Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Nicholas spoke carefully. ‘If I want an engine, my lord, first I design it, and then I fashion the tools for its making. You are training men without knowing what you will need them for. You don’t need to bind them first. They will follow you anyway, and if you give them a goal, they will stay with you.’
‘For what I can give them?’ said Zacco.
‘For what you are,’ Nicholas said. ‘Why doubt it now?’
‘You tell me,’ said Zacco.
Nicholas made a small pause. ‘My lord, kingdoms can be lost by men vying for favour. It is better to make the goal plain. Those who achieve it deserve the best following.’
Zacco made a slow movement. The hand holding the vellum rose and released the map flat on his knee. Where he had gripped it were imprints like claw-marks. He said, ‘Do we speak of the King, or of some woman with suitors?’
Nicholas said, ‘We speak, my lord, of brave men who are inspired, and how best to use them.’ He watched, and then said, ‘If my lord would allow. I was brought here for a purpose, and I would fulfil it. Now is the time to make plans. A single meeting would do, provided your men come prepared. I have a list of questions for each of your officers. I should like them to bring you their answers. With what that will tell us, the campaign could be designed now for the spring. By next year, my lord could be King of all Cyprus.’
There was another silence. Then Zacco said, ‘Where are the questions?’
They were in the satchel he wore. Condensed, the text still ran to several pages, spaced for clarity and penned in the model hand he had taken from Colard. He gave them to Zacco who, looking down, half raised a finger. It gave him leave to sit, which he did. He relaxed, with some trouble. Zacco read them.
It had taken two weeks to guess some of the reasons for Zacco’s delay. Vanity, lust, instability – a Lusignan who was Cropnose’s son would have defects of that order, and had. But Zacco often channelled his impulses. There was a legitimate need to bind men of uncertain allegiance. Zacco must pander as well to his faction –
the Egyptian army, which preferred looting to fighting; the native Cypriots who called themselves White Venetians and didn’t want their lands ruined. And the Venetian merchants themselves, who represented the future wealth of the island, and wished to prosecute their daily business without inconvenience. If he wanted the Grand Turk kept from Cyprus, Zacco had to please and placate the Venetians.
In a military sense, the problems were clear, and even straightforward. Zacco held all but two centres. He had to dislodge the Queen’s men from Kyrenia, built between the sea and the mountains, and attained by a single pass barred by a fortress. And he had to drive the Genoese from Famagusta, the viscounty and port on which Kyrenia drew. In each enclave was an enemy castle, strongly protected by sea and defended by land.
These two castles might fall to a great fleet, a great army, to ruse or to cannon. Failing these, a blockade might reduce them. Now, beginning the season, it was a matter of weighing the chances, and choosing. In such things, one made no assumptions. One calculated. One dwelled, most particularly, on the heavily guarded pass that led to Kyrenia, and the fort of St Hilarion that defended it. And in the end one looked not to Kyrenia at all, but to the key of the land, which was Famagusta.
The King, he already knew, preferred action to scholarship. To read the papers cost time, during which Nicholas waited. At the end, Zacco looked up. He said, ‘You think you know the answers. You have made up your mind.’
Nicholas said, ‘No. I know what has gone wrong before. I don’t know what can be done to correct it.’
‘How do you know?’ Zacco said.
‘From the Genoese,’ Nicholas said. ‘They talked about it on Rhodes. They thought, you see, that I was going to fight for Carlotta.’ He didn’t mention the name of Lomellini, who had dispensed a number of crisp and positive tales of past invasions and Genoese genius. Nor did he name Tomà Adorno, who – knowing Nicholas from the past – had told him more than anyone else and who, perhaps, had been less sure than anyone else that he was going to fight for Carlotta. From him he knew the depth of the sea moat at Famagusta, the excellence of the walls of the capacious castle which could hold seven hundred troops, and deploy from its towers enough fire power to shatter ships. Once, said Tomà Adorno, six thousand men and thirteen Catalan galleys had tried to take Famagusta and failed. Tomà Adorno was concerned, it was clear, to demonstrate to any foe of Famagusta that their task was hopeless, and the city impregnable. His information had interested Nicholas, as had also the fact that he offered it.
Now, speaking to Zacco, Nicholas developed the subject. ‘To
take Famagusta, you would need a fleet and army from Cairo, or from the Grand Turk at Constantinople. You must know if that is likely.’
‘To invite the Grand Turk would be suicide. Otherwise, everything is possible,’ Zacco said. ‘Even help from the West. You know a friar called Ludovico da Bologna? He does not mind using Muslims in a Christian cause.’
