The new owners were the Sicilians and the Aragonese and the Catalans who had come two years ago, when Zacco conquered Nicosia and three-quarters of Cyprus. Zacco, the Venetians called him, the latter Z requiring less effort than J, and the nickname had stuck. The new lords spent as much time fighting for Zacco as the old spent at hunting, only they came back with bales of cloth and sacks of silk and boxes of iron they’d looted from the houses of Carlotta’s supporters. They flattened the vines round about Famagusta, which did no harm to the grape prices everywhere else. They captured ships and brought men back in chains who were glad to pay for their freedom. Or if not, King Zacco cut off their heads and stuck them on the Bridge of the Pillory. And, of course, they hemmed in the Queen’s men at Kyrenia, killing their forage parties, diverting their food and making sure that neither she nor her consort would ever get back to the capital.
Not that the people of Nicosia had anything much against Queen Carlotta who was, if you thought of it, the legitimate Lusignan heir, and spoke Greek, even if she worshipped in the Latin way. She had to, didn’t she? Only the Latin church could call on Christian rulers to hold off the Turks; only the Latin church could rely on the help of the Knights of the Order in Rhodes. Zacco didn’t have that advantage, even though his loving father made him Archbishop of Nicosia when he was thirteen: four years, that was, before he had his loving father’s chamberlain murdered. Zacco didn’t have that advantage because he called in the Mamelukes instead of the Pope, and filled Cyprus with hordes of crooked-sword Saracens. But while it was all very well to say that Carlotta and the Pope could perhaps hold off the Turks, the fact was that the Turks weren’t here yet, but the Mamelukes were, and someone had to control them. Someone like Zacco.
He took the Egyptians along with him, too, when he went off on campaign, and the boys in the villages round St Demetrios all fell idle and went to the city. Zacco had most of the Mamelukes out with him now, while a few were with Tzani-bey, off south on some errand. In the event, Tzani-bey came back first, riding through the Dominican gate with a prisoner chained to his girth by the neck. The doorkeeper said he let them all go straight through to the citadel, and that Tzani-bey went and reported to Cropnose. Cropnose, Zacco’s mother, who lived in Queen Carlotta’s apartments and had a way, it was said, with Zacco’s prisoners. And good luck to him, whoever he was.
The woman called Cropnose was seated on a chair of state when Nicholas was brought in. Most of the things of value had been taken from the apartments either by Carlotta, or by the Dominicans when they fled; but in two years the deficiency had more than been made up by the Usurper. His mother’s attendants stood against walls hung with silk and wool carpets, reversed for the summer; the carved service table was laid with tapestry and piled with objects of bronze and ivory, silver and gold as well as fine glazed ware from Syria. Chained to a stand made like a tree was a red and blue bird which nibbled its foot and turned its head quickly now and then.
The King’s mother, whom the Greeks called Comomutene, looked like the parrot: spare and quick, with a brilliant cap on her hair, which was the dead russet of henna. Her eyes, which were black, were outlined with kohl beneath high shaven brows. Below her eyes, she wore a thin cerise kerchief in the manner of Saracen women, its hem heavily jewelled. The kerchief hung straight from the bridge of her nose, and blew in and out with her breathing. A burly, coarse-featured man, leaning against the back of her chair, studied the rings on his fingers. The Usurper’s mother said, ‘What can my son do with that? He is dead.’ She spoke in whistling Greek, her words timbreless; dead as her hair.
The emir Tzani-bey, who had let the chain slacken, lifted it up so that Nicholas was pulled by the neck from the floor. ‘Dead, Madame Marietta? No, there is good service to be had from him yet. Better than you would have got from him yesterday. He was insolent yesterday. Now he is merely tired; a little thirsty; a little footsore perhaps. It amused the men, to see how fast he could run.’
The woman said, ‘How dare you bring him before me like that? Is he deformed? I cannot see him for blood and for filth. What use can he be to the King? Markios?’
The man behind her said, ‘I would not, myself, make him Grand Bailie, it is true. What did Zacco want him for?’
