From the other tables, Nicholas could see John’s face, red under its freckles, glancing his way more often than not. The churchmen, because of the feast day, kept their own table next to the King’s, sharing it with the Knights Hospitaller of St John. He had had a stiff greeting that morning from the Grand Commander Louis de Magnac, whom he had tricked over Loppe, and again on shipboard coming from Rhodes. With him was Brother William de Combort, who had entertained Primaflora so warmly at Rhodes in the belief that she was in Carlotta’s employment. Perhaps they all still believed that she was. At any rate, they could see that Zacco, not Carlotta, was going to hold Cyprus; and that they must treat a commander of Zacco’s with care.
At another table sat the Venetians: the brothers Martini as well as Corner and Loredano and Paul Erizzo. They looked well satisfied: another crop safely transformed and delivered; Zacco more firmly enthroned and in their perennial debt; their share in bringing Nicholas and his army to Cyprus fully justified, despite the small delay in completing the contract. And after the contract, who knew? Nicholas had seen, as they came in, both Corner and Martini find occasion to shake John le Grant by the hand. As indeed they should, since John le Grant had solved their water dispute. There was no need for them to know that engineer John le Grant was its author.
His eyes rested on the Zorzi brothers. Jacopo, whom he had invited to Kouklia, and whose vineyards he still had not visited. Bartolomeo who managed his dyeworks, and Bartolomeo’s partner Girolamo, whom Nicholas had met also on his way to Trebizond, and who had brought the information he didn’t wish, at present, to think about. He didn’t want, either, to think of the third Zorzi brother, known to the world as Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli. The Greek with the wooden leg, whose machinations, he sometimes felt, ran as a dark undercurrent below all his own devices, robbing him of his belief in his will. In that message from Constantinople, sent here, and at this time, he saw the hand of Acciajuoli, not of this self-seeking merchant.
And Primaflora. She was admitted, now, to the feasting-hall of the King, and placed at the long women’s table presided over by Marietta of Patras, the King’s serene and excellent mother. His wife’s beauty, little adorned, seemed to draw the lamplight towards her: it shone on the latticework of her sleeves and the exact and regular folds that defined the slender bones of her body. He saw her glance at Ludovico da Bologna whom, of course, she had met in Rhodes, and further back, in the snow with Carlotta. In the snow between Porretta and Bologna, where Nicholas had been called to the rescue, and Ansaldo her lover had died.
Sor de Naves, here with his brother, had also bowed to Primaflora at her table and had taken the chance, stopping Nicholas, to congratulate him on his marriage. Civility was not his objective. ‘What habit of the brake or the burrow do you employ, Ser Niccolò, that you attract to yourself so many beautiful females? The Queen has lost her waiting-woman to you, and you have married her?’
Until bribed to surrender Kyrenia, the Sicilian admiral had been one of Carlotta’s closest advisers. ‘The Queen?’ said Nicholas.
‘A slip of the tongue. The lady Carlotta. The pity is that you married this lady, dear sir. But perhaps you have children enough, or see no need for them.’
‘I suppose,’ Nicholas said, ‘that like yourself, I believed the matter could wait.’ He turned his shoulder, but not quickly enough.
The Sicilian laughed. ‘I make a good target. The King’s daughter is six. But she is a virgin, be sure; and will bear to me when she bears. Whereas those who eschew bearing, or have too often found means to abort it may prove, like your wife, to be barren.’
‘And you think that concerns me?’ said Nicholas. ‘I must disappoint you.’
The man smiled. ‘You had been told. I might have known. At Carlotta’s court, it is common knowledge. Well, Ser Niccolò, let me end as I began, and wish you joy of your marriage.’
He hadn’t known. It didn’t matter. Now, it didn’t matter.
He got through the meal. He displayed gratification through all the entertainments that took place during and after the feast, and took the floor with the rest during the slow, formal dancing, in which he had been well taught by the various females attracted to his brake and his burrow. Towards the end, when the Palace was still filled with people, and wine, and hilarity he and Rizzo di Marino were chosen, as he had hoped, to attend the King when he withdrew from necessity. In the moment before they returned, Nicholas spoke. ‘My lord. To give me this day at your side was an unforeseen joy, but it oppresses me that it is undeserved: that Famagusta is not yet yours. Before we go back, my lord, might I put something to you, and to Ser Rizzo?’
