To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [116]
‘Really? A little more wine?’ Julius said. ‘So Anselm Adorne made some investments in Rome?’
‘As to that,’ said the Florentine, ‘you must ask his son Jan. I believe he is hourly expected at the Flaminian Gate – that is, the Porta del Popolo. The Scots bishop called Graham is with him. But why speak of business? I prefer to give myself completely to pleasure. Indeed, I look forward to the Cardinal of Nicaea’s reception to which – I believe – I have been invited. Nerio will know.’ He laid down his cup with a smile. ‘No, I thank you. It is a fine vintage, but I must leave.’
‘Nerio?’ Julius repeated. Seeing the other man rise, he remained standing. He put down the flask with a certain care.
‘The young lad who was exiled from Trebizond. Duke Charles made him welcome at Bruges; Alighieri knows him, of course, as does the Cardinal. Perhaps you remember; you met him in Venice.’
Julius remembered. He said, ‘Is he here?’
‘Outside. He hesitated to intrude.’
‘But bring him in!’ Julius exclaimed. He knew he had flushed. He saw it reflected in the boy’s face as Nerio entered; in the lustrous dark eyes fixed on his, above the delicate chin, the curling lips, the exquisite nose. In Venice, Nerio of Trebizond had caused a great deal of mischief by ceasing to dress like a man. Now, the long lashes flickered once; then, smiling, Nerio touched the one-legged man on the shoulder, his white fingers smoothing the velvet.
‘Sit, sir,’ he said. ‘I am sure Master Julius does not expect you to stand.’ And turning: ‘Monsignore, I am happy to see you.’
‘And I, you,’ Julius said. ‘You are with the embassy? Are you enjoying it?’
‘He is with me,’ said the Florentine calmly. ‘I thought it was obvious.’ And, indeed, as the bearded man resumed his seat smoothly, the youth sank to a stool at his knee. After a moment, the man’s hand touched his neck, and then rested there. Feeling it, the boy smiled; but the dark eyes were still fixed on Julius.
Julius poured a full cup. ‘You will drink with me, Nerio, I hope.’ Carrying over the wine, he brought to mind something about Tilde in Bruges. Tilde complaining of Catherine her sister, and how she filled the Charetty-Niccolò house with her ardent young followers. And the rumour he had heard more than once: that they were not there from love of Catherine, these charming young men. Of whom Nerio had been one. And Diniz, Tilde’s husband, another.
He gave Nerio the cup, and said, ‘I am glad to have caught you. I expect you will be on your travels quite soon.’ Their fingers touched, by no volition of his.
The older man spoke, with no trace of jealousy, but rather a hint of well-bred amusement. ‘We shall be here for a week or two yet. There is plenty of time.’
Trotting back and forth to the Apostolic Palace, prayerfully prodding its solitary mule, the complement of the Scots lodging in Rome heard the same news of impending arrival, and expressed its excited alarm.
‘Expected hourly!’ said the Abbot of Cambuskenneth, wringing out the hem of his robe and sitting down in the communal parlour. He lifted both little feet and watched his man draw off his boots: they came off so easily that the man nearly sat in the fire. Henry Arnot grinned, and then gave a great howl. ‘Patrick Graham coming here! I cannot believe it! Arches will crumble, temples fall, catacombs fill with absconding prelates and cattle. Why here?’
‘Because he can’t afford anywhere else,’ said the brother of the Abbot of Melrose. ‘At least he’ll help you win your campaign for Coldingham. He’s still Bishop of St Andrews, or was when I was last at my desk. All your musical friends will be pleased. And you like Anselm Adorne.’
‘I don’t like his son,’ said Henry Arnot. ‘No. That is uncharitable. I would wish no further ill on a young man who has had to travel from Bruges with the Bishop of St Andrews. Such a catastrophe, when you remember his uncle. But a family tree is a salad of many herbs.’
‘Henbane,’ said John Blackadder.