Fools' Gold Read online

  ‘Milord said that the intruder was an Assassin. That he could have been stabbed as he slept.’

  ‘Milord says a lot of things,’ she replied. ‘But it was Radu Bey for sure who got into his room and pinned his own badge over Milord’s heart as he slept. He could have killed him, but he did not. I can see that he and the Ottoman lord are enemies – they’re on either side of the greatest war there is: the Jihad to one, the Crusade to the other – but that doesn’t tell me which is the right side, which is the better man.’

  She had shocked him. ‘We’re Christians!’ he exclaimed. ‘We serve Luca who serves the Church. The Crusade is a holy war against the infidel!’

  ‘You are,’ she pointed out. ‘You four are. But I’m not. I want to make up my own mind. And I simply don’t know enough about Luca’s lord – or about the Ottoman lord either.’

  ‘We have to follow Luca’s lord, we can’t desert Luca,’ Freize pointed out. ‘I love him as a brother and your lady won’t leave him unless she has to. And you?’ He gave her a quick sideways smile. ‘You’re head over heels in love with him, aren’t you?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not head over heels for anyone,’ she said. ‘I keep my two feet on the ground. He makes my heart beat a little faster, I grant you that. But nothing in this world would send me head over heels, I like to be right side up.’

  ‘One day,’ Freize warned her solemnly. ‘One day you will find that you are head over heels in love with me. I pray that you don’t leave it too late.’

  She laughed. ‘What a mistake that would be! Look at how you run after other women!’

  ‘And on that day,’ Freize predicted without paying any attention to her laughter, ‘on that day, I will be kind to you. I will take you in my arms, I will allow you to adore me.’

  ‘I’ll remember that!’ she said.

  ‘Remember this too,’ Freize said more seriously. ‘Luca is sworn to obey the lord of his Order. I have promised to follow and serve Luca. You are travelling with us. You can’t support our enemies.’

  ‘And what of your friends?’ she challenged him. ‘And Luca’s mysterious errands for his Lord? A servant of the Church coming to Venice in carnival time, ordered to speculate in gold and trade in a cargo? Is this holy work in your Church?’

  The bell of San Giacomo started to ring over their heads and flocks of pigeons fluttered from their roosts in the church tower, interrupting them. ‘One o’clock,’ said Ishraq. ‘And here, I think, is Father Pietro.’

  The two of them watched as an elderly grey-haired man wearing the undyed wool robes of the Benedictine order came from the church, still crossing himself, his forehead damp with holy water, and walked across the crowded square. Traders, merchants and passers-by greeted him by name, as he threaded his way through the crowd, making the sign of the cross over a child who said hello, until he arrived at the foot of the Rialto Bridge where a small stone pillar – usually used for hitching boats – served as his seat.

  He took his place, and the servant who had followed him through the crowd set up a small table for writing, unfurled a long, rolled manuscript and presented the priest with a pen. Father Pietro looked around him, bowed his head briefly in prayer and then dipped his pen in the inkwell and waited, pen poised. Clearly, he was open for business, but before Ishraq or Freize could speak to him a little crowd had gathered around him, shouting out the names of missing relatives, or asking for information.

  As Ishraq and Freize watched, the friar looked through his list, noted down new names, reported on ones he could find, and advised the supplicants. For one young man he had great news: his cousin had been located in the occupied lands in Greece, and the master was ready to sell.

  Much of Greece had been invaded by the Ottoman Empire and the Greeks had to serve the Ottoman lords and pay an annual tribute. This man was labouring as a slave on a farm of one of the Ottoman conquerors. The lord had named his price and Father Pietro thought it was a fair one, though it was a lira di grosso – ten ducats, a year’s pay for a labouring man.

  ‘Where am I to get that sort of money?’ the man demanded.

  ‘Your church should make a collection for your kinsman,’ the friar advised. ‘And His Holiness the Pope makes a donation every year for the freeing of Christians. If you can raise some of the money I can ask for the rest. Come back when you have at least half and we will convert it into the English gold. The slave owners only want to be paid in English gold nobles this year. Even the tribute from the occupied lands has to be in English nobles this year. But I will get you a fair rate from the money changers.’

  ‘God bless you! God bless you!’ the young man said and darted away into the crowd.

  A few other people drew near and had a muttered consultation, and then Freize and Ishraq were before the friar’s little table.

  ‘Father Pietro?’ Freize inquired.

  ‘That is my name.’

  ‘I am glad to find you. I will bring my master to you – he is anxiously seeking his parents who were taken into slavery.’

  ‘I am sorry for him, and for them. I pray that God will guide them home,’ the man said gently.

  ‘Can I bring him here to you, tomorrow?’ Freize asked.

  ‘Yes, my son. I am always here. It is my life’s work to seek out the poor lambs stolen from the flock. What is the name of his father and mother?’

  ‘Their family name was Vero and he has had news of his father. His father was Gwilliam Vero, said to be a galley slave on a ship owned by . . .’ Freize slapped his hand on his broad forehead.

  ‘Bayeed,’ Ishraq prompted. ‘But we were told that was some years ago. We are not certain where he is now.’

  Father Pietro inclined his head. ‘I know of this Bayeed. I will look through the lists I keep at home, and ask some newly released slaves tonight,’ he said. ‘Bayeed sold one of his slaves to me a little while ago. Perhaps that man will know of Gwilliam Vero. I hope I will have some sort of answer for you tomorrow.’

  ‘Bayeed himself sold a galley slave to you?’ Ishraq queried.

  ‘He is a merchant,’ Father Pietro said calmly, as if nothing in the world could surprise him. ‘He trades in slaves like the merchants from England trade in cloth. Christian souls are a form of merchandise to him, like any other, God forgive him. He sold a slave to me for ten ducats – though he insisted on being paid in English gold – so we sent him eight English nobles – they were worth less then than they are now.’

  ‘Why don’t they take their ransom in ducats?’ Ishraq asked. ‘That’s the currency of Venice, surely?’

  ‘They always want either solid gold or a currency that they can trust. This year they want the English nobles because there are always 108 grains of gold in each coin. They know what they are getting when they get English gold. Some coins of other countries are made with very impure metal. You will find the piccoli here contain hardly any silver at all. They are almost all tin. Beware of forgeries.’ The priest turned his gentle gaze on Ishraq. ‘And you, child? What are you doing so far from home? Are you enslaved or free?’

  ‘I’m free.’ Ishraq blushed behind her veil. ‘My mother came to this country of her own free will and I was born here.’

  ‘Your father is a Christian?’

  ‘I don’t know my father,’ she said, her voice muffled with embarrassment. ‘My mother never told me his name. But she said they were married. My father was a Christian and my mother was free.’

  ‘And what is your faith?’

  ‘My mother taught me the Koran, and the Christian lord who brought us to his home read me the Bible. But now they are both dead. I practise no religion, I am afraid that I have no faith.’

  He gave a little gasp of dismay at her lack of godliness, and shook his head. ‘My child, I shall pray for you, and hope that you can find your way to the true faith. Would you come to me for instruction?’

  ‘If you insist,’ Ishraq said awkwardly. ‘But I am sorry to say Father that I am not a good student of religion.’