by Harold Lamb
He paused and Bembo saw again that Michael grimaced strangely.
“The council has planned an expedition into the terra incognita,” went on Contarini. “A jealous merchant will be sent with proper escort. By fair means or foul—mark me—he must win us wealth from the Cham. Our galleys will bear the voyagers safely through the Turkish pirates. You will be the leader of the expedition.”
Clavijo was a graven figure of amazement.
“I?”
“Verily. Venice will honor fittingly the discoverer of the new trade-route—when you return. But return successful, for we have no clemency for one who fails.”
A flush mounted to the Spaniard’s brow which had become moist again.
“I? My lord, the way is perilous. Scarce I es—”
“By your own words you would fain visit again this city that is an earthly paradise. You know the way. Have no fear that you will not be rewarded.”
Clavijo started to speak again, hesitated and bowed low. Then he jumped and swore roundly. A roaring, mighty laugh broke the silence of the council chamber. Yet none of the councilors had uttered a sound and certainly Clavijo and the attendant had not presumed to laugh.
Contarini it was who broke the spell of stupefaction by starting up and looking angrily at the wall behind which, in the whispering gallery, Michael Bearn was doubled up with mirth, laughing until he coughed.
The sound, magnified by the hidden gallery, had burst upon the councilors like a thunderclap and not a few crossed themselves in awe.
“By the blessed Saint Lawrence and his gridiron!” Bembo pulled at his companion in a frenzy of alarm. “Are you mad? They will be here in a minute with drawn swords. Come, or you will end your laugh in a dungeon—”
Fairly skipping with anxiety, he guided the still chuckling Michael up the steps, and listened a moment alertly. Michael seemed indifferent to the peril that was real enough to Bembo.
Hearing the sound of pikes striking the floor in the direction of the council chamber, Bembo turned the other way at the head of the stairs. He knew that there was a warder at the postern door by which they had entered.
So, instead of retracing his steps, he ran up another flight of stairs, slowing down as he emerged with Michael into a tapestried hall where several attendants without masks lounged.
“The council has broken up,” Bembo announced when the servants glanced at him inquiringly. At the foot of the stair behind them Michael could see Contarini pass hastily toward the listening chamber with a group of halberdiers.
Following Bembo’s lead he walked quietly toward the entrance at the end of the hall that was the main gate of the council house. The hunchback had reasoned quickly that the guards at the door, not having seen him enter, would take him and the Breton for Contarini’s followers. Likewise, he knew that the aroused councilors would not be aware of the identity of the men who had been in the listening chamber.
So, playing both ends against the middle, he went to the gate, nodded to the pikeman on guard and emerged under the stars. As they did so they heard a distant shout from below and saw the servitors run to the head of the stairs up which they had come.
“They will bar the gate,” whispered Bembo. “But, praise be to Saint Mark, we are outside the bars.”
Michael noted with disgust that they were again on a landing with the canal in front of them. While they waited anxiously for a gondola to pass, a flurried councilor rushed through the door, glanced hastily at Bembo, and, recognizing him, glared at the dark canal.
“Did you see a man flee here hence, Bembo?” he questioned.
“Not yet, my lord,” replied the hunchback truthfully. “But, if it please you, I will watch to observe when a man leaves the building.”
When the councilor had reentered the hall, the great door was closed and barred. The two could hear the sounds of a hurried search within. They hailed the first empty craft that came abreast of the landing, and when they were fairly out of sight along the canal Bembo, who was curious by nature, turned to his new friend.
“What made you laugh, signor?”
Michael smiled reminiscently. “A splendid jest, my Bembo.”
As he had listened to Clavijo’s tale at the fête he had been struck by grave doubts as to its truth. The flowery descriptions of the Spaniard did not conform to Michael’s knowledge of the Salt Sea and its tribes.
Furthermore, the man’s face was vaguely familiar. Michael had a keen memory, but he could not place the man at first. Not until the testimony had been given before the council and Clavijo had been plainly disturbed did Michael remember him.
