Race of Scorpions (86 page)

In Cyprus that year, the last week of January brought a softening that seemed to herald the spring. Outside Famagusta, the almond trees were already in blossom and soon the air would smell of hyacinth and narcissus, and the piercing scent of the orange trees would drench all the island. The skies cleared. Between sunshine and showers the rivers began to run lower; the mud stiffened; the ground became green. The Mameluke lord Tzani-bey al-Ablak, dismissing his entourage at the gates of Famagusta, rode into the city on a white horse whose silver harness and gold-tasselled hipcloth glittered and twinkled in sunlight, and the velvet coat over his mail was magnificent.

From the Citadel, Astorre watched him come, his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas. ‘I was right,’ he said. ‘Chain mail. Flexible, but it can’t stand up to piercing. A coif, a helmet, a round shield, and the mace under his knee. I told you –’

‘You told me,’ said Nicholas. ‘What kind of mace?’ He turned to pick up his helmet. The mail shirt he wore, on Astorre’s advice, was very close to the pattern of the Mamelukes, although the links were different, and bound with small plates. His thighs and knees and calves were protected with armour, and there were plates of it guarding his elbows. Unlike the emir’s, his sword was straight and not curved, and his mace was of iron. The lad who had volunteered as his squire held his long Burgundian shield and his gloves and the Milanese bascinet he would buckle over his cap. It was plain, with no nose or ear guards like the emir’s, although his neck was protected by mail. Ring mail deflected a scimitar cut, which was why the Mamelukes wore it.

Astorre pronounced on the subject of maces. ‘Fins on the head. A piece of pure frippery. But his shaft’s ribbed. I like it.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Is everyone where they should be?’

‘That’s a stupid question,’ Astorre said, ‘considering. Of course they are. The castle seems empty. The parade ground looks as if it’s got the entire population of Cyprus gathered round it. No great impression of pageant, but the King’s there, moderately dressed-up, and your courtiers. Not Rizzo.’ He paused. ‘Will your wife know? The lady Primaflora? She’s been waiting for you in Nicosia?’

By now, presumably, quite a select number of people would be waiting for him in Nicosia, including the most beautiful woman there. Despite the Dies Nefastae, he must seem to rank among the preternaturally blessed of this world. Nicholas said, ‘Does she know about the revolt? Not unless Tobie has worried her with it. When it’s over, I’ll explain it myself. And if I can’t, there’s a farewell packet I left in December. It probably sounds quite old-fashioned by now. If I survive a second time, I must find and revise it. Let’s go. Is it all right, my right side going numb like this?’

‘You’re an idiot,’ said Astorre good-naturedly. ‘On you go. Remember all I told you. Kill him if you get the chance, but –’

‘But not too soon to spoil everyone’s plans. Lord of Mercy,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s not a fight, it’s the script for a passion play in twenty-five scenes; costumes free from the guilds and no drinking. Is Ludovico da Bologna out there?’

‘No. I don’t think so,’ said Astorre, looking surprised.

‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘I feel better already.’

Whatever his words to Astorre, they had nothing to do with his underlying mood, which had remained unchanged for days. He rode out now into the sun and the wind with his mind implacably set, and stepped through the crowds deaf to their shouting, to enter the vast oblong of dirt upon which this duel was to be fought.

It was not decked out as for a gala, for this was a military occupation, and these were only games. What he was about to take part in was not a game, arms à plaisance; but neither did it have a noble purpose. He was not here as a Knight, to fulfil the Christian purpose of his Order, although what he did might serve James of Lusignan. Perhaps the emir Tzani-bey was here to defend his religion; but for three years he had accepted the payment of Christians to attack other Christians, and if he was bent on revolt, it was chiefly because he perceived a Turcoman threat to all Mamelukes.

These were issues of power, not religion. And whether they existed or not, the fact was that he and Tzani-bey would have fought one another anyway, over a personal grudge. It only happened to be taking place here because he wished the King to be present. If all the other spectators received joy of it, Nicholas had no objection.

Everything about this ground was familiar, as was the feel of his arms: his sword, the weight of his shield and his helm, the balance of the little horse under him. It was a long time since the Abruzzi, when he had seen Felix fall; and he had fought often on horseback since then. He had been fighting in the Abruzzi when he had been captured, the year before last. And brought here. And thought the love of arms was the new love he had discovered.

