Tom Swan and the Last Spartans 1 Page 10
Swan was panicking inwardly, but he had faced the Turks and lived. ‘I remember you as quite a man of the sword,’ he said.
Accaiauolo nodded. ‘You are too kind,’ he said.
Clemente was serving wine. Swan hated him for the smirk he had on his face.
Spinelli sighed, his composure restored. ‘I will leave you two alone,’ he said.
‘No!’ Swan said, rising. ‘I would not fling you forth from your own sitting room.’
Spinelli smiled. ‘Really, I have no wish to leave. I want to see how this comes out.’
Swan winced.
Accaiauolo smiled. ‘The wine is excellent. So … I gather you do not want me for a tour of our brothels, and I will confess to you, Ser Thomas, that I do not spend much time on the pursuit of Venus. I may seem like a dull fellow, but at my time of life, I have to … work.’ He looked away.
He thinks I’m going to look down on him, Swan thought.
‘The thing is …’ Swan said.
Both men looked at him.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
He sighed inwardly.
‘Do you have a sister named Sophia?’ he blurted.
Accaiauolo frowned.
Sweet Mary Magdalene, he’s going to think I bedded his sister. He thinks I’m some carnal lecher.
Which I am.
Oh God.
‘Messire Giacomo, would you be so kind as to listen to my story without any … er … judgement? I’ll be brief.’ Swan smiled what he hoped was his most winning smile.
‘What about my sister?’ Accaiauolo said. He was flushing red.
‘I met her at the court of Rimini,’ Swan said. ‘I wish to marry her.’
It took three repetitions of the central facts of the story and a revelation that Loredan would not have approved before the fire left Accaiauolo’s eye. It was clear immediately that he shared Rinieri’s views on women; that he thought his sister was a headstrong fool; that he expected nothing for her but ruin.
Swan emphasised her heroism in Venice; her brother saw nothing but the risk of his good name.
In fact, the man expected censure, and it took Swan time to puzzle out why he was suddenly so distant.
‘I will not expect any dowry,’ Swan said.
Accaiauolo looked up. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Do you mean to provoke me?’
Spinelli slammed his open hand on the oak table. ‘I think I need to stop the two of you, who can only help each other, before you come to blows. Giacomo, the Englishman has nothing but honourable intentions; indeed, I heard him, with my own ears, bargain with the Pope for an estate so that he could offer for your sister.’
Spinelli turned to Swan. ‘With us, to accept a nobly born girl with no dowry is to suggest that she is …’ Spinelli shrugged.
Swan stood up, sputtering.
Accaiauolo was also on his feet, and he put a hand on his dagger.
Both men looked at each other.
‘Never,’ Swan said. ‘I tried to kiss her and she slapped me.’
Spinelli winced. ‘Perhaps a little too much disclosure,’ he said softly.
Accaiauolo made a face. And then his hand left his dagger hilt. ‘That sounds like my sister,’ he admitted. ‘Never?’
‘Never.’ Swan began to breathe.
‘There will be a dowry,’ Accaiauolo said. ‘And a wedding. And in fact, you will make me a very happy man.’ He was beginning to see the idea differently. ‘Good God, Suane, does she know how we met?’
Swan shook his head. ‘Until you walked in, I had no idea that you – my saviour from the tavern in Rome – were the same man who was Sophia’s brother.’
‘Ah!’ The other man sat down suddenly. ‘Where will I find a dowry?’ he asked the ceiling.
The next morning found Swan visiting jewellers. The jewel he showed at each stop was the ancient cameo set in emeralds and pearls he’d picked up in Venice. In nine stops he had nine offers, and none of them was for less than eight hundred florins. In the end, he accepted the offer of one of the jewellers in the market stalls who seemed to specialise in used or antique stuff, and who valued the antiquity of the piece. He said he had a ready buyer and offered Swan a thousand florins in gold and silver, or twelve hundred if he would accept a note of hand, and he offered a pretty little golden ring to seal the deal. It said ‘Amor Vincit Omnia’ and Swan accepted it and took the note.
He went back to Spinelli. When the man had a moment – he was overrun with the business of setting up looms – Swan drew him aside.
‘How much for a share in your bank?’ he asked.
‘Five thousand florins,’ Spinelli said. ‘No one would buy. I’m in too deep, and even if people don’t know that the Pope chose to betray me, it’s obvious that I’m here, going into wool and silk.’
‘How much is my pay worth?’ Swan asked.
