The Deadliest Sin (18 page)

‘Are you not going to introduce us to your wife, Panaretos? She looks so beautiful and modest, serving us in silence.’

The fat Trapezuntine grunted in surprise, knowing as he did my affliction, but did as I requested.

‘This is Baia Bzhedug, and she is my Circassian beauty.’

The tone of his voice suggested to me that his wife was more a piece of property than a companion. I sensed that Baia was bowing to me as I heard the rustle of her silk robe, but I held my hand
out anyway. After a moment’s hesitation, I felt the warmth of her delicate and slender hand in mine. I raised it to my lips. The Genoan, Finati, called out his approval of my gesture.

‘Bravo, Englishman. You are not such a cold fish as some of your compatriots. During all our trade negotiations, Panaretos never once gave away the fact he had a beauty for a
wife.’

I felt the woman’s hand tense in mine, and allowed it to slip free. The scent of patchouli oil drifted from the room. Meanwhile, puffed up with pride, Panaretos began to expand on his
wife’s family history. I could hear his fat lips drooling as he munched on the sturgeon and spoke at the same time. I could almost feel the spit spraying from his gluttonous mouth.

‘She is from Sochi, and claims to be a princess. Though in this house, she is my cook and housemaid. Many of the Circassians are no better than idolaters, and have no standing in
Trebizond. Still, she is passing pretty, as you say.’

As if to emphasise his point, he chose to call out at that moment, ‘Wife, where are the subtleties, the jellies?’

In response, Baia announced her return with the slapping of her delicate, slippered feet on the marble floor, and her aroma of patchouli. With her, she brought jellies, and cream covered in
fennel seeds and sugar. I could smell the overwhelming sweetness of the dishes, but refrained from sampling them as I was already full to bursting. Panaretos and the others – including Philip
– had no such restraint, and Baia’s reward for all her efforts was the sound of the slurping lips of her husband and his other guests.

‘Which one do you favour for the death threat, Philip?’

My young companion coughed nervously, and hesitated. It was the day after the banquet, and I wanted to review my impressions of the three traders. I didn’t really expect much from Philip,
but it was useful for my own thoughts to talk them over with him. If I got bored, I could always ask him to read the opening of the
Adventures of Clitophon and Leucippe
. I would enjoy his
embarrassment at least. I was therefore pleasantly surprised when he began an accurate analysis of each man’s motives.

‘I have heard it said that the Genoan’s masters are worried about the lack of progress on negotiating a new set of concessions with Trebizond. Messer Finati is no doubt under
pressure to conclude an agreement before the Venetians or the Florentines step in. He could very well be so worried that he resorted to such wild tactics as the letter suggests.’

‘Hmm.’

What Philip said could well be the truth. Finati could have gone too far in his anxiety.

‘But what of Ricci, the Venetian, then? Is he too under orders to come to a quick resolution?’

‘I haven’t heard anything about that, sir. But I do know the Florentine trader is ready to pick up the pieces if it comes to a fight between the other two.’

Where was my young monk getting all this information from? When I enquired, it turned out that he simply listened to the gossip when he was shopping for food. We kept a simple house in the lower
part of Trebizond, and Philip both shopped and cooked for both of us. We did not indulge in feasts such as Panaretos did, and therefore had less flesh on our bones than he. The young monk
elucidated further.

‘There is a square to the east of the town walls where many old men gather, and they speculate on what is happening at the Emperor’s court, and with the rival traders. I can take you
there, if you wish.’

‘Why, do you think me already an old man, who will fit in well with the others?’

I could almost hear the blush creeping over Philip’s face.

‘I didn’t mean that exactly, master. I just thought . . .’

I laughed at his embarrassment, while thinking it was so easy to tease him that it was hardly any fun.

‘It’s a good idea, Philip. We can go there today, and you can leave me with my fellow old fogies, whilst you go shopping.’

