‘Ach, I’m not sure I have the stomach for that aspect of it,’ I said ruefully.
‘I agree. It is ridiculous – hilarious, really, if men did not die as a result. Alas, our trade is now money, and money does not seem to be spent on peace in these times.’
‘Really, I should like to give it all up,’ I sighed. ‘And Iselda – God, she loathes all of this.’
‘Why, then, do you go on with it?’
‘We made our promises to Michel,’ I said.
‘Really? You promised him that you would be bankers?’
‘Not exactly, but …’ That was true. I had promised my dying friend and mentor that I would make Iselda happy, and see that the affairs of the Cormaran prospered. But – and I had pondered this a thousand times since the captain’s eyes had trembled shut for the last time – what had that meant? Captain de Montalhac had already turned his own back on the Banco di Corvo Marino. He had chosen faith over money. I had no faith, and neither did Iselda – leastways, none that could be explained to a priest or even a heretic – but that did not make the cultivation of money our only choice. And yet what would happen if we walked away from this life? We had obligations. When we had taken it over, the bank already had agents in two dozen cities and towns, thousands of livres on loan, many thousands more in reserve. Now we were financing trading fleets, armies, weavers, a cathedral … And the Templars already had their hackles up. It had taken us a year just to find our feet, another to learn what we were about, and by then … By then, our spirits were crushed. I could imagine Iselda saying that, though she hadn’t, not yet. But it was true, if spirits can be crushed by fine living. For if we often imagined ourselves in a cell with golden bars upon the window, it was a very comfortable cell indeed.
‘Patch?’ Isaac was studying me, amused.
‘Your pardon,’ I said, a little flustered. ‘I was trying to remember. You know, I don’t think we did promise him anything of the sort. And yet here I am, a banker. It is …’
‘Better than sailing a boat to Greenland?’
‘I was going to say better than sleeping in ditches, but that’ll do. Don’t you miss dining on smoked puffin for two months without relief, though?’
‘I’m sure we could procure some for you, dear boy. Do we have any ships bound for the Faroes? But no, this is not the life you chose, nor I for that matter. I am a physician, and I have not so much as lanced a boil since Istvan died. And I miss Michel, and the old days of the Cormaran, of course I do. But I am not young, Patch. I don’t mind the work, the numbers – I will confess it intrigues me more than a little. I enjoy Florence. I have the lady Maymona. I will never have to eat another puffin so long as I live.’
‘It really is just you and I from the old days, Isaac.’
‘And Dimitri,’ he pointed out. The quartermaster lived nearby in Venice, and I saw him every now and again, though the old Bulgar with half an ear had been keeping himself to himself since his dear friend Istvan had died. ‘Who would have believed it?’ Isaac sighed and stared into the fire. I knew he was crossing old shipmates off the rolls of the living: Istvan the Croat; Horst von Taltow; Zianni Corner; Roussel; Gilles de Peyrolles. All dead now. And the others, where had they vanished to? When the Cormaran had, by the grace of King Louis, found its fortune, the crew had filled their purses and scattered, off to buy back the lives they had escaped. How many of them were still living? For every prosperous tavern owner in Thuringia or Guyenne with a mysterious past, how many of our old shipmates had ended up dead of drink or a knife thrust? I did not blame them for going. After the captain had died, after the pyre at Montségur, I had roamed for a while, riding from dawn to dusk; and when I had found Iselda again we had ridden the dusty tracks of the Languedoc and the muddy roads of Lombardy with no plan save the day’s food and shelter before forcing ourselves to come home at last to Venice. Not home, though, really, for either of us. But after so much wandering, stillness had its own seductions. Now we lived in the captain’s old house, the Ca’ Kanzir as he had called it, an ancient palace full of ghosts and shadows, and we loved it for its strangeness and for the captain’s own shade that we sometimes felt brushing against us on a dark stairway. But the place had seen so many strangers come and go, born in one room only to die in another, that we knew we were nothing more than lodgers. I often wondered how many of the old Cormaran crew had found a home for themselves, and some peace. I hoped it was all of them, however much I doubted it could be so.
