Race of Scorpions (38 page)

From their latest place of confinement the four immediate colleagues of Nicholas could, if sufficiently curious, obtain a view of the ships in the harbour. Watching the sea blooming white along the rocks of the half-built new tower Tobias Beventini observed from his single barred window the fluttering procession of Knights and of monks which attended the casque to the mole and saw, sombre among them, the boy Diniz in black, walking with his aunt Katelina. Later, he watched the ship slowly move out of shelter to rock on the steaming, grape-coloured water. Goodbye, poor lad. Goodbye, also, Ludovico da Bologna.

Later still, the procession came back, wet and hurrying. The demoiselle and her maid returned with it. Beside the demoiselle, against all probabilities, walked again the slight, black-clad person of Diniz Vasquez.

The boy’s face was swollen with tears. With his medical eye, Tobie studied the young Portuguese, and was troubled. This gave way to an emotion less worthy. Tobie said, ‘And
that
wasn’t part of the plan.’

‘What?’ said Astorre. Surrounded by bits of a handgun, he was discussing something with John le Grant. Their hands were black, and so was the engineer’s nose, which he tended to pinch when expounding.

‘The boy didn’t sail. He was supposed to,’ Tobie said. ‘Nicholas
expected the Borselen woman to stay. She’d want to see us disposed of. But the boy was to sail with the coffin.’ Tobie’s pink lips curled unkindly. ‘Nicholas
is
going to be cross.’

‘Wherever he is,’ said John le Grant.

They didn’t know where Nicholas was. He had been parted from them unexpectedly, at the gates of the Grand Master’s Palace, and immediately after their audience. Since Nicholas had been committed to the custody of Queen Carlotta it was reasonable, on reflection, that he should be given a guard of his own and marched straight from the audience to her residence, leaving his officers behind in the courtyard. They watched him go. He made no effort at resistance, and indeed, threw them a grimace in passing that implied complaisance, if not absolute joy. A moment later, an angry crowd had run upon him, and stones were being hurled.

It happened outside the gates and, surrounded by soldiers, Astorre and the other three officers could only shout, and try ineffectually to beat their way through to help him. From the language they could hear, the attackers appeared to be of Portuguese nationality. For a worrying interval, Nicholas seemed to disappear in the crowd, while the Grand Master’s soldiers stood back and did nothing. Then the noise came to an abrupt end, and before they could find out the reason, the escort arrived for Astorre and the rest, and tried to march them out in their turn. It was Astorre who planted his booted feet firmly in the Grand Master’s courtyard and refused to move until told what had happened.

The captain of the escort had been dismissive. ‘The Portuguese gentleman Tristão Vasquez was killed, and your friend is thought to be somehow responsible. It is untrue, no doubt. But the Portuguese are an excitable nation.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ had said Captain Astorre, ‘if this is all the restraint they are ever put under. Who stopped them? Not any men of the Order, that I could see.’

‘I hardly know,’ had said the soldier. ‘May we move, sir? I believe a beneficial intervention may have been made by some passing Genoese gentlemen. Your friend, I am sure, is quite safe.’

‘Is he?’ Astorre had said. ‘I would feel better, none the less, if you would be so kind as to make certain.’

They had received an assurance of sorts, and had been forced to leave it at that. From there, they had been marched to join the rest of their men at the Arsenal, where the padlocks were bigger, as John le Grant said, and where there existed the anvils, the workshops, the furnaces with which (under supervision, and with no grant of powder or shot) they could adjust and refurbish their weapons. For after all, they had not had a good fight since Troia, and they wanted to start off in Cyprus with their swords sharp.

Thomas, even when harangued in English, remained mystified
about their Cyprus commitment. Working outdoors with the men, he kept his doubts to himself. On the day the cog left, he sat with Astorre and the rest round the dismantled handgun and doggedly returned to his worries. ‘All those things they complained about. Nicholas did them, not us.’

John le Grant possessed the most patience. He tweaked his nose again, blackening it further. ‘That’s right. Katelina van Borselen told the Queen what she knew about Nicholas. Katelina van Borselen, knowing Nicholas, smelled a rat over that pirated cargo. She reckoned there was a lot more to be found out, and presumably set someone to doing it. The missing sugar was tracked down to Crete. That busybody of a chaplain escaped, and was rushed to Rhodes with his accusations. The report got to the Queen, and the Queen used it to persuade the Order they didn’t want to keep Nicholas and filched him herself, this time with his hands officially tied.’

