He was here to receive the intimation that his marriage was to be set aside whether he wished it or not, and his wife Primaflora installed as what she already was: the permanent mistress of James, King of Cyprus. He recognised without joy that of those before him, a number must know why he was here, and he wondered if the boy Diniz had been told, in whatever retreat he had found; and if the news had made him feel better, or worse. The boy was so young and had so little, unless you counted a slow-growing trust in himself, tarnished now by de Ribérac’s calumny. Diniz had wanted to stay in his company. Now, Nicholas could not imagine what the boy felt, except that he must somehow need help. As soon as he could, he would find him.
Meanwhile, here was rejoicing. Circumspectly triumphant, of course, the Venetians. Paul Erizzo, the Venetian Bailie. The Martini brothers. The bulky presence of the great Marco Corner and his skilful colleague Giovanni Loredano, whose beautiful wives had returned to their Venetian palaces. The Venetians had brought him to Cyprus to please James of Lusignan and for their own profit, and as a result of it, Carlotta and Genoa had been defeated, the Mamelukes disposed of, and James and the Venetians remained. In return for his services Nicholas had received land and money, both of which he would be permitted, he thought, to retain. He had been allowed to enjoy the favour of Zacco, now tempered. He had received from Zacco, not the Venetians, the valuable franchise of the dyeworks, but there, as he had half expected, the Venetians had annexed back the gift. The royal sugar estates were still his to control, but he had no doubt that both the Corner and the Martini were laying plans to regain them. In which case, they would have to reckon with the other plans he had in mind to prevent that. Nicholas bestowed his wide, dimpled smile on Erizzo, Corner and the rest, and they smiled and bowed in return.
There was the dark face of the Chancellor Rizzo di Marino, who unsurprisingly had grasped the chance so temptingly offered to get rid of the Mameluke army in Cyprus. On Rizzo’s head lay the blame, of course, for the massacre, and not on that of James, or of Markios or, indeed on his own. He would accept, however, that the death of Tzani-bey had been contrived by himself. It had suited the King and perhaps had even suited Cairo. The Sultan would complain, and raise the tribute, but was unlikely to replace the emir with another. Cairo, now, would want to keep its forces at home.
There was the admiral Sor de Naves, whom Nicholas did not happen to like, but whom he treasured for the sake of one, small conversation. The lawyer Philip Podocataro, who had failed to recruit him for Zacco in Venice and had no doubt recommended other ways of persuasion. And whose treaty, this month, had brought about the surrender of Famagusta. With him were two faces Nicholas had not expected to see: those of Jacopo and Bartolomeo Zorzi. He was moving towards them when the King called him over.
He was flushed, and had been drinking. Unless you knew him well, it was not obvious, for James of Lusignan was young, and strong, and carried his drink as well as he carried all his other excesses. Below the brim of his hat, his eyes were open and sparkling, with their flecks of green and grey and warm brown, the mingled colours of the Lusignan inheritance. A curl of feather mixed with his hair, and he wore a sideless tunic over his doublet whose high collar was thick-sewn with jewels.
With him was a beauty. Not a woman, although his black hair curled inwards at the nape of his neck over a little collar of goose-down, and the hands smoothing over a drawing were ringed and long-fingered and fine. Then the stranger looked up, and Nicholas saw a pure oval face with a cleft chin and deep-fringed dark eyes. The femininity of the impression was destroyed by the substance and shape of the nose, and by the robust structure of thigh and ankle and calf. Everything about the newcomer’s person conformed to the highest requirements of Zacco’s known tastes, and was set forth here, of intent, before Nicholas. A Lusignan did not feel shame before a well-liked Flemish friend who possessed a small prize that he coveted. A Lusignan said, ‘I am King. I attract what is comely and deserve it. I spread my table with sweets, and it should please you, from friendship, to add to them.’ Understanding Zacco, Nicholas waited.
The King said, ‘Dear Nikko, see. The plans for the new Palace. We are rebuilding Famagusta. The Bishop, too, will have something worthy of him. And the drawings there, for the Triumphal Entry. You will see them. You will meet my David here, later. Come. They will excuse us. I have a gift for you. We have a little business to settle.’
