The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [141]
Thick men with high cheekbones stood arm in arm and made the base of a pyramid that climbed above the high wire, and then threw boys and girls to each other. Men wearing animal furs and false faces achieved terrible jokes with pigs’ bladders and the genitalia of oxen and billy goats. Children dressed in white silk and flowers danced in circles and sang. Country folk performed stamping dances to the whine of the bagpipes, and a line of Circassian girls in boots and long skirts swayed to music, Greek-linked by the arms in a living key pattern, to the sound of a drum. Two wrestlers, oiled, in leather breeches, fought until one of them died and the Emperor stood, while the corpse was drawn off, to signal that an interval had been declared, since emperors, like everyone else, must eat and make water.
A mule, its neck beribboned, dragged on a cart of salt fish, and two boys running beside it threw handfuls, for nothing, into the crowds behind the barriers. The Emperor’s gift. The cart stayed on the north side of the Meidan, since everyone knew that merchants and princes would make their own dispositions. They were correct. Loppe, moving at last, had produced a hamper which, laid on the ground by the bench, proved to be packed with cakes and chicken and cooked beans and fruit paste and hazelnuts. There were also wine flasks, with six good metal beakers. Last of all, he lifted out and delivered to Tobie an extra flask which contained nothing but water. His eyes asked a question.
Nicholas was talking, again, to Astorre. Tobie put a hand on his shoulder and turned him round. Tobie said, “All right. I think that’s enough, don’t you? Slip out now while the Emperor’s gone.”
Nicholas sounded normal. In looks, he had become particularly vivid. His hair, now soaking, had curled up like unravelled wool. He said, “Don’t bully; Astorre would never forgive me. They’re going to put on a shooting display.”
Tobie knew that. He had also known that, by divine agency, the display was bound to occur in the second half and not in the first. He said, “Astorre isn’t stupid. He knows what fever is like. Look. The Genoese are far away. Julius won’t cause any trouble. If most of the rest of us stay, the Emperor won’t even notice. You’ve come, you’ve been seen. What are you waiting for?”
“To be conquered. You’re losing your chicken,” Nicholas said. Tobie stared at him, and then down. It was true. A terrier had its head in their basket. It wore a gold collar. He lifted it up by it. “Willequin,” Nicholas said. The little dog dangled, choking irritably.
“Willequin!” said a girl sharply. Tobie knew who it was before he turned round. Catherine de Charetty, dressed like a courtesan. Or no. That was not strictly true. But her pretty, reddish brown hair hung in ringlets over her cheeks, and her earrings dangled on shoulders bare enough to make Tobie, in heated vermilion, briefly envious. Her gown was of silk, and her face was prettily painted. She seized the dog. “You could have killed him! My mother shall hear of it.”
Nicholas turned. “If you like, I’ll tell her,” he said. “I have a letter to answer.”
Doria was standing behind her. He, too, wore his robe of honour and also his chain. He said, “If Willequin is safe, take him to your seat, sweetheart. You can speak to your stepfather later.”
Now they had all turned: Julius simmering, le Grant with calm curiosity, Astorre with his beard at its most frightening angle. Godscalc, Tobie saw, looked uneasy. Catherine looked at none of them. Clutching the dog, she was examining Nicholas. She said, “Your hair’s wet, like when you had marsh fever. Have you got it again?”
So much for their painstaking precautions. Nicholas said,