The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [278]
It was the Genoese consul, after all, who had crossed to the Ottoman side and had been killed (so it was said) by this miraculous Niccolò, this young hero who had rescued them all. The traitor had received what he deserved, and they and their money were saved. And their merchandise. And, of course, the women and children. The few Genoese kept to themselves, and said little; for they had neither leader nor merchandise, and no landfall ahead that they looked forward to. Catherine, exiled from both camps, took to following Nicholas.
Then, three weeks on their journey, they reached the end of the Black Sea and faced its only exit: the waterway of the Bosphorus, lined by the guns of the Turks. They chose to sail through it in daylight. Catherine, hidden below, saw the threatening coast she had passed once already, content in Pagano’s arms. The ponderous Anadolu Hisari on the Asian shore and, on the right, the massive round towers of Boghasi-Kesen, its new partner. The throat-cutter, they called it; or the strait-cutter; because no ship could survive between the mouths of the two sets of cannon. They entered the Bosphorus, and the gun from Boghasi-Kesen fired.
In the open air it was without resonance; as if God had banged his fist. Where the ball fell, the water rose like white feathers. The round ship responded immediately; running down her flag, and then her sails, and manoeuvring into the wind, her captive galley backing cautiously beside her. They waited. In the distance, a boat was putting out from the shore. You could see the glitter of weapons. On the two ships, it was so quiet that you could hear the bullocks complaining from the pens of the galley; and the wind in the rigging; and the slap of the sea against wood. The sun beat down with the leaden heat of September so that sweat ran from the borrowed turbans of the seamen crowding the decks; and below, the refugees panted in the stifling air, their hands over the mouths of their children.
Nicholas appeared on deck, surrounded by men rolling barrels. He was laughing. He said, “Lord have mercy, are you holding your breath? You’ve thrashed the Christians; captured a galley; rammed every boy in the Black Sea; filled your sacks with church cups and carpets and candlesticks; and you’re going home to your wives rich for life and drunk with the liquor you’ve stolen. It’s against all the rules, but you don’t care. And when we’ve given them a barrel or two, the soldiers are not going to care very much either. Here. You and you and you. All of you with good Turkish. Talk. Sing. Shout. The rest of you, caper. Gianni: get up to the yardarm and show them a few acrobatics, and piss into the wind when they’re near enough to enjoy it. Now!”
Below, his was the first voice they heard, raised in song. It continued, interrupted by hiccoughs and mixed with the stamping of feet and the voices of other men singing and talking in Turkish, and laughing. A distinct smell of wine began to seep down through the closed hatches, followed presently by the creak and swish of a strong set of oars, coming nearer. There was a long shouted exchange, and then a lot of scrambling, followed by a series of bumps. After some time, the din, which had been considerable, started to lessen. Feet thudded on timber and the creak of oars started again, with some splashing and, after a while, became fainter. The hatch opened, and Nicholas slid down among them.
He was a little drunk; his eyes brilliant. He said, at the second