The emir said, ‘My lord, I was not told. The person came ashore as a prisoner of the Venetians. He had a woman with him, a courtesan employed by the lady Carlotta.’
The man called Markios said, ‘So he is Carlotta’s man, captured for questioning. It must be so, or Zacco would hardly have kept him alive. What has he said?’
‘He speaks insolence, my lord, but withholds information so far. I have not the skills of Monseigneur the King. I can extract nothing from him.’
‘But he is Carlotta’s man?’ said the woman in the chair noisily. ‘He can hardly deny that. Are you not?’ She made an impatient movement. ‘What language does he speak? Pull him. Are you not?’
Hearing and speaking were two different things. Nicholas, staring at her, did not try. The bald, painted brows drew together. Tzani-bey said, ‘He needs the whip again.’
The man behind the chair said, ‘He needs a lesson, certainly, but I should like to hear him speak first. Unshackle his throat, and give him water. The emir has our thanks, and those of the King, for taking upon himself an unwonted commission. We should not detain him.’
The emir stood, his hand on his whip. He said, ‘He is somewhat violent. I will send in two of my men to protect you.’
‘Do that,’ said the man by the chair. He glanced down at the woman, and drawing a ring from his hand handed it to her. She in turn held it out. ‘You have our thanks. Our own men-at-arms will defend us. Go and take your ease. You will hear from Zacco when he arrives.’
‘You will hear from me, now,’ Nicholas said. He lifted himself to his knees, the hardest thing he had ever done; and then to his feet, the second hardest. He said, through his bruised, waterless throat, ‘Tell me. Is this Muslim son of a she-pig your master, or do you have a King?’
The blow returned him to the floor. He lifted himself to his knees, and then to his feet. The woman said, ‘That is most unwise. But for my clemency, the emir would have leave to kill you. Whoever commands you to speak, you will reply. What is it to you, where your orders come from?’
‘What is it to you?’ Nicholas said. His throat burned. ‘Do you obey this man, or your son? Who had me brought here, this man, or your son? To whom do I say, I do not serve Carlotta; I will not serve her brother. To this man, or your son? Which is the servant?’
Once, Nicholas had rarely felt anger. In the leisurely journey that had now ended here, he thought he had found again, and would keep, his habit of easy toleration. He had been wrong. The Venetians had lied to him: they would regret it. So too would the man to whom the Venetians pandered. The emir, Nicholas intended to send to his death. It didn’t cross his mind, at any time, that he would fail to do this.
The Egyptian was smiling. The man behind the chair said, ‘Does one answer scum? No. Here, all men are your masters, including this lord and my nephew the King. To them you must look for food and shelter and life itself without expectation or complaint, or the death you will die will make what you complain of seem sweet. Are you answered?’
‘Yes,’ Nicholas said. ‘You are afraid of the Mamelukes. You are the dupe of the Venetians. So what species of ruler is Zacco? A bully, like Tzani-bey, but a doltish bully?’
The woman called Cropnose looked beyond him to the emir. ‘Before you leave, whip him,’ she said. ‘You are due satisfaction. Or if you prefer, my servants will see to it.’
‘It would be more seemly,’ said Tzani-bey al-Ablak. ‘Serfs should discipline serfs. I have Madame’s leave to depart?’
He dropped the chain as he left. The weight, slight as it was, was enough to bring Nicholas to his knees once more, his eyes shut, his head bent. Beatings he had had; punishment he had suffered, but never this. Never what had happened to him on the road from Cape Gata to Nicosia.
Kneeling beside him was a man who could have been Anselm or Felix, John or Lorenzo, or any other of the merry, carefree, comely companions who had shared his boyhood in Bruges. This was a young man of their kind, with the bronzed skin and trim build of an athlete, dressed in a plain leather brigandine over a pourpoint and hose like his own. The man’s hair, streaked with the sun, fell over his brow in long, yellow-brown waves which he pushed back, now and then, with a gesture of troubled impatience. His eyes were hazel. He said, ‘Stay still.’ He bent forward, a key in his hands, and unlocked and opened the neck-band. Someone came quickly and lifted the irons away. Then he said, ‘Rinse your mouth and then drink. Slowly. There will be more for you later.’