Thomas said, ‘But the Queen had him before. He swore an oath to her.’

Tobie descended from the window. ‘She gave him the knighthood to keep him quiet until she had the means to lay him over a barrel.’

‘He’s over a barrel?’ said the red-haired engineer.

‘I’ve found out who the Fairy Melusine was. He’s over a barrel,’ said Tobie. ‘And we are with him, since we agreed to the plan. You too, Thomas. Sink or swim or get sawn in half by black men in turbans. Talking of which, do you suppose Loppe killed Vasquez?’

Captain Astorre frowned. ‘In self-defence?’

‘On the orders of Nicholas. I asked Loppe on the ride back. He wouldn’t admit to the killing. He did admit Nicholas had got him to watch the two Vasquez and Katelina. The two dead servants had been in Loppe’s pay.’ Tobie saw the engineer’s expression, and felt himself flushing with anger. He said, ‘Don’t tell me Nicholas couldn’t have stopped the Borselen woman from coming that night if he’d wanted to. Vasquez got killed, despite all the so-called precautions. And Nicholas made sure we couldn’t question the murderers.’

‘He was annoyed when I killed him,’ said Astorre. He sounded surprised, but tolerant as ever of his unprofessional colleagues. Astorre had never worried about the frequent deaths that occurred among the kinsmen of Nicholas.

‘He seemed annoyed,’ said the doctor shortly.

‘And now Diniz is still on the island,’ said the engineer, who knew little more than Astorre, but whose mind moved in more devious patterns. He embraced the knees of his working-hose. ‘But you think Nicholas wanted the boy to go home? And his aunt Katelina?’

‘Well, he couldn’t harm Diniz now, or Katelina,’ Tobie said
with some satisfaction. ‘Not if he’s in Queen Carlotta’s prisons, surrounded by soldiers.’

‘But equally, Katelina can’t damage him. How annoying for her,’ the engineer said. ‘All that trouble, and she’s no better off than when she started. Do you think she got the Portuguese to stone him?’

‘Do you think she got the Genoese to rescue him?’ Tobie said. ‘I’ll wager the Genoese worried him more than the stones. They might do him a service in public, but round the next corner, what? Maybe a Doria dagger again with his name on it.’

Astorre grunted. ‘Talk! We heard he was safe.’

‘Well,’ said Tobie. ‘I suppose we should have heard if they’d killed him. But if you ask my opinion, the sooner we sail, the better for that contentious young bastard.’

‘The better for all of us, provided his calculations are right. Do you think his calculations are right?’ said John le Grant.

‘They’d better be,’ said Tobie. ‘We agreed to stay with him. It’s too late to change now.’

In a strong room of the Palace of Cyprus, Nicholas had no view of the sea, but could imagine perfectly well what Astorre and the others were talking about. The hail of stones that had greeted him as he stepped from the Grand Master’s audience had startled him as much as it must have alarmed his officers. Caught unarmed in the open, he could do nothing to protect himself. His escort, who obviously agreed with the stone-throwers, fell back and made no effort to stop them. For a moment, indeed, it seemed that this might be a feint preceding some sort of ill-advised rescue. Then Nicholas saw there were women among the gauntlet of men, and heard the threats they were shouting. They were Portuguese, and friends of Tristão Vasquez. Word had got about quickly. Then he had a chance to think of very little else, because they began to close in, and the attack began to be determined.

It occurred to him that if he ran, his escort would have an excellent excuse to dispatch him. If he didn’t run, the Portuguese would do the job for them. He retreated quickly with the idea of re-entering the castle, or at least of snatching a shield from some soldier. He was confronted with swords. Katelina, or someone, had spread the idea that he was a killer who deserved very short shrift.

If he wanted to run, his choice was limited. Below him was the Street of the Knights. To the right, stood the church and the way to the Palace of Cyprus. There were men and women, in groups, on both streets. He chose the way to Queen Carlotta, and took to his heels. The missiles thickened, and the men on either side of him closed in. Then it all stopped. Suddenly, in place of the stone-throwers,
he found himself surrounded by a cordon of officious, protective Genoese.

His first reaction, which no one else, perhaps, could have predicted, was one of cold rage at their presumption. For a silly moment, he actually considered fleeing them too, rather than have his finely-tuned programme upset.

