Race of Scorpions Read online

  ‘The Corinthian wars,’ Nicholas said. ‘After all that strategy, no conclusion.’

  ‘What do you mean, no conclusion?’ said the engineer. ‘Urbino won.’

  In the event, the chase was short, because Malatesta’s cavalry, once they put their minds to it, disappeared very fast and the foot soldiers went to earth, bounding like antelopes. The signal for Urbino’s recall made itself heard when Nicholas, with the rest, was only a mile or two beyond the Cesano, and they obeyed it, if reluctantly. The towns in these parts were held by Malatesta. And towards the sea, a vague bloom told of the nearness of dawn.

  The sky to the east was illumined by the time they cleared the field of their dead and their wounded, and journeyed heavily back to the camp. There, for the lucky, the camp servants waited, with food warmed and wine poured, and the pallets rolled back. The Count, unshaven, stood by his pavilion to greet and commend his victorious soldiers. They passed, and the camp began to settle to sleep. Nicholas crossed to the hospital tent.

  Tobie was there, with a different pattern of dirt on his face. He straightened, looking at Nicholas across the stained ground. Nicholas said, ‘Can I help?’

  Tobie said, ‘No. Don’t drink all the wine.’

  The wine was in Tobie’s tent. Nicholas put his pallet there and sat for a long time, drinking in moderation as the canvas above him dried and turned taut and pink and, finally, hot and white. Tobie stopped, came in, and sat, rather suddenly, on the ground. His reddish hair looked like a shawl of wet crochet-work, and he had a ditch dug from each bloodshot eye. He said, ‘If you’ve drunk it all, I’ll open you with my gutting knife.’

  Nicholas handed over a bottle. ‘Many?’ he said.

  ‘For a non-battle? Nothing worth speaking of. So, you enjoyed it?’

  ‘At the time,’ Nicholas said. ‘Were you hurt?’

  Tobie removed his clenched lips from the orifice. ‘Notches,’ he said. ‘The same as you, by the look of you. Did you clean them?’

  ‘That’s where the rest of the wine went,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you’re so damned puritanical, why do you stay in this business?’

  Tobie carefully straightened out both short legs, and opened his shoulders against his big box. ‘So long as men like you fight, men like me have to pick up the pieces. The Count’s going back to Urbino, now he’s stopped Malatesta interfering. So there isn’t a job for you meantime. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go south. That’s rubbish,’ said Nicholas. ‘God’s gift to the valiant wounded? You wanted field experience, and you’ve had it. The thickest student out of Pavia would have learned all he needs to by this time. You only stay on because your Skanderbeg is labelled Urbino. I don’t blame you, but don’t try to wave a halo at me.’

  There was a silence, during which Tobie’s round eyes, placed on either side of his bottle, remained trained on Nicholas. The bottle withdrew. Tobie said, ‘You want me to tell you why you’ve resorted to fighting?’

  A single dimple appeared and stayed: a sign to beware of. Nicholas said, ‘If you don’t dissect me, I shan’t dissect you. All right. I want to meet Skanderbeg. I want to build machines. I want to …’

  ‘What?’ said Tobie, when the pause became noticeable.

  ‘Make sure that Thomas got back to the Abruzzi. Why isn’t Urbino marching south to help Skanderbeg and Ferrante?’

  ‘Because the men are too tired, you fool. And also because he needs to keep some here to contain Malatesta.’

  ‘I have a ship,’ Nicholas said.

  The sun burned through the cloth. The tent might have been standing alone, such was the silence now. Very far off, if one listened, a cock crew, and a horse snickered sleepily. The only voices were the muttering ones of the servants, passing quietly between canvas alleys. A man cried out somewhere. Tobie said, ‘It’s too late. Piccinino is marching north to confront them. The battle will be over before you can get there.’

  ‘You weren’t going to tell me. Damn you,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘You know now,’ Tobie said. ‘If you’re collecting battlefields, don’t fail to take note of this one. Astorre, seven thousand furious Albanians and darling Ferrante, claimant of Naples, against Count Jacopo Piccinino, the most successful son of the most successful condottiere in Italy. Plenty of work for the surgeons.’

  ‘The ship might get there in time,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Might. Given the wind. Leave it,’ Tobie said. ‘They’ll be fighting a battle. You’re in the running for worse. Simon may have lost interest, but his wife hasn’t. She won’t have been in Anjou for nothing. Who wouldn’t John of Calabria kill to get provisions and money?’