Then he recalled another frightened man. The scene on the shore at Nicopolis flashed before him, and he visioned a tall, stalwart camp-follower of the Christian army driving a loaded cart headlong through the fugitives.
Clavijo had been that man. And the year of the battle of Nicopolis had been the year that Clavijo claimed to have been at the court of the Grand Cham of Tatary. Michael knew then what he suspected before, that the Spaniard had not been in the East. His tale had been a lie.
It was the decision of the council in taking Clavijo at his word that had struck Michael’s grim sense of humor. It was, as he told Bembo, a rare jest.
CHAPTER VI
THE VENTURE
Safe, for the nonce, in an odorous tavern hight the “Sign of the Sturgeon,” on the docks of Rialto, Michael reflected the next day on what he had learned and fell to questioning Bembo, for there was much that puzzled him.
Bembo wondered somewhat, as he squatted on the table where their breakfast platter still lay, how Michael could obtain the money to pay for their quarters because it was becoming apparent to him that they did not have a silver soldi between them. When he mentioned respectfully that the landlord was chalking up their score behind the door and was growling for payment on account, Michael assured him that something would turn up to yield them gold.
Skeptical, but willing to believe in the good fortune of his new master—Bembo had attached himself to the Breton—the hunchback answered the questions.
“My lord Contarini must have money,” he asserted, following the trend of his own thoughts. “His large establishments have impoverished him sorely and he is deep in debt to Rudolfo, the leader of his soldiers, who has waged Contarini’s battles on the mainland. Methinks my lord can not pay—”
“And so has caught at the chance of riches wrung from Cathay,” mused Michael. Egged on by his spend thrift mistress and his creditors, Contarini was planning to use his post as head of the Maritime Council to his own advantage.
This was more than probable because, while Contarini had aided Clavijo in spreading the tidings of a mythical kingdom beyond the Sarai Sea, he had been careful to have the council hear in secret the Spaniard’s testimony as to the possible spoil to be gleaned from the Cathayans. So Contarini must believe the tale of Clavijo.
The Spaniard himself was merely posing as a voyager—an honorable figure in that age—and thriving on the gifts and hospitality of the Venetians. What of Rudolfo?
The condottiere had sought at all costs to keep Michael from hearing the tale of Clavijo. Why? Rudolfo must know of the coming venture into the East if he was in Contarini’s confidence. He knew, too, that Michael had been on the border of the terra incognita.
What did Rudolfo fear that the Breton would disclose? Rudolfo’s cowardice at the field of Nicopolis?
Michael shrugged, and dismissed the problem. It did not matter, he thought—and wrongly.
What interested him was Clavijo’s magnificent lie. Michael knew that there was truth in the well from which the self-styled voyager had drawn his tales. Fra Odoric had spoken truly of a powerful Khan of Tatary.
But would the Khan of Tatary, of whom Michael had heard in the camp of Bayezid, prove to be actually the Cham of Cathay? Michael would have given much to know. For this khan was the one man Bayezid respected on the face of the earth.
“If I could know,” he began, and looked at
Bembo. “Fool o’ mine, and withal, wise man, we must have more news. Go you to the plaza of the city and learn what you may of preparations being made for a ship to the East.
“Look you, wise fool,” the Breton continued thoughtfully. “Is it not true that the natures of men will seek their proper end? Give a thief rope and he will halter himself: a miser will bleed others till there remains no blood in his own veins; a boaster will trip o’er his own tongue. I, being a wayfarer voyaging on behalf of five dead men, will see—the day of judgment, Bembo.”
“And a fool, master?”
“Will be happy, God knows.”
Now in saying this, Michael Bearn voiced the destiny that was to shape his own life and the fate of several others in one of the strangest adventures that was ever recorded in the annals of Venice.
Bembo found his master a queer mixture of moodiness and cheer. Michael had astonished the jester by forcing him to share their meals in common. Bembo had always fared, before this, with the hunting dogs of Contarini.
