Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [87]
If he failed to move these men to give up their attack, it might mean the end of the Order in Malta. If he succeeded, his career as Ambassador for the King of France in the Levant was very possibly at an end, and hiver sans feu, vieillesse sans maison his reward.
Through the murmuring night, spicy with musk and honey and mint, between the lamplit tents and the coruscating, shifting shadows that were the children of the House of Osman, past the sudden odour of horseflesh that told where the small, swift animals were tethered, past the fumes of oil and fish and tripe soup and mutton where the Cooks of Divine Mercy prepared the evening meal, the Baron d’Aramon passed gravely through the ritual stages of welcome, and arrived at last at the great scented pavilion, transparent with lamplight with the sheet gold of the Sultan’s standard planted outside, where Sinan Pasha greeted him. His train following, the French Ambassador entered.
The war-leader’s tent was dressed, as he had expected, with the treasured care of a concubine. Under the precious filigree lamps the faces ranged before the fine linen hangings sewn with ribbons were not hostile; they were the faces of men with work to do, confident, competent, and showing a large patience before their importunate visitors. Seated on silk cushions piled over thick carpets, the Frenchmen were served with sweetmeats: sugared pistachios and ginger, Temesuár honey and rose jam, fresh dates and halvá; and drank from bowls of new milk, or full pitchers of khusháf, seasoned with amber and musk; the juice of Bokhara apricots and syrups of red-hearted peaches, served cradled in snow.
The thickened, sweet liquids, the robes of the eunuchs impregnated with jasmine, in the earliest days of his Embassy had sickened him, waiting strung-up for the opening of the state matter he had come to discuss. Now, he felt nothing and spoke of nothing (‘a very kiosk of Paradise’) as the chased cups were filled (‘rest to the soul; food to the spirit’), and when the time came, knew instinctively when to launch into the interminable, empty phrases leading insensibly to his master, the King of France; his master’s regard for the Order of St John of Jerusalem, some of whom were born his subjects; and his master’s willingness to regard it as a signal favour if the Grand Seigneur’s great army would turn its eyes from Tripoli and pursue its courageous purpose elsewhere. This willingness to be marked, in the immediate future, by a display by the King of France of his famed munificence.
His flowing Arabic reached an end, and he waited, hearing behind him the effective suction of Nicolas de Nicolay draining his cup. Flanked on the heaped cushions by his corsairs—Dragut heavy and motionless, Salah Rais with his long, Egyptian hands lax on robed knees, the Aga Morat smiling—Sinan Pasha, Chasse Diable, answered agreeably. A man of middle height, the stiff folds of his jubbé rustled as he leaned forward, and the undervest of gem-sewn silk flashed in the light. His face, sun-darkened and lean, was dwarfed by the turban entwined with gold tissue which fell like a lock to one shoulder; but he did not use his hands, as an Arab does, to give point and space to his case.
He might have had no case to make. In the unexcited cadences of the Moslem, for whom it is unmannerly to raise the voice or to laugh, Sinan Pasha regretted that the Emperor (on whom may the blessing of God on High ever rest!) and the Order of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem (may God light up their tombs!) should have seen fit to trick and deceive the army of the Commander of the Faithful and the Lieutenant of the Envoy of God upon Earth.
The Emperor promised that the Sultan should receive the keys of Bône. The Sultan’s officers sought them accordingly wherever the Emperor had representatives, to be met with either vain words or cannon fire; even at Malta, where they had looked for salutations and refreshments for their weary society. ‘I am sorely aware,’ said Sinan Pasha, with the unchanging expression of his hot brown