  ‘Money from Katelina?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘From Simon’s father,’ said Tobie. ‘My God, has the hitch in your life knocked you silly? It was fat Jordan the French King’s financier who gave you the scar on your face.’

  Nicholas gave Simon’s father some thought. Presently, by careful stages, he got to his feet and stood, neck angled under the canvas. He said, ‘Well, I don’t expect to meet John of Calabria in person, and I doubt very much if a paid assassin will so much as find me in the midst of pitched battle. If you like, I’ll dress up in pink and pretend I’m a trumpeter. Which is Paltroni’s pavilion?’

  Tobie let his head drop back. ‘You’re going to offer?’ he said. ‘You’re going to hire him your ship to take his army down to the Abruzzi?’

  ‘Some of them,’ Nicholas said. ‘He needs the remainder against Malatesta. You’ll still have some cuts and bruises to tend to.’

  For some moments, neither man moved. Then Tobie said, ‘I now make you free of my notes. You may be afraid of Katelina, but in your far from simple way, you are mesmerised by the results of your philandering. You would like to meet her without Simon her husband. Katelina being the mother, after all, of your son.’

  Nicholas looked down at him for a long time. At length: ‘Of Simon’s son,’ he said. ‘In your far from simple way, that is all you have to remember.’

  He left. Tobie, his hand resting beside the half-empty bottle remained, his eyes open, staring up at nothing at all. Then he gave a furious sigh and, rising groggily, crossed the small, uneven space to his bed.

  Chapter 7

  THOMAS, DESERTED in Ghent, had had a difficult winter with the exquisite courtesan Primaflora.

  The trouble was, he couldn’t shake the young lady off. Neither, because she was out of his class, could he enjoy himself. She wanted him to take her to Italy; she had friends there. She needed to hide from Carlotta of Cyprus, she said, till she found a new protector. As time went on, and she didn’t find one, Thomas began to blame the absent Master Nicholas. If Master Nicholas had agreed to serve that little termagant of a Queen, then the lady Primaflora might well have gone with him.

  She was a rotten poor traveller. A snail would have whizzed past them, the rate they made their way south; then they stayed stuck in the Tyrol because she wouldn’t travel in snow. When eventually she thought the snow had shrunk enough to be safe, it was nearly spring, and he’d used half the money, and devil a friend had she found who would keep her for more than a night or two.

  He got restless. He’d planned to be back with the army by spring. He picked up news, when he could, of Captain Astorre, and made sure she knew he was asking. Then, suddenly, she saw sense and got a move on, although she had no more luck in Milan, or in Florence. It was Rome and summer, finally, before he got rid of her. He didn’t know who she ended up staying with, although he heard she’d been seen with a cardinal. He believed it. The Pope had been a one for the girls in his day. Thomas crossed himself, quickly, in case the thought was notched up and spoiled his next fight. He allowed himself a week of well-deserved and thorough indulgence before setting off, in high spirits, to take the long road south and east to the Adriatic, there at last to join Captain Astorre, and Skanderbeg, and the joint Neapolitan and Albanian armies.

  Astorre and Skanderbeg were at Bari, where the Captain gave Thomas a good
enough welcome and took him back on the strength mainly, he said, because he wanted to know how it felt to be paid to travel for weeks with a doxy. He affected to disbelieve all Thomas told him, but listened intently to what he had to say about the Queen of Cyprus, and Silla, and Bruges. He wanted to know, too, all about the chapel at Dijon. Captain Astorre had a great respect for the late demoiselle of Charetty, even after she married Master Nicholas. But for Captain Astorre, Nicholas wouldn’t know how to sit on a horse. Thomas answered all the questions he was asked about Master Nicholas, but without enthusiasm.

  Marching north with the rest to Orsara, Thomas was nevertheless glad to be beside the sewn eye, the belligerent beard of his old commander. After years of contract fighting for the Charetty, Captain Astorre was his own man at last and seemed to be enjoying it. He was fighting alongside Skanderbeg, the great Albanian hero. Never mind the clothes and the manners and the crowd of cousins who called themselves soldiers, the man, you had to say, was a legend.

  You might not say the same of King Ferrante, whose force they were joining. The King had needed a lot of help to hold on to Naples, and keep out John of Calabria, who was the son of King René of Anjou. He still needed help. Having the Pope on his side was an asset, and the contract money was good. But Captain Astorre, like Thomas himself, was not actually waging a personal war on behalf of the Pope, or Ferrante or Skanderbeg. He just wanted a smack at Piccinino, his opposite mercenary leader, who was sitting with the combined Angevin forces just eighteen miles away, to the north-east at Lucera. And John of Calabria, it seemed, was now with them.

