It was too late to sleep. As dawn rose over the city I opened up my casket and lifted out the stones, turning them over in the clear, pale light to catch their every aspect, greeting the fresh arrivals, and probing the old ones for new discoveries and new approaches into their secrets. But the question of their treatment tormented me. To cut and set them worthily would be a labour of Hercules.
Night after night I returned to the casin. Ippolita often accompanied me, and more than once she left in the company of someone else, some young noble with his gold chain round his neck and his six or seven lackeys at his heels. I smarted at this, but I was not such a fool as to part with the vast sums of gold it would require to make Ippolita all my own. She had her plans, and I had mine. And so I let Giacomo da Crema slip his arm through mine and lead me from one casin to the next, silk-draped halls by shadowed canals thronged with gondolas. The same mad hilarity reigned in all these places, the same air of mingled triumph and misery. Da Crema introduced me as Milor de li Diamanti, the great English aristocrat. While he played I glided from table to table, summoned back when da Crema fell into difficulties by his cries of ‘Milor, Milor! Price me this topaz!’ Every man and woman there was loaded with precious stones. I watched for my chances, and when luck ran against them, and the fine ladies tearfully began unclasping emerald earrings, or taking ropes of pearls from their hair, I struck. Many of these trinkets were of no use to me, and I sold them to the goldsmiths for a profit. But I acquired a handful of gleaming cats’ eyes, and a pleasing addition to my amethysts, each exquisite of its own kind.
One night towards the end of October, when a chill wind was whining in from the sea, I was hurrying home along one of the many narrow lanes of the Carampane when I felt a hand suddenly grab me and swing me back into a dark opening. I tried to reach for my sword, but a foot landed in my stomach and I fell back, to be caught and pinioned by another man, gasping for breath. Martin, I saw, was struggling against another two of them. His lantern, rolling where he had dropped it, darted its light over the paving stones. A fifth man approached me, black-cloaked and hooded, and in his hand was a dagger.
‘The Englishman who buys jewels,’ he sneered. ‘They say you carry all your wealth on your person. Is that true?’
‘Who would be such a fool?’ I snarled. The casket pressed into my chest. I was sweating. In only a few moments, when they searched me, I would lose everything. I gave another kick and tried to get my arms free, but they gripped me tight. Martin, I noticed, was lying back in the two men’s arms, slack and heavy. He appeared to have given up completely.
‘We shall see,’ the cloaked man replied. ‘Perhaps your servant will be the first to talk?’
They dragged us back into the shadows of a blind alleyway. The man with the dagger walked up to Martin, who hung, lifeless and seemingly terrified. I was right about him, I thought with a sense of disgust. He was clever enough at blocking my plans, but in a moment of need he was useless. The leader of the band stood facing him, and menaced him with his dagger. The two men holding him laughed. Suddenly Martin gave a mighty wrench with his thick arms and twisted free. With his left hand he pulled out his dagger. Before he could use it the two men had pinioned his arm; but this did not dismay Martin in the least. I saw his right hand come up, and in it was his cudgel. I had laughed at him for carrying it, this blunt, bullyboy’s weapon. He brought it down on the side of one man’s face, felling him to the ground with a crunch of bone; the other man let him go. I shouted and tried in vain to struggle loose.
The leader slashed at Martin’s face with a knife. Martin dodged, flouted his cudgel in front of the man’s eyes, and at the same moment slipped the dagger between his ribs. He fell with a long sigh across the first man, who was on his knees, groaning and holding his face. Their blood began to spread out over the stones. There was still one man facing Martin, fear in his eyes and a short knife in his hand, circling and looking for an opening. I felt my two attackers loosen their grip, and with a sudden jerk I managed to pull myself free. They both drew their knives. One lunged at me, another scuttled round to take Martin in the rear. Clumsily I drew out my sword. The rasp of the steel was loud in that narrow space as it came clear of the scabbard, and the blade flashed in the lanternlight. They turned to face me, and it was at this moment I realised I had not a single idea how to use it. But at the mere sight of that sword the three men backed away out of the alley, turned and ran, their footsteps dying away down the lanes. Martin and I left the two wounded men lying and hurried away, our blades still drawn, until we came out into the open square of Sant’ Aponal. Then I sheathed my sword and turned to him.
