Race of Scorpions by Dorothy Dunnett
The captain of the escort had been dismissive. ‘The Portuguese gentleman Tristão Vasquez was killed, and your friend is thought to be somehow responsible. It is untrue, no doubt. But the Portuguese are an excitable nation.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ had said Captain Astorre, ‘if this is all the restraint they are ever put under. Who stopped them? Not any men of the Order, that I could see.’
‘I hardly know,’ had said the soldier. ‘May we move, sir? I believe a beneficial intervention may have been made by some passing Genoese gentlemen. Your friend, I am sure, is quite safe.’
‘Is he?’ Astorre had said. ‘I would feel better, none the less, if you would be so kind as to make certain.’
They had received an assurance of sorts, and had been forced to leave it at that. From there, they had been marched to join the rest of their men at the Arsenal, where the padlocks were bigger, as John le Grant said, and where there existed the anvils, the workshops, the furnaces with which (under supervision, and with no grant of powder or shot) they could adjust and refurbish their weapons. For after all, they had not had a good fight since Troia, and they wanted to start off in Cyprus with their swords sharp.
Thomas, even when harangued in English, remained mystified about their Cyprus commitment. Working outdoors with the men, he kept his doubts to himself. On the day the cog left, he sat with Astorre and the rest round the dismantled handgun and doggedly returned to his worries. ‘All those things they complained about. Nicholas did them, not us.’
John le Grant possessed the most patience. He tweaked his nose again, blackening it further. ‘That’s right. Katelina van Borselen told the Queen what she knew about Nicholas. Katelina van Borselen, knowing Nicholas, smelled a rat over that pirated cargo. She reckoned there was a lot more to be found out, and presumably set someone to doing it. The missing sugar was tracked down to Crete. That busybody of a chaplain escaped, and was rushed to Rhodes with his accusations. The report got to the Queen, and the Queen used it to persuade the Order they didn’t want to keep Nicholas and filched him herself, this time with his hands officially tied.’
Thomas said, ‘But the Queen had him before. He swore an oath to her.’
Tobie descended from the window. ‘She gave him the knighthood to keep him quiet until she had the means to lay him over a barrel.’
‘He’s over a barrel?’ said the red-haired engineer.
‘I’ve found out who the Fairy Melusine was. He’s over a barrel,’ said Tobie. ‘And we are with him, since we agreed to the plan. You too, Thomas. Sink or swim or get sawn in half by black men in turbans. Talking of which, do you suppose Loppe killed Vasquez?’
Captain Astorre frowned. ‘In self-defence?’
‘On the orders of Nicholas. I asked Loppe on the ride back. He wouldn’t admit to the killing. He did admit Nicholas had got him to watch the two Vasquez and Katelina. The two dead servants had been in Loppe’s pay.’ Tobie saw the engineer’s expression, and felt himself flushing with anger. He said, ‘Don’t tell me Nicholas couldn’t have stopped the Borselen woman from coming that night if he’d wanted to. Vasquez got killed, despite all the so-called precautions. And Nicholas made sure we couldn’t question the murderers.’
‘He was annoyed when I killed him,’ said Astorre. He sounded surprised, but tolerant as ever of his unprofessional colleagues. Astorre had never worried about the frequent deaths that occurred among the kinsmen of Nicholas.
‘He seemed annoyed,’ said the doctor shortly.
‘And now Diniz is still on the island,’ said the engineer, who knew little more than Astorre, but whose mind moved in more devious patterns. He embraced the knees of his working-hose. ‘But you think Nicholas wanted the boy to go home? And his aunt Katelina?’
‘Well, he couldn’t harm Diniz now, or Katelina,’ Tobie said with some satisfaction. ‘Not if he’s in Queen Carlotta’s prisons, surrounded by soldiers.’
‘But equally, Katelina can’t damage him. How annoying for her,’ the engineer said. ‘All that trouble, and she’s no better off than when she started. Do you think she got the Portuguese to stone him?’
‘Do you think she got the Genoese to rescue him?’ Tobie said. ‘I’ll wager the Genoese worried him more than the stones. They might do him a service in public, but round the next corner, what? Maybe a Doria dagger again with his name on it.’
