The Towers of Samarcand (33 page)

The day of their departure was bright and clear and Fiorenza
filled her lungs after the fug of Rome. The fields around were full of men sowing seed, of donkeys and windmills and apple orchards with nets beneath the trees. There were meadows and breezes and the murmur of brooks. She wanted to know about the schism in the Western Church.

‘It began just after the turn of the last century,’ Plethon explained. ‘Pope Clement refused to go to Rome and be the victim of robber bands. So the whole papal nonsense moved to Avignon in France.’

‘Where it prospered?’

‘Where it certainly prospered. The new air of France inspired new ways of fleecing their flock. They came up with a “Treasury of Merit”, funded in heaven by Christ and the saints, from which the Pope could draw to issue indulgences.’

‘Indulgences?’

‘I don’t think we have them yet in the Eastern Church. They shorten your time in purgatory. Ha!’ Plethon sat back and snorted at the miracle of purgatory and the monumental deceit of the Catholic Church. It was so loud that his horse started, thinking, perhaps, that it was carrying another.

‘So why are there two Popes now?’

‘Now that’s a good question,’ Plethon continued. ‘Twenty years ago, an unusually virtuous Pope decided that the swill of Avignon was too much even for the papal nose and moved back to Rome. But his successor was so bad that the Cardinals made another Pope and put him back in Avignon. Now the whole of Europe is split in its allegiance and, of course, the Pope in France has become an instrument of French policy and the Italian one the pawn of the City States.’

‘Which is where Ladislaus and Louis come in?’

Plethon nodded. ‘Indeed. It’s as I said. Ladislaus is backed
by Boniface and Louis by Benedict in Avignon. A quartet of Christian fools.’

Fiorenza, smiling, said to him: ‘Plethon, you don’t believe in anything, do you?’

The philosopher turned, the image of outrage imprinted on his face like a Greek mask. ‘Lady, to say such a thing! I am a man of unwavering Hellenic principle!’

‘Ah, “Hellenic”,’ she laughed. ‘Now, there’s a word.’

‘Which has meaning,’ continued Plethon, now speaking with his arms. ‘It means that we stop all this Christian nonsense and go back to our roots: Athens and Sparta and a people in control of its own destiny!’

‘Like Luke?’

Plethon chose to ignore the question. ‘We need to reimagine the same culture, the same society that bred men like Leonidas to defend the pass at Thermopylae. Three hundred stopped a million. It can happen again.’

‘But the Persians won at Thermopylae.’

‘They won the battle but lost the war. Greece remained free and became Rome. Now we must do it again.’

‘Which is why we’re here.’

‘Which is why we’re here. Greece and Rome have always been one. There’s something interesting happening in this country which we can help with. Perhaps it’s time for a reunion.’

‘As a last resort?’

Plethon looked across at her. She was beautiful and clever beyond measure. She knew exactly what the plan was. Ultimately. ‘If all else fails, yes,’ he said quietly. ‘A reunion.’

Fiorenza was silent for a long time, deep in thought and oblivious to the flies that made her horse nod. At last she asked: ‘So why do you hold out any hope of this schism ending?’

‘Because the French want it to. Theologians at the University of Paris have persuaded their mad king to rise above national concerns for once. He must be very mad.’

Fiorenza knew about the French King. All the world knew that Charles
le Fou
of France thought he was made of glass, refused to wash and ran naked through the corridors of his palace. It was said that they’d had to wall up the doors of the Hôtel Saint-Pol to stop him getting out. ‘Would that be enough to end it?’ she asked.

‘Probably not,’ Plethon replied. ‘But then I have something else. Something better.’

*

It took a week to ride to Florence and the days remained fair throughout. Fiorenza had been looking forward to entering its walls and seeing this new rival to Venice in power and beauty. But she was to do so alone.

Plethon stopped his horse at the city gates. ‘I am to meet someone outside the walls,’ he said. ‘You go in with the escort. Remember we are to present ourselves to the Signoria tonight.’ Fiorenza frowned. Plethon hadn’t mentioned his meeting.

At leisurely pace and enjoying the sunshine upon his scalp, the philosopher rode alone up one of the hills that surrounded the city until he reached a long flight of steps where he dismounted. Leaving his horse, he climbed slowly up, passing the Stations of the Cross, until he reached the Church of San Miniato, which sat amidst belvedered gardens at the top.

