Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [172]
Nicholas turned his head, again slowly. He said, ‘They are all in there. You can’t help them. Later, talk to me.’
‘Now,’ said Tobie. He walked past Nicholas and entered the church.
Already five hundred years old, the Byzantine church of St Hilarion had long outlived the monks it once served but, under Carlotta’s favouring rule, the worked gold of an iconostastis sparkled still in front of its altar. Above, Christ Pantocrator looked down with the hosts of his angels, and the Prophets guarded the drum of the dome. Saints walked round the walls, done in ochre, madder and gold, and there were angels booted in scarlet, and dressed in the style of the Ushers in Trebizond. In the style of the Imperial Ushers who had abandoned the Empire of Trebizond, with the Emperor.
There were eight pillars, painted with partridges, between which stretched a mosaic floor covered with pallets. On each, lying in death, was a body. There were six children among them, and many women. None of them was burned. Tobie stood, his lips shut. Then he moved from pallet to pallet and bent, stiffly, to examine what lay there. Eventually, he reached the altar. It was very quiet, for Nicholas had remained at the door, and the church contained no one else living. Once, he heard footsteps passing the church, and once, a brief exchange between Nicholas and someone else, who did not remain. After a time, Tobie turned and came back.
Nicholas was leaning, head bent, where he had left him, slowly scrubbing his face with a towel. The fabric was black: becoming aware of it, he let it drop and looked up at Tobie’s footsteps. His face was still grimy. Tobie walked past him and stopped. Nicholas said, ‘My dying; your dead. Don’t blame Abul. It is in the nature of Arabs.’
Buckthorn, heliotrope, cyclamen tubers. Not a griping dose, as he’d thought, but a killing dose, which had killed. After a space, Tobie said, ‘Did Zacco know?’
‘I expect so,’ Nicholas said. ‘And Tzani-bey. They don’t have much patience with games. They thought it safer to poison the garrison, or as many as chance would allow. They are waiting for us. When they see us walk down, they will look for weakness, and use it.’
Tobie spoke without turning his head. ‘We condone this? In front of John, Astorre, our own men?’
‘We are heroes,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is war. You chose to heal soldiers. I elected to fight one campaign in order to leave war behind. I ask you again to come with me to Kouklia. I have won my franchise. I have taken St Hilarion. Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously.’
‘You don’t want to leave war behind,’ Tobie said. ‘You want both. Adventure of body and mind.’
‘So do you,’ Nicholas said. ‘I don’t want you to fall out with Abul. I want you to ask him a question. Why does sugar kill?’
‘Sugar?’ said Tobie. He moved out, into the acrid air that was sweet after what was inside. His stomach churned.
‘Yes. Loppe has been reporting to me from the cane fields. I sent for six experts from Sicily. One of them sleeps half the day, and one acts as if drunk. Loppe experienced this in Granada. He says they die.’
It should have been no surprise. Courting Zacco, preparing for battle, Nicholas had long since taken the reins of his business in secret. And Loppe, the Guinea slave with Portuguese owners, had been his factor. Tobie said, ‘I suppose you have the dyeworks running as well?’
‘Not as well,’ Nicholas said. ‘Until now, we’ve been without management. But now I have hopes of a solution. I have someone to see.’
‘When?’ Tobie said. He stopped at the door of the stable.
‘Tomorrow,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’m going back to Nicosia tomorrow with Zacco. We control the Pass; they can start the blockade now without me. When they have the ships and the cannon, they can break Kyrenia down.’
‘Or burn it out,’ Tobie said. He halted, painfully. He said, ‘I have work to do.’
‘I know that,’ said Nicholas. ‘But when