It was time to get to work, and so I kissed Isaac on each cheek and went off to the waiting ledgers. I spent that day and the next dutifully checking over the bank’s affairs, reading until my eyes had started to fog and my neck felt as if it were growing a hump. When I was not reading and calculating, I was dictating letters to Arrigus or Pero, the two young clerks, or exploring the lush terrain of profit and loss with Isaac and Blasius. Having determined to lead by example – I had not forgotten the look Arrigus had given me when I had left on my ill-fated quest for shoes – I arrived early at the bank and went back to my apartments late, taking my dinner of bread and cold meats alone. The nights were warm, and I would lean on the window sill, watching the bats chase their own dinner through the towers of the Guelphs and Ghibbelines until my tired eyes commanded me to my bed.
I woke up feeling cobwebby. There had been a full moon the night before, rising huge and golden-orange above the eastern mountains, and I had stayed up later than I should have, sipping some heavy wine the same golden colour as the moon, thinking of Iselda and wondering if she was watching the same moonrise. So it was a little later than usual when I turned into the Via dei Tavolini. The street was full of people, for it was a market day, but even so I saw a figure detach itself from the doorway of the Banco di Corvo Marino and run towards me. I stopped and dropped my hand to the hilt of my knife, but it was only Pero. So I went towards him with a smile, until I saw that his own face was ashen and his eyes were red.
‘What is it, boy?’ I said. He stopped in front of me, shaking his head. He had been weeping. I took him gently by the shoulders. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Signor Isaac,’ he mumbled.
‘What about him?’ I gripped his shoulder a little harder.
‘Oh, master … He is dead!’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I said, calmly. ‘I saw him last night. He was as well as you or I.’
‘No, no!’ Pero blurted. ‘He didn’t die …’ He looked at me, eyes panicked, blood-rimmed. ‘He … Someone killed him!’
Chapter Three
‘No. No!’ I let go of Pero. ‘Follow me,’ I barked, and set off towards the bank, forcing myself not to run. Pero hesitated and then dashed after me.
‘He’s not there, master,’ he said, plucking at my sleeve. I spun round and caught his wrist, gripping it until he winced.
‘Listen, Pero,’ I said, teeth clenched. ‘Tell me what has happened. Take a breath, and tell me exactly what is going on.’
‘Oh, Master Petroc! Dear God, dear God … Master Isaac was not there when I got to work this morning. He is always the first to arrive, always, and so I thought he must be sick. I sent Barta the serving boy to his house, to see what the matter might be, but very soon he came back, looking sickened. He … I had to calm him down too, master! He told me that he’d come upon a crowd in Via de’ Lamberti, blocking the whole street, and when he pushed through he found Master Isaac …’ Pero stopped, and turned from ivory to the colour of lichen.
‘It’s all right, Pero,’ I said. ‘Take another breath. Go on.’
‘He found Master Isaac, sir, with his throat … He was lying in the street with blood all over him, all over the stones. The watch grabbed him, but he saw that Master Isaac’s throat was cut.’
‘Christ. Who’s at the bank?’
‘Barta and Arrigus, sir. They’ve locked the doors. I sent Ugo to fetch the armed company.’
‘Good man.’ I stood in the middle of the street, baskets of chickens, carcases of bloody beef passing on
either side. The bank maintained a small company of mercenaries to guard the premises and any shipments of valuables that might pass in and out. Ugo was their leader, a grey-stubbled veteran of the emperor’s wars in Umbria and the Marches. I thought that I trusted him – we paid him enough. But … My mind spun, sickeningly, as if I had suddenly looked over the edge of a very high cliff. Why murder Isaac? To rob him. Everyone knew him for a wealthy man, but he did not carry a big purse. If it had happened at his house … I looked down the street. Two men with buckler shields, their hands on their swords, stood one on either side of the bank’s door. To rob the bank, one might kill the owners and take control. I drew Thorn, my Saracen knife, and tucked her blade up into my sleeve, keeping two fingers curled round the hilt, taking care not to alarm Pero.
‘We’d better see what’s happening at the bank,’ I said.
‘But Master Isaac—’
‘Is dead. Pero, are you armed? No, of course you aren’t. Then keep behind me, and if you see drawn steel, run. Get the watch. Do you understand?’ He swallowed. It sounded as if he were gulping down a hot chestnut, but he nodded gamely.
