The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [144]
The gate at the far end of the arena had opened and Astorre and Thomas had entered, leading the Charetty troops, and flanked by the trumpets and drums from the ship. They were mounted. The horses were Turkish, bought on their arrival, and dressed with harness brought with them from Flanders. Instead of plate armour, the men were dressed this time in fine leather tunics under sleeveless garments made of blue camlet. Across each chest was an embroidered baldric carrying a long quiver of arrows. Each man carried a curve-horned cavalry bow and the faces, though grave, were brown and confident. The musicians separated, four to each side, and after the squadron lined up and bowed to the box, the drums set up a brisk rhythm and the horsemen set off at the trot.
Formation riding was something that most troops learned to do for their employers: princes liked to impress other princes, and it was a useful item for feasts and victories. Performed on sloping ground with new horses, it demanded some skill. This they had, hammered into them by Astorre, who had emerged from the womb ready-mounted. Trick-riding the Emperor had already seen, and this they did not try to copy. But as the files crossed and recrossed, man passing man without pause or mistake to the lilt of the music, the decent orderliness of it all impressed as much as the skill: the spectators started to cheer, and the faces of the riders, still intent, were less grave. That was the beginning.
Bits of it Tobie had already seen. Astorre had done some of this last year in Italy. The shooting, which came next, was something Tobie had tried his hand at. A bird or a bladder, placed on top of a pole, was shot at by circling riders: shot from the normal position and again, the marksman twisting round after passing. The Persians and Turks made an art of it, and it had been taken up by the soldiers who fought them. It took a quick eye and fine horsemanship and it was dangerous. Deflected arrows could kill as well as deliberate ones. The archers wore helmets, but only leather over their shoulders.
It was a feat well worth watching. The music kept them to measure, and then, towards the end, increased its beat so that the horsemen looping the pole glinted like fish on the turn. The last chord came, the last arrow flew to its mark, and Astorre, inflated with triumph, pointed his stiff left arm and his barb and his beard to the skies and launched an arrow, not to the pole, but to the cloudy heaven of the favouring gods.
It fell, not among gods, but on the peopled top slope of the Meidan. Straight as a shaft from Apollo, it whistled down to the long rows of seats where the merchants were. Where the flag of St George drooped, it landed. Many gasped, but only one person screamed. It was a man’s voice, and unrecognisable. The cry ended in bubbling breath. Whoever had received Astorre’s arrow had died of it.
Everyone had jumped up. No, not everyone. Beside Tobie, Nicholas sat without moving, his new gloves set on his knees, and his gaze on his gloves. He said, “Who?”
Julius was smiling. He said, “Guess.”
Nicholas said, “Christ in heaven!” in a meticulous whisper that threatened like gunfire.
Julius flinched, as he had at Modon, and then, recovering, swore. “Can’t you imagine? I saw him myself, sitting two rows to the back of Doria, as smug as a priest. It was the seaman. The filthy murderer who started the fire for Doria and then got away to the cog. Astorre couldn’t miss him when he lined up to bow to the Emperor. He recognised him, and did what I would have done. Any of us. By God, he gave him his fee for the fire!”
Nicholas said, “I should have thought of that.”
“How could you?