Scales of Gold (7 page)

Nicholas considered her. ‘Signor Gregorio tells me what to do,’ he said. He waited, and gave a brief smile. ‘In fact, madonna, he and I are partners. But he has had the privilege, which I have not, of seeing your glasshouse.’

‘You would like to see it?’ she said. ‘Then come this way.’ She frowned at Gregorio, and he recognised, with a start, that she was displeased to a degree that might lose them the contract. She said, ‘You may leave your servant here.’

Nicholas produced his lethal dimples again. ‘He is not my servant,’ he said, ‘he is my factor. His name is Lopez. I should like him to come.’

‘Very well,’ said Marietta Barovier, and striding through the house, led the way into open air, and towards the shimmering heat within which lay the ribbed beehive shapes of the kilns.

Gregorio had seen it before: the scarred, glistening bodies, clothed from the waist in stained drawers; the frieze of spidery tools; the long metal rods with their glowing tips; the bloody glare of the kiln-vents, within which the mounded shapes of the glass stood insubstantial in the extreme light. And, like dancers, musicians, the maestri with their tongs, tweaking, shaping and rolling the yard-long rods with their drooping vermilion phalli; or seated on stools, the slender tube caressed between palms. They made soundless music, playing the rod like a pipe while the glimmering end-jewel inflated, paused, and inflated to become, cooling, a weightless circle of nothing.

A man, hastening from the furnace, brought a molten lump that, swung, became a rope of sugar, a handle. A rod whirled in a glistening arc until the globe at its end lengthened into a neck. The men worked in near-silence, their arms powerful as those of a bowman, or a man used to a sword, or a stave. But they were handling glass.

Gregorio turned to look at the founder of the Banco di Niccolò and then remained looking, surprised, for Nicholas stood as if mesmerised. He moved slowly, when called. He followed mutely as Marietta Barovier led them impatiently through the rest of the process and back through the storerooms to the house. There, among the finished pieces, he wakened, and peered at the shelves.

Gregorio watched. The woman stood by the door, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed. Rambling round the brilliant display, Nicholas examined the bottles and tumblers, the jugs and the cups and the beakers, the hanging lamps and the phials, stopping sometimes to lift one and study it. Gregorio’s mind was actually worrying over the terms of the contract when Nicholas tilted a gorgeous glass to the light, and then, opening his fingers, allowed it to drop spectacularly to the ground. It lay as frost in the dust, with only shells to show what it once was.

Marietta Barovier, daughter of the greatest glassmaker in the world, said, ‘You will pay the cost of that, to the last ducat. And then leave. This contract is cancelled.’

Nicholas smiled at her. His skin glistened. Beneath the ridiculous cap he now wore, his curls dripped; his eyelashes were beaded. ‘It would deserve to be,’ Nicholas said, ‘if you set a master’s price on that glass, and I paid it. I don’t mean to insult you, but I should like you to treat me, too, with respect. Those are the shelves of your rejects. You keep them, perhaps, for tuition. You do not sell them, I am perfectly sure.’

She stared at him. Her black eyes were ringed with brown. She said, ‘How was it flawed?’

‘How? The blue trailing was perfect, but the flowing of the enamels had failed. A mishap in the annealing-chamber. My friends from Damascus tell me they have the same trouble at times.’

She looked at him, then she turned her head and nodded abruptly. A man, bowing low, began to sweep the glass from her feet. She said, ‘It was plain glass your manager spoke of.’

‘It is plain glass I want,’ Nicholas said. ‘But there is profit, and joy, in the making of all things. I cannot teach you or your workmen, but if you care, I can bring a man here, a Syrian. He works my sugar now, in exile in Cyprus. He would come. Signor Lopez here could arrange it.’

‘Come into my office,’ she said. And entering and offering seats, she said, ‘You know something of glass.’

‘Something,’ Nicholas said. ‘But at second hand only. I brought you a gift.’

Gregorio had no idea what he meant. To the quick glance the woman threw him, he could only reply with a smile. What Nicholas drew from his satchel was a mosque lamp. He said, ‘They have lost the means, now, to make them. Soon, they will have to buy from the West. Could you copy this?’

She took it from him. Briefly, Gregorio saw it: an oblong, enamelled and gilded. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But Venice is at war with Constantinople.’

