Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [67]
He answered them pleasantly, and illustrated his points with anecdotes which made the boys laugh. He was used to covering up and could deal, with relative ease, with questions from a Tedaldi or a Zeno. He was less used to being trapped into philosophic discussion by men who had known Cardinal Bessarion as well as Pope Pius, and were familiar with the thinkers he had heard speak in Trebizond. Nor could he escape, as he usually did, by appearing ignorant. He had corresponded for a long time with Filippo Buonaccorsi, and whatever deductions Callimaco had made, he had passed to the Queen. That was why, as she said, he was here. He was unattached and potentially useful. He was being given a test, based on his knowledge of a small country whose dissection would alarm no one except, as it happened, himself. And he was performing for an audience of four princes, the future kings of this realm, who, again as it happened, were children. He knew how to make them laugh, because he knew about children. He had two.
He began to feel very tired, and was conscious of relief when the Queen, intervening, signalled that the discussion was over and conveyed to him her thanks, and those of her absent husband. She hoped that, with the help of her servants, my lord of Beltrees would continue to relish his stay in her country. Everyone stood. Nicholas kissed hands and began to retreat. Jan Olbracht, who was not in awe of his mother, caught Nicholas at the door and said, ‘I heard great tales of the Ferrara wedding. Was it true that they heaped snow under the awnings, and blew cool air into the party with bellows?’
‘So I believe,’ Nicholas said. ‘It didn’t come cheap. They filled the rooms with silk flowers from France, and there were four tablecloths to each table, one for each course, and the servitors changed costume to match. Why, my lord? Are you marrying soon?’
‘Jan Olbracht!’ said his mother.
‘Not today, at least,’ said Jan Olbracht with a wink, and slid off.
‘No, indeed,’ said the voice of Caterino Zeno, close at hand. ‘Aged fifteen, and three mistresses already, to my knowledge. If you are as thirsty as I trust you are after that heroic performance, I propose that we retire in the direction of the cloth halls, collect some amiable company and descend to the cellars to discuss nothing that is not liquid or frivolous. Do you agree?’
He agreed, since it was necessary. He had never known Caterino Zeno to be frivolous. His wife was another matter, or had been.
THE BEER CELLARS were packed with courtiers and with wealthy citizens waiting for the noon downpour to cease, but Venetian foreigners had their own table at which Zeno and his party were welcomed, and where conversation took place in that peculiar tongue, with its slovenly affectations, which might confound even Italian eavesdroppers.
Not that, to begin with, the talk strayed far from the orthodox: Cracow scandal, local women, and home news from Venice. Twice, Nicholas had to watch what he was saying: once when Gelis was mentioned; and once when the talk turned to Cyprus. Neither reference was serious. He expressed mild gratification when complimented on his wife’s brilliant work for the Banco di Niccolò in Venice, and merely nodded when Zeno referred to the failed revolt against his young niece Queen Catherine in Cyprus. Neither was news, and he thought it extraordinary that they should have expected to read something in his face.
That said, he was mildly interested to learn that the Venetian branch of the Bank was still known by his name, and wondered why. It would suit Venice, of course, to have him safely back, making money for the Republic with his brilliant wife. As for Cyprus, the bond between himself and its late King was no secret. Privately, he had rejoiced when the murderer of Zacco’s small daughter Charlotte had been killed. But the rebellion had failed, and the Queen’s legitimate