Race of Scorpions

  ‘But you don’t want me to re-enrol Astorre.’

  ‘It depends on your reasons,’ said Tobie. ‘Here’s Paltroni to call you. I told you. You have a buyer.’

  It was the Count’s secretary, to call him to his tent. Nicholas half turned to the doctor. ‘Shall I see you?’

  Tobie opened his marble-blue eyes. ‘If you stay, how shall we avoid it?’

  He stood, shaken by an absent-minded volley of sneezes, and watched Nicholas go.

  The interview with Urbino took place in a crowded tent, where the Count himself occupied the only stool, before a table littered with papers. The Count said, ‘Ah. Niccolò the merchant. Have you come to buy or to sell?’

  Nicholas looked down at the notched beak of a nose and remained thoughtful. ‘To invest, my lord. I had a fancy to buy in Captain Astorre’s contract, if he would let me, and develop the company to the benefit of the league against Anjou. I thought, before I went south to join him, that I might help you in passing. I have some skill with devices.’

  ‘Trebizond,’ said Federigo of Urbino. ‘You’re the man who got the Venetians out of Trebizond. With Astorre. And that fiend of an engineer.’

  ‘John le Grant,’ Nicholas said. ‘He’s in Venice. You have heard of us?’

  ‘Well, get him out of Venice. And any other experts you have. Of course I’ve heard of you. I’ve got your doctor here, Beventini. You’re not getting him back.’

  ‘I don’t imagine he wants to come back. Or John le Grant,’ Nicholas said. ‘I simply thought –’

  ‘You’ve given up merchanting?’ Urbino said. ‘Or starting a new sideline in wars?’

  ‘I simply thought,’ Nicholas said, ‘of turning Astorre’s troops into a much larger, better-armed company with some knowledge of cannon and hand guns and some first-rate engineers. I might be able to train some of your men. Mechanics interest me.’

  Urbino’s single eye was positively luminous. ‘And what do you want of me then?’ he said.

  ‘A little experience, before I go south. As I said, you might find a use for devices.’

  ‘If,’ Urbino said, ‘you can contrive to blow up Sigismondo Malatesta at a range of thirty-five miles, you can replace me as commander. I can give you experience, but not in artillery of which I at present have none. I am about to launch an action. I am not, however, prepared to lose my best engineers to another force.’

  ‘My lord, you are too modest,’ said Nicholas. ‘No one would leave you for me.’

  ‘If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t let you stay for a day. You can stay. Don’t get in the way. See my officers and get yourself a tent and provisions. We march in four hours. You needn’t expect to leave until both the march and the battle are over. For all I know, you may be an enemy agent. Venice wants Malatesta to win.’

  ‘My Bank doesn’t,’ said Nicholas smiling. He didn’t know whether it did or not, or if he had a bank. He didn’t care, he was so pleased to be here. He took his leave from the tent without even finding out where he was marching. Urbino had assumed it was immaterial.

  In fact, it was back north, the way he had travelled. Tobie, whose tent was still upright, sent for him; poured him some wine in an accusing manner and then allowed him to sit, as if they were speaking to one another. Tobie said angrily, ‘I suppose you know what is happening? The Pope’s dearest enemy, Malatesta of Rimini, has been bribed into the war by Piccinino. He’s in the north now, collecting troops with John of Calabria’s money. Little condottieri from the Romagna; a large number of French-loving Genoese bastards turfed out of their city. Rumour says they’re all mustered and about to march down to the Abruzzi.’

  ‘And Urbino goes north to intercept them?’ Nicholas said. ‘You’ve got a better line in wine than you could ever afford in my day.’

  ‘I get paid more,’ said Tobie. ‘Malatesta is sitting outside Sinigallia, on the coast between here and Urbino. He’s scared, and pretending to negotiate. The Count’s plan is to force-march north, beginning this evening, to be within bowshot by first light on Wednesday.’

  ‘Thirty-odd miles? The Turks could do it in half –’

  ‘So what’s the attraction?’ said Tobie. ‘You enjoyed fighting the Turks, and want more of it? Or are you passing, taper in hand, reactivating all your favourite fireworks? How is the Charetty business?’

  ‘I thought I would buy my way into a fight,’ Nicholas said. ‘No other interests. No ulterior motives. If no one else wants me, I’ll ask Piccinino.’