He was greeted by buzzing and the pleasant smell of honey. There were monks everywhere, men of the Olivetan Order who wore gloves and veils beneath broad-brimmed hats and who tended a row of beehives. Others were working on a garden where sleepy cats stretched out like courtesans between the
undulation of ridge and furrow until nudged aside by hoes.

Plethon was investigating gooseberries beneath a net designed to foil starlings when a man beside him spoke. ‘The bees do their work twice. They make the honey and they pollinate. What could be a better example of godly industry?’

The philosopher turned and found himself looking at a man of startling ugliness. Giovanni de’ Medici was around forty years of age but looked much older. He had a large nose set within a warted face and his hair was thin and began somewhere far above his temples. He had bulging eyes and thin lips that were, so it was said, designed never to smile. But he was smiling now.

‘You are Georgius Gemistus Plethon,’ he said. ‘News of your toga travels ahead of you.’

Plethon bowed, just missing the head of the other who’d chosen to do the same. ‘And you are the banker whom my friends on Chios have much to thank for. It seems your investment was a sound one.’

De’ Medici nodded. ‘I hear that one of these friends is with you. My agent on the island is much taken with her.’ There was a loud curse behind him and the banker turned. ‘Careful with that eagle!’ he shouted. ‘One feather lost and you’ll never hoist again!’

Workmen, stripped to the waist, stood upon scaffolding set against the front of the church. Two of them were at the top, pulling on a rope to which was tied a large stone eagle clutching a bale of wool cloth. Two more straddled the top of the church, waiting to guide the bird to its nest.

Giovanni de’ Medici turned back to Plethon. ‘The eagle is the sign of the Arte di Calimala, who maintain this church. They are the guild of cloth-finishers, hence the bale of wool. We take pride in the church.’

The explanation was brief and without waste and Plethon hoped that the discussion to come would be equally succinct. But where were they to have it? The banker’s message had promised somewhere discreet.

De’ Medici took his arm. ‘Let me show you something.’

The two men walked over to the belvedere. Before them stretched a city cradled between hills, a pearl set within a band of emeralds. It was a walled sea of red and orange tiles that washed up against a lighthouse at its centre, striped black and white.

Giovanni was pointing at it. ‘Giotto’s
campanile
.’ He turned. ‘Why so tall? Because we are a city fond of masses, public meetings and curfews, all of which require bells. And when they clamour, we are at war.’ He paused. ‘I mean to tell you that you have arrived at a place which takes its civic responsibilities very seriously.’

Plethon looked down at the campanile and the great church beside it, equally striped. He thought of a new animal he’d heard about from the land of the jornufa, a horse that looked like this. There was something missing.

‘Yes, it needs a dome,’ said Giovanni. ‘But such a dome! No one has yet come up with a design that will carry the weight.’ He turned. ‘Shall we go and talk?’

The man was already on his way and Plethon hoped that it was to a place where they could sit. His legs ached after the long climb. They walked through the gardens and into the darkness of a big church where heaven flung its promise through windows high in the walls. There were eagles everywhere.

At the back of the church were steps leading down to a crypt, and Plethon found himself being led into a low forest of pillars and vaults with tiered candles playing their light against saints
and sinners that covered every inch of the walls. The place was discreet but eternity would watch over them.

They sat on a bench in front of the altar and Plethon looked around him. The crypt was empty and the columns too slender to hide anyone. The air was cold and he pulled the folds of his toga over his arms.

Giovanni de’ Medici was watching him carefully, one eye closed as if taking aim. He said: ‘I have been asking myself why the great Plethon should wish to meet a humble merchant from Florence. I would ask you to tell me.’

Plethon was pleased to note that the crypt did not carry sound. Eternity held no echo. ‘It is’, he said, ‘to do with what you are, de’ Medici. And that is not a merchant.’

The Italian opened the eye that had been closed. ‘Not so? My family imports wool from Flanders. We dye, stretch, full and calendar it. Then we sell it. Is that not the work of a merchant?’

Plethon nodded. ‘It is. But you have not done that for many years. Do I need to describe your life?’ He paused and then, getting no answer, continued. ‘Fifteen years ago, you were working for your cousin Vieri di Cambio in his bank in Rome where you learnt the business of the papacy. Now you have your own bank in partnership with Benedetto di Bardi who runs the branch in Rome. Your bank is small and therefore has the benefit that kings do not ask it for loans and then default on them, as King Edward of England did fifty years past. This happened to the Alberti family who’ve lost the Pope’s business, so there’s a vacancy. You are small, you need to get bigger and you want the Curia’s money. Which makes you invaluable to my plan.’

