Race of Scorpions

by Dorothy Dunnett

  It was the kind of thing he did say. He might even mean it. The hands withdrew. Nicholas lay, his eyes closed. He heard the King leave, and Katelina’s steps apparently following. Tobie said, ‘I’m still here.’

  Something had to be done. Nicholas twitched his lips, without opening his eyes. He said, ‘I hope Abul Ismail can take the piss out of ermine.’ With the last of his consciousness, he registered Tobie’s grunt of approval.

  *

  Outside, waiting as bidden, Katelina van Borselen raised weary eyes to the man gowned as a King who, it seemed, was young and comely and hardly older than Nicholas, for love of whom he had come here. The antechamber they stood in was private, and he did not ask her to sit. Instead he walked frowning to the window, and turned.

  ‘We have a few moments only. We were curious to see you. We are told there is some relationship, some estrangement, between your family and the lord Niccolò?’

  The lord Niccolò. But he was, officially, a Knight of the Order. To him, Zacco had spoken as to a familiar. Now he used the royal plural, which should have seemed childish, but did not. She said, ‘That is so. But my nephew and I are here, my lord, through no fault of our own. We are anxious to leave.’

  ‘For Kyrenia?’ he said.

  ‘I have abandoned that plan. For home. For Portugal,’ she replied.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. There was a jewelled chain round his neck, and his big-boned fingers played with the pendant. He said, ‘Our lady mother says she has seen you.’

  ‘Your lady mother, my lord?’ she said.

  ‘In the Palace, with the lord Markios, her brother. You were ill in your chamber,’ said Zacco.

  She had only been visited once at the Palace. What had happened then she had thrust to the back of her mind hoping, perhaps, that it had been a delusion. The auburn-haired girl who had turned into a cynical, acid-tongued harridan. The melting face, speaking of locusts. What then should I do to you? Skin you as the Mamelukes do, and makes hawsers out of the peelings?’

  It had been a real person. Her brain told her as much. But – this man’s mother?

  ‘She frightened you,’ Zacco said. ‘We are afraid that, in her zeal, she sometimes goes too far to protect us. But she is not harsh to those who are reasonable. She says we should be lenient, and should prepare to release you even without recompense for your lodging. We have agreed. We have said that if by autumn the gold has not come we shall send you away. Meantime, you will be lodged in the south, where you will have no temptation to incite your nephew, or communicate with Kyrenia or Famagusta. There are several families of good blood near Episkopi. You will take your woman, and stay with one of these. You will suffer no hardship.’

  Her limbs were trembling, but she tried to keep her voice steady. ‘And my nephew, my lord?’

  ‘That is settled. He remains here, and works in the dyeshop. Messer Bartolomeo, we are sure, will be a good master. That is all.’

  She said quickly, ‘I should prefer to stay with the Clares. Or at some –’

  His eyes, full on her face, were brilliant hazel and colder than metal. ‘We have spoken,’ he said; and walked out.

  For love of Nicholas, he had come. Katelina thought of what she had heard, and the caress she had seen. She had always assumed that one kind of love precluded the other. She had held herself firmly apart from the plebeian tangle of this apprentice’s conquests – from the serving-wenches of Bruges to his elderly wife; and from there of course, to Primaflora. There had been a rumour from Venice. There had been another, which she discounted, from Trebizond. But now, slowly, she began to consider whether or not there were reasons for this strange inconstancy which had nothing to do with simple lust or base blood or ambition.

  She went back to the Clares, and could neither pray nor go to a friend, for she had no friend to turn to, here or anywhere.

  Chapter 27

  WHAT HE SAID and did when ill, Nicholas had learned, often ran counter to his own diligent planning and was capable, sometimes, of messing it up quite considerably. While recovering, therefore, he obeyed Tobie to the letter, and received no calls until he was sure of himself. The exception was, of course, Zacco, who came, as he had promised, every day. Each time a servant preceded him, bringing fruit, or pastries, or little birds pickled in vinegar.