So it was that I found myself in the shade of an oleander in the Meidan, a flat area outside the walls, where at special times festivals were held. But it was also useful for markets, and was
laid out with storehouses and stalls providing all sorts of fresh produce. I could smell the mingled aromas of herbs, spices, and cooking meats. In the distance, I could hear a curious set of
sounds that mingled horses’ hooves with men’s cries and the cracking of hammers on something wooden. I leaned across to a man who sat to my left, proffering my best guess at what was
going on.

‘Tell me, what is that game being played?’

The voice that replied was cracked and old, but still retained much of the man’s vigour from another time.

‘It is called
tzykanion
, and originates in Persia, they say. Some call it
pulu
. The players on horseback have to drive the ball with those long mallets from one end of the
pitch to the other.’ He snorted. ‘Like all games, it is pointless.’

I nodded my head in agreement, though I could hazard a guess that cavalry warriors would find it useful training for real battles. I didn’t say so, though, for I wanted my companion to
respond to my next question.

‘Games for boys, played by men who should be more concerned with making money.’

I could tell the old man was nodding his head. So I had got him right, and he was a former local trader with opinions to air. I stared in his direction in a way that suggested I was deeply
impressed by him and his opinions. He was not to know I could not see a thing.

‘And who is making the most money in Trebizond now? Apart from the Emperor, of course.’

A dry rattle emanated from his throat, which I took for a laugh.

‘Well, the Genoans are always the most avaricious, but the Emperor is trying to rein them in. Recently, I think the favoured ones have become the Venetians. Though there is not much to
choose between any of them. They do say there are four kinds of people in the west. First, there are the Genoans, who keep the Sabbath . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘And everything else
they can lay their hands on. Then, there are the Venetians, who pray on their knees . . . and on their neighbours. Thirdly, there are the Florentines who never know what they want, but are willing
to fight for it anyway.’

Another death rattle suggested he liked his own joke. And knowing he had not finished, I gave him the lead-in to the punch line.

‘You said there were four kinds of traders.’

‘Ah, yes. Lastly, there are the English, who consider themselves self-made men, thus relieving the Almighty of a terrible responsibility.’

I laughed politely, and refrained from telling him I was, at least in part, English. I continued to draw him out about the trade delegations in Trebizond.

‘So tell me . . . Who do you think has most to lose, if the Emperor changes his mind about allocating trade concessions?’

Another voice broke into our conversation. It was another old man, who must have been sitting at the further side of my joke teller. His was a fruitier voice with a more solemn tone than the
first man’s.

‘It’s no good asking him that, friend. George has lost his marbles, and couldn’t tell a Genoan from an Englishman, if they were pissing on him.’

I heard George mumbling a protest, and spitting on the ground. At least, I assumed it was on the packed earth of the square and not in the face of his detractor. I moved my unseeing gaze to the
new man.

‘And how would you know the difference, sir?’

The man laughed. ‘I know it well enough to make you out for an Englishman. Though your clothes suggest a more exotic origin. The other end of the Silk Road, perhaps?’

He was obviously a very observant person, and his identifying me as an Englishman brought a fit of coughing from my first conversationalist, whose joke had been at the expense of my fellow
men.

‘Damn it, you might have warned me, Theodore.’

So, my new acquaintance had a name as splendid as his cultured tones. I acknowledged his observations.

‘I have recently come from that part of the world, it is true. But you are only partly right about my Englishness. My grandmother was Welsh.’

This splitting of hairs, important only to the inhabitants of Britain, silenced both old men for a while. Then Theodore answered my original question for me.

‘As for who will suffer most from a reversal of trading rights, then it has to be said it would be the Genoans. But it is not the Emperor who will bother himself with such tedious
business, but his courtiers and advisors.’

‘Men such as Johannes Panaretos?’

I threw the name into the conversation, hoping to see what it would bring out. And I was not disappointed. The harsh laughter of the first man broke in.

‘Panaretos will advise the Emperor to do whatever he has been bribed to say. And he will choose to do it in the afternoon, when the court is in a state of torpor brought on by slave girls,
hashish and opium. If he has time, that is, from stuffing his mouth with the richest food that Circassian beauty of his can provide.’

