There was real snow at the Zigana pass, by which they left the seaward slope of the mountains for the further ridges and basins that climbed to the tableland of the Armenian interior. Now they unpacked and wore the thick hooded cloaks of raw goathair which had been his first purchase. The horses, too, were doubly covered: he had brought enough to give them all a change of mount as the going got steeper, for there were no relay horses here. They had some minor accidents, and lost a pony which broke its leg in a hole, but made good progress in spite of it. He wanted to move quickly.
Through it all, he had not forgotten why he was there. He had already found and spoken to a man recommended to him at Maçka. He bribed another just over the pass, and left a messenger of his own in the valley at Gümüshane. By then he had had his little talk with the professionals he had picked to come with him and they knew what to expect and were, he thought, in high heart. Indeed, he knew they were. They were his, as he had learned to make the seamen his. Their lives were in his hands, and his might be in theirs.
He waited until they were over the Vavuk pass just north-west of Bayburt before he called the long halt they all deserved, and found a proper place to make camp, and rest. It was there, as he had hoped, that his spies reached him, and the word came that he had been waiting for. Pagano Doria, with twenty men, was behind him.
Chapter 26
PUT YOURSELF IN the other man’s place. It was what Nicholas had done, during these last wretched weeks; behaving in every small detail as Tobie and Godscalc and Julius demanded with the one small, innocuous exception of John’s special call at the Palace. His altered status would not, he thought, have been evident to an outside observer, even one as committed as Doria, unless he too had his spies. Unless he knew what only two people could have told him—that the Charetty company at the moment had a divided leadership; an empty warehouse; a high reputation because of Astorre; a personal relationship with the Palace which had now ceased, and was valueless compared with Doria’s own.
He had thought it likely, sending le Grant, that the lady Violante would question him, and that le Grant would feel impelled to answer. He had little idea whether she would pass what she learned to Doria, and whether, if she did, Doria was now in the mood to believe her. He didn’t care, either way. If Doria knew of the disaffection among the company’s seniors: if he also knew, for example, of the growing bundles of manuscripts in the strongroom of the villa—he might well think that the moment for his coup was approaching. The death of Nicholas, abroad on a dangerous journey, would have a plausibility he might never contrive again. His natural heir—his only heir here in Trebizond—was Catherine’s husband Pagano Doria, favoured by an emperor who also wished to keep Astorre and the Charetty company in the Empire. Then, from the caravans now approaching, Doria could buy stock with his silver for Simon and Genoa, and buy again, on Medici credit, for the leaderless Charetty fondaco.
But of course, it would be Simon and Doria, with the Florentine franchise, who would remain ultimately in business in Trebizond, and the former allies of Nicholas who would ultimately find their way, profitless, home. Simon, man of fortune and grace, seated in the house of his forebears in Scotland with a lovely woman as bride and a son of five months to smile at him every day from the cradle.
Forget Simon. Forget Simon, and think about Pagano Doria.
He had reminded Godscalc and Tobie that Doria was awaiting his chance; but had not repeated the warning, and if one of them had pursued the same line of thought as himself, he didn’t say so. Acting only from instinct, Nicholas had prepared himself and his men as if for battle, and it had come almost as a pleasure to be told, the day before he left Trebizond, that he had been right. Pagano Doria was planning to follow him.
The information came from their own informer in the Doria household and by a Godgiven fluke, it had come to him alone. Reports from the Greek Paraskeuas had kept the Charetty informed, day by day, of what Doria was doing, and how his wife Catherine did. It was why Nicholas had taken the chance long ago, on the way to his audience, to try to sever Doria’s connection with Violante of Naxos. He didn’t know if he had.
But now, on this one auspicious day, bringing his news, Paraskeuas had been pressed for time and, glimpsing Nicholas, had disobeyed orders and reported to Nicholas.
