Chapter 43
THE CITADEL that night was uncomfortable, jammed with jaded and irritable men to whom, in their weariness, it seemed that the surrender of Famagusta had made them masters of a festering graveyard. At the centre of it all, overtired and on edge, was Zacco himself.
His temper, on the late return of Nicholas, quite suited Astorre’s description of murderous, and it took an hour of endeavour for the men around him, including Nicholas, to soften his mood. It was an example of the curious alchemy that drew men to Zacco no matter what his behaviour. They suffered his whims out of love for him. Whatever he did, he could count on that. Many times he did so, quite deliberately. The rest of the time it was unconscious. It was what made him fit to rule this particular land, rather than his sister Carlotta, who was probably more energetic, probably more gifted, certainly more intellectual. And because he was part of the charmed circle, and had done what he had with his ship and his army, and had shirked abnormally little of the hard work or hard play or his share of the fighting, Nicholas was aware that he was held in regard by the others. He was aware, too, that when the King’s immediate anger had died, Zacco remembered something. So, when Astorre was found tramping about outside the door, the King looked up from the drinking, companionable group that was talking him towards his bed, and said, ‘Ah, poor Nikko. We are unkind, when he is heartsick, and bereaved of his sad, Flemish lady. Take him away.’
Plodding up the stairs behind Astorre, Nicholas sat down and said, ‘You couldn’t do that every night? I’m going to sleep on the floor.’
‘No, you’re not. I’ve got good news. Master Tobie’s got the boy to agree to leave with him. They’re riding to Nicosia in the morning.’ The toe of his boot did some prodding.
Nicholas said, ‘I wasn’t asleep, and I’ll put myself into bed when I feel like it. I’m glad to hear it. Astorre, tell Loppe to go with them. Where’s John?’
‘Holding your other arm,’ said John le Grant. ‘The sooner you get into bed, the sooner you’ll get big and strong and able to fight Tzani-bey.’
It was something Nicholas had given no thought to just recently. He swore; then, finding himself unexpectedly in a bed, went to sleep.
The next night, Tzani-bey rode up to the land gate. He had a small retinue with him, but made no attempt to bring them in, merely requesting leave to walk alone to the Citadel. He was given an escort and taken there. While he remained at the end of the drawbridge, one guard spoke to another, and a captain appeared and crossed to him. ‘My lord emir, the Commander regrets. After nightfall, entry here is prohibited. Since I cannot admit you, is there any message I might pass?’
‘It was not the Commander I sought,’ said Tzani-bey al-Ablak. ‘Although – may he be prosperous – I would wish you to convey to him my felicitations on his well-deserved and excellent appointment. I sought out my brother soul Niccolò, with whom I believed I had some business of consequence. I have waited to hear from him. But perhaps he does not care to come out?’
‘He is here, most excellent,’ Nicholas said. He crossed the drawbridge, taking his time, until he looked down on the emir. He said, ‘We spoke of a meeting. You have in mind a time and a place?’
‘In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful,’ said Tzani-bey. ‘Is it for myself, full of dross, to suggest it? For me, one day is as well as another. There lie before us auspicious days only. The evil days of this month – the Egyptian days – these are all now behind us with their curses. Whoso may wed a wife, he shall not long have joy of her. And who that taketh any great journey shall never come back again. And he that beginneth any great work shall never make end of it. And he that letteth him blood shall soon die, or never be whole. Such are the dooms of the Dies Nefastae, of which one, as I recall, is your Saint’s Day. But why should the ramblings of doctors disturb you? I would fight you on horseback, with sword and with mace, within two days from now. And for your greater contentment, let us make our sport in Famagusta. There is an exercise ground?’
‘There to your left,’ Nicholas said. ‘But would the emir regard it as fitting? The Commander’s orders are strict. The emir’s entourage would not be permitted.’
‘Allah the Best Knower has endeared his faith to me, and I trust you and him. I shall come alone. I shall agree to whatever you choose. The day after tomorrow? An hour after sunrise? You may wish to hold festival; permit games; arrange other combats. It keeps men from wearying. It is not a sweet city at present, Famagusta.’
‘It is agreed,’ Nicholas said.
