Caprice and Rondo (32 page)

‘Caterino Zeno, it is true, is not a sensitive man. But then he is trying to propel me into the arms of the Tartars and Uzum Hasan. It surprised me that the Patriarch left without helping him.’

‘He has not yet gone,’ Cailimaco said. ‘Nor has Adorne, but he will. Adorne was a bad choice: I agree with Signor Zeno, if for different reasons. The Duke sent Lord Cortachy to lodge a public complaint with the Hanse, or be seen to be doing so. He made him envoy to the Levant on a whim, to please Adorne himself, whose name is known there, and as a sop to the Pope and Milan. But how could he ever succeed? Venice has always been able to promise Uzum more than anyone else, and it is Venice whom
Uzum and the Great Horde will favour. Then, if Uzum conquers the Turks, it is Venice who will benefit from the flood of renewed trade, and who will take control of the alum mines. That, of course, is Zeno’s interest. You will have guessed.’

He had guessed. He knew, also, what Callimaco’s bias was. Zacco, too, had hated the Genoese. Nicholas said, ‘I should tell you that I have been given a bribe. Or a non-returnable gift. Or perhaps even a pension. I have taken it, but I am not yet committed.’

‘Whatever it is, the King would offer more,’ Buonaccorsi said. ‘If your commitment is for sale.’

‘Why?’ said Nicholas. ‘Why not allow someone else to pay me to advise Uzum and what is left of the Horde, and help free Poland from all these threats?’

Callimaco leaned back in his chair, his long-fingered hands embracing his glass. ‘Because, Niccolò, this country has been torn to pieces by mercenary troops over the years, and we have had enough. Our delegate to the Council of Constance denounced crusading as contrary to God’s will. It amuses you. But we are the base for every Western attack: against the Muslim, against the pagan, against those of Orthodox faith. Destroy the Turks, and the Grand Prince of Moscow will immediately appear on our frontiers. Ally with Moldavia, as we are doing, and how far will Stephen’s ambition finally take him? And what of the Mongols? Listen to Father Ludovico when he talks of the khans’ friendship, and listen to me when I tell you that the Tartars from north of the Black Sea plunder us daily and always have done so: they will fight for anyone, and will join with the Turk or the Russian or Uzum Hasan as it suits them. And because these nomads are not ambitious for land, the Western princes see no need to give us protection.’

He paused. He said in a calmer voice, ‘We are a buffer state, and our friends are as dangerous to us as are our enemies. So Casimir does not fight, Niccolò. He prevaricates. He conciliates.’

‘He disappears,’ Nicholas said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the other man. He rose, crossing the room. The folds of silk, falling loose, smelled of something sweet. When he returned, it was to hold out some papers. ‘You read ciphers. You once encoded reports, I am told, for the Medici.’

Nicholas received them, and the pen and ink he was given. He was beyond, now, feeling merely intrigued or annoyed. It was true that he had a natural facility for everything appertaining to numbers: for ciphers and navigational calculations, for mathematics and gunnery, for astronomy and, of course, music, which he had denied himself for seven months. An aberration he would soon overcome:

The codes were not simple and he sat, head bent, working on them
while the other man watched. These were not trading reports. He saw almost at once that they were copies of secret dispatches, mostly between Venetian agents, but some involving Florence and Rome. They were all very brief. He translated them silently, for himself, and then, laying them down, picked up and drank off his wine. He said, ‘So much for Adorne.’

‘As you see. Zeno and his colleagues have written to all the princes of the West, warning them that Adorne’s embassy would be disastrous. The Duke cannot afford to let him go to Tabriz, any more than the King can afford to admit Benecke’s piracy. And meanwhile, Venice is promising the world to Uzum, and to you, while secretly half her ambassadors are suing the Sultan for peace. If you go to Tabriz, you become another part of that false Venetian promise, that is all. That is why you were paid.’

‘To do that, or to go back to Venice. A place on the Great Council, and full control of the Bank, with my wife.’

‘You may want that, of course. Or you might prefer to stay here, and send for your family. Niccolò, may I speak?’ Nicholas waited. The other man hesitated, and then went on. ‘It seems to me that something has happened, and that this change of career and of country is not by your choice. Am I right?’

‘I have not complained,’ Nicholas said.

‘No. You took some time to recover. When you came to Thorn, I saw it as a sign that you had done so: an indication that you had resolved to rebuild your empire.’