Astorre grunted. ‘Talk! We heard he was safe.’
‘Well,’ said Tobie. ‘I suppose we should have heard if they’d killed him. But if you ask my opinion, the sooner we sail, the better for that contentious young bastard.’
‘The better for all of us, provided his calculations are right. Do you think his calculations are right?’ said John le Grant.
‘They’d better be,’ said Tobie. ‘We agreed to stay with him. It’s too late to change now.’
In a strong room of the Palace of Cyprus, Nicholas had no view of the sea, but could imagine perfectly well what Astorre and the others were talking about. The hail of stones that had greeted him as he stepped from the Grand Master’s audience had startled him as much as it must have alarmed his officers. Caught unarmed in the open, he could do nothing to protect himself. His escort, who obviously agreed with the stone-throwers, fell back and made no effort to stop them. For a moment, indeed, it seemed that this might be a feint preceding some sort of ill-advised rescue. Then Nicholas saw there were women among the gauntlet of men, and heard the threats they were shouting. They were Portuguese, and friends of Tristão Vasquez. Word had got about quickly. Then he had a chance to think of very little else, because they began to close in, and the attack began to be determined.
It occurred to him that if he ran, his escort would have an excellent excuse to dispatch him. If he didn’t run, the Portuguese would do the job for them. He retreated quickly with the idea of re-entering the castle, or at least of snatching a shield from some soldier. He was confronted with swords. Katelina, or someone, had spread the idea that he was a killer who deserved very short shrift.
If he wanted to run, his choice was limited. Below him was the Street of the Knights. To the right, stood the church and the way to the Palace of Cyprus. There were men and women, in groups, on both streets. He chose the way to Queen Carlotta, and took to his heels. The missiles thickened, and the men on either side of him closed in. Then it all stopped. Suddenly, in place of the stone-throwers, he found himself surrounded by a cordon of officious, protective Genoese.
His first reaction, which no one else, perhaps, could have predicted, was one of cold rage at their presumption. For a silly moment, he actually considered fleeing them too, rather than have his finely-tuned programme upset.
Well, it had been upset. The Genoese had surrounded him and marched him, chipped and bruised, to their Langue. Correctly, of course, they had sent to tell Queen Carlotta. But either they took a long time to send, or Queen Carlotta took a long time to collect him, because he was held in the Langue for fully an hour while the Genoese made sure he had something to think about.
They held him in a small conference chamber adequate to contain himself, a dozen Genoese, and one or two silent squires. They used the utmost courtesy. His contusions were bathed; the cuts swabbed and patched. He knew three of the Genoese personages; Imperiale Doria, the Treasurer Lomellini and Toma Adorno. He recognised a Spinola, a Pallaviccino. Half of them were interrelated. All of them had familiar connections – with alum, with vines or with cork. With the Genoese Bank of St George and with Chios. With Madeira and Scotland, with Bruges and even with Anjou. Small wonder the Genoese had protected him. The Republic of Genoa in the Levant operated a smooth-running machine, in which he could be quite a large wheel, or a wrecking-bar.
It was Imperiale Doria who drew his chair into the circle of his companions and began, with quiet geniality. ‘The chance to speak to you in private, Messer Niccolò, was one we thought we had lost. I can only say that I am glad it has come, but regret the circumstances that have made it possible. W
‘Who is not?’ Nicholas said. ‘Why do you ask?’
The commander had a heavy brown beard, and a long naked nose, cleft like a pig’s trotter. He had no look of Pagano Doria, whom Nicholas had caused to be killed. The commander said, ‘It is relevant, Messer Niccolò. You have an association with Violante of Naxos. Caterino Zeno her Venetian husband signed a short-lived alum monopoly of yours: Adorno has told me. Her two sisters are married to Venetian merchants in Cyprus. Over the alum, over your doings in Trebizond, in the matter of women it seems, Messer Niccolò, that you signally favour Venetians.’
‘I am willing,’ Nicholas said, ‘to give up Venetian women.’ He summoned a ravishing smile, and extinguished it.
‘A formidable concession,’ agreed Imperiale Doria. ‘But it is your dealings with their husbands which concern me. Dealings sweetened, no doubt, by the deep regard in which their wives hold you. As well as your army, you continue your interest in trade.’