‘In token of which,’ said Tzani-bey, ‘I have brought you a gift. This soldier carries it. Open it when I have gone, and think of me when you wear it.’
He left. In the Commander’s room in the Citadel, Conella Morabit was waiting for Nicholas. He said, ‘Now we know.’
‘You had him watched?’ Nicholas said.
‘Every moment. It was the soldier. The soldier who carried the parcel. A message passed.’
‘You heard the pact?’ Nicholas said.
‘You meet to resolve your dispute in the training field, and he comes alone. What do you make of it?’
‘The same as you. All the garrison will come to watch, whether public games are fixed round it or not. While they are out of the citadel, someone will open the gate to the quays.’
‘And four hundred armed men will enter, take the Citadel, and kill the King. It agrees with what we know of him. Except that the emir risks his own life.’
‘He’ll be in the field with me, when it happens,’ Nicholas said. ‘He can always use me as buffer. In fact, he’s got to keep me alive till it’s over, which I find rather cheering. I’m not entirely confident of killing Tzani-bey with a mace at the moment.’
Morabit was silent. He said, ‘But when he finds he is trapped, he will turn on you. No. The King may not allow this.’
‘Then he must have a poor opinion of my wits. Tzani-bey will be the one who is surprised, no one else. Besides,’ Nicholas added, ‘it’s what you might call a matter of honour, and the fount of honour must be James of Lusignan. I have promised myself this for a long time. In fact, when I came, it was a condition of service.’
‘I see,’ said Conella Morabit. ‘I am sorry to hear it, but I shall not, of course, try to persuade you. What, then, is the gift he has brought you? Something offensive?’
Wrapped in linen, the parcel was modest in dimensions and limp in character and innocent of any obvious threat. Nicholas opened it.
Inside was a beautiful cloak, lined with satin. When he lifted it out, it hung to the ground from his fingers, not ponderous as a fur mantle usually was, but weightlessly supple and silken, made by a master from thin, fine perfect skins pieced together with infinite artistry. Their colours glowed in the lamplight: smoke and silver and black, cream and tortoiseshell, orange and butter.
Nicholas loosed his hands as if holding a plague shroud. It fell and slid from his sight. ‘Burn it,’ he said. ‘Get your servant to burn it.’
Conella Morabit stared at him. ‘If you wish,’ he remarked. ‘But it is a thing of great price.’
Nicholas gave the statement some thought. He said, ‘And that is very true. I doubt if you can imagine what it has cost, and what it is still going to cost, before I have finished.’
The following day, Astorre came into his own. The King, torn between anger, and foreboding, and love of glorious danger, had been brought to agree to the piece of theatre which his Nikko demanded, and which might or might not prove the focal point of a Mameluke rebellion. Markios had no objections. Rizzo, departed suddenly for Nicosia, had not been present to give an opinion, and William Goneme, after praying briefly for everyone’s welfare, seemed to think that God had made a commitment. Pesaro seemed disapproving, but not Sor de Naves and his brother.
Most seemed unconvinced that the Mameluke attack would take place. All were optimistic, so far as his own prospects went. ‘If you’re right, your contest will hardly have started before the Mamelukes come, and
we snare them. If there’s no revolt, all the better. The King has said he’ll have the duel stopped.’
‘He’ll have to work hard at that,’ said Nicholas to Captain Astorre, who had volunteered to teach him how to use a mace. ‘I’ve waited a year to get hold of Tzani-bey al-Ablak, and I’m not about to give him up to anyone.’ Astorre, who loved a challenge, was the right person to say that to; and John le Grant didn’t waste his time trying to stop him. Nicholas spent a day filled with bursts of furious activity in the training field, and crashed on to his truckle bed early that evening aching in every stretched and ill-nourished muscle.
Astorre said, ‘Well, you’ll need your wits about you. But that’s a good horse. Your sword is first-class, and your mace was got off one of the best fighters I ever knew, until I got hold of him. Also, you’ve fought with Muslims and against them. You know their tricks better than most. So when the Mamelukes come, pin him quickly. He won’t know you’re expecting it. He’ll be watching his men.’