My feet felt like stone ballast as I pushed through the crowd to the bank. The men at the door were wry-faced, narrow-eyed. Neither had shaved and one looked hung-over and bleary under his rust-flecked mail coif. But they did not, to my relief, look like thieves, for they looked far too annoyed to have anything bank-related on their consciences. When they saw me they came to attention, which was another good sign.
‘Is Sergeant Ugo inside?’ I demanded. They nodded. ‘One of you fetch him. I will wait here.’ The hung-over one ducked through the door and returned in less than a minute with Ugo, a thin, slightly bow-legged man with a small pot belly and very blue eyes. I studied him carefully but saw only relief, the relief of a job made very slightly easier. Another good sign.
‘Do you know anything?’ I asked. Just to be safe I stayed in the flow of passers-by, and Pero, if he but knew it, was shielding my back. Ugo shook his head and scratched the side of his face.
‘Nothing, your lordship. Master Isaac is dead, right enough. A fellow from the watch is inside, waiting … for you, I suppose, sir. The other lads are in there too.’
‘Who did it?’
‘No one seems to know. And tongues are already wagging, you can be assured of that. The watchman thinks it was the Guelphs, being that all Jews are for the emperor.’
‘Was he robbed?’
‘He was not. The watchman told me – left the purse where it was, he claims.’ He spat. Ugo’s men thought of the Florentine watch the way that ferrets think of rats.
‘What do you think, Ugo?’
‘Haven’t a clue, to be honest, sir. Master Isaac was a nice enough old fellow, for a Jew.’
I let that pass, though ordinarily I would not have. ‘Ugo, get me a sword,’ I said. He raised his eyebrows, and turned to his men. One carried a falchion, the other a short sword, and at a word from his sergeant the man undid his belt and handed it over. I buckled it on. ‘Let’s go and see the body,’ I said. ‘Ugo, come with me. Pero, go inside. Keep the door locked.’
‘What about the watchman?’ said Ugo. ‘He wants to speak with you.’
‘Fuck the watch,’ I said. Ugo grinned, surprised. Another good sign. ‘Right. Come on, and don’t let anyone get too close.’
The crowd was still thick in Via de’ Lamberti – peasants here for the market and now getting an eyeful of the horrors of town; servants; two vagabonds. Isaac had come about halfway between his house in Via de’ Vecchietti and the bank. He was lying across the cobbles, face up, his heels in the gutter. His eyes were wide open, already filming over, still reflecting the pigeons that wheeled above the street. His lips were drawn back and his tongue, thick and liver-coloured, stuck out, clenched between his blood-streaked teeth. Beneath his chin, just where his beard ended, there was a glimpse of pale skin; then blood had swallowed everything.
A watchman stepped forward, staff in hand, but Ugo warned him off with a livid string of oaths. I pushed through the crowd and knelt beside my friend. Ugo stood over me, hand on sword, glaring at the men of the watch, who did not quite know what to do but strutted to and fro like gulls on a beach, daring each other to attack some dying creature coughed up by the sea.
I touched Isaac’s still-warm cheek. He looked much older. All the blood had drained from his face and the hollows of his eyes were turning blue. I made myself look at the wound in his neck. The killer had known what he was about, and how to sharpen a knife. A deep cut ran from Isaac’s windpipe under his left ear. Wincing, I moved his head to the left, and the wound gaped to the neck-bone. Death had been quick, then. This wasn’t a common thief’s work. And I doubted it had been some Guelph bravo. I looked down: I was squatting in a great fan of sprayed blood. A kind of frozen emptiness was growing inside, as if I had swallowed poppy juice, and I was thankful, because it let me stand here in the blood of my dearest friend and think, like a man without a soul, about who had killed him.
So I thought, and I saw: a trained killer had done this. Isaac had been strolling along. He might have noticed a man coming up on his left side. I guessed the murderer had been left-handed or skilled with either hand, for the wound was deepest next to the spine. Right hand over Isaac’s mouth, left hand round the neck. All the blood had sprayed away from the killer. A steamed-up Guelph would have come from the front, no doubt to speak his hatred into his victim’s face as he stabbed. A thief … well, a thief would have thieved. I slipped my hand inside Isaac’s wet robe and found his purse, weighty with coin. Pulling it out, I slipped it into my own tunic. It dropped down to my waist, leaving a slug-trail of cold blood against my skin. Leaning close, I looked into Isaac’s eyes. A few specks of dust had settled on the filmy surface of one. The pupils were wide. I saw myself, very far away, but no other face, no murderer. Isaac would not have believed that superstition anyway. I kissed my finger-ends and gently closed his eyes.
