The Grand Cham (Lamb, Adventure magazine)/Chapter 5

REAT lords, counts, knights, burgesses and ladies! Attend ye, dispose yourselves to listen. Never have your ears been greeted by such a tale as this. Never have soldiers, priests, sailors or astrologers breathed such a romance as this true recital.

“Signori, ladies; no man hath so much knowledge and experience of the divers parts of the world—and especially that of Cathay—as hath Messer Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo!”

The speaker, broad as he was tall, black-bearded and mellow of voice, bowed very low, sweeping the heron plume of his cap across the floor of the library of the Contarini Palace. His enormous cloak of Armenian velvet vied in color with his scarlet doublet of Persian silk.

“I am Messer Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo,” he concluded.

In the library were gathered the leading spirits among the guests. Contarini with his mistress beside him sat directly before the speaker. Close behind him the pale face of Soranzi, the merchant, gleamed in the candle-light.

A hundred years ago Marco Polo had completed his book. Discredited at first, it had been confirmed to great extent by wandering Franciscan monks. It was known in Europe that Cathay existed somewhere at the eastern end of the world—this side of the Sea of Darkness.

Venetian galleys were engaged in trade with Persia and Arabia, at Ormuz. Continued tidings of the vast resources of silk, spices and gems in China and India came in. The door of the farther East had been half-opened. Venice was agog with rumors of the riches of the Indies and the Pope had more than once sent emissaries to find the land of Prester John.

“Consider, my lord—” Clavijo bowed to Contarini—“the marvel that I have seen. It is no less than a city of brazen walls, in the desert where a hundred caravan routes meet. It lies behind the lofty mountains which are a natural wall beyond the last of the three seas—ÆAean, Mormaior and the Dead Sea that is of salt, as you know.”

The listeners nodded. Venetians to the heart, they knew the geography of the Black Sea and something of the Caspian. Clavijo, the Spaniard, went on.

“Seven years ago, my lord, did Ser Clavijo set out humbly from Constantinople over the perilous waters of Mormaior where no ships may have iron in them, lest the devil’s loadstone that is at the bottom of the sea should draw out nails and braces and every soul perish.”

Contarini shrugged. He did not set much store by the superstitions of the sea. Clavijo pointed to the map on the silver globe beside him.

“It was not the least of the marvels, my lord, that Ser Clavijo attained to the farther shore of this sea where the spirits of the waste are said to lie in wait for travelers. Aye, he heard their mutterings at night, on the desert floor, and in the morning his servant was dead. The natives say that this muttering comes from the sands—the reg ruwan, talking sands. Yet Clavijo makes no doubt that demons are to be met in the waste places.

“But beyond here exists a rich and fertile valley. My lord, it may well be that this is no less than the Eden of the Bible. Forasmuch as the Bible relates that the three strange kings came to the birth of Christ, bearing rich gifts of incense and myrrh, it is reasonable to suppose that this legend relates to Cathay, which may well be the kingdom of Prester John.”

He glanced mildly at his intent audience. A dozen times within the last fortnight had the Spaniard been called upon to tell his story and by now he well knew the phrases that best appealed to the religiously inclined. As for the ladies

“The way to this valley is most difficult to encompass; forty bands of Moorish horsemen do swoop upon the unwary. It was one of these bands that came on Clavijo, alone in the desert, and guided him, a prisoner, through the storms of sand that are more fearful than the tempest of the sea. In this way he was taken to the gate in the brazen wall.

“Inside that gate he perceived the trees of gold and silver, of which you have heard, and the fountains that run wine more delicious than the famous Chian.

“Great jewels are the fruit in these gardens of the brazen city. The inhabitants are fair of face and speak a Moorish tongue. Alas, your servant Clavijo has not the gift of words to describe all that he saw. Moreover, he was a prisoner, kept for the pleasure of the Grand Cham who is the king of this place.”

Clavijo’s broad face turned toward the stately red-haired woman who was the mistress of his host.

“My lady, it came to his ears in the city of the Grand Cham that all who entered the valley never got any older. There is no time in this city of Cathay, and people do as they please. It is a most pleasant spot. Many marvels Clavijo heard there—of the cameleopard and the taurelephus that gives most rare milk. But concerning this Clavijo can not know the truth. The gardens and the Cathayans he saw with his own eyes. Some of the silk of the place he had made into a doublet and this you yourselves may see”

Clavijo tapped his broad chest with a smile.

“This is but a poor specimen. The robes of the slaves of the Grand Cham are of the sheerest gossamer, my ladies. The emeralds on his fingers are large as hens’ eggs. The perfumes of the palace are finer than the dried roses of Persia.”

The women who had been listening sleepily until now looked up with interest.

“Living unto themselves as they do, the Cathayans have no knowledge of the value of gold in the other world. It comes, Clavijo heard, from the mines of Ectag, sometimes called the Golden Mountains. Here there be slaves who labor in the mines, and but for the grace of God Clavijo would be such a slave.”

The small eyes of Guistani Soranzi widened and he plucked at the edge of his fur robe.

“Did you bring back some of the gold, Messer Clavijo?” he asked.

“Alas, some I took with me when I fled from the city, but necessity compelled me to cast it away when I crossed the desert.” Clavijo stepped back and bowed. “My escape was due to one of the servants of the Cham who was a Christian at heart. Otherwise, it would not have been possible to surmount the brazen walls.”

“And the Grand Cham?” put in Rudolfo curiously. “What was he?”

“Some called him Cham, some Khan. Perchance the two words be the same. He is like to the Emperor of the Chin, because Persian and Turk and other pagan sultans render him tribute. Also, of all the caravans that pass by the valley he takes tribute. Some say he has the powers of a potent magician, yet this must be because he has the wisdom of a hundred years.”

CLAVIJO ceased his tale with a low bow. Contarini studied him with green, fathomless eyes, but the mistress of Contarini was a-quiver with eagerness and whispered to him of the gems of Cathay that might adorn her beauty.

Rudolfo’s elegant figure advanced to exchange greetings with the voyager, as did the other guests with the exception of Michael, who remained leaning against the wall, rubbing his chin reflectively as if something puzzled him greatly.

He saw that Clavijo presently left the throng. Straightway Michael followed down the narrow hall that led to an alcove where a table loaded with fruits, wines and sweetmeats awaited the guests who had not yet arrived.

Somewhat to Michael’s surprise the portly Spaniard dug his fingers into a fine dish—peacock pie. From the pie his hands went to his mouth. His bearded chin worked voraciously and the pie diminished apace.

Michael’s hunger came upon him anew and he joined the man on the other side of the table.

“By your leave, Messer Voyager.”

His left hand began to make havoc with the remnant of the pastry.

Clavijo glanced at him from small black eyes, as if disturbed by the interruption.

“It irks me to eat alone,” smiled Michael invitingly. “Come, good sir, I see you looked at yonder Sicilian grapes desirefully. Proceed. Consume. Your long suffering in the Orient must have given you a rare stomach for such fare. See, I join you.”

The Spaniard wiped his beard with the back of his hand and with the other covertly fastened upon some brandied figs. He seemed to have an unlimited appetite.

“Verily, I see that you are a man of parts,” said Michael again. “Let me call to your notice this excellent Chian wine. A toast, Messer Clavijo—a toast.”

“Ah.” The Spaniard nodded approvingly and poured out two cups of the fine wine. Michael, who had had enough of the food, lifted his politely.

“To Cathay,” he announced, bowing.

“To Cathay,” responded the other heartily. “Sir, I know you not, but you are good company and a man of rare discernment”

Clavijo fell silent and his mouth opened wide, while he did not raise his cup. Michael, glancing quickly over his shoulder, saw that two men in uniform had entered the alcove.

They wore dark cloaks and carried only stilettos at their belts. Both wore black masks that concealed the whole of their faces with the exception of the eyes.

“Madre de Dios!” swore Clavijo.

The two masked servitors or officials—Michael could not decide which—advanced to the table.

“Signori,” said one, “which of you is the renowned voyager from the Orient?”

It was politely said and Michael set down his cup reflectively, seeing that Clavijo’s eyes had widened at the words. Under the circumstances the newcomers might be seeking either the Spaniard or the Breton. Evidently, if they desired Clavijo, they had not been in the audience-chamber when the latter was telling his tale.

This inclined Michael to the belief that he was the man wanted. He wondered briefly if these were agents of Rudolfo, but remembered that the condottiere would hardly resume his quarrel in the home of Clavijo, unless imperatively urged.

It was hardly likely, furthermore, that Mocenigo would choose this way of punishing Michael for the scene at the door. Michael, unfamiliar with the customs of Venice, hazarded a guess that these were servants of Contarini sent to summon either him or Clavijo in this curious fashion.

“I am from the East,” he responded, as the Spaniard was silent. “I am called Michael Bearn, of Brittany.”

“Aye,” put in Clavijo promptly, glancing involuntarily toward the hall down which the two had come; “this is the gentleman you seek.”

Plainly he did not desire to go with the masked men. They, however, looked at each other questioningly and asked Clavijo’s name, which was reluctantly given.

“Signori,” decided the one who had first spoken; “we were sent for the voyager from the Orient by one whom you both know. Since we can not be certain of your identity, will you both have the great kindness to come with us?”

Clavijo looked as if he would have liked to refuse, but the masked men ushered them down another hall and flight of steps. They passed out of the house into the darkness of an alley. The loom of the buildings against the stars, the smells and the distant echo of a flute assured Michael that they were now near the bridge where he had met Rudolfo.

It was his turn to be reluctant, yet Michael strode ahead, whistling between his teeth. He felt morally certain that the two attendants had come for Clavijo and that Clavijo did not want to go with them. And Michael wanted very much to see where Clavijo was being taken—where the Spaniard did not want to go.

A second stairway took them to a gondola, a torch at its bow. Michael recognized the Contarini crest on the gondola hood as he scrambled inside, followed by his companion, breathing heavily.

The two masked attendants took their stand fore and aft by the rowers. In the darkness of the small cabin Michael sat down on what he first thought to be a cushion and then made out to be the form of a man.

He said nothing, wondering if the man were dead, until a whisper came up to him:

“Signor Michael, a service for a service given. Pietro Rudolfo plots against you. I heard it whispered as I fled the palace.”

It was Bembo. A moment’s reflection showed that he must have hidden himself away in one of the Contarini gondolas, expecting to leave the palace unseen in this way. Michael eased his weight off the other.

“Do not yield me up, signor,” went on the whisper. “Soon we shall be far off from the red-headed donna and the dogs and servants.”

“Faith, I will not, Bembo. Are these masks Rudolfo’s doing?”

“Nay, generous sir. They are servants of—Contarini.”

A slight hesitation before the name did not escape the Breton’s notice. “Whither are we bound? Have they business with me or Clavijo?”

“Clavijo.” Bembo chose to answer the last question. “We—you and I—will be released at the Con—at the gate we are coming to”

“Who in the fiend’s name are you talking to?” demanded the Spaniard, who had been unable to understand the low whispers.

“A fiend—if it likes you, Messer Voyager,” murmured Michael. “He says the devil and all the hellish brood have seized upon you.”

“Madre de Dios!”

Clavijo, it appeared, was superstitious and more than a little credulous. Then the boat stopped and the three—for Bembo joined them—stood before an iron-studded door in which a small square slid back, to cast a stream of light on their faces.

Michael saw a masked face staring at them through the aperture. Meanwhile the gondola and its men drew away from the landing and disappeared in the darkness.

Clavijo’s olive countenance went a shade paler when he made out the stunted form of the hunchback. He had not seen Bembo at the fête and Michael’s careless words had aroused his apprehensions.

Before he could speak the door opened wide and the figure within reached forth to pluck the Spaniard inside. The door was slammed in the faces of Bembo and his friend.

THROUGH the square peephole Michael could make out the two men inside withdrawing down a hall. A second glance showed him that they stood on a narrow stone landing with the black surface of the canal at their feet. The door presented the only means of leaving the steps.

“Bembo,” whispered Michael, “unravel me this coil. Where are we, and why are we left like varlets on the threshold of this hospitable place?”

“Because, signor comrade,” the jester grinned up at him in the dim light from the opening, “we are varlets—or at least the gate-keeper believes we look like such attendants of the great Spaniard. Your cloak is”

Bembo hesitated, fearing to offend, but Michael answered readily.

“Zounds, ’tis shabby enow!”

“This is the entrance to the Consoli di Mercanti. So many masks mean that the council is in secret session. We had best content ourselves with hailing a passing gondola and making off with a whole hide, for we are both here by mistake.”

Michael wondered why Bembo’s presence had been taken for granted until the hunchback explained that he had often come here in attendance on Contarini and the guardians of the place could not know that he was no longer the servant of the great Contarini.

“Good,” he said thoughtfully and pressed against the door, thrusting his left arm within the opening. Bembo plucked his sleeve in sudden anxiety.

“What would you, signor?”

“Why, entrance, before yonder masked fellow returns to his post. I must hear what the council has to say to the voyager.”

In spite of Bembo’s protest that the night session was secret and that they both might end the evening in the damp cells of San Giorgio Maggiore prison, Michael worked away at the door until he had drawn back the bolts and pushed it open.

This done, he pulled the shivering hunchback into the stone passageway, closed the heavy portal and whispered: “Now, good Bembo, you are verily a lost fool if you lead us not into a safe hiding place where we may hear what is said in the council. You say that you know the intestines of this place of masks”

Michael’s words received sudden point by the sound of footsteps returning toward the passage. Bembo fled with a crab-like motion down the narrow hall and slipped aside into the shadows of another passage opening into it, and Michael ran after him silently.

Taking the Breton’s hand in his, the jester led his new friend through the darkness down a winding flight of steps until the dampness indicated to Michael that they were under the canal.

Here they were in a confined space where the air, however, was not stale and two gleams of light pierced the gloom from one wall. Michael was somewhat taken aback to hear voices echoing clearly in the stone chamber, although they were plainly the only occupants.

“’Tis the whispering gallery,” explained Bembo so softly that the words were barely discernible, “that gives upon the council chamber. My lord Contarini was wont at times to spy here upon the testimony of prisoners before the judges. Speak not, for the gallery runs overhead to an opening behind the councilors.”

AS THE Council of Ten ruled political Venice, stamping out conspiracies and punishing any man it listed mercilessly and secretly, the Consoli di Mercanti ruled commercial Venice with an iron hand.

The prosperity of the Signory was linked indissolubly with the expansion of its trade, the crushing of its rivals and the mastery of new routes into the East, such as gave to Venice the monopoly of the great salt industry. The methods of the council were secretive and cruel, but Venetian judges winked at this, so long as the trade-routes were held, concessions secured and enemies weakened.

Of these enemies Genoa was then the most pressing. A few years before the army and fleet of Genoa had almost crushed the city of the lagoons—Venice being freed only by the dogged courage of Pisani and the intrepidity of Carlo Zeno. Since then Genoa had used every means to extend its trade to the eastward, away from the immediate power of the Venetian galleys.

Both cities had vied in making agreements with the on-sweeping Osmanli Empire which was even then extending from Anatolia into the mainland of Europe. But behind the armies of Bayezid were the spices, silks and jewels of India, Persia and China—veritable Golcondas to the trading-cities which paid fat tribute for the privilege of plying the Black Sea and tapping the Damascus and Aleppo caravan-routes.

So much Michael Bearn knew.

Standing close to the wall of the whispering chamber, he found that the two holes fitted his eyes and that he could see a long table covered with papers and globe-maps behind which sat a dozen masked men and before which stood the carefully groomed form of Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo.

The council was in secret session. A masked attendant clad in the manner of those who had ushered Bembo and Michael to the place stood by the closed door. Michael, studying the forms of the men behind the long table, singled out one in the center as Contarini and at the first words knew that he was right.

The voices rang clearly in his ear, conducted by a cleverly contrived gallery that ran from the shadows over the table to the wall above Michael’s head.

“Signor,” began the man in the center of the councilors. “You were summoned to speak the truth. Do not fail.”

Clavijo glanced at the speaker swiftly, and measured the ring of masked faces. His brow was moist and his plump cheeks were flushed.

“This evening—” he responded.

“This evening,” Contarini took him up, “you babbled much nonsense and some news. Signor, we are concerned now with the trade of Venice. Frequently we have heard of a Tatar or Cathayan potentate beyond the Sarai Sea. We wish to learn if it was his court you visited.”

At this Clavijo nodded understandingly. He looked serious, now that he had weighed the mood of these men.

“Aye, signor. Last night, I was about to remark, I spoke mainly of fabulous gems and garments and such like, for the pleasuring of the ladies. But now I place the poor fruits of my journey at your service. Question me, therefore, at your will.”

“Exactly where lies this city?”

“As you have said, beyond the Sarai Sea, a journey of a week by horse, until you come to the foot of the Ectag Mountains, called by the natives the Golden Mountains. The way lies over the desert floor and is perilous indeed.”

“So, one may go by sea to Trebizond, where we have a bailio and thence—” Contarini consulted a map—“by caravan across the land of the tribes. Karabak, it is written here?”

“Aye, my lord. Marvelous it is to know that in that land there is a pillar of everlasting fire, rising from the ground with a blue flame”

“Naphtha!” broke in a councilor. “Near to Batum. No miracle about that.”

Michael studied the eyes of the questioners, greatly interested, much to Bembo’s surprise.

“Not in the least,” assented Clavijo gravely. “Yet there also I beheld the holy mountain of Ararat where first the blessed ark came to land after the Flood. And beyond there, my lords—beyond there lie the fields of solid salt, at the foot of the Sarai Sea, which signifies in Cathayan—Sea of Salt.”

The councilors looked up at this, for the monopoly of the salt-trade was one of the greatest avenues of profit to Venice.

“That is good!” Contarini made a note and Clavijo smiled. “Now, what of your statement that this Cham of Cathay is aged beyond human years and a magician?”

“My lord, does he not dwell in this paradise of Cathay and was not the holy garden of Eden also a paradise? Have we not the testimony of the Bible itself that therein is no such thing as human age? Was not the holy garden itself in the paradise of Asia?”

“How do you know the Grand Cham is a magician?”

Clavijo smiled, shrugged and hesitated, but one of the councilors spoke up.

“The good Fra Odoric of Pordenone himself visited these regions con pelegrino—as a pilgrim. Did he not see great piles of human skulls raised to the sky and the horns of beasts stuck upright upon mountaintops? Also divers wonders such as a city upon the sand which vanished as he walked toward it? Aye, and he mentioned that the sand spoke with a human voice.”

Hereupon Clavijo drew a long breath of satisfaction and twiddled his curled beard.

“As I myself have said,” he reminded Contarini, who alone among the councilors seemed to weigh his testimony doubtfully. The punishment by the Maritime Council of one who gave false testimony before it was no light thing.

“These miracles have my eyes beheld. Lo, I sat upon such a pile of human skulls, reaching a thousand lance-lengths toward the sky—the bones of those who aforetime sought the earthly paradise and failed.”

“The Grand Cham must be a potent monarch,” mused Contarini. “Aye, I mind me Fra Odoric spoke of a great Khan of Tatary who was the most merciless warrior upon the face of the earth”

Michael strained his ears to catch the rest of the sentence, but Contarini had bent over a globe-map and was silent.

“‘Khan’ signifies ‘Cham’ in the pagan tongue,” put in Clavijo, who seemed to be better pleased with the way things were going now.

MAPS were produced and it was found that Ptolemy had outlined a kingdom beyond the Sarai Sea, under the star Taurus, and named it Chin, or Chinae.

“Which is verily the Chitae of Fra Odoric and my Cathay,” pointed out the Spaniard. Sweeping his hand across the table in an eloquent gesture, he raised his voice.

“Here lies the power and magic of the East, signori. Alone, my comrades dead, I crawled from the brazen walls to bear this message to you. Others, like the good fra, have heard of the Grand Cham—or seen the city at a distance. But I—I have walked under the gold trees and heard the song of the slaves of a hundred races laboring in the mines in the bowels of the earth. I have looked upon the riches of pearls, emeralds, topazes set into the walls of houses. Beside the city of the Grand Cham Constantinople is a rook’s nest and Venice—pardon, but Venice is no more than a village.”

Perceiving that his voice fell into ready ears, he folded his arms, his uneasiness vanished.

“I have spoken of jewels. My lords, upon the person of the Grand Cham and his radiant women there are solid plaques of emeralds and rubies, greater than those that you have brought in your galleys from Persia. And these jewels the Cathayans value not, save as handsome ornaments.”

“What do the Cathayan folk value—in trade?”

“Perchance weapons, rare steel, cunning inventions such as the sand clock and musical organs.”

Bembo, who was still shivering from apprehension, now noticed that Michael’s shoulders were quivering as if the Breton were stricken with the ague and that his hand was pressed against his mouth.

Within the council hall Contarini rose as if satisfied.

“Messer Clavijo,” he said gravely, “if your tale had proved a lie you would have had a taste of the iron beds of San Giorgio Maggiore. But we are well content with the news you bring, and it is now fitting that we announce to you the result of our deliberations before your examination. This morning I had speech with a French mariner of the name of Bearn who warned me that the Turkish power threatens the safety of the great city of Constantinople and Venice. That is idle talk and the council is concerned only with trade, not politics. Yet this foe of the Turks confessed that somewhere beyond the Sarai Sea is a Khan of Tatary who must be a potent monarch.”

He paused and Bembo saw again that Michael grimaced strangely.

“The council has planned an expedition into the terra incognita,” went on Contarini. “A jealous merchant will be sent with proper escort. By fair means or foul—mark me—he must win us wealth from the Cham. Our galleys will bear the voyagers safely through the Turkish pirates. You will be the leader of the expedition.”

Clavijo was a graven figure of amazement. “I?”

“Verily. Venice will honor fittingly the discoverer of the new trade-route—when you return. But return successful, for we have no clemency for one who fails.”

A flush mounted to the Spaniard’s brow which had become moist again.

“I? My lord, the way is perilous. Scarce I es”

“By your own words you would fain visit again this city that is an earthly paradise. You know the way. Have no fear that you will not be rewarded.”

CLAVIJO started to speak again, hesitated and bowed low. Then he jumped and swore roundly. A roaring, mighty laugh broke the silence of the council chamber. Yet none of the councilors had uttered a sound and certainly Clavijo and the attendant had not presumed to laugh.

Contarini it was who broke the spell of stupefaction by starting up and looking angrily at the wall behind which, in the whispering gallery, Michael Bearn was doubled up with mirth, laughing until he coughed.

The sound, magnified by the hidden gallery, had burst upon the councilors like a thunderclap and not a few crossed themselves in awe.

“By the blessed Saint Lawrence and his gridiron!” Bembo pulled at his companion in a frenzy of alarm. “Are you mad? They will be here in a minute with drawn swords. Come, or you will end your laugh in a dungeon”

Fairly skipping with anxiety, he guided the still chuckling Michael up the steps, and listened a moment alertly. Michael seemed indifferent to the peril that was real enough to Bembo.

Hearing the sound of pikes striking the floor in the direction of the council chamber, Bembo turned the other way at the head of the stairs. He knew that there was a warder at the postern door by which they had entered.

So, instead of retracing his steps, he ran up another flight of stairs, slowing down as he emerged with Michael into a tapestried hall where several attendants without masks lounged.

“The council has broken up,” Bembo announced when the servants glanced at him inquiringly. At the foot of the stair behind them Michael could see Contarini pass hastily toward the listening chamber with a group of halberdiers.

Following Bembo’s lead he walked quietly toward the entrance at the end of the hall that was the main gate of the council house. The hunchback had reasoned quickly that the guards at the door, not having seen him enter, would take him and the Breton for Contarini’s followers. Likewise, he knew that the aroused councilors would not be aware of the identity of the men who had been in the listening chamber.

So, playing both ends against the middle, he went to the gate, nodded to the pikeman on guard and emerged under the stars. As they did so they heard a distant shout from below and saw the servitors run to the head of the stairs up which they had come.

“They will bar the gate,” whispered Bembo. “But, praise be to Saint Mark, we are outside the bars.”

Michael noted with disgust that they were again on a landing with the canal in front of them. While they waited anxiously for a gondola to pass, a flurried councilor rushed through the door, glanced hastily at Bembo, and, recognizing him, glared at the dark canal.

“Did you see a man flee here hence, Bembo?” he questioned.

“Not yet, my lord,” replied the hunchback truthfully. “But, if it please you, I will watch to observe when a man leaves the building.”

When the councilor had reentered the hall, the great door was closed and barred. The two could hear the sounds of a hurried search within. They hailed the first empty craft that came abreast of the landing, and when they were fairly out of sight along the canal Bembo, who was curious by nature, turned to his new friend.

“What made you laugh, signor?” Michael smiled reminiscently. “A splendid jest, my Bembo.”

As he had listened to Clavijo’s tale at the fête he had been struck by grave doubts as to its truth. The flowery descriptions of the Spaniard did not conform to Michael’s knowledge of the Salt Sea and its tribes.

Furthermore, the man’s face was vaguely familiar. Michael had a keen memory, but he could not place the man at first. Not until the testimony had been given before the council and Clavijo had been plainly disturbed did Michael remember him.

Then he recalled another frightened man. The scene on the shore at Nicopolis flashed before him, and he visioned a tall, stalwart stalwart camp-follower of the Christian army driving a loaded cart headlong through the fugitives.

Clavijo had been that man. And the year of the battle of Nicopolis had been the year that Clavijo claimed to have been at the court of the Grand Cham of Tatary. Michael knew then what he suspected before, that the Spaniard had not been in the East. His tale had been a lie.

It was the decision of the council in taking Clavijo at his word that had struck Michael’s grim sense of humor. It was, as he told Bembo, a rare jest.