Tom Swan and the Last Spartans 2 Page 6

  ‘Any Venetians serving the Turks?’ another senator asked.

  Swan shook his head. ‘I met a gunner I thought might have been from Ancona,’ he said.

  Notes were taken. He drew the layout of the Sultan’s pavilion. He described the plague that struck the Turkish camp.

  The whole day passed. The sun began to go down, and a chill wind blew in through the open windows.

  The Ten gathered behind their long table, and there was some discussion.

  Loredan came out to Swan and sat where his other interrogators had sat. ‘Can you tell me anything of your mission for the Pope?’ he asked with disarming frankness.

  ‘I stopped in Florence and in Milan in attempts to collect money. Now I must go back to Hunyadi and my company of lances. I am to serve Hunyadi until the campaign season closes and then return, perhaps by way of Greece.’ Swan shrugged. ‘I think I am allowed to say all of that without breaching the Holy Father’s trust. To his close ally, Venice.’ He smiled his we’re all men of the world smile at Loredan.

  Loredan didn’t spend much time smiling. ‘Will you share your report on Hunyadi and on Greece with us, when you return?’

  Swan nodded. ‘I am a citizen and a knight of Saint Mark. And Cardinal Bessarion has given me leave to “support Venice in any way I can”. Which reminds me; I have a parcel of Greek books from the cardinal. Also messages which today seemed the wrong day to deliver.’

  Loredan nodded. ‘Tomorrow. A ceremonial greeting from the Doge.’ He leaned closer. ‘You continue to repay our trust in you, Thomas. For this, I thank you.’ He rose and went back to his more formal seat.

  The chairman, one of the older men, looked right and left, opened a scroll, and rose.

  ‘The Council of Ten wishes to express its satisfaction in your report, Ser Thomas, and in your performance.’ He frowned. ‘I suspect that some of us might wish you had not told the Turk that you were a knight of Saint Mark …’ He shrugged. ‘But you are. And you have done well; better, by making such a fine report. This committee has no official stance on the war with the Sultan. However, there may be other … hmmm … suggestions. To come.’ He bowed. ‘So … our thanks, Ser Thomas.’

  Swan rose and gave his best bow. ‘I am deeply honoured,’ he said. In fact, he was. No one ever thanked him.

  Outside, in the magnificent piazza of St Mark, Bembo put an arm around him. ‘By Saint Mark,’ he said. ‘They love you. Good report. Brilliant, in fact. I wish I had been there … by God, Englishman, at least I know how to build a boat.’ He laughed. ‘God damn me, I am jealous. I admit it.’

  Swan paused. Loredan was approaching with two younger men.

  ‘You know … when I was sure I was going to die …’

  Alessandro looked at him.

  ‘I thought … saints, Alessandro, this makes no sense. I thought of you getting married. And how that made it … all right.’ Swan found he had tears in his eyes.

  Alessandro laughed. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘That made no sense.’ Then he looked at Swan as if seeing him clearly for the first time. ‘Really?’ he asked. He gave a small smile … a considering smile. Then quite spontaneously he threw his arms around Swan. They stood there, in the public square, embracing.

  Swan felt he might cry. It was an odd reaction and he couldn’t control it. He was about to go to pieces in St Mark’s square, because he was alive.

  Loredan cleared his throat.

  Swan turned. He let go of Alessandro, who stepped back, colouring.

  Loredan shrugged. ‘The Council of Ten drives you to tears? That was a good meeting.’

  Both Venetians laughed, mostly to cover Swan’s embarrassment.

  ‘They are not idiots,’ Loredan said. ‘Their thanks are not empty. I can’t tell you how much, but we are gathering some private funds for you. For Hunyadi.’

  ‘Ah,’ Swan said. He wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, messire, I was unmanned …’

  ‘Bah. If I had a soldo for all the time I spend in the depths …’ Loredan’s laugh was a sharp bark, and expressed no humour at all. Then his face seemed to twist; he went back to being Loredan the automaton.

  ‘And I wish to say, Ser Thomas, that if you wed … I wish you every felicity, although, personally, my children will weep and my wife may tear her hair …’

  Swan laughed, because Loredan was such a consummate professional that he’d never imagined the man worrying about family, children, wife or home. Or any darkness.

  ‘Your smile mocks me, but your Demoiselle Sophia is the rock on which my home is currently built.’ Loredan bowed to the chairman of the committee, just passing them, who approached, took Swan’s hand with a nod, and swept off. Swan, watching him, wondered whether the pedestrian nature of life in Venice kept men more egalitarian. The city had so few horses that unless a man took a gondola, he walked, whatever his estate.

  Loredan turned back to Swan. ‘If you wed, we would … make an effort to try to have you make your home here and not in Rome.’ He smiled. ‘Both employment and some security could be provided.’

  Swan bowed. ‘You flatter me,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that my lady has not yet accepted me, although she has … given me reason to hope.’

  The five of them began walking together across the square.

  ‘Come and drink some wine,’ Loredan said, seeming almost human. ‘I suspect you might be invited to dine, which might allow you some … access to the lady.’

  Bembo bowed. ‘I’ll join you for the wine, but