The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [24]
He sustained, for what seemed a long time, the direct stare of the old man. The son murmured. The old man listened to him, and then to the secretary who bent over him for a moment, a sheet of paper held in one hand. Nicholas watched them with interest. Julius was shuffling. Tobie was wearing a mask of indifference, as if enduring some tedious lecture. Godscalc was smiling slightly, but the smile was more thoughtful than Nicholas liked. Pagano Doria? He’d never heard of him. There was a movement. The secretary withdrew, and Giovanni sat up. The old man started to speak.
He said, “You have convinced me that you are worth a short-term investment. If Messer Alighieri the Imperial envoy agrees, I am prepared to sanction your installation at Trebizond as agent for the Republic of Florence for the trial period of one year, from the time you arrive. I agree to your terms of operation, subject to their confirmation on paper, and their endorsement by Messer Alighieri. The price of the ship is too low. You may have a loan to buy it at three hundred and fifty florins, repayable within twelve months at an interest of twenty florins in the hundred against the security of the property and funds of your parent company. We would require prior confirmation of their credit standing, and their signed acknowledgement of obligation.”
“I have powers to sign. And I can provide all the figures,” said Nicholas.
“Then you accept?”
“Yes, monsignore. I thank you. I do.” He could see the apprehension on the faces of his faint-hearted colleagues. It hurt to keep his face grave all the time the old man was concluding.
“Then Messer Alighieri will be invited to call, and the authority will be drawn up in a form agreeable to all parties, and presented for signing in due course. There will have to be a copy in Greek. Your notary is Messer Julius here? Perhaps he will remain. He may use my interpreter unless, of course, you object.”
“No need,” Nicholas said. “Master Julius studied Greek in Bologna. He was secretary to Cardinal Bessarion, who was born in Trebizond.”
The lord Cosimo looked weary rather than thunderstruck. “Indeed! I find the combined accomplishments of your company, Messer Niccolò, somewhat daunting. Let us drink, then, to the successful outcome of a new contract. Wine, Giovanni.”
“Vermin!” somebody said.
The voice came from the door. Although less than a shout, the remark was delivered with a certain snarling sonority that struck all competition into silence. The old man’s nose drew towards his lips, like that of a goose. His son heaved to his feet. The secretary and two clerks were already hastening to the door, arms outstretched defensively. They staggered back, as the man who had spoken thrust past them and strode into the room. He came to a halt before Julius.
He was a monk: a man of middle height and some bulk, wearing the grey habit and tonsure of a preaching Franciscan—a Minorite friar of the harsh Observantine reform. A curiously untidy man, for all the simplicity of his garments, with a high-coloured face that seemed an explosion of pitted skin and black hair. Hair grew from the cavities of his stoutly boned nose and tufted his ears beneath the vigorous curls, and lay submerged in planes of threatening indigo below the curves of his jowl. His eyebrows sprouted hair, and the backs of his hands. There was hair on the nape of his neck. Naked among all this herbage were his underlids, pale and curved as the lip of a drinking-glass.
He pointed a finger at Julius. Something orange had stained it. He said, “Cosimo de’ Medici, you do not know with whom you are dealing. Stop your congress. Destroy your agreement. Drive this man from your house and this company from your door. That man is Satan.”
“Julius?” Nicholas said. He caught, successfully, a note of pleased interest.
No one smiled.