The news this time had not been routine. Pagano Doria was gathering men, horses, supplies for a hunting trip. Or so he had told his wife and his colleagues. Paraskeuas thought differently. The men he had picked were servants and intimates, and had several horses apiece. They were heavily armed and carried, done up in packrolls, extra weapons and tents, and blankets and cloaks for cold weather. He had also packed, discreetly disposed, a large number of packets of silver, as if about to make costly purchases of men, or of goods.
“Of men,” Nicholas had said thoughtfully. “He’ll hire men in the mountains who’ll disperse later, and won’t talk.” He had dismissed Paraskeuas with a generous present before anyone came. So Pagano Doria was coming after him, and no one knew of it, except himself.
He had given five minutes’ thought to the question of whether to tell Julius and the others. Before the bitterness of the last few weeks, he would have given it none. The result was the same. Doria’s quarrel and Simon’s were nobody’s business but his. Warned, he could turn the tables and stop something worse happening. Godscalc, damn him, ought to be pleased. And more than that, he would have once more the satisfaction of planning and managing an operation as it ought to be done. For leadership was a dangerous drug. To watch other men’s errors was once an idle amusement: now it was an ache. He couldn’t have borne it much longer; whatever they would say after this; whatever they would do to him. So he had waited, and told his men only last week why they had so many weapons; and they had cheered. The Genoese were easy to despise. Well, they would see.
It was dusk. From what he had been told, it seemed that Doria’s party would reach this spot before morning. They would know how near he was, from his tracks. Beyond this short defile was exposed country: if they were wise, they would attack soon, in darkness. Of course, he might have misread Doria. Attack might not be in his mind. Perhaps he meant only to trail him, or even to accompany him to Erzerum. Or to overtake him in secret, although he seemed to be following too precisely for that. Why worry? Very soon they would know.
As at every stop they had made, he had already searched out the best place for ambush. Here the track ran above a fast, cold stream which had carved itself deep sloping banks thick with thorns and low alders. He pitched the tents there, on the rising ground to one side of the stream, and by a pool which promised good fishing. Fires were lit and blankets spread: the tent skins glowed like honey from the candles within. He made horse lines and attached to them some of their least valuable ponies. The rest he took uphill away from the stream to where the Bayburt road ran like a shelf round the mountain. Above the road was an embankment, and above that the failing light showed the ribs of the mountain above, covered with turf patched with snow, and rearing up to the snow shoulders themselves.
Dark on the snow was a group of derelict huts, once used for summer grazing. The turf roofs had half gone and so had the doors, or perhaps they had never had anything but hides pinned across them. To the most searching eye, they were patently empty. On the other hand, a group of men and their horses could lie perfectly hidden behind them. He put eight men there, their chain mail hidden by dark cloaks, their swords and shields and helmets to hand. His six bowmen he placed below the road but above his own empty encampment. He had put a bale of hay between his own tent wall and the lamp: punched into the shape of a man it looked not unrealistic. Some of the others had done the same. The wind blew, chilling them as they took their positions: down among the bushes the tents moved and shook and lamps wavered. The scout he had placed to the north crept up and whispered. An advance group was coming.
Now it was full dark. At sea, it was never completely dark, especially in the north. The sky had its starlight, the
water its phosphorescence. The lights of the fishing boats repeated themselves in the waves: the lighthouse burned, the harbour flares wavered. Bruges was never dark, or Milan or Florence. Cressets flamed in the streets; by the canals, the bridges, the rivers. Windows glowed, and people flocked by carrying torches. Pious candles pointed to shrines and to statues: lanterns shone over doorways to taverns, to churches, to brothels. And the sounds heard in the dark were domestic sounds of vermin and small hunting animals. Here, he didn’t know the names of all the night birds when they screamed, or recognise the smell of a rustling marauder, although he asked his guides where he could. His men were better off than he was: although used to lit, busy camps, they had all done their share of scouting and skirmishing. They were well fed and well slept and nervously boisterous: his only concern was keeping them quiet. For the rest, he took the experience and assimilated it, for the future.
