Tom Swan and the Last Spartans 1 Read online

  Tom Swan and the Last Spartans

  Volume One: Florence

  Christian Cameron

  Contents

  Title Page

  Tom Swan and the Last Spartans: Volume One: Florence

  By Christian Cameron

  Copyright

  Tom Swan and the Last Spartans

  Volume One: Florence

  Ser Thomas Suane, knight of the Order of St Mark of Venice, donat of the Knights of St John Hospitaller of Rhodes, sometime courier, servant and even spy of Cardinal Bessarion, waited in the pope’s antechamber. It was August in Rome. It was sweltering, brutally hot, the hottest summer anyone could remember. Swan stood by a thankfully cool chimney piece with hosts of attendant cherubs who owed more to Ancient Rome than to the Kingdom of Christ and thanked his own goddess, Fortuna, that the fires were laid but not lit. He wore black silk hose and a neat silk doublet in clerical brown, decorated with a judicious display of embroidery. He was not the first owner of either garment, nor of the round cloak that was neatly folded on the chimney stool because, being wool, it was unbearable to touch in the heat. His shoes were the lightest he could afford, and two buttons on his doublet were undone, exposing a tanned neck and the perfection of his absolutely white, perfect linen shirt.

  Ser Thomas gave every appearance of being most courteous. He gave way to other courtiers, allowed his appointment to slip from second place to third, and stayed by the chimney piece even when there was a breeze at the window, a breeze he’d ceded with a gentle and somewhat disturbing smile to Prospero Colonna, cardinal-deacon, and head of the Colonna faction in Rome. As he was Colonna Uno, and frequently, if not always, an ally of Cardinal Bessarion, Swan had no trouble deferring to the older man, the more so as he was a great humanist and a leading religious authority.

  In contrast to his attitude to many cardinals, Swan respected Prospero Colonna a great deal.

  Orso Orsini, a cadet of the Orsini, who were themselves the hereditary enemies of the Colonna, was not a man Swan liked, admired or even needed to charm. He was, in almost every way, an enemy. Yet he held the second window in the almost airless room, and it had cost Swan a great deal in affected calm to allow the Orsini to take the window as if by right, with a gracious sneer of condescending superiority that he tossed to Swan, as if to say ‘I see you have learned your place’.

  Yet, as a man who was known to have gone sword to sword with the Ottoman Emperor himself; as a man who had not only witnessed the greatest Christian victory of the century, but had played a role in it; as perhaps the most famous knight in Rome with the additional kudos of being perhaps the only English knight of whom anyone had heard, Swan could afford to ignore such a slight.

  Whether Swan, who was just twenty-four, might actually have managed to ignore an insult under ordinary circumstances was open to conjecture. But he had been sent by Bessarion to learn of a confidential mission from the Pontiff himself, and, he hoped, although he had no confidence whatsoever in princes, that he was to be granted a small title and a tiny landed estate in recognition of his service. This knowledge might have puffed out a lesser man, but Swan had been promised many things by many potentates and he had developed a cynicism that might have done justice to a much older man.

  In truth, the real reason he stayed by the stifling chimney piece and eschewed the windows was that he could hear a conversation occurring a floor above him. He’d cooled, or rather warmed, his heels for over an hour, and in that hour he’d established which papal officers were arguing so loudly; he knew the topic of their conversation, and he had begun to understand its import. As the conversation, of which he received only one word in five, implicated both Orso Orsini and Cardinal Colonna, he was able to stay by the fireplace without responding to any sneer cast at him by Orsini or his thugs, or the equally annoying glances from two young Colonna bravos who seemed to be questioning his reputation.

  Spinelli …

  Belgrade …

  Jews …

  Florence …

  Medici …

  Orsini …

  Old Colonna …

  Those were the words he was sure of.

  His right foot was almost asleep, and he walked to the other side of the enormous marble chimney piece and leaned against a disturbingly carved cherub. Swan had taken a dislike to the little boys with their carefully rendered bodies. He didn’t like the message.

  He was almost sure that the louder voice was that of Antonelli, the Pope’s new financial officer, a servant of the Medici.