‘Martin, but for you …’
He looked aside. ‘No, master, no thanks. I couldn’t have seen you killed, or robbed of all your stones.’
He sounded as if he meant it. I felt a twinge of shame at my earlier unfriendliness and doubts. But he was still my mother’s man, and after all he had fought for his own life as well. I reminded myself to be careful. Brushing some of the dust from my cloak, I said, ‘That was a pair of good strokes you delivered.’
‘I’ve learnt a few things from working on the London docksides that you never knew: that’s all.’
Soon after that I joined a fencing school. The maestro was an old soldier who had fought in the wars against Cesare Borgia, and in his retirement had opened an accademia di scherma in a long vaulted hall off the Campo di San Silvestro. On the first day he had me stand with my rapier held out while he feinted and darted round me. I was not to attack: only watch, and wait. ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘Readiness. Alertness. Decision. And speed!’ He aimed a swing at my head, and I parried it only just in time. Then he drew suddenly back. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Your sword is also your shield: it covers you in all parts. Keep your sword point level, and let it not sway. Choose where to strike, and strike there. Never take your eye from your adversary. Never turn your back. If you hesitate –’ he closed with three ringing blows, which I parried ‘– you will pay for it. Decision. Decision, and speed!’ I lunged at him, and he parried and swiftly tapped me on the arm with his blade. ‘Above all else,’ he whispered, ‘you will learn to touch without being touched.’
I set myself to my new discipline with determination. As the weeks passed, I learnt the six cuts and the one true thrust, the punta that strikes like a scorpion. I learnt the dragon’s tail, and the half-time strike, that parries and attacks all in an instant. Then there were the various positions of guard: the iron gate, the falcon, the woman’s guard, the crown. These you must fall back on when pressed, and yet be ready to spring out from them suddenly. I learnt how to hide my art, too, and not reveal the number of strokes I could give. I practised the false strokes as well as the true: there is the feint, and the void, and the fool. To fence, I learnt, is to be the master: of yourself, and of your adversary; to control your own fears and his, so that your mind is lucid and calm, and the next stroke is known to yourself only, while your enemy slips into a mist of confusion and terror.
I learnt to fight with other weapons too: the two-handed sword, the short pike, the sword and shield and the dagger and sword, and even with axes and clubs. I learnt to strike with a sword whose tip is tempered and sharpened like a razor, so as to pierce armour. Finally, I was shown something of how to box and wrestle. Martin was my frequent partner in these exercises. He was heavier than me, and skilful. But I was quick, and I learnt fast. As autumn turned into winter, I managed at last to throw him on his back. He smiled up at me in surprise. ‘A lucky grip, master. Still, I would not wish to meet you in a dark lane.’
‘Nor I you,’ I answered, and pulled him to his feet.
At night, when I could, I went back to Ippolita. I whispered to her of my ambitions and dreams as we lay together in the half-darkness beneath the green silk canopy of her bed, waiting for the three strokes of the bell that would part us.
‘We are the same, you and I,’ she whispered back. ‘We gaze on the higher world of glitter and gold, and we long
to be part of it. Oh, you will rise as high as you choose. I have not a doubt of that. And so shall I.’
Later that night, after trudging home, I unlocked my casket. First I always took out the Scythian emerald. It was like Ippolita, I thought: beautiful and alive, filling and glutting the eyesight with pleasure. But it puzzled me. It was like no emerald I had ever seen. It was too swiftly transparent, had a brilliant sparkle, and was altogether too ready with its charms. A courtesan among stones. I set it aside with a hint of suspicion. From the Scythian emerald I turned to the Persian. Here was a stone that obsessed me. I turned it in my fingers night after night trying to see inside its heart. Some nights it was blank and surly, and refused outright to shine. At other times it suddenly opened and revealed itself, took me by the hand and led me into a dark and undiscovered country. Moonlit nights were best for this; and that quality of the stone amazed me, and made me a little afraid. Another woman came into my mind as I gazed on this stone; a woman I knew I should try hard to forget.
