Читать книгу The Knights of Rhodes - Bo Giertz - Страница 16

The Test

“Maybe this?”

The treasurer held up a heavy gold chain, rattled it, and let it shine in the little bit of sun that made it through the half open wood doors. They—him, the Grand Master’s deputy, and the Chancellor—had gone up to the top floor in a gate tower where the Grand Master kept the treasures that could be used as gifts of respect to visiting potentates.

“Too valuable . . . and too common,” said Pomerolx, the deputy. “He would only weigh the gold and then tax us as if we were one of his provinces.”

It was an issue concerning Sofi, the Shah of Persia. He had sent his envoy to Carretto. Disappointed and perplexed, they had heard that he was dead and buried. They had deliberated in their incomprehensible language whether to get horses and ride to Ferakles where the pretender to the throne, Amuratte, a cousin to Suleiman’s father, lived under the Religion’s protection as their guest and hostage. They had probably promised him help and eternal friendship if he could organize a rebellion against Suleiman. Right now they could use that. The shah feared that the Janissaries would cross the border any day. That the Grand Turk also wanted to conquer Persia was no secret.

Because Sofi was a thankful ally, one ought to send him fitting gifts of friendship, but they had to be kept within certain parameters because no one knew what political course the new Grand Master was planning.

The treasurer looked around in the rubbish perplexed. They may as well have been with a pawnbroker who had noble clients. There were rings and chains, gold plated spurs, bags of golden cloth, Turkish armor, and scimitars with scabbards inlaid with precious stones, and hunting helmets lying all over. Most of it was war booty, though some of it had been royal gifts that were deemed useless and stowed away. Just to be on the safe side, these had been furnished with notations of origin. Then there were inherited things that had belonged to dead brothers of the order.

Pomerolx, the deputy, moved some Venetian dishes and pulled out a large chest finished with gold borders, precious stones, and enameled plates. He lifted the lid and pulled out a chessboard of different colored squares.

“You have to press them in a certain order. Nothing opens the secret lock without the code. We give it to him with a sealed letter so he alone can know the secret and keep his shady agreements and bottles of poison safe and undisturbed. He puts value in that. That and a bundle of the green Florentine silk, some hunting guns, and one of the fine Nuremberg pistols with wheel locks—and two falcons. That will be sufficient.”

The falcons were standard gifts. The Hospitallers had perfected this way of hunting. You could not find better falcons anywhere in the world. And they had plenty of them.

The Chancellor nodded unwillingly. It would be politically shrewder and wiser to send gifts to Suleiman than to maintain friendship with his enemies.

“We should also consider the Frenchmen,” he said. “And the Pope’s galley captain. They should have a royal gratuity when they return home.”

“Who said they are going home?”

Pomerolx sounded irritated.

“Common sense and the report from Constantinople.”

Pomerolx was silent. They had just read the secret reports from Constantinople, prepared by agents who neither Pomerolx nor the Chancellor could name ,written with invisible ink according to a jealously guarded secret recipe. They were written between lines in shipping documents and catalogues of goods and smuggled out by merchants whose names were just as carefully guarded. All the reports were unanimous. They spoke about energetic armament. There was work around the clock in the cannon foundries. Grain was stored up as high as mountains. At least a thousand transport camels were on their way to Constantinople, and all Sipahis in Anatolia and the Balkans were on alert. On the other hand, it was almost normal in the shipyards. There was no doubt that this year there would be an overland campaign, probably in Hungary. It was a much higher probability there now, as the Hungarians in their madness had shamelessly abused and murdered Suleiman’s ambassador, sending home his severed ears and nose.

The Chancellor said dryly and a little scornfully what the others thought.

“As soon as it is known, requests are made by our allies to sail home. And what can we do, but give them some gold chains and let them go?”

“Are we agreed then?” Pomerolx asked. “And the Lord Chancellor can set up a protocol?” D’Amaral nodded reservedly. Fifty years as a knight of St. John had taught him not only to receive an order without blinking, but also to know the bitterness of receiving it from one who ranked far below him in seniority.

Somberly and quietly, he crossed the castle courtyard preoccupied. The salutes of the watches and uncovered heads bowing while sweeping their berets that he encountered on his way out irritated him.

Arriving home, he pulled out the secret reports. He wanted to go through them again and make a statement before the council meeting. A good hour had passed, when there was a knock on the door. It was the Turk Ibrahim.

“What do you want?”

The Chancellor furled his gray bushy eyebrows and looked at the slave irritated. To come un-summoned, he was still taking his forbidden freedoms.

“Make it short.”

“Lord, I want to buy my freedom.”

“You? What can you pay?”

“Whatever you demand, Lord. I have become rich.”

“You? How?”

“My uncle has died. God has taken his soul. He did not ask for me or anyone else either.”

The Chancellor gave his slave an inquiring look. Really—he would have been free, if only a stingy old uncle had come out with the money.

“I heard it from the mate on the fuste they took to Lango last week. He is from Galata like me. He is not strong so he was sold and Don Esteban bought him. We met when I went there with the clementines.

The Chancellor smiled sternly.

“Really, you go and chat in the kitchen. That virtual little spy center? You know that that is forbidden.”

“Yes, Lord. And that you would have done the same in my shoes.”

“You say more than is wise. And precisely what I am thinking. What will you give for your freedom?”

“Lord, the common usually pay a thousand aspri.”

“For simple people, yes. But you are rich.”

“Then I will give double.”

The Chancellor gave him a quick glance. This was not the normal bargain. Just as well—he was short on time, as always.

“And then I ask. When can you pay?”

“Lord that is the problem. Only you can free it to me. I have to travel to Constantinople.”

“Impossible. Why?”

“They think that I am dead. If I don’t emerge now, then one of my half cousins and his half brother will come and collect the inheritance. Kadin will take most of it. But if I come home, the matter is clear and I will come back with the money myself. I swear it on the prophet.”

The Chancellor sat unsettled and looked out the window. What was this? A very unusual request. An unusually transparent swindle, so transparent that it just might be the truth.

What should he do? Ask Don Esteban to interrogate his new cook? Try to control what he says? If he still says anything.

He looked at the Turk. Calm as always, superior and secure in his paradise and his better religion.

Better? That could be tested. This was the occasion.

“Ibrahim, I accept your offer and I trust you. You give me your oath on the prophet that you will come back in four months and have the money with you. And if you do not have the money together, then you come back without it and stay in my service until it is paid off. Clear?”

The Chancellor sat quiet for a while. The slave had gone, maybe with just a hint of new vigor in his long stride.

Better religion? We will see. It is worth the risk.