Race of Scorpions by Dorothy Dunnett
Because of the noise, he didn’t hear when behind him the yard gates unlocked. It was the sound of their closing that turned him.
Across the mud of the yard, two men stood at ease, looking about them. One, black-bearded and short, was a stranger. The other he knew, although the man didn’t wear cloth of gold but a travel-stained shirt and serge pourpoint, and his sword was sheathed in unjewelled shagreen. Under the cuff of his soft-crowned felt hat his hair looked brittle and frizzed; and the fine scar on his cheek stood among a curious mottling of pink. Diniz said, ‘You did use naphtha.’ Halfway through the words, his windpipe blocked for a second.
Niccolò vander Poele said, ‘Let us leave that for later. Bartolomeo, this is the boy I was speaking of.’
Diniz frowned. The man Bartolomeo, in whom he had no interest, wore velvet which, though dusty, was certainly jewelled, as was the drape of his headgear. Diniz observed, without fully looking, that the cut of his doublet was almost Venetian. Below a thick trunk, the calves of his legs jutted like oak galls. The man said, ‘Introduce me.’
‘Are you not in the procession?’ said Diniz. ‘Has the Bastard disowned you?’
The stranger said again, ‘Introduce me.’
‘If I can,’ vander Poele said. ‘This is Bartolomeo Zorzi, a Venetian merchant from Constantinople. He has agreed to manage the dyeworks. You will show us around.’ He waited. Then he said, in the same agreeable voice, ‘You can do nothing from the Palace prison.’
Diniz felt his eyes swim from pure anger. Then he pulled himself up and addressed the bearded man Zorzi. ‘Messer Bartolomeo managed a dyeworks in Constantinople? He must have been thankful to escape.’
Above their furzy black rim, the man’s jowls and cheeks were healthily brown; his nose was snubbed and broad, between widely spaced eyes. He said, ‘A shrewd fellow, this. Yes. It’s a good time for Venetians to get out of those parts. I was in the alum business myself. Alum and silks. But I looked after the interests of a dyeshop your master here knows of. Owned by one Giovanni da Castro, godson of Pope Pius and rival to Messer Niccolò.’ His eyes, polished and black as obsidian, moved from Diniz to his companion. He said to the Fleming, ‘Took your trade, Niccolò, didn’t he, the inquisitive Messer da Castro? Found the alum at Tolfa that broke your clever monopoly.’
‘Not unexpectedly,’ vander Poele said. His voice was softer than Diniz remembered, and his manner repressed, as if what he were doing were unimportant, or disagreeable in some special way. He added, ‘As you have lost the Turkish concessions, I suppose. Unless your partner is staying in Constantinople?’
The bearded man, also smiling, turned to Diniz. ‘Girolamo? He also plans to depart. It is sad, but not so sad as it might have been. He has a brother, Antonio, who is greatly favoured by one of the Viziers.’
‘And, no doubt,’ vander Poele said, ‘you made sure to collect any money outstanding.’
The bearded man’s smile grew wider. ‘You have heard.’
‘That you left owing the Sultan thousands of ducats? It does you credit,’ said the Fleming, ‘to trust so strongly in the power of Venice. What if the Sultan defeats them?’
‘Then he will very likely overrun Cyprus,’ Zorzi said. ‘And I shall again have to move on, to the detriment of your dyeworks. But I am one of three fond and competent brothers. Nicholai – you remember one-legged Nicholai? – has of course connections in Bruges. Jacopo has vineyards in Cyprus which will support me very well in the meantime; added to the lavish wage you have promised to pay me. Indeed, I have only one problem. Am I to see over the dyeshop or not? I have to arrange my dress before attending the banquet. So, I take it, have you.’
‘Yes,’ said vander Poele. He turned to Diniz. ‘Show us what you can. Then you and I will return to the villa and talk. I have asked the Clares to bring your aunt there.’
Diniz stood where he was. He said, ‘The ransom has come?’
The Fleming had begun to walk over the mud. He said, ‘There are difficulties. Bartolomeo, this is the well. When the river dries up, we can keep working all summer. But the drainage channels are bad, and the paving must be done soon.’
‘What difficulties?’ Diniz said. He passed the merchant from Constantinople and caught the man Niccolò by the arm. ‘What difficulties?’ He remembered, for the first time, the knife in his boot.