‘Of necessity,’ Nicholas said. ‘My army has earned nothing for six months. In Italy, it would have been under contract. That, however, is my fault, not theirs.’
‘You were delayed. We heard. In fact, their expenses were met by the Treasurer and, now they are under contract, the Treasurer has orders to be more than generous. The Queen has offered you land. Once the island is conquered, you will have all the trading opportunities you wish. Meanwhile the greater part of the vines, of the sugar fields lie, as you know, in the south, in the grip of the Bastard Zacco, aided by the Venetians. You will understand therefore that you cannot trade. You will not trade. You will bend all your energies and those of your army to fighting to free Famagusta, and once Zacco is beaten, you will be recompensed as you deserve.’
Nicholas said, ‘The Venetians grow and sell these crops, under licence, for themselves. They buy the harvest from the Knights at Kolossi. They used to work under licence from Queen Carlotta. Marco Corner works in the south, in the Bastard’s land, while his brother works in the north for Queen Carlotta. It seems to me,’ said Nicholas modestly, ‘that in that island, trade knows few barriers.’
The Treasurer said, ‘That is hardly the point. The Venetians have no army in Cyprus. You will have. If you fight for one party, you cannot trade with the other. If trade is your business, your business will be best served by the flourishing of Famagusta when the Venetians have gone, as they will, to fight the Sultan of Turkey.’
‘You expect the Venetians to leave? They will need Cyprus,’ Nicholas said.
Imperiale Doria spoke in the same tolerant voice. ‘Why does Marco Corner spend so much time in Venice? Venice knows war must come if she is to stop the Ottoman Turks from seizing all her trading posts and spreading west, as they might, to threaten Venice herself. By prolonging the resistance of Trebizond you yourself gave Venice time to prepare against Sultan Mehmet. When the fighting season opens this year, Venice will need all her strength, even if it weakens her interests in Cyprus.’
‘And you think the Ottoman Turks under Sultan Mehmet will leave Cyprus alone? Certainly, the Sultan of Cairo regards Mehmet as an ally. Perhaps the Ottomans might prove less an ally than a predator. By taking Cyprus out of Egyptian hands, the Sultan Mehmet would gain an income from tribute and trade. And if he were to throw out the Mamelukes and rule, he might prefer to keep the Venetians to deal with. He did when he took Constantinople.’
Doria looked at the Treasurer. The Treasurer said, ‘Whatever the Ottoman sultan wants, he will be too busy to attack us this summer. We have this summer to free Cyprus of Zacco and his Egyptians. And if the alliance between Cairo and Constantinople should break, what can it bring us but good? In that event, the Ottoman sultan won’t interfere when we drive out the Cairo sultan’s Egyptian forces. At best, a Christian fleet may then set out from the west to defeat Sultan Mehmet before he can attack us. At worst, Sultan Mehmet in Cyprus might well be an overlord – a temporary overlord – whose exigencies are tempered by distance. Cairo is near, but Constantinople is not. The Queen has given thought to these things. The Queen has already sent an envoy to Constantinople offering tribute and land in return for Sultan Mehmet’s forbearance.’
Nicholas said, ‘The Count of Jaffa. I heard.’ He added apologetically, ‘I thought the Sultan sawed him in half.’
Tomà Adorno looked away, not quite in time. Imperiale Doria remained impassive. The Treasurer said, ‘A killing because of some private feud. It doesn’t weaken our hopes of the Ottoman Turks. When matters settle, the fortunes of Famagusta will be the fortunes of Cyprus.’
‘But,’ said Nicholas, ‘I am bound to go to Kyrenia. Literally, I understand.’
‘Your army is so bound,’ said Imperiale Doria. ‘You yourself will be held not in Kyrenia, but in the Genoese city of Famagusta, which we here believe will be the Bastard’s prime target.’
Nicholas was silent. Then he said, ‘You must realise that my army won’t fight unless they know I’m alive. Famagusta is under strict siege, and starving.’
The man from the Bank of St George remarked, ‘Rubbish. The town is well supplied by Sir Imperiale and the ships of the Order. The siege is a farce, interrupted as often as it continues. There is no danger of starving. In any case, the choice is not yours.’
