Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Six: Chios Read online

  Swan laughed. ‘I’ve never been there,’ he said.

  ‘But it is part of England?’ the Lord of Eressos asked.

  Swan put his curry back in his saddle pack and shook his head. ‘Is Constantinople Turkish?’ he asked. ‘The Scots and the English are not friends. They merely occupy parts of the same island.’

  Zambale laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This is what my father said. And yet – all his friends were English. He said that, out here, none of it mattered.’

  Swan laughed too. ‘Perhaps in England, Greeks and Turks are friends,’ he said. ‘They would both miss the sun.’

  Zambale was not amused.

  The Lord of Eressos’s mood improved as they descended from the forests of the mountains to the plain of Kalloni. Seen from one of the last turns of the road, the bay was laid out like a rich man’s swimming pool in Italy – a perfect, azure blue, shaped like an enormous teardrop.

  ‘You like everything old,’ Hector Zambale said.

  Swan nodded, drinking in the view. ‘I do,’ he admitted.

  ‘There are a pair of temples here that men say are among the finest in the world,’ Hector said. ‘They are certainly the finest on Lesvos.’

  Swan sighed. He had begun to wonder whether life with the Order of St John was to be his bane. Once upon a time, he’d have ridden down to see the ruins – aye, and then found a ship for Italy.

  Even as it was, a niggling little voice told him that he’d done his duty, in the main. He had no need to linger for a losing war. He had solid evidence of the traitor. Perhaps proof.

  Except that, somewhere in the night watches, a sense of duty – a sense of belonging to the order – had crept up on him. It was not that he believed in the ideal of crusade, or had had a sudden conversion. Merely that he couldn’t bear to disappoint – or desert – men like Fra Tommaso. Or Fra Domenico. They trusted him.

  He sighed again. ‘Let’s get to Chios,’ he said. ‘If we make it back here alive, I would like nothing better than to see your temples.’

  Zambale nodded.

  Kalloni proper was a small town built on the ruins of a city, and Swan gawked like a country boy in the big city until Zambale’s men had hired them a fishing boat. They caught the evening breeze out of the bay, the big lateen, as big as the rest of the boat, moving them swiftly over the dark blue water. They left Prince Dorino’s fleet behind them, securely beached. One pair of military galleys were rowing guard far out in the bay, which was itself like a small, calm sea.

  Swan fell asleep, but he awoke as soon as they were out of the bay, passing below a pair of Byzantine towers at the bay entrance – an entrance so narrow that it could be held by a single ship.

  ‘Why is Kalloni not the most famous port in the world?’ Swan asked.

  But the Lord of Eressos was not a sailor, and he merely shrugged.

  The sea breeze caught them, and wafted them across the twenty miles of open sea to the north coast of Chios. The mountainous interior was always visible from the moment they left the Bay of Kalloni, the mountains rising like pale ghosts in the distance and becoming more and more solid as they raced across the moonlit water.

  Swan wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything more beautiful. And then he thought of Violetta, and of Theodora, and Khatun Bengül.

  He smiled, and fell back asleep.

  Dawn found them among the fishing fleet of one of the small towns on the north coast of Chios, and they crept along the coast. From time to time, with some smiles and gestures, the Lesbian crew put their nets over the side and fished, and all the while the Turkish fleet was in plain sight six miles away, with the coast of Asia as a backdrop.

  ‘Shall we land?’ Swan asked Zambale. ‘I suppose we could go cross-country.’

  Zambale shrugged. ‘As long as you don’t mind taking until Easter,’ he said. ‘Easter next year,’ he added. ‘Trust these men.’

  As the day wore on, they fished their way along the coast and then into the darker, windier water of the Asiatic strait. They never went right among the Turks, but they were seldom out of long gunshot.

  Swan’s experience during the brief siege at Rhodos had changed his view of gonne powder and gonnes in general. At some point, he asked Zambale whether he’d shot a gonne.

  The Genoese-Graeco-Scot smiled tolerantly. ‘I own a dozen,’ he said. ‘I have shot them all.’

