The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [237]
Somewhere beyond there, a hundred miles from where he stood, was Kerasous and its Amazon island, the place of cherries, where Julius waited with their galley and all their wealth. Somewhere further west still was a Turkish fleet, perhaps sailing towards them. Nicholas said, “Are you coming in? Or would you like the metropolitan to come outside specially?”
He was expensively dressed, and looked rather unlike himself. It crossed Tobie’s mind to wonder if he liked or disliked religious observance. He said, walking in, “I don’t see Doria.”
“No. You’ll see him tomorrow,” was all Nicholas said.
The spectacle in honour of St Eugenios was held the following day in the stadium of the Tzucanisterion, a mile west of the City. Close to the sea but lifted a little above it, the place caught what cool air might be stirring. It was also near to St Sophia, its tower and its well-endowed monastery, whose kitchens were excellent.
The game which the Persians called chawgan, the Greeks tzukanion, still preserved, in the Byzantine Empire, some trace of its exclusive pedigree, and was always held last. There preceded it, that afternoon, equestrian sport and display at its most handsome, performed by princes upon the small, collected horses, part Arab, part Barb, part Turcoman, in which their stables were rich. And if, in the spear-throwing, the archery, the contests, the excellence of high art was missing, it was still a presentation to lift a saint’s heart: the teams in their matched silks and ribbons on the cedar flour of the immense stadium; the speckled dyes of the people crowding the tiered timber stands; the bold silks and flashing gold of the pavilions set up all round for the court and their servants. The edge of the stadium had been planted with little sweet-smelling bushes and flowers, and the poles of the banners were garlanded.
Nicholas, having been absent half the afternoon, suddenly alarmed his colleagues by running down the raked stand and seizing a shoulder of each. He was wearing, Tobie observed, a tunic straight from the bath house in green damask lined with white taffeta, its skirts turned back and tied into a belt he had not seen before; and on his feet were white tasselled boots with gilt spurs. “Like it?” said Nicholas. “Porphyrius, wonder of the Blues. You should see my hat.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t make an entry on your accursed camel,” said Tobie. “You mean you’re in someone’s team?”
Nicholas slid on to the seat beside them, grinning at Loppe. He said, “Yes. I’m on Doria’s side. I have a feeling that neither of us will ever be the same man again.”
“So that’s the game,” Tobie said. Godscalc remained silent.
“Well, the game’s tzukanion,” Nicholas said. “You’ll see some courses first run by the court, and the court against Astorre’s men. Then there’s the showpiece.”
“Yours,” said Tobie. “I suppose they know you can’t ride?”
“Well, Doria picked me,” said Nicholas. “Along with Amiroutzes’ younger son Basil and a charming half-Genoese lad called Alexios. Oh, I remember. You’ve seen him.”
“Doria picked you?” said Godscalc.
The yellow beard, now considerably thicker, accommodated a generous smile. “Well, I couldn’t ride for the other team,” Nicholas said. “That’s the women’s side.” His smile grew wider. “Girls against boys. The Persians thought it romantic. Prince Khusraw and three warriors against the princess Shirin and three of her ladies. Old legend. Khusraw leading his team in green, and Shirin and her girls in cloth of gold. Our cloth of gold, by the way: the stuff we bought to sell for Parenti. They’ll ruin it, too. It’s an exciting game, tzukanion. Killed one emperor and nearly did for another. Parenti’ll get a repeat order, the humanist bastard.”
“Doria is Khusraw,” said Godscalc. “Who’s Shirin?”
“Violante of Naxos, who else?” said Nicholas. “Supported by the princess Maria Gattilusi, the mother