  Tobie stared at him. Then he said, ‘I almost believed you, you bastard.’

  ‘Never,’ Nicholas said. He sat on Tobie’s campaign chest and tried not to look hungry.

  Tobie swore and, getting up, sent a man for some food. He came back and threw himself on the ground beside the box with his cup on it. He said, ‘Nothing hasty about you, at any rate. You’ve taken ten months to decide this. Astorre knows, I suppose?’

  ‘I forgot to ask him,’ said Nicholas. ‘What’s Skanderbeg like?’

  Tobie put down his cup. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t get mixed up in that.’

  ‘In what?’ said Nicholas. The food came, and he took what he was offered, his large eyes mild.

  ‘You know what. Albanian heroics. Father and saviour. George Castriot, captured by Turks as a child and escaped to fight against Turkey for his native land of Albania. The new Alexander, and hence nicknamed Skanderbeg, since Levantines make shibboleths of their exes. Sailed his army across the Adriatic to help the Pope and Ferrante in the Abruzzi. You’ll join him,’ said Tobie grimly. ‘I know you. You’ll look for a father-figure, and join him.’

  There was a brief silence. Nicholas smiled. ‘I have a father-figure,’ he said.

  Tobie’s sun-pinkened face grew ruddier. He said, ‘I didn’t mean that. But since we’ve mentioned it, where is friend Simon?’

  ‘In Portugal,’ Nicholas said. ‘And Katelina is in Anjou; unless she has already joined John of Calabria’s army. Do you think they will guess where I’m hiding?’

  Tobie was still uncomfortable. ‘They know you’re crazy,’ he said. ‘But not so mad as to come here again. At least they won’t think of looking for you in Sinigallia.’

  ‘I thought I’d be safe in Sinigallia,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘You’d be safer there than down south,’ Tobie said. ‘Why go south? Your ship’s in Ancona.’

  Nicholas laid down his meat. Then he picked up his cup. ‘Which ship?’ he said.

  ‘The round ship. The Doria. Crackbene got rid of the alum to a freight vessel at Porto Pisana, then got a job sailing here with some wheat. He’s been refitting. You could go to Ancona after Malatesta is finished with. Or before,’ Tobie said. There was a pause. He said, ‘I am arranging your life again like an elderly nursemaid.’

  ‘I oughtn’t to have said that,’ Nicholas said. ‘But it was so true. Whereas, left to myself, I found out what I like best. The sensation of fighting.’

  ‘The sensation of killing?’ said Tobie.

  Nicholas thought. ‘The sensation of living through danger. Does that agree with your findings?’

  ‘I’m not making notes on you,’ Tobie said. ‘I’m leaving that to the gravediggers. I have to go. We march in four hours, and I expect to be busy.’

  ‘I assumed you would be,’ said Nicholas.

  Chapter 6

  CONTRARY TO HIS wholly cynical expectations, Tobie saw nothing of Nicholas during the next day and a half of hard travelling. It was true that Tobie himself was much occupied: the army had been in the field for half a season, and he had some walking wounded and sick on his hands. Nicholas also had the best of excuses: his skills were those of a pioneer and a gunner, and it was among such men that he spent all his time. Occasionally the Count of Urbino would move back and take part in the intense arguments that broke out from time to time in that area of his army where the engineers were to be found. Afterwards he would ride, a frown between his uneven brows, staring at some scrawl of a diagram on a piece of pa
per smelling of horse.

  It made Tobie suspicious. All the time he had known him, Nicholas had needed a friend. Now he had shed even Loppe. He had shed, too, the boyish camaraderie of the dyeyard, the tavern, or even the galley. Changing files; infiltrating among all the sections of Urbino’s army, Nicholas kept the companionable style of his company days. But it was different: as if he had had no occasion to use it for a very long time; and as if, now, he employed it for different reasons. And not only employed it, but experimented with it.

  The prohibition ended on Wednesday at dawn, when the army came within reach of Sinigallia, and crossing the lukewarm Nevola, sat down in sight of Malatesta’s well-entrenched camp. Then Nicholas went and found Tobie, who was tramping back from his duties with his leather apron over his shirt. In a mask of pink dust, his small mouth was clean, as were the pads of his nostrils where he’d wiped them, and a slat on either cheek where his cap-lappets had been. He said, ‘So. You’ve got a corn on your arse?’

