward, the great eyes seemed to burn far into some future world. Glowing fires, thought Nicolo; the most extraordinary eyes ever lodged in a human head; uncanny, only for the sheer beauty of them.

  The boy looked up, surprising his scrutiny. “Interesting, weren’t they?” he said, nodding toward the departed sailors. “I saw you listening to them.”

  “You Portuguese have a right to be very proud of your navigators,” Nicolo said warmly, responding to this friendly ignoring of formalities.

  The boy seemed to seize at the last words. “Have you done any voyaging—seen any sea service?” he demanded.

  “Only in the Mediterranean—but enough to get my sea legs,” laughed Nicolo. “I take it you’ve been to sea, or expect to go?”

  “As soon as I can!”

  Nicolo caught the note of impatience in the brief reply. “Perhaps your people won’t let you go?” he suggested.

  “No—not till I’ve finished my tour of duty at the palace.” He flushed as though embarrassed at revealing so much to a stranger. “You see, I’m a page,” he explained with a little grimace, “and I’ve a half dozen more years of service.”

  Their eyes met, understandingly, and Nicolo laughed. There was something refreshing, lovable, in this frankness. “So in the meantime you get the sea at second hand from The Green Window!”

  The boy nodded. “Every chance I see, I slip out of my uniform and into some old hunting clothes they sent me from home, and come down here. It’s good to be quit of those stiff things that saw your neck in two, and keep you laced up so tight you can’t breathe!” He ran his fingers around the open throat of his loose leather jacket and squirmed luxuriously.

  “A homesick, country lad,” Nicolo silently mused, as much touched as he was amused by the ingenuous gesture. But well born, you could tell, from that forthright way of his. No heritage of the yoke in him! Aloud, “Old clothes are a comfort,” he agreed. “What do you have to do at the palace?”

  “Oh, play errand boy, serve the King at table, stand by when he rides or drives out, wait on the ladies for this, that, and the other.”

  “Not too exciting, eh? I don’t believe I envy you!”

  “It’s deadly,” the other pursued, “the routine that a page has to go through, like a dog at its tricks. I never could see the sense of pulling on the King’s hose for him! And—” he lowered his voice, “why the devil shouldn’t a woman pick up her own handkerchief when she drops it?”

  “Sh—careful!” Nicolo laughed under his breath. “Women have a way of getting back at rebels like you! By the way,” he ventured, “didn’t I see you on the dock this morning?” Almost, he had added “What were you looking for?”

  “I was certainly down there,” the boy returned, “and I saw you—twice! You made a friend for life out of that sugar dealer!”

  “To tell the truth, I was thinking of my own interests as much as his! It was hardly good business to make an enemy the moment I’d set foot here, where I expect to stay.”

  The great eyes lighted up. “You really mean to live here? Good! I thought I heard you say something like that, when you and the captain were talking. I—I—” the colour rose to his cheeks—“listened to you!”

  “Oh, so you understand Italian?” Nicolo laughed, inwardly amused with the ingenuous admission.

  “After a fashion; you know, we pick up a smatter of everything in the palace. But you have me beaten, the way you speak our language. Didn’t I hear you mention pirates?” he continued. “What happened?”

  “Not very much—to us! The pirates and a Venetian vessel had been having it back and forth, when we overhauled them. After that we were two to one, of course, and the pirates broke and ran. That was all.”

  “There was something else that you said: that Lisbon was going to get all the trade. What makes you think that?”

  “What I’ve heard about Diaz. I believe he’s on the right track to India.”

  Something leaped in the boy’s eyes, and his hand shot out to Nicolo’s. “Diaz is the greatest man in the world! I know him…if you’d like to meet him.”

  “Would I!—That’s a chance in a lifetime.”

  “Then I’ll arrange it. Now,” with a little grimace, “I must be going back to the palace.”

  Nicolo rose and walked with him to the door.

  “Where is the palace?” he inquired. “Up there on top of the hill?”

