Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome Page 3

  ‘It depends,’ he said. He and Di Brachio exchanged a glance. ‘They should, but it may not be in any faction’s interest to take this city and garrison it. Since the fashion for malmsey wine changed, and the sugar trade moved, this city isn’t as important as it once was. A year-round garrison and twenty thousand in wall repair? Venice is a business, Messire Swan, not an empire.’ He shrugged.

  Di Brachio nodded. ‘And – if I may, Ser Marco – it depends on the relations between the Serenissima and the Despots. There are two Greek rulers here, Master Swan – Demetrios, who favours alliance with the Turks, and Thomas, who seems to be willing to fight. They mirror two factions in Venice, eh?’

  ‘And in Genoa, I’ll wager,’ said Swan. ‘No wonder the Turks push us around.’

  They sailed up the Adriatic without incident, pausing to take water or eat a meal in Ragusa and the other Venetian possessions on the Dalmatian coast. They crossed the sea to drop the bishop and his retinue, including the now much esteemed Master Claudio and Swan’s friend, the notary turned man-at-arms, Cesare de Brescia, at Ancona on the east coast of Italy proper. But two weeks later, they raised the lagoon, and the sailors and unengaged oarsmen danced on the catwalk above the rowers’ deck and all the men gave three sharp cheers.

  Ser Marco leaned on the rails, whistling through the gap in his front teeth. ‘I will miss them,’ he said. ‘This is one of the best crews I have ever had – three fights, and they are made. The lubbers who joined us are right sailormen, and the good men are better yet.’ He grinned. ‘If I had ever been tempted to turn pirate, it would be now – with a ship as good as this one, and this crew, I could make a fortune.’

  Di Brachio bowed. ‘Messire, you have a fortune.’

  ‘And this is no doubt why I return my ship to the arsenal and my beautiful crew to the stews and brothels. But it is a waste, and the next capitano will not be able to get just the same crew in just the same ship.’ He shrugged. ‘Listen – Di Brachio – you are a good man. Why not give up your little ways and settle down? You could command a galley. I have written you a very strong commendation to the Ten.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Why don’t you just call yourself Bembo? Your father accepts you – in public. He has no other son.’

  Di Brachio shrugged. ‘The Ten do not love me,’ he said. ‘My father, bless his soul of iron, is still undecided.’

  Ser Marco spat. ‘When it comes to killing men in Outremer, you’ll find that the Ten care very much less about your personal habits,’ he said. ‘Marry a girl and make some heirs, and you can do as you please. Surely your father has said all this to you.’

  Di Brachio shrugged again. ‘I am not yet ready for this surrender,’ he said. ‘I am like a citadel that, having survived a nasty siege, is not anxious to join the new peace. And what of the poor girl?’

  Ser Marco looked offended. ‘What of her? Girls are girls. They know the game.’

  Di Brachio shook his head. ‘Messire, you are the finest commander under whom I have shipped, but on this, we do not agree.’

  Ser Marco embraced him. ‘Well, you are a fine soldier, and I’m sure we don’t like other things, too.’

  Later, after the ship had docked right against the quay in St Mark’s Square and Ser Marco had returned his banner to the church and ordered the rowers to begin the last leg of the journey round to the arsenal, he also embraced Swan.

  ‘Try and keep Master Di Brachio alive,’ he said. ‘He might grow to be a great man – and a great Venetian.’ The knight shrugged. ‘If he survives long enough. You are a good man, Master Swan. I believe I owe you my life, and I remain at your service.’

  Di Brachio went ashore to see his father, and Swan stood alone on the dock, his spirits oppressed. Many of the arsenali had pressed him to come and drink, but he knew that as a ‘gentleman’ he would only slow them. The archers were men he liked – he’d played dice and piquet with them, and the Spaniard, now much recovered, was a well-lettered man whose friendship he was happy to have.

  But the archers had left the ship in St Mark’s Square, and were probably already drunk. The other men-at-arms were Venetian gentlemen, and their families had met them at the arsenal.

  He saw the unloading of the wicker baskets carrying his armour, and the second basket with all the scrolls that he and Peter had rescued. Then he arranged a boat for all the mimes, and, aided by Giannis, still recovering, and Irene, he got them and their various treasures aboard and rowed across to the western part of the city.