  What lay ahead might well be the decisive battle by which Ferrante would keep or lose Naples. In public, Astorre, Ferrante and Skanderbeg were certain of victory, and hardly needed their ally, Urbino. The truth was, they had lost track of Urbino. Report claimed the Count was in the north, pursuing his feud against Malatesta. If that was so, he could never march southwards in time. Or if he did, he’d need days to recover. They had, therefore, to face Piccinino and his master without him.

  Discussions of strategy didn’t involve Thomas. He was with his smith at the forge when Astorre came out of the leaders’ pavilion with his beard split in two with a grin. He slapped Thomas on his considerable back. ‘Thomas! You said you didn’t know where young Nicholas was. I know where he is.’

  ‘Bruges?’ said Thomas.

  ‘Manfredonia,’ Astorre said. ‘Three days away. Two, if they hurry. Less, if they’ve already set out. And how’s this? He’s brought part of Urbino’s troops with him.’

  It seemed unlikely. It seemed also, in a vague way, unfair. ‘They’ll be too tired to fight,’ said Thomas. He had spent all the money. He had got rid of the woman. Why had Master Nicholas come back into his life?

  ‘They won’t. They’ve just sailed in on his round ship,’ said Astorre. ‘Mick Crackbene brought them. That Nicholas, the cunning young devil! He’ll get paid for the lease, and he’ll get paid by Ferrante when he gets here. How’s that for a profit? And the doctor’s with him. Master Tobias. He’ll get paid for him, too.’

  ‘You’re going to let him finance us,’ said Thomas. ‘You’re going to let him take over the company?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Astorre. ‘He’ll have to pay. He’ll have to make a few improvements. But I have a very good rule. Never refuse money. Never refuse a man wanting to spend money, Thomas.’

  If it had been money alone, Thomas wouldn’t have minded. But he knew that Astorre was pleased. Astorre was delighted to have his boy back. Astorre was proud that of all the defunct branches of his defunct business, Nicholas had chosen his army to be with.

  Urbino’s men, foot and cavalry, arrived within hours. With them were the doctor, Tobie, and Nicholas. Nicholas had a blue hand, from which the bruises had only half faded. Tobie had a scar on his neck which disappeared down into the throat of his crumpled best shirt. Because of the heat, he had left off his gown, and his bald head was shining. He noticed Thomas and made his way over. Nicholas had been pounced upon by Astorre. ‘Couldn’t keep away from a good war! I knew it!’

  ‘Is it a good war?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ said the captain. Above the beard with its random grey hairs, his lined face was rosy. ‘A bit of artillery. Some handguns, and crossbow work. Plenty to play with. We’re occupying that height tonight. Give Piccinino something to think about. And have you come to stay?’

  Nicholas said, ‘You’ve signed on under Ferrante and Skanderbeg?’

  ‘For the season. For the meantime. We’ve only to lick this fellow, and we’re just about free. If Piccinino goes, John of Calabria will have to give in.’

  ‘Will he? He’s here, then?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘He’s in Lucera. They’re all over there in Lucera,’ Astorre said. ‘What does it matter? We’re going to win. You want to arrange the next contract? Can’t call ourselves the Charetty company, though.’

  ‘Nor we can,’ said Tobie’s voice, dipped in vinegar.

  He came up. Thomas, lingering in the distance, turned suddenly and made himself scarce. Astorre gazed at the doctor. ‘You’ve got a nice slash or two. Does you credit. Never recall you stubbing your toe in any of our battles before. So you’ve found out where the best army is?’ He looked happy.

  ‘I’ve found out where the best corpses are,’ Tobie said. He was looking at Nicholas, his lip rolled, his pupils like rivets. He said, ‘You got thrown out of Bruges.’

  ‘I got thrown out of the Charetty house,’ Nicholas said. ‘Different matter.’

  ‘And spent the night in the jail,’ said Astorre. ‘Again. I didn’t believe Thomas at first, and then I thought, it’s just like that little madam. And she’ll fall in love with some fool, like her sister did, and send the business to ruin. You’re better off here. And me. And the doctor.’

  Tobie and Nicholas were still gazing at one another. Of the two, Nicholas was the calmer. Tobie said, ‘You just left them to flounder?’