Put yourself…Why send a party ahead? A parley, to hold his attention while the rest of the force took their places? Would Doria risk it? And what would he gain, except an encounter face to face? A scouting party? He might have thought so, except that he could hear horses’ hooves now. For whatever reason, Doria was giving his presence away. His captain said, “They’re coming along the road, Messer Niccolò. Four of them, by the sound. They’ll see the tents soon. Unless we shoot them, they’ll find out they’re empty.”
His orders to the men with him had been specific. Harm no one until they attack. If they have come to kill, then kill in return. Except the lord Pagano Doria. Nicholas said, “No, don’t shoot. Tell the bowmen. We’ll take and truss them and put them into the tents. Come on. Now.” They mounted as he was speaking. He led them at a dash from behind the huts: four to leap down to the pathway ahead of the oncoming horse, and four to cut off their rear. Somewhere behind the newcomers, presumably, were sixteen others; but far enough off to hear nothing, he hoped, but confused shouting. By the time they came, the confused shouting would come from the tents.
It was a reasonably good plan. It was shaken first of all by the realisation that Doria’s main force was much closer behind than they’d thought. From a clear drumming far in the distance, you could tell they’d suddenly moved to hard track. There was no time now to truss anyone. Nicholas said, “Get the advance party anyway. And up to the huts.” By then the four were in sight, racing towards him. As he jumped with his own men to face them, the leading man of the four began shouting. Black against the dark sky, he could have been Pagano Doria. He could have been anyone. It wasn’t until he came nearer and caught the distant faint light from the tents that Nicholas recognised the face, and the voice. It was Julius, with three of his servants.
Even then, it was redeemable. Silence them before Doria comes. Julius had seen him and was pelting towards him, shouting at the pitch of his voice. “Doria! Doria’s behind me!” He had his sword out. Nicholas saw it flash. He saw other swords flash as well. Those of his own men who had jumped into the road at the back of the small party were proceeding to round them up according to plan, unaware of their identity. There was no point in silence now. Nicholas roared, “Stop!” and threw his horse towards Julius. In the moment before he reached him, he saw one of the men with Julius go down, and another man shout in surprise as he recognised who was attacking him. Then he was there, in the milling group, speaking only to Julius.
“We know. We have an ambush. Quickly, up to the huts,” he heard his captain telling the others. But they were slower to grasp what had happened. Two of them had dismounted and were trying to heave the fallen man to his feet. The frosty ground rang and shook as the approaching horsemen came nearer. Nicholas said, “It’s too late. High ground, everyone. Take them as they make for the tents.” He could see, from the way he was sitting, that Julius was exhausted. He took his reins and drove both horses up the embankment. He said, “The tents are empty, a decoy. What about Doria?”
“He means to kill you this time,” Julius said. “Blaming the brigands. Paraskeuas says. Paraskeuas…”
“Never mind,” Nicholas said. “Here they come.”
It was too dark to see the sea prince. The handsome face from Florence, from the Bailie’s table at Modon; the handsome body from the Emperor’s baths. Something about the compact group of horsemen thundering towards him was odd. He registered that; and the sound of Doria’s voice issuing orders. Without pausing, the oncoming horsemen divided: ten making for the high ground where they stood, and ten for the low, where the tents were. If anything, the riders had increased their pace. This was not a party about to join him or overtake him. Julius had been right, and his instinct. It was an expedition to destroy.
They were experts too. They allowed only two of their number to be picked off before turning away from the tents and riding slashing through the scrub, hunting his archers. Another fell to an arrow shot from above, but they got one at least of his men: he heard the scream. Then he had no more time for what was happening below the road, for the other file of riders was among them.
There was just enough light to tell friend from enemy and soon more, because someone tossed a brand in their hay. He had fought before, once, in a pitched battle, in sunlight. He had been trained by Astorre, and by the Duke of Milan’s master-at-arms. He was powerfully built, and had a good eye, and almost no experience. In anything. But he was damned if he was going to lose this battle.