  He regaled Swan with a tale of shooting a wolf on the mainland at some great range. Zambale seemed locked in a competition to prove his worthiness to Swan, even as he sought to surpass him. Despite which, Swan was coming to like the man. He was eager to fight, and passionate in his convictions. And well read.

  By noon, the two were stripped to the waist, fishing with the other men. Competing to haul the nets faster, to gut more fish.

  A Turkish galley came very close to them, and shouted at them. The owner put the helm down and sat, rising and falling on the waves, but the Turks didn’t board or even harass them, although the archers aboard the galley had arrows on their bows as they passed. Swan noted the name of the ship and counted more than a hundred oarsmen. Everyone aboard held their breath, and then the Turk turned south and raced away like a great water insect racing across the surface.

  As the sun began to set, the fishing fleet ran for home. By then, the fleets of a dozen seaside villages had mingled, and the owner of their boat, Giorgios, had spent the day moving from the southern fringe of one to the northern fringe of the next in small sprints and short rows, never raising his sail for more than a few minutes. By this time, the boat was full to the gunnels of fish – bream and snapper, beautiful fish.

  As full darkness began to fall, the little boat began to run into the port of Chios with a handful of other boats. Giorgios leaned out and called to one of them.

  ‘Eh, Dmitry! Is that all you’ve got?’

  The local man held up a great red snapper, almost three feet long, and Giorgios slapped his thigh and men cheered. This was done under the gonnes of the Turkish flagship, and Swan felt that they had to look – at least to the Turks – like local chain men. He watched the magnificent gilded stern of the Turkish flagship carefully, and was sure – chillingly sure – that he could see Omar Reis, thumbs hooked in his sash, on the command deck.

  And the flagship was not the last obstacle. Despite a day’s careful work, there were still half a dozen more Turkish ships between them and the town, and it became clear that the fishing smack would have to pass right among them.

  The owner came forward, hat in hand. He bowed to the Lord of Eressos, and to Swan.

  ‘I will run straight in, if the excellencies order me,’ he said.

  Zambale nodded.

  Swan sensed the man had more to say. He returned the man’s bow. ‘Do you have an alternative?’

  The owner made a particularly Greek motion with his hand. ‘The prince has paid handsomely for this trip – my wife will not be poor whether I return or not.’ He scratched his white hair. And grinned. ‘But I confess that I would prefer to share the money with her rather than leaving her to enjoy widowhood without my nagging. So – if the excellencies will permit it – I would like to go straight to the Turks here and offer to sell our catch.’

  Zambale blinked. ‘Sounds risky,’ he said. He grinned. ‘What a story to tell!’

  In Greek, Swan said, ‘I think Despotes Dimitrios is telling us that it is less risky.’

  The fisherman scratched his head again. And nodded. ‘It might help if we all muttered a prayer,’ he said.

  They pulled alongside a Turkish galley in the very last light. They were challenged before they were within a boat’s length, but there were dozens of Greek slaves aboard, anxious to translate for their new masters, and in moments, fish were going up the side.

  Swan himself was putting fish in sacks – already cleaned. He stank of fish guts. He heard a shout, and an angry exchange, and turned to find a pair of barefoot janissaries standing amid the dead fish. Without further ado, they began ramming pikes int
o the piles of fish.

  ‘They’re spoiling my catch, the pagan fucks!’ roared the owner. His genuine outrage carried conviction, but didn’t stop the janissaries, and even as he went on, another pair of Turks dropped into the fishing boat and grabbed Zambale. They pinned his arms and stripped him before he could react.

  In Greek, a voice shouted, ‘Tell the fisherman to shut up or I’ll have his son gutted.’

  Swan looked up. There was a scimitar at his own throat, and in a moment men had his arms and there was no chance to resist.

  Swan tried not to panic. If the Turks found Zambale’s sword, or his own …

  It was dark, and he thanked God. The Turkish captain leaned out over the side and roared. ‘We will pay for his entire cargo. Tell him. Also tell him that if we find gunpowder in his boat, we’ll crucify every man aboard. Eh?’ Reis laughed. But when the original two janissaries were satisfied, the nearer snapped his fingers and the two by the stern let Zambale go. One Turk even patted him on the head. The two men who had Swan smiled, and one gave him a slight inclination of the head, as if to say ‘no hard feelings’.