‘I rather think,’ Nicholas said, ‘that the Pope is not on his side. Will Cairo help?’
‘No,’ said Zacco. ‘I have the Mamelukes they have already supplied, whom I must not slight. You know this.’
‘I understand,’ Nicholas said. ‘Then Kyrenia, too, cannot be stormed with the forces you have. You need what you don’t yet possess, such as cannon.’
‘We had artillery once,’ remarked Zacco. ‘Venice sold guns in secret to both sides. They did no damage worth speaking of, before they were captured.’
‘I have a gunfounder,’ Nicholas said. ‘In sixty years, skills have improved. If we are to consider a siege, guns would shorten it.’
‘We have a siege. Two,’ Zacco said. ‘You haven’t noticed. You think we are here to hunt and play games. We have cut the lines between the two cities. We have penned each of them in. We track down their foraging parties. We flatten the country around, so that there are no stores they can raid. They are starving.’
‘Not while Imperiale Doria supplies them by ship,’ Nicholas said. ‘Carlotta’s consort has only now moved from Kyrenia. Merchants still use Famagusta. Traders don’t like the short commons, but they are not starving yet. Unless they are gripped round the neck, both cities may hold out for years.’
‘You wish to give me advice,’ the King said.
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘After the meeting, you will make up your mind. It is your country.’
‘I thought,’ said Zacco, ‘you had forgotten. It has slipped my mind. Do you wrestle?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. He was flung to the floor as he spoke. He had half expected it, and saved his spine by a twist and a jab before he recalled he was supposed to be ignorant. His arm was seized and twisted and he prevented it breaking in time, and got a leg where it would hurt. Zacco swore and changed grip. His muscles were young and elastic and, in exertion, solid as boxwood. He said, between breaths, ‘A Milan teacher?’
‘Primaflora,’ said Nicholas, croaking. They both laughed, and he yelped as the breath thudded out of him. A pair of thumbs stuck in his neck and his head cracked on a pole, then a carpet. He kicked the King in a place fractionally clear of the genitals and hurled himself to one side. A mace-head buried its spikes where he’d
been. The King, grasping the club, stood astride him. He was pale, with red on his cheekbones. Nicholas said, ‘I’ve got another three pages with the answers on. If I don’t come back, Astorre will burn them.’ Without much effort, he kept his face drawn.
For a moment, the young man looked down at him. His hair, tossed in the struggle, clung in coils to his skin, and his breath hissed in his throat from exertion. He said, ‘You have the kick of a traitor.’
Nicholas lay looking up. He said, ‘I could do it again.’ It didn’t go down well. He said, ‘I hit what I aim for.’
‘So do I,’ said James of Lusignan slowly. ‘So do I. So tell me why you attack me. You resent that I sent the woman away? She was a spy.’ The club hung from his grasp, and he was frowning.
Nicholas said, ‘I doubt that. But spy or not, she was under my eye and yours, and in my bed, damn it all. What good is the Borselen woman?’
The young man above him slowly stepped to one side. He said, ‘None. Do what you like with her.’ He sat down, equally slowly, on the floor, with the mace across his knees, and examined Nicholas. Their eyes locked. After a long time, the King said, as a boy would, ‘Have you ever attended a siege? It is tedious.’
‘For the men. Once it’s in place,’ Nicholas said, ‘it needs only regular supervision. Astorre doesn’t mind being bored. I could get the structures in place. John le Grant could arrange the munitions and sapping before he goes south.’
‘South?’ said the young man. He drew a hand down his own cheek, following the flounce of his hair, and lifting the swathe at his neck with one finger. The finger rested, the heavy hair turning beneath it.
‘To Kouklia and Akhelia to join me. You did say,’ Nicholas said, ‘that I should have the sugar franchise? I hear the second crop is next month, and May is the time for the crushing. By then the siege will be in position, and there will be nothing to do but supervise it. Tzani-bey surely won’t find that too tedious.’
Zacco stared at him, thumb and finger caressing an elflock. He had opened the delicate band, worked in black, that collared his shirt, and the shirt itself was partly unbuttoned, the fine pleated fabric stained and torn from their struggle. In the right calf of his hose, a pale fissure was also apparent. The silence grew. Nicholas did nothing to break it. Zacco lowered his hand. He picked up the mace in two palms and sat, weighing it. He said, ‘I don’t mind greedy men. They fight well. I do, however, insist that they fight first. I did not buy a one-eyed man with a beard. I bought you.’