Again, he stopped. Again, when Nicholas did not speak, he went on. ‘I thought I knew you from your letters, even though all you claimed to seek was information for your Bank. Some men work for a cause; many achieve as much or more through ambition alone. With you, I thought it was first one, then the other. Now I think it is neither. I cannot see your purpose in life.’

‘Because there is none,’ Nicholas said. ‘You have just defined freedom.’

‘For an adult? I have just defined mediocrity,’ Buonaccorsi said.

Their eyes met. Then Nicholas laughed. He said, ‘The happy mean. Why despise it? You still thought me worth buying.’ The wine had been left on the table. He rose to lift it and found it set aside from his grasp, and the other man standing beside him.

Callimaco said, ‘Of course I will buy you. You will always be bought, because you will always be worth something to others, even as you become worth less and less to yourself. Dare to aim for what you want. Dare to fail.’

‘Dare to succeed?’ Nicholas said. He moved away and sat down, without the wine. The weariness had returned, and some of the anger.

‘Ah,’ said Callimaco. He also turned and after a moment sat down.
He said, ‘If you are afraid of success, then you are fighting the wrong wars. There are men who could advise, some of them in Poland.’

‘Ludovico da Bologna?’ said Nicholas. ‘Or perhaps an astrologer? You know what the late revered Pope Paul thought of astrology?’

‘
That
is one of your fears?’ the other man said. His voice had changed. ‘Why? Because of some other man’s prophecy, or because of something you yourself have experienced? I know you have witnessed one of the great mysteries of this world. Benecke has spoken of Iceland.’

‘Then you know as much of Iceland as I do,’ Nicholas said with finality. Through the open window a faint, hoarse sound swelled as he spoke. Beyond the walls of the Old Town, the games were under way. Time was passing. Adorne was leaving, and he had to see Kathi. He said, ‘I must go. You have been frank, and I value it. I shall give you an answer. But first, you will agree, I must find and talk to the Patriarch.’

‘I could find him for you,’ Buonaccorsi said. ‘It is not in my King’s interest, but I could arrange for you to see him, for a fee.’ A mild irony entered his voice. ‘It is a fee you will experience no embarrassment in paying. Lipnicki!’

The black-clad secretary appeared. ‘Maestro. He is here. I shall bring him.’

Nicholas rose. Illogically, he expected to see enter the coarse, bulky form of the Patriarch. Instead, there came the short figure of a fair-haired boy-child of about seven.

‘The prince Zygmunt,’ Cailimaco said, ‘expressed some eagerness to witness a master diviner at work. I have told him you are such a person, and that one day, when he is grown, he may hold silver coins from the mines you have found. Meanwhile, all he asks, as I do, is a demonstration of your art. You will allow us?’

Nicholas, making his bow, was simply pondering how best to refuse. Perhaps, trained astrologer that he was, Cailimaco already knew what he was asking, and even that Nicholas, since he became Colà, had forsworn both the pendulum and the rod. The child spoke before him. Employing the charming Polish usage, the child said, ‘Will my dear lord not do us this favour?’

‘Sire,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am sorry. I have no pendulum with me.’

‘But I have,’ said Cailimaco, and took from the breast of his robe a cameo set in a ring.

The stone was Greek, Nicholas guessed; pale and heavy, and carved in the likeness of a child’s face. It was warm from where it had been, and the thong on which it was threaded was scarlet. Nicholas held it.

Its owner continued, in that deceptive, mellifluous voice: ‘Let us sit by the window. This is a divine gift we practise, and God’s air should breathe upon us as it is done. My lord prince there. My lord Niccolò at
his side. And I shall sit here. Now the stone hangs from its cord on my lord’s finger. What do we wish it to tell us?’

‘It cannot speak!’ cried the boy.

‘Oh, it can speak,’ said Callimaco. ‘How else will it tell us what you have hidden?’

Nicholas, watching the cord, felt the other man’s gaze as a weight. The child’s voice rose and fell in delight and excitement. Zygmunt had concealed a purse. Pan Nikolás was to divine where it was. ‘Now! Please! My dear lord!’

‘I am sorry,’ Nicholas repeated. He met Callimaco’s eyes.

Callimaco said, ‘Perhaps my lord is tired. We understand. But tell the prince what might happen, were the pendulum to speak?’

A child should never be denied; his curiosity quenched. A child. A vulnerable child. Nicholas said, ‘To find something of yours, sire, I should touch you. Then I should ask the pendulum questions. This is not my stone, so I do not know how it answers. With mine, it swings from one side to the other if the answer is yes. For no, it gyrates.’