The King was sober and affable. The Chancellor, an experienced man, knew an opening of consequence when he heard it. An office was found, and the King sat and said, ‘Well, what is this? We keep your lady wife waiting.’ And, warm with dancing, he pulled off his jewelled hat, so that the brown hair fell free, and opened the close-pearled band of his doublet so that his throat might be bared to the air. He said to Nicholas, ‘Ask. This is your night for receiving.’
Afterwards, Nicholas wondered what he had expected from Zacco. The favour of a hearing, which he had. An appreciation that a truce over Christmas might seem magnanimous to his Christian allies, which Zacco appeared to find appealing. But the idea that the season of leisure should be marred by the presence of men from that vicious republic? The conception that a Lusignan should humour the fools, to persuade them that surrender would not be dishonourable? The suggestion that – ‘Christ God in heaven,’ said James, King of Cyprus, rising slowly to his feet. ‘Are you deaf, blind, witless? Do you expect me to send food and wine to the men whose forefathers took mine to wretched imprisonment in Genoa? Who forced the wife of the first James of my line to earn bread with her needle? Who killed with privation his nephew? James, my great-grandfather, would have known what to say to you, despite the badge and the silver buckle you wear. Suggest that to me again, Messer Niccolò, and you will lose them, and more!’ said the King.
His face was livid, and his hand had clapped to his sword. Behind him, di Marino had risen also, ready to soothe. Usually, such an explosion could be anticipated. This time, it was so unheralded as to appear almost artificial. Standing, Nicholas said, in the humble voice known to every Bruges magistrate, ‘Lord, I would not displease you. I merely seek to end a war. If you give me leave, I will do it in a way that would not dishonour your forebears.’
The young man still stood, his breath short, his hand braced on the hilt of his sword. Their eyes were level. ‘How?’ he said.
‘I shall go back and prepare an assault,’ Nicholas said. ‘Tomorrow, if you will allow me.’
Zacco drew a long breath through pinched nostrils. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘And that would be quicker than starving them?’
‘It could not fail,’ Nicholas said. He avoided the Chancellor’s eye. He kept still, and calm, and gentle of voice.
‘And who would lead it?’ said Zacco. ‘You?’
‘Monseigneur,’ said Rizzo di Marino. ‘This is a counsel of courage, and I respect it. But our trench is exposed to artillery. The vanguard of such an assault will die.’
‘You?’ repeated the King.
‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘I should allow the honour to no one else of the lord King’s adherents. Unless he wishes to strip me of his confidence.’
Rizzo di Marino said, ‘Of course he will take Famagusta. But need our troops suffer the cost of it?’
No one spoke. Nicholas stood, expressing only what he felt, which was patience, and understanding, and a baseless, inbred, unnatural optimism. And gradually, the King’s hand relaxed, and his bearing, and lastly his face, across which flickered indistinct and curious emotions: of relief and annoyance, of affection and something that might have been shame. Zacco raised his hand from his sword and took Nicholas by the face in hard fingers. ‘I forbid you,’ he said. ‘I have bought your life. I forbid you to waste it. Starve them. They deserve it.’
> Nicholas dropped to one knee. For a moment they remained apart. Then the King’s hand touched his cheek, differently, and the King’s voice said, ‘Enough. Let us return. They will think the worst of three handsome men who have taken leave together.’
There was nothing more to be done. Nicholas cast a single glance at the Chancellor’s considering gaze, and followed the King back to the hall. He had nearly reached it when the hand of Ludovico da Bologna grasped his shoulder, and the voice of the Patriarch pronounced in his ear: ‘Well, my son. Does the King pay for all night of you, or can the Church claim an hour of your time?’
The King turned. The Patriarch said, ‘I ask a favour of James of Cyprus. May the Church, on this Feast Day, command one of its sons?’
‘You wish to shrive him?’ said Zacco. He gave his most charming laugh. ‘You will be disappointed. A well-constructed artefact possesses no sins.’
‘If I believed you,’ said Ludovico da Bologna, ‘I would be the happiest man in Nicosia. But the sins are there, in small corners, to be hunted out. Come, my little lord Niccolò.’
Chapter 37
WHERE’S YOUR HOUSE?’ said the Patriarch of Antioch. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Too far away,’ Nicholas said.