Nicholas met his stare, without moving. He said, ‘My lord shall have value for money. First the meeting. Then the preparations for the campaign. Then the opening moves. I shall be here for all that.’
‘And if I say,’ Zacco said, ‘that you do not go south until the summer fighting is over?’
‘My lord, you are King. You may say anything. You will be obeyed. Only,’ Nicholas said, ‘how will my lord King fund his war if the royal sugar crop fails?’
‘Why should it?’ said Zacco.
‘I have a premonition,’ Nicholas said. ‘War has already caused damage. Men who have worked for Venetians might prefer to move to Venetian estates. The previous holders might not take kindly to a stranger owning the franchise. Even the Knights at Kolossi have a grudge to pay off. I should be there.’
Zacco said, ‘If a war needs no leader, why not appoint an Astorre to grind sugar?’
‘But I shall,’ Nicholas said. ‘In due time. When I can promise you profit.’
Zacco smiled. He said, ‘You speak as if it were for you to say. Shall I overlook it?’
‘You have bought my mind. It pursues its labours for you, and brings you its conclusions. You have no need to accept them if, when equally primed, you are of a different opinion.’ He did not return the smile, which was not genuine.
Zacco lifted the club, hefted it and, his eyes on Nicholas, hurled it hard through the door of the tent. There was a scream and a crash. Zacco said, ‘You plan to take St Hilarion. I could read it in your mind.’
‘It should be taken,’ Nicholas said.
‘An inaccessible peak, on a pass held by the enemy? Well, take it,’ said Zacco. ‘When I have it, you can go to your sugar crop.’ And to the Saracen who came in, his cheek torn and bleeding, the King said, ‘And did you hear all you wished? Bring meat, and sweetmeats and wine, and wake the boy with the flute. I am hungry.’
Chapter 24
A
MONTH LATER
, in the full explosion of spring, Nicholas attacked the precipice fort of St Hilarion. Through meadows of orange and scarlet and yellow, between the shrieking greens of fresh leaves and among drifts of dizzying scent, the coffer-camels paced with their parcels of gunpowder; mules and oxen dragged wainloads of flour and wine-casks and arrows, tents and iron, balls and forges, scaling-ladders and springals across the plain to the foothills of the Kyrenia mountains. And beside them trotted the Egyptian and Christian army with the young King at its head, and Nicholas riding a Lusignan warhorse beside him.
In Italy, a common soldier under Urbino, Nicholas had plunged into war as a catharsis; an escape into physical combat. The excitement of battle drew him still, as it also burned, he saw, in the Bastard. But this time, Nicholas had a share of Urbino’s role. When the counsellors met, his voice was heard: the plans they made owed more than they knew to his strategy. Nevertheless, in the weeks of preparation that followed he sometimes lost sight of this divine detachment. He became entranced, as so often before, by the beauty of pattern-making: of computing, of fitting pieces together to form a whole as perfect as forethought could manage, while still aware – oh, always aware – that the heavens were garnished with giants, and this mortal kingdom with traps for the cocksure.
Most of the pieces he dealt with were human. The common soldiers he reached through their officers. To the Cypriots, the Catalans, the Aragonese who led the King’s forces, his manner was courteous and plain, neither deferential nor brash. He had their envy already, as the King’s special favourite. He had at least to command their respect. The antagonism of Tzani-bey was of longer standing and deadly, but in public or private, the Egyptian’s manner was unremittingly suave, and his opinions delivered with
honey. Nicholas minded less the captains who shouted: Markios, the Lusignan’s uncle, who snarled and bullied and was revered by the Mamelukes; or Astorre who, although his employee, was always first to pounce, cackling, on an error. Most of all, Nicholas was mesmerised by Zacco himself who, seen at last at his business, revealed what the glitter had hidden.
Here, it would seem, was a just prince; a man who understood discipline; a leader who could win a man’s esteem as well as his heart, and keep them both. In years James the Bastard of Lusignan was of course immature, with the zest of youth and sometimes its rages, its silliness, its cruelty. But only an able man could have come to overrun Cyprus and hold it; keep his two armies together; win victories and men from his sister. As James and Nicholas argued late into the night, the King’s voice interrupting, overriding, applauding, and once breaking into peals of surprised laughter, Nicholas understood that whatever happened, he had been right to come and discover this man; as he felt that Zacco, who had wanted him, was not in every way disappointed. But still, he slept apart.