  The old whore was still on duty at the end of the warehouses. He waved, and she grinned, and he felt a fool, but the familiar sights were cheering and he had an odd feeling of isolation, as if he was wrapped in a carpet. Giannis and Irene kissed and cosseted each other at every turn, and Nikephorus was sunk in a study, and Swan missed Di Brachio and missed Peter.

  The boat landed them near his old inn. He paid the boatman to stay.

  ‘Giannis – wait here,’ he told the soldier, and the other man nodded. His whole attention was on the girl.

  Swan ran up the ladder, found that his sea legs were still strong on him, and rolled down the street for some paces before he recovered the ability to walk. But he got to the inn without being robbed, and established that they could lodge six foreigners and their belongings.

  ‘Where’s Joan?’ Swan asked the innkeeper.

  ‘Bah! She ran off with a sailor,’ the innkeeper said. ‘I have another slut if you feel the itch.’

  Swan made a face and returned to the boat, and got his party of Greeks ashore and to the inn. He shared a room with Nikephorus, and he went to bed early after two cups of horrible wine. He lay listening to Irene giggle and groan and make sweet little shrieks, and tried to decide why he might be jealous. He wasn’t jealous of the woman, or the man. Merely their satisfaction in each other.

  In the morning, he left the Greeks to their own devices – Greeks in Venice had many friends – and had himself rowed to the Jewish quarter after an injunction that the head must be guarded at all times. He arranged to see Rabbi Aaron.

  None of the men at the gates were his friends. He felt as if he’d died and gone to a place like Venice, but populated with shadows of the men he’d seen before, and he all but growled at the young Jews, and they bridled.

  Rabbi Aaron greeted him soberly, and Swan handed over a thick packet of letters from Constantinople.

  Aaron bowed stiffly. ‘My thanks, and that of my house,’ he said.

  Swan’s sense of dislocation was increased by Aaron’s distance. ‘Rabbi?’ he enquired.

  ‘I have another student to whom I must attend,’ Aaron said, and bowed again.

  Swan knew he was dismissed, and withdrew, feeling as hurt as if he’d received a sword thrust.

  The next week in Venice was one of the longest of Swan’s life. The strangest premonitions ruled him, and he found himself looking at the head six times a day – at one point, on his way across the lagoon to see Di Brachio, he was so pierced with worry about the head that he ordered his gondolier to turn the boat and row him back to the steps nearest his inn. Notes to Di Brachio brought no response, and the Greeks were constantly busy with their own friends – Venice was full of Greek exiles.

  But on Friday Di Brachio sent him a note; that night he dined with Di Brachio’s father, who was effusive in his praise, and the next morning they prepared a convoy of horses and a cart to take the Greeks and all of their belongings to Rome. The next two days passed in a pleasant whirl of near-military preparations, and on Monday, they rode for Rome, with two carts, all of the Greeks, two French merchants and a priest and six soldiers provided by Messire Bembo. Despite the season, they made good time, and passed the length of the Romagnol with no more trouble than they travelled the Veneto – although the tolls were higher and the local soldiers looked like criminals dressed in armour. They climbed into the hills, drank thin red wine that never seemed to warm them, and endured three straight nights in hostels built to accommodate pilgrims, where they endured fleas of a
number and viciousness unlike anything they had encountered. The Greeks went and stayed in the stable, and Andromache reproved Swan.

  ‘You rescued us from the Turks so that we could be eaten by your ferocious heretic insects! Are you sure this isn’t hell? It’s cold, and the bugs …’ She shook her head.

  The third night, Di Brachio returned from a long ride ahead to report that all four inns were full to the rafters.

  Swan shrugged. ‘In England, sometimes a gentleman will rent a barn,’ he said.

  Di Brachio nodded. He was biting the leather of his riding glove, trying to get it off. ‘Yes, it is much the same with us,’ he said. He pointed his chin at the distant towers of a small castle. ‘Go ask them. Be English and noble – everyone here likes that.’

  Swan’s cloak and gloves were soaked through with icy rain, and he could see that Master Nikephorus’s lips were blue, so he cantered his rented horse across the fields to the castle, which, close up, proved to be very small. But they had a small stone barn, and the very cautious owner, who conducted his entire negotiation from behind a cocked crossbow, agreed to rent them the barn for five ducats – an outrageous price. But some hours later, when they sat in the firelit dark with good food – brought by the cautious lord’s servants – and good wine, the ducats seemed well spent.