Well, it had been upset. The Genoese had surrounded him and marched him, chipped and bruised, to their Langue. Correctly, of course, they had sent to tell Queen Carlotta. But either they took a long time to send, or Queen Carlotta took a long time to collect him, because he was held in the Langue for fully an hour while the Genoese made sure he had something to think about.

They held him in a small conference chamber adequate to contain himself, a dozen Genoese, and one or two silent squires. They used the utmost courtesy. His contusions were bathed; the cuts swabbed and patched. He knew three of the Genoese personages; Imperiale Doria, the Treasurer Lomellini and Toma Adorno. He recognised a Spinola, a Pallaviccino. Half of them were interrelated. All of them had familiar connections – with alum, with vines or with cork. With the Genoese Bank of St George and with Chios. With Madeira and Scotland, with Bruges and even with Anjou. Small wonder the Genoese had protected him. The Republic of Genoa in the Levant operated a smooth-running machine, in which he could be quite a large wheel, or a wrecking-bar.

It was Imperiale Doria who drew his chair into the circle of his companions and began, with quiet geniality. ‘The chance to speak to you in private, Messer Niccolò, was one we thought we had lost. I can only say that I am glad it has come, but regret the circumstances that have made it possible. We do not have much time, so forgive me if I come to the point. Soon you will be fighting for Queen Carlotta in Cyprus. Zacco the Bastard holds two-thirds of that island. Naturally, the Queen fears to lose her castle and town of Kyrenia. It is, however, Famagusta, the trading harbour, the Genoese city, to which her enemy will turn his main strength and that, as you may imagine, is of concern to us.’ He paused and smiled. ‘You will forgive me a remark. You are fond, Messer Niccolò, of Venetian women?’

‘Who is not?’ Nicholas said. ‘Why do you ask?’

The commander had a heavy brown beard, and a long naked nose, cleft like a pig’s trotter. He had no look of Pagano Doria, whom Nicholas had caused to be killed. The commander said, ‘It is relevant, Messer Niccolò. You have an association with Violante of Naxos. Caterino Zeno her Venetian husband signed a short-lived alum monopoly of yours: Adorno has told me. Her two sisters are married to Venetian merchants in Cyprus. Over the
alum, over your doings in Trebizond, in the matter of women it seems, Messer Niccolò, that you signally favour Venetians.’

‘I am willing,’ Nicholas said, ‘to give up Venetian women.’ He summoned a ravishing smile, and extinguished it.

‘A formidable concession,’ agreed Imperiale Doria. ‘But it is your dealings with their husbands which concern me. Dealings sweetened, no doubt, by the deep regard in which their wives hold you. As well as your army, you continue your interest in trade.’

‘Of necessity,’ Nicholas said. ‘My army has earned nothing for six months. In Italy, it would have been under contract. That, however, is my fault, not theirs.’

‘You were delayed. We heard. In fact, their expenses were met by the Treasurer and, now they are under contract, the Treasurer has orders to be more than generous. The Queen has offered you land. Once the island is conquered, you will have all the trading opportunities you wish. Meanwhile the greater part of the vines, of the sugar fields lie, as you know, in the south, in the grip of the Bastard Zacco, aided by the Venetians. You will understand therefore that you cannot trade. You will not trade. You will bend all your energies and those of your army to fighting to free Famagusta, and once Zacco is beaten, you will be recompensed as you deserve.’

Nicholas said, ‘The Venetians grow and sell these crops, under licence, for themselves. They buy the harvest from the Knights at Kolossi. They used to work under licence from Queen Carlotta. Marco Corner works in the south, in the Bastard’s land, while his brother works in the north for Queen Carlotta. It seems to me,’ said Nicholas modestly, ‘that in that island, trade knows few barriers.’

The Treasurer said, ‘That is hardly the point. The Venetians have no army in Cyprus. You will have. If you fight for one party, you cannot trade with the other. If trade is your business, your business will be best served by the flourishing of Famagusta when the Venetians have gone, as they will, to fight the Sultan of Turkey.’

‘You expect the Venetians to leave? They will need Cyprus,’ Nicholas said.

Imperiale Doria spoke in the same tolerant voice. ‘Why does Marco Corner spend so much time in Venice? Venice knows war must come if she is to stop the Ottoman Turks from seizing all her trading posts and spreading west, as they might, to threaten Venice herself. By prolonging the resistance of Trebizond you yourself gave Venice time to prepare against Sultan Mehmet. When the fighting season opens this year, Venice will need all her strength, even if it weakens her interests in Cyprus.’