The boy said, ‘It is raining. Ask it if it is raining.’

It was raining. The downpour pattered on the trees outside the casement; the haze of water rose from the ground. Nicholas watched it, his head turned, and felt the thong stir. The boy screamed, ‘It is moving! It is moving from side to side!’

It was true. He felt it before he gave it, at last, his attention. The swing was polite, moderate, unemotional. Is it raining? It is.

‘Now find my purse!’ said the boy. ‘Ask it. Please, Pan Nikolás! Please? Is it in this room?’ And taking Nicholas by the arm, he lifted the broad, adult hand that was free and laid it, palm down, on his own young, bony shoulder. His eyes were not grey but brown, and full of expectation.
Where is maman?

He did not need to formulate any question at all. Of its own accord, as the boy cried out, the pendulum began to move in a slow circle.
No
.

‘Is it in the hall? Is it in the hall?’

No. No
. The loop, revolving more briskly, rasped his finger.

‘Is it on the roof? Is it in the privy? Is it in the cellar?’

No. No. No!
‘Keep clear,’ said Filippo Buonaccorsi, his voice curt. ‘It is rising quite high.’

It was rising quite high. It was describing a full circle now, and increasing slowly in speed. The small, pale face at the end of its cord made a whispering sound.

The boy’s face was red. ‘Is it in the kitchen? Is it in the dairy?’ Whirr, whirr, went the stone. Under the cord, the diviner’s hand wore a rough inflamed ring pricked with blood. It was painful. Beyond the snarl of the ring, Nicholas could see the scholar’s large eyes and curling hair and
ascetic face printed with growing alarm. ‘Is it in the garden?’ shouted the boy.

And
NO!
screamed the ring, just as Nicholas flung out his free hand and stopped it.

The prince said, ‘But …’

‘Sometimes,’ said Nicholas, ‘it is sick, and does not speak the truth. I am sorry.’ He spoke with difficulty.

Zygmunt said, ‘Then it couldn’t find silver. The purse
is
in the garden; I put it there. It didn’t know. It can only tell if it is raining.’

Nicholas kept his fist closed, the ring burning his palm. He said again, ‘Sire, I am sorry. It is not the ring’s fault, but mine. Some day it will perform for you. Let someone recover your purse.’

‘I shall do it myself,’ Zygmunt said.

He rose, and Cailimaco rose with him. Lipnicki came, at a sign, to the prince’s side. The boy said to Nicholas, ‘It was not your fault. Such things happen. It was probably the fault of the purse.’ He left with the secretary. Nicholas straightened.

Cailimaco said, ‘What was unleashed?’ His face was a little pale.

‘Anger,’ Nicholas said. He remained standing, the cord and ring crushed in his hand. After a while he said, ‘It knew what its real errand was. It was being asked the wrong questions.’

‘Ask the right one,’ Cailimaco said. ‘Or do you lack not only wisdom but courage?’ Then he stopped speaking, as Nicholas opened his hand, and let the cord unfold from his finger.

The face in the stone was a sweet one. He wondered where Cailimaco had found it: in Constantinople, perhaps. He wondered, fleetingly, what else Cailimaco might have brought back from Turkey. The ring hung, passive, waiting. The anger, he well knew, did not reside in the stone; the grief, the anger, the despair. He said, ‘No.’ And even as he spoke the word, the ring started to move. Its first essay was short. In the second, it stretched out as far as the wall.

Cailimaco said, ‘It is swinging, not circling. Nikolás, it answers you yes. What did you ask it?’ Faint from the garden, there came the sound of the prince’s high voice.

‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas said. He had asked it nothing. It had lifted the question, he thought, like a print from his mind, and was forcing on him an unwanted answer. Yet if he were ever going to get rid of anything — music, anything — he had better start doing so now. He said, ‘Would you allow me to borrow this, and try somewhere else?’ He paused. ‘I shall tell you what happens.’

‘I think,’ said Cailimaco, ‘that you have already paid what you owe. Go. I shall find Father Ludovico for you. Then you may bring me your final decision. Look. It swings for you still.’

Nicholas caught it and left, walking unevenly. He felt like a cripple.
He felt as he had on the raft, fighting Benecke. The house next door was empty: Friczo Straube and his lodgers were attending the games. Advancing experimentally, Nicholas stopped inside the hall. Looking down, he opened his hand and, attaching the cord to his finger, painstakingly let the ring hang. It began to swing gently; its pulse leading away rather than towards the wall common to the two houses. He had guessed correctly. This was where it had wanted to come.