  Di Brachio was in no hurry to make his blankets, and he and Swan sat up, listening to the others snore.

  Swan told his mentor the tale of the rabbi’s stiffness, and Di Brachio shrugged elaborately, palms up. ‘Listen – you stole the head of Saint George and twisted the Sultan’s tail,’ he said. ‘You think this will have no consequence? Are you an idiot? Jews were probably arrested – mayhap Solomon himself was arrested.’

  Swan froze.

  ‘Your friend Omar Reis will not lightly accept a defeat, Messire Swan. Men will die. Others will be tortured. The price of your little escapade …’ He shrugged. ‘Bessarion may be none too pleased with us.’

  Swan shook his head. ‘Why – damn it! I did everything he asked!’

  Di Brachio lay back in the straw. ‘Yes – well. Goodnight, English. And don’t forget the Orsini, tomorrow. They have long memories – eh? And long knives.’

  Swan was embarrassed to admit he’d forgotten all about them.

  There were no red and yellow Orsini liveries in evidence as they entered Rome, and they crossed the city – a city that seemed empty after the crowds of Venice. They rode across the forum and Swan watched footpads fade into the ruins like beetles at the first sign of the cook entering the kitchen. He fondled his sword and kept his eyes moving.

  But if other places seemed odd, Bessarion’s shabby palace was like home. The servants welcomed them, and the great man himself came down to the tiny yard to watch the unloading of the carts – to embrace each one of the Greek mimes, and to chatter with them in Greek. When he came to Di Brachio, he buried the Venetian in an enormous embrace, a bear hug.

  ‘You lived, young pup,’ he said with enormous affection, and Di Brachio returned the embrace.

  Swan stood with an armload of scrolls. Bessarion met his glance over Di Brachio’s shoulder and winked, and Swan felt something give way in his chest. He’d been holding his breath. Rabbi Aaron’s dismissal had hurt.

  He guided the cardinal through the scrolls he’d rescued, and he gave credit in double handfuls to the others – to Giannis, to Peter, to the archers on the ship. Di Brachio shrugged and disclaimed all responsibility.

  ‘The English did it all,’ he said. ‘None of the rest of us could even leave the quarter. He and his man did the work.’

  Bessarion blessed every one of them in the yard, even though they all had to move carefully because the pair of two-wheeled carts filled the whole space. He helped carry scrolls up into his library, where he saw to their installation in his own network of pigeonholes.

  ‘This one for the Pope,’ he said. ‘This one – the Cicero – for my friend Aneas Piccolomini. A great man in the Church. And a great lover of Cicero.’

  He flirted with Irene and Andromache, chatted amicably with Giannis, and repeatedly wrung Nikephorus’s hands, but when he’d seen his fellow Greeks situated in comfortable rooms, he finally took Swan and Di Brachio to his inner sanctum and closed the door.

  ‘Well,’ he said. He sat back on an old leather chair from the last century and put his booted feet up on his great work table. ‘The bishop has sung your praises and Master Swan’s to the Pope and to the College of Cardinals. But I can’t help but think that the head of Saint George might have been …’ He shrugged. ‘Better left at the bottom of the sewers, perhaps?’ He looked at Di Brachio. ‘Ten Jews have been executed – crucified. And forty Greeks. Mehmed II has forbidden the Pisans or the Florentines to maintain posts in the city, and he’s made other threats.’

  Di Brachio shrugged. ‘We didn’t steal the head, Excellency. Your servants did that.’ He glanced at Swan. ‘Servants you didn’t see fit to mention to us.’

  Bessarion shrugged. ‘I can’t …’ he began. Then he shrugged. ‘Gentlemen, I owe you some apology, and yet, I cannot let you – even you, Alessandro – know all my little secrets.’ He glowered at Swan. ‘And you, my lying Englishman. I gather that it is to you I owe the head’s recovery – and the chaos in Christian affairs in Constantinople!’

  But his tone was more jesting than solemn or admonitory, and Swan failed to hide his grin of triumph.

