Race of Scorpions

by Dorothy Dunnett

  He had guessed. Nicholas said, ‘He is unhurt.’

  Lomellini still stared at him. He said, ‘In five minutes, I shall send a servant to look for him. Make yourself scarce.’

  ‘No need,’ Nicholas said. ‘In a few minutes, there will be only one thing to think of. Or – no – Get down!’

  They were hardly in time. As they rolled on the deck, a ball from the enemy ship smashed into the rail of the forecastle, leaving a prodigious hole, and sending timber and iron flying. One of the bombards had gone. Among the dust and smoke, suddenly, there was a flicker of fire. As Nicholas scrambled upright, he heard John le Grant’s voice, swearing, and he began to breathe again. Before he could run, a dozen men were already there, and the fire was out. The men were his own, armed and efficient. Nicholas turned and found Lomellini, flushed, on his feet. Nicholas said, ‘We could beat them.’

  Lomellini said, ‘We shall certainly try. But even your hundred men won’t help save us if they get in under our guns and board us. There are at least four hundred men in those galleys, and this is an old single-mast cog. It takes fifty men to swing that yard round every time she goes about. And her guns aren’t on swivels.’

  ‘So we keep them at a distance. We can’t manoeuvre against two of them anyway, not with this wind and the way they’ve placed themselves. Can we fix the guns? My engineer and the Order’s gunner might do it. Then we look to hackbuts – we’ve plenty, and we’re good – and some sort of shield against arrows. What about co-ordination between helm and gunners and handguns? Would you let me do that? If the shipmaster agrees? Where is the shipmaster?’

  ‘I heard you,’ said the man. He was a Rhodian, and a professional. He said, ‘Ser Napoleone? This makes sense. I’ll take this man back to the tiller, if you and the Grand Master get the soldiers where you want them. I don’t want a prow ram through my beam while we’re talking.’

  ‘And whatever extra oarsmen you’ve got,’ Nicholas said. ‘It’ll help the gunners if the storm sail comes down.’ An explosion shook the boat and they staggered, recovered, and looked to the bows. John had fired one of their bombards. As they stood, another spoke. Two fountains of seawater arose, one in front of each galley. They saw, in the distance, turbanned men throw themselves low.

  The shipmaster was saying, ‘She’ll run south on her mast. But it’ll help. Come. Let’s get on with it.’ He ran, shouting orders, and Nicholas followed, to an outburst of drums and some trumpeting. Before they got to the poop, the yard was rattling down and men were running. He gave a slap on the back to one of his own squad as he passed, and the man looked round, grinning. Even when the odds were against them like this, no one minded once the fighting got started. Nicholas was so glad to be free, and in action, that he released a whoop, running forward. Faces turned, some of them irritated.

  Then he was at the stern castle, where the steersman was listening to orders, while the trumpeter made brazen notes of them. The poop flag, undeviatingly, blew from the north and the current kicked. Below, running men formed a line along either gunwale, the long shafts of their guns in their hands, their helmets bowed over powder-satchels and matches. The galleys on either side began to change position. The cog’s helmsman swung the tiller, using the current, and her few oarsmen bent to their task. The round ship ceased to point into the seas and came broadside on to each galley. As she paused, rocking wildly, the hackbuts along her flanks fired, first on one side, then on the other, raking along the low, distant galleys. With the naked eye, some confusion on both the enemy ships could be seen, and then, all too quickly, there came the uplifting of Mameluke bows, and the arrival over the water of a double shower of fast, lethal arrows.

  They arrived on the deck of the cog, and men screamed and fell, despite their armour. Some of them would be his, Nicholas knew, but so far he couldn’t identify them. But already the yard was again travelling up the mast, was secure, was filling with wind, and the round ship began to veer to present, again, its prow and poop to the galleys. And by then, there were working cannon on both.

  Nicholas ran down among the men, and assessed the few injured, and spoke hastily to the officers he found, and began to make his way to the fighting platform at the prow. On the way, he met Loppe, who thrust a cuirass at him. It was his own, and so was the helmet that came with it. He slung both on, without fastening the buckles, and bounded upwards on his way. John le Grant met him beside the broken timber. Nicholas said, ‘Well?’ Despite everything, he felt better than he had since the battle of Troia.