‘And that concubine will be there. I thought she had a lover at Bologna? I’ve got rooms at the Dominicans’; that’ll do. There’s your doctor. And is that fox-headed fellow one of yours? Tell them to come.’
Nicholas stood stock-still, in a condition of protest, thought or even possibly refusal. The fox-headed fellow, in the interests of a deep intellectual curiosity, strolled up and said, ‘I’m John le Grant, my lord Patriarch. Everyone in the Levant has heard of Ludovico da Bologna.’
‘They ought to,’ said the Patriarch. ‘I’ve travelled about it enough. Leave it to the Greeks, and you’ll never get a Crusade. It needs Latin stomach to do it. This fellow’s been wrangling with Zacco. Didn’t think he had it in him. Not the way to keep your fief and your perpetual pension. Are you coming? What’s that blood-letter’s name?’
‘Tobias Beventini. He met you in Florence.’
‘I know he met me in Florence. A testy, petulant sort of fellow, they tell me, who bares his scalp instead of his buttocks. Ah, there you are.’
‘I’m going home,’ said Tobie briefly to Nicholas.
John le Grant put out a hand and pinched a stiff scarlet sleeve. He said, ‘You’re easy baited. Come on. You don’t want to miss this. And when you’ve time, take a good look at Nicholas.’
A flicker of angry impatience immediately manifested itself in Tobie’s face, and he fell into step with the engineer. There were times when John le Grant wondered how Tobie managed to be such a very good doctor and yet fail to ask himself primary questions about Nicholas. Such as, whether the expression you saw was what he wanted you to see, and was genuine. Or what he wanted you to see and was misleading. Or was what he wanted no one to see at all, and had failed to disguise. A sporting interest in pursuing such failures was one of the reasons John le Grant stayed with Nicholas. There were, of course, several others.
The room they were taken to was bare, panelled and had a stone floor, but had been hastily equipped with stools and benches and tables for the Patriarch’s visit. Against one wall stood a battered chest covered with donkey-skin, with several pairs of old slippers beside it and a patched travelling cloak thrown on top. On a side table stood a pitcher and beakers and a pile of washed linen, some darned and some not. In the centre of the room stood an extremely well-tended brazier before which sat two men in low conversation that broke off as the door opened.
One was the spare, bearded figure of Abul Ismail, the Arab physician. The other was a heavily-built, muscular man with a lobster nose and none of his sister’s lost beauty. Markios of Patras, the brother of Cropnose. ‘You all know one another,’ said Ludovico da Bologna, pushing Nicholas in with a hand like a bakery paddle. Tobie followed, and John le Grant just evaded the powerful thrust. ‘Oecumenical conference, except we’ve no Orthodox cantankerous Greeks and no clip-arsed, fornicating, drug-chewing bastards of Mamelukes.’ He glanced at Abul. ‘I make a distinction for Arabs.’
‘We thank you,’ said the physician politely. John le Grant sat with the others, casting a glance at the pitcher as he passed. It was full of water.
The King’s uncle said, ‘You mystify our friends from the West. Mamelukes are not a sect, merely children of any faith bought young, and reared as Muslims to serve and rule Egypt and Syria. Have you met the present Sultan in Cairo? The first of Greek birth. Purchased fifty years since, and began as a page in Damascus.’ He fixed the Patriarch with an eye. Le Grant recalled that in his time Markios had led a company of Egyptian Mamelukes in some of the hottest fighting for Zacco.
Ludovico da Bologna said, ‘Don’t be afraid to speak out: Abul Ismail knows all about Mamelukes. Yes, I know Khushcadam. Yes, I’ve been in Cairo. Murder and poison, torture, bribes, sales of office. Terrorising and plunder, all by Mamelukes, and all countenanced by the Sultan because he’s afraid of ’em. They depend for business on Copts, but Prester John’s poor little Ethiopes are not even permitted to roll eggs at Easter. You can thank your Creator that vander Poele here has done something about it.’
There was a momentary vacuum, as all the air in the room was sucked in. Then Markios said, ‘Vander Poele has done what?’
Seen in profile, Nicholas had not so much changed colour as quietly congealed. He stirred. ‘The Patriarch is pleased that my sugar-master comes from Damascus. I have men, and buy equipment from Syrian moderates.’
