Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [174]
Since being brought to Nicosia, Diniz had seldom set eyes on his adversary, either in the house or the yard. The swine’s movements were well enough known, as were the Bastard’s. With the Bastard to cling to, vander Poele was unlikely to bother himself over a house, a business, a prisoner. Once or twice people talked about seeing a man wandering about in the yards late or early, in darkness, and lamps had been found warm in the sheds. The slaves who slept there even claimed to have talked to him. But it was hardly likely to be vander Poele himself, who would come, if he came at all, with a club, in daylight, and bullying.
In any case, it was not easy to enter or leave Nicosia at night. Once, Diniz himself had escaped over the walls of the villa and tried to leave with the throng through the western gate, but the guard had stopped him immediately, for his clothes had given him away, and the stains on his hands. His yellow clothes, and his blue hands. After that, they escorted him everywhere, but he had already realised how slim was his chance of escaping. Thirty-four open miles, ringed with troops, lay between him and Famagusta. He had no money, and the nuns had none either, although his aunt Katelina had begged them to help.
He was sorry for his aunt Katelina, but also annoyed with her over the fuss she made about the girl in the kitchens and the other one who came with ash to the yard. As it turned out, he caught nothing and Andrea the new under-manager, less bigoted than he thought, got him a clean little whore to the house. Once he took her through to Niccolò’s chamber and engaged her several times just as she liked until her pretty skin was pink, front and back. The quilt was white silk brocade. Afterwards, he went back and smoothed it, ashamed. The stolen knife in his room was a worthy instrument of his vengeance, not this.
On the morning after the bells, no one worked as they should except himself, for the man they liked to call King James had arrived, so they said, and was to ride to the Cathedral with his captains that afternoon. Already those who could afford carpets had hung them out of their windows, and picked spring flowers to throw. Diniz saw them as he helped carry ladders out to the street, to hoist the strings of dyed cloth higher than normal, as the law demanded during processions. He wondered if he might try to get away then, but Andrea’s man had a grip on his elbow. At noon they parted for dinner, and he was escorted back, as usual, to the villa.
He saw, as soon as he got near, that the gates were open, and there were sumpter-mules in the yard, and several horses, one of them with the brand of the Lusignan stud. They seemed restive. Then he heard a shiver of bells and saw that against a far wall another animal stood, moving delicately into its tether. He saw a flank like spun silk, and four spindle-fine legs and a neck like the arch of a longbow. A racing-camel. A dream of a racing-camel. It looked at him in disdain, lashes lowered.
So he had come. Only one man could own that.
Diniz walked into the house, his face white. The house was empty. Dust on the terrazzo showed where spurred feet had trod, and in the inner court lay some saddlebags. From the private apartments there came a faint odour of horseflesh, and burned wool, and sweat. Prompted by distant noise, and wavering lines of spilled water and the sound of hurrying feet, Diniz turned and made for the kitchens.
The household staff were all there, and the tables were heaped with raw food. He stepped back from the heat into the arms of the new steward, the man who had come after the negro freeman had left. The new steward, who answered to the French name of Galiot, remarked, ‘You’ll eat well tonight. As you see, Messer Niccolò has returned.’
‘I don’t see him,’ said Diniz.
‘He’s in the cooking-pot,’ cried one of the women, without stopping work.
The man Galiot said,