  ‘I walked some of the way,’ Nicholas said. ‘The rumour is that Malatesta outnumbers us by five to two, and that the town of Sinigallia has surrendered to him.’

  ‘Then why isn’t he occupying it?’ Tobie said.

  ‘Because he’s getting ready to charge us, I expect,’ Nicholas said. ‘He’s fresh and we aren’t. We stand to arms, and rest by rotation.’

  ‘Give me a girl and I’ll try it,’ said Tobie. ‘You’re really going to fight? Pull your sword out and charge, intoning Urbino?’

  ‘I’m working out what to shout,’ Nicholas said. ‘Don’t hit me, we’ve got a terrible doctor? If Malatesta attacks, you’ll have your sword out, none quicker. I don’t think he’ll attack. If he’s really busy with fire-raising, slaughter, rape, adultery, incest, parricide, sacrilege, treason and heresy, he simply won’t have the energy.’

  ‘He was excommunicated last year,’ Tobie said. ‘Retaliated by filling a church font with ink. He’s been fighting Urbino, man and boy, for twenty-three years.’

  Nicholas flung down his gloves. ‘I’ve joined an episode in the Corinthian wars. I thought this was a free-standing battle.’

  ‘They might kill each other this time,’ Tobie said, ‘but I shouldn’t count on it. It’s all about property. And the Pope, of course, really doesn’t want Malatesta marching down to join Piccinino. I wonder what Astorre’s doing now. He’ll wish he hadn’t sent Thomas to Bruges. What happened to Thomas?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Nicholas said, quite as if he meant it.

  They waited all day, in what shade they could find, but the enemy made no move that could be discerned. Tobie said, ‘They’re crazy. They should have charged as soon as we arrived.’

  ‘They’ll attack by night,’ said the Count’s secretary. ‘We are prepared. They will regret it.’

  ‘Five to two?’ Tobie said.

  Darkness fell, and no one slept. Just after midnight, the scouts came back with news. Malatesta’s army had gone.

  Urbino’s bellow could be heard all round the camp. ‘What!’

  It was true. The tents were empty. Malatesta had withdrawn his troops in the first darkness and was on his way north to the safety of the town of Fano. He had sixteen miles of country to cover. ‘Then let’s catch him!’ roared the Count; and set his buglers to rousing the camp.

  The first squadrons of cavalry were mounted and left at a speed that Nicholas thoroughly admired. He set himself to catch and keep up with them. Among the firelit uproar and glitter, he caught sight of Tobie, mounting a stocky horse with a helmet on his floss-circled head and a cuirass bulging in front of him. Then the whole army set off behind Urbino’s vanguard, the foot scrambling to sort itself out as they went. They had had a day spent on watch, after a forced march at a speed better suited for winter than August. But the faces were eager. Urbino was leading, and Malatesta of Rimini was the traditional, the dishonourable, the joyfully despicable foe.

  For Nicholas, it was curiously like and unlike November, when he had whooped through the snow with the Bentivoglio men after the carts which had once contained sugar. Again, he was pursuing an enemy unsuspected – or initially unlooked-for, at least. That was clear, even at night, by the circumspect pace Malatesta was setting. Believing Urbino’s army exhausted, he had denied himself light and speed in his resolve not to arouse them. So, instead of a double line of bright flares, there was only moonlight to help spy out where, far ahead, he might be, over the churned fields of cabbage and wheat and beyond the ranks of bruised vines and the black mushroom shapes of the olive trees. But the moon, it soon proved, was enough. The pursuers climbed a low ridge, and looked into the darkness before them. There, in the distance, the undulating columns of Rimini twinkled like pins in a music-box. Like a dumb music-box, exercising in silence.

  Urbino, too, used no flares to begin with. The bright moonlight showed him the way, and the rumble of hooves from his little company was too far off to be heard by his quarry. Soon, as his whole army moved up to follow, there could be no concealment. This, his spearhead, rode meanwhile on earth and on plants, and the scents of crushed fruit and greenery hung where they passed. The man next to Nicholas said, ‘The Cesano’s over there somewhere. It’s only a stream, but Malatesta has got to get all his men over it. It’ll slow him down.’

