The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [249]
“The wave of resentment,” said Tobie. He watched the white-wrapped cones rush together and flow down the ridge on the opposite side until stopped by the wall on the far side of the ravine that separated them from the City. Even at such a distance, the faces had moustaches and eyes, and the collarless shirts were smeared black and red. Fists high above heads were shaking crooked sabres and lances and bows. They stood in a line at the wall, glaring over the gulf: a hedge solid with hatred. Then the hedge was uprooted.
The explosions had their source in the houses immediately behind the intent, angered men. The detonations took place one by one, so that no sooner had one whirlwind of brick and stone flung itself into the air than the next one had followed it; finely timed as good clockwork. The white-capped forms lining the wall fell askew and were flattened, like wooden pins hit by a ball; except that this impact turned everything red. A spray of blood coloured the brick of the rampart, and began to run down it. Fire rose, and hung in the air like a cloth. Nicholas said, “War without fire is worth nothing; like sausages without mustard.”
The quotation was lost on Astorre. “You did it!” he said. His voice was hoarse with awe and excitement. Below, from the walls and roofs of the City, there had arisen cries of fierce pleasure. Godscalc turned.
Nicholas returned his gaze without flinching. Nicholas remarked, in distinct conversational Flemish, “Gathering credit in Heaven for purging the land of the infidel. But, you will say, is this the way a man of honour would take? Tricks and treachery? But yes, I shall reply, for how else has the heathen ever dealt with our kind? And what do the means matter, so long as the good of God’s Church is preserved? But, you will say—”
“How dare you presume to know what I will say?” said Father Godscalc.
“Since you dare to criticise, it is my privilege,” Nicholas said.
“You are sensitive,” Godscalc said, “if to look at you is now an offence. I am going back to the house. It is going to be a long siege, and I need to gather my stomach for it.”
They watched him go down. Tobie said, “I’m not sure I liked that. Any of it.”
Astorre spat. “First day nerves. He saw plenty of men blown to pieces at Sarno. And he’s a good fighter, too.”
“I’m sure he is,” Nicholas said. “So long as he picks the right people to fight.”
Later, he went down with the others, and when he saw the priest next, neither referred to what had occurred. Publicly, their relationship was no different. Privately, the man who was waiting still waited; and the man who kept away continued to do so.
The siege began, and the City of Trebizond settled down to endure it.
Chapter 36
THE STIFLING HEATS OF July embraced warring Europe, and chain mail and plate armour, skin tunic and thick wadded canvas all weltered in hot brine and blood. In struggling England, the Yorkist leader was crowned Edward IV, and George and Richard his juvenile brothers were created respectively the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester. In Rome, cardinals fled from the poisonous humours, and the Curia packed up its vellum. The Holy Father received a visit from his godson Giovanni da Castro, former dyemaster at Constantinople; embraced the dear fellow many times and then departed to stay for three months in the fresh air of Tivoli. The Minorite Order of Franciscans gave him lodgings, and all the lords on his way proffered protection. “What fairer sight than troops in battle array?” said Pope Pius, affected.
In France, his jaws jammed, old King Charles VII died of starvation, having given his last living audience (but no money) to Fra Ludovico da Bologna and his little party of grotesque Eastern delegates. They stayed for his funeral. In Genappe, the Dauphin Louis ordered a requiem mass for his father and, dressed in red and white, spent the afternoon hunting.
In England, the unsuccessful Lancastrian