‘Begging Your Grace’s pardon for disturbing him when he was with guests,’ Baltus said as he led the megas doux down the passageway to his cabinet, ‘but you said to inform you the moment Iagaris returned.’
‘No, you did the right thing,’ said Loukas Notaras. ‘In truth it was something of a blessing to be rescued from all of that.’
Manuel Iagaris got swiftly to his feet when his lord, the megas doux, entered and was waved back into the chair. Notaras took his own padded seat behind the heavy oak table. ‘You met with them?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said Iagaris.
‘And? Did they consent to our meeting him, face to face?’
‘They are open to the idea. They believe, given time, an opportunity can be fabricated.’
‘Given time,’ Notaras repeated quietly. ‘They must hurry. There is precious little of it left. Where did you meet them?’
‘Pera. There is a merchant there who sells information out of his back room. He is their conduit,’ said Iagaris.
‘Excellent, a safe distance from here.’ The megas doux steepled his fingers and seemed to mull over his thoughts for a time while Iagaris sat quietly and waited. Finally, Notaras spoke. ‘I hardly need remind you that this house cannot be linked in any way to them. It would be all our deaths. Now, see yourself out the back way, I have respectable company.’
IV.
A steady stream of pedlars, troubadours, beggars and whores passed through the tavern cellar common room, but few were bold enough to approach the rear nook where three dark Latins and one blond Scotsman sat determinedly drinking.
‘With every pot of wine,’ sighed Sambucuccio, ‘that serving girl grows two times lovelier and a year younger.’
‘Fornication’s a sin,’ Fieschi reminded him with a grin. ‘Even in the unlikely event that she willingly consented.’
‘Don’t worry, Isnardo,’ said Sambuuccio with a piratical grin. ‘I go to church tomorrow and everything will be forgiven. It would be a shame to go empty handed to confession.’
He was half drunk, slouched low on the bench in the darker corner of their alcove. ‘Tonight,’ Sambucuccio declared, ‘I need a fight or a woman.’
‘If you were still in Bastiglia you could have both at the same time. You’re truly a child of Corsica, Aluigi!’ laughed Boccanegra. ‘Your soul is made for banditry and prayer and little else!’
‘Mark this one, John. Such a pious bottle-ale rascal,’ Fieschi said. ‘He’ll cut your throat for your purse, but he will pray for your soul once the deed is done.’
‘True,’ Sambucuccio said and raised his mug. ‘But these Greek girls are poor sport. Half of them just lie there and wait for you to get on with it. I wonder if the Turks will find the Greek men fight the same when they come for the city.’
‘I’d not wager it so. These are the people of Leonidas, of Alexander, of Achilles,’ Boccanegra said. He was prone to outbursts of romanticism, which left the others by equal measure baffled and bemused.
‘You’ve the soul of a poet my friend,’ Fieschi said with a weary smile. ‘And like a poet your head is in the clouds. These people are great fighters, that’s true, but only at fighting among themselves. A Greek could start a civil war in an empty room.’
‘Well, I hope when the time comes, they prove you wrong,’ Boccanegra said. ‘I hope we can all one day tell our grandchildren we were there when the Moslem ranks broke and the great siege lifted.’
‘You and John perhaps, but Maruffo and I will be staying in Pera,’ said Fieschi. ‘Let the Greeks defend their own walls if they can. Let them tie their wagon to Giustiniani’s comet and see how far that pulls them.’ He unconsciously rubbed at the scar on his forehead.
‘Giustiniani!’ Boccanegra said throwing up his hands. ‘It always comes back to Giustiniani with you.’
‘Tell us about him,' urged Grant, eager to change the subject. ‘You were there, weren’t you, Isnardo? At the very start?’
‘People never tire of tales about Giustiniani,’ Fieschi said with a sad smile. ‘Yes, I knew him at the start.’ Their eyes flicked involuntarily towards the ugly brand’s white mark. ‘Yes, even before this,’ he said as he saw where their gazes had wandered. ‘From the birth to the bitter end. Let me tell you the greatest crime of Giustiniani – he was born too late into a republic of tired old men. He had the whole city in his thrall, just as Constantinople appears to be swooning now at the prospect of his arrival.’
