Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [176]
Diniz frowned. The man Bartolomeo, in whom he had no interest, wore velvet which, though dusty, was certainly jewelled, as was the drape of his headgear. Diniz observed, without fully looking, that the cut of his doublet was almost Venetian. Below a thick trunk, the calves of his legs jutted like oak galls. The man said, ‘Introduce me.’
‘Are you not in the procession?’ said Diniz. ‘Has the Bastard disowned you?’
The stranger said again, ‘Introduce me.’
‘If I can,’ vander Poele said. ‘This is Bartolomeo Zorzi, a Venetian merchant from Constantinople. He has agreed to manage the dyeworks. You will show us around.’ He waited. Then he said, in the same agreeable voice, ‘You can do nothing from the Palace prison.’
Diniz felt his eyes swim from pure anger. Then he pulled himself up and addressed the bearded man Zorzi. ‘Messer Bartolomeo managed a dyeworks in Constantinople? He must have been thankful to escape.’
Above their furzy black rim, the man’s jowls and cheeks were healthily brown; his nose was snubbed and broad, between widely spaced eyes. He said, ‘A shrewd fellow, this. Yes. It’s a good time for Venetians to get out of those parts. I was in the alum business myself. Alum and silks. But I looked after the interests of a dyeshop your master here knows of. Owned by one Giovanni da Castro, godson of Pope Pius and rival to Messer Niccolò.’ His eyes, polished and black as obsidian, moved from Diniz to his companion. He said to the Fleming, ‘Took your trade, Niccolò, didn’t he, the inquisitive Messer da Castro? Found the alum at Tolfa that broke your clever monopoly.’
‘Not unexpectedly,’ vander Poele said. His voice was softer than Diniz remembered, and his manner repressed, as if what he were doing were unimportant, or disagreeable in some special way. He added, ‘As you have lost the Turkish concessions, I suppose. Unless your partner is staying in Constantinople?’
The bearded man, also smiling, turned to Diniz. ‘Girolamo? He also plans to depart. It is sad, but not so sad as it might have been. He has a brother, Antonio, who is greatly favoured by one of the Viziers.’
‘And, no doubt,’ vander Poele said, ‘you made sure to collect any money outstanding.’
The bearded man’s smile grew wider. ‘You have heard.’
‘That you left owing the Sultan thousands of ducats? It does you credit,’ said the Fleming, ‘to trust so strongly in the power of Venice. What if the Sultan defeats them?’
‘Then he will very likely overrun Cyprus,’ Zorzi said. ‘And I shall again have to move on, to the detriment of your dyeworks. But I am one of three fond and competent brothers. Nicholai – you remember one-legged Nicholai? – has of course connections in Bruges. Jacopo has vineyards in Cyprus which will support me very well in the meantime; added to the lavish wage you have promised to pay me. Indeed, I have only one problem. Am I to see over the dyeshop or not? I have to arrange my dress before attending the banquet. So, I take it, have you.’
‘Yes,’ said vander Poele. He turned to Diniz. ‘Show us what you can. Then you and I will return to the villa and talk. I have asked the Clares to bring your aunt there.’
Diniz stood where he was. He said, ‘The ransom has come?’
The Fleming had begun to walk over the mud. He said, ‘There are difficulties. Bartolomeo, this is the well. When the river dries up, we can keep working all summer. But the drainage channels are bad, and the paving must be done soon.’
‘What difficulties?’ Diniz said. He passed the merchant from Constantinople and caught the man Niccolò by the arm. ‘What difficulties?’ He remembered, for the first time, the knife in his boot.
As the thought came into his mind, the Fleming disengaged and repositioned himself, smoothly, on the other side of the wheel. Vander Poele said, ‘That is what I want to speak about later.’
‘What?’ insisted Diniz. He felt himself flush.
Bartolomeo Zorzi turned from the vat he was examining and walked to the door of a shed. He said, ‘Young man, you heard Messer Niccolò. Time