Marco’s brother asked him to sit in on the negotiations, the following day. When the translator began to speak, Marco’s brother waved a hand to silence him.
“Enough. Your Highness, I know you understand me, and I know your husband does too.”
“I understand you,” the Prince said, not in Latin but in Ligurian, slowly, “but this will be slower, if you ask me to speak your language.”
“Consider it a small courtesy,” said Marco’s brother.
“Courtesies should be mutual,” said the Prince’s husband. He spoke Ligurian like a native.
“You are from here,” Marco’s brother said, sounding surprised. “Or you speak like you are.”
“Once,” he said. “A very long time ago.”
“We are not here to speak of times long ago, or we might have to speak of unresolved crimes,” said the Prince, in Latin. He was more fluent in that than in Ligurian. “Very well, if we are speaking of courtesies; there is one I would like to make. My mother charged me to send her greetings to the Countess – not the present one, but your mother, Countess Maria. I have seen no sign of her. Does she still live?”
“She retired to a nunnery, many years ago.”
“It would please me very much to carry out my mother’s wish.” The Prince smiled. “On such foundations are long-lasting friendships made.”
“A message could be sent,” Marco’s brother allowed.
“If it pleases you,” said the Prince, and that day the negotiations went, as Marco understood it, a little better; but they had not yet reached an agreement. There seemed to be something he was waiting for, that he was not getting.
*
Two days later, Marco’s mother came to court. The nunnery she had retired to was only a little way out of Genoa, but she must have left as soon as she received the message.
“You said you lived here, long ago,” Marco said to the Prince’s husband, trying to play his part and make conversation, as they waited for his mother. “That would have been when my parents held court here.”
“Yes.”
“Then how did you come to be in Tunis?”
“I was sold,” said the Prince’s husband. “Or not even sold. I was barely considered to have enough value to be worth selling, and told so to my face. But it turned out that there was a misunderstanding; in Tunis, they thought I had been sent to be fostered, as the Franks – as you do here. And then I met Yusuf. It was the most glorious misunderstanding of my life, little though it was intended by my father.”
Marco was his brother’s good sword arm; he was not a man of books; but he wasn’t entirely stupid. His mouth went dry. He tried to imagine what little Nico would look like, fifteen years on, as a man.
“And who,” he started to say, but then his mother entered the hall, took one look in his direction, and began to move with a haste that was a plain danger at her years. Like the other day, in the bout, the Prince’s husband was fast. He was all the way to her almost before Marco could move.
“Nicolò!” she cried. “My Nicolò. I thought I would never see you again.”
“I am here, I am here,” he said, and held her gently as she cried into his shoulder. The court was spellbound. The Prince of Tunis had an expression of infinite affection, and unshed tears in his eyes. Marco looked helplessly to his brother.
“Nicolò?” his brother said in disbelief. “Our Nicolò? Mother, you must be mistaken.”
“Indeed, she is not,” said the Prince. “None of us in Tunis would forget how he came to us.”
“Of course I am not mistaken!” Marco’s mother said stoutly, although her eyes were red. “You think I would not recognise my own son? Godfrey, it is an embarrassment to me and all of Genoa that he has been here all this time and you knew nothing of it. You did not even ask!”
“Surely,” Marco’s oldest brother said, his face slowly going red, “this will make it easier for us to come to an agreement. As we are…unexpectedly…kin.”
“Surely, it will not,” said the Prince, in Latin. “As you have offered us nothing we need, and you are not the only city we can negotiate with.”
Marco thought of the brief conversation he had heard weeks before, they can have their chance, and realised with dim horror that they had failed it at every turn.
The Prince was bowing politely before Marco’s mother, who received him with as much dignity as if she were still Countess here. Marco’s wife looked vaguely put out.
“Also,” said Nicolò – Nicolò, it was impossible, and yet now Marco could see it so clearly in the line of his jaw and the way he held himself, despite his sun-dark skin and his turban – “you put us in the quarters with the secret passage, and do not think we did not notice it.”
“What secret passage?” Marco said defensively, and too quickly, trying not to remember what he had witnessed. His own brother.
Nicolò rolled his eyes. “I was a lonely child with too much time on my hands; I know this castle better than you do.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unfortunately for you, we have no secrets that could have helped you.”
Marco could hear, across the hall, his oldest brother grinding his teeth.
*
The party from Tunis left five days later. They had an agreement, but it was little more than an agreement to not attack each other’s shipping. Marco’s oldest brother was furious.
“We could have secured this city’s future for fifty years, for a hundred,” he said. “And my own brother is married to him! It’s outrageous.”
“Not through anything you or your father did,” said their mother, who had not yet returned to her peaceful retirement. “He was thrown away, and you are lucky that they even were willing to entertain negotiations at all.”
“I think, brother,” Marco said uneasily, “that that is right. We…were in the wrong here.”
He stalked off, muttering.
“How long will you stay with us?” Marco asked their mother.
“Until your child is born, I think,” she said. “You must do better with yours than your father did, Marco.”
“I will try,” Marco said, and meant it; thinking back to the cold light in Nicolò’s eyes, that first day the embassy from Tunis had arrived, he knew he could scarcely do worse.