As the thought came into his mind, the Fleming disengaged and repositioned himself, smoothly, on the other side of the wheel. Vander Poele said, ‘That is what I want to speak about later.’
‘What?’ insisted Diniz. He felt himself flush.
Bartolomeo Zorzi turned from the vat he was examining and walked to the door of a shed. He said, ‘Young man, you heard Messer Niccolò. Time is short. Is this where your dry stocks are held?’
‘Answer,’ Diniz said, standing still.
Vander Poele joined the man Zorzi and, unlocking the door, opened it so that the other could enter and look. He himself remained, as if in thought, considering Diniz. He said, ‘Your grandfather has refused to pay your ransom. He says it must wait until the end of the season.’
Diniz stared at him. Jordan de Ribérac was the richest man in France, as near as maybe. He said, ‘I don’t believe it. Then what of Simon, my uncle? He is paying nothing to set free his wife?’
The man Zorzi had reappeared, talking, and vander Poele let him out and locked the door behind him. He turned aside. ‘Diniz, all these things will be discussed later. Meanwhile Messer Bartolomeo is your master. Under him, your life can be easy or hard. He is not concerned with your troubles. He wants your co-operation.’
Diniz remained where he was. He said, ‘The ransom has come, and you’ve seized it. Simon my uncle would never abandon his wife.’
The man from Constantinople sighed heavily and looked at the Fleming. Vander Poele said, ‘Diniz. No ransoms have come. Your grandfather won’t pay, or not yet, and your uncle cannot be reached for some reason. In fact, far from enriching myself at your expense, I’ve offered to settle both ransoms myself.’
There was a short silence. ‘Then why are we still here?’ said Diniz. The bearded man, looking resigned, crossed his arms.
‘Because,’ said vander Poele, ‘the King intervened. He won’t allow the demoiselle home unless her own people redeem her.’
Diniz looked at him, and kept his shoulders stiff. He said, ‘Then I couldn’t go either. In any case, I wouldn’t take freedom from you. If you’ve paid for me, then get back your money.’
‘I’ve paid your ransom, but I haven’t offered you freedom,’ said vander Poele. ‘I need you to work in the dyeshop this summer. Until this autumn, you will make dyeing your business. You say you don’t want your freedom. We have therefore nothing to argue about. Shall we proceed, then?’
Diniz stretched out his hands. Dense blue dye stained the palms and the fingertips, and each nail was marked with a different test-colour. The boy said, ‘You try to reduce us. Don’t you see? We can never sink to your level.’
The Venetian smirked, and turned aside with extravagant tact. Vander Poele stood alone, his head bent, a sudden, unlooked-for target. Diniz bent and, snatching his dagger, hurled it hard at the figure before him.
Faster than he thought possible, vander Poele swerved. The knife thudded into a barrel, from which a stream of thick liquid issued. The man Zorzi turned quickly, exclaiming. Before he could move, Diniz flung himself on the Fleming and carried him to the ground. In the next moments, flailing, punching and being punched, Diniz thought of nothing but his fury. Then he felt Zorzi’s grip and, sobbing with rage, knew that, of course, he had no chance against both of them. There was a moment, before vander Poele broke his grasp and before Zorzi dragged him away when the scorched face of the Fleming was close to his.
Then Diniz Vasquez sent his tongue rolling and spat. He said, ‘A Knight of the Order fights man to man. A coward fights two to one, like a hog. You killed my father and sold me and my aunt into captivity. I demand restitution. That is a challenge,
He was on his feet by then, staggering back in the grasp of the Venetian. The Fleming rose from the mud, and finding a kerchief, put it slowly to use at his lips. He said, ‘All right. You’ve tried to pay me back, however foolishly. That’s enough for the moment.’
The Venetian was laughing, although his grip was painfully hard. He said, ‘My dear, he challenged you! Did you kill his father? You must reply, knight to gentleman, or face unimaginable penalties.’
‘I can imagine them,’ vander Poele said. He got up, noticed the mud on his pourpoint and began without hurry to untie and peel off the garment. His shirt beneath was heavily creased, and mud and dust mired his hose. He said, ‘I need to talk with him, that is all. Let it drop. Let’s get on with the business.’