  ‘There are interests in this town that received a sharp rap on the knuckles owing to your actions. But – you were there and I was not, and on balance, you have saved some wonderful books, and brought back some people I value strongly – the insides of Master Nikephorus’s head hold more books than my library, if I can find a scribe to write for him – and the head will buy me a great deal of influence somewhere.’

  ‘You won’t keep it?’ asked Swan, suddenly and unaccountably devastated.

  Di Brachio nodded to his master. ‘Eminence, you really must see this thing to believe it.’

  Bessarion raised an eyebrow. ‘Gentlemen, I am a Greek, and a man of God. I have every faith that the head of Saint George is a wonderful relic.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Anything you’d care to report to me?’ he asked.

  Di Brachio looked out of the small window by his shoulder at the wintry remnants of a Roman garden. ‘We touched at Monemvasia while English here was wounded,’ he said. ‘The Hospitaller officer there wants the Pope to take the town, or the even the Venetians.’ Di Brachio produced the letter.

  ‘We were paid three hundred ducats to carry this message,’ Swan added. ‘I had to leave my man there. I’d like … to go back. And retrieve him. If time allows.’

  Bessarion leaned back and stared at his star-studded ceiling while he played with his beard. ‘Monemvasia. The property of the Despot, I think. Demetrios.’ He shook his head. ‘There are rumours that Demetrios is threatening to turn to al-Islam.’ He sat up. ‘The Turks are readying a fleet for Lesvos and Chios.’

  ‘A priest in Monemvasia said to me that the monasteries on Lesvos and Chios might have old books,’ Swan said.

  Bessarion nodded. ‘Very likely. People on the islands are very rich, and well educated. The Genoese took Lesvos in – bah, I can’t remember. A hundred years before I was born, or more. Chios the same.’ He put his chin in his hand. ‘If Genoa puts a fleet to sea to save Chios …’

  Di Brachio smiled bitterly. ‘Then Venice will help Turkey. They are like bad brothers – you know.’

  Bessarion nodded. ‘We Christians are our own enemies. Orthodox against Catholic – Genoese against Venetian, French against English.’

  Swan laughed. ‘With due respect, Eminence, the Turks are no lovers of the Mamluks, nor the Mamelukes of the Turks, nor the various mainland Turks of each other. I heard much about this in Constantinople.’

  Bessarion nodded. ‘Perhaps this is just the Tower of Babel playing out among men,’ he agreed. ‘In the meantime, I’d like to see the islands saved. I have had it in my mind to s
end one or both of you to the Knights Hospitaller. But only if the Pope is willing to take action.’

  ‘Can the islands be held against the Turks?’ Swan asked.

  Bessarion watched the rain for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Which is why you must buy every manuscript there that you can find.’ He nodded to Di Brachio. ‘You have had a hard journey and you will want to rest. But if the Pope will send a deputation to the knights – will you go?’

  Di Brachio smiled. ‘I’d be delighted.’ His grin grew lopsided. ‘My father will be delighted, as well. What an odd occurrence.’ He leaned forward, rose to his feet. ‘Not until spring, I assume?’

  Bessarion sighed. ‘It could come sooner,’ he said. ‘The knights sail in all weathers.’ He looked at the two young men. ‘It is said in the College of Cardinals that Mehmet II plans to destroy all the learning of the ancient world and replace it with the Koran. That he means to conquer the whole world.’

  It occurred to Swan that this was not the place for him to declare his almost absolute admiration for the Turks – their manliness, their horses, their swords and their war machines and their poetry. But the picture of Mehmet II destroying manuscripts seemed a little extreme. ‘The Grand Turk reveres learning,’ he said.

  Bessarion’s baleful glare fell on him squarely. Swan liked his employer, and he’d heard many foolish things about Christians while he was with Turks. He nodded. ‘But of course, he is the merest infidel,’ he added piously.

  Bessarion’s basilisk stare faded into a pleasant smile. ‘Excellent. Get some rest – well-earned rest – from your Herculean labours. There is a new steward about the place – Father Ridolpho. A protégé of the Cardinal of Avignon.’ His eyes crossed Di Brachio’s, and some message passed. ‘He is very’ – here the cardinal gave the slightest sniff, as if he detected an unpleasant odour – ‘very careful with money.’ He scribbled a note and handed it to Di Brachio.