The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [269]
Doria himself had not fully understood yet. Dwarfed by the soldiers who held him, he tugged indignantly against their grasp: handsome, finely arrayed and princely, despite the loss of his costly straw hat. He said, “Is this how great men dispense justice? Mahmud Pasha relies on the word of a secretary? His fools make some mistake, and you allow them to come and lay hands on me?” Below the swathe of dark and satiny hair, a little disordered, the well-marked brows were drawn in brilliant anger.
The Grand Vizier spoke. “I am here on the lord Sultan’s own orders.”
“Then you and he have been misled by others,” said Doria curtly. “I shall discuss it with him, if you like. But I will not be held like a felon.” And, opening his powerful shoulders, he half tore himself from the men who were holding him. They overmastered him immediately, although you could see he put out all his strength to prevent them. He had a beautiful, well-balanced body, and he knew how to use it. In more ways than one, Tobie thought. He saw the Pasha’s face, watching him.
But behind the Pasha was the sovereignty of the Sultan. The Grand Vizier said, “My lord the Sultan will not see you. The case is proved. You alone knew the hiding place of the arms. This you told us. You alone, therefore, instigated the killing.”
“I alone?” Doria said. He spoke slowly as, at last, he took thought, and began to understand everything. Now he stood without struggling, and his high violent colour withdrew, except over his cheekbones. His lashes flickered and lifted. This time, he looked straight at Nicholas. And Nicholas, with his dyed beard and coarse clothes and eyes bright as diamonds, looked back at Doria and smiled.
Tobie saw it, disbelieving. The last thing—the very last thing—they wanted was to admit knowing Doria. And then, sickened, he realised what he should have seen all along. Of course, it was not only Doria who would suffer from this act of duplicity. With a tongue in his head, Doria could explain that Tobie, also, possessed this facility, and expose Nicholas as an impostor. He could denounce them as spies, however little good it would do his own case. For, of course, there was no proof that Doria and they were not in the same conspiracy. Doria knew who they were, and had told neither the Sultan nor Mahmud. No. Doria wouldn’t escape. But neither would they.
Nicholas, he saw, had stopped trembling, now the moment had come. Between beard and cap his skin had a pinched look, but his gaze was quite steady. He was looking at Noah. Then he turned his eyes, but not towards Tobie. Doria said, “Allow me to speak, Mahmud Pasha. One person did know where the arms were hidden. It was known to my wife. I see she did not keep the news to herself. I know who received it, and who laid the ambush.”
“No doubt you will put the blame on someone,” the Grand Vizier said. “But what can you prove? Take him away.”
Pagano Doria spoke softly. “I can prove it here and now. And your own page will confirm it.” He turned his head, seeking the boy. And already, the page had stepped forward.
Noah came to his side, walking with the grace Doria must have taught him; looking at him with the luminous eyes one remembered, from Florence; from Modon. Then the look changed. “My lord Vizier,” said Noah, “he is troubling you.” And lifting a dagger, drove it into Doria’s muscular neck.
Tobie shouted. It emerged as a whisper. Nicholas made no sound at all. Doria’s hands lifted as the Janissaries slackened their grip: on his face was a look of pure astonishment, which gave way to perplexity. When he fell, they hardly managed to grasp him, in their surprise. Then they laid him on the floor of the tent, and Tursun Beg, frowning, bent over him. The secretary said, “He is dead. Or dying. The Sultan will—”
“The Sultan will make no objections,” said the Grand Vizier drily. To the page, he said aside, “Child! Child! What were you thinking of?” But he did not sound much displeased. He had