Zorzi said, ‘Let it drop! The child spat in your face! What sort of talk do you expect after that? You’ll never get this puppy to rest until you satisfy him. Why not fight now, and get it over and done with? He can have my sword.’ His fingers still gripped Diniz’s shoulder. He said, shaking him, ‘Is that what you want?’
‘Yes,’ said Diniz. He felt stunned. It had seemed certain that the man Zorzi would take the Fleming’s part. But he was exhorting him – almost shaming him into a duel. Diniz said, ‘My father was Tristão Vasquez. He was assassinated in Rhodes, because of a feud between this man and my mother’s brother. Queen Carlotta didn’t know that when she knighted him.’
The Venetian released him. He exuded pleasure. He said, ‘My dear Niccolò! Queen Carlotta made you a Knight of the Sword! I thought it was Zacco!’
‘There was a queue,’ vander Poele said. ‘I can’t fight him.’
‘Why not?’ said Zorzi. He had his sword unsheathed in his hand. ‘Show me yours.’
‘They’re not matched,’ said the Fleming. Against the scorch-marks his face was pale with what seemed to be anger. He moved, too late to prevent Zorzi from drawing his sword from the scabbard and holding it next to the other.
Zorzi said, ‘You are right. Then why not give the youth the advantage? Give him yours, and you take the shorter.’ And as he spoke, he held out to Diniz the pommel of the Fleming’s sword.
Diniz seized it. He turned, his breath coming short, and heaved the blade upright in his two hands, staring at vander Poele across the space that divided them. He said, at the second attempt, ‘Messer Niccolò. I have challenged you, on grounds that you know of. Take the sword and respond, or I will strike, and the law will absolve me.’
He waited only a moment. But at the first lift of his arm, the other man stepped quickly forward and grasped the weapon the Venetian offered him. He said conversationally, ‘Damn you, Bartolomeo. But I doubt, even then, if you could expect to be handed the franchise. Of course, you could try.’ Then, turning to Diniz, he saluted briefly and flicked his blade to invite the first blow.
Swordplay in a gymnasium or a paved exercise yard was different from the same thing in a yard deep in mud and littered with irregular obstacles, but Diniz had all the advantages he could have hoped for: of youth and energy and familiarity with the terrain. He also had the better weapon, not only in length, but in the sheer cutting strength of the steel. The work under his hand was Byzantine, but on the blade, the inscription was Arabic.
He remembered what he had heard, with such awe, from this man’s lips on the sail from Kolossi, and understood it as he had not understood it then. Vander Poele had fought in Trebizond, that was true. But vander Poele, the pandering servant of Zacco, had also learned in Trebizond the many ways of pleasing a master. It was what you would expect – his aunt Katelina had impressed it on him. The man was simply a base-born apprentice who had risen by wedding his widowed employer. And bastard upstarts didn’t learn duelling, whereas Portuguese noblemen did.
For that very reason, it would seem, the man was remarkably hard to pin down. He backed, and swerved and tapped, and swerved again without ever engaging. Diniz pursued him with angry pleasure. Feet trampling, sucking, dancing in the mud, he swung his sword with joy, changing angles, direction. He knew the yard. He knew where the cauldrons were, their fires barely out, their contents still between warm and hot. He avoided the grindstone, the buckets of paste, the baskets with tongs and bellows and ladles – but his opponent was clever enough, he could see, to read his movements and avoid them as well.
He wished it were dark. Once, misreading the other man’s intentions, he found himself wrong-footed and brought his blade down on the edge of a vat, half-cutting the rods with their skeins. Once the other man slipped, and Diniz, following through, leaned his weight on a wheelbarrow and found himself rolling away. He recovered in seconds, but vander Poele was upright again, with his sword in both hands. They had, by then, traversed the full length of the yard.
Realising it, for the first time Diniz hesitated. As if in some mirror-reflection, vander Poele’s sword halted, suspended. The slash, the thrust that he had invited did not come. But when, drawing breath, Diniz sprang and brought down his blade, the other parried it with a clang, following with a swing to the left and the right which had nothing subtle about them, and which Diniz blocked, in his turn, with great care.