  Once the King brought his own gift: an offer to fetch Primaflora. Since she was in Rhodes with Carlotta, the gift would have been as expensive, in cost and in lives, as any he could have devised. On those grounds, but not only on those grounds, Nicholas declined with due deference. The day after that, to Tobie’s outrage, Zacco sent a charming girl-child to the sickroom, explaining in an oddly spelled message that, to satisfy Flemish chivalry, he had had her used first. ‘But,’ reported Nicholas, ‘he said he was willing, if wrong, to replace her.’

  ‘Barbarians!’ exclaimed Tobie, whose imagination in respect of Zacco was fortunately not of the strongest. He added, ‘It’s too soon, anyway.’

  Lying alone, Nicholas exercised himself on affairs of the mind, such as an evaluation of profit and loss. Recognising what he was doing he would pull a face, remembering Tommaso Portinari, with his rings and his ledgers; or Metteneye’s wife and her books. Or, without smiling, would think of Anselm Adorne. Or Jaak de Fleury. Or Julius and Marian, who had taught him all they knew. All they knew, not all he knew.

  His profit and loss he weighed on scales slightly different from theirs. Profit, that he had impressed Queen Carlotta sufficiently for her to send Primaflora after him. Profit, that he had mercenaries again under his hand. Profit that, after he had chosen to fight in the right place at the right time, the Venetians working for Zacco (whom he had also impressed) had used his own ship to bring him to Cyprus. Profit that, in return for himself and his army, he had land, money, a title and the franchise of the Nicosia royal dyeworks. Profit that he had bought the skills of Bartolomeo Zorzi, who knew all about non-Papal alum … and who of course, had brought him back Chennaa, his camel. And finally in the balance of profit – the lure, the prize, the object of all he was doing – the right to earn whatever money he could from the richest franchise in Cyprus: the royal sugarcane fields of Kouklia and Akhelia, bestowed on him by Zacco.

  There had, of course, been losses, of which the most distressing was time. But if he could not immediately travel, he could conduct operations very soon from his bed. He had, after all, been exploiting both franchises from the day he landed at Salines. In any game, application was of the essence.

  Soon, he was able to call a war meeting for sugar, as he had induced the King to do for St Hilarion. For that the key figure was Loppe, who arrived in Nicosia almost before he was sent for, bringing with him Michael Crackbene and Umfrid, his excellent round-ship accountant. By then, Nicholas could sit for spells at his board with his boxes, which contained variously the receipts, the bills and the lists for his war, his dyeworks and his sugar business. Joined to them recently were the reports now reaching him often from Venice. Quite soon, Tobie had noticed one. ‘That’s from Gregorio!’

  Tobie, with his pink inquisitive face, was the one person he couldn’t keep out of his chamber. Nicholas said, ‘I’m quite glad to hear from him too, considering he’s sitting on top of our money. He seems to be lending it out at exorbitant rates. I must ask which army he’s backing.’

  ‘He’s well?’ Tobie said. He appreciated Gregorio for himself, and for what he had done as the company’s lawyer. Nicholas, who owed Gregorio rather more, considered again, and dismissed again, the thought that he would like him in Cyprus. He would like him in Cyprus, but he depended still more on his link between Venice and Bruges.

  Nicholas said, ‘He must be. He’s operating from the Corner mansion down from the Rialto. The House of Niccolò now. He’s got quite a staff. They’ll soon be almost as big as the Charetty company.’

  He and Tobie and Astorre and Gregorio and Godscalc had once all belonged to the Charetty company, before his wife died, and his step-daughter inherited it. If Tilde
died unmarried, he would own the Charetty company. Tobie said, as Nicholas expected, ‘You’re not competing with them?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Nicholas said. ‘Gregorio keeps to his orders. But he has had a clash or two in the marketplace with St Pol & Vasquez, Simon’s firm. He says they’re heavily committed, without much free money to spend. It explains the absence of ransom for Katelina.’

  It didn’t, but that was his worry, not Tobie’s. While he was still fairly weak he had broken his rule and had Diniz brought to his room, where he talked to him mildly, remembering that the guilty always felt most vindictive. Diniz had been silent, resentful and frightened, and he had got nowhere with him at all. Katelina, on the other hand, had never been seen since her visit, and the Clares were silent as only Clares afraid of Marietta could be. He was sure of this, that Cropnose had something to do with it.

