Chapter 88: Scratch My Back, Ser Barozzi

Athanasia didn’t answer at once.

She turned the ring on her first finger once, then again, looking toward the sky instead of at him. When a servant girl came up the stairs carrying a fresh plate of dates, Athanasia waved her away with a short, clipped word in Greek. The girl went back down without another glance.

She reached for her cup, thought better of drinking, and put it down again.

Then she leaned closer.

The motion came unplanned, following the instinct to make what came next private between the two of them. Unfortunately for Vito, the movement brought her close enough that the soft fullness of her breasts pressed against the edge of her neckline, leaving far more of her curves within his view than good manners permitted him to enjoy.

For one helpless moment, his eyes followed the voluptuous sweep of her cleavage before he remembered himself and dragged his gaze back to hers.

Behind him, Orso made a low noise in his throat, halfway between a cough and a laugh. Vito’s elbow found his ribs without either man looking around, and Orso grunted down into wounded, amused silence.

Athanasia noticed none of this, or noticed and simply decided it wasn’t worth caring about. At last, she started to share her story.

"My family had fifty years of bad luck, Ser Vito, one generation after another."

She told it like a rumor she corrected for the hundredth time. "Grandmother used to say God counted the Rakotis family as His private joke. By the end of this, you’ll see why she thought so."

"I’m listening."

Her voice roughened as she continued, less a history lesson than an old family grievance passed around the dinner table. "My great-grandfather kept warehouses in Fustat. Good warehouses, too, stone and timber, with three generations of accounts stacked inside them."

She picked up a fig and rolled it between two fingers instead of eating it. "Then some Frankish king came down from Jerusalem intending to take Cairo whole, and our Vizier felt the city was better burned than handed over. My grandmother swore the smoke hung over Alexandria for three days. She also swore she wrestled a crocodile when she was a girl, so I’ve never been quite sure which parts of that story deserve belief."

Curiosity stirred in Vito despite himself. "Wait. Truly? Shawar gave the order himself, didn’t he? Burned his own capital rather than let the Franks take it standing. Extraordinary strategy."

Athanasia stared at him. "That was my family’s entire fortune, Ser Vito. Turned to ash so a vizier could make a point to a king who never even reached the walls."

Her voice remained calm, but now there was amusement in it, sharpened by his sudden enthusiasm. "Forgive me if I don’t admire the strategy quite as much as you do. Some of us don’t get to enjoy history from a library chair."

Vito lifted both hands.

"Guilty."

She tossed the fig at his chest. Her aim was lazy, and the corner of her lips had already given her away.

"Barbarian."

Then she continued, which proved to be the full extent of his punishment.

There was nothing mournful in it. "After that, my family thought God had spent His worst on us. We were wrong. The old dynasty collapsed less than ten years later and a new one came in, and every favor my great-grandfather had bought or married his way into became irrelevant within a season. New masters, new prices for the same old debts."

She picked up another fig, turned it once in her fingers, and left it uneaten. "Then came the next crusade. Every dinar the Sultan needed to keep the Franks away from Cairo’s doorstep, my family paid twice. Once honestly, to the treasury, then again to whichever soldier decided our warehouse looked like an easy second collection."

"Guess one blade at a man’s throat has a way of making any receipt look genuine."

She put the fig down.

"Then Saladin died."

She continued. "And his sons and brother spent most of a decade fighting over which of them should inherit an empire none of them could afford to keep. My great-uncle borrowed against three warehouses just to feed the family through that quarrel, and we only managed to pay off two of them."

Vito winced. There wasn’t much history in that worth admiration.

"And now?"

"Now."

She let the word hang for a moment. "Now there’s a Sultan who counts his treasury instead of his enemies. For the first time since my grandmother’s grandmother sold linen outside Cairo, my family is making a profit instead of surviving one disaster after another."

She raised one hand, fingers spread. "Twelve thousand dinars, spread across half a dozen houses. Most are patient, fair interest, nothing that should keep anybody awake at night."

"And the house that isn’t patient?"

Her lips strained for the first time since she’d begun.

"Argyropoulos."

She said the name as though it had spoiled on her tongue. "Rūmī, like us, and richer than us. Theophylact Argyropoulos made the decision our debt would be worth more as a wedding than as gold."

Vito put down his cup.

"And you’re the wedding."

"Unfortunately enough."

He considered that and liked it no better than she did.