It was water. Nicholas let it pass his split lips and fill the dust-filled cavity of his mouth, and spat. The third time, his bruised throat moved, and he was able to swallow. A small amount was enough. The young man sat back, and someone came for the cup. The young man turned his head and said, ‘Mother? How could this happen?’
The woman Cropnose sat with her hands lightly folded. Her manner, if slightly softened, remained quite undisturbed. She said, ‘Have we been misled? I was told this was a soldier of Carlotta’s, sent to you by the Venetians for questioning. So the emir Tzani-bey believed. If that is not so, then who is he?’
The young man said, ‘No! No! What a tragedy! Tzani-bey surely knew. He must have known. Did Messer Niccolò not try to tell him? He is not Carlotta’s man. He is a merchant, a captain, a banker. It is to persuade him to help us that the Venetians brought him. Brought him against his will, which was injury enough, but unavoidable. And now –’
Nicholas listened, his lids half fallen. The Venetians had not lied. Some Cypriot baron had blundered. Tzani-bey, lacking orders, had made a mistake. No: had not made a mistake: had taken the chance to enjoy himself. Nicholas, thinking of it, was certain of that. The woman in the chair interrupted his thoughts and the flow of the young man’s distress. ‘The harm is not irreparable.’ Her roaring voice was no different from before; her gaze merely speculative. ‘Messer Niccolò is young. He is strong. He is intelligent enough, I am sure, to understand that a mistake has been made. Let him be bathed, and his wounds anointed and bound. Let the monks give him a sleeping-cup, and after rest, some good food. You will talk, you and he, by the evening.’ A moment ago, she had invited the emir to whip him. Her brother, now silent, had threatened far worse.
The young man let her finish, then turned back to Nicholas. He said, ‘All these things will be done. Then we shall speak.’
Nicholas stood, a thing he had not thought possible. The room blurred and wavered about him. The other rose swiftly, made to approach, then desisted. ‘Who are you?’ said Nicholas. How many more nephews, uncles, would he have to see?
The other man stood, his arms at his sides, like a soldier answering a charge. He said, ‘I am the man you should have met at Cape Gata. It is my fault, what has happened. It is for me to make amends, if amends should be possible. My name is James de Lusignan, King of Cyprus. You will hear me called Zacco.’
For a space, he could not think. Then he said, ‘Amends!’ He sent it through the room like a curse.
Above the veil, the black eyes of the noseless woman were fixed on her son. Her son, James of Lusignan, usurping ruler of Cyprus, dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. He drew it and rested it on his arm, pommel pointing to Nicholas. He said, ‘Do with it what you wish. There is my right hand.’
The woman moved, then. Behind her chair, her brother took a step forward, his heavy face flushed. The young man snapped, ‘Stay where you are.’ They both halted.
Nicholas stretched out his stained fingers and laid them on the grip of the sword. The goldwork on it was Arabic. He looked up. Unclouded and steady, the King’s eyes were on his, and the King’s right wrist was so held that one clean stroke could sever it. Behind it, unprotected, was his body. Nicholas let his eyes dwell on both, and then return to the sword and his fingers. He ran them over the gold, and lifted his hand from the weapon. He dropped his arm to his side. Nicholas said, ‘The weight, I believe, would be beyond me. Perhaps tomorrow?’
Become a little pale under its tan, the other face slowly warmed to a smile of untempered delight. The young man named Zacco said, ‘Tomorrow, all things will be possible.’
Later, wakening from his long, healing sleep in the monks’ deserted infirmary, Nicholas thought for a long time about what had happened. Questions brought him few answers from the nursing brethren. Those he received, in time, from the boy who saw to his dressings. Jorgin was the King’s own chamber servant and delighted to prattle.