All this time I continued to buy. I was well known now. I had no need to scour the warehouses: the merchants came to me, and sea captains just in from Cairo, Constantinople or Tunis. In this way I added several large stones of the kind called balasse or palatius: the red-violet rock that is the palace or womb in which rubies are born, and which nourishes them with its blood. Also, for two hundred ducats, I acquired a pleasing collection of opals. An opal is a wonder. Its colours are innumerable, flaming like a ruby, green as spring, sulphurous, dark as dusk, milkish, clear. They tease you and laugh at you, and change, and change again. Their glow is not the bright flash of a diamond or a ruby. It is a ghostlike sheen that seems to hover, deep within. I fell in love with these stones, even as they drove me mad.
December came. The winds blew up from the Adriatic, and the rain fell, making the brick paving on the alleys shine and beating the water in the canals a silver-grey. At Christmas I had a letter from my mother.
When will you be turning back? she asked. You may wish to know there have been all manner of revels, masquings and disguisings at Court, and dancing with great companies of ladies. The King smiles equally on them all. So you see you are mistaken: there is no new mistress. I fear I have indulged your folly much too far. Come home, and we shall see what can be done for your debt.
I put the letter aside in annoyance. Despite myself, I felt a stab of doubt. What if there truly was no lady? It would be my ruin. Who but a king in love would pay what my stones were worth? With my mother’s letter came a second, from Uncle Bennet, and I snatched this up, hoping for better news. I consulted the cipher we had agreed, and set to work to decode it.
Your news is of value, Bennet wrote. Now I shall give you mine. Of your supposed royal mistress I can give you no word, but there are other strange stories at Court. They say the King’s conscience is troubled. He fears his marriage to Queen Katherine has broken God’s law. He speaks of the curse of Leviticus: He who marries the wife of his brother does what is forbidden: he has uncovered his brother’s nakedness: they shall be childless. True it is that all King Henry’s children have died as infants, excepting Princess Mary. These scruples, people say, will end in the King’s remarriage. And there are whispers already who the new Queen shall be: the Duchesse d’Alençon, sister to King Francis. So where is your royal mistress? And I tell you this: there is a new craftsman come to Court, in the train of Sir Thomas More. His name is Hans Holbein. He is a man of vast skill, and he is taking an interest in goldsmithing, and is friendly with Mr Cornelius. So you see, you have rivals.
I put the letter down in astonishment. No royal lover: and a new Queen! The thing was impossible. But who would know better than Bennet? If only I were in England, and could listen to the gossip myself. I was still convinced the King was in love with a new mistress. I would hazard all my wealth on it. But would that love survive Henry’s new plans for marriage, if that was what he truly intended? I wrote back, begging Bennet not to give up his search for the mistress. Who was she? I had to know.
And then there was Holbein. I had passed through Basel on my way across Europe, and had seen many of the wondrous wall-paintings with which Holbein had beautified the outsides of the houses there. The motion, fire and life in these depictions were extraordinary. If Holbein were really in league with Heyes I had a pair of rivals to fear. I had to find a goldsmith worthy of my stones, a man who stood above all the craftsmen of his age. But who? What great men were there, nowadays? Everywhere in Venice I saw only pale imitations of Raphael; florid compositions crowded with fat cherubs or else nymphs, fauns, tritons, muses, nereids, dryads and every other form of mermaid and fairy known to ancient learning. I had not come this far to have men such as that work on my jewels. I began to think of leaving Venice. Genoa would be my goal. It would be dangerous, crossing the battlefields of Piacenza and Milan, but Genoa was a capital of the gem trade too: there would be craftsmen there in plenty. Perhaps, away from Venetian luxury, I might find a simpler, cleaner style. Besides that, it was a step closer to home: from Genoa I could strike direct into France. But every time I almost made up my mind to leave, there came another seller with another gem. After all, I still had bills unspent. Just a few stones more. Just another week, I told myself. Another month.