  He glanced over at Colonna, who was displaying the outward annoyance that was permissible in a very important man being made to wait on a desperately hot day. Most of the cardinals were gone; Rome in the summer was not the death trap that Naples was, but it was no man’s friend, and most of the powerful made their way into the hills. The Orsini and Colonna had fought for three hundred years over possession of the finest castles in the area to avoid days like this in Rome, or so people said.

  And yet here were two of their most important men, and their retinues, in one long, stifling room.

  Young men in both entourages were posturing. Weapons were forbidden in the papal fortress, but no onlooker would have known, as almost every man carried a knife ‘long enough to measure cloth’, as Swan had heard Joshua, a friend in the Jewish ghetto, remark the day before.

  His position by the chimney piece also placed him midway between the two parties, as if he was neutral. Which he was not. Except that he was aware that sometime in the next hour or so he would probably accept a position from the Pope. And then he would, indeed, be above conflicts between Orsini and Colonna.

  old pope …

  half a million ducats! …

  have him killed …

  Belgrade! …

  Spinelli …

  treasure …

  Spinelli …

  Thomas Spinelli had been the Pope’s principal banker for more than five years. Spinelli had countersigned every bill on the Medici that Swan had used to finance Hunyadi at Belgrade. For men like Swan, Spinelli had done more to defeat the Grand Turk than any soldier or monk. He had met the man twice; both times because Spinelli could be counted on to rise in the middle of the night to find money if called upon to do so, and he was Bessarion’s personal banker too.

  It was fashionable to hate bankers, but Swan rather admired Spinelli. On the other hand, Spinelli had an income greater than five thousand ducats a year; enough to buy fifty Tom Swans each annum. It rather put the man in perspective, Swan thought; he would rise in the middle of the night to personally pay a spy or a courier.

  The voices above him began to die away. It was possible that Antonelli was simply over his tantrum. Antonelli was a tool of the Medici bank, extended into the Curia. He was a banker that Swan could detest.

  One of the best-dressed of the Orsini entourage had wandered far out over the black and white marble floor. Judged impartially, he might have been said to have crossed the middle line of the room. His head was thrown back, his shoulders high, and his right hand itched for the magnificent cinquedea in his belt, a short, broad sword pretending to be a legal knife.

  Cardinal Colonna had several young men of blood in his retinue, and one of them was a priest in a plain black cassock, with high cheekbones and a red flush to him that Swan didn’t like. The young priest walked out over the marble floor, like a chess piece sent by Colonna to answer Orsini’s move.

  ‘The Pope begs his brother Colonna’s pardon, and is now free. If you will follow me, Eminence …’ said Jacob, the Pope’s newest chamberlain. He was a German, middle aged, close mouthed, pious and very competent. Even as he bowed to the cardinal, he made a signal to Swan.
r />   Beyond my control, said the papal chamberlain with a small hand motion. His eyes met Swan’s. A week before, Swan and Bessarion had bluffed their way past him, but Jacob bore them no ill-will, as the Pope had approved their actions. The chamberlain had little will of his own; he merely obeyed.

  Swan gave a little shrug. Shall I go home?

  Jacob actually gave him a little bow and a head-shake. Oh, no! Not at all.

  Or so Swan read it. He longed to pour cold water over his own head. He longed to mount a horse and ride for Milan with Bessarion’s letters.

  He longed …

  He was afraid even to imagine. Was he even close? It was hard to know. A patent of nobility and a house in Bologna might win him his lady.

  Did he want his lady? It seemed a terrible question to ask, but memories of Violetta and Khatun Bengül and Šárka all suggested to him that continence was not his best quality.

  He smiled, and winced, at his own memories. He was almost lost in a pleasant enough reverie …

  When the stupid Orsini sprig drew his short sword, fifteen feet away.

  Swan had missed whatever puerile exchange had led to the Orsini boy drawing his weapon. He assumed, for three heartbeats, that the Colonna priest was unarmed, until the priest produced an equally long knife from under his gown. Perhaps he was more of a man of blood, or perhaps he was simply faster, but he drew and slashed the other man’s knife-hand, and by luck or skill cut so deep that the Orsini boy dropped his weapon.

