Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [301]
In Cyprus that year, the last week of January brought a softening that seemed to herald the spring. Outside Famagusta, the almond trees were already in blossom and soon the air would smell of hyacinth and narcissus, and the piercing scent of the orange trees would drench all the island. The skies cleared. Between sunshine and showers the rivers began to run lower; the mud stiffened; the ground became green. The Mameluke lord Tzani-bey al-Ablak, dismissing his entourage at the gates of Famagusta, rode into the city on a white horse whose silver harness and gold-tasselled hipcloth glittered and twinkled in sunlight, and the velvet coat over his mail was magnificent.
From the Citadel, Astorre watched him come, his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas. ‘I was right,’ he said. ‘Chain mail. Flexible, but it can’t stand up to piercing. A coif, a helmet, a round shield, and the mace under his knee. I told you –’
‘You told me,’ said Nicholas. ‘What kind of mace?’ He turned to pick up his helmet. The mail shirt he wore, on Astorre’s advice, was very close to the pattern of the Mamelukes, although the links were different, and bound with small plates. His thighs and knees and calves were protected with armour, and there were plates of it guarding his elbows. Unlike the emir’s, his sword was straight and not curved, and his mace was of iron. The lad who had volunteered as his squire held his long Burgundian shield and his gloves and the Milanese bascinet he would buckle over his cap. It was plain, with no nose or ear guards like the emir’s, although his neck was protected by mail. Ring mail deflected a scimitar cut, which was why the Mamelukes wore it.
Astorre pronounced on the subject of maces. ‘Fins on the head. A piece of pure frippery. But his shaft’s ribbed. I like it.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Is everyone where they should be?’
‘That’s a stupid question,’ Astorre said, ‘considering. Of course they are. The castle seems empty. The parade ground looks as if it’s got the entire population of Cyprus gathered round it. No great impression of pageant, but the King’s there, moderately dressed-up, and your courtiers. Not Rizzo.’ He paused. ‘Will your wife know? The lady Primaflora? She’s been waiting for you in Nicosia?’
By now, presumably, quite a select number of people would be waiting for him in Nicosia, including the most beautiful woman there. Despite the Dies Nefastae, he must seem to rank among the preternaturally blessed of this world. Nicholas said, ‘Does she know about the revolt? Not unless Tobie has worried her with it. When it’s over, I’ll explain it myself. And if I can’t, there’s a farewell packet I left in December. It probably sounds quite old-fashioned by now. If I survive a second time, I must find and revise it. Let’s go. Is it all right, my right side going numb like this?’
‘You’re an idiot,’ said Astorre good-naturedly. ‘On you go. Remember all I told you. Kill him if you get the chance, but –’
‘But not too soon to spoil everyone’s plans. Lord of Mercy,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s not a fight, it’s the script for a passion play in twenty-five scenes; costumes free from the guilds and no drinking. Is Ludovico da Bologna out there?’
‘No. I don’t think so,’ said Astorre, looking surprised.
‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘I feel better already.’
Whatever his words to Astorre, they had nothing to do with his underlying mood, which had remained unchanged for days. He rode out now into the sun and the wind with his mind implacably set, and stepped through the crowds deaf to their shouting, to enter the vast oblong of dirt upon which this duel