The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [18]
“Now there’s a scandal,” said a man sitting on one of the benches. Julius looked at him. He was wearing a good but stained cloak over the cap and gown of a priest, and his hair, too thick for his calling, wound all over his neck like black cotton. He got up, proving himself to be of powerful build and the same height as Nicholas, whom he addressed. He said, “The Charetty company offered me two and a half florins a month to save your souls no matter what thieving percentage lay on them; and pound for pound, that takes more effort than banking. I want improved terms. I want a lodging like this at the end of it.”
Hearing, Master Tobie the doctor turned and exclaimed. Young Nicholas turned, and looked pleased. “Father Godscalc. But that’s already written into your contract. In your master’s house are many mansions, and one has your name on it, if you can make out the language it’s written in. How did you know to be here?”
“I’ll tell you later,” said the chaplain called Godscalc. “I’ve just come from Pisa. I’ve news for you.”
“The Tower has fallen?” said Tobie.
“The Pope has fallen?” Nicholas said.
“The army likes its winter quarters,” said Julius, “and wouldn’t want to sail to the East under Nicholas?”
“Oh, you’ll get all the fighting men you’d have need of,” said the priest comfortably. “Have you heard tell of a Pagano Doria?”
“Messer Niccolò!” said someone sharply.
“Dorias, yes. Paganos, never. Why?” said Nicholas.
“Messer Niccolò!” said the same voice, much nearer.
“His colours are murrey and plunket,” said Godscalc. “Not one of the impotent poor. You don’t know the man?”
He was thrust aside. A harsh voice said, “Messer Niccolò, you are awaited. His magnificence has almost lost patience.”
The speaker, emerged from the nearest grand archway of the Palazzo Medici, was not a porter but a cleanshaven man dressed in a secretary’s gown and a cap with black lappets like Julius’s own. He was frowning at Nicholas. Nicholas said, “This is my chaplain, Father Godscalc. He has some news for me.”
“Then he can impart it within,” said the secretary. “Have the goodness to follow me instantly.”
Julius would not have cared to argue with him, and Nicholas didn’t. In single file, the four passsed through the archway and into the Medici courtyard. Julius faltered.
“Judith displaying the dead head of Holofernes,” said Nicholas helpfully, gazing at the fountain before them and the streaming sculpture within it. “He was a friend of Donatello’s and she didn’t like it. The sarcophagus over there was used for Messer Cosimo’s great-great-great-great-grandfather’s cousin.”
“Is he still in it?” said Julius.
“They’re possibly all still in it,” said Nicholas. “Roman, Roman, Roman, Roman, Medici. Like a pie.”
“If you will stop talking,” said Tobie, “you will notice that we are being invited to climb to the salon.”
In the salon was a fine carpet, an assortment of carved and gilded coffers, several stools, cushioned boxes and his magnificence Cosimo de’ Medici, seated on a chair with carrying poles like the Pope’s. Hesitating with his three companions in the double doorway, Julius scrutinised the wealthiest man in Florence, while their conductor went forward and spoke to him.
Seventy-two years of age and contorted with gout, Cosimo de’ Medici commanded the room like another Judith seeking another Holofernes. Sallow, long-nosed and shrunken, he nursed his balding head beneath a swathed velvet hat, and dark glossy fur lined the robe he wore over his doublet. He listened to his official, his head bent to hear better. Then he lifted one hand and rapped on the wood of his chair arm. “Approach, then!” he said.
Julius looked to see if Nicholas had paled, or was trembling. Men in fear could shame themselves and their companions. Men puked in