Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [142]
He had been afraid, once or twice, of being trapped by his own fascination, as he was afraid of being trapped by progressions of sound. One should school such emotions. He had discovered as much in Byzantine Trebizond. Primaflora, although not Byzantine, had with her courtesan’s detachment reminded him again of the virtues of self-restraint – which was not the same, thank God, as celibacy. With the mind in control, there was no need to be at the mercy of anything. He noticed, with slight irritation, that with or without the mind in control he was thinking again of Primaflora. There came, at that exact moment, an imperative knocking on the cabin door. The voice of Napoleone Lomellini said, ‘My lord?’
The servants jumped up. De Magnac’s white-capped head moved, and he lifted himself on one elbow and nodded. The door was opened. Since he had come aboard, Nicholas had seen nothing more of the captain of Famagusta, or of Tomà Adorno, the other Genoese. His segregation, he had begun to think, was not accidental. Now, Lomellini’s sharp eyes under the thick brows went first to himself, before they rested on Louis de Magnac. Instead of an expensive furred mantle, the Genoese captain was wearing a cuirass. He said, ‘I am sorry to wake you. The shipmaster says there are two galleys approaching.’
‘Of what kind?’ said the Grand Commander. He swung his feet to the floor and laid his hand on the jerkin that went under his armour. A servant, tumbling, knelt with his boots.
‘Saracen,’ said Napoleone Lomellini. He glanced at Nicholas again, while speaking to de Magnac. ‘We have fifty sailors, two dozen soldiers – it won’t be enough if they board us. Perhaps we should free Messer Niccolò and his men?’
‘Not yet,’ said the Grand Commander. ‘Board a round ship? Let them try. Come with me.’ He looked back from the door, his servants already jacketed and beside him. ‘Lock him up,’ he said; and the door shut, leaving Nicholas alone and staring at it.
Saracens. Who? Not Sultan Mehmet; his crescent flags would proclaim him. So, Egyptian marauders? Corsairs from a Syrian or Turcoman port? It barely mattered. All that mattered was that it was not James de Lusignan, come to accost a young man he thought he had befriended. Nicholas found and put on the sword-less belt, the boots and the leather tunic that was all he had to wear over his shirt and hose. His cuirass and weapons were packed below, along with those of his army. He thought of them, and of the merchants, and the Kyrenia high officials, and the women. Especially the women: Katelina sick, and Primaflora immured with her. And, of course the boy, whom Muslims found so appealing.
The ship lurched. He heard the thud of feet on timbers, and the sound of orders, then drumming and trumpets. Nicholas sat erect on his mattress and listened. More orders. The thud of many feet, heavily shod this time. And soon, the jingle and clash of metal harness, and men’s voices raised in command. The ship’s soldiers were on deck, and armed. Well, thank God for that. How close were the enemy? Two ships, they said. And galleys, so they would be low, and manoeuvrable. He knew what he would do in their place.
The door opened again. It was Louis de Magnac, and someone else whom he glimpsed, and who then stepped out of sight. Loppe. De Magnac said, ‘We are being attacked by Mameluke ships. Do what you like. The door is unlocked. I have freed your officers also.’
Nicholas said, ‘Release my men. A hundred will make all the difference.’
‘You are right,’ said the Grand Commander. ‘If they panic; if they surrender. If we sink, I shall free them. Not before.’ He made to leave.
Nicholas grasped his arm in supplication, half