  The day after that, Loppe’s party arrived, and at the same time, John le Grant rode down from St Hilarion. He broke his rule again, and had them into his room. They all exclaimed at his appearance, made a number of jokes, and got fairly drunk, which sent Nicholas’s temperature up and restarted the bleeding. Then Tobie returned him to prison conditions, and no one came near him for days. He spent the time making lists, and sending them out to be studied. They had to do with men and buildings and plant, raw materials, packing and transport. He also had Loppe’s reports, even though he wouldn’t admit Loppe as yet. For Loppe was the key, and needed meticulous handling. In fact, all of them did. Nicholas was no longer a boy being indulged, or a young man still proving himself. They had accepted him as someone to follow, and he had to show he was right most of the time, if not quite all of it. Or the game wouldn’t come out as he wanted.

  He thought he had a team. Twice, he thought he had lost Tobie; once at St Hilarion and again over the business with Katelina. But for no very pleasant reason, Tobie had been unable to cast stones over St Hilarion, and whatever had emerged from that raw, disjointed wrangle with Katelina seemed to have earned him a reprieve. Or perhaps he had to thank his own condition and Tobie’s overriding professional instincts. Or, far more likely, the matter of bryony berries. At any rate Tobie did not, he said, intend to return to St Hilarion. If anyone fell sick, that bastard Abul Ismail could deal with it.

  And John le Grant? Up till recently he had been like Crackbene, a man who would peddle his ingenuity anywhere for the sheer personal pleasure of exercising it. John was a red-headed German-speaking Aberdonian who had joined him in Florence and shown a backbone of iron through the Trebizond war, as he had through the fall of Constantinople. Mick Crackbene, with the Scandinavian name and the Scandinavian bulk and fair hair, had come to Nicholas from Pagano Doria his enemy, and in the course of a career that contained, Nicholas suspected, its fair share of piracy. But he was a brilliant seaman and had shown himself, so far, a reticent but perfectly satisfactory employee. It had not been his fault that he had been forced to sail for Cyprus, and he had performed his duties well and sensibly since. There existed, of course, a way to gain his friendship and understanding, but so far Nicholas had not been able to find it. He knew, from Loppe, that Crackbene’s accountant was in the same mould.

  And so he was reminded of Loppe, and the quality of his intellect, and the barrier of his colour. It seemed a long time since they had first met: he an apprentice of eighteen, Loppe a slave on a Venetian ship, and far from his home in West Africa. The Olympian frame with its play of black muscles came no doubt from the forebears he had lost, but owed its development to the various masters in Spain and in Portugal who had christened him Lopez. Loppe had given them physical service, and he had taken from them their tongues and their knowledge. Loppe was polyglot, and an expert in many things. Among them was the nurture of the sugarcane plant.

  When the day came that Nicholas was his own man, he gathered them all in the garden: Tobie, John, Loppe and Crackbene, with Umfrid. The cooks had brought food. The women knew him by now, and their manner was cheerful and easy, although they never stepped out of bounds, and he fancied that was not because they were afraid of the steward. Galiot, chosen by Loppe, managed the household remarkably well and dealt, too, with the food for the dyeworks. Under Zorzi, the dyeworks were busy.

  Today, the House of Niccolò in Cyprus met under an awning, although the sun was mild, and the air still had the freshness of spring. For a moment, oddly, it seemed that some vital component was missing; and then Nicholas saw that he had been thinking of his garden in Trebizond, and the persons missing were Godscalc and Julius.

  He said, ‘I want you to hear me, so that we all know what we are doing, and also to have your advice. At present, John can’t stay with us. Once his cannon are cast, we shall launch an attack on Kyrenia and I shall come north to join him. The rest of the time I’ll be in the south, and you will be with me. By the time the war has moved to Famagusta, the sugar crop should be dealt with, or at least capable of continuing without us. We have to make this business self-sufficient, secure and well-managed. Whether we personally stay in Cyprus or not, the sugar franchise can support us for years; give us capital for other ventures, and cushion us against losses.’