The chamber he took him to was the familiar one, with the curtained bed, and the window giving over the balcony, the gardens, the moat. Over the bed lay a robe of silk lined with sable. ‘For you. For Famagusta, and what you have suffered. It is too heavy. You will wear it when you are fit. Are you in pain? You must be in pain from your wounds, and the sorrow. Your lovely girl died.’
He had indicated where Nicholas should sit, and had taken his own place, as once before, by the window. His swinging foot this time said that he was unhappy, in spite of the wine, and wished this over, and soon would feel and show irritation. Nicholas had not meant to let him off lightly; but he baulked at having Katelina’s name invoked to make Zacco feel better. He said, ‘My lord, I have no need of gifts. I have been told what you require for your happiness, and I freely give it you.’
The swinging foot stopped. ‘You have been told?’
‘By Primaflora,’ Nicholas said.
The King looked down at his hands. He said, ‘Of course, it is not the custom, in a man seeking office, to marry a courtesan. You did not realise, perhaps, how this could harm your future.’
Nicholas heard him without surprise and without rancour. He had no intention of embarking on the real facts about Primaflora. The King was at present besotted. Whoever spoiled this particular idyll would become, on the instant, his enemy. Instead, Nicholas spoke in what he hoped was his usual voice. ‘As perhaps she has told you, it was a marriage born of expediency. She wished to leave Rhodes.’
The hazel eyes rose, and the King’s hand went to his lip. ‘She told me. She was unkind to you. I am sorry. But she has known men of exceptional ardour and one cannot blame her, perhaps, for a little impatience. But you found consolation. Or perhaps didn’t require it?’ The King smiled and, leaning forward, laid his hand on that of Nicholas. ‘Sometimes I envy you that aloof mind and phlegmatic body. You will never burn in the fire of your passions.’
‘I am aware of my good fortune,’ said Nicholas.
The King slapped his hand and withdrew. He was smiling. He said, ‘But you are not. I have offered you land, position, revenues, houses. I would give you something more. I lease your round ship, and one day she will be restored to you. When that day comes, I shall give you another. For all your company did, you will have the Adorno. She is damaged. When repaired, she will enter my service. But the returns for her use will be yours, and when her duty is over, you will have her. Are you pleased?’
‘My lord,’ Nicholas said. ‘I cannot thank you enough.’ He was pleased, in the places where he wasn’t searingly angry.
The King planted both feet on the ground. ‘But there will be other things. What else can I do?’
Nicholas hesitated. He said, ‘I have an enemy here.’
The King, it seemed, had talked with Marietta his mother. He said, ‘The Frenchman? I heard. I shall do what I can. Of course, it is difficult. The King of France has the wealth that might save Cyprus one day from the Turks, and the Frenchman, I understand, is his adviser. He has asked to see me.’
‘He has no complaint against me that cannot be answered,’ Nicholas said. ‘He will invent if he has to. I am concerned over the boy Diniz Vasquez, his grandson.’
‘Are you? They tell me he caused that,’ Zacco said. He nodded, indicating where the axe fell. ‘They tell me that the man Zorzi urged him to kill you outright, and then got rid of the boy when he didn’t. Do you believe that?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think Diniz was truthful. The Venetians missed the bountiful hand of the Lusignan, and resented my tenure of the dyeworks. They have it again,
I understand. I have no complaint. A land needs money and help, and must go where such offers.’
The young man in the window was smiling. ‘To the point, always. But one chooses the source of the money, the help. Tell me now. When the boy injured you, you protected him. You protected him again in Famagusta. Why? I offered to punish him.’
‘He was young. He mistook me. Mercy is not a bad thing. And Famagusta punished him more severely than you could,’ Nicholas said. He watched the King’s face, and saw there for an instant the look he had seen when the Lusignan rode into that destroyed and desolate city. It passed. The King slipped from his seat and said, ‘Famagusta. You must see the plans. I will remember the boy, and see that he chooses whether or not to go with his grandfather. We shall talk again when you have made your choice of other things. Leave the robe. I shall have it sent to you. Come. Come and meet David.’
The hall rang with voices and laughter when the King’s attendant opened the doors to allow Zacco to enter. It was slow in dying, for they had all drunk a good deal and he had indulged them. Those who were sober were those who had known why Nicholas had been called to the Palace. You could tell them by their air of expectancy.
