The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [44]
“So,” said the engineer, “what’s the carrot leading you on? You want to make a name for yourself? You want to fight for Christ against the Turk? You want wealth? You want power? You want freedom and licence? You want risk and adventure? You don’t want anything, but are obeying other folks’ orders? Which?”
“All the venal reasons,” said Nicholas. “And another one. Like you, I enjoy solving puzzles. Someone is trying to get in.”
The hammering on the workshop door had begun as he was speaking. The sculptor, muttering, rose and flung it open. A Roman soldier stood there. He caught sight of Godscalc and Nicholas and said, “Oh, there you are.”
It was Julius. Nicholas said, “Maestro, forgive me. It’s one of our company. Has something happened?”
“You missed it!” said Julius. He bowed to the sculptor, looked at le Grant and returned his gaze to Nicholas. He said, “In the middle of the Via Larga, in front of the Palazzo Medici! This great float with the leopard on it, and the Negro, and Pagano Doria—Doria!—and his friends, all done up in yellow velvet. And then the cart suddenly jams, and the one behind collides with it, and the horses break from the harness and get through into the courtyard of the Palazzo and start to kick all the Medici’s best carving, with Doria yelling and the people screaming, and the leopard…”
“It attacked?” said Godscalc, rising.
“No. It just piddled,” said Julius. “Gallons. People ran, just the same.”
“That cart was made by the company’s own excellent carpenters. How could it have broken down?” the sculptor said. “It might have been ours!”
“It might have been ours,” Nicholas said. “Who knows? Maybe someone tampered last night with the lynchpin.”
Godscalc said, “Nicholas.”
“And speaking of Trebizond,” Nicholas said, “that’s another reason, while I remember. I’d quite like to get there to spite Pagano Doria.”
“You persuade me,” said John le Grant. “I’ll call on you. Take your skin and get your friend out of the door, or the Maestro will keep him. Thank God you’ve a chaplain. You need one.”
Godscalc said nothing. He had brought them together. It was too late now to wonder if he had been wise.
Four weeks before sailing time, John le Grant and his servant moved into Monna Alessandra’s, and the pace of activity, already considerable, climbed smoothly into top speed. So did expenditure. When Astorre, the bearded commander of the Charetty troop of hired soldiers, arrived discreetly in Livorno just after with a hundred picked men, he stared round their dry, well-furnished quarters, the excellent stables and his own set of decent rooms, and spat his annoyance. “The brat’s found out how to mint his own money, and I’ve just signed his contract for the usual terms. What’s he paying you lot?”
With equal discretion, they had all found their way down to welcome him.
“He’s paying you?” Julius said. “Father Godscalc here, of course, is serving for love, and I’m to get first shot of the Byzantine ladies. You’ll be all right. He’s got the best cook in Florence.” He considered Astorre with something almost approaching affection. Julius had served with the army in Italy. He had spent a good deal of time and trouble finding these quarters, well away from the eyes of the curious.
Astorre’s gaze had lightened, then narrowed. He said, “You look as slack as a sackload of horse feed. Is he working you, then?”
“He is,” said Father Godscalc. “And I won’t say I feel at my freshest, either, so I hope there is no heavy burden of sin lying over that crew that they want me to deal with this evening. There is one mercy ahead. Once we find ourselves on the ship, even Nicholas will have to slow down.”
“We’ll all slow down, thank God,” said Astorre, eyeing his soldiers.
“Well, not them,” said Julius. “They’re going to row us.”
The ruffled Astorre was restored later by Nicholas, who introduced John le Grant to him, and then sat literally at their feet while the two men exchanged fighting men’s gossip. Astorre, with his half-ear and his furious eyes and his scimitar of a beard, had fought in Albania with