‘I have an agent in Alexandria,’ he said. ‘There is a good potential market, even in war. I have brought carpets to copy, and other things. But I knew you could make the glass if you had an example. Accept it, please. It comes with no obligations. If you decide to make them, you can use other merchants.’

She sat with the lamp in her hands, and looked at him. She said, ‘Perhaps, after all, you are the head of a Bank. I shall look at this. I shall tell you something. I have been impressed by the quality of the goods you have sent me. I learn that you have brought another bargeload today. The yard is full of broken glass. I have no more warehouse space to keep it.’

‘You have enough, then?’ Nicholas said. He was almost smiling.

She opened her lips in a genuine smile, showing blackened teeth, and a sweetness beneath all the weariness. ‘You must know, one never has enough. I have considered what Signor Gregorio has proposed. I am satisfied with the bargain and so, I take it, are the Council.’

‘We spoke of it this morning,’ Nicholas said. ‘Madonna?’

She raised her brows.

Nicholas sat, muscular knees planted apart, wide brow wrinkled. He reached up and scratched under his cap which tilted back, allowing a frenzy of hair to escape. One dimple appeared. He said, ‘I shouldn’t have done that. The trouble is, when you’re new, people don’t take you seriously. Your father must have been a good
padrone di fornace.
’

‘He was,’ she said.

‘Because they follow you, all those men out there. They know you, and in any case, you are a maestra. It is harder for me.’

‘Signor Gregorio spoke well of you,’ she said.

Nicholas said, ‘My friend Lopez would have been harsher. Madonna, if we agree, there are papers to sign. After that, if I may, we should like to visit our friend the Florentine. He is no trouble? You are not unhappy to have him so close?’

‘The booth was too small for any purpose of ours,’ she said. ‘He sleeps there and buys his food from us. He passes for a worker in gold, and the dogs protect him as well as our stock.’

‘During the day?’ Nicholas asked.

‘During the day, of course, they are tied up.’ She followed his gaze to the window. ‘Why? You saw one of the dogs? They are fierce.’

‘No,’ Nicholas said. He rose and crossed the room. Beneath the sleeveless pourpoint, his shirt was soaked and his hose might have been dye on the skin: Gregorio saw the woman’s eyes follow him. Nicholas said, ‘I thought I saw someone. Could he have heard us?’

‘There was nothing to hear,’ said Marietta Barovier.

‘Only that there was something to hide,’ Nicholas said. He opened the door to the yard, looking first about, and then down, where the rough ground was sprinkled with ash. Already, Gregorio could see, the house-shadow had lengthened: the long storeroom outside lay half in darkness. Then Nicholas said, ‘Yes. This way!’ and flung himself outside. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Fetch the soldiers!’

Lopez was already beside him, and Marietta Barovier, following quickly, stood in the doorway looking after them. In the yard, men turned and looked up. Gregorio wheeled and raced through the house, heedless of rattling shelves. The soldiers were in the front where they had left them, and came running as he threw them explanations. Then he was back in the yard, which was crowded.

The main gathering seemed to be round the storehouse. Lopez, appearing, said, ‘It was a man. Meester Nicholas cut off his escape, and he was forced to run back. They think he is hiding in there.’

‘A spy?’ Gregorio said. ‘Or another marksman?’

‘He doesn’t seem to be armed,’ said the Negro. Gregorio looked at him, and ran on.

Approaching the barn, he could hear the voice of one of the soldiers demanding in harsh Italian that the man inside give himself up. Nicholas was standing beside him, breathing quickly. The woman Barovier was moving about her workers, talking. The barn seemed to be filled with straw, and clay pots and channels, and sacks of barillo, stamped with the name of the Strozzi of Alicante. When no one came out, the two soldiers moved in, followed by a number of burly yardmen in aprons, bars in their hands. Within moments, someone screamed.

Nicholas was still standing outside. Gregorio walked up to him. He said, ‘Who is it? Do you know?’

‘No,’ Nicholas said. They were dragging out the intruder by the arms. His face was covered with blood and his booted feet trailed. He was a small man, pallid of limb and dressed as a labourer. One of the soldiers came over to Nicholas. Under his helmet, his face was lit with delight. ‘We have him, my lord. We’ll find his weapon, and we’ll find out who hired him.’

‘Well done,’ Nicholas said. He seemed to be studying the captive, who at that moment looked up. Instead of speaking, Nicholas turned back to the soldier. He said, ‘Search for a weapon, but I don’t think you should interrogate him here. Can you keep him under lock and key until the boat comes to take us back to the city? Then he can be restrained under proper conditions.’