Poised, absorbed at a lectern, the King’s new acquaintance called David was not immediately roused by the King’s step but rested in thought, the soft beard of a quill at his lips. He dropped his hand to make a small note and lifted his eyes as the King brought Nicholas to him. He laid down the quill quickly and bowed. His eyes, shining on Nicholas, were as dark as the ink he was using, and his head reached no higher than the King’s shoulder. The King said, ‘Here is Niccolò. You have heard all about him. Niccolò vander Poele. I should have introduced you before. Nikko: M. David de Salmeton.’
A French name. The man’s inflection, when he murmured his greeting, was also as French as his own. That was, French mixed with something else – but in his case, not Flemish. The King said, ‘And what have you marked? The Grand Bailie will not agree, but I shall insist. Marble. I shall have nothing but marble.’
The chart for the new Palace of Famagusta lay on the lectern. Beside it, neatly listed, was a first assessment of costs. Nicholas said, ‘I think perhaps you should get the Grand Bailie very drunk.’ He could feel the court watching; the relief, the amusement seeping through the room. The King had prevailed. The Fleming had surrendered his wife without so much as a struggle. There remained, of course, to be seen what they would all have to pay, in slow advancement, in grovelling, to the deprived husband loaded with honours. He turned aside abruptly. The King stopped him, a hand on his good shoulder. ‘A realist, this man of numbers. I know, Nikko. The Grand Bailie has told me. Our coffers will not pay for this. I shall not squeeze it out of the peasantry. I shall not even exact more from your sugar. It will be paid for by M. David.’
No one but himself seemed surprised. How long had this man been at court? A few days? Even weeks, before the King came to Famagusta? It was a long time since Nicholas had been in the capital. Nicholas said, ‘By M. David? In what way?’
‘In the usual way,’ said the dark young man, his lips softening. He didn’t smile.
The King did. He said, ‘You have been locked up, a hostage. You have missed all the news. M. de Salmeton is a broker, Niccolò, like yourself. Like yourself, his firm’s business takes many forms. They deal in pawns, dyes, insurance. They have ships. They raise loans, like the one that will rebuild Famagusta. They build sugar refineries.’
‘I see,’ Nicholas said. ‘The name of your firm is Vatachino?’
‘That is correct,’ said David de Salmeton. ‘Of course, you have heard of us. We were happy to take your surplus sugar. M. de Corner and M. de Loredano the same. I hope we have completed our task to your satisfaction.’
‘I am glad to meet you,’ said Nicholas.
Again, the fine lips softened but didn’t part. The broker said, ‘Oh, I am not the head of Vatachino. Only an agent.’
‘And who is the head, monseigneur?’ Nicholas said.
The King laughed again. ‘Try to get him to answer that! He says that it is of no importance, or no interest, or even that he doesn’t know. He has full powers to deal and to sign, so we cannot torture it out of him. But you are curious, too. How shall we discover?’
Nicholas said, still speaking into the dark, tranquil face, ‘But you must have an office?’
‘Many,’ said the calm, amused voice. ‘One in Venice, for example. I have had dealings with your Messer Gregorio. Perhaps he has not wished to worry you with them. And we are about to set up in Bruges. I am interested in dyeworks.’
‘You have operated one?’ Nicholas said.
The young man lifted and wiped his pen, closed his inkwell and left the lectern, standing with his hands clasped loosely together before him. He looked like a patient, harp-playing angel stopped on his way to a choir. He said, ‘We own a dyeworks, monseigneur. Here in Nicosia.’
‘Not unless there are two,’ said Bartolomeo Zorzi agreeably. Behind his black beard, his face didn’t quite match his voice. He said, ‘I have the only dyeyard in Nicosia.’
A feeling of incipient ecstasy overcame Nicholas. He looked at the King, and found the King was looking at him, and enjoying it. Nicholas turned. The exquisite person called David said, ‘I am most distressed. I believed the news had been broken. It is M. Zorzi, is it not? Of course, the royal dyeworks appeared to be in the King’s gift. But unfortunately –’
‘Unfortunately?’ said Bartolomeo Zorzi. He looked at Jacopo his brother and back again, like a flag changing face in a wind.