His men were good. They tried the time-honoured strategy of opening to let the oncomers plunge through, and then turning inwards to divide and cut up. The newcomers had never heard of the strategy and had ponies that could stop on a groat and spin and dart like housemartins. Their riders were as shaggy as they were. His shoulder throbbing with the bows on his steel, Nicholas saw that they were bearded, and dressed in leather and fleeces, and using small wicked blades with a curl to them. He saw a man’s arm fly off, carved like a sausage in muslin; two horses went down, threshing and squealing.
His men had the advantage of the weight of their horses, and their shields, and their mail. His men, but not those of Julius. He suddenly realised it, and began driving through to where Astorre’s notary, using the last wave of drained energy, was defending himself. One of his men had gone. Nicholas sent him a smile from the dyeshop and, settling beside him, used his shield and his sword to hit and parry and stab. The noise was deafening: like a hall full of ravenous men eating off pewter and shouting. Red sparks powdered the air and steel slipped about steel, making elderly, querulous noises. His horse went down.
It was not until then that he fully realised that fifteen against twenty were bad odds, even throwing in Julius; and especially when against men and horses who belonged to the country. For they did. This he was now sure of. Just as he realised he had seen nothing at all of Doria. He had heard his voice. For the rest, there was a mounted shadow he had glimpsed on the edge of the light, simply watching. But he had never been able to break through to reach it.
Most of them, he saw, were dismounted now, and the fighting men had split into groups, which swayed and staggered up and down the invisible turf. To fall was to disappear below a circle of swinging arms holding steel or maces that came upwards red. He could no longer see Julius and his head rang from the last blow he had taken, half on his head and half on his shoulder from behind. He steadied and turned, but saw two other men turning to measure him, one with steel already uplifted. Then the voice of Julius said, “I’ll take this one,” and he was able to put his shield up in time, and take the other blow on his sword. The swordsman, expecting a kill, was disconcerted: it allowed Nicholas to swing back his blade and run him through. He twisted as he did so to stand half between his other assailant and Julius. But where two men had been, there were now six others running towards him. He thought blearily that Doria must be growing men somewhere out there in the darkness. He was irritated enough to lift his voice and shout: “Messer Pagano! There is a boy here who would like to meet you in person!”
He saw the shadow in the roadway move, and caught the
gleam of white teeth. Then the shadow, the camp, the blustering fire were all extinguished by an immense and broad-shouldered form, rank as a bear, with a mace held aloft in both its brawny arms. Nicholas saw Julius turn and, shouting, try to come to his aid. Then the mace fell. Watching it come, he felt no special fear; just the beginning of sadness. I have failed. I have failed you. And then the blow fell, and he heard and saw nothing more.
He thought at first he was dead; and then decided he felt altogether too poorly. After a long while, during which he kept losing his senses, he distinguished that he was travelling, face down and brutally lashed to one of the same shaggy horses whose riders had fought for Doria. From the trampling before and behind, it was one horse among many. Below him was a broad unmade track like the one he had been following to Bayburt, but much steeper. The horse strove beneath him and, but for the severity of his bonds, he would have rolled from its back. As it was, his own weight and the jolting had driven the rope like a cheesecutter into his arms and his thighs, taking the cloth of his shirt and cloak with it, and macerating his flesh with the rings of his armour. His clothes were stiff with old blood and gummy with fresh blood and urine. He stank. It was one of the normal results of shock and cold, blows and long spells of unconsciousness. John le Grant was not the only one who had to learn to relegate its importance to its proper place.
At this point, he remembered Julius and shouted, and was beaten for it—but not before he heard a wavering answer, and then other voices raised in greeting. Instead of obliterating them on the spot, Doria was taking them somewhere. Those who were still alive. He thought he had probably lost half his men, and those he had heard sounded little better off than himself. An operation planned and managed as it ought to be done. He was a fool. Someone ought to have stopped him and beaten him. All right, Julius interfered with the plan. All right, the numbers against him had trebled. He was still a fool.