  John le Grant said, ‘Calm down, and listen.’ The engineer looked as he always did, tool in hand; white-lashed gaze speculative in a freckled face smeared with unspecified oils. His voice was not as it always was. He said, ‘The two galleys you are looking at are from Salines de St Lazare. They’re James de Lusignan’s.’

  Nicholas turned and, springing, handed himself fast up the rigging. Then, stopping, he gazed narrowly over the water. He saw the flank of the gilded enemy galley, packed with Muslims. Next to the pumpkin-turbans and scimitars hung the velvet cloth of the canopy, sewn with the owner’s devices. The wintry light traced the cross and crosslets of Jerusalem and the three crimson lions of Christendom: one for Cyprus; one for Armenia, and the last for the royal Frankish race of the Lusignan. The coat of arms – John was right – of James, King of Cyprus, whom he had hoped was his friend.

  For a moment, Nicholas stayed without moving. Then, taking slow breath, he set himself to scan the enemy vessel. The ship rose and fell. Fraction by deliberate fraction, he examined the waist of the galley: noted the thickets of bows and the bright turbanned helmets above them; moved his gaze past the waist to the prow, and lifting it at length to the foredeck, found at last the figure standing alone there, his golden belt glinting, his heavy cloak flying behind him. Nicholas considered it, shading his eyes; seeking the tall, huntsman’s body, the powerful neck, the beautiful face set in some purpose he would recognise instantly. Nicholas, too, had chosen to stand in isolation so that he could be seen, and so that, whatever there was to come, there should be no doubt about it.

  The figure he viewed was not tall, though it was above the usual height for its race. The shield it carried was inlaid with gold, and the helmet was shaped like a cone, with ostrich feathers that tugged in the wind. Between the cheek-tongues of the helm, the black moustache and the dark, vicious face were unmistakable.

  Nicholas lowered his hand, although he kept his eyes still on that remote, triumphant figure. Before him was the war fleet of James de Lusignan, Bastard of Cyprus, sent for no other reason but to intercept Nicholas and his company. Only James had not come with it. Instead, in cold anger – in forgivable anger – he had committed the charge to the emir Tzani-bey al-Ablak.

  So there was no longer much to hope for, unless he could escape. The precaution had not been enough, and the message from Zacco was clear. I gave you your life, and you have failed me. Here, then, is your fate, at the hands of the man from whom you would most hate to receive it. He remembered that Primaflora was on board. And Katelina. And Diniz. He called, ‘We have to beat them. John, we have to fight our way out.’

  And John le Grant said, ‘Look again.’

  He had been searching before for a man. Belatedly now he saw the glitter of parallel tubes on the deck of the galley. Copper tubes, long and slender, with their mouths levelled at the flank of the cog. John said, ‘You see them? The other galley has them as well.’

  Lomellini had come to the deck. As Nicholas sprang down to his side, the Genoese examined the enemy ship in his turn. He took down his bracketting hands. ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘Tubes for wildfire,’ Nicholas said. ‘They were playing with us.’

  ‘It seems very likely,’ said John le Grant. ‘A few shots to make us panic. All they have to do now is fire off one of those, and they’ve got us.’

  Astorre came up. He said, ‘It’s Zacco’s Mamelukes.’

  ‘We know,’ said Nicholas. ‘We can’t fight. He’s got wild
fire. Diniz … Where’s Diniz Vasquez?’

  ‘Behind you,’ said the boy’s voice. It sounded low, in all the hubbub.

  Nicholas turned. ‘Your aunt and the other ladies are locked in one cabin. Go below, free them, and stay with them. The lady Primaflora will have the key. Thomas, go to the Grand Commander’s cabin and release M. de Magnac with my apologies. Messer Napoleone –’ He broke off. ‘Listen.’

  A man from the nearest galley was hailing them. The face above the mouth-trumpet was not Egyptian, and the message coming in gusts over the water was in excellent French. ‘This is the spokesman of the emir Tzani-bey al-Ablak, commander of the Mameluke forces of James, King of Cyprus, hailing a ship of the Order of Hospitallers. Who is in charge?’

  Lomellini hesitated. The Rhodian shipmaster, horn in hand, was running towards him. The Genoese took the horn from him, and raised it to his mouth. ‘This is a vessel of the Order of Knights Hospitaller of St John, sailing from Rhodes. We have on board the Grand Commander of Cyprus, the Knight Louis de Magnac. The Order is not at war with the Sultan of Cairo. The Order demands to proceed without let or hindrance.’

