The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [247]
“And they’re ingenious. At Constantinople they put their fleet on to rollers and took it overland behind the Greek lines,” said Tobie reflectively.
Nicholas laughed and said nothing. Tobie said, “To get here today, that fleet out there has already passed Kerasous and the Ciaretti. Or didn’t pass, and stopped, and killed John and Julius and Catherine and took all our cargo. And the camel. Damn you, why aren’t you worried?”
“I don’t need to be. You’re doing my share. If you really want to know,” said Nicholas, “the Ciaretti is lying dismantled and covered with bushes on the sacred isle of the Amazons, with hideous sounds and fiery portents to discourage anyone from landing. That’s why John had to go. All you have to do is hope that Julius and he can put the boat together again. Lie down.”
“What?” said Tobie.
“Lie down. Here’s the Emperor and his holy procession, come to pray at the walls.”
“There isn’t room,” Tobie said.
“There is, if we lie on top of one another. Kiss his boot and remember. He is God’s vicar on earth, and gods never lose. The Grand Comneni will be here for ever.”
“As in Constantinople?” Tobie said. A basil twig hovered, and drops of holy water blessed his bald head. The sandals and buskins moved on.
“Those weren’t the Grand Comneni,” said Nicholas, his voice muffled. “And we weren’t in Constantinople at the time, although John on his own didn’t do badly. What in God’s name was all that nonsense about?”
“Nothing,” said Tobie, dusting his knees. “Only, sometimes when I think of what you and John get up to, I wonder if you really know what your goading could bring on us.”
“I know,” said Nicholas humbly. “A real wave of Turkish resentment.”
All afternoon they stood and watched, like men at a play. On the sea far below, the strange ships drifted together, light as suds, coalescing on the blue moving water to the distant tuck of a drum. Then the drums stopped. A trumpet squealed, and the headsails came down in a crackling patter. Then there were only bare masts tilting in unison, and slanting green Ottoman flags, each with its gold waning moon, to mark the night of the Sultan’s great victory. For a moment, such quietness fell that the forest birdsong could be heard, hung like a cloth between city and mountains. In the eastern gorge, the harp voice of a nightingale made a statement and then developed it, contending with other courting, preening, ritual voices, brought by the wind: Allah-u Akbar; Allah-u Akbar; la ilaha ill-Allah. The imâms, invoking Allah in prayer.
On all the roofs of the city, people stood, their arms about one another, and watched the flotilla as the carpet of worshippers stirred, roused and began to disperse. Of the ships, there were too many to count. Big galleys: long two-masted triremes like the Ciaretti; biremes with their single masts; and a swarm of longboats, sloops, cutters, transports now beginning to move up for the disembarkation. Leading them, with a gilded prow and a personal flag flying from the stern, was the sloop of the admiral, Kasim Pasha, governor of Gallipoli, and Yakub his sailing-master. Tobie said, “There they go. I tell you. They’re going to ask Allah to tie you to four mating camels and allow them a wish with your breastbone.”
Nicholas shrugged, grinning. But Godscalc said, “They came in, the fishermen. Why? What has Nicholas done?”
It was Astorre who answered, his glittering eyes fixed on the shore. “Him and John: they’re a pair of devils. You see that Turkish rabble coming ashore? Paid volunteers and bashibazouk irregulars, that’s all they are. They expect to pillage, and they’re allowed to. So they spend the first day or two claiming their houses. Pick a villa and stick a flag on it, and then get down to the gold and the food and the women.”
“There aren’t any,” said Godscalc.
“But they don’t know that,” said Astorre. “There are houses. They’ll go into them.”
“You’ve left traps?”
“Watch,” said Astorre. He punched Nicholas on the back. “I don’t know. You’ll do it to us one of these days, and I’ll know I should have cut your throat,