A sound of admonition came from Theodore, advising his friend to keep his voice down. I guessed it was not wise to jest out loud concerning the behaviour of the Emperor and Autocrat of the
Entire East. There could be spies everywhere. I did have another question for my new-found friends, though.

‘Is bribery the only way of bringing court officials to a particular point of view?’

Theodore grunted, and seemed reluctant to reply. But his friend George had no such inhibitions.

‘You mean would a Genoan trader threaten Panaretos with violence to keep the concessions?’

I nodded. ‘That is indeed what I am asking.’

Before George could reply, Theodore broke in on our conversation. From the rustling of cloth, I guessed he had put a cautionary hand on his friend’s arm. His question to me came in a
strained tone of voice.

‘Do you know something we don’t, sir? For if you do, and it affects a servant of the Emperor, I suggest you raise it with the authorities.’

The moment for confidences had passed, and I imagined I was not going to get much more gossip in the circumstances. A strained silence hung in the air, and I stretched the stiffness out of my
legs. I was glad that it was not long before Philip returned, and I rose, thanking my interlocutors for their time. Their mumbled replies were in stark contrast to their former pleasure in meeting
me. As I walked away with my hand on Philip’s arm – I was not certain of the path in this new part of Trebizond – I reminded him of his task concerning the palimpsest.

‘Have you examined the parchment with the threat on it more closely yet?’

‘Oh, yes, I did, master. I took the opportunity of the bright sunlight this morning to hold it up against the sun.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘There was some writing underneath the words of the threat that were impossible to make out. But as the message was quite short, there was enough blank space to decipher what had been
scraped away.’

Either Philip was drawing out the conclusion in sheer delight at his cleverness, or was too stupid to know when he was annoying me. I stopped him, and turned my most fierce gaze on him. I know
that it perturbed him, as he was never sure if I was truly blind or not.

‘Come to the point, Philip.’

He stumbled to correct his error.

‘Sorry, Master Falconer. The original parchment was a letter from someone whose name I could not make out, but the recipient’s name was clear. It was definitely addressed to Messer
Finati, the Genoan trade delegate.’

I smiled at having cornered the sender of the threat so easily. In fact, it had been so easy that I was a little suspicious. What if one of the other delegates had laid their hands on a
perfectly innocent message addressed to Finati, and concocted the anonymous message in order to cast opprobrium on the Genoan? Philip’s thinking was not so convoluted, and he was eager to act
on his discovery.

‘Shall we tell Master Panaretos?’

I wasn’t in such a hurry, and recommended caution.

‘No. Let us observe all three for a while longer. It is not as if Panaretos’ life is really under threat.’

How wrong my casual statement proved to be.

In another few days, spring eased into summer and the blossom drifted off the cherry and pear trees, scattering on the ground. The Imperial court made its annual pilgrimage
from the citadel to the monastery of Panagia Khrysokephalos and thence to the St Sofia monastery beyond the western ravine. We witnessed the passage of the Emperor, and Philip described his
appearance in detail to me, right down to the strings of pearls that depended from his golden crown.

On taking another trip to the Meidan, my young companion encountered Panaretos’ Circassian wife, who was also out shopping for tempting foodstuffs.

‘Look who I have found, master.’

His speech took no account of my infirmity, but on this occasion I needed no eyes to tell to whom he was referring. The scent of patchouli oil was enough. I rose from the bench on which I was
sitting, and bowed low.

‘Mistress Baia, I am honoured by your presence.’

I heard the swish of her silken robe, which I knew she wore in the Trapezuntine style – narrow and close-fitting. The slight hesitation in her speech suggested that she was a little
embarrassed at Philip’s apparent insistence that she speak to me. Therefore I filled the gap with mindless chatter for a while.

‘Tell me what you are preparing for your husband today. What delicacies have you purchased at the market?’

I heard the rustling of produce in her basket, which must have been held by a female servant, for I could detect another scent in the air. But this one was a sort of scrubbed, plain aroma proper
to a slave. Besides, I knew that a lady of Baia’s status would not venture out alone. When she spoke, her voice was low and sonorous.