The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [81]
The following day, they became hosts in their turn. Pagano had a banquet laid out on his ship and all the colony came. He was especially kind to an old man of fifty whom he called Master George Amiroutzes and who spoke terrible Italian with a heavy Greek accent. His eyes were light, and ringed as if by a crayon with lash-bristle. He had a big nose and a supple, talkative mouth, and a striped beard and curling brown ringlets. Catherine thought him probably some sort of teacher, and was not impressed by his long, plain black gown or his supposed acquaintance with Florence. He also claimed to know Genoa which Pagano, the soul of courtesy, of course allowed to pass uncontradicted. He and Pagano spoke Greek together, and the man redeemed himself on leaving by kissing Catherine’s hand and comparing her to Helen of Troy, with whom of course she was familiar. Pagano had escorted him to the door, and returning had touched her cheek fondly. “What a delightful hostess you are! Who else could so have impressed the Great Chancellor of Trebizond, the Count Palatine Amiroutzes?”
Of course he should have warned her. In Trebizond men wore tunics, or long jewelled robes, and gorgeous cloaks, and Asiatic boots with long toes. She had asked. Now, when she complained, her husband embraced her. “Why, what more would you have said to him if you had known? He’s a lay philosopher; he has travelled the world. But he’s a man who can talk also of ordinary things. You will get to know him much better. I’ve asked him if he would care to sail with us to Trebizond.”
“You didn’t ask me!” Catherine said; and was glad to see him abashed.
“Nor did I, my princess. Then if you don’t wish it, of course he won’t come.” She was comforted.
She was still sleeping next morning when the summons came for Pagano to travel over the water to present himself to the lord Mahmud Pasha. The Grand Vizier had sent his Greek secretary. Catherine’s maidservant woke her when Pagano was ready, and he came to the bedchamber to see her. Taking his leave, he was amusing and playful as ever, but a shade inconsequential. The Grand Vizier was, of course, the Sultan’s right hand; but Pagano could make anyone living admire him.
She waved her final farewell from the balcony. Looking down, wrapped in her cloak, she saw that it was a real cavalcade, with an escort and all Pagano’s bodyservants in cerise velvet and silver, two of them drawing the cart with the presents. Noah had a ruby clasp in his turban and that look of adoration that he wore when close to Pagano. She had no time for Noah. Pagano himself wore cloth of silver and was mounted on a white Arab horse their host had kept for this day. Her husband, who doted on her.
The secretary, also mounted, had a clear olive skin and a little beard trimmed like fine silk. He wore a tunic and leggings, and his hat had a jewelled cockade in the front. He smiled and bowed his neck, when she waved to Pagano. He was really quite young. She went back to bed.
She woke the second time warm and confused, and thought she was in bed on the Doria with Pagano asleep on her breasts. His weight pleased her.
Someone said kindly, “Is it?”
Someone replied, in a voice she had never heard before, “Yes.”
Then Catherine opened her eyes. Nicholas was installed on her bedcover, watching her.
Chapter 13
NICHOLAS, HER MOTHER’S apprentice, was in her room. Her mother’s husband.
His face was in shadow, but Catherine knew who it was. And even then, in the midst of her shock, her imagination leaped to see herself through his eyes. How the red-brown hair on her pillow would seem the identical shade of her mother’s. How her eyes were