The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [61]
That is, until Doria’s party approached. Then heads turned, and children jumped to their feet, and the wayward chords became spaced and irregular, and were replaced by the drumming of bare feet on dirt, and the sound of harsh voices. Lean bodies fenced out the light, and hands poked and jabbed, clutching objects of leather and metal. “Buy! Buy!” they were calling.
The Bailie’s escort closed politely about them. But Julius put one hand on his purse and one on the hilt of his dagger, and wondered why they were here.
Pagano, the firelight ruddy on his straight nose and well-spaced cheeks and mathematical chin, was quick to tell them. “Messer Niccolò! We represent the Western world: the Bailie said so. We are fellow-voyagers, friends on this Argosy. Against the dragon, the Turk, I will defend you, as you, I am sure, will defend me. But in trade, in the matter of bringing back gold, we are rivals.”
“Isn’t there enough for us all?” Nicholas said. His voice had altered.
Pagano Doria laughed, and the firelight illumined the amphitheatre of his teeth. He said, “Not for me. I shall be satisfied by nothing less than the whole Fleece. But in chivalry it is usual for knights to face each other equally armed.”
“Knights?” Nicholas said.
Doria glanced at his neighbours and smiled. “Gentlemen, then,” he made amend.
“Gentlemen?” Nicholas said.
The smile lessened, but did not vanish. “But of course,” the Genoese said. “A consul can be nothing else.”
“No matter what he does?”
Pagano Doria, with four men and his servants behind him, looked across the dark space between himself and Nicholas, standing taller than any man there save the chaplain. Around them the voices of vendors still chattered and shouted, but the escort were silent. Loppe had moved nearer Julius. Beside the black page, a white page had arrived by the Genoese party. “But of course,” said Doria. “You are Florence; I am Genoa. We make our own laws.”
“But you think we should be armed,” Nicholas said.
The light of the fires, playing through the crowds, struck starry colours from Doria’s wide hat with its jewels and streamers, and two sparks from the caves of his eyes. He threw out a gloved hand. “Look there, on that stall. I have had two daggers fashioned. They are identical, except that your name is on one, and mine on the other. The price is fair. Unless you object, I propose that we each present one to the other. A symbol, you might say. Whatever is to occur, we set out as equals.”
The weapons were there, laid on a table by one of the anvils. Men drew back, and Doria walked past and fingered them. He said, “Or perhaps the price is inconvenient. Let me present you with one.”
Nicholas had stopped sounding like someone else. The laugh he gave was Claes’s laugh, uninhibited, all the way from boyhood and Bruges. “Not at all. I’ll take them both,” he said. “And present you with one later on.”
The pause before Doria also laughed was very small. He said, “You don’t like my fancy. Leave it. The smith will not mind.”
But as he was speaking, Nicholas opened his purse and put coins on the table. It was more, Julius saw, than the weapons were worth, although they were good ones. Then he picked up one of the daggers. Before he could pick up the other, Doria laid a coin down himself and took the other blade neatly. He said, “I prefer to pay my way now.”
“Like a gentleman,” Nicholas said. He reflected, and then removed his extra coin. The smith’s hand, stealing out, recovered in silence the price of the two. Pagano Doria tilted his blade so that the firelight exposed the inscription. Then he held out his hand.
“Messer Niccolò: