The Grand Cham (Lamb, Adventure magazine)/Chapter 6

AFE, for the nonce, in an odorous tavern hight the “Sign of the Sturgeon,” on the docks of Rialto, Michael reflected the next day on what he had learned and fell to questioning Bembo, for there was much that puzzled him.

Bembo wondered somewhat, as he squatted on the table where their breakfast platter still lay, how Michael could obtain the money to pay for their quarters because it was becoming apparent to him that they did not have a silver soldi between them. When he mentioned respectfully that the landlord was chalking up their score behind the door and was growling for payment on account, Michael assured him that something would turn up to yield them gold.

Skeptical, but willing to believe in the good fortune of his new master—Bembo had attached himself to the Breton—the hunchback answered the questions.

“My lord Contarini must have money,” he asserted, following the trend of his own thoughts. “His large establishments have impoverished him sorely and he is deep in debt to Rudolfo, the leader of his soldiers, who has waged Contarini’s battles on the mainland. Methinks my lord can not pay”

“And so has caught at the chance of riches wrung from Cathay,” mused Michael. Egged on by his spend thrift mistress and his creditors, Contarini was planning to use his post as head of the Maritime Council to his own advantage.

This was more than probable because, while Contarini had aided Clavijo in spreading the tidings of a mythical kingdom beyond the Sarai Sea, he had been careful to have the council hear in secret the Spaniard’s testimony as to the possible spoil to be gleaned from the Cathayans. So Contarini must believe the tale of Clavijo.

The Spaniard himself was merely posing as a voyager—an honorable figure in that age—and thriving on the gifts and hospitality of the Venetians. What of Rudolfo?

The condottiere had sought at all costs to keep Michael from hearing the tale of Clavijo. Why? Rudolfo must know of the coming venture into the East if he was in Contarini’s confidence. He knew, too, that Michael had been on the border of the terra incognita.

What did Rudolfo fear that the Breton would disclose? Rudolfo’s cowardice at the field of Nicopolis?

Michael shrugged, and dismissed the problem. It did not matter, he thought—and wrongly.

What interested him was Clavijo’s magnificent lie. Michael knew that there was truth in the well from which the self-styled voyager had drawn his tales. Fra Odoric had spoken truly of a powerful Khan of Tatary.

But would the Khan of Tatary, of whom Michael had heard in the camp of Bayezid, prove to be actually the Cham of Cathay? Michael would have given much to know. For this khan was the one man Bayezid respected on the face of the earth.

“If I could know,” he began, and looked at Bembo. “Fool o’ mine, and withal, wise man, we must have more news. Go you to the plaza of the city and learn what you may of preparations being made for a ship to the East.

“Look you, wise fool,” the Breton continued thoughtfully. “Is it not true that the natures of men will seek their proper end? Give a thief rope and he will halter himself: a miser will bleed others till there remains no blood in his own veins; a boaster will trip o’er his own tongue. I, being a wayfarer voyaging on behalf of five dead men, will see—the day of judgment, Bembo.”

“And a fool, master?”

“Will be happy, God knows.”

Now in saying this, Michael Bearn voiced the destiny that was to shape his own life and the fate of several others in one of the strangest adventures that was ever recorded in the annals of Venice.

Bembo found his master a queer mixture of moodiness and cheer. Michael had astonished the jester by forcing him to share their meals in common. Bembo had always fared, before this, with the hunting dogs of Contarini.

“’Tis said,” he ventured, thinking of the gold they must have to pay for their food, “that you have seen the battles of the pagans in the East. Could not you gain a place and honor as condottiere with one of the noble lords of Venice?”

“Would one of the noble lords employ a slave, Bembo?” Michael smiled at his companion’s surprise. “Nay, there is no man’s work in these mock wars of Italy where the condottieri bleed—their masters.”

He looked out moodily at the forests of galley masts and emptied his flagon of wine.

“Being idlers, good Bembo, an enterprise must come to us. Go you into the city and learn if this venture is to be had—one wherein we may sharpen our wits and laugh mightily.”

Bembo went. It was evening when he returned.

“So you have come back to me?” remarked Michael. “Are you not afraid of poverty and the dagger of Rudolfo? Bembo, if you had favor with a magician, what would you wish to be?”

The hunchback looked seriously at his torn finery. “Saving my present service to you, my master, I would like to be the Grand Cham who wears a ruby on every toe and scatters gold as the monks scatter indulgences.”

“So, has the Spaniard’s gossip stirred your blood?”

“Master, it is truth. The council has commissioned Rudolfo to command the soldiery of the expedition to the land of the Grand Cham.”