‘Tell us about it then. How did the republic go from worshiping him to calling for his death in such a wee span of time?’
***
For Paolo Barbo, patrician son of Venice, brother of a cardinal, nephew of a pope, the very thought of entering an establishment as dark and seedy as a tavern was almost enough to send him straight to the bathhouse, but business was business and at times it called for him to walk with the alley cats and not just nobles and emperors. It was a hideously gloomy place – low beamed, dark, smelling of seasoned timber and dried drink. He scanned the room and spotted a group of Genoese ruffians at the rear. He gave a sniff before descending the last step, as if he planned to hold his breath while down there.
‘Messer Barbo!’ a voice called out, echoing off the walls and ceilings and causing him to flinch. It was Zuan Maragon, Venetian at least, but a churl all the same. Barbo was only mildly less disgusted by the presence of Maragon and his drinking friends than he was by the Genoese.
He had only agreed to a meeting in this cesspool because of the anonymity its dark space and low-bred crowd would afford him, and now the lackwit had brought him to the room’s attention. He saw the dagger eyes of the big, blond brute and the branded wreck-of- a-man turning his way. Fantastic.
Giving a little nod of acknowledgement towards Maragon, he began to move between the tables. A hand shot out from one as he passed, gently touching his leg. ‘Kyr,’ a voice said in low whisper and Barbo looked down with a start to see the one-eyed face of the man he had come to meet. The man who called himself Abramius.
‘Have a seat, kyr.’
‘Not my choice of establishment,’ Barbo said as he slid into the chair opposite. ‘I will have you know I was drinking with the megas doux two nights past.’
‘And did he sell you any of his collection?’ Abramius said in a tone that made it plain he did not expect to find Loukas Notaras pawning off the family heirlooms.
‘Well, he has sold me his daughter, so in a manner of speaking...’ a thin smile creased Barbo’s face.
Abramius gave a nod. ‘She’s a rare beauty, a different kind of masterpiece. Congratulations, kyr. But I am thinking this is not the reason you sailed from Venice. You are after another sort of Byzantine beauty. One you can perhaps sell on yourself?’
‘You make it sound so tawdry! I’m not a pedlar,’ Barbo said. ‘Mine is an honourable service, saving important treasures from falling into heathen hands and yes, allowing certain individuals in Venice the opportunity to put their material wealth into more spiritual assets.’
‘Yes of course, kyr. I commend you for this, but I must warn you not everyone here will see things in such fine terms. Some will compare it to Venetian exports of the past. Your city still has our bronze horses, no? Let me be frank, kyr, we’ve had men like yourself here before and some of them met with unfortunate accidents. I say this only to be of service to you, to give you warning. That is why it is good to meet in a place such as this.’
‘I take heed. Do not worry, I heard a similar tale from kyr Angelos when I bought his Pieta.’
‘Kyr Angelos. Yes. Did he mention me? No, of course he would not, it is embarrassing to him perhaps,’ said Abramius. ‘I have represented him before in such business. I have represented many of the great families of the city. It is a fact of life here, is it not? You have been about the place, you have seen the faded facades, the crumbling churches. It must seem a wreck to one from Venice. It must appear as though an earthquake has struck. But under the wreckage there is much buried treasure. We hide o
ur wealth, kyr, from the emperor’s tax collectors and from would-be foreign thieves.’
Barbo nodded. ‘Yes, there is wealth here, I know. The city is not lacking in capital, it is income that has dried up. The trade routes have shifted to Venetian galleys or Turkish caravans. Old ikons and ancient baubles are all Constantinople has left to feed herself with. That is where I can be of service.’
‘Indeed, but these are proud families, kyr. Their ancient baubles have been with them for a long time and their sale is an admission of defeat. You will find few as desperate as Angelos and willing to deal directly. These families prefer discretion. That’s where I come in. I will arrange for some viewings, negotiate a price that gives you ample room for profit but does not leave the seller with a sore head, and then I shall step back and let you gentlemen complete the transaction. In this way, the item may change hands before those of the family who might object can know of it.’
