Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
‘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?’
‘I have proposed to leave Nicosia immediately,’ Nicholas said, ‘to prepare and lead an attack on Famagusta. He refused to allow it.’
‘You were not very convincing, perhaps,’ Markios said.
‘And when first proposing your truce,’ Father Ludovico said, ‘did you put yourself out to press that view in any way either? Did you call the Archbishop? The Knights of the Order? Myself? It is regarded as worthy of Christians to feed the starving; to desist from war during the time of our dear Lord’s Nativity.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘From me, he would take no advice of that sort. But you are welcome to try.’
‘He will not,’ Markios said. ‘Forgive me, Father. You speak as if these thieves in Famagusta had rights. I believe, as Zacco believes, that to yield would be a weakness amounting to sin. I should hold no truce. I should pass no food. I should not let them linger, wasting time, wasting money, until the spring brings them fresh
hope. I should persuade the King to change his mind, and let Messer Niccolò lead an assault. Of course, in that I should probably fail. We know why Messer Niccolò made the offer. We know with what confidence it must have been made. We have seen the King and his favourite together. There is nothing more certain than that Zacco will not send his friend into danger. Is that not so? Ser Niccolò, is that not so?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. He got up, with the smooth, small dovetailing of joint and sinew and muscle that was the hallmark of well-realised design, and surveyed them all five, ending with the blue-jowled, pitted face of the priest. He said, ‘Since no one can persuade Zacco I have, of course, made the decision myself. I leave for Sigouri tonight, and Famagusta tomorrow. Whoever wishes may follow me. As soon as the assault can be prepared, it will be made. And I don’t really see how Zacco or anything else is going to stop me. You will excuse me, I hope.’
With admiration tinged with dread, John le Grant saw Nicholas bow, turn, and, with decision, walk out on the Patriarch. The door closed. Tobie jumped up. Markios laughed. He said, ‘Puppies need kicking. You saw.’
‘Yes. I saw,’ said the priest. ‘Your Mamelukes, at least, will give him a welcome. God works in wonderful ways. Allah too, I dare say. Abul Ismail?’
‘I should go,’ said the Arab, rising. ‘If this attack is to be, I too will be needed at Famagusta. And you, my lord Patriarch?’
‘Famagusta?’ said Father Ludovico in surprise. ‘With Christmas coming? My son, the casals of the Patriarchate have not even submitted their dues. A churchman is busy. A churchman is always busier than other people.’
‘Come on,’ said John le Grant to Tobie. ‘We’ve got some riding to do.’
To Nicholas, the only immediate benefit of that wholly unpleasant discussion was that it shut up both le Grant and Tobie; and even Astorre, when found and brought to the villa, was unnaturally silent except on matters purely martial. An excellent soldier, Astorre simply accepted the prospect of a night ride to Sigouri, and made no bones about his employer’s decision that, against the King’s wishes, an assault was to be made. All along, Astorre had been longing to get the campaign over and done with.
Meanwhile, there was a need for discretion. Their departure from the royal precincts had not, Nicholas believed, drawn attention. After that display of high temper, Zacco wouldn’t send for him, even if sober. And tomorrow, one hoped, he would merely assume that Nicholas had made a pettish departure and was sulking somewhere, awaiting apology or forgiveness. Markios, for one, would not disillusion him.
Primaflora was not at the villa. But now, attending on the King’s mother, she might be expected to stay tonight at the Palace. He could imagine the two clever women, and the delicate fencing. He left her a note and, after hesitation, a small parcel which contained the most personal, the most valuable object he possessed. He would have liked to have said goodbye in another way, but this was probably best. There was no doubt at all, if he led this assault, that he would not return. For as long as she lived, she had been provided for. He wondered, once, if she would weep for him as she had done for Ansaldo.
The other note he left with Loppe who had received him, and listened, and then deftly completed his packing. To Loppe himself he had nothing to give save the task in Cyprus which had seemed most worth doing. Nicholas said, ‘The company will have the Kouklia franchise so long as the King has a conscience. Run it well, so long as it pleases you. The dyeworks are different. They are lost, I think to the Venetians, whatever happens.’
