Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [246]
The sly old Florentine was smiling at him. Fioravanti explained himself. ‘I sound ungracious. I cannot tell you the reason. The lady is beautiful, but Julius was always easily flattered.’
‘He looks happy enough,’ the lame man said. ‘But you wanted to meet my other friend, Nicholas. At least, he wants to meet you. I suspect he wishes to help Julius found an empire.’
‘For him to manage, while Julius goes home? Or the other way round?’ Fioravanti asked. He pulled forward a settle with ease. He had never been tall, but he had always had powerful muscles. He couldn’t do his job otherwise, even though he was no longer juggling obelisks in Rome.
The old gentleman said, ‘Neither, I fancy. What Nicholas de Fleury would like, I rather think, is to consolidate with Julius a permanent Muscovite partnership: a new Banco Niccolò-Giulio based in Great Novgorod. The Gräfin and her husband are taking him there very soon: Julius of course is becoming enthused.’ He paused. ‘No doubt you have views. As you have indicated, you know his nature.’
‘Julius is decorative,’ said Fioravanti, after some thought. ‘He carries out well what others initiate. He does not have the vision, I would say, to sustain a great business for a long time alone.’
‘On the other hand,’ the old gentleman said, ‘de Fleury has an original mind and has been concerned with many innovative projects, I am told. He would understand your requirements, and anything that benefited your great work would please the Grand Duchess, of course.’ He paused. ‘Father Ludovico is not insensible of the niceties.’
They looked at one another. Fioravanti said, ‘Then I am inclined to hold to my opinion. I should like to talk to de Fleury. Can you arrange it?’
‘Give me a few days.’ Smiling, his visitor rose, collecting his stick, and managing the false leg with adroitness. ‘I shall come with you. And bring Andrea. Nicholas is very good with young men. Quite unlike me. Bracing. Robust. Unless you have pretty maids, you need never be apprehensive about Nicholas.’
THE MEETING WAS DELAYED, because of the Troitsa’s preoccupation with the Feast of the chief saint of Russia. Nicholas became one year older, and was able, from a discreet vantage point, to take his first look at the ducal procession entering the cathedral. Ushered by the Metropolitan Philip and the Archimandrite in a dazzle of ecclesiastical vestments trod the tall, jewelled form, aged thirty-five, grimly sober, of Ivan III Vasilievich, by the grace of God, Grand Duke of Muscovy; the bent figure of his mother Maria; his two brothers Andrew and Boris; the sullen child of his first marriage, Ivan; and — painted, crimped, studded with Byzantine metals and swinging with Byzantine pendicles — the short-necked, globular person of Zoe-Sophia, his Duchess.
Long ago, weeping with laughter, Julius had described the cruel joke involving Anselm Adorne’s son and the youth Nerio in Venice, and later in Rome, when the same Jan had confused the pneumatic Zoe with Anna. At least the exquisite Nerio, by-blow of a princess of Trebizond, had been advised not to come with his Florentine benefactor: Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli limped alone in the Grand Duchess’s procession. Watching, Nicholas saw him glance towards the deep, shadowed porch where he and the Patriarch stood. A moment later, the Grand Duchess glanced over also. In the inflated pink visage, the magnificent eyes with their well-drawn outlines were unexpectedly sharp. On an impulse, Nicholas drew from his memory and performed the obeisance he had last given to David Comnenos of Trebizond, whose race at root was the same as her own. She inclined her head in reply.
The next day, Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli was ushered into the Patriarch’s room at the Troitsa, bringing with him a solid, black, olive-skinned engineer from