One day in early January, while I was practising strokes of the double-handed sword against a leathern quintain, a stooped old man came up beside me and coughed. He had the air of a nobleman. He was dressed in a long, furred gown, and had an ostrich feather in his hat; but he wore neither a gold chain nor any kind of rings. He bowed.
‘You are Messer Richard Dansey?’
I lowered my sword and wiped my brow. ‘I am.’
‘My name is Lorenzo de’ Bardi.’ He hesitated. ‘I have a gem I wish you to see.’
I was used to this. From the old nobleman’s nervous manner I did not expect much. I looked him up and down. His accent was Florentine. I said, ‘And what brings you to Venice?’
He laughed sadly and looked down. His poverty was there for all to see. ‘I am a ghost. Revisiting the scenes of my former pleasures. Please. Come and see my gem.’
I felt pity for him. And so Martin and I followed him, a long and winding route west into the district of the silk-dyers, where he had rented a set of rooms. The furnishings were poor, and his servants’ green velvet liveries were worn and old. Two of them closed the doors and stood in front of them. He motioned me to sit down at a table spread with a white cloth, and then sat down facing me. One of his servants unlocked a domed iron-bound coffer, took out from it an inlaid jewel box which he also unlocked, and laid on the table a red velvet pouch. Another servant meanwhile poured us both wine from an earthenware jug: rough country stuff that I would normally disdain to drink. De’ Bardi pushed the pouch towards me, his eyes gleaming. This was a lot of ceremony, I thought, for goods that could hardly be worth much.
I reached inside and pulled out a single stone. Its surface was smooth as ice, rippling as if in gentle facets, with a dull, leaden gleam. I turned it in my fingers, wondering. It had neither shine nor depth. I could not place it. It could have been a drab white sapphire, or a mere lump of rock crystal. It was large, perhaps thirty or forty carats; about the size of a hazelnut. Then, suddenly, the milky surface of the stone parted. The light plunged in, down, down, into deep blue waters, alongside a snaking white flaw. As I turned it the colours gathered, darting back up in flames of orange and sulphur and shafts of green that broke over my skin like a waterfall. I let out a cry. For an instant longer the colours danced for me, and then, as I turned it a fraction, they faded like smoke, and the stone lay once more in my hand, dull and grey, a lifeless pebble. I felt a stab of grief at the vanishing of that light, and I turned the stone again, searching until once more the gleams flickered and shot out. It was a diamond, and of the rarest kind. I had seen a stone of this sort just once before, in the shop of Bartholomew Reade. It had been tiny, less than five carats, but all the goldsmiths of the Row had come to his shop to g
aze on it. Not one of them had dared try to cut it.
I looked up at de’ Bardi. He was looking at the stone, unblinking, his deep eyes aglow. He said, ‘Do you know what it is you hold?’
I could hardly speak. I said, ‘It is a diamond. A diamond of the Old Rock of Golconda.’
He nodded. I looked back at the gem. For a long time I turned it in my fingers. De’ Bardi spoke.
‘It is the last treasure of my house. I had thought to leave it to my heirs. But my son …’ I looked up, to see his face harden. ‘My son has disappointed me. He would sell it in an instant. But if I could pass it to someone who understands … I heard stories about you, Englishman, and the sorts of stones you buy.’
My eye was on the diamond again. De’ Bardi leant forward. ‘You see how the flame first kindles, then leaps …’
‘And then,’ I murmured, ‘while you think it is all on fire, how it suddenly turns to water, and is gone.’
‘Yes. Yes!’ Our eyes met, and we laughed. We understood each other.
‘But to catch that light, to trap it, to open its secrets …’ I continued to gaze on it.
De’ Bardi looked up sharply. ‘That would mean having it cut. But would you dare? You see the flaw.’
I did indeed. I had seen such stones shatter. A diamond is of such incomparable hardness that it can only be cut by another diamond; and a prudent craftsman will only use a stone from the self-same mine. But he would find no other stone born from the same vein as this. A lesser diamond must begin the cutting. That would be the time of danger. Not all diamonds are equal, and the most beautiful are not always the strongest. Some invisible crack or line of weakness might suddenly give way, and the whole thing fly into a thousand splinters.
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