Both his elation and anger were dying. He saw that despite all the activity, vander Poele’s breathing was hardly disturbed. His hands were firm on the sword, his eyes unexcited. If there was a shadow there somewhere, it owed nothing to present anxiety. Niccolò vander Poele fought with the ease of a highly-trained man of arms who had been further groomed by a master. The man was contemptible. He was also, none the less, a good swordsman who was biding his time. Bartolomeo Zorzi had known that, or suspected it, and was waiting with interest. If Diniz died, Zorzi would lose nothing more than a trainee. If vander Poele, it was different. Then the King would have a new lease to bestow for his dyeworks.
Diniz Vasquez applied his wits to the task. The problem was space, of which there was too much, and which vander Poele was using to exhaust him. Therefore he would confine him. Speed of arm and of eye were greater at seventeen than at twenty-one or twenty-two. Diniz was familiar with the dyeyard, and the Fleming was not. And, as he now had come to realise, there was another, very special advantage. For Bartolomeo Zorzi, either way, would not interfere. For all practical purposes, including killing, he and his uncle Simon’s enemy were alone. Diniz kept his face blank and continued to swing, but now it was in one direction, and now it was with a purpose.
It was not easy to coax the other man between buildings, even though they were here on firmer ground, and their blows connected more often. His wrists and back and shoulders were beginning to ache, but Diniz paid no attention. If the other man noticed, it would merely make him more eager. It seemed unlikely that vander Poele meant to kill him, or he would have done so already. It would be enough, Diniz supposed, to beat him into some sort of weakly surrender by simply protracting the fight. Youth and resilience were unlikely to outlast, he now recognised, this tireless, cynical parrying.
The end of the buildings was in sight, and behind, that part of the yard which had been hidden. Diniz sucked in a breath, tightened his grip and, changing position, began to drive vander Poele backwards, round the building and into that space and all that was in it. For this was where the Venetian renovations had ceased; where the wood-lined tubs remained sunk in the ground with their cargo of dye, fermented fat water, and urine. And beyond was the copper furnace which had been boiling all morning and whose fire, he knew, was not wholly dead. He swung the sword, again and again, and vander Poele moved backwards, swerving, bending, swinging in turn, until the first of the pits stood behind him. Then for the first time, his adversary spoke.
Vander Poele said, ‘No, Diniz. I know the yard too.’ Diniz, frowning, lifted his sword. The Fleming repeated, ‘No,’ in the same unemotional voice and, with a sudden, swift movement, engaged Diniz’s sword, ran one blade down the other in a shuddering scream, and with a wrench that set fire to his shoulders, pulled the sword entirely out
Diniz took in deep breaths. He said, ‘That is not why I am here.’
The Fleming stood on the edge of a tub. He said, ‘You are here because of your aunt and your father. So why don’t we talk of your aunt and your father?’
Diniz had no weapons left, but there was a wringing-hook on the wall at his shoulder. He snatched and swung it at vander Poele’s ankles. Instead of tripping, the other man sprang to one side, slipping his foot in the hook as he did so. He tugged, and Diniz fell sideways into the tub. Liquid closed over his head; he swallowed and sat up spewing. It was full of urine. Then he made to rise and could not, for the wringing-hook was fast in his belt, and the Fleming stood holding it. Vander Poele said, ‘What did you intend? To trip and then kill me?’
Diniz sat in the stink, coughing and choking. He said, ‘To kill you.’
Vander Poele said, ‘Or did you mean the copper to do your work for you? It’s there, above you, still warm. I have only to pull out the plug, and let it flood into the gutter. The liquid would scald, and then drown you.’
‘Do it, then,’ Diniz said. He saw, in the depths of the tub, a glint of metal and remembered what it was, and how it came to be there. A piece of carelessness, the previous day, followed by a childish unresolved brawl between coopers. You climb down and get it. It’s your fault. The article they had dropped was an axe.
The Fleming, he heard, was still talking. ‘Why should I kill you? You haven’t harmed me. You couldn’t harm me. I have no reason for wanting you dead. I have bought you: I told you, because I prefer to see you here, in the salubrious air of the dyeshop.’
Someone was laughing – the Venetian, strolling up. He said, ‘My dear, I said fight, not dip the poor child like a sheep. I think you should tie him until he becomes a little less angry.’ There was a hank of blue wool in his hands, still attached at one end to its winch. Zorzi said, ‘You drop it over his shoulders, and I’ll wind him up like a moufflon. Christ God, he stinks.’