‘Did any of you see what happened?’ I rose to my feet and faced the crowd. There was a muttering. Heads were shaken and feet scuffled. ‘Who knew this man?’
‘The Jew from Via de’ Vecchietti,’ someone shouted out: a boy, leaning in a doorway. There was a murmur of assent.
‘I saw him fall over,’ said an older woman holding a trug of celery. ‘I thought somebody had bumped into him and he’d tripped.’
‘Did you see who it was that … that tripped him?’
‘No, signor. Just someone walking fast … in dark clothes. I don’t know, signor. Just a passer-by.’
No one else had seen anything, or cared to say if they had. I beckoned the watchmen and they slunk over, hungrily. There was going to be a good tip for them, they knew. But as I was about to give them their instructions, there was a tug at my sleeve. A young man, almost a boy, stood there. He blinked at me nervously.
‘What?’ I said rudely. He flinched, but gamely signed for me to lean closer. I sensed Ugo half-draw his sword behind me, but I bent to let the boy whisper in my ear.
‘I have sent for the elders,’ he said. ‘The Chevra Kaddisha are coming to fetch Signor Isaac.’
‘Who?’ I said, confused.
‘Those who take care of the dead,’ he said patiently. ‘And the rabbi too – he has been told.’
‘Oh.’ I suddenly felt very tired, and put my hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Thank you. Forgive me. He was the last friend I had left from … from another time.’
‘It’s all right,’ said the boy. ‘Look, they’re here.’
Six nondescript men in sombre clothes that had seen too many seasons had slipped quietly through the ring of onlookers. Two of them carried a wicker hurdle between them. Behind them a man I recognised: Isaac’s rabbi, who lived over behind the market. The watchmen were scowling at the newcomers, so I snapped my fingers under the leader’s nose and made him look at me.
‘These worthy men have come to take care of their friend – our friend,’ I said. ‘You will giv
e them the help they need, won’t you? Here’s for your trouble.’ I held out a palm full of small coins – enough, though, to make his lips purse with satisfaction.
‘Right, signor,’ he said.
The rabbi was hanging back at the edge of the crowd. He saw me and hurried over.
‘What happened here?’ he demanded.
‘He was killed,’ I told him blandly. ‘It was cleverly done. Who would wish to do such a thing? Isaac was well liked, wasn’t he?’
‘Well liked can mean many things when applied to my people, but rarely does it mean for us what it means for you,’ he said curtly. ‘I do not think Signor Isaac had any particular enemies, if that is what you mean. But if your question is, who in this city would wish a rich Jew dead, I might reply, who would not?’
‘That is harsh. Is it true?’
The rabbi sighed. ‘True, and not true. Really, I don’t think Gentiles care if we live or die, when they think of us at all. If we are lucky, they forget we are Jews and so we go about unnoticed. For a man like Isaac, a rich man who dealt in money, it …’
‘Might be different? I don’t know. He did not mention anything particular to me.’
‘Would he have?’ the rabbi asked, sceptically.
‘Isaac and I spent many years together, on a not very big ship, sailing the sea,’ I told him. ‘He nursed me when I was sick, and I did his chores for him when his hands were raw with cold. I do think he would have told me, yes.’ The rabbi’s eyes were still narrowed. ‘He also told me, many times,’ I added, lowering my voice, ‘that he did not care for religion very much – his own, or that of others. I understand all too well that to us Gentiles a Jew is a Jew whether or not he is pious. But it might also be said that to a Jew, the same is true about Gentiles. So I tell you now, as a friend of my friend, that Isaac and I thought the same way about faith. I am perhaps not what you think of as a Gentile. And having trusted you with that, would you please tell me if anyone – anyone at all – might have wished our friend dead?’
The Fools’ Crusade Page 4