Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [165]
In Italy, a common soldier under Urbino, Nicholas had plunged into war as a catharsis; an escape into physical combat. The excitement of battle drew him still, as it also burned, he saw, in the Bastard. But this time, Nicholas had a share of Urbino’s role. When the counsellors met, his voice was heard: the plans they made owed more than they knew to his strategy. Nevertheless, in the weeks of preparation that followed he sometimes lost sight of this divine detachment. He became entranced, as so often before, by the beauty of pattern-making: of computing, of fitting pieces together to form a whole as perfect as forethought could manage, while still aware – oh, always aware – that the heavens were garnished with giants, and this mortal kingdom with traps for the cocksure.
Most of the pieces he dealt with were human. The common soldiers he reached through their officers. To the Cypriots, the Catalans, the Aragonese who led the King’s forces, his manner was courteous and plain, neither deferential nor brash. He had their envy already, as the King’s special favourite. He had at least to command their respect. The antagonism of Tzani-bey was of longer standing and deadly, but in public or private, the Egyptian’s manner was unremittingly suave, and his opinions delivered with honey. Nicholas minded less the captains who shouted: Markios, the Lusignan’s uncle, who snarled and bullied and was revered by the Mamelukes; or Astorre who, although his employee, was always first to pounce, cackling, on an error. Most of all, Nicholas was mesmerised by Zacco himself who, seen at last at his business, revealed what the glitter had hidden.
Here, it would seem, was a just prince; a man who understood discipline; a leader who could win a man’s esteem as well as his heart, and keep them both. In years James the Bastard of Lusignan was of course immature, with the zest of youth and sometimes its rages, its silliness, its cruelty. But only an able man could have come to overrun Cyprus and hold it; keep his two armies together; win victories and men from his sister. As James and Nicholas argued late into the night, the King’s voice interrupting, overriding, applauding, and once breaking into peals of surprised laughter, Nicholas understood that whatever happened, he had been right to come and discover this man; as he felt that Zacco, who had wanted him, was not in every way disappointed. But still, he slept apart.
It was hardly remarked, so occupied were his own men in those weeks. The sailing-master Mick Crackbene was tracked down and sent to join them by Loppe, who had returned to the south armed with letters of credit, and shopping lists directed to agents in Venice and Florence, Milan and Palermo and Ancona. Crackbene, a self-contained man, seemed quite pleased to be restored to the company. King James, it seemed, he had encountered already. Since the Doria’s compulsory voyage to Episkopi, the ship had spent half the winter afloat, shuttling cargoes and indulging in brigandage. Her instructions reached her from Zacco, and it was Zacco, not the Venetians, who employed her. Crackbene and his men received wages, and the Bank of Niccolò, as was right, was paid lease-money. For a little time, Mick Crackbene remained in the King’s camp, and lent his impartial voice to their councils. Then, following a long silence from Loppe, there arrived a much-delayed packet for Nicholas. It contained a dozen pages close-written in Flemish. It had come from Loppe’s hands, and bore signs of discreet if, one hoped, fruitless tampering. Crackbene received his new orders and left for his ship at long last, rather thoughtfully.
Captain Astorre,