‘And I don’t suppose,’ Father Ludovico remarked, ‘that you had to pay all that much for them either. The prince Uzum Hasan would be glad to make up their salaries.’
‘Uzum Hasan!’ said the King’s uncle.
‘Vander Poele was in treaty with him in Trebizond. Uzum Hasan, head of the Turcoman tribe of the White Sheep; the strongest sect in all Persia; the biggest rival to Constantinople. It was touch and go – wasn’t it, heh? – whether the White Sheep would beat the Turks into Trebizond. The way it turned out was the way young Niccolò wanted it. I am right?’
Fair play, to John le Grant, was fair play. He said judicially, ‘I expect that’s what you heard; but no, you’ve got it wrong, Patriarch. We fought the Turks, and the Turks frightened off Uzum Hasan, and the surrender was the Emperor’s choice. Or rather …’ He stopped, his voice fading out; and on reflection stayed stopped. The damage was done. Everyone could see where that trail was leading.
Except Tobie. Tobie said, ‘Well, of course: the responsibility for the surrender lay with that traitorous scoundrel Amiroutzes. If you want the facts about Trebizond, Nicholas here will be happy to tell you. In any case, it wasn’t Uzum Hasan that we dealt with, it was his mother. Sara, the prince’s Syrian …’ At that point, his tone faltered as well. With fascination, John watched the thoughts enter his mind. The mother of Uzum Hasan was a Syrian. And the wife of Uzum Hasan was mother’s sister to Violante, Fiorenza and Valenza of Naxos.
The circumstance of the surrender of Trebizond was not what was being discussed.
Tobie resumed with sudden asperity. ‘We had no call to be in touch with Uzum Hasan after that. Or his mother. I suppose Nicholas needed sugar equipment. That would be common enough. Supplies passing between Kouklia and Damascus in Syria.’ He had turned rather pale.
It seemed to John le Grant that having gone so far, this thought, at least, must be completed. He said, ‘It would be common enough, but that isn’t what the Patriarch was implying. Nicholas, did you inspire the letter from Uzum’s wife to the Emperor? The one that Amiroutzes betrayed to the Sultan? I don’t think I could blame you, but Tobie would be happy if you could say no.’
‘Then of course,’ Nicholas said, ‘I say no.’
‘Quite right,’ said Ludovico da Bologna. ‘Anyone who knows George Amiroutzes knows who the real devil is. The head of a philosopher on the loins of a tomcat. Fell in love with the
Duke of Athens’ sweet little widow, and tried to get rid of the Patriarch of Constantinople when he wouldn’t let him divorce his first wife. The Greek Patriarch, that is. He should try the Latin Patriarch next: that’s Bessarion, godfather to one of his sons. Or perhaps not. The other son’s converted to Mohammed and they say George is going the same way. Et Filioque with a vengeance. And talking of children, Carlotta’s lost the heir to her kingdom. Would you care for some water?’
Nicholas said, ‘No, thank you. A son?’ There was no chance, now, of reading his face. He had schooled it so well that it received the implications of that entire passage of information with no expression at all.
‘A premature son,’ the Patriarch confirmed. ‘So Zacco can take time to frame his marriage plans. And so what was your quarrel with him all about? The King didn’t want Uzum Hasan to march in and help clear out the Sultan’s rough Mamelukes?’
‘The question didn’t arise,’ Nicholas said. His eyes, and those of the priest, moved and shifted like sun on two knife-blades.
‘And you were a fool to put the question that did arise,’ said the King’s uncle unexpectedly. Nicholas turned his head. Markios said, ‘I know what you asked the King to do. Your lady wife told my sister at table of your desire for a truce with Famagusta, your wish to feed the pigs and convince them of their isolation. Your idea that the King and I would lean back in indolence, allowing Famagusta to fatten and snigger, throwing away all the months of striving so that you could save your thick skin from a fight?’
‘She said all that?’ said Nicholas mildly.
‘No,’ said the Patriarch. ‘I heard her. For a lady of doubtful morals, she put your case well. The rest is merely what the court will also say when they hear. Calm yourself. If I were a liar, I should prettify the past of your wife, but I am not. But this is what I am here to discuss. You have proposed a truce, and the King has refused it?’
Race of Scorpions Page 58
