Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [300]
When talking affairs, you learn to give nothing away. Marian de Charetty rested her gaze on the saturnine face as if it was of no account, this proposal to send a young man, not yet twenty, to the other side of the world. To Trebizond. The jewel of the Black Sea. The prized trading-post with the Orient which Venice feared to lose to the Turk. Which, now that Constantinople had fallen, was the last fragment on earth of the Empire of Byzantium; the last imperial court; the last treasure house of royal Greece.
Caterino Zeno, who had signed the alum contract for Venice, was married to a Byzantine princess. It was all planned. None of this was an accident. It was war, and not trade, that Nicholas was wanted for. But war and trade both were the foundation of the Charetty business.
Nicholas said, “We have an excellent company, but I doubt if captain Astorre could hold off the Turks single-handed. That is what you are asking?”
“I?” said the Greek. “I expect nothing. I demonstrate what is possible, that is all. Venice has her own hired soldiers in Trebizond, poor though they are, to protect her traders. The Genoese merchants have some sort of bodyguard. It is likely that they will never be needed. The Sultan requires trade, and the mountains do not encourage Ottoman armies. No. I had in mind a business opportunity. If you ask your captain Astorre to accompany you, he will of course be sure of a welcome. The Emperor himself would be generous. But it is a matter of trade. Trade and money.”
She was aware, again, that Nicholas preferred to be silent. She said, “And the business, precisely?”
The Greek’s eyes, in the lamplight, seemed softened. He said, “This winter, Monna Marian, envoys from the East are due to reach Italy, begging help to drive out the infidel. Among them will be a Venetian merchant, Michael Alighieri. The poet Dante was one of his forebears. His home is in Trebizond, and he is spokesman for the Emperor David. It is his task, when in Italy, to arrange for a Florentine agent in Trebizond.”
She said, “A trading-station on the Black Sea for Florence? Then Florence will choose the Medici to run it.”
The Greek smiled. “But what Florence proposes may not suit Trebizond and the Emperor. He is threatened from Constantinople. Sultan Mehmet has shown his distrust of the Genoese. The Emperor David may therefore insist that Florence appoints an agent of his own choice: a company which the Medici and Venice both favour. A company already blessed with its own private army. Quartered in Trebizond, such a force would be priceless. To the traders. To the imperial family. And the fees it might command would reflect this.”
He stroked his beard, watching them. “I do not doubt your success in the Milanese wars. Perhaps you owe the Duke of Milan more than I know. I would only mention, my friends, that a Trapezuntine contract could be yours for the asking. And a share – perhaps a major share – perhaps one day a monopoly – of the whole silk exchange from the Orient.”
The breathing she could hear was her own. Nicholas stood, his eyes like coins, without breathing at all. He had talked to her, a little, about this possibility. It had then seemed a dream, a book-keeper’s fantasy. And even then, it had been Julius he had envisaged as leading this branch of the company. Julius who would go to Rome, and to Venice, and finally far off, beyond Constantinople, to the shores of the Black Sea.
But it was not Julius who was being spoken of now. It was himself.
The silence stretched, and then he dropped his gaze. He said, “I see. Well, you won’t expect an answer from us just now. We need to know very much more. But I shall be in Italy in November. I undertake at least to see Messer Alighieri. Unless –”
She felt his eyes, and tilted her head, to meet his enquiry. “I have no objection,” the demoiselle said.
“Then,” said the Greek, “I shall