  The wind thrummed and wailed. The ship creaked, rising to the crest of each wave and falling into the trough. On board, there was no sound from the seamen or the soldiers or the merchants as they stood, keeping their balance. The enemy spokesman said, ’The King, for whom the emir speaks, has no quarrel with the Order. But it has come to the King’s attention that you carry grain and gunpowder and arms to those who persist in holding the lands of his sister Carlotta against him. Moreover, you carry soldiers, a troop of mercenaries under the Flemish broker Niccolò of Venice and Bruges. His serene grace wishes no ill to the Knights of the Order, but he holds to his right to prevent the Order from interfering in a war which is not their concern.

  ‘Accordingly, I have to tell you that you and your ship are the King’s captives. Facing you is a battery which will send you to Heaven before you have time to pray. You will allow the lord emir to board you, and to place a man of his own at the helm. You will then be escorted to the King’s harbour of Salines. Those of you who are innocent of malice may expect to be landed unharmed and put on your way. Your cargo will, of course, be confiscated. Those soldiers of fortune who, for gold, have come to take up arms against King James deserve no mercy and will be shown none. You have no hope of escape. At the first sign of insurrection, the King’s galleys have orders to burn you down to the water, no matter who or what may be on board. Do you understand?’

  Louis de Magnac, looking pale, had arrived. He stared at Nicholas, then, seizing the trumpet, replied. ‘This is the Grand Commander of Cyprus. You are entirely mistaken. We carry nothing for the garrison of Kyrenia. We come to supply the Knights at Kolossi. We demand to pass.’

  The voice on the other ship took its time replying, and when it did, the results of a consultation were apparent. ‘You do not carry on board Niccolò vander Poele and a hundred of his men?’

  Answering the glare of the Grand Commander, Nicholas spoke low and quickly. ‘We are on our way home.’

  The Grand Commander raised the trumpet again. ‘We do. They are on their way to the west. They offer no threat.’

  On the other ship, the spokesman again turned aside to the emir. Then he lifted his trumpet once more. ‘You are far from the shipping lanes to the west, Grand Commander. You will forgive the lord emir if he does not believe you. You will come to Salines with your broker of mercenaries. Once on land, he and his fellow-adventurers will receive their deserts.’

  The Grand Commander, his eyes on Nicholas still, allowed his face to relax. He said, ‘I can say no more. It is for Messer Niccolò to make his own case. We go to Salines under protest, and on the understanding that, once there, all the others on board will be freely released. There are ladies among them.’

  ‘We shall treat them with honour,’ said the voice from the galley. It translated, no doubt, the exact words of the emir. It didn’t translate, Nicholas observed, the mockery behind the pronouncement. For Zacco’s reprimands, for his subsequent restraint towards Nicholas, Tzani-bey was now about to claim restitution.

  It was the end of the dialogue. On the other ship, the emir walked to the rail, where the galley’s boat was swung out and lowered. On the round ship of the Order, Louis de Magnac turned to Nicholas. ‘I could have you hanged from the yardarm, and no officer of the Order would blame me. The death you now face is, I fear, not undeserved. I cannot say I regret that the Queen will not have to trust her interests to one such as you.’

  ‘I am sorry, too,’ Nicholas said. He spoke formally, and controlled his own anger. ‘I hoped to have your understanding. As soldiers going to fight for Queen Carlotta, my company was at greater risk than anyone else here on board, and it was their right to be free to defend themselves. If we alone are now to die because of our allegiance, I cannot see our end as either deserved or dishonourable. But that is for others to judge. Now the ship is yours, as we are. I will do whatever you wish.’

  ‘What can prisoners do, pray?’ said the Grand Commander. ‘Except display the courage of soldiers placed under duress. Mine will stand on deck, and wait for the heathen. If you wish, you may place yours beside them. The ladies and the lay passengers should remain below, where they are.’

  ‘You don’t mean to offer defiance?’ said Nicholas.

  Beneath the silver hair, the handsome face paled, then flushed. The Grand Commander said, ‘It would provide a quicker death, I have no doubt, for you and your men, but a piteous one for innocent passengers. They will not burn to save you from torture.’

