Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [46]
He was forestalled by Lionetto.
Disregarding both his own soldiers and Claes, who continued to stand looking puzzled, Lionetto neither punched the other captain nor shouted at him. Instead, breathing heavily, he dropped one shoulder and, closing his fingers about the other man’s wrist, lifted Astorre’s unresisting right hand and held it, enclosed with his own, at waist level.
Encircled by their joint grasp was a standing-cup of enamelled pink glass, thick with gilding.
“That is mine,” said Lionetto gently. “I ordered it last year from the sailing-master.”
His beard six inches away, Astorre exposed yellow teeth in a grin. “Indeed. He forgot to say so. I have paid for it.”
“How childish you are,” said Lionetto. “It is hardly worth my while taking it from you. Give it up, and I will give you what you paid for it.”
“Take it from me?” said Astorre. “My poor baboon. This silly boy and I between us could strip you to your small clothes. To your inedequate organs if we felt like it. But the commander is a guest in our country and gentlemen do not brawl on his deck. I will take my property.”
“My property,” said Lionetto.
“Paid for by me,” said Astorre.
“Signori!” said a voice of some weight.
They turned.
The curtain of the commander’s cabin had been drawn back and in the entrance stood Messer Alvise Duodo, the hero of Constantinople himself. The Greek Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli was beside him, today wearing a velvet hat over his handsome cowled cloak. And behind them both, Julius saw with misgiving the arrogant clean-shaven features of the nobleman Simon, whose dog had nearly beggared the Charetty family.
“Signori!” said the commander again, causing, as he had intended, one or two of his bowmen to look up alertly. You could see, when the capitano turned his head, that his puffed hair was razored up to the ears, and his overjacket and his buttons and the style of his flat cap and marbled silk doublet were marvellous. Only members of rich families like the Contarini or the Zeno or the Duodo were picked by the Senate and Republic of Venice to lead the Flanders fleet, and some of them were good sailors into the bargain, although that was not what they were there for. They were there because of the skill which allowed the seigneur commander to recognise, from a few murmured words of the Athenian’s, that the makers of the disturbance were mercenary captains of some value as well as some potential danger. The lord commander, walking forward, said, “Ah. Il signore di Astariis and il signore Lionetto. I was seeking you. Pray to settle your difference and come and take wine with me.”
Bulky and diminutive, the figures of the two captains stilled. Their faces turned, relaxing, towards the source of this flattering statement. Between the two formidable bodies the goblet remained for a moment, firmly held by one hand of each, while they sought a way out of the dilemma.
It was solved for them. Not by Messer Nicholai; not by the seigneur commander; not by either of the contenders.
Simon, the blue-blooded Scottish guest of the commander, made his elegant way towards the two captains, paused, and with a sudden, nicely-judged blow, propelled the glass spurting upwards from the half-relaxed grasp of the captains. The trajectory was oblique, and exact. To a wail of delight and of horror, the thing rose in the air, spanned the gunwale of the galley and, in a glittering, rose-coloured arc, descended to drown itself, finally and expensively, in the depths of the harbour.
Everyone looked at Lionetto, whose white-hot glare, muting, resolved itself into a flashing smile, directed at the Scotsman. Then, turning, everyone looked, with greater hopes at Astorre, who had purchased the goblet.
Astorre put his hand on his dagger,