Behind him stood the castle. To his right ran the sea-wall, with the ocean behind it upon which the
Adorno
had met her fate. On his left, central among the spectators, was the awning hung with the cross and three lions of Lusignan. Beside Nicholas was the flag he had been given, which had upon it a silver cross-hilted sword on a blue field: emblem of the Order he had been admitted to twice (or not at all). At the other end, on a white horse, sat the emir Tzani-bey, his sword drawn. The emir who had chained him, flayed him, exposed him, and used him for his pleasure.

There was a drumroll and a flourish of trumpets: the overture. Then the tripping signal that warned the contestants to be prepared. Then the trumpets for onslaught.

Here there were no lists and no formalities. One did not ride courteously forward, gathering speed, strike, continue and turn, ready to repeat the process. There was no barrier. The emir simply gathered his horse and flung it into a gallop on a course that must collide with his own. And Nicholas, watching him, spurred his horse likewise.

It was one used for ball games, and wiry. If it had been heavier, he would have allowed the collision to happen. As it was, he waited until the last second, and his opponent did the same. The two horses swerved, brushing one another, and the two blades flashed, and met, and parted in a shower of sparks. As he struck, Nicholas was squeezing and turning his horse bodily beneath him.

He was just in time. Tzani-bey had played tzukanion also although not, Nicholas supposed, on the fields of the Emperor of Trebizond. He reappeared under his elbow and struck upwards. Nicholas ducked, and heard the steel pass with a whine. He turned and slashed; met cloth; met leather, tugged free and flung his horse away in a circle.

Tzani-bey had done the same. They sat, breathing quickly, watching one another. He realised that everyone in the world appeared to be screaming. He remembered what he was supposed to be doing; then forgot it. He saw Tzani-bey begin, very gently, to put his horse into a mild trot towards him and advanced his own mount at the same pace. Above the round shield he could see little of the emir’s dark face: two glittering eyes on either side of the nose-guard; a flash of teeth below the spreading moustache. His mail coat was long, covering his calves as he rode, and the high-backed
saddle protected his rear. His horse, with no apparent instruction, suddenly increased its speed on a parallel course; arrived, and stopped dead as the emir struck.

Nicholas took on his shield a slash that would have cut off his neck. He felt the jar in his weaker shoulder as he parried, sliding sideways and forward. The emir leaned, allowing the blade to pass his side. His horse passaged; turned; the blade came again, cutting upwards, sideways, down. The little horse under Nicholas whinnied, jolting him, as a line of red sprang along its haunch. Nicholas, angry, slashed twice and then retrieved his temper as he retreated, wheeling. The emir’s horse moved, backwards, forwards, sideways, and then came forward again. This time they stayed engaged, the horses dancing beneath them, and some of the blows missed, some were blocked, and some fell. At the same moment, they both freed themselves and withdrew.

Around the ground, the noise rose and fell without cease. Towards the sea, there was no sound, and none from the Citadel. So far, nothing had interrupted the duel. If nothing would, and the duel was what it seemed to be, you would think that Tzani-bey would fight even harder. On the other hand, he was both vicious and fit. He might be teasing Nicholas; testing him; tiring him; so that, in a sudden real onslaught, he could have him at his mercy at last.

It might be that. Or it might simply be that his force of Mamelukes was coming late. Or was there, but awaiting a signal.

There was nothing that Nicholas could do for he, too, had to prevaricate. And that was best done on horseback, for as soon as one or both were unhorsed, the duel could not last very much longer. Nicholas renewed his grip on his sword, and felt his animal falter as he put it towards the emir again. The cut had gone deep, and there might be others. He might have to fight on foot after all. He said, as he came up, in Arabic: ‘Have you learned from your dancing-girl, emir? Why not fight like a man? I shall see that your widows are cared for.’

And that brought the serious fighting. He didn’t enjoy it. Twice, he made a hit with his sword-point, and heard the emir grunt, but he took a spent cut on the helm that dizzied him despite all the padding, and a slash in the side that filled his clothing with blood. Through it all he husbanded, as well as he could, what was left of his energy. No interruption. No disturbance. No relief. Face to face till the end, perhaps, as he said he had wanted. It came to him that soon he would have to decide to try and kill Tzani-bey, no matter what it did to anyone’s programme. Either that, or lose the fight and his life.

