Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [326]
There was the dark face of the Chancellor Rizzo di Marino, who unsurprisingly had grasped the chance so temptingly offered to get rid of the Mameluke army in Cyprus. On Rizzo’s head lay the blame, of course, for the massacre, and not on that of James, or of Markios or, indeed on his own. He would accept, however, that the death of Tzani-bey had been contrived by himself. It had suited the King and perhaps had even suited Cairo. The Sultan would complain, and raise the tribute, but was unlikely to replace the emir with another. Cairo, now, would want to keep its forces at home.
There was the admiral Sor de Naves, whom Nicholas did not happen to like, but whom he treasured for the sake of one, small conversation. The lawyer Philip Podocataro, who had failed to recruit him for Zacco in Venice and had no doubt recommended other ways of persuasion. And whose treaty, this month, had brought about the surrender of Famagusta. With him were two faces Nicholas had not expected to see: those of Jacopo and Bartolomeo Zorzi. He was moving towards them when the King called him over.
He was flushed, and had been drinking. Unless you knew him well, it was not obvious, for James of Lusignan was young, and strong, and carried his drink as well as he carried all his other excesses. Below the brim of his hat, his eyes were open and sparkling, with their flecks of green and grey and warm brown, the mingled colours of the Lusignan inheritance. A curl of feather mixed with his hair, and he wore a sideless tunic over his doublet whose high collar was thick-sewn with jewels.
With him was a beauty. Not a woman, although his black hair curled inwards at the nape of his neck over a little collar of goose-down, and the hands smoothing over a drawing were ringed and long-fingered and fine. Then the stranger looked up, and Nicholas saw a pure oval face with a cleft chin and deep-fringed dark eyes. The femininity of the impression was destroyed by the substance and shape of the nose, and by the robust structure of thigh and ankle and calf. Everything about the newcomer’s person conformed to the highest requirements of Zacco’s known tastes, and was set forth here, of intent, before Nicholas. A Lusignan did not feel shame before a well-liked Flemish friend who possessed a small prize that he coveted. A Lusignan said, ‘I am King. I attract what is comely and deserve it. I spread my table with sweets, and it should please you, from friendship, to add to them.’ Understanding Zacco, Nicholas waited.
The King said, ‘Dear Nikko, see. The plans for the new Palace. We are rebuilding Famagusta. The Bishop, too, will have something worthy of him. And the drawings there, for the Triumphal Entry. You will see them. You will meet my David here, later. Come. They will excuse us. I have a gift for you. We have a little business to settle.’
The chamber he took him to was the familiar one, with the curtained bed, and the window giving over the balcony, the gardens, the moat. Over the bed lay a robe of silk lined with sable. ‘For you. For Famagusta, and what you have suffered. It is too heavy. You will wear it when you are fit. Are you in pain? You must be in pain from your wounds, and the sorrow. Your lovely girl died.’
He had indicated where Nicholas should sit, and had taken his own place, as once before, by the window. His swinging foot this time said that he was unhappy, in spite of the wine, and wished