"The debt is old, though. Why press it now? Why not five years ago?"

She spread both hands, resigned rather than bitter. "Because five years ago nobody in Egypt could sleep with both eyes shut, Ser Vito. Peace allows time to remember what’s owed. That’s all there is to it, no grand plot hiding behind the curtain."

Vito rubbed his chin.

"I might be able to help with that."

"Might?"

"Can. Will, if the price is right."

He grinned, easy again now that the worst of the story was behind them. "But I don’t do favors for free, bella, never have. Scratch a man’s back and he ought to scratch yours in return, otherwise the whole business is rather pointless."

Her lips curved, somewhere between relief and delight.

"Then I wonder what my back is worth to you."

She reached for the jug again, more out of habit than thirst. "You’ll need contacts in Cyprus, and farther up the Levant coast besides, unless all that talk about separating your rarest goods was merely an excuse to hear yourself talk."

"I meant every word."

Athanasia nodded, "Then I have exactly what you need. Merchant houses with good standing, who will deal honestly with anyone who carries my family name. Consider that my half of the trade."

Vito grinned.

"Mia bella, you’ve just solved a problem I hadn’t even bothered worrying about yet."

"I have a talent for that."

"Then perhaps we do understand each other."

She drank from her cup properly now. "Wait until you hear what I need from you. I like an even trade a great deal more than I like a debt, Ser Vito."

She leaned back against the cushions, business returning to her face. "Now, to the matter at hand. The Argyropoulos house does serious trade through your fondaco. Cotton, mostly, and some glass, enough that losing Venetian goodwill would cost Theophylact considerably more than my dowry ever could."

That piked Vito’s interest. "Then, some house that dependent on Venetian trade can’t afford to be seen antagonizing a Venetian patrician."

"Exactly."

Her smile returned, sharper than before.

"You’ve a mind that keeps pace, Ser Vito. I like that better than most things about you so far."

"Most things?"

"Don’t push your luck."

She turned her cup slowly between two fingers. "Theophylact visits the fondaco himself every week or two, like any merchant who wants to keep an eye on his accounts. I have business there myself, buying and selling, nothing anybody would think twice about. It wouldn’t take much to arrange for the two of us to be there on the same afternoon. Entirely by chance."

Vito raised an eyebrow.

"Entirely."

She smiled wider.

"Entirely."

"And what exactly does a chance meeting require of me?"

Her grin turned wicked. "Make it look like you can’t wait to get your hands on me, Vito. Look jealous, possessive, enough for him to think you want me for yourself."

Vito spread both hands in mock innocence.

"That sounds like the easiest part I’ve been given all year."

"I don’t doubt it."

Her eyes traveled over him again, slower this time and quite openly.

"I don’t think you’ll have to work very hard at it."

Vito put a hand against his chest.

"Flattery, from you? Careful, Athanasia, a man could start getting ideas."

"Get all the ideas you like. Just keep them where Theophylact can see them, and nowhere else."

Vito took one more sip before answering, enjoying making her wait for an answer she already knew was coming.

"Done."

He set the cup down. "A beautiful woman and a little theater is about the cheapest price I’ve ever paid for a contact in a new port. Send word the moment you know when your Theophylact intends to visit, and I’ll bring my best jealous scowl."

"I’ll hold you to that scowl."

The tension in her finally loosened.

"Soon, I wager. He doesn’t let a debt breathe for long once he’s decided to collect it."

Whatever composure she’d managed to keep through the serious part of the story broke, and pure delight took its place.

"Theophylact."

She said the name again, savoring it now instead of spitting it.

"That preening, cotton-counting son of a whore..."

She caught herself, laughed at her attempt at restraint, and gave it up a breath later. "I want to see his face, Vito. I want to watch that man discover his precious bride wrapped like a gift, wet at the thought of riding a patrician and shamelessly eager for more while he stands there pretending she belongs to him."

Vito laughed outright at the picture. He was vividly aware the sentiment was born out pure spite, and not a keen desire to be with him.

"Remind me never to become your enemy, Athanasia."

"Too late for that warning, Vito. You already agreed to be my friend instead."

She raised her cup toward him, her eyes bright with mischief and nothing businesslike left in them.

"To ruining a man’s entire year without laying a finger on him."

Vito raised his own cup to meet hers, grinning just as broadly.

"Now that, bella, is a trade I can drink to."