“’Tis said,” he ventured, thinking of the gold they must have to pay for their food, “that you have seen the battles of the pagans in the East. Could not you gain a place and honor as condottiere with one of the noble lords of Venice?”
“Would one of the noble lords employ a slave, Bembo?” Michael smiled at his companion’s surprise. “Nay, there is no man’s work in these mock wars of Italy where the condottieri bleed—their masters.”
He looked out moodily at the forests of galley masts and emptied his flagon of wine.
“Being idlers, good Bembo, an enterprise must come to us. Go you into the city and learn if this venture is to be had—one wherein we may sharpen our wits and laugh mightily.”
Bembo went. It was evening when he returned.
“So you have come back to me?” remarked Michael. “Are you not afraid of poverty and the dagger of Rudolfo? Bembo, if you had favor with a magician, what would you wish to be?”
The hunchback looked seriously at his torn finery.
“Saving my present service to you, my master, I would like to be the Grand Cham who wears a ruby on every toe and scatters gold as the monks scatter indulgences.”
“So, has the Spaniard’s gossip stirred your blood?”
“Master, it is truth. The council has commissioned Rudolfo to command the soldiery of the expedition to the land of the Grand Cham.”
So suddenly did Michael Bearn spring up from his chair that wine and table were upset on Bembo, who fell back in alarm.
“No!” the Breton cried.
“Aye. They only await the selection of a proper mariner to go with Clavijo and those already chosen. Fifteen thousand ducats have been granted Messer Clavijo for funds. ’Tis said, despite his zeal to set eyes again upon the earthly paradise, he balked at taking the money for a space.”
“Clavijo—Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo—goes verily to the Grand Cham!” Michael sat down on the bed and rocked with laughter. “’Twould make the devil laugh. And who else goes?”
“A certain young count of the Mocenigo family—a rare gallant. Soranzi—I heard the thrifty merchant consulted his astrologer and found that his horoscope foretold rare things of him in Tatary. Verbum sat sapienti—a word to the wise is enough.”
“Soranzi! Who else?”
“Nearly the whole of Venice has begged for the chance. Nevertheless, the wise council knows that the company must be limited to a few; five gentlemen and the men-at-arms.”
“Perhaps the Charm would give him the freedom of the city—of Cathay, in the desert—the sandy desert!” Michael remarked seriously.
Bembo gaped and retreated to a corner of the room, fearing that his master might be afflicted with madness, until the reassuring thought came to him that Michael Bearn was only drunk.
“Aye, sir,” he grinned amiably, “there is sand i’ the desert—”
“Clavijo vouches for it, wise Bembo, and for the saltness of the sea.”
“The salt—verily, sir—ha-ho!”
“Bembo.” Michael shook his dark head gravely. “Hark me, man; never will you behold such a voyager as Ruy Clavijo again. We will look no further, wait no longer. The wind is up, my fool, and we will sail with the tide. No quest could be more suited to our hearts than this.”
He caught up his cloak, hat and sword and bowed ceremoniously to the jester.
“Behold, the new master mariner of Messer Clavijo and his party. I go to the council, or, better, to Contarini, for my commission.”
Hereupon Bembo scratched his head and cast a tentative glance at the water jar. He had been eager to inform his master that Rudolfo was in the expedition, hoping to turn Michael from thought of meddling with Contarini’s plans, and now Michael had said he would join the party.
“Let me bathe your head, master, before you go.”
Michael laughed.
“Water, upon such a night as this! Nay, we will drink to our commission and to the Grand Cham. Come, most wise oracle, a toast!”
“To the Grand Cham.” Bembo filled a cup reluctantly.
“To the Grand Sham!” Michael emptied the cup.
It was late that night when he returned, but the jester was sitting up, wrapped in his tattered mantle, solemnly eyeing the diminishing candle on the table. He looked up fearfully when Michael pushed in the door, for Bembo had entertained grave apprehensions as to the reception of his slightly intoxicated master—for such he considered Michael—by the members of the council.