  The priest stepped on it. His eyes seemed to sparkle, and he moved close, like a lover, and punched his left fist into the other man’s cheek, snapping his head back, and then grabbed him, pulling him close.

  Swan, moving as fast as he could, changed his views in mid-stride. All skill. The priest was a trained man, a killer. The papal guard at the end of the room was making a nearly perfect ‘O’ with his mouth. Orso Orsini had vanished behind his escort, all of whom were drawing. Two bravos were charging across the floor.

  They were far too late to save the handsome young man who was about to have his throat cut.

  Swan was not. He trapped the priest’s knife with his gloved right hand and pulled him off-balance into his rising sword pommel, a straight punch from the scabbard with his thumb up, backwards, something he’d practised many times and never done to flesh and blood.

  It worked beautifully.

  Then he rotated on the balls of his feet, rolled his long sword into his right hand and knelt on the downed priest, his sword pointing out at everyone in the room.

  ‘Sheath,’ he said. ‘This is the audience chamber of the Holy Father.’

  The Colonna entourage was in chaos.

  Orso Orsini was red in the face, but he had not risen to prominence in Rome by cowardice. He pushed out of his people.

  Swan motioned at the handsome blond boy, who was obviously terrified. And somewhat surprised he was still alive. ‘Back to your people,’ Swan said calmly. ‘Walk away.’

  The boy took a step backwards, and then another.

  Swan, who practised such things, stood and sheathed his sword without looking at his scabbard or even at his hand. It was a pretty flourish that shouted confidence. The priest was deeply unconscious.

  ‘I think this gentleman has fallen asleep,’ Swan said. He smiled at the Colonna, and two of them came forward, took their comrade and carried him to one of the recessed benches that lined the faux-marble painted walls.

  Swan went back to the chimney piece with the eyes of every man in the room on him. After a time, and some murmurs, Orso Orsini beckoned. Swan ignored him – he and the Orsini had a great deal of history.

  One of the younger Orsini came across the black and white squares. His bow had a nice edge of the sarcastic.

  ‘Glorious English knight,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘My lord begs your indulgence for a few words.’

  Swan’s chimney piece had been silent for a little while. He didn’t think the Orsini would murder him in the Pope’s antechamber. Nonetheless, his heart beat rapidly.

  He walked to the Orsini, back straight, eyes calm.

  He bowed carefully to Orsini; not too deep. He didn’t rest a hand on his long sword, but he was as ready as a man could be.

  ‘You have my thanks, Ser Suane.’ Orsini was a man of middling height, with a long, straight nose and superb clothes in brilliant red; Florentine velvet and a lot of gold. He had been a soldier, and he often did dirty work for the Pope. He bowed his head very slightly.

  Swan raised both eyebrows and returned a much deeper bow. ‘For what, illustrious Orsini?’

  Orsini was no fool. He nodded. ‘For nothing, of course,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I can’t recall when you last did my people any service.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Truly, Illustrious, it is an ugly world when men draw in the antechamber of the Holy Father.’ He looked at the Colonna.

  ‘I will not forget,’ Orsini promised. ‘You were at Belgrade, I am given to understand? Fighting the Turk?’

  Swan thought briefly of the last day. Of the tall wheat crunching under his sabatons. Of the feeling he had experienced as he executed Viladi’s three-part attack on the Sultan. Of shitting his guts out on an island in the Sava. Trying to protect the Ottoman camp followers during the rape of their camp.

  When he came back, Orsini had taken a full step away from him. ‘I meant no insult,’ Orsini said cautiously.

  ‘None taken,’ Swan said.

  He bowed once more.

  ‘Perhaps …’

  Swan shrugged again. He detested these people. Before he could stop himself, he said, ‘You know what I learned fighting the Turk, Illustrious?’

  Orsini had to be stung by the flippancy of Swan’s tone. It wasn’t overt contempt. Merely a sort of banal boredom he allowed to show.