After some moments of silence, Loppe spoke without apparent emotion. ‘You forbid me to come?’
‘You know why,’ said Nicholas. ‘Or does even a temporary steward open no chests; fold no linen away?’ And then, answering the look on Loppe’s face, he said, ‘Don’t be sorry. For what I do, I need larger reasons than that.’
To Sigouri was perhaps thirty miles and, although the rain kept away, it was dark and treacherous underfoot and they hardly spoke, men-at-arms or servants or principals, as they guided fresh horses across the grey soil of the Messaoria, splashing over burgeoning rivers; imperceptible to silent villages, churches and monasteries except by a thud of hooves and the swimming spawn of their brands. It was grey daylight when they crossed the moat of the Château Franc and besides himself only Astorre, Nicholas saw, had tried to keep the iron back and square shoulders of duty. Astorre, because he was content under orders. Himself, because alone of them all, he knew what he was committed to. What he had brought them to. What, without him, they would never have had to face. But that was the risk they had taken in joining him.
Their approach had been seen. With Pesaro, striding to meet them, was Thomas. Thomas said, ‘The heathen bastards!’
‘Wait,’ said Nicholas. In the captain’s room, hardly cold from the last time, he said, ‘Now. Tzani-bey?’
Philip Pesaro looked gaunt. He said, ‘We carried out all your orders. We restored the water. We sent loaves over the wall, with a message. The Genoese sent them back. They thought they were poisoned.’
‘They’ve had no food then?’ said Nicholas abruptly. ‘They are starving still? But you went on trying?’
‘Over and over. Until we collected the bread they kept returning and started to use it. Four men have died.’
‘It was poisoned,’ said Nicholas. ‘I asked you-’ He heard his voice hardening and stopped. The others, who knew nothing of this, were turning their heads like three blackbirds.
John le Grant said, ‘You stopped the pumps? Put water and food into Famagusta without Zacco knowing?’
‘No. He didn’t know,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or he wouldn’t have agreed to a truce over Christmas.’
Tobie said, ‘He didn’t agree.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘And as it turns out, it doesn’t much matter. Even if he’d sent in a flock of prime cattle, they’d have known, after this, after St Hilarion, not to touch it.
Why didn’t you protect that damned food?
’
That was addressed to Philip Pesaro. The captain said, ‘What do you think I feel about it? I did all you asked. I had the emir watched. I had the bread guarded. Still he managed.’
‘And you spoke to Tzani-bey?’ Nicholas said.
‘Oh, I spoke to him,’ said the captain. ‘He was extremely polite. He said my words were of pellucid clarity and great wisdom, but he knew nothing of poison, and if I wished to complain, he would be glad to take sherbet with you, or with Zacco. But the King hasn’t agreed to the truce?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is only the alternative that we spoke of.’
Pesaro’s face altered briefly. Then he said, ‘I remember. They starve. Or we save the honour of Genoa the Superb by attacking them.’
‘Nicholas,’ said John le Grant, making three words of it.
He had forgotten the others. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you, because it was all planned to – to have its effect. There is no food in Famagusta. They are dying.’
‘And you put food in, against the King’s orders, before ever you came to Nicosia? And gave the King a false story? And now Tzani-bey has seized the chance to defy you and poison it? Nicholas, you fool, why don’t you tell us?’ said le Grant.
What would a truthful man say? You are too honest to be trusted with some secrets. One slip of the tongue would have betrayed all I was working for. There are more threads in this web than you even know yet; more than you could understand; more than you would ever forgive. Nicholas said, ‘I thought he might agree to the truce. But now, you see, the only way to save them is to fight.’
‘Then we fight,’ said Astorre. ‘I thought we’d agreed on it. And if they’re starving, it’ll be all the shorter.’
‘They can still fire cannon,’ said Nicholas. ‘No. Let’s sleep, and then get to the siege camp. I want to plan. I want to do this thing
as well as it can be done, and with as few deaths as we can manage. And before anything else, I want to have a word with Tzani-bey al-Ablak.’
Chapter 38
T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT
, Nicholas presented himself with Astorre at the gate of the Mameluke camp, with its well-defended ring of wagons and store-houses. He had chosen an hour at which the emir would certainly have retired, and might not have heard of his arrival. There was a chance, of course, that he would be refused entry, but he didn’t think so. He, like the emir, was a commander answering straight to the King. While Famagusta stood out, the emir should want no altercations with Zacco. And the bey’s communication with Zacco had been cut. Philip Pesaro had seen to that. For four days, whatever courier came to Sigouri, he would never get further. After that, it would be different.
And, of course, if he was shrewd enough, the emir Tzani-bey would want to bargain with him.
He received Nicholas and Astorre in his pavilion, and within a reasonable time, although the quilted cover had barely been flung over the mattress, and the pile of carpets was ruffled. To one side, dropped unnoticed, lay a silver cup which had not contained sherbet. Among the many odours was the one that, until this moment, Nicholas had thrust forgotten deep in his memory. He bowed correctly, and sat crosslegged on the cushions as offered, while Astorre, smart as scissors, did likewise. The emir took his place thoughtfully opposite.
Seen in undress, in the vivid fabrics of winter, he was a smaller man than he seemed in the field, despite the broad shoulders and sinewy limbs. The sooty eyes, the olive skin, the coarse black mop of the moustache gave little clue as to his origins. He spoke Arabic, and fluent Greek, and had acquired reasonable French; he was well trained in arms, and perhaps in other skills too: an education in philosophy, divinity, science was open to Mamelukes, and not always incompatible with brutish behaviour. But if he had a Christian past, it was not apparent in his dress: the crimson hat with the kerchief wound lightly about it, or the striped Tartar tunic with its
oblique seam, or the coat he wore open over it, its buttons of gold, and the pious inscription of the tirâz embroidered in gold on its sleeve. He had changed his yellow leggings and boots for pointed slippers in soft Moroccan leather.
A long time ago, Zacco had sent this man, lord of his Mamelukes, to fetch Nicholas from the monastery to which the Venetians had brought him. For a year, an open breach with Tzani-bey had been denied him. But now, James was about to be King of all Cyprus and the final reckoning was close. Nicholas wondered whether, sitting there, the emir felt the same bitter exultation that he did.
Nicholas said, ‘I will be brief.’
‘Because time is short?’ said Tzani-bey. ‘I agree. The end of such a partnership as ours cannot be long delayed. It is fitting that words should be spoken.’
‘Certainly,’ Nicholas said, ‘we have served the same master.’
The emir placed his brown fingers together. ‘You dislike the word partnership? But what have we been but Frank and Saracen, yoked like camel and ass to the plough? You prefer sugar paste and old women, I’m told. Sugar paste, the smooth skin of young girls. Old women, such as the mother of Uzum Hasan; such as the wife who gave you your fortune; such as Marietta of Patras, the mother of the lord Zacco.’ He turned to Astorre, who had growled. ‘I do not criticise. A man’s appetites are half the man, and must be known if you would understand him.’
He turned back to Nicholas. ‘I say merely that I know nothing of your late wife. I know Uzum Hasan; and his mother, though courageous, is only his mouthpiece. That is not so with Zacco.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Nicholas.
The black moustache moved. ‘Ah! He is a man with his own will, and much cleverness. She does not work alone. They work together. He must have successors. She gives him women. He prefers his own kind. She selects what will benefit him most. She is harsh. He succours. I am a counter in this game. You also. And when it is finished; when Famagusta is taken, what do you think will happen to you, and to me?’
‘Emir,’ Nicholas said, ‘I was about to inform you. After Famagusta is taken, I propose that you and I face one another in public combat. In spite of what you have said, I should prefer to obtain satisfaction for past injuries from yourself than from either King James or his mother.’
‘Spoken like a stout Latin,’ said the emir. ‘And you imagine you or I will survive to take part in this chivalrous duel? Or that if we do, the survivor will live?’