So suddenly did Michael Bearn spring up from his chair that wine and table were upset on Bembo, who fell back in alarm.

“No!” the Breton cried.

“Aye. They only await the selection of a proper mariner to go with Clavijo and those already chosen. Fifteen thousand ducats have been granted Messer Clavijo for funds. ’Tis said, despite his zeal to set eyes again upon the earthly paradise, he balked at taking the money for a space.”

“Clavijo—Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo—goes verily to the Grand Cham!” Michael sat down on the bed and rocked with laughter. “’Twould make the devil laugh. And who else goes?”

“A certain young count of the Mocenigo family—a rare gallant. Soranzi—I heard the thrifty merchant consulted his astrologer and found that his horoscope foretold rare things of him in Tatary. Verbum sat sapienti—a word to the wise is enough.”

“Soranzi! Who else?”

“Nearly the whole of Venice has begged for the chance. Nevertheless, the wise council knows that the company must be limited to a few; five gentlemen and the men-at-arms.”

“Perhaps the Cham would give him the freedom of the city—of Cathay, in the desert—the sandy desert!” Michael remarked seriously.

Bembo gaped and retreated to a corner of the room, fearing that his master might be afflicted with madness, until the reassuring thought came to him that Michael Bearn was only drunk.

“Aye, sir,” he grinned amiably, “there is sand i’ the desert”

“Clavijo vouches for it, wise Bembo, and for the saltness of the sea.”

“The salt—verily, sir—ha-ho!”

“Bembo.” Michael shook his dark head gravely. “Hark me, man; never will you behold such a voyager as Ruy Clavijo again. We will look no further, wait no longer. The wind is up, my fool, and we will sail with the tide. No quest could be more suited to our hearts than this.”

He caught up his cloak, hat and sword and bowed ceremoniously to the jester.

“Behold, the new master mariner of Messer Clavijo and his party. I go to the council, or, better, to Contarini, for my commission.”

Hereupon Bembo scratched his head and cast a tentative glance at the water jar. He had been eager to inform his master that Rudolfo was in the expedition, hoping to turn Michael from thought of meddling with Contarini’s plans, and now Michael had said he would join the party.

“Let me bathe your head, master, before you go.”

Michael laughed.

“Water, upon such a night as this! Nay, we will drink to our commission and to the Grand Cham. Come, most wise oracle, a toast!”

“To the Grand Cham.” Bembo filled a cup reluctantly.

“To the Grand Sham!” Michael emptied the cup.

IT WAS late that night when he returned, but the jester was sitting up, wrapped in his tattered mantle, solemnly eyeing the diminishing candle on the table. He looked up fearfully when Michael pushed in the door, for Bembo had entertained grave apprehensions as to the reception of his slightly intoxicated master—for such he considered Michael—by the members of the council.

To his surprise Michael’s step was regular and his glance steady.

“’Tis done, Bembo,” he smiled. “Rudolfo being luckily absent, Contarini passed readily upon the merits of our claim. We sail the day after the morrow.”

Michael flung himself into his chair and clapped Bembo on the knee.

“’Twas not wine that stirred my brain, Bembo. Knowing Clavijo, I had a grave fear that he would lead his expedition anywhere but to the terra incognita. Knowing Rudolfo, I am assured that the venture will verily seek spoil. And since our worthy friends would fain despoil the Cham, why, you and I must go with them. Because, forsooth, the Cham is of all men the man I most desire to clap eyes upon.”

Taking some gold coins from a new pouch at his girdle, he bade Bembo settle their score at the Sign of the Sturgeon on the morrow. The pouch itself he detached and handed to Bembo, who was scratching his head, deeply puzzled by his master’s speech.

“What is that, master?”

“For you. I drew an advance upon my pay. We part when the ship sails. This voyage is not for you, Bembo.”

The jester pushed the money away and the corners of his lips drew down.

“Wherefore, master? Am I not your man?”

But Michael, glancing at the low partition that separated their room from the other chambers of the inn, shook his head thoughtfully.

“I have good reason for bidding you stay here. This voyage is not like other voyages.”

Bembo pricked up his ears and protested, but Michael would say no more. Long after the sea-captain had retired to his cloak and bed of boards, the jester remained awake, watching the candle-flam emoodily [sic] and glancing from time to time angrily at the purse. He was hurt and his curiosity was stirred—two strong emotions emotions with the hunchback. As the candle spluttered and subsided into grease, Bembo reached out a claw-like hand and pouched the money.

In the annals of the Maritime Council, in the pages devoted to the voyages into terra incognita, it is recorded that of Messer Clavijo and his company only one man returned to Venice.