Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [163]
Now, speaking to Zacco, Nicholas developed the subject. ‘To take Famagusta, you would need a fleet and army from Cairo, or from the Grand Turk at Constantinople. You must know if that is likely.’
‘To invite the Grand Turk would be suicide. Otherwise, everything is possible,’ Zacco said. ‘Even help from the West. You know a friar called Ludovico da Bologna? He does not mind using Muslims in a Christian cause.’
‘I rather think,’ Nicholas said, ‘that the Pope is not on his side. Will Cairo help?’
‘No,’ said Zacco. ‘I have the Mamelukes they have already supplied, whom I must not slight. You know this.’
‘I understand,’ Nicholas said. ‘Then Kyrenia, too, cannot be stormed with the forces you have. You need what you don’t yet possess, such as cannon.’
‘We had artillery once,’ remarked Zacco. ‘Venice sold guns in secret to both sides. They did no damage worth speaking of, before they were captured.’
‘I have a gunfounder,’ Nicholas said. ‘In sixty years, skills have improved. If we are to consider a siege, guns would shorten it.’
‘We have a siege. Two,’ Zacco said. ‘You haven’t noticed. You think we are here to hunt and play games. We have cut the lines between the two cities. We have penned each of them in. We track down their foraging parties. We flatten the country around, so that there are no stores they can raid. They are starving.’
‘Not while Imperiale Doria supplies them by ship,’ Nicholas said. ‘Carlotta’s consort has only now moved from Kyrenia. Merchants still use Famagusta. Traders don’t like the short commons, but they are not starving yet. Unless they are gripped round the neck, both cities may hold out for years.’
‘You wish to give me advice,’ the King said.
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘After the meeting, you will make up your mind. It is your country.’
‘I thought,’ said Zacco, ‘you had forgotten. It has slipped my mind. Do you wrestle?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. He was flung to the floor as he spoke. He had half expected it, and saved his spine by a twist and a jab before he recalled he was supposed to be ignorant. His arm was seized and twisted and he prevented it breaking in time, and got a leg where it would hurt. Zacco swore and changed grip. His muscles were young and elastic and, in exertion, solid as boxwood. He said, between breaths, ‘A Milan teacher?’
‘Primaflora,’ said Nicholas, croaking. They both laughed, and he yelped as the breath thudded out of him. A pair of thumbs stuck in his neck and his head cracked on a pole, then a carpet. He kicked the King in a place fractionally clear of the genitals and hurled himself to one side. A mace-head buried its spikes where he’d been. The King, grasping the club, stood astride him. He was pale, with red on his cheekbones. Nicholas said, ‘I’ve got another three pages with the answers on. If I don’t come back, Astorre will burn them.’ Without much effort, he kept his face drawn.
For a moment, the young man looked down at him. His hair, tossed in the struggle, clung in coils to his skin, and his breath hissed in his throat from exertion. He said, ‘You have the kick of a traitor.’
Nicholas lay looking up. He said, ‘I could do it again.’ It didn’t