Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [92]
Messer Agnolo moved. He smiled, catching the eye of the man called Giovanni, who came and stood by him. “Tell me mine, my young friend,” he said. “What do I hold in my hand?”
“A bearing-rein,” said Claes without rancour. “Well, monsieur, you began with a nine, and never let it go. Then you picked up and kept a three and a Queen. Those were all bastoni. Later …”
He named one by one all the cards in the other man’s hand; and then, when he was asked, those held by the others. As he did so, Giovanni leaned over and checked them. They were correct.
Claes looked both relieved and embarrassed. “It comes from the dyehouse,” he said. “Long lists of recipes, very good for the memory. And verses. We make them up to sing when we’re stirring. By the time we’ve added in all the people we like, they can get to be very long.”
He looked round, in an accommodating way, as if ready to sing, too, if invited. Messer Agnolo said, “Do you hear that, Giovanni? You were a dyer. We shall expect no less of you, next time you play cards with us.”
Beside him, Tobie was aware that his uncle was smiling. His uncle said, “May I introduce my nephew Tobie, or do you wish us to go away while you start another game with this budding arithmetician?”
Play, it seemed, was over. Their host rose, with his sister, and came forward. Guests were seated and reseated. Introductions were made. The pretty girl was called Caterina, and Marco Parenti her husband was a merchant in Florence who used to export silk to Athens and Constantinople. More than that, he was a writer. More than that, he visibly did not care for the fact that Caterina had picked Claes to sit beside.
Giovanni da Castro was the Pope’s godson, and held a post in the Apostolic Chamber. The Holy Father made use of his business experience. Before that, Messer da Castro had been a dyer. There was a coincidence. A dyer of imported cloth in Constantinople, before the attack by the Sultan six years ago. He had escaped with his life. He was lucky.
Tobie’s expression, he hoped, remained calm. It was an Acciajuoli household. Why be surprised if all the guests once did business in Constantinople or Athens or the Morea? He remembered one member of the family who had not been mentioned. He said to da Castro, “You were luckier than Messer Bartolomeo, the brother of the Greek with the … of the kinsman of Messer Angelo’s who toured Europe raising funds to ransom him. Is there any news of him? Will he expect to be freed when the gold is collected?”
Ever since Bruges, the subject of the Greek and his captive brother had acutely interested Tobie. He was surprised when da Castro did not immediately answer him. It was Laudomia, the captured man’s relative, who said, “My dear Messer Tobias! The man was freed months ago. It was the firm of Medici who paid the ransom and who generously agreed to stand out their money until they can be recompensed.”
“By which time, of course, the rates would have changed,” said Tobie.
Monna Laudomia smiled. The Pope’s godson, entering the conversation, quickly said laughing, “It is the one thing which never stands still. But of course, the matter had to be settled to allow Messer Bartolomeo to continue trading. At a price, of course. The taxes on Christians are unbelievable. But with one thing and another, Bartolomeo Giorgio will never go short.”
“You mean,” said Tobie, “he is still trading in Constantinople under the Turks? While you had to leave?”
There was again a second’s pause, and then da Castro shrugged. “There is religion, and there is business. Sometimes, one has to choose. No. I don’t grudge his fortune to Bartolomeo. I shall do well enough here.”
“And what,” said Tobie, “if your godfather launches his Crusade, and it takes Constantinople back from the Turks?”
Messer da Castro looked surprised. “Then I may return to my trading there if it suits me. And Messer Bartolomeo will be able to continue without Turkish taxes. A happy outcome.”
“If he survives,” Tobie said. “What does he trade in? Is he a dyer as well?”