The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [125]
She smiled at Julius. She was saying, of course, that he must leave. The rest of them had to reach Nicholas, wherever he was, and achieve their ceremonial march to the Palace. Without their notary. Well, that would do no harm. In the end, it was Nicholas, alone, who would enter the Palace gates. Alone, or with the Genoese consul. The lady Violante, instead of retiring, was walking beside them, along the path and away from Doria.
Godscalc glanced back. The gaiety and malice had left Doria’s face for the moment. Perhaps, thought Godscalc, the scene had been a matter of impulse, now regretted. And did he know the woman Violante, as Nicholas claimed? Her intervention, as it happened, had saved them all; and her motives could be innocuous. Brawling wouldn’t help trade, and she was married to a Venetian merchant.
Catherine, too, was staring as they receded. Specifically staring at Julius, who was looking not at all at his mistress’s lovely young daughter. Instead, he was gazing, in silence, at the painted woman who had just interfered. A woman in the Imperial diadem who yet knew his name, and that of Master Tobias. Who, therefore, must be—could only be—the Byzantine passenger who had sailed from Pera with Nicholas.
She was beautiful. And rich. And a princess. Her scent lingered. It was not, Catherine recognised, the composite odour of Trebizond. It was a perfume quite different: a distinctive, a familiar perfume, that belonged to another city altogether.
Her face, already sharp, became sharper. Then she looked for Pagano, and slipped her fingers into his hand and pressed it, so that he looked down and put his other arm round her shoulders. “What a crew!” he said. “Was that alarming? You didn’t think I’d let them snatch you?”
Already the horses were coming. Hers to take her, escorted, back to the Leoncastello. His to carry him to the Palace, there to present his credentials. As, it seemed, the consul for Florence would also be doing.
The Florentines. Catherine laughed up at his face. “Who was ever afraid of a stupid notary? Now,” she said, “you must make Nicholas jump.”
Nicholas said, “I’ve got my hat, and the letter, and the money, and Loppe with the presents and a white flag, and a bone for the dragon. If I’m not out in ten minutes, come and help me up from my stomach.”
They stood in the Upper Citadel, squared up inside the main gate holding their horses. A little distance away, drawn up in vermilion ranks, was the contingent of Genoese merchants. In a moment, the Emperor’s emissary would come: the Protonotarios, or the Chief Secretary, or the Treasurer Amiroutzes, and lead the two consuls, each with one servant, into the Presence. It was a long walk, they had been told, from the lower courtyard up to the Palace. It was strongly probable that Nicholas and Doria would make it together.
They had told Nicholas, of course, what had happened to Julius. He thought himself that he would have dealt with it differently, but he wasn’t Godscalc. Tobie’s eyes had bored into his back all the way up the hill.
In the end it was the Chief Secretary, Altamourios, the Emperor’s cousin, who came and greeted Doria and himself and then, bearing his wand, led the way up the steep incline to the Palace. Nicholas took his place behind, next to Doria. Behind them both came Loppe and Doria’s man, a Trapezuntine, with the consular gifts. Doria had emeralds fitted into his hat and the chain he wore over his coat. He looked magnificent. He said, “My Niccolino, I have hopes of you at last. You had the cunning to vanish. What a fool your poor Julius is. You know very well my little treasure cannot be coaxed from me, now or ever.”
“Condemned to permanent bliss,” Nicholas said. “Do you mind?”
Turning, Doria put a hand on his arm, and leaned on it warmly. “I surprise myself,” he said. He removed his hand, but walked on, confidingly close. “This little Catherine offers more than you would imagine. Small but pliant, and tireless. Have