'Well, I'm alive and well,' Tristo said, finishing the wine and moving on to the half-eaten pheasant. 'Now come here and give your husband a kiss.' Maria rose and kissed Tristo full on the lips, while he gave her a sharp slap on the bottom. 'That's for infidelity, you naughty wench,' he said. 'There'll be none of that now that I'm home.' Maria returned the blow, slapping Tristo hard across the face. 'Well what was that for, woman?'
'That was for infidelity, and for daring to strike your wife,' Maria replied tartly.
Tristo jumped from his chair and gave Maria another slap on the bottom. 'Then that,' he said, 'is for not knowing your place, woman.'
She slapped him back. 'And that is for daring to strike a lady.'
'A lady?' Tristo roared, chasing Maria around the table, one hand swinging for her bottom. He caught her, and after a brief tussle, the slapping became hugging, then kissing, and then they were on the bed, holding each other tight.
'Welcome home, Tristo,' Maria said, laughing. 'Oh, how I missed you.' True to his word, Longo saw to the ploughing of his fields the next morning. He sat in the shade of an olive tree, taking a breakfast of bread and cheese while he watched Nicolo struggle to pull a plough through the cold, hard ground. Longo had strapped Nicolo to the harness himself, and although the chamberlain had been wrestling for nearly half an hour, he had moved no more than a few feet. When he had finished his breakfast, Longo went down to where Nicolo was straining at the harness. The sun had risen and, although the air still retained the chill of winter, Nicolo was dripping in sweat. He sank to his knees in exhaustion as Longo approached.
'Nicolo, you have only ploughed six feet,' Longo said with mock severity. He poked at the dirt with his foot. 'And poorly turned at that. You will be out ploughing every day until summer at this rate.'
Nicolo looked up in alarm. 'Please, My Lord, no more ploughing, I beg you. I will do anything you ask.'
'Very well.' The punishment had been mostly for the benefit of the other servants. Nicolo was valuable enough that Longo would put up with his occasional transgressions. Longo pulled his chamberlain to his feet and helped him from the harness. 'You may start by running to the villa. I am going to take a tour of the vineyards, and when I return, I want horses saddled for myself, Tristo and three men. I must go to a council meeting in Genoa, and I will spend tonight in town. Please send a man to the palazzo to make the necessary arrangements.'
'Yes, My Lord. Immediately, My Lord,' Nicolo said, hurrying away despite his weariness.
'And have somebody look at your back, Nicolo,' Longo called after him. 'I'm sure the harness has left its mark.'
'Of course. Thank you for your consideration, My Lord.' Nicolo jogged on up the hill towards the villa, paused to catch his breath at the olive tree where Longo had breakfasted, and then lumbered over the hill and out of view.
When Longo arrived at the villa, he found Nicolo holding the bridle of his horse. Tristo and three armed men stood ready to escort Longo to the city, and with them was William, who rushed forward as soon as he caught sight of Longo. 'Longo,' he cried. 'May I ride with you to the city? I will be no trouble.'
'We are not in the East any longer, William. You must address me as "My Lord",' Longo admonished, although he accompanied his words with a smile. William had spoken in English, and none except for Longo and Tristo had understood. 'You may not accompany me this time,' Longo continued. 'You do not know our ways, and I do not want you getting into trouble. Once you know something of Italian, then you may enter Genoa. Not before.'
'But I will be no trouble,' William protested.
'I am sure,' Longo said, swinging himself into the saddle. 'But you must stay nevertheless. Nicolo,' he said, switching to Italian, 'find something to occupy William. Teach him some Italian.'
Longo spurred away. He and his men rode at a trot through vineyards and fields, down through the tall eastern gate of Genoa — the Porta Soprana — and into the city. As they wound through the narrow streets, the buildings close on either side, Longo caught sight of William running after them, attempting unsuccessfully to stay out of sight. Longo shook his head. The boy would have to learn discipline if he wished to stay in Longo's household.
By the time he arrived at the Ducal Palace, Longo had put William out of his mind. The palace was a tall building, with white marble columns fronting the street and a tall tower rising above the whole. Longo dismounted, handed his reins to Tristo, and entered. The palace was the centre of power in Genoa. The city was ruled exclusively by a few great merchant families: the Grimaldi, Cassello, Boccanegra, Spinola, Adorno, Fregoso, Doria, Fieschi and Giustiniani. They met in council once a month, presided over by the Doge, who they elected for life.
Longo entered the council hall — a long, high-ceilinged room dominated by a massive oval table. He took his place as head of the Giustiniani family, and waited while the table slowly filled. The Doge, Ludovico Fregoso, entered last, a tall, long-nosed man with the pleasant, unexceptional features of his family. He called the council to order, and the talk turned immediately to questions of trade — the anticipated arrival of several caravans from the East, the persistent rumours of a sea passage to the Indies, and the advisability of financing exploration of the passage. From trade, the talk turned to politics: Genoa's great rival, Venice, was expanding its lands in the eastern Mediterranean. Longo sat quietly until the discussion turned to Pera — the Genoese trading colony just across the Golden Horn from Constantinople.
'Signor Giustiniani,' Fregoso addressed him. 'You have recently returned from Constantinople. What news do you bring?'
'The news is not good,' Longo began. 'King Ladislas of Poland was killed at the Battle of Kossova, and John Hunyadi's army was destroyed. The Greeks do not have enough men to fight the sultan's armies. If the Turks attack, then I fear Constantinople will fall unless the Greeks have outside aid.'
The table was quiet. Finally, Niccolo Grimaldi, a soft-spoken, elderly man known for his shrewd business dealings, broke the silence. 'If Constantinople falls, then Pera will be lost. Our trade with the East would be ruined.'
'We would be left with nothing, easy pickings for the Venetians,' agreed Umberto Spinola.
'What course of action do you suggest, Signor Giustiniani?' Fregoso asked.
'We have two choices. We can send an ambassador to the sultan and arrange a treaty guaranteeing the sanctity of Pera. Murad may be an infidel, but he is a man of his word. However, he is said to be in poor health, and I know little of his son, the heir. Moreover, it pains me to go begging to the Turks. Instead, I propose that we arrange a treaty with the Greek emperor. In return for trading concessions, we should begin sending ships and men to Constantinople to fortify the city. I believe that a strong sign of Western support is the only thing that can deter the Turks. Whatever we do, we must act quickly. Only Murad's goodwill has preserved peace thus far. I fear it will not last for long.'
Longo sat back. Spinola, an extremely religious man who could not abide the Turks, responded first. 'I agree with Signor Giustiniani,' he said. 'We must enter no negotiations with the heathen sultan.'
'Fine words,' Giovanni Adorno retorted. He was a plump man, whose merry face and twinkling eyes belied a ruthless intelligence. 'But your religion, Signor Spinola, has not stopped your agents from signing contracts with Turkish warlords or purchasing millions of soldi worth of spices from Muslim traders.'