‘Proper conditions?’ said the man-at-arms. ‘My lord, the wretch tried to kill you.’

The man spoke, through bleeding lips. ‘I didn’t! My lord, believe me! I was only –’

‘I think,’ Nicholas said, ‘you should bandage his lips. They seem to be bleeding. And he sounds as if he is going to be tiresome. Madonna, forgive me. But since we are here, might I ask you to show us the booth you were speaking of? I meant to pay it a visit.’

It seemed odd, after all that had happened. Gregorio saw that again, the woman was taken aback. But, after all, that was why he was here. There was no reason to abandon his purpose. After a moment she nodded, and pointed the way.

The booth lay against one distant wall, and consisted of a long, low building of brick, safely tiled. It had once held a small furnace, but now only contained the Florentine and his possessions, and his workshop.

The Florentine was nervous of Nicholas but he gained confidence as soon as he was asked to present what he was doing, and would have kept them longer if Nicholas had not brought the short interview to a close. Gregorio thought again how little he missed and how quickly, when it suited him, he could establish himself with almost anyone. He had also seen, which was obvious, that the relationship between the man and the Barovier woman was good enough.

By the time they had all returned to the house, the crowd had dispersed and the miscreant had been tied up in the dyeshed, with one soldier beside him, and another outside the door. It was proposed that they should remain there. The presence of another assassin on Murano seemed altogether unlikely.

In the office, during the signing of documents, Marietta Barovier asked the questions Gregorio hadn’t asked. ‘I understood you thought this man a spy, but in reality, it seems you feared an assassin? Why? Why have the Signory given you bodyguards?’

It was Lopez who replied. ‘Excuse me, madonna: perhaps you may not have heard. There was an attempt to kill Messer Niccolò yesterday at the moment of his arrival. It is because of his services in Cyprus. The King has many enemies.’

Then she looked up, as the signing was finished, and said, ‘So you are a powerful young man, to cause such offence. What have I to fear from you?’

Nicholas smiled. ‘That I shall beat you down in the price of the goblet I am about to buy from you,’ he said; and smoothly completed his business, and smoothly took his departure, his doublet over his shoulder, followed by Gregorio and Lopez.

Outside, Lopez said, ‘It is late.’

In one sense it was true. As the sun set, the waterside had filled
with people: with women seated sewing on stools, and children running, and dogs leaping and barking. Skerries poled their way up and down with a ripple of water, and floating straw lurched and settled again. Gregorio said, ‘We have an hour and a half to put off. If you would like a pitcher of wine and some fine fish, there is a tavern I know.’

‘I should like to do it,’ Nicholas said, ‘but Lopez and I have a private visit to pay. Where can I hire a light boat he and I can row without help?’

‘I know someone,’ Gregorio said. ‘You would prefer me to stay behind? Am I meant to pretend you are still on the island?’

‘Especially if Julius comes,’ Nicholas said.

‘And that is why you sent him off with Tilde? Not because of the Florentine?’

‘Because of both,’ Nicholas said.

There was a pause. Then Gregorio said, ‘You can’t trust those men with the fellow you caught. They’ll try to beat something out of him.’

‘I’ve told them I’ll report them if they do. I can’t do more, Goro. He mustn’t be freed, you know that. I need a charge that will keep him in a prison cell for a month; and spying’s no good.’

It was not what Gregorio had meant. It was the first time, to his recollection, that Nicholas had failed to read the inner sense of a message. Gregorio turned his gaze from Nicholas to Lopez, and found Lopez looking away.

Rather than say too much, Gregorio said nothing, and occupied himself with negotiating a boat that would suit. He watched them set off from a deserted spot on the shore, and saw they were pulling for the south-west, not the north, although the haze of evening prevented him from following their course precisely. In any case, his task was to turn back and find a tavern-keeper who would swear, if it came to it, that they had all three passed the time on his premises. He picked his way there, deeply anxious.

In the boat, Loppe spoke, as Nicholas knew he would. ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’

‘After today,’ Nicholas said. He was hot, with the strings of his shirt neatly tied and his doublet fast buttoned. The boat skimmed beneath them: they were two powerful men. Behind them, the holy island, the island of San Michele, was already close. He hoped that Bessarion had kept his promise, and the monks were ready for him, and the man he was hoping to meet.