‘Good. How will I contact you then?’
‘There’s no need. I will arrange what I can and then I will contact you. Is there anything in particular you are seeking, kyr? The skull of a saint perhaps, or a Pantokrator?’
‘There is one item I had hoped to locate. An ikon painted by the Apostle Mark himself. It was said to have been in the Church of Alexandria when Constantine the Bearded briefly retook the city. I had heard a rumour it was brought here before Egypt fell again and that it made its way into a family collection. Being the city of St Mark, you can imagine how Venice would appreciate such an item.’
‘Ah yes. I know the story. I will see what I can... is something wrong, kyr?’ Barbo’s attention had sprung away, over the other man’s shoulder to the rear of the room. Abramius turned and spotted the two figures coming down the cellar stairs.
***
The snoring of Sambucuccio had grown louder as the conversation died among them. Fieschi had finished his tale and there had seemed little either Grant or Boccanegra could follow it with. They stared morosely at their pots of wine and brooded.
For Grant, the possibility of leaving the city, had he ever really considered it, had vanished with the roar of the Throat Cutter. Passage on a boat west had doubled in price overnight and he had nothing to his name but a bollette – a piece of paper promising future pay – from a bankrupt treasury.
Grant looked up, and for a moment he thought he must have fallen asleep like Sambucuccio, for there at the top of the cellar stairs stood the girl he had seen in the market. The girl in the crimson gamurra. Only now, the gown she wore was blue. Surely this was not real. Why would she be here, in this sordid place so close to curfew?
She walked down the steps, followed by an older woman who wore a look of discomfort, bordering on fear.
As she descended, the girl unwound the thin silk veil that had covered her hair and boldly took a seat at the nearest vacant table.
The cacophony of noise that moments before had rung around the stone cellar ceiling now dropped to a murmured babble. The girl’s presence had unsettled the room, like an outsider’s intrusion into a holy ritual.
Grant wondered who in the tavern would approach the ladies first. He felt a strange concern for their wellbeing in this den of drunken lechery. And then the thin Venetian, Barbo, was rising from his table and crossing to theirs.
Grant watched him give a little formal bow from the waist, say something to which the older woman smiled and the girl laughed, and then Barbo was pulling up a stool to join them.
The room’s attention began to drift away. A song that had been cut off mid-flow by the strange arrival now burst back into flat-noted life. The murmur swelled into a hubbub once more.
Bocanegra had noticed them too. ‘It seems that whoreson barbermonger’s not content with his engagement,’ he said. ‘Now he’s sliming over another lass. If she’s a courtesan she cannot be cheap.’
‘She’s no courtesan,’ Fieschi said. ‘What whore comes to a tavern with a female chaperone, or do you suppose that old maid is her pimp?’
A short time later, Barbo rose from his stool and made his way back through the tavern towards the rear steps to the outhouse. His path took him directly past the alcove where the Genoese sat brooding, and he gave them a sneer as he passed. Fieschi made a gesture with two forked fingers under his chin and Grant noticed the table of Venetian sailors flinch across the room. He elbowed Sambucuccio awake.
‘You might get your wish after all.’
‘A woman?’
‘A fight.’
Sambucuccio rubbed his eyes. ‘All right, point me at them.’
When Barbo reappeared, he swaggered past the Genoese, enjoying the way his presence riled them. He had no inkling that for several hours they had been marinating themselves in drink and old stories of Venetian atrocities, so unwisely let his tongue run away with itself.
‘Ho! By all the saints, what have we here? A weaving circle of Genoese women!’
‘Run along you son-of-a-Jew if you want to still be breathing tomorrow,’ Fieschi spat back.
‘Oh ho! The old man has some spirit left,' Barbo said. 'If you had shown that at Portofino, your face might not look like a cow’s backside.’
Grant was on his feet in an instant, looming over the shorter Venetian like a volcano on the brink of eruption. His fists balled, his nostrils flared, his eyes flashed danger. Across the room other chairs were scraping back.