Spinelli made a face. ‘You are serious. Very well. They are giving you three hundred a month and a great bonus for the victory. Almost three thousand. Florins. I do not have it right now.’ He shrugged. ‘I find it ironic, to say the least, that I have been the agent of your finding your wedding, and when you demand payment, I will be publicly shamed. I will …’
Swan cut him off by raising his hand. ‘Never worry, my friend. Just listen.’ Swan held out the letter of credit for twelve hundred florins. ‘I have a debt of five hundred ducats that I may have to pay off in Venice,’ he said. ‘But I have access to other funds there, too. There’s forty-one hundred florins for you, give or take.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Or does my back pay from Bessarion not count for you?’
‘Ah,’ Spinelli said. ‘If I do not have to pay out three thousand florins to you, that almost saves me. This letter of credit is actually a temporary loan – I hope he gave you twenty per cent.’
‘He did,’ Swan said.
‘It’s good in two weeks. On Cosimo di Medici.’ Spinelli took a deep breath. ‘I’m not destitute, Ser Thomas. But this would be …’
‘Good, then,’ Swan said. ‘I will owe you nine hundred florins, and you will have me as a partner.’
Spinelli shook his head. ‘It is a beautiful gesture, but it cannot be,’ he said. ‘You are not a Florentine.’
Swan considered. ‘I’m a Venetian,’ he said. ‘And perhaps by marriage?’
‘Hmm,’ Spinelli said. ‘Let me ask my lawyer and man of business. Back before nones. They ring bells now, you know. All because of Belgrade!’
Swan changed from his ‘man of business’ clothes to travelling clothes. He’d been tempted by almost everything in the market, but had managed to escape without spending any money. It made him feel especially virtuous.
He went to Spinelli’s small stable to see to the horses with his head in the clouds.
He was just checking the girth on his own saddle when he realised that he had taken what had to be Landi Giannetti’s little mare from Spinelli’s stable. She would be at Bessarion’s, of course.
And her tack?
She’d been saddled in the stall. He’d never searched her tack. Landi Giannetti’s tack.
Swan whistled. He might not be back in Rome for months. He had begun to hope that he might make it to Mistra. To Sparta. Perhaps he would never return to Rome at all. He was just thinking this last, whistling and settling his girth buckles, when he saw Forteguerri outside the house’s yard-gate. The man was pointing at Spinelli’s house.
Behind him were a dozen men-at-arms in harness, all in Medici colours.
He saw Forteguerri stop Spinelli, who was hurrying down the street, oblivious. He saw Spinelli protest, and then point at his own house.
Swan thought of flight. He was reasonably certain he could make it out of Florence, but not with his archer and his servant, or his horses. And regardless, if they took Spinelli, he would lose his pay and possibly his wife.
He still considered running. In fact, every instinct told him to run.
But Hungary had given him a new part to play; the great man, the capitan
o. And he had too much to lose to go out and swim the Arno.
So instead, he crossed the house yard and went to Spinelli’s front hall, where he put his dagger on a sideboard and called Clemente.
‘I am about to be arrested,’ he said.
Clemente nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said, as if this sort of thing happened every day.
‘I’ll want money and food tonight,’ Swan said. ‘Guard this purse with your life. It has the Sultan’s diamond in it.’
Clemente looked, saw the sparkle, and all his wit drained out. ‘Oh,’ he said. He looked as if he’d been punched.
‘Don’t let Messire Kendal get angry or use force,’ Swan said.
Clemente gave a knowing smile.
Swan stripped off his pretty spurs – they were too easy to steal – and added them to the purse and dagger.
There was a firm knock at the door.
Swan shook his head at the apprentice who came. ‘Let me get it,’ he said.
He went to the door and opened it. He bowed. ‘Ah, Messire Forteguerri,’ he said. ‘I have been expecting you.’
By Christian Cameron
Tom Swan and the Head of St George
Volume One: Castillon
Volume Two: Venice
Volume Three: Constantinople
Volume Four: Rome
Volume Five: Rhodes
Volume Six: Chios
Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade
Volume One
Volume Two
Volume Three
Volume Four
Volume Five
Volume Six
Tom Swan and the Last Spartans
Volume One: Florence
The Tyrant Series
Tyrant
Tyrant: Storm of Arrows
Tyrant: Funeral Games
Tyrant: King of the Bosporus
Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities
Tyrant: Force of Kings
The Killer of Men Series
Killer of Men
Marathon
Poseidon’s Spear
Salamis
Other Novels
Washington and Caesar
God of War
The Ill-Made Knight
Copyright
An Orion eBook
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Orion Books
This eBook first published in 2016 by Orion Books
Copyright © Christian Cameron 2015
The moral right of Christian Cameron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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ISBN 978 1 4091 6341 1
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