The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [142]
She was already turning away. She said, “Don’t speak. You shouldn’t be here. That’s wicked. You’ll give it to Willequin too. I don’t want your fever.”
“I don’t much want it either,” Nicholas said. “Did you take Willequin to the Empress?”
She had retreated, already, to the far benches, but could not resist turning to answer. She said, “Did you see me? I’ve been presented. I’m to go to the Palace next week. The Greeks love my dog. They call him Rim-Papa.”
It was one of the standard insults, Greek to Westerner. Nicholas said, without change of voice, “If I were you, I’d keep him indoors. There’s a lot of fever about. I like your earrings.”
It lifted the frown, for a moment. Then she said, “You ought to go home,” and went off resentfully to her seat. Julius, standing, made to follow, but found his way blocked by the priest.
Doria, smiling, had watched the small scene without moving. Then he turned and viewed Nicholas. Sympathy glowed in his face. “Poor lad. Was the Palace too much? I’ve heard of bath house infections, but swamp fever rarely figures among them. Or was it Alexios whose arts so depleted you?”
He spoke quite openly, if in Italian. There was enough noise, perhaps, to deter an eavesdropper. The crowd, becoming impatient, were beginning to chant; beguiling their Basileus into ending his repast. The phrases were Byzantine: “Arise, Imperial Sun! Arise! Appear!”
“None of your whores,” said Doria, “has had quite the advantages of Alexios. Nor, I must admit, have more than one or two of mine, that I can remember. Of either kind.”
The implication, conveyed thus in public, struck Tobie’s stomach like rotten food. Astorre lifted his half-regrown eyebrows: boys will be boys. Le Grant’s face had hardly changed. But Godscalc and Julius stood motionless.
Pagano Doria smiled at them all, and then returned the warm gaze upon Nicholas. He said, “You didn’t tell them! Well, of course, I didn’t boast of my Anthimos to young Catherine. But one’s men friends, I should have thought, would be envious.” He turned his gaze to the priest. “Unless, of course, you had the pleasure, under seal, of a description. I reminded him of the generous flexibility of your views. And indeed, if you had seen this breathing boy-angel…”
The noise of the crowd had increased. “Lord! Lord! Protected by God!”
“You have a letter of mine,” Nicholas said. The hectic colour had drained from his face, except over the cheekbones. He showed no other emotion. Staring at him, Tobie thought: he hasn’t denied it. It’s provable, then. He never expected Doria to confront him with it, but Doria knows he’s probably safe. Neither can afford to tell the other man’s wife.
He thought what it would be like, writing a letter to Marian de Charetty in Bruges. Madam, I have to tell you that your apprentice husband is sleeping with bath boys. Except that the boy who had walked past just now, glistening with jewels, had been the bath boy of no ordinary man. And Nicholas? Nicholas, owned by the Devil, was speaking instead of some letter.
Doria said, as if in echo, “A letter?” He was in no haste to serve Nicholas in any way. He was enjoying himself.
Nicholas spoke again. The informed ear, listening, could hear, every now and then, the slipshod word that betrayed Tobie’s drugs. “You had a letter from the lady my wife. I came to receive it.” (Basileus! Sovereign of the Romans!)
Understanding dawned on the handsome face. “So that was why you struggled here, away from your pot and your bucket! Poor lad. Of course you must have it.”
He made no movement. “Then?” said Nicholas. Behind, a trumpet blew. Men were standing. Wooed by his people, the Elect of God had returned to his kathisma at last.
Doria said, “Ah, how unfortunate. I must take my seat. Some other day, when you are fit?”
Nicholas stood. Cymbals clashed, and clear notes sounded, in unison, from other trumpets. Along all the benches men were kicking baskets aside, and gathering cloaks and getting properly to their feet. Among them, Nicholas