FILL: Joe/Nicky, Arranged Marriage AU, Returning Home, Revenge (2/2)
“Enough. Your Highness, I know you understand me, and I know your husband does too.”
“I understand you,” the Prince said, not in Latin but in Ligurian, slowly, “but this will be slower, if you ask me to speak your language.”
“Consider it a small courtesy,” said Marco’s brother.
“Courtesies should be mutual,” said the Prince’s husband. He spoke Ligurian like a native.
“You are from here,” Marco’s brother said, sounding surprised. “Or you speak like you are.”
“Once,” he said. “A very long time ago.”
“We are not here to speak of times long ago, or we might have to speak of unresolved crimes,” said the Prince, in Latin. He was more fluent in that than in Ligurian. “Very well, if we are speaking of courtesies; there is one I would like to make. My mother charged me to send her greetings to the Countess – not the present one, but your mother, Countess Maria. I have seen no sign of her. Does she still live?”
“She retired to a nunnery, many years ago.”
“It would please me very much to carry out my mother’s wish.” The Prince smiled. “On such foundations are long-lasting friendships made.”
“A message could be sent,” Marco’s brother allowed.
“If it pleases you,” said the Prince, and that day the negotiations went, as Marco understood it, a little better; but they had not yet reached an agreement. There seemed to be something he was waiting for, that he was not getting.
*
Two days later, Marco’s mother came to court. The nunnery she had retired to was only a little way out of Genoa, but she must have left as soon as she received the message.
“You said you lived here, long ago,” Marco said to the Prince’s husband, trying to play his part and make conversation, as they waited for his mother. “That would have been when my parents held court here.”
“Yes.”
“Then how did you come to be in Tunis?”
“I was sold,” said the Prince’s husband. “Or not even sold. I was barely considered to have enough value to be worth selling, and told so to my face. But it turned out that there was a misunderstanding; in Tunis, they thought I had been sent to be fostered, as the Franks – as you do here. And then I met Yusuf. It was the most glorious misunderstanding of my life, little though it was intended by my father.”
Marco was his brother’s good sword arm; he was not a man of books; but he wasn’t entirely stupid. His mouth went dry. He tried to imagine what little Nico would look like, fifteen years on, as a man.
“And who,” he started to say, but then his mother entered the hall, took one look in his direction, and began to move with a haste that was a plain danger at her years. Like the other day, in the bout, the Prince’s husband was fast. He was all the way to her almost before Marco could move.
“Nicolò!” she cried. “My Nicolò. I thought I would never see you again.”
“I am here, I am here,” he said, and held her gently as she cried into his shoulder. The court was spellbound. The Prince of Tunis had an expression of infinite affection, and unshed tears in his eyes. Marco looked helplessly to his brother.
“Nicolò?” his brother said in disbelief. “Our Nicolò? Mother, you must be mistaken.”
“Indeed, she is not,” said the Prince. “None of us in Tunis would forget how he came to us.”
“Of course I am not mistaken!” Marco’s mother said stoutly, although her eyes were red. “You think I would not recognise my own son? Godfrey, it is an embarrassment to me and all of Genoa that he has been here all this time and you knew nothing of it. You did not even ask!”
“Surely,” Marco’s oldest brother said, his face slowly going red, “this will make it easier for us to come to an agreement. As we are…unexpectedly…kin.”
“Surely, it will not,” said the Prince, in Latin. “As you have offered us nothing we need, and you are not the only city we can negotiate with.”
Marco thought of the brief conversation he had heard weeks before, they can have their chance, and realised with dim horror that they had failed it at every turn.
The Prince was bowing politely before Marco’s mother, who received him with as much dignity as if she were still Countess here. Marco’s wife looked vaguely put out.
“Also,” said Nicolò – Nicolò, it was impossible, and yet now Marco could see it so clearly in the line of his jaw and the way he held himself, despite his sun-dark skin and his turban – “you put us in the quarters with the secret passage, and do not think we did not notice it.”
“What secret passage?” Marco said defensively, and too quickly, trying not to remember what he had witnessed. His own brother.
Nicolò rolled his eyes. “I was a lonely child with too much time on my hands; I know this castle better than you do.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unfortunately for you, we have no secrets that could have helped you.”
Marco could hear, across the hall, his oldest brother grinding his teeth.
*
The party from Tunis left five days later. They had an agreement, but it was little more than an agreement to not attack each other’s shipping. Marco’s oldest brother was furious.
“We could have secured this city’s future for fifty years, for a hundred,” he said. “And my own brother is married to him! It’s outrageous.”
“Not through anything you or your father did,” said their mother, who had not yet returned to her peaceful retirement. “He was thrown away, and you are lucky that they even were willing to entertain negotiations at all.”
“I think, brother,” Marco said uneasily, “that that is right. We…were in the wrong here.”
He stalked off, muttering.
“How long will you stay with us?” Marco asked their mother.
“Until your child is born, I think,” she said. “You must do better with yours than your father did, Marco.”
“I will try,” Marco said, and meant it; thinking back to the cold light in Nicolò’s eyes, that first day the embassy from Tunis had arrived, he knew he could scarcely do worse.