The man next to him leant back in the pew. He ran his hand through his wisps of hair. ‘Ah, your plan. I was hoping we’d come to that.’

Plethon glanced around once more. The only movement in the crypt came from the candlelit martyrs; the only sound was the murmur of monks chanting somewhere outside. He leant forward and his voice was little above a whisper. ‘I am told that you are a man of discretion, de’ Medici. I will have to believe it so.’ He paused and brought his hands together as if they held the plan. ‘My wish is to reunite the Christian Churches. First to heal the schism in the West and then to bring together the Churches of Rome and Byzantium.’

De’ Medici whistled softly. ‘You wish for a lot, Plethon. Why? Is it for the good of your eternal soul?’

Plethon sat back. Then he gestured slowly to the crypt around them. ‘What will happen to this great Church of San Miniato when the Turks come?’ he asked quietly. ‘How will Giotto’s campanile suit as a minaret, do you think, its bells replaced by a muezzin?’ He leant forward. ‘What will happen to the profitable profession of banking in a Muslim world? Do you know how quick it is to cross the sea from Methoni to Taranto as I have just done? Do you know how close the Turk is to taking Mistra?’

Giovanni de’ Medici was no longer smiling. Plethon went on, ‘I know that you prefer trade to politics, that you’ve paid fines rather than perform the duties of
gonfaloniere
for your city, but self-interest should inspire you in this matter, de’ Medici. My plan can make you very rich.’

Both men were silent after that, each contemplating treasure of a different kind. Then the banker said: ‘So what is your plan?’

Plethon looked down at his hands. Their fingers were interlinked but the palms were open. The plan was to be revealed. ‘Both Popes are old and cannot be expected to live long. My plan is to persuade each to ask their cardinals to swear that, when
they die, whichever of them is elected Pope will resign his office immediately. Then the combined cardinals will meet in council to elect a single Pontiff who will rule from Rome.’

Giovanni de’ Medici was already shaking his head. ‘But what would it take to achieve such a thing? Why would the Pope agree?’

‘One already has. I come from Boniface in Rome.’ Plethon moved along the bench to his companion so that he was closer than he might wish to the other’s warts. ‘As for the cardinals, it would take what it always takes. Money and force. Money to bribe, force where the bribes fail.’

‘And I supply the money? Why would I do that?’

Plethon smiled. ‘Because, my dear Giovanni, you wish to be the richest banker in Florence. You want Brunelleschi to build your new palace. You want the Peruzzi to stop talking behind their hands about upstarts from the Mugello. And the only way to do all this is by becoming God’s banker.’ He paused, letting the words settle. He said softly, ‘The Pope that returns to Rome as the only Pope will be a grateful man. And, with the entire papal revenues once more intact, a rich one.’

But de’ Medici looked far from persuaded. He pursed his lips thinned in concentration and looked over to the altar, perhaps hoping for some sign of divine will. ‘What about the force? Who provides that? Ladislaus?’

Plethon said, ‘Possibly Ladislaus. And he might soon have some money since he told me he’s to marry Mary of Lusignan who’ll bring Cypriot sugar to the match. But Ladislaus might not be acceptable to the French. Remember, Pope Boniface crowned him King of Naples when Clement in Avignon had already crowned his cousin, Louis of Anjou. Anyway, he probably doesn’t want to get poisoned again.’

‘Who then? Visconti of Milan? Niccolò d’Este of Ferrara? He’s merely a boy.’

Plethon continued to shake his head. ‘No, I had in mind someone else.’

‘Ah, then Carlo Malatesta, Lord of Rimini? He is friend to Florence, Venice and the Papal States. He would bring in Mantua through his Gonzaga wife and the French like him for his opposition to Visconti.’

Plethon said, ‘He is Italian and Italian will not serve.’ He paused. ‘What do you know of Sigismund of Hungary?’

The banker looked surprised, then less so. He nodded. ‘I know him well. I lend him money. He was at Nicopolis where he got away but his daughter was taken by the Turk: the beautiful Angelina.’