‘How should you know who he was? The things he’s done, you’d never expect at that age. Four and twenty, he is. We call him Zacco. He might never have been born, you know. The last King and Queen, they never had more than a daughter. Carlotta. The one that’s blackening his name all over Europe. When Queen Helena found the King’s mistress was pregnant, you never heard such a row. That’s when the Queen bit off her pretty nose, to make her miscarry. But she didn’t, and when the boy was born and grew up handsome and brave, then the King couldn’t do enough for him. Made him Archbishop, but then children have got made into Popes, haven’t they?’
‘He killed his father’s chamberlain?’ Nicholas said.
‘For plotting against him. He wasn’t the only one who tried to bring him down, but Zacco always fought to defend himself, as was no more than right. A wild lot, the Lusignans, but they needed to be. And they married wild women, too. Queen Helena was a Byzantine lady from the Morea, and the lady Marietta’s another Greek from Patras. Old King Peter, now, had a harem of mistresses, and his Queen tried to stop one of them carrying. Held her down, fixed a big marble slab on her belly, and pounded a measure of salt on it. Next, they ground flour on her, working a handmill. But she gave the King a live child just the same. That’s the stuff Zacco comes from. You were lucky to keep your left arm. What did they do to it?’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Nicholas. ‘How did the new clothes appear?’
‘The Venetians,’ said Jorgin. ‘My lord sent to the Venetians and they brought clothes that would fit. They’ve got a fine house. You will like it.… Why is Monseigneur laughing?’
‘Because there is nothing else left for Monseigneur to do,’ Nicholas said.
The young Usurper of Cyprus, who had nearly not been born, received him that evening on the first floor, in an apartment which Nicholas took to be his private chamber. Apart from the large curtained bed, it was not lavishly furnished, and could have seated few guests apart from the swarthy man already ensconced there. Nicholas saw a cast of face he had found among the Sicilians of King Ferrante’s army: lean and bold of feature, and alarming sometimes in its intensity of expression. This man could not be much over thirty but he was scarred like a fighter, and his dark eyes, watching Nicholas under the drapes of his chaperon, were unfriendly and searching. He looked like a mercenary, but one who had risen to hold office as well as a sword. Nicholas thought it interesting that, of all his court, the King had brought such a man to hear their first conversation. Nicholas bowed, and turned to look for his host.
The King had seated himself on a ledge by the window, which was glazed. Outside, Nicholas could see a balcony, and a glimpse of gardens that ran down to the river that formed a wide moat. James de Lusignan, changed into a pale brocade doublet, was fingering the cord of his shirt and gazing across the flat roofs and towers of the city as if deep in thought. In repose, he show
ed none of the volatile temperament of the Queen his half-sister. His father’s height, which she had missed, was carried with the strong, disciplined grace of a hunter, and he had his father’s long-boned, regular features. A tapping foot; an alertness about the eyes were all that might recall a brotherly likeness. His mother was not in the room. Nicholas said, ‘You sent for me, my lord.’
The young man turned his head quickly. He rose, and stepping down from the window, stood before Nicholas and examined him seriously. Then he said, ‘Good. You look better. You and I are to talk, but I have brought a knight of mine here to reassure you. The lord Rizzo di Marino leads my armies from time to time and advises me, on the field and at home. The advice I hear most often is that I must win the friendship of a genius called Niccolò, who performed miracles in Trebizond, who has made his company famous, who desires adventure and is esteemed by his friends and who suffers from the loss of a greatly-loved wife. Sit and tell me. This is so?’
Nicholas sat. ‘My suffering at the moment is of a different order,’ he said. ‘Suppose we first talk about that.’
‘It is my intention to do so,’ the young man said. He resumed his seat at the window, studying one swinging foot. When he looked up, his face and voice were both sober. ‘We are of an age, you and I, or near enough to make no matter. You have been brought to Cyprus without your consent. In Bologna, you refused to join Carlotta my sister – we know that; but it did not mean that you were willing to come to me, or would have listened had we tried to induce you. Indeed, you would not hear my envoys in Venice. Therefore we took the decision to bring you, and risk your rejection of us, because we thought that, once here, you would use your own judgement to form a conclusion. Will you let me tell you what I have to offer?’
Race of Scorpions Page 15