‘Unfortunately, the King had incurred a large debt. It could not be paid. We were forced to demand it. The only way he could give satisfaction was by leasing to us all the rights in the dyeworks, and a proper basis for their future expenses. The revenues, that is, of the villages of Pactona and Lectora, and five thousand besants on the customs of Nicosia. I regret,’ said the broker quite charmingly. Within their wonderful lashes, the frigid eyes displayed no trace of contrition.
Bartolomeo Zorzi said, ‘Who do you work for?’
‘Nemesis, I imagine,’ Nicholas said. ‘And in future, keep out of my way, as well as his. Tell your older brother.’
Zorzi’s eyes remained, frowning, on the face of the stranger. So, too, did the hostile gaze of the other Venetians. Like himself, of course, the Corner had suffered from the footprint of this unknown and ominous company. Perhaps also the Knights of St John. Nicholas hesitated. He said, ‘Forgive me, my lord King. You mentioned borrowing. Have you signed an agreement with M. de Salmeton?’
It was never wise to do this to Zacco. He couldn’t think of another quick way to do it. The King said, ‘It was necessary. You were in Famagusta.’
‘Of course. Perhaps another time, we might be of service. Might I know,’ Nicholas said, ‘what was put forward as security for this and other loans? Apart from the dyeworks?’
The King said, ‘Are you afraid for your sugar? It is safe. It is all safe. You’ve forgotten. I have ransoms for twelve wealthy prisoners, including the vicomte de Ribérac.’
‘The ransoms have come?’ Nicholas said. He saw, without looking, that he had received a glance from the dark eyes.
The King said, ‘How could they, so quickly? But they will. I have sent for de Ribérac.’
A pang of amusement went through Nicholas. He said, ‘He will be delighted. He takes a profound interest in the Vatachino.’ He took thought, and added, ‘Anyway, he thought the ransom too high.’ Again, the quick look. This time he returned it. A door opened.
He turned, and so did the extraordinary black changeling at his side. The towering bulk of de Ribérac failed to enter the room. A clerk from the Secrète stood on the threshold instead, and made his way forward, skirts swishing. Between the flaps of his cap he was pale.
‘Well?’ said Zacco softly. He had sobered.
‘My lord King,’ said the clerk. ‘M. de Ribérac is not in his room. We have made enquiries. We have asked at
the gates. We have met messengers on their way from the south. My lord King, M. de Ribérac has escaped.’
‘Without paying his ransom?’ said the angel.
‘He left nothing,’ said the clerk.
‘How?’ said the King. He lifted his fist and crashed it down on the lectern. The inkwell jumped to the floor, split and emptied. Quietly, the young man called David lifted the plan out of harm’s way and held it, folded neatly, at his side.
‘He had help. From one of Messer Niccolò’s men,’ said the clerk.
It was, of course, one of the possibilities. It was the only possibility. Nicholas said, ‘I know nothing of this. Tell me who?’ But he knew. He should have guessed. He should have prepared for it.
The clerk said, ‘Your sailing-master, Messer Crackbene, Ser Niccolò. He contrived to take the vicomte through the gates and found mounts for him. They left last night and were in Salines by morning. They have sailed.’
‘By what means?’ Nicholas said.
The clerk turned to him. His knuckles were white. ‘Messer Crackbene took him on the Doria.’
Naturally. The contract was over. Crackbene had been paid. Meticulous to the last, he had waited before switching masters, and the fault was not his that Nicholas had failed to foresee it. Nicholas remembered him on the same round ship sailing from Italy: a solid, fair, high-coloured man, put out because he had been forced by Erizzo to take the Doria to Cyprus. It had been easy to mistake his indignation for loyalty, and in its way, that was what it had been; for at that time Crackbene had been employed by the House of Niccolò. But now, that covenant was concluded. The ownership of the Doria – of any vessel – was not Crackbene’s business. He was invited, for a fee, to become master, and if the fee was large enough, he accepted. You could call him a rascal, or you could call him a master mariner without whom Famagusta would have been a condemned city. It didn’t matter to Crackbene that the vicomte had stolen the ship. He might not even have known that the Doria was once called the Ribérac.
Race of Scorpions Page 73
