The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [182]
But alive. Nicholas turned his head and croaked again, “Julius? If you see that little turd Doria, kick his teeth in.” He heard Julius give a kind of laugh before the club cracked him on the head again. They had taken his helmet. After that, nothing became very much clearer, although there were times when he appeared to be on the ground and not on a horse, and times when he was given something to drink, and very rare occasions when he got something to eat, but found it hard to swallow. He didn’t see or hear Julius again.
Eventually, he woke in a tent, to find himself lying on an old piece of cloth, carefully spread to preserve the floor from contamination with his person. His cloak had been cut off, and his mail shirt taken away, exposing what had been beneath them to the gratification of the general public. The only spectator present was even younger than himself: a youth with a shaven head and a long collarless tunic who had been sitting in silence, crosslegged against the wall of the tent. When Nicholas stirred he rose and stood looking down at him. The expression on his face was one of thorough distaste. Spotlessly clean, he had no affinity, it was clear, with his recent captors, but neither could his clear pallor, his black hair be Genoese. Nicholas said, in Greek, “Who are you? And where is this?”
The delicate face surveyed him without moving a muscle. Then the boy spat, and went out.
The spittle ran down his cheek. Tobie ought to be here. No. On the whole Tobie had done enough. His hands and feet were still bound, but he could turn his head. He looked about him, rubbing his cheek on the cloth. Julius was not there. The tent was empty even of furniture, but well made of good material, and there were tassels. Not the home of a nomad. The tassels stirred, and a man parted the flap and came in. With him was the same boy as before. The boy had been snivelling. The man, in identical dress, had a face like Alessandra Strozzi in a bad mood. He gave a bow, jerkily, towards Nicholas. Nicholas opened his mouth but immediately the man shook his head and signed for silence with a small, angry gesture. Then he looked at the boy.
The boy looked like Alessandra’s son Lorenzo in a bad mood. He advanced a pace, dropped to his knees, and briefly placed his brow on the ground. Then he rose and glared at the man, who made a curt gesture. The boy went to the door of the tent and snapped something. The language was neither Greek nor Italian nor Arabic. His brain, wakening, informed Nicholas that it was Hebrew, of which he knew a few words. His brain went to sleep again. There was an interval, during which the man avoided looking at Nicholas and, indeed, seemed to be praying. Then the tent flaps were fully opened and four men came in, bearing between them a tub full of water. It was steaming. They placed it on the floor of the tent; went out, and returned with a brazier. There followed a table and two folding stools; a pile of linen and a box, from which an assortment of objects were lifted and placed on the table. Lastly a wicker basket was brought and a second table erected. His eyes on its empty surface, Nicholas waited. The men left, all but the first. The boy re-entered, bearing a bowl. In it were roses, exquisitely arranged. Their scent filled the tent, drowning out everything else. Nicholas raised wide eyes to the man, and the man addressed him.
He spoke in Latin. “Do you understand me?”
“I understand you,” Nicholas said.
The man’s face altered a fraction, not more. He said, “I am a physician. I have to ask you, if your bonds are cut, that you do not offer violence. To me or to the boy.”
“I promise,” Nicholas said.
“We have nothing to do with your injuries. Our task is to care for and cure them.