To his surprise Michael’s step was regular and his glance steady.
“’Tis done, Bembo,” he smiled. “Rudolfo being luckily absent, Contarini passed readily upon the merits of our claim. We sail the day after the morrow.”
Michael flung himself into his chair and clapped Bembo on the knee.
“’Twas not wine that stirred my brain, Bembo. Knowing Clavijo, I had a grave fear that he would lead his expedition anywhere but to the terra incognita. Knowing Rudolfo, I am assured that the venture will verily seek spoil. And since our worthy friends would fain despoil the Cham, why, you and I must go with them. Because, forsooth, the Cham is of all men the man I most desire to clap eyes upon.”
Taking some gold coins from a new pouch at his girdle, he bade Bembo settle their score at the Sign of the Sturgeon on the morrow. The pouch itself he detached and handed to Bembo, who was scratching his head, deeply puzzled by his master’s speech.
“What is that, master?”
“For you. I drew an advance upon my pay. We part when the ship sails. This voyage is not for you, Bembo.”
The jester pushed the money away and the corners of his lips drew down.
“Wherefore, master? Am I not your man?”
But Michael, glancing at the low partition that separated their room from the other chambers of the inn, shook his head thoughtfully.
“I have good reason for bidding you stay here. This voyage is not like other voyages.”
Bembo pricked up his ears and protested, but Michael would say no more. Long after the sea-captain had retired to his cloak and bed of boards, the jester remained awake, watching the candle-flame moodily and glancing from time to time angrily at the purse.
He was hurt and his curiosity was stirred—two strong emotions with the hunchback. As the candle spluttered and subsided into grease, Bembo reached out a claw-like hand and pouched the money.
CHAPTER VII
The Castle Without Doors
Clavijo, in choosing the Nauplia, had selected the most comfortable means of travel to be had in those days. The pilgrim galliot was broad of beam and fitted with extra cabins in the stern castle. A dozen great sweeps aided the lateen sail. The sides of the vessel were high, and sloped well inboard—affording good protection against the waves.
The pilgrim galleys were designed to provide some ease for passengers. Live fowls were carried. The master of the ship could not remain at any given port for purposes of trade more than three days. He was also obliged to put in at any port they
might fancy.
Clavijo, Mocenigo and Rudolfo had all quartered themselves aft; Soranzi had made shift with sleeping-space below decks. But Bearn, who had discovered for himself the unattractiveness of quarters under the deck where the passengers camped all over each other, appropriated space for his mantle and bundle on the main deck under the overhang of the bow.
He was somewhat surprised to see that the ship’s captain was hugging the shore, keeping a course well within sight of land. “Coasting” it was called in those days. Since this was the popular route, favored by the passengers, it was more liable to attack by Moslem pirates than the more direct course out into the Aegean.
Pirate galleys frequented the sea lanes to the East, off Greece, and Michael had observed at a glance that the Nauplia was poorly equipped for defense. Moreover he wondered that Clavijo was not afraid of encountering thieves. The Spaniard had been entrusted with a treasure of some fifteen thousand Venetian ducats and valuable goods.
It was the second night out and a full moon hung in a clear sky; the man at the steering-oar guided the Nauplia within sight of the shadows of land.
Near Michael groups of Armenian and Muscovite traders slept, men and women together, heedless of the clamor of voyagers at dice and wine, or the quarreling and singing below decks where torches of pine-pitch made sleep difficult, if not perilous.
Michael found that he missed Bembo’s light tongue and deeper philosophy. The jester would have been in his element on such a night. But Bembo had left him without farewell the day before the galliot sailed.
The tumult and lights of the pilgrim ship formed a great contrast to the silence and speed of a smaller galley that swept out of an inlet with oars plying on either side and spray flashing in the moonlight.
For a second Michael studied it, then took up his sword and ran aft to where the captain slept by the helmsman.
“Look at yonder craft,” observed the Breton, shaking the slumbering seaman, “and then dream if you can.”