  “That? Oh, that’s the Castle of St. George—old citadel that dates back to the time of the Moors. Here—” Magellan drew Nicolo from the doorway—“step out where you can see. Might as well begin to get your bearings! Now, that big bulk of a building with the dome and arches, half-way between us and the Castle, is the Sé Patriarchal.5 That’s where St. Vincent’s tomb is—Lisbon’s patron saint, you know. Some say it used to be a Moorish mosque.”

  “I noticed it first thing and wondered if it weren’t the palace.”

  “Why, the palace is in the other direction!” exclaimed Magellan. “It’s down by the harbour, you know—faces square on the Tagus. You must have seen it this morning.”

  “I’m afraid I was too busy with the empty sugar barrel!” laughed Nicolo.

  The other grinned sympathetically. “Don’t know that I blame you! But the next time you’re down at the water front, take notice of a great three-sided building with an enormous square in the middle that opens on the river. That’s Manoel’s palace.”

  “Where you pull on the royal stockings, and pick up handkerchiefs that the ladies drop!” bantered Nicolo.

  The boy made a face. Then, a little bashfully, he asked, “Perhaps I’ll see you here soon again?”

  “If there’s a chance to see you,” Nicolo said heartily. “And what do you say we exchange names?”

  “Oh, I know yours, already! I heard your captain say it; Nicolo Conti, isn’t it? And mine’s Magellan—Ferdinand Magellan.”

  From the door of The Green Window Nicolo looked after him with a warm little stir at his heart. Those brilliant, brooding eyes…that lovable frankness, even if indiscreet…the sensitive colour, and, again, those altogether extraordinary eyes!

  He stepped into the alley way and stood, for a moment, stretching himself in the warm sun and exultantly breathing in the tang of the clear air. He had made no mistake in leaving Venice for Portugal. Here the future was in the shaping, with a chance to share in the process; in the result, too. For the moment, Life seemed a joyous effervescent that foamed gloriously over the edge as he drank. He was glad to be here. Glad!

  He started to walk on, when an idea occurred to him. He turned, amusedly contemplated the big green window in the tiny front; then he re-entered the inn.

  Pedro was giving a final scouring to the long board top of a table. He had take
n it off its trestles, the better to clean it, and, now, as Nicolo watched, he lifted it back.

  “You forgot something, perhaps?” he asked, as he suddenly perceived Nicolo.

  “I was just wondering if—well—I don’t suppose you’d consider a lodger, would you, Pedro?”

  “I’ve never taken lodgers, Senhor. I have nothing but a small room overhead.” The tone was deprecatory but Nicolo could see that the kind eyes were pleased.

  “Let me see it,” he said. “All I want is a place to sleep in. I’m sure of good food here at any rate.”

  Eventually it was agreed that he should move in at once. The room was small, but it was clean and sunny and had a tolerable bed.

  “I’ll have my box brought here,” Nicolo concluded, “shall I, Pedro?”

  Pedro nodded. “If you’re satisfied.” Then, “Are you staying in Lisbon for long?” he inquired.

  “For always, I hope!” Nicolo told him, good humouredly.

  “So! Then you have friends here?”

  “Only one, so far—the young fellow I was talking to, downstairs. But presently I expect there’ll be more. There’s a banker here that I mean to look up, a Master Abel Zakuto. You don’t happen to know him, do you?”

  “Of course! Who, in Lisbon, doesn’t? A kind of a sailor-fellow on land, he is; always pottering with navigation instruments, and hobnobbing with anyone who’s either been to sea or is going.”

  “Oh, that isn’t the Zakuto whom I’ve heard about at home,” Nicolo broke in. “My man is a banker, a Jewish banker.”

  Pedro nodded. “He’s that, too, a Jewish banker; same person. Yes, I can show you where he lives.”

  Directed by a graphic finger, Nicolo’s eyes finally made out, high on the hillside, a certain house at the head of a long stairway. Along the front a row of windows were bright gold in the afternoon sun. It struck Nicolo’s fancy—perched up there with an air of satisfaction at having out-climbed all those other climbing houses! He would go there some day soon and make acquaintance with this banker that he’d heard of in Venice—Abel Zakuto.