  ‘The girls? They have Julius and Godscalc,’ Nicholas said. ‘And a good team in the yard.’

  ‘Thomas says she’s turning everyone off,’ Tobie said.

  ‘She turned off John le Grant, but I expect he invited it. Julius will see she doesn’t do anything stupid. Or they’ll tell me.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Tobie. ‘And where will you be?’

  ‘Here,’ Nicholas said. ‘You can go back to Bruges if you want to.’

  ‘They aren’t my step-daughters,’ Tobie said.

  ‘Well, thank your good fortune,’ said Nicholas tartly. ‘Or you might find yourself flung in jail too. Where is Thomas?’

  Tobie’s face relaxed just a trifle. ‘Skulking,’ he said. ‘Over there, somewhere.’

  He watched Nicholas go. Astorre said, ‘He’d be embarrassed to tell you. Done down by a girlie. But at least it’s shown him where his real business is.’

  ‘Yes. And I thought it was Katelina,’ Tobie said.

  ‘Katelina? Simon’s wife Katelina? No. It was some other female he’d got hold of. Or she’d got hold of him. You get the tale out of Thomas. Young Nicholas didn’t tell you that either?’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ said Tobie.

  ‘And if he had, you’d never have come to the Abruzzi,’ said the old campaigner shrewdly. ‘And since we’ve mentioned it, why did you come?’

  ‘Because Nicholas coerces people, that’s why,’ said Tobie bitterly. ‘I don’t need to tell you? Only it’s more subtle now, the way he gets people to do what he wants.’

  ‘He wanted you with him in the Abruzzi. Well, so do I. What’s wrong with that?’ said the captain.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ Tobie said. ‘Except that he didn’t tell me the facts. I made up my mind knowing only half of the story.’

  Astorre grunted. ‘If I know him,’ he said, ‘what you’ve got is a tenth of the story, and the rest he isn’t telling you, because it would make you run for your life. Well, if you’re going, go. We’re taking that hill tonight, and th
e fighting will start very soon after.’

  He did not, of course, go. He rode with Astorre when the combined armies moved forward and, almost without event, took strategic position on the height called Mount Cigliano. On the way, they bypassed carefully the walls of the small town of Troia, once a Byzantine fortress; now a half-empty place where the lamps glimmered before the cathedral, where people prayed for the house of Anjou. The army which had come to destroy those same Angevins spread into position and rested, their backs to the town, staring across the twelve miles of country that lay between them and Luceria Augusta, the once-Roman town with its Duomo, castle and palace; the provincial capital which Piccinino had made his headquarters. By dawn, they knew that Piccinino had left camp with his army and was approaching. A little later, reports came of his numbers. As they thought, the Angevin troops were led by Duke John of Calabria, son of King René of Anjou.

  ‘So,’ said Tobie later, finding Nicholas near him. ‘What precautions are you taking?’

  ‘If I meet a soldier in skirts, I’ll be careful. Anyway, I’m wasting my time. Piccinino’s got all the heavy artillery.’

  ‘You’ve time to cross over to his side,’ said Tobie. ‘I’m staying to enjoy the Albanians. All that cloth. And the smell. And all the time they must save by not shaving. Where are they going to fight?’

  ‘Infantry mixed with the rest in the centre,’ Nicholas said, ‘and cavalry on the right wing; the Dibrians under Moses Golento, and the Macedonians under Giurize. What are you worried about? At nineteen, Skanderbeg led five thousand horse for the Sultan, and was later commander for all Lesser Asia.’

  ‘Commanded Turks,’ Tobie said. ‘These are nephews and cousins. I’ve heard about Moses. He’s been thirty years with George Castriot, barring the time he went off and fought for the opposite side. They’d cheat their grandfathers.’

  ‘So would I, given the chance,’ Nicholas said. ‘Are you going to stay with us, after the fight? Stay with Astorre? Help build the company?’

  ‘Let’s have the fight first,’ Tobie said. ‘And there they are. Piccinino’s banner. The banners of Anjou. Three lines of battle to our two. Artillery coming up to the front. Pikes, hackbutters and crossbows in the line behind that, and two rows of plain infantry to the rear of them. Boys from Naples, boys from Apulia, Genoese French … they should do better than us: they’ve a common language. They’ve split the cavalry too. Look at the flags. Anjou to his right, Naples to his left. Nicholas my boy, you’re in the block opposite Anjou if you stay with Ferrante. Join the Albanians. That’s my advice.’