  ‘What will the Count do?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Catch them in midstream, if there’s time for it. Ah. There’s the order. Light the torches.’

  They were still lighting them when the next order came: Blow the trumpets.

  ‘Panic them,’ said the man next to Nicholas. ‘It’ll be muddy, that stream. No joke for Malatesta, trying to force an army to cross and scramble up banks in the darkness.’

  He spoke in jerks, riding flat out as they all were. Now, among the sloping trees and the juniper bushes they could see the dark line of the little river, and the beachhead of jostling helmets on the far bank, and the main body of enemy troops plunging over to join them. Nicholas said, ‘They’ll be over before we can get there. And now they can see just how few we are.’

  ‘That’s the idea, isn’t it?’ said his companion. ‘Malatesta thinks we’re a skirmishing party. Who’d expect the Count’s army to be roused and marching already? So, with any luck, Malatesta doesn’t ride off. He instructs his rearguard to form up and deal with us. Deal with us very thoroughly, so that no one rides back with the story. What he doesn’t know is that Urbino’s whole army is coming.’

  ‘You think they’re coming,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Well, they’d better come,’ said the man. ‘I haven’t heard an order to stop. It’s my belief that the next sound you hear from that trumpet will be the order to charge.’

  The trumpet sounded the charge while there were still quite a few of the enemy on the near side of the Cesano. Urbino’s cavalry, yelling, rode straight at them with their swords raised, and cut them down as they leaped into the water. Malatesta’s men were mostly on foot. They struck back with swords and with knives, and used their shields to parry and push. Horses slipped; others fell, slashed from below.

  There came to Nicholas again the half-promise, the hint of fulfilment that had reached him in Trebizond, and again in November: the realisation that accuracy and precision could be deployed in this field as in any other. Since, if he did not kill, he would be killed, he chose his targets deftly, and dispatched them. The blows he took in return fell as weights, or vibrations: it did not even occur to him that they might matter. No man, in any case, could know whether he was drenched in water, or blood. The shouts, the clanging, the screams, the swishing of water in turmoil produced in him a sense of isolation. The most immediate sounds were his own: his breathing; the scream, with blue sparks, from his sword-edge. The spray struck his arms and sides like a harp. Then he realised there were louder sounds still, emerging from the darkness behind. The rest of the army had come.

  Malatesta hadn’t seen them. Half drawn up on the opposite bank was Malatesta’s rearguard, clearly told off to deal w
ith the nuisance. Behind the rearguard was Malatesta’s main army, about to move off to Fano, with Malatesta himself at its head.

  The moon brightened, emerging from veils, and showed to Nicholas the beaked and hideous profile of Urbino his leader before him, his sword aloft, his one eye bent on his trumpeters. The charge sounded. And with trumpets braying and every man roaring for joy, the Pope’s army lunged forward through the little stream of Cesano and hurtled straight into the small, tidy squadron which had been instructed to wait and get rid of them.

  The shock of the impact flung Malatesta’s rearguard backwards and into the body of its own troops. Urbino’s cavalry followed up. Behind the cavalry came Urbino’s foot, surging out of the stream like a storm wave. The Rimini rearguard staggered, fought wildly, and broke. Urbino’s force, grinding through them, came upon and engaged the central body, disordered itself by the collision. The fighting became dense, at the closest quarters, with Nicholas in the thick of it.

  With the moon to go by, there was some chance of telling friend from enemy while the order of battle still held. Then the lines fractured, and it was less easy. Every man in a helm is anonymous. Only the shields, the crests, the arm bands and blazons told who they were. Nicholas fought carefully, marking and striking; using his seat in the saddle to get himself out of trouble. Well taught by Astorre, as Astorre would be the first to agree. And by the Duke of Milan’s tutors. And by the best horses in the world, from an Imperial stable. His right arm had just begun to grow heavy when he saw that the crowd round him was thinner, and that most were men of his own side. One of his engineer friends rode alongside, his sword dripping black and stuck with wads of cut hair.

  ‘Malatesta’s van has taken to flight. Orders to follow and harass, but stay within trumpet call. They’ll scatter. We can’t go too far.’

  Nicholas slowed his horse. ‘So where’s Malatesta?’

  ‘Also taken to flight, so they say. To Mondolfo, maybe, or Fano. He’s got his eldest son with him.’