  A purse of silver coins was thrown into the boat.

  The tallest janissary shook his head. In Turkish, he said, ‘No wonder the Sultan is always victorious,’ he said. ‘These Greeks would sell their own brothers to us.’ He laughed and climbed the side of his galley, and the Turkish deck crew poled them off.

  Swan wanted to throw up – or sit down and hang his head – but instead, he joined the crew in waving at the Turks, poling off, and getting the lateen set.

  In an hour, they were alongside the great pier of Chios, standing on the wharves, stinking of fish.

  Zambale grinned. He seemed to know his way around. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to the Mahona.’

  ‘The who?’ Swan asked.

  ‘The council of merchants that rules the island.’ Zambale was impatient.

  Swan was not. He walked up the street to the main square, with Zambale protesting, and knocked at the oaken gates of the island’s Latin bishop.

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ Zambale grumbled.

  Swan stank of fish and his clothes were ruined, but he whispered a short message to a servant and the man bowed. The bishop – a tall, heavy man with fierce brown eyes, more like a soldier than priest – greeted them in Genoese Italian. Swan took a minute to explain their errand.

  The bishop nodded. He listened intently, and didn’t interrupt. When Swan was done, he folded his hands. ‘We must go to the Mahona,’ he said.

  Zambale’s face showed his thoughts.

  The bishop raised an eyebrow. ‘I will see that the garrison and other parts of my flock know that rescue is at hand,’ he said. ‘I am glad you approached me, young man. Do you wish to bathe? You both reek.’

  Swan bowed. ‘We should make haste,’ he said.

  The bishop made a face. ‘They won’t be kind,’ he said.

  Swan laughed. ‘What can they do to us?’ he asked.

  Before the church struck the hour, they were before the Mahona.

  Chios was not held as a feudal fief, like Lesvos. It was, instead, the ‘property’ of a Genoese consortium that included the Bank of St George and a dozen other concerns, including the great landowners of the island. Swan knew a little about their politics from Cardinal Bessarion, and enough about the two islands to know that the lords of Lesvos had proved as adept at making money and far better at defence than the merchants of Chios.

  ‘Speak, young man,’ said a black-clad Genoese. He wore a chain of office and spoke with more icy disdain than Prince Dorino had ever evinced. He held a pomander ball very close to his nose.

  Swan bowed. It is very difficult for a young man to appear to best advantage in hose stained with fish guts and a Greek peasant’s tunic with the sweat of several men on it, but Swan managed a fine bow despite all.

  ‘My lords, I am here on behalf of the Knights of the Order of St John and the Allies.’ He paused, hoping he’d startled them.

  ‘It’s a Turkish trick. They are impostors,’ said an older voice – querulous and high pitched. ‘And they smell,’ he added, as if that was all the argument necessary.

  Swan removed the donat’s ring from his finger and handed it to the President of the Council – at the same time realising that the ring would have been his death sentence had the janissaries looked him over carefully.

  It was examined – handed from one to another.

  The Lord of Eressos lost patience. ‘We’re not trying to sell you bad wool, you ungrateful usurers!’ he snapped.

  Just for a moment, Swan admired the other young man’s genuine contempt.

  Every black-capped head came up together, and forty old men glared at Hector Zambale.

  ‘We are not used to being addressed in such a way,’ snapped the president.

  ‘It will seem as mild as a whore’s kiss when you pull an oar for the Sultan,’ Zambale shot back. ‘I am the Lord of Eressos of Lesvos, as at least one of you bastards knows perfectly well.’ He stared at one of the younger black-caps, who wilted.

  Swan’s estimation of Zambale’s skills went up another notch.

  The president turned to the younger man. ‘Is this true?’ he asked.

  The man bowed his head. ‘Yes, messire.’

  The president shook his head. And looked at Swan. ‘We have been summoned to surrender the island by no less a pirate then Omar Reis, who raped his way across Thrace last year.’

  Swan nodded. ‘I know him,’ he said with airy confidence. ‘I have bested him ere this.’

  Now it was Zambale’s turn to look at Swan with admiration.

