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By Root 2679 0

you will notice that the King of France is not as well as he might be; and the King of England leads an unhealthy life; and the Duchess Eleanor—yes! I regret to inform you—is in the care of her doctors. Added to which are all the terminating activities of just and unjust Man—the Medici killing in Florence, who would have expected it? The assassination of the last Duke of Milan! The judicial killing—I am told—of the King of England’s own brother, following the example of France. The sad royal slaughters in Cyprus and Persia. The decimation of the nobility of the Fleece—there were only five Knights left alive in the stalls, I am told, when the Order held its meeting last year. Sudden death faces us everywhere, and the whole prospect of Europe can change overnight. You know, of course, that Rhodes is about to fall, and the Turk is attacking Belgrade and moving into Otranto in Italy? The King of Naples accuses Venice of making peace with the Sultan merely to punish Venice’s Italian enemies.’

‘Rhodes has fallen?’ Nicholas said.

The Patriarch looked at him. ‘I thought you would be pleased? It is not quite confirmed. But when last heard of, the Sultan’s Pasha had arrived off the island with fifteen thousand men and sixty ships, ten cannon and thirty stone-casting machines, and the Grand Master of the Order of St John was attempting to resist with three thousand five hundred men.’

Nicholas said, ‘They attack, or threaten to attack, every spring.’

‘But one day—and perhaps this is the time—they will succeed. And without the Knights to harass them, the Turks will go further than the toe of Italy, you may be sure. Then all Christendom will have to start up from its own petty wars and take to arms. Go to Venice,’ the Patriarch said. ‘Venice needs you. Venice may prove your best hope for the future.’

There was a silence. Nicholas said, ‘France will know this?’ He saw Moriz shift.

‘Ha! Straight to the point. I knew I could rely on you,’ the Patriarch said. ‘In my view, France has already seen an opportunity in prospect. A distant one, perhaps, but one which will affect all those little countries of which you are growing so fond. I repeat my advice. From a central position of power, you may out-broker the Medici themselves.’

‘Perhaps,’ Nicholas said. ‘But if I did, where would I find you? Can you trust yourself to the Emperor, while your own people in Bologna and Ferrara are supporting Milan?’

‘First this deference, and now a touching care for my family! Now I feel old,’ said the Patriarch. ‘I remember the Emperor’s first visit long ago to Bologna, and his childish delight in the spinneries. You dealt in silk. You remember, of course, meeting Queen Carlotta in the days of Sante Bentivoglio, the last ruler of Bologna—the springs of Porretta did him little good, poor fornicating fool: he died three years after. His successor is a much harder man, and a rival to the Marezzi silk merchants, who are always falling out with their German creditors. There is one in the Emperor’s prison just now, whom I was supposed to liberate.’

‘And have you?’

‘I have promises. If they turn out as usual, the man will be released after three years, on payment of four thousand florins of ransom. But the silk merchants will thank me. And the Pope.’

‘And then you will go where?’

‘Where would you like me to go?’ asked Ludovico da Bologna. ‘Ah! Do not trouble to answer. The Franciscans here would no doubt say the same. I have an idea or two. But if you were to settle in Venice, you would hear before anyone.’

Nicholas left, with Moriz, soon after that.

On the way back: ‘He was already walking with difficulty,’ Moriz said. ‘I have never known a stronger man, but he is nearly seventy, and has tramped the world for his faith. Like any sane man, I could throttle him, but I revere him as well. That timber merchant’s son from Bologna has devoted his life to his faith, travelling further than soldier, or seaman, or merchant, without money or comfort, sustained by his belief in himself, and his Order, and his God. If I were God, I would wipe half the saints off