‘Will you back that mouth with steel?’ Grant said. ‘You and me. I’ll carve you up like cheap mutton.’
Barbo regarded him with utter disdain. ‘Venetian nobles do not trouble their honour to duels with northern peasantry.’
Seeing the brewing trouble, a half-dozen Venetians had now come across from their table. The other Genoese were also on their feet, chest to chest with their rivals, breathing wine-soaked breath on one another and waiting for the spark to light the powder.
Around the tavern people were quietly making for the steps. Grant flicked an eye across and saw the two women had vanished.
A foolish hand shoved Sambucuccio and that was all the fiery Corsican needed for provocation. His fist cracked onto the nearest Venetian chin and set off a chain of violence like carnival firecrackers. Instinct took over.
Grant slammed his right hand into Barbo’s unprepared gut and as the winded Venetian doubled over in pain brought his other fist swinging down.
He felt the satisfying sensation of the nose spread and crack, and Barbo dropped to the floor with a hand clinging to his bloodied face.
Everything became a blur. The whole cellar was a brawling mess as the fighting spread like the plague. All around, old grudges were settled and new ones made.
Then Grant caught a glimpse of a red crested helmet making its way through the tavern door. Karystinos and his men had arrived to break up the trouble.
V.
‘Oh God!’
His eyelids flicked open and somehow the marketplace became the low beams of a roof. A tavern roof, yes. The mattress beneath his back felt sodden and his heart was still in his throat, beating like a penant in a gale, but he was in a bed – a safe tavern bed, not the marketplace. Not in front of that crackling pyre and that shrieking, condemning face.
Grant got to his feet and felt the dull aches in his body from the prior evening’s fight. He moved to where a bowl and water jug sat on a table by the room’s only window.
As he filled the bowl and scooped a handful of water to his lips, he was silently castigating himself. He had fallen into old habits – drinking and fighting – and had forgotten the purpose of his pilgrimage to the city. Clearly, God had sent the night’s terrible dream to punish him, to remind him of his purpose. He pulled on his boots and made his way from the tavern to a small church he had seen down the road.
It was an impossibly cold morning. The sun, shining from a clear, glacial, cobalt sky, sparkled in the frosted dew and made the whole world seem as fragile as glass.
The elm gates were open, thrown back in invitation, revealing a humble atrium and
the porch of the church beyond. Despite the cold and the gaping entrance, Grant lingered outside in a cloud of his own breath like a child at the threshold of his father’s cabinet.
Finally, almost unwillingly, his feet began to move; past the elm gates, across the tiny stone slabs of the atrium courtyard, into the narthex with its tall pair of brass menalia candlesticks standing guard beside the royal doors.
As one unbaptised into the Greek Church he could go no further. The nave beyond those doors was a forbidden kingdom he could gaze upon but never reach. But even here, in the outer hallway of the church, its inner mysteries could be felt.
The nave was a dark, cavernous space, lit from below by the dull glow of candles and from above by the purer shafts of light that sliced the darkness; a divine illumination cast from the windows of the dome above. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.
Grant could make out figures in the gloom blessing themselves before the peacock sheen of the iconostasis wall that separated off the sanctuary. A stern looking Christ Pantokrator gazed down from the gilded, hemispherical apse, surrounded by nimbused portraits of the twelve Old Testament prophets. The great judge and his jury.
The nave was empty of pews. Unlike the Latin churches of Italy, here the people stood before God. Beneath their feet the mosaic floor, softly shimmering blue and gold in the candlelight, had the sheen of a carpet of flowers. Among the mosaic designs was one of a young girl surrounded by lions.
Grant knelt before the humble altar in the narthex and let the heart-catching, quarter-tone rise and fall of prayer and the perfume of smouldering incense waft over him.
It was a fitting place for his own prayers – the narthex was ever the place of penitence. The tranquility felt like plunging into a placid lake when the noise and heat and hustle of the world disappeared beyond a watery veil and left nothing but the sound of a heartbeat and the little voice in the back of one’s head.
Porphyry and Ash Page 5