‘If they come,’ Nicholas said. ‘What if Abul Ismail was wrong, or the emir guesses? Then he’ll attack hard from the beginning, because he won’t be waiting for anyone.’
‘So what’s wrong with that?’ said John le Grant. ‘A fair fight, face to face. I thought you asked for it. Gallant Knight to eminent Mameluke?’
Astorre looked indignant. ‘Except he’s not fit for it. Look at him! Putty!’
‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas, suddenly tickled. On occasion, Astorre’s tactics gave way to his truthfulness.
John was looking less serious, perhaps; but still thoughtful. John said, ‘That’s true. The man’s got you at a disadvantage. You’re entitled to some compensation. Make the big chivalrous gesture, but take any concession that’s going; that would be my advice. The fellow’s a weasel.’
He sounded unsympathetic, even exasperated. All right: Tzani-bey had been rough on the way back from Rhodes; had treated Nicholas badly on his trip to meet Zacco; had used brutal tricks when campaigning. To fight him for it in John’s book was childish. But then, John didn’t know what had taken place in the monastery set among vipers, and on the road between there and Nicosia. Cropnose and Zacco and Markios did; and Tzani-bey and most of his Mamelukes. When exacting payment in public for that, your mind didn’t run on concessions.
In Cyprus that year, the last week of January brought a softening that seemed to herald the spring. Outside Famagusta, the almond trees were already in blossom and soon the air would smell of hyacinth and narcissus, and the piercing scent of the orange trees would drench all the island. The skies cleared. Between sunshine and showers the rivers began to run lower; the mud stiffened; the ground became green. The Mameluke lord Tzani-bey al-Ablak, dismissing his entourage at the gates of Famagusta, rode into the city on a white horse whose silver harness and gold-tasselled hipcloth glittered and twinkled in sunlight, and the velvet coat over his mail was magnificent.
From the Citadel, Astorre watched him come, his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas. ‘I was right,’ he said. ‘Chain mail. Flexible, but it can’t stand up to piercing. A coif, a helmet, a round shield, and the mace under his knee. I told you –’
‘You told me,’ said Nicholas. ‘What kind of mace?’ He turned to pick up his helmet. The mail shirt he wore, on Astorre’s advice, was very close to the pattern of the Mamelukes, although the links were different, and bound with small plates. His thighs and knees and calves were protected with armour, and there were plates of it guarding his elbows. Unlike the emir’s, his sword was straight and not curved, and his mace was of iron. The lad who had volunteered as his squire held his long Burgundian shield and his gloves and the Milanese bascinet he would buckle over his cap. It was plain, with no nose or ear guards like the emir’s, although his neck was protected by mail. Ring mail deflected a scimitar cut, which was why the Mamelukes wore it.
Astorre pronounced on the subject of maces. ‘Fins on the head. A piece of pure frippery. But his shaft’s ribbed. I like it.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Is everyone where they should be?’
‘That’s a stupid question,’ Astorre said, ‘considering. Of course they are. The castle seems empty. The parade ground looks as if it’s got the entire population of Cyprus gathered round it. No great impression of pageant, but the King’s there, moderately dressed-up, and your courtiers. Not Rizzo.’ He paused. ‘Will your wife know? The lady Primaflora? She’s been waiting for you in Nicosia?’
By now, presumably, quite a select number of people would be waiting for him in Nicosia, including the most beautiful woman there. Despite the Dies Nefastae, he must seem to rank among the preternaturally blessed of this world. Nicholas said, ‘Does she know about the revolt? Not unless Tobie has worried her with it. When it’s over, I’ll explain it myself. And if I can’t, there’s a farewell packet I left in December. It probably sounds quite old-fashioned by now. If I survive a second time, I must find and revise it. Let’s go. Is it all right, my right side going numb like this?’
‘You’re an idiot,’ said Astorre good-naturedly. ‘On you go. Remember all I told you. Kill him if you get the chance, but –’
‘But not too soon to spoil everyone’s plans. Lord of Mercy,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s not a fight, it’s the script for a passion play in twenty-five scenes; costumes free from the guilds and no drinking. Is Ludovico da Bologna out there?’
‘No. I don’t think so,’ said Astorre, looking surprised.
‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘I feel better already.’
