Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [267]
Julius was long away, but not yet in Bruges when the slight commotion occurred at the Kremlin gates, and a troop of the Grand Duke’s guard cantered out of the castle and, surrounding a group of disreputable incomers, brought them to lodge in the fortified quarters of the Andronikov monastery. In the castle, a meeting of the Duma was called. The following day, the newcomers were transferred, under redoubled guard, to the Troitsa, and Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli gave himself the pleasure of calling at the house of Rudolfo Fioravanti, to take wine with Nicholas and tell him about the arrivals.
‘Travellers,’ the Greek explained, holding the goblet in delicate fingers and indolently crossing his good ankle over the other, both finely slippered below the magnificent double-cut gown. A jewel as big as a horse-brass flattened the folds of his florid, face-shadowing hat. Since the unexplained little crime passionel, the room had been rearranged, and the table-top leather replaced, although still avidly scanned by the several ladies who came with their husbands these days in the hope of encountering Nicholas. The tiles had been simple to wash.
‘Refugees,’ the Greek now continued. ‘Or so the leader insisted on delineating himself and his companions. Certainly, they had not the appearance of men one would invite into one’s house, being attired in ripped, filthy clothes and tattered old lambskin jackets and caps, thick with grease, so that the merchants who allowed them protection held their noses and begged them to keep their distance, they said, all the way from Riazan in Moscow. And what a tally of woe! Sick in Fasso; immured in a cowshed in Tiflis; struggling to winter in Derbent, half drowned while being rowed up the Caspian; threatened and cheated and robbed by the Tartars at Astrakhan; starved in the wilderness; chilled and soaked on the Volga and the Don; and now penniless here, owing Tartar and Russian merchants and the ambassador himself for all the money loaned them, at interest, on the journey.’
‘The ambassador?’ Nicholas said.
‘Marco Rosso, the Grand Duke’s envoy to Uzum Hasan. He brought this wretched man and his party from Derbent. But for his explanations, they would never have been allowed into Moscow. It is still not quite certain, it seems, whether they are who they claim to be.’
His voice was solemn. Knowing his nature, there was no need to believe all that he said. Nicholas believed most of it, because he had begun to realise, with a faint glow of shameful satisfaction, who the ragged refugee must surely be.
‘Contarini,’ he said.
The Greek looked at him, affecting surprise. ‘Of course, you and the gentleman were at Tabriz together. Had you been at the gates, you might have identified him for the porters! The Magnificent Ambassador Ambrogio Contarini, of the Illustrious Signory of Venice. I understand the poor gentleman has a very weak head for drink.’
‘I fear so,’ said Nicholas.
‘In which case, he is about to find the Grand Duke’s banquets somewhat demanding. He is also a Venetian, of that Republic which has outraged the Grand Duke (he has now decided) by treating behind his back with the Golden Horde. He will not be well received.’
‘I am sorry for him,’ Nicholas said.
‘And lastly, Signor Contarini owes a number of Russian subjects a great deal of money which he is unable to pay. None of them is likely to allow him to leave until Venice has been informed, and has sent to settle his debts. He may be here for some time.’
‘I feel for him,’ Nicholas said. He said it carefully, for he sensed something in the air. Fioravanti, who had been smiling broadly, looked at them both.
‘Indeed. The Duke, of course, has been most pressing in his desire to retain your services, but there is now a question of accommodation