He had not quite made up his mind when the decision was made for him by Tzani-bey. They had circled, closed, circled, drawn off
and were together again. This time, without warning, the emir changed his sword to the hand that held his buckler. And as he closed upon Nicholas, he snatched something from its place in his saddle and brought it down like an axe.

It was neither an axe nor a mace, but an iron bar. Astorre had warned him. Illegal even among Mamelukes, it could, at a blow, take off an arm. A mace might have been deflected by armour. The bar fell between the protective plate and his neck, on the left, on the wound of ten months ago. It shrieked its protest, although Nicholas did nothing but gasp. His eyes became dark. He managed, just, to disengage and ride and heard, through his nausea, the beating hooves as the emir came after him. He didn’t have very long, and he couldn’t see very well, but – play or not – he was fighting now for his life, and so was Tzani-bey. Nicholas turned, and used his spurs, and this time drove his blood-smothered horse straight at the Mameluke.

The animals crashed together and staggered. Nicholas, dropping his shield, struck the emir with the weight of his shoulder and, drawing his mace, half dislodged him with a blow from the saddle and leaped free as his horse foundered. Tzani-bey’s horse, ungoverned, started away; the emir’s sword hesitated as he fought to control it, his studded boot out of the stirrup. Nicholas stood in the field and, like a Roman thug, swung his mace to gain momentum and released it. It swept the emir from his horse, which snorted and fled. Tzani-bey rose, sword in hand, and confronted him.

There seemed no doubt, now, that the only battle today in Famagusta was the one taking place now, to the death. If Tzani-bey expected support, it hadn’t come. If the plot had never existed, Tzani-bey, having toyed with him, was now in no doubt that he fought for his life. They were alone together, on this field, with their swords. Except that Tzani-bey, in place of his shield, was wielding his mace.

A trumpet blew. The emir’s eyes flickered, in his glistening face. Then he returned his attention to Nicholas. Blood soaked the handsome Syrian surcoat, as it blotched and stained his own padded jupa and linen and shirt. He felt the weakness of it, but not yet the pains. The old wound was the worst: his white-hot shoulder beat and rang like a forge. The trumpet blew again, and a herald called something. No shouting; no surge of action; no summons to battle. Just a command from the King to cease fighting.

Nicholas laughed at Tzani-bey and the emir, surprisingly, showed his teeth in return. The emir said, ‘You do not scamper when called? I commend you.’ Then he leaped, his scimitar in the air. But the mace, in his other hand, was whistling down to the Christian sword.

His eyes had not given him away, but his mind did. To avoid the scimitar completely was not possible. But Nicholas took only half of its slice in his body, and his own arm was positioned for all it had to do. As Tzani-bey brought down the mace, Nicholas cut off the emir’s right hand.

Warm, thick blood sprayed in his face. The emir’s own features were blank. Then the man dropped to his knees, his left hand crossing to grip his right arm with its core of white bone. The mud flooded with crimson. Around them, silence exploded into a herring-gull screaming. Nicholas raised the point of his sword, and pressed it against Tzani-bey’s chest and said, ‘You are defeated.’

The blood pumped: the weakened fingers could not quite stem it. But the emir’s gaze was steady in a face of pallid olive. He said, ‘I acknowledge it. I have said my prayers. Dispatch me.’

‘Why?’ said Nicholas. ‘I was to be your entertainment. May I not reserve you for mine? Allow me to help you.’ He pulled off his gloves and, freeing the strap of his helm, bound it crudely about the emir’s arm over the artery. The emir closed his eyes. He said, ‘Of course. Who could gainsay you? I have brought you, in any case, a token of my submission. In the saddlebag of my horse. I had hoped not to have to present it.’

‘Is it of the nature of your other gift?’ Nicholas said. He rose, and felt himself swaying.

The emir opened his eyes. ‘It follows the pattern,’ he said. ‘Here is your mistress.’

Zacco hit him with his open hand, first on one cheek, then the other. He said to Nicholas, ‘You heard the trumpet. I will do that, the next time you disobey me. What is he saying?’ The King had run alone on to the field. The others were only now racing after him. His arms were round Nicholas, his face anguished as in Nicosia, the first time.