  Orsini glowered. ‘Mind your place,’ he said. ‘I brook no insult from one of Bessarion’s foreign thugs.’

  Swan smiled. ‘What I learned is that the Turks cannot tell us apart, messire. English and Italian, Bohemian and French. We are all alike to them. Even Orsini and Colonna.’

  Orsini tested the words, looking for insult.

  ‘I can smell a Colonna a mile away even on a winter day,’ he spat. ‘You would do well to remember that.’

  Swan allowed himself a little latitude, but not too much. So he controlled his face and let nothing show.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. He made a nonchalant motion with his hand. ‘So wise, Illustrio.’

  Orsini paused, again looking for insult, and found none to which he could react. So he turned his back on Swan, an insult in itself, and walked away, like a big tom cat studiously ignoring a rival. He went the three paces back to his people.

  Swan turned with a whirl of his short, useless cloak and walked back to his chimney piece.

  He listened at the chimney, and heard what might be a lute. He’d managed to break out in a sweat, merely moving and drawing; so much, just from the spirit of combat, the daemon that flooded him the moment he’d seen the dagger and moved. He stood still and tried to think cool thoughts. He looked down at his right glove. The chamois was clean; for once, his left-hand grab at the dagger had been executed correctly and his glove was not spoilt.

  Orsini was summoned. The papal chamberlain crossed the floor to Swan, which was, in the way of these things, a signal honour.

  ‘The Holy Father asks you, by name, to wait.’ Jacob bowed.

  Swan bowed more deeply. ‘I am but the Holy Father’s servant,’ he said.

  Jacob smiled. ‘I hear you are to be one of us, Thomas,’ he said.

  Swan nodded. ‘If this is God’s will,’ he said, with assumed piety.

  Jacob smiled again. ‘Next time, come to the Red Chamber. It is faster and less public.’ The Red Chamber was legendary; the Pope’s waiting room for his private servants. Swan wondered idly why Orsini was not there.

  ‘Should I go now?’ Swan asked.

  ‘No! This is perfectly proper today, and I believe you j
ust saved a young Orsini life.’ He nodded. ‘When you are done with the Holy Father, please come and see me in my office.’ The German nodded. ‘It is a difficult day, Thomas.’

  Swan’s heart sank, but he kept his expression neutral. ‘Thank you, messire.’

  The German paused, one pace away. ‘Call me Jacob. We are to be peers.’

  Swan nodded, trying to decide what that meant.

  Cardinal Colonna emerged and spoke to his retinue, and an equerry crossed the floor and asked that ‘Messire Swan’ attend the cardinal. Swan followed him, aware that he was watched by forty men.

  ‘May I ask how my nephew came to be in this state?’ Colonna asked.

  Swan bowed deeply, hand away from his sword. Of course, as a member of the Order of St John, he was privileged to wear his weapons anywhere in the Curia or indeed in the Christian world.

  ‘Eminence, he displayed a surprising misunderstanding of etiquette in the papal palace and his actions had unfortunate consequences.’ Swan smiled.

  Colonna did not. ‘That is not the story I hear,’ the cardinal said.

  Swan nodded. ‘That is indeed unfortunate, as, if any other story is told, I will be forced to inform the Holy Father that one of your attendants entered the presence armed. I might even be forced to produce the weapon.’

  Colonna looked annoyed. ‘That would be unwise.’

  Swan nodded again. ‘Indeed, almost any story would be unwise at this point. From my vantage, it looked as if the young man tripped and fell. Any other story will do no one credit.’

  Colonna frowned.

  Swan shrugged. ‘Eminence, I think I can say with some confidence that I have always been a friend of your house.’ As soon as the words were out, he saw he’d overstepped the mark, and his words of conciliation had had the opposite effect.

  Colonna gave him a cold look. ‘You are an impudent rogue. Do you imagine because you have done the Holy Father some small service in Hungary that you have any weight? “Friend of my house”, as if you were Lorenzo di Medici? Indeed.’

  Swan sighed. And, unlike his former self, said nothing. He did wonder for a moment why he had been in such a hurry to leave Hungary and return to the court.