Whatever his words to Astorre, they had nothing to do with his underlying mood, which had remained unchanged for days. He rode out now into the sun and the wind with his mind implacably set, and stepped through the crowds deaf to their shouting, to enter the vast oblong of dirt upon which this duel was to be fought.
It was not decked out as for a gala, for this was a military occupation, and these were only games. What he was about to take part in was not a game, arms à plaisance; but neither did it have a noble purpose. He was not here as a Knight, to fulfil the Christian purpose of his Order, although what he did might serve James of Lusignan. Perhaps the emir Tzani-bey was here to defend his religion; but for three years he had accepted the payment of Christians to attack other Christians, and if he was bent on revolt, it was chiefly because he perceived a Turcoman threat to all Mamelukes.
These were issues of power, not religion. And whether they existed or not, the fact was that he and Tzani-bey would have fought one another anyway, over a personal grudge. It only happened to be taking place here because he wished the King to be present. If all the other spectators received joy of it, Nicholas had no objection.
Everything about this ground was familiar, as was the feel of his arms: his sword, the weight of his shield and his helm, the balance of the little horse under him. It was a long time since the Abruzzi, when he had seen Felix fall; and he had fought often on horseback since then. He had been fighting in the Abruzzi when he had been captured, the year before last. And brought here. And thought the love of arms was the new love he had discovered.
Behind him stood the castle. To his right ran the sea-wall, with the ocean behind it upon which the Adorno had met her fate. On his left, central among the spectators, was the awning hung with the cross and three lions of Lusignan. Beside Nicholas was the flag he had been given, which had upon it a silver cross-hilted sword on a blue field: emblem of the Order he had been admitted to twice (or not at all). At the other end, on a white horse, sat the emir Tzani-bey, his sword drawn. The emir who had chained him, flayed him, exposed him, and used him for his pleasure.
There was a drumroll and a flourish of trumpets: the overture. Then the tripping signal that warned the contestants to be prepared. Then the trumpets for onslaught.
Here there were no lists and no formalities. One did not ride courteously forward, gathering speed, strike, continue and turn, ready to repeat the process. There was no barrier. The emir simply gathered his horse and flung
it into a gallop on a course that must collide with his own. And Nicholas, watching him, spurred his horse likewise.
It was one used for ball games, and wiry. If it had been heavier, he would have allowed the collision to happen. As it was, he waited until the last second, and his opponent did the same. The two horses swerved, brushing one another, and the two blades flashed, and met, and parted in a shower of sparks. As he struck, Nicholas was squeezing and turning his horse bodily beneath him.
He was just in time. Tzani-bey had played tzukanion also although not, Nicholas supposed, on the fields of the Emperor of Trebizond. He reappeared under his elbow and struck upwards. Nicholas ducked, and heard the steel pass with a whine. He turned and slashed; met cloth; met leather, tugged free and flung his horse away in a circle.
Tzani-bey had done the same. They sat, breathing quickly, watching one another. He realised that everyone in the world appeared to be screaming. He remembered what he was supposed to be doing; then forgot it. He saw Tzani-bey begin, very gently, to put his horse into a mild trot towards him and advanced his own mount at the same pace. Above the round shield he could see little of the emir’s dark face: two glittering eyes on either side of the nose-guard; a flash of teeth below the spreading moustache. His mail coat was long, covering his calves as he rode, and the high-backed saddle protected his rear. His horse, with no apparent instruction, suddenly increased its speed on a parallel course; arrived, and stopped dead as the emir struck.
Nicholas took on his shield a slash that would have cut off his neck. He felt the jar in his weaker shoulder as he parried, sliding sideways and forward. The emir leaned, allowing the blade to pass his side. His horse passaged; turned; the blade came again, cutting upwards, sideways, down. The little horse under Nicholas whinnied, jolting him, as a line of red sprang along its haunch. Nicholas, angry, slashed twice and then retrieved his temper as he retreated, wheeling. The emir’s horse moved, backwards, forwards, sideways, and then came forward again. This time they stayed engaged, the horses dancing beneath them, and some of the blows missed, some were blocked, and some fell. At the same moment, they both freed themselves and withdrew.
Race of Scorpions Page 67