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By Root 2061 0

great was the blow, he hardly knew what he was doing. Because of him Ochoa was dead: the happy insouciant scoundrel who had trusted him with his life. Nicholas could not imagine why, after all the hilarious, meticulous planning, the captain should have made this inept dash, but he scented treachery somewhere. The Genoese, among others, wanted rid of Ochoa. Nicholas should have foreseen it. He knew Ochoa. He knew that, had it been possible to purloin the gold for himself, Ochoa would have done it — but that was not the point. Nicholas should have protected him. He should have done something.

There was nothing he could have done.

Nicholas did not, at the time, give much thought to himself. The imam and the Papal Nuncio between them had apparently passed him off as Ochoa’s interpreter, and this had been accepted. He might be questioned about Ochoa’s escape, but he could hardly be blamed for it, or so he thought. He was conscious, at the back of his mind, that a danger of another kind might be hovering, but he could not bring himself to dwell on it. Despite recent lectures, he was beginning to wonder if anything mattered.

He was prepared, therefore, to be met by soldiers as soon as he set foot on the ground, and to be hustled up the long incline into the keep, with inquisitive faces around him. He was less prepared, entering the Governor’s room, to find himself in the crippling grasp of two guards who, thrusting him forward, cast him headlong at the feet of the Governor, with Oberto Squarciafico at his side.

There was no doubt which held the higher authority. Regardless of his wayward hair, his indolent gaze and his slender build, the Bank of St George’s fiscal agent Squarciafico belonged to the family of empire-builders and lechers who, along with the Adorno, administered the Genoese rule on the island of Chios. Twenty years ago, a namesake had voted to increase the taxes on Chios. Over a century ago, the galley of Meliaduc Adorno had helped capture the island for Genoa, just as Genoa had captured Famagusta, and a Contarini’s ships had been sent to take Caffa. The tower from which Ochoa had fallen had borne the name of Adorno. Every country, every race took what it could. Only, some ruled better than others.

Nicholas fell to his knees, as a frightened Mameluke interpreter should. He mumbled something.

‘What?’ said Squarciafico with contempt.

‘The man says,’ offered the Governor, ‘that he understands his services are no longer required, and he will therefore be content with a small fee.’

‘Indeed,’ said his superior slowly. He lifted his eyes to the guard. ‘In that case, we should show equal magnanimity. Give this person a seat.’

The soldier he addressed, looking taken aback, lifted a stool and placed it at the Saracen’s dishevelled shoulder. Nicholas scrambled up and sat, his neck bent. Despite his indifference, his nape pricked.

‘And perhaps, before leaving, he will take some refreshment?’ the musical voice continued reflectively. ‘Wine, we understand, is not allowed. But a sweetmeat? I am told they are delicious.’

Now, not only his nape pricked but everything about Nicholas insisted on danger. He said, ‘Lord,’ and lifted his head.

Before him was a salver in the hands of a servant. And upon the salver was an open box of exactly the delicacy which the Genoese had described. A variety of pale-coloured sweetmeats: candied fruits, to be quite precise. A luxury which a Mameluke steward would rarely be offered, unless by a doting mistress, or a client initiating a bribe.

Nicholas said, ‘My lord, it is too much. I am quite content to take my fee.’

‘But we are pleased with you,’ Squarciafico said. ‘We should take offence if you do not allow us to show it. Let me see you eat a handful. Now.’

Nicholas sat very still. ‘My lord, my religion does not allow.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ said Squarciafico cheerfully. ‘So, see, I have asked your imam to come and reassure you. Master Ibrahiim, there is no rule against sweetmeats?’

They had indeed sent for the jurist. He stood, his face grave, and looked at them all, his gaze falling