The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [129]
He never tried to forget, at moments like these, his base upbringing; his disputed origins. But for those, he might not have had to seek out this past eighteen months all he possessed in nature to cancel them. He knew his strengths, one of which was the effectiveness of his body. And he had stood a long time, minutely observing, outside the church.
He moved therefore slowly, as the Imperial family walked, and with the same carriage. But where Doria had solicited, he kept his eyes strictly downcast, through the words of the introduction and after. The Prostration he had been taught by the mistress of such things: he was sorry she was not here to be gratified. He delivered the ritual kiss and stood, lids lowered still, until the Emperor spoke. When he raised his eyes, and met those of the Emperor, he felt the hair rise on his forearms. It was true, then. She had been seldom explicit, and he had not been sure. He set the knowledge aside, and went on with the process on which he was launched.
First, the formal letter signed in Florence by Cosimo de’ Medici setting out the agreement, embellished with greetings and compliments. This was handed over to the Emperor and read. Through Amiroutzes, the Emperor knew the House of Medici. It was why he had sent Alighieri his envoy to Florence. A private letter from the same Michael Alighieri was already in the Emperor’s hands, forewarning him of the terms for this contract. That the Palace had then commanded this audience ought to mean that the Emperor had found the conditions acceptable. On the other hand, one never quite knew. One merely stood, mildly patient, and waited.
The letters were read and translated. The Emperor spoke, interpreted by his treasurer. The Emperor, taking the contract item by item, agreed item by item to every one of its points. Every one. They were to get everything that had been agreed: everything that they and the Medici had wanted. Nicholas listened, his expression soberly gratified, his inner being drunk with delight. The details ran on and ended and the Emperor waved the document away and remained for a moment, studying the Florentine consul, before delivering the usual coda. The Emperor hoped that the Republic of Florence, through their agent the company of Charetty, would respect the customs and sovereignty of his lands, and that the concessions to which they were admitted today would lead to a long association, full of honour. Nicholas responded in nicely tuned Tuscan and Loppe brought forward Florence’s gifts to the Imperial family. The Emperor watched Loppe, calmly curious, as if there were no negroes already among the quiet line of servants, or among the beardless men by the door to the women’s apartments.
The gifts were more than adequate, being mostly bales of double-cut velvet in Imperial colours: crimson on gold; purple patterned on black and tissue of silver. Once, it was forbidden to common men to dye purple in the Imperial grades; but not now. He had chosen some stuff with a ground of red velvet, scattered with rosebuds in silver thread and white silk. Unfolded, it brought a little sigh from some woman, but Nicholas didn’t look round. At the end he said, “These are what I ventured to bring. But if Thrice-Augustus will permit, there is a greater gift which awaits at your gates. The Domesticus of the Imperial guard knows its nature.”
It had been well rehearsed. The Protospatharios stepped forward, bowed and spoke to the Emperor, who turned. Before Amiroutzes translated, Nicholas knew what he was saying. “I am told that you have brought armed men for the Florentine service, and that these men will regard it as their duty, while stationed here, to protect my city. This is so?”
Nicholas agreed, his voice humble. If the Basileus deigned, the troop could be assembled under his balcony in a matter of moments. These men begged but a glimpse of the Emperor of the Imperial Family of the Hellenes, to serve whom they