"Lancaster," supplied the king.
"Yes, and the rest of the Lords Ordainers."
"Well, they're the ones who truly rule," said Frederick, opening his hands expansively. "That has been going on, and will continue. But what of France? Is the new king dead yet? Has the curse struck him down?"
Ignazzio did not laugh at curses, though for the king he managed a feeble smile. "Not yet. But already there are riots and fighting in the streets. Examinations of the treasury found it bare, and inquests into the state of the finances led to the hanging of many of his father's advisors. To alleviate his finances, Louis has married the daughter of the king of Hungary. I hear they are expecting a son."
From there he expanded upon the news from Norway about a new kind of forge, from Bruges about the wool trade.
"Fascinating," said Frederick flatly. "What about Spain?"
Of course the regent already knew about the Spanish king's nephew assembling an army, ostensibly to attack Granada. At the last moment, however, the army had changed course in favor of an unauthorized attack on the frontier stronghold of Tiscar. "But," added Ignazzio, "the king is said to be much more disturbed by news from Egypt."
Frederick looked suddenly serious. "Which is?"
"Sultan Muhammad al-Nasir has finally completed his mad canal, dug between Alexandria and the Nile."
"Good God!" The king-regent stroked his chin for several thoughtful second. "So he must really be serious about trading in the Mediterranean!"
"Yes. At least your brother and the King of Spain think so. The canal reportedly took one hundred thousand men five years to dig."
This last snippet of news was clearly of real value to Frederick. The king relaxed, and the next flurry of questions was less urgent. Ignazzio assumed that he had sung enough for his supper.
The king wasn't so rude, though, as to dismiss him at once. They discussed trends in art, like a new painter in Sienna everyone was raving over. He was called Simone Martini, and he had just finished a work entitled La Maesta, an image of the Madonna and child. Already Martini was being compared to Giotto.
"From what I hear," ventured Ignazzio, "it is a comparison that makes Maestro Giotto laugh in despair."
"Truly? I have never seen Giotto's work. Have you visited the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua?"
"No, but I have seen some of his brilliance displayed in Verona. In fact," Ignazzio added, "I heard recently that the maestro has returned to paint an exterior fresco depicting the poet Dante and his patron, the Scaliger."
"That's too bad!" said the king, shaking his head and throwing up his hands in lighthearted dismay. "Exterior frescoes never last. But at least it will erode a little of this Cangrande. There has already been too much talk of this man, this so-called Greyhound. Ever since he humbled the Paduans we hear of little else. And that business in Calvatone last fall — disgraceful! Besides, we Sicilians feel a kinship for the Paduans. It was their man Antonio who came here to become a saint. You must visit his sanctuary before you leave us."
"I shall," vowed Ignazzio. He always made a point of visiting holy sites and churches. Too many men looked upon his art as witchcraft, devilry, and he worked hard to counteract such impressions.
Spurred by the empty carafe of wine, the regent soon brought the evening to a close. "I hope you learned all you needed from those pesky bankers."
"All they had to give," said Ignazzio, feigning sadness. "Alas, it was no aid."
"I am sorry to hear it. Do you think they were holding back? Shall I put them to the torture?"
Ignazzio thought of the Moor hovering over his shoulders as he put his questions to the little staff of clerks and couriers. "No, I think they honestly knew nothing of interest."
It was bad form to lie to a king. But he'd done far worse.
"Sad, sad," said Frederick. "But just as well. It never does to torture men today you may be borrowing money from tomorrow. Well, there are always the Jews. Thank you for sharing your learning with me. You may go."
"Your majesty." Ignazzio bowed his way out of the royal presence, then retrieved the patient Moor.
In another half an hour they were riding together out of the castle of Milazzo, their saddlebags full and their faces grim. But Ignazzio didn't angle his horse towards the town gates. Instead he headed down a slope towards the seashore. "Just a quick stop at the cave of San Antonio," he explained. "I'll bend a knee, remount, and we can still reach Messina by morning."
"It's well we hurry." Most emotions were lost in the effort to scrape sound from the man's injured throat, but the clip of the words indicated urgency.
"I know, I know. But I promised the king."
"A promise he likely had no intention of holding you to."
"A promise before God nonetheless. Do you disapprove?"
"Of course not. I am envious. I have not practiced my devotion in a long, long time."
That gave Ignazzio pause. He knew that the Moor was adept at the Christian style of prayer, but that it was not the faith he had been born into. "After Messina we could-"
The Moor was curt. "After Messina we shall be voyaging to Padua. You saw the symbol."
"Symbols," corrected Ignazzio. The arrested bankers had drawn them copies of the seals on their orders for gold. One was strange to Ignazzio, though not to Theodoro. The other was the Scaliger's own. "Once again someone is using Cangrande's seal to work against him."
"True. But that is not for us to investigate. We must watch the man the other seal belongs to."
Which meant there was no time to waste indulging the Moor's envy. Ignazzio was certain his companion gleaned more danger in the information at hand than he himself could see. What did they know so far? In Venice they had learned that a man fitting the scarecrow's description had received a handsome sum, drawn on a famous bank with offices in Bruges and Sicily. With that information, they decided to head north and see if they could trace the scarecrow via the bank's branch in Bruges.
During the journey north, luck had blown a small favor their way. Ignazzio had made it his habit to show the medallion that little Cesco had snatched from around the kidnapper's neck to every jeweler and smith he could find. Perhaps someone could at least identify the kind of pearl. But in Antwerp a silversmith said he thought the workmanship looked English. So after a fruitless interview in Bruges, they had pressed on to London. There they had the misfortune of being taken for Scottish sympathizers, which at least told them the medallion was Scottish, not English. They had been forced to flee back across the Channel to France, leaving them with the choice of sneaking up into Scotland by ship and risking capture, or journeying south to Sicily to the other branch of the bank. Ignazzio had been for the former, but Theodoro hadn't wished to chance their fate to the whims of the seas. Which brought them to today, and the image of two seals. One was unmistakably the Scaliger's. The other? The Moor certainly knew. Had Ignazzio ever seen it before? He was sure he hadn't. So then, whose was it? Dying to ask, he fought to restrain himself.
But then he realized Theodoro had already given him a clue. They were heading for Padua, which meant the seal's owner was a Paduan. Or resided there.
Glancing over at the Moor, lit now by the stars and the occasional torches in the street, Ignazzio said, "When can you tell me his name?"
"When we are gone from this place."
Ignazzio nodded. "All the more reason to pray to San Antonio for a safe journey." With that the astrologer kicked his heels, urging his mount down the cobbled decline.
Milazzo was not so much a town as a seaside getaway for the wealthy. Situated on a bluff just north of the road between Palermo and the city of Messina, its only true claim of notoriety was in being the place where San Antonio was shipwrecked a hundred years before. The Patron of Lost Things, the Poor, and Travelers, Antonio held the distinction of receiving the second quickest ordination as saint in church history, a mere 352 days. The holy man who held the record, ironically, was a Veronese. Always Verona and Padua, vying for dominance.