Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [207]
In all their commerce, then and since, the emir’s public behaviour had been otherwise wholly correct; his attitude one of smiling formality. Away from Zacco’s eyes, matters were slightly different. Food went astray; powder destined for Astorre was diverted; the requirements for ablutions, for prayer oddly occurred when least safe and least convenient to Astorre and his men. To deal with it, as to deal with everything, one had to put oneself in the other man’s place. Until he had defeated Carlotta, until the Ottoman danger was past, Zacco could not do without Mameluke help; could not risk offending Cairo.
In his turn, Tzani-bey knew that Cairo sent to Cyprus only her dissidents. If they fought well, they might return to acclaim. If they slipped, Cairo would cut them off without compunction. He had to keep the goodwill of Zacco until Zacco was King of Cyprus. Equally, he would be well advised to prevent Zacco replacing Egyptian with Western help which might – just might – end in sweeping Egypt from Cyprus. So Nicholas had given four months to educating Astorre to deal with the Mamelukes; to presenting to Tzani-bey the portrait of a young Flemish mercenary of modest ability with whom Tzani-bey could work without losing face or the slightest doubt of his own personal ascendancy. All this he continued to consolidate in the week or two it took to set up the cannon and begin, in a stolid way, to discharge it at the walls of Kyrenia. There would be time enough to deal with Tzani-bey. Time enough for the final protest that he had had planned, in loving detail, for a very long time. Cyprus, Island of Love. He thought of Katelina van Borselen at Kouklia, and wondered if the spirits of vengeance were on good or bad terms with the spirits of spring and fertility. He suspected they teamed up with one another. It didn’t stop him, any more than he knew it had stopped Katelina.
April had moved into May, and soon May would turn into June and high summer. The flowers, once so aromatic and fresh, were retiring, leaving thorn and dry earth and trickles of mud where the rivers had been. The wine he planned for began to come, and the fodder for animals. He initiated games, at which each section of the army in turn had a chance to shine. He had learned his lesson from the Genoese; from all those he could find who remembered other sieges that had failed through boredom, and bad provisioning. He continued to fraternise with everybody, extending his endeavours even to the Arab physician whose murderous potions had so mortified Tobie. In that instance, as it happened, the first approach had not come from Nicholas but from Abul Ismail himself, when Zacco had made one of his regular visits to the field hospital, Nicholas following.
During any siege, there was little need for senior medical staff. The cases were mostly fever, or dysentery, or the occasional wound from an arrow. Zacco’s tour was soon done. He left, with his retinue. The physician had said, detaining Nicholas, ‘My lord. Your late injury does not trouble you?’
In the light clothes they all wore, Nicholas supposed its state was obvious enough. ‘No. I thank you,’ he said.
The lined, bearded face considered his. Abul Ismail said, ‘But you would not condescend to let me examine it? I feel responsible. Because of me, your own doctor prefers not to be present.’
‘Because of me, I rather think,’ Nicholas said. ‘Although you went to extremes which he would never contemplate, nor indeed should I. But that is past. No. He has experiments in the south which keep him occupied.’
‘The bodies drowning in sugar. We spoke of this once. We have had the same in Damascus. The question is, is it caused by the eating of sugar, or