Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [256]
‘We knew that much,’ said Nicholas.
‘… and in the Sultan’s present mood, he has evidently thought them now better dead. I am sorry,’ said Primaflora. ‘It was not until I saw how Messer Bartolomeo’s news was received by your friends that I realised its importance for you.’ She paused. ‘You were fond of the Emperor?’
Nicholas said, ‘I was in Trebizond, as I am here, with an army. The Turk proved stronger. One can feel responsibility without feeling love, otherwise the world would be uninhabited. My face feels green.’
Primaflora sat back on her heels. She said, ‘If your stomach ails you, blame Zacco. Perhaps you should go and deal with it. Shall I help you?’
‘No,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’m good at this. So long as you don’t arrange a leopard-hunt afterwards. Will you wait? In the hope that there’s something worth waiting for?’
But in the end when he went back she was asleep, and he didn’t wake her because there were few enough hours before dawn, and he had to get through a day – a series of days – that would put to the test the most dangerous set of manoeuvres he had ever conducted. Nicholas Thaumaturgas, worker of miracles. In any case the blame, as she had said, was most certainly Zacco’s.
Of the company of Niccolò, the only truly happy person next day was Captain Astorre, who relished parades and believed in dressing up for them. The weather, though chillier than in Famagusta, was dry and even intermittently sunny. The captain assembled with his fellows in the Dominican monastery next to the Palace, watching bright-eyed as the notables arrived for the procession that would march eastwards from the Porta Santo Domenico to the Cathedral of Santa Sofia. Nicholas, who had missed the victory Mass for Kyrenia for the sake of an axe in his shoulder was present today, in body if not especially in mind, from the look of him. His face was the same colour as that of the King when the royal cohort arrived from the palace. Astorre chuckled. ‘So it was like that!’ said the captain. ‘Well, the poor lady. She wouldn’t get much good of him last night.’
Tobie gritted his teeth. Unlike Astorre, who recovered as quickly from his rages as he fell into them, Tobie had not forgotten what lay behind them suspended at Famagusta. He had not forgotten, either, the story Bartolomeo Zorzi had regaled them with last night, and which he supposed had now been repeated to Nicholas. He had tried once already to talk to Nicholas about it, and had been kicked on the ankle by le Grant. He walked all the way to the Cathedral brooding about that inside his new scarlet robe, with the blue mantle and golden links of the Order of the Sword on the shoulders of Nicholas before him. C’est pour loïauté maintenir. Well, Queen Carlotta had given him it, and her bastard brother-usurper had confirmed it, so he either had it twice or not at all.
The procession filled all the space there was between buildings, so there were few people about in the street, except peering over shop-ledges or within doorways. The upper windows and galleries were full enough, however, although the faces were more respectful and curious than ecstatic. Trumpets blew all the time, and drums were beating. A smell of incense grew strong as they approached the immense triple portico of the Cathedral, begun in the French style two hundred years ago. He noticed the King stepping forward with a firming of the step. He ought to feel at home. Without the help of the Pope, his royal father had made Zacco Archbishop of Nicosia when he was thirteen, and he had lived in the Archbishop’s Palace with Cropnose for years. The present more orthodox incumbent was a tough man as well as an Augustine; accustomed to risky assignments in Cairo. Tobie spared a thought for Cairo, and Mamelukes, and Tzani-bey, and wondered if Nicholas knew what the emir was doing in the Mameluke camp outside Famagusta. One thing for sure: Tzani-bey hadn’t been asked to the Feast of St Nicholas, although the