  Nicholas said, ‘My thought was different. The emir, too, might think that burning was too easy a death. If you turned your guns on him, he might prevaricate. But of course, it is a risk.’

  ‘It would be the act of a madman,’ said Louis de Magnac. And, Nicholas supposed, he was right.

  In silence, they took their positions. The seamen stood in their ranks, and the ship’s soldiers behind them, and his own behind those. In front waited the Grand Commander, and the captain of Famagusta, and the Rhodian shipmaster, his face impassive. Beside them stood Nicholas and the four officers of his troop. The enemy skiff laboured over the water and they could see the emir plainly, his cloak wrapped about him in the prow. He was looking upwards, at Nicholas. Nicholas, unmoving, stared back. The boat arrived, and the emir started up the companionway. Diniz Vasquez said, ‘Is that the man who whipped you before you came to Kolossi?’

  Nicholas turned. ‘Go below! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Is it?’ said the boy.

  ‘Yes. Go below. Diniz, stay with the others.’

  There was colour in the boy’s face. He said, ‘But you are to be punished for not joining Zacco. So you are the Queen’s man. They all doubted you.’

  ‘The Grand Commander still doubts me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Diniz, you are not safe up here.’

  ‘Why?’ said a voice, speaking in Arabic. ‘A spent catamite of yours would hardly excite me. Although he is pretty. Has he African ways?’

  The emir had climbed the steps and stood on deck before them all. His smile was broad, the black moustache spreading, the dark eyes liquid. Nicholas said, ‘Excuse him. He has only two legs.’

  The emir’s face hardly changed. It was the man behind him who stepped forward and swung his powerful mace. Although Nicholas flung his arm up, it brought him down to one knee. He rose, and replaced his innocuous smile. His hand, at his side, gripped Astorre’s arm. Thomas growled. The emir stood, his head on one side. Then he said, ‘Perhaps that is sufficient, for the moment. For serious intercourse, I prefer a wider audience, and land underfoot. Which is the fool who commands? This dotard? Ah, I remember him.’ And switching to accented French, he began to list his demands.

  He was obeyed. Officers and men unbuckled their armour and laid down their weapons. John le Grant in silence watched the guns deprived one by one of their ammunition and saw all their defences taken away. At the
end, Tzani-bey came again and stood before the Grand Commander. ‘And now I wish to see your cargo, and your passengers. The Genoese will come with me. You, my lord Napoleone. And our sorry young Fleming. The mace has opened your head. Does it pain you? Soon, I will cause you to forget it.’

  ‘I am to come with you?’ said Nicholas. He kept to Arabic.

  Tzani-bey looked surprised. ‘Of course. Don’t you have women on board? I should like to see them.’

  It was Primaflora, of course, whom he wanted to see. Katelina, on her sickbed, he hardly looked at. The merchants’ women screamed when he entered the cabin: he took one by her bodice, pulled her close to examine her, and then flung her away. Primaflora he saw last of all, because she was seated behind all the rest, and hadn’t stirred. The emir pushed the others aside and stood before her.

  She looked up. Nicholas saw her eyes turn to himself, and then move and rest, with supreme boredom, on the emir. She was exquisitely gowned, and had a little pillow of lace on her lap. She said, ‘Ah, the Mameluke who fingers women. May I undress for you? I should prefer not to have my gown torn.’

  The smile left his face. The mace-holder stirred. Tzani-bey said, ‘No. I do not require it. I have seen the goods.’ And he passed on.

  Napoleone Lomellini, pulled in his wake, dragged himself free and bowed, deeply and deliberately, to all the women. Nicholas, walking as slowly as he could, found Primaflora at his side. She said hastily, using Italian, ‘What will they do?’

  ‘Nothing to you, or the other passengers, or the ship. They’ll take the cargo, and me and my company,’ Nicholas said. ‘From their point of view, I was on my way to fight for the Queen.’

  ‘But you had no choice; you were under compulsion!’ she said. ‘Tell them! Tell them! The Usurper needs you more than the Queen does.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ Nicholas said, ‘that I could bring Tzani-bey to believe it. And if I did, the Order and the Genoese would never, I’m afraid, see that I stepped off this ship. You are here because of me, and I am so sorry. Go back to the Queen. She will forgive you. There will be someone courteous and wealthy waiting somewhere to be made happy.’