The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [285]
The rest of his purchases he had kept aboard the galley, now flying its proper pennant and restored to its name, Ciaretti. The rest included a thousand pounds of raw Leggi silk, worth more than two thousand florins, which would go from Venice to Florence, largely by river. What remained of his cargo he would divide when he had consulted his partner, his employer, his wife. Some to be warehoused at Venice to be sold at the next fair. Some, including the rest of the dyes, to go by packhorse to Flanders before the Alpine passes were closed. Some items were personal. He had, in his cabin, a barrel of figs and raisins and oranges, and some loaves of marzipan and something else, none of which was for himself. His cabin, indeed, was extremely crowded. A lot of it was money. Returns from the sale of the velvets and silks with his own three per cent commission, or direct profit. The fee for conveying the Empress to Georgia, and some of Doria’s lost silver. There would be freight money awaiting him for the 120,000 pounds of Venetian cargo he was carrying. And there were his own possessions: the saddle, the caftans, the box of pearls that the elephant clock had provided him with. The elephant clock which, no doubt, was already hacked into fragments as an object of Western frivolity. He had a sword too, and some belts, and some Shiraz armour he had been given, and his own clothes, also shipped beforehand to Kerasous. The feathers, and the emeralds. Forget them. Forget them.
He had pulled out, ready for Venice, a pleated doublet and a short, wide-sleeved gown in a dull colour, with well-made hose and boots. He thought he would wear the new sword, but that was all. My lord, the Bailie had called him at Modon; but the Bailie had had his reasons. No one here would overrate his rank or his qualifications. He was now, it seemed, wealthy; and as such he would be given attention. It was all he required. To transfer the wealth and the attention to Marian; and step back; and watch her pleasure and her pride. That was all.
It was not all. Part of the turmoil; part of the exhilaration since he left Modon had sprung from physical reasons. His body knew that the year-long famine was ending, even if he refused to recognise it. For what it was worth, set among the loveliest women of Trebizond, he had never been tempted beyond his means of command. Nor had he wanted to buy. He had never shared pleasure with a girl or a woman except for love. If that hunger had died, then abstinence demanded no fortitude. Until now.
Of course, Tobie saw it. Friends were dangerous. On the last day of their voyage, Tobie had planted himself before him, saying, “Well?”
“Well what?” he had answered. But by that time Tobie had taken a look and started to cackle. “My God, my Nicholas. Why?”
It had been a long operation, shaving off his beard of four and a half months, exposing the pale skin, the scar, the inopportune dimples. No one would be tempted to flatter him now. “I should have kept it,” Nicholas said. “And my bare feet. And my club. And the pelt of a lamb on one shoulder. What did you want?”
Tobie’s face was pink as a skinned mouse, and his naked head glistened. “Nothing. Making my standard remedial rounds before landfall. Any lumps? Any rashes? What was that you won at dice, by the way? From Mahmud’s soldiers?”
“You know what it was, you medical lecher. Do you want it?”
“I don’t need it,” Tobie said. “And you won’t need it either, so get rid of it. Or there’ll be harm done on both sides, Nicholas.”
He didn’t need to be told that.