Genoa, Italy
Set against a buttress of mountain ranges this was a fine place to set foot in Italy.
While Sforza attended to matters with his broker and deputy, Jared strolled about the ancient city, marvelling at the spacious piazzas set about with great buildings in weathered dusky red, the crowds flooding the open areas in swarms of noise and colour. It was so much more exciting and alive than English market towns with their stolid calm.
He was taken to a tailor and his sober northern garments were replaced by velvet and brocade, more fitting an Italian merchant. There was no time to lose, however, and their baggage was quickly transferred to a local craft for the voyage south, to Pisa.
An even more imposing and monumental city, it was the main port of Tuscany and in the River Arno it had a sovereign highway inland to Florence and Arezzo.
After a cramped boat trip of several days they arrived at their destination. The town was set on a steep hill above the plains of the river.
They took a carriage through a tall ornamented gateway and progressing up steep streets passed several-storeyed houses of stone, imposing towers with flaring crenellations, markets of striking variety – and on all sides energetic and florid Italians in an exuberant hubbub.
They were to stay with a merchant acquaintance of Sforza’s, the better to hear the gossip. Jared caught little of what was being said and tried not to be overawed by the urbane sophistication of his surroundings.
‘Here we will lodge until we have had audience with the signore. If we are successful be assured I will include in my arrangement your accommodating in some comfort.’
The acquaintance was not to be troubled with knowledge of what they were about and Jared’s precious gunne and supplies remained locked in a chest.
In two days Sforza announced with satisfaction, ‘I have gained audience three days hence. If it goes well you should stand ready to display your wares to best advantage.’
‘To make demonstration?’
‘Just so. Is there anything that you require to …?’
Jared had done all he could before they left. The gunne was strengthened with iron bands around it and he had considered the question of the ‘pea’ carefully. Clay balls were useless and pebbles of the right dimensions hard to find, but he’d come up with an easier way: making a mould of the ball that would best fit the bore and filling it with molten lead. With this its accuracy was also noticeably better. And he had prepared the constituents of the gunne-powder separately, sealed in jars, and these would be mixed together when the time came.