  ‘So long as Zacco is King,’ said John le Grant.

  ‘So long as the Turks don’t defeat Venice,’ said Tobie.

  ‘So long as the Venetians don’t steal it from us,’ said Nicholas. Loppe smiled. There was a silence.

  ‘What?’ said Tobie. ‘They brought you here.’

  Nicholas licked smoked pork from his fingers, and let the jellied brawn he was supposed to be eating melt slowly into its dish. He said, ‘They brought me here to get rid of Carlotta. They’ll keep us here as long as there’s danger. But they don’t want a strong, permanent business competing with theirs.’

  ‘How competing?’ said Tobie. ‘They could sell a hundred times what they grow.’

  Nicholas said, ‘They can’t plant much more than they’ve got. They’re short of trained men and slaves. Any ship calling anywhere is in danger of being requisitioned for war. And foreign imports are hard to come by – I know that from the dyeworks. There’s also a shortage of craftsmen – the family links with potters and weavers have gone. Remember, Zacco’s war to seize Cyprus caused a lot of damage in his part of the island. A lot of people fled with Carlotta. What happened changed the sugar industry. Loppe has looked at sugar estates all over the island. Most are small, some are spoiled, some have lost practical access. The only three worth anything are in the south, and we have one of them. The other two are Venetian-connected or -owned. One is the cane of the Knights at Kolossi, marketed through a Venetian company. One is the private estate of Marco Corner, the Venetian merchant.’

  ‘And they are situated together,’ said Loppe mildly. He had chosen to sit on the grass. His cap and sleeveless jacket were red; his shirt white, as was the wand-like lily upright on his fingertips. He inclined its stem to the map on the table. ‘The Knights near Limassol, with the Martini brothers selling their goods for them. The Corner lands at Episkopi, managed by the Corner and their factor, who do their own marketing. And furthest west, the royal estates for which we have the franchise.’ He tapped and lifted the flower, leaving a dust of gold pollen on Kouklia.

  John le Grant said, ‘Don’t go on. I want to ask something. Nicholas, didn’t the Knights cheat the Martini last year?’

  ‘They tried to,’ Nicholas said. ‘I stopped them. Nevertheless, they’re repeating the contract. The Martini have bought the Knights’ crop, and will make their profit from how well they sell it.’

  ‘So the Knights think we’re dirt,’ said le Grant. ‘Upset their schemes, mishandled their wee man Kinloch, flouted Carlotta for Zacco, got their ship waylaid and gave Zacco its cargo. And now you’re competing with them in the sugar business. That being so, why are the Knights using the Martini brothers again? You saved the Martini sugar. The Martini must be the best friends you’ve got.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Nicholas. ‘Until now, the Martini held the royal f
ranchise. The Martini had to go back to the Knights, because there wasn’t another job for them. They don’t like me at all.’

  ‘Can they harm you?’ said Tobie. ‘The Knights? The Martini brothers?’

  ‘Openly, no,’ Nicholas said. ‘We have the royal fief.’

  ‘But?’ said John le Grant.

  Nicholas said, ‘But, of course. Imagine what you would do if you were an outpost of Rhodes, and wanted to make an impression on the Grand Master, or on Carlotta. Fortunately, there are the Corner. Venetians also, and lying between us and Kolossi.’

  ‘But competing also for men and equipment. Here’s another thing,’ said John le Grant. His hat clashed with his hair, and his skin shone under his freckles. ‘Corner are privately owned. They manage their business, top to bottom. But aren’t we in the same situation as the Martini? The royal estates turn out the sugar, and it’s our job simply to sail off and sell it? I’m supposing that that’s why Crackbene is sitting there. So why should we bother ourselves with all these lists I’ve been seeing? That’s the estate manager’s job, reporting to Zacco.’

  ‘It should be,’ Nicholas said. ‘But because of the war, the estate is in a mess. What men there were left when the Martini left. If I hadn’t done something as soon as we arrived, we should have acquired a most expensive franchise to nothing. As it is, there’s a lot to do still. You see that. But we’ve got the replacement cuttings we need, and the experts, and the buildings and vats are being repaired. And Loppe has installed a new manager.’