Nicholas said, ‘The choice, I supposed, was the Queen’s.’
‘Indeed. But the men who will be travelling with you are servants of King Luis,’ said Doria. ‘And the King owes his position to Genoa.’
‘So I have heard. But the King,’ Nicholas said, ‘does not control my army. You may kill them, of course, but you need them. As a hostage in Kyrenia, I might direct them from prison. As a hostage in Famagusta I am worth nothing to you, unless they fight in Famagusta as well. They are skilled men. They would join the garrison in Famagusta, if I required it. But to submit myself and them to the extra danger without the compensation of an income from trade? The Queen would not ask it.’
‘The Queen,’ said Imperiale Doria, ‘does not control the sugar trade of Madeira.’
Nicholas had always been a good actor, a good mimic, but it took all his skill to disguise his amusement at that. Far away, off the African coast, the island of Madeira was a Portuguese colony in which Genoa had many interests. Barred from trade with Venice and Zacco, he was being offered business instead with the island home of St Pol & Vasquez. Nicholas wondered, with part of his mind, what the stone-throwing Portuguese would have made of this offer. He remembered it had crossed his mind, once, that the stone-throwing had been a feint. He said, ‘I should be interested. You offer me property on Madeira?’
Imperiale Doria said, ‘It is not in my power. But you see here several men who have influence on the island, and who are willing to find you some sort of concession once, that is, your period of probation, shall we say, has been served. Once you have shown yourself loyal to …’
‘King Luis,’ Nicholas supplied helpfully. ‘And in Cyprus: the sugar fields in the south, once the Bastard has left?’
‘Naturally,’ said Imperiale Doria, ‘all previous contracts would be null, and the King and Queen would be free to allot them differently. You may expect to be among those so favoured. The extent of the franchise will be in direct proportion to the speed with which you help free Famagusta. Do you understand me?’
‘I am honoured,’ Nicholas said. ‘We understand one another. I shall do what I can. I take it we sail when we have weather?’
Doria rose. ‘Ah, here are the Queen’s men to fetch you. You are impatient to leave? The wind has set in a bad quarter. I give i
The others rose, but only the Treasurer spoke. ‘Time for leisure,’ he said. ‘Time to reflect. Time to eat, if that is your pleasure.’ He smiled, for the first time. It was not an improvement.
By contrast, the Queen of Cyprus received him formally immediately on his arrival at the Palace. As before, her consort was with her, and they were again in their chamber of audience. This time, of course, Nicholas was her prisoner as well as her employee. No one presented him with a gold-embroidered blue mantle to take the place of his own abused cloak, and he was introduced into the chamber by an official less exalted than the Marshal of Cyprus. His bruised face attracted neither comment nor sympathy and did nothing, he supposed, to enhance his present diminished standing. Outside the room there were soldiers, but no trumpeter. Inside, there were more men-at-arms, but few others except for pages and counsellors. Primaflora was not to be seen.
Since the ride back from the ravine he had been locked up, and she had had no chance, it seemed, to send him a message, so the meeting they had both wanted had not been possible. Meantime, she was free to take what pleasure she chose, and he supposed she would do so. He had no such freedom. The boy in Bruges had never gone hungry, but took girls for joy when he needed them. During the weeks with Primaflora, he had lived like that again, and was being made to regret it. As he should. There was a difference between satisfaction and gluttony.
He was not here to think about Primaflora. He was here to remove his army safely from Rhodes. Before him sat the Queen and her consort, subtly changed from the time of his previous audience. The gaze of Luis this time was belligerent. The Queen’s manner was brisk, but also in some way uneasy. She did not want, at the start, to hear excuses about his supposed crimes (he did not make any) or to recall that last time they met she had been investing him with the honours of knighthood. She merely wished to confirm (she said) that his company was to fight for her in Kyrenia. They would be under Captain Astorre, and so long as they fought well and remained loyal, they would receive their fee and all else they could wish. Until they had proved themselves, and Messer Niccolò had shown himself faithful, Messer Niccolò would be in the care of Napoleone Lomellini, captain of Famagusta.