The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [34]
And there, of course, was the nub of the case. Milan disliked the present French interference with Genoa. Milan disliked the French, and was as determined as Florence and Naples to keep them from power in Italy. So Milan would not care to see a French puppet (as they might see Pagano) ousting a Medici-backed Charetty company. Milan might see to it, quite simply, that the Genoese round ship never left Porto Pisano.
Pagano Doria lifted his arm and swallowed his wine with a flourish. “Ah, my dear Messer Niccolò, if you must know,” he said, “I have received no instructions from Genoa. I shall, of course, do my best to make them a fitting consul, but that is their only concern. There are no deep-laid plots here against Florence. Merely…I have a living to make. And a talent for amusing myself, and sometimes others. Men of genius, serious men, must despise me. I doubt if you need be afraid of me, though. You, with your soldiers, your staff men like the doctor, the lawyer, the chaplain here. If I tried to cause mischief, I abjectly failed. You are Florentine consul, and you are leaving in due course for Trebizond. What can I do to harm you, and why?”
“Sink my ship. Steal my markets. Serve double-strength wine,” Nicholas said.
“Shall I water it?” said Doria. The eyes, bright as a pheasant’s, were for a second derisive.
“Only if it discommodes you,” said Nicholas. “After all, we shall shortly have something to celebrate. What will you take for your ship and its contents?”
Doria’s back slowly straightened. His lips, shapely and red, parted in a smile of delight. He said, “A munificent gesture. My dear Messer Niccolò! You will cripple the Medici family! I am sorely tempted.”
“Then accept,” Nicholas said. “No unpleasant voyage in February; no threat of war with the Turk, or with me.” His voice was perfectly pleasant, but Godscalc saw that his gaze and that of the Genoese were locked together. Then, with a sound like a small sigh, the Genoese sea prince looked away. “Alas!” he said. “Even if you could borrow so large a sum—”
“I can,” Nicholas said.
Godscalc looked at him.
So did Pagano Doria. “I think I believe you,” he said. “But even so, the fortune I shall make in Trebizond, Messer Niccolò, will be much larger. Without, of course, detracting from yours. There is plenty for all. The land of the Golden Fleece. The land of Colchis, where the flying ram made its way, the gift of Hermes. Whither Jason was sent on his impossible mission; sailed on Argo advised by his wooden oracle; reaped the fields full of soldiers; drugged the dragon with Medea’s assistance.”
He laughed. “In Burgundy, they’ve created an order named after it, haven’t they? Supposed to summon men to free Constantinople. To rouse the Christian world, as that fool Fra Ludovico thinks he’s doing. But you can’t govern a state with paternosters—who said that? And the great Order of the Golden Fleece was really invented, so they say, by Duke Philip in honour of the fleece at his mistress’s thighs. Have you heard that?”
“Everyone’s heard that,” said Nicholas. “Which do you want to be? Jason, the ram or the dragon?”
“I am quite happy,” said the Genoese, “being Pagano Doria, unambitious though it may appear. I intend to go to Trebizond. We shall compete in some things. I shall not promise to be an easy opponent, but you are free to deal likewise with me. If you are afraid, or do not believe me, of course you will inform Milan and have me stopped. But I see a courage in you, a liking for risk and adventure that does not stoop to old men’s expediencies. But it is for you to say.”
Godscalc glanced at Nicholas. He appeared sober still, except that his colour was a little high, and his eyes very bright. He was looking directly at the other man. A long moment went by. Then he said, “Yes. If it must be.”
Pure delight informed the sea prince’s face. It was, you now saw, a self-seeking face; an artful face. But its expression was not one solely of triumph in the wake of an interview that might well have ruined