  Swan shrugged in false modesty. It was, after all, the only kind of modesty the Genoese seemed to understand. ‘With the Catholic fleet, we can defeat Omar Reis – indeed, it is my lord’s intention to trap him here.’

  ‘Christ on the cross, boy! Trap him somewhere else!’ The president’s fist crashed down on his heavy imported desk, and men flinched. Swan could smell more than fish – he could smell their fear on the cool spring night. ‘Who is your lord?’

  Swan bowed again. ‘Fra Angelo Domenico is the admiral,’ he said.

  ‘Sweet Saviour preserve us! We’re caught between Fra Diablo and Satan!’ shouted a merchant.

  ‘Has not the Genoese Grand Fleet … already departed these waters?’ the president asked.

  Zambale stepped forward. ‘A feint,’ he said.

  ‘We will appear great fools if we surrender the island and the Turks are defeated,’ said an old man.

  The president shook his head. ‘The Turks will not be defeated. There is no fleet.’

  ‘These young men risked their lives. You think they would do that for a ruse?’ asked another.

  Swan was getting a solid notion of who belonged to which faction, just from body language. The richest men seemed inclined to surrender. The middling men seemed inclined to fight.

  He also had the oddest idea – that Zambale and the president of the Mahona knew each other. And were shamming enmity. It made no sense, but he could not shake it.

  Swan spread his hands. ‘You know that in Thrace, Omar Reis promised lenient terms to the merchant class.’ He smiled. ‘After they surrendered the towns, he had the older men crucified and their families sold into slavery.’ It wasn’t quite true. But his words had the desired effect.

  The president rose. ‘You are a pair of liars, messires. The Turks keep their promises. It is the Grand Master who is the father of lies.’

  Swan bit his lip. He didn’t, at some rarefied level, care much if the Turks took all the Genoese islands in the eastern Mediterranean, but at another level it stuck in his craw that forty rich men were prepared to sell their religion and their peasants to the Turks to maintain control of their precious money. And the street imp – the son of a Southwark whore – couldn’t resist twisting their noses.

  So he shrugged. ‘I have delivered my message. If you are so craven and so greedy that you intend to
surrender your possessions without a fight, I swear to you, messires, that should the Christian fleet triumph, I’ll make sure that every one of you loses everything – as traitors to the religion, and heretics.’

  It was well said – calm, arrogant, and contemptuous. Swan was quite proud of himself. Even the president paled.

  And then he ordered his men-at-arms to throw them into a dungeon.

  ‘What in the name of heaven possessed you to say such a thing?’ Zambale asked. ‘Now they’ll never let us go!’ But the big man sat back and laughed. ‘I liked it, though.’

  Swan drank some water that had seen wine once. ‘You weren’t so gentle with them yourself,’ he said.

  Zambale shrugged and stretched himself. The straw was clean. ‘I loathe them and all they stand for. Still – if they have us killed here, it’s not the glorious end I was looking for.’

  Swan spoke from recent conversion. ‘Death,’ he said, ‘is pretty much the same whether in the heat of battle or in bed of old age.’

  Zambale chuckled. ‘Make that up yourself?’ he asked. ‘So – Englishman – what brings you here?’

  Swan liked Zambale despite the bad beginning they had made, but he was still … suspicious. So he didn’t depart from his story – he described being penniless but noble, and applying to become a donat of the order. Zambale listened impatiently.

  ‘You do not look at women like a priest,’ Zambale said.

  Swan smiled. ‘I am not a priest.’

  ‘You never mention the saints. I’ve hardly seen you pray. Come – for whom do you really work?’

  Swan smiled. ‘I am as you see – a donat of the order.’

  Zambale lay back. ‘Have it as you will.’

  The next morning – they had to guess as they had no access to the outdoors – a pair of black-capped magistrates came and sat outside their iron-barred cell.

  ‘How far away is the allied fleet?’ one asked.

  Swan affected disdain. ‘Why tell you? You’ll pass it to your friends, the Turks.’

  The two magistrates looked at each other.

  One man said, ‘It is possible that the council may elect to defend the island.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But our information is that the order has only five galleys, all blockaded in Mytilini.’