Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Nicholas said, ‘There is something in his saddlebag. His horse is there.’
The object was a bag made of finely-sewn leather. Tzani-bey, a soldier at either side, knelt in the mud and smiled up at Nicholas. Zacco released him. Nicholas opened the draw-string and tipped to the ground the single object it contained. It lay in the mud, but not contaminated by it; the beard combed, the eyes closed, the mind, with all its learning, withdrawn from the service of mankind. The head of Abul Ismail, the physician.
The emir said, ‘If I have misjudged him, he will be in his pavilion in Paradise. But I think he was a traitor. There is a demon, Ser Niccolò, within that artisan clay that forms your nature. Or perhaps you would call it a siren like Melusine; a serpent; a scorpion. An island of scorpions has invited another. I wish you and your lord of Lusignan well of each other.’
‘Abul Ismail. Who told you he was a traitor?’ Nicholas said.
The Mameluke was gasping now, but his teeth were still set in a smile. He said, ‘The King will tell you.’
‘The King does not know,’ said Zacco steadily. ‘A brave man has died, but disloyalty has met the punishment it deserves. But for Abul Ismail, I should be dead on this field.’
The Mameluke was yellow-white, but he laughed. ‘How? Have I tried to assassinate you? I am alone.’
‘That was not your plan,’ the King said. He looked up. The Sicilian Rizzo di Marino dismounted, mud-covered, and came to stand beside him.
The chamberlain said, ‘Why is he living?’
‘Only to hear your news,’ the King said.
Nicholas thought his voice sounded peculiar. He felt extremely cold and oddly isolated. It came to him that all the voices around him sounded strange, and that his eyes were closed. He opened them. Astorre, behind him, said, ‘It wasn’t bad, but you were stupid to take that one in your side. Go on. Keep standing. I’ve got you.’
The kneeling man he had maimed said, ‘What news?’ in clear French, not Arabic.
Rizzo di Marino said, ‘Oh, you can guess. I’ve just come from your camp. I took with me my whole force from Nicosia. You had learned – I shall not ask how – that the King knew of your plot to overthrow him. You cancelled their march to attack Famagusta, and your men were still complaining because of it. It was dark. They hardly heard us arriving.’
‘You’ve raided my camp? Taken my soldiers?’ said Tzani-bey.
‘Taken them? In a sense,’ said Zacco’s chancellor. ‘In the sense that none of them got to escape us. Two hundred Mamelukes and two hundred foot. They’d have caused quite a battle if you’d changed your mind, and they’d attacked Famagusta.’
‘But they didn’t,’ the emir said.
‘No, they couldn’t,’ said Rizzo di Marino. ‘They really couldn’t. Not then, or any other day. We killed them all. Every last man is dead.’ He turned and said, ‘He’s heard the news now.’
‘So he has,’ said the King. He looked at Nicholas. ‘Nikko? It is your privilege. You suffered the insult. Abul Ismail was your friend.’
On the face of the emir Tzani-bey al-Ablak was only contempt. ‘No,’ he said. ‘If there has been a massacre, I should guess your little lord Niccolò must be thanked for it. I should guess none of this would have happened without him. Your Nikko will not strike my head off. You will have to do that. But his is the blood that will pay for it.’
He spoke to the King, but his eyes were on Nicholas still, and remained there before and during and after the slash with which the King cut off his head.
Chapter 44
I
T WAS EXTRAORDINARY
, after that, how difficult it was to leave Famagusta for Nicosia, which Nicholas had fled, to the risk of his life, nearly two months before.
To begin with, of course, he couldn’t ride. Indeed, they took him straight from the field to the Franciscan monastery, where he was received with cries of dismay and admiration by the loving, gaunt, familiar faces. Now, the wards where he had served were half empty, and the store cupboards full, and the gardens outside the cloisters green with grass and weeds growing together, and the first waxen petals of cyclamen opening under the bushes.
Infected Famagusta was not the best place for the healing of wounds, but they had fresh ointments and bandaging, and their sutures were nearly as good as Tobie’s or Abul’s. It was the friars of St Francis who found for him the sundered body of the Arab physician, and took it into their care until it could be committed to the soil of his own land.
Astorre came to see him, and Thomas, and John. Philip Pesaro was among the first, and there were other captains. They tended to talk boisterously of the fight, but not of its implications. It was as if the breaking of a hundred years of Genoese rule in Famagusta had happened in a way that could not be assimilated. As if, occupying itself with bursts of familiar activity, the army which had striven so long to conquer the island was unable to comprehend what had happened. And to this had been added an event of primaeval ferocity. The Mameluke force supplied them by the Sultan at Cairo had been annihilated, and the repercussions of that, in Cairo, in Venice, in Constantinople, had still to be faced.
James of Lusignan came to the convent of the Franciscans later than most, and brought the Archbishop William Goneme with him. There were no tender attentions, as there had been in the villa in Nicosia. The King’s face was marked with indecision and his fingers moved restlessly on his knee. Nicholas said, ‘This is nonsense. I
shouldn’t be here. A good horse and some strong boots, and I’ll be in Nicosia tomorrow.’
‘No!’ Zacco said. ‘With such cuts? With such loss of blood? Take your ease. And when your mind seeks occupation, go to Sigouri. Call your men there. Acquaint yourself with the castle, its lands, the sugar fields all about it. Nicosia is merely a depot. But what has to be done here? The harbour cleared, the ships raised, the warehouses rebuilt, the villas cleansed and made habitable. The mills and conduits are damaged. The yards are wrecked that used to produce soap and oil, dyes and wine. The food stores are polluted and empty; the quays weed-covered and useless. The workers, the merchants have to be induced to come back. The city needs horses, camels, oxen, goats and cows to be milked; poultry to lay. Its defences must be restored. Where are the records of its customs? How many of its craftsmen have died – the smiths, the coopers, the workers in textiles and metal; the artisans of the arsenal? Where are the women and children, the elders that were sent from the city and must now be brought back? Have you thought of that, Niccolò?’
‘Someone must think of it,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I accepted a contract to fight, and to bring the sugar reeds into profit, and foster the dyeworks. You have other hands for the rest.’
The King rose. ‘That contract is ended. I offer you a better one. Should I not? I owe you my kingdom, my life, my wellbeing. Think of it. Take it.’
‘And the Mamelukes?’ rejoined Nicholas, quickly.
The King gave a disarming smile. ‘You prepared the way, my sweet Nikko. The Sultan Khushcadam in Cairo will appear shocked, but will be quickly appeased. Our Archbishop is no naïve ambassador: he has performed this task before, and successfully. With our abundant regrets, he will take glorious presents.’ Zacco shot him a sudden radiant glance. ‘Nikko? You could go with him.’
Stumbling, alone, about Egypt. Nicholas quelled a snort of feverish laughter and said, ‘You are kind, my lord. But I wish, at present, to go back to Nicosia. In a marriage, such decisions belong to both husband and wife.’
He watched the King go, and the Archbishop, pausing to bless him. He rehearsed in his mind all that he wanted to say next time in private to Zacco, and then found that he had rehearsed in his sleep, and it was the following day. He said to the first friar who came near him, ‘Where is the King lodging now?’
And the friar, soothing him, said, ‘The King has gone to Nicosia, my lord. The others are about to depart also. They stayed, latterly, in the Palace.’
He got to the Palace, finally, using a stick, and eluding his nurses. Zacco had gone, and the horses were waiting for Rizzo di Marino. Nicholas had himself announced to his room.
The Chancellor said, ‘I should have come, but the friars tattle. Sit. The King says he has asked you to stay?’
Nicholas sat, and propped his underlip with the knob of his stick. He said, removing it, ‘You led the action, I’m told, against the Mamelukes?’
‘That is true,’ said Rizzo di Marino. ‘The emir’s absence was, of course, a prime necessity. The King has told you, I am sure, of our gratitude.’
‘He endorsed the killing?’ Nicholas said.
‘My dear Ser Niccolò, he knew nothing of it. Like yourself, he expected the Egyptians to enter Famagusta. I do not mind shouldering blame. It seemed to me,’ said the chamberlain, ‘that it was better to prevent such an event than to risk the King’s life.’
‘I am sure the King’s uncle agreed,’ Nicholas said. ‘It is sad, however, that Tzani-bey discovered not merely that we had been warned, but who had warned us. Just as it was useful, one might say, that Tzani-bey learned of the negotiations with Uzum Hasan that led him to plan the revolt. Very few knew of that.’
The Sicilian gazed at him. ‘Let me ask you. Do you regret Tzani-bey’s death? No. Does the disposal of a pack of leaderless Mamelukes disturb you? Surely not. Then by whatever means these things were enabled to happen, should one criticise them? I do not, and neither should you, I suggest. Take what you are offered, and enjoy it.’
He was loyal. Regrettably, Rizzo di Marino was loyal, and would betray nobody. There was one more piece of information, however, he might be willing to give. ‘And stay away from Nicosia?’ Nicholas asked.
Rizzo di Marino gazed at him contemplatively. He said, ‘I am like you. I take life by the jaws. I do not look for it to be easy or pleasant. Go to Nicosia if you must. But it is not what the King expects. Do not strain his affection, or count on his temper. Your time will come when he finds that, having disposed of the Sultan, he is threatened by Venice.’
The Franciscans had missed him, and were reproachful. He got hold of Astorre, and sent him out of the city with Thomas, to prepare to strike camp and move out on orders. To questions he said, ‘Give me two days, then come to Nicosia. Then we’ll talk of the future.’ He could see the gleam in Astorre’s eye, and could imagine how, with Thomas, he’d pass the night listing wars that he fancied. He felt, quite suddenly, in despair.
To John le Grant he said, ‘Nicosia late tomorrow. I have rounds to do first. What’s the news? Is Crackbene back from Salines? Is the King celebrating, planning, mourning, whoring or just getting drunk?’
‘Rumour says,’ said the engineer, ‘that he got off his horse and
went straight to his mother. Crackbene’s in Nicosia with his Genoese prisoners from the
Adorno
. Tobie and Loppe have Diniz with them at the villa. Zorzi is still in the dyeyard, prior, I assume, to receiving the business from you by royal command on a big dirty plate. Our good old Venetian friends are all in Nicosia, since the King won’t allow them to come here in case they get dragged into corners and slaughtered. The leaders of Famagusta have been lodged till they see what their Republic will pay for them. Your wife is still in the Palace. What else do you want to know?’
Nicholas said, ‘Who are Crackbene’s Genoese prisoners?’
‘I don’t know,’ said John le Grant. ‘If you’ll stay here, I’ll go to Mick and find out. You think it’s someone connected with that poor lady?’
‘She thought so,’ Nicholas said. ‘So did Gregorio. He thought her husband Simon would come. And the ship was the
Adorno
. There’s no need to be my errand boy. I’ve said. I’m going to Nicosia tomorrow.’
The rounds he had spoken of Nicholas did next day himself, while John le Grant waited for him. They were simple enough: the churches, the hospices, the homes where he had worked with Abul Ismail. The villa. And another call.
None of it was very easy, for he was weak, and could walk very little, although he had the sense to take servants with him. It was trying in other ways also, for he saw how much he was needed. Seven weeks of adequate food had not yet brought life and bloom back to the faces he recognised and some had gone, stricken with illness. But now there were children, one or two; and a new baby who wouldn’t know the cold brick of the church of St Anna. In the hospice of the Knights of St John he found the brethren he knew and many others newly come and already busy, scouring, cleaning, replenishing and looking after the sick in their ward-cots with martial and relentless energy. They had brought the silver dishes, the porringers, the drinking-tubes; the sheepskin coats for the trip to the privy. Zacco was right. Kolossi was empty.
Louis de Magnac and de Combort were among the brethren. Now Nicholas was greeted with warmth, his trespasses more than forgiven. He returned the greeting as readily, for he saw the Knights himself through different eyes. They too fought and nursed. They too had studied both faces of war and yet persevered. These men had defied the cannon of Famagusta, had walked unarmed through the night in the quiet procession that had delivered the city. Theirs was a sober act of courage and charity that stood apart from the intrigues that had led to it. He didn’t have to be told what the schemes had been, or who had framed them. He had recognised the cold-blooded incitement that sought to provoke his attack on Famagusta. He could imagine the suave indiscretion
through which finally Zacco would learn of his Niccolò’s danger. And he could guess the source of the pressure which at length persuaded men of good works to petition the King, and to set out to provision the city. Greed and guile, shame and desire had generated that merciful armistice. But from all that, life had come, to offset the deaths he had also caused.
Meanwhile, John le Grant waited at the Franciscans’, with the easy horses and the good mounted escort that would carry them both to whatever awaited them in Nicosia. Since men were not children, he had left Nicholas to his own devices. The abbot had been succinct. ‘Nasty flesh wounds; loss of blood; a general lack of condition. Watch the thigh, the arm. He’ll be aware of his shoulder. Rest before he goes; rest halfway there, and he’ll do. Sleep and good food, and no fretting. Advice for angels, eh? Not for a young man with that intelligence.’ He had shaken his head. ‘What he did for us during the siege? He was sent from heaven. And the other. We have prayed, although he was an infidel, for the other.’