Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [58]
Served to Nicholas now was not the Divine Liturgy which had preceded the anguish of Trebizond; but the plain chant of compline, which echoed the same close-written, cerebral music. Hear us, O God; we beseech Thee to hear us.… Possessing Thee, O Christ, a Wall that cannot be broken … But despite the prayers, Constantinople had fallen, and Trebizond had fallen; and in the end he, Nicholas had done nothing to prevent it. It would have troubled Marian, perhaps, had she lived, and had he told her what he had done. So it was as well she was dead.
His thoughts were far away when a touch on his arm showed him that the service had ended. Whoever touched him had gone. A monk, seeing him turn, said in Greek, ‘It was Otto: forgive. When the doors open, they enter, the little children of Christ.’ He was smiling, his arm crooked around something. The object, made of some soft material, was white as ermine and seemed to be studded with jewels. Emeralds caught the glow of the candles. Behind it, the monk’s stomach rumbled. Nicholas moved, and something silken passed by his ankles, accelerating as it went. A candle-flame bent. The monk said, ‘You do not dislike them? Apologise, Otto,’ and held out his arms.
The emeralds were not jewels, but the eyes of a large and muscular cat which came courteously into his grasp and settled itself, its white chin on his forearm, its tail furling with graceful finality. Nicholas laughed and, to silent instruction, found and fondled a spot by one ear. Otto purred and, caressing still, Nicholas scanned the half-emptied church all about him. Between the feet of the monks, the marble floor was laid like a loom with moving skeins of fine silk in dyes he could never have dreamed of: smoke and silver and black, cream and tortoiseshell, orange and butter. But the sinuous shapes were not silk, and the hues came from God, and not man. He was looking at cats.
Cats proud and indolent, young and playful, arched against monkish robes, sat hunched between icons and lay stretched upon ledges. Kittens played with the gold fringe of carpets; boxed with ungainly paws smooth as catkins. Through the open door he could watch them in the cloisters, slipping from pillar to garden, the same dark forms he had seen on the beach. In his arms Otto stretched with politely soft paws, gathered himself, and sprang elegantly to the ground. The monk said, ‘He is the leader. Watch. They go where he goes. It is called Cape Gata, this place. You had not heard of it?’
‘Why?’ said Nicholas. Outside, he could see his abductors waiting for him. He walked slowly, the monk at his side. The monk said, ‘Because of the serpents. It is an island of vipers. Then St Helen of the Cross, when the monastery was young long ago, brought a litter of cats and said, “These will serve you.” And so it has been ever since. By day the cats hunt, and by evening, they come to the bell for their food.’
‘They are beautiful,’ Nicholas said.
‘They lead us into sin,’ said the monk. ‘We love them too much.’
They had almost reached the door. Nicholas said, ‘I thought it was an island of scorpions. There is a legend there too, is there not? The Grand Master of Rhodes at least knows it. “… hac in insula Cipri scorpionelis regie domus spurcicia surrexit?” ’
The monk halted. His eyes, like those of the abbot, were remarkably level and clear. He said, ‘… est enim hac pestifera Jacobus de Lusignano. I know, of course, the quotation. The enemies of James of Lusignan have only to look back to myth to find the bewitched half-serpent