Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [319]
He knew her arts, and knew also, with absolute certainty, when she lost her hold of them. The hands behind him were unsteady, as were his. It had been more than seven weeks, for seven weeks ago Zacco had made sure that he shouldn’t come to her as a husband. He knew how long, to a day, he had been celibate. She said, ‘Lie down. Let me sit beside you.’ Yet she held him fast, as if unable to free herself.
He said, ‘I thought it was forbidden to touch.’
She showed no alarm or confusion, but lifted to him the same intent, anxious gaze which had investigated his wounds. Her grasp relaxed, just a little. She said, ‘You must understand. You do. You live by the same rules. I have nothing. I have one profession. When a great man demands what I can give, I am afraid to refuse. But I also wish to practise my skills. It is unwise to tell you this. I should say that he threatened me. It’s true that I’m afraid, but he didn’t. I wanted to see if I could capture a king. Niccolò? Niccolò? Do you understand?’
‘So you leave me,’ Nicholas said.
She gave a laugh, and rested her head against him again. She said, ‘I’ve just told you. My profession feeds me, so I follow it. But often, despite it, I starve.’ There were tears on her cheeks. Below, the rounded haven of her body beat with his heart. She said, ‘Could I be near you, and not touch you? Whenever Zacco will leave me, I shall come to you. Do I not deserve something more than an embrace for telling you that?’
Lindos, and sunlight, and perfumed oil spilling over his body. He put her hands down, and his own arms close around her, and kissed her in the long, airless way which had been his contribution to their union, and which, on the rare occasions he used it, gave private notice of a slow sequence of acts also sparingly offered. As he began to draw back from the kiss, a knock fell on the door at his back.
Neither spoke. The rap came again, and was repeated. She put her finger to her lips, and drew him with her palms to the bed. Her face was white. The blood throbbed through his wounds, and his head. He stroked his hands down to her wrists and freed himself. ‘That will be Loppe,’ he said, and walked to the door and flung it open.
Loppe’s face was fixed; showing nothing of surprise or distaste, censure or apprehension. The sober grey-blue of his coat and doublet sat tidily on his great ebony frame, and his close black hair, perfectly groomed, held the tilt of his soft, folded hat. Across his palms, and unparcelled, lay a light object. On top of that was a packet. Nicholas said, ‘Come in.’ He turned. ‘You don’t mind? I asked him to help me home – well, to the villa.’
Primaflora stood by the bed. Sunlight, fountains, sweet scented oil. She looked as if her soul had been stolen, which was as it should be. Loppe said, ‘I’ll wait outside.’
‘First,’ said Nicholas, ‘Give her the veil. No. Put it on her.’
It was unfair to Loppe, but he hesitated only a moment. Then, laying the packet aside, he shook out the fine thing he had carried. A long linen veil, striped with embroidery and crumpled like tissue for, of course, what is soaked in river-water will not dry itself smoothly. He walked to Primaflora and then, glancing at Nicholas, laid the pretty cloth over her hair, and arranged it to fall from her shoulders. As she felt it she winced, but stood silent. For a moment there was a small tableau: the fair, gilded woman; the negro. Then she said, ‘A gift? It is beautiful.’ She had to breathe twice as she said it.
‘It is yours,’ Nicholas said. ‘You remember. You wore it once, at Kolossi. Open the packet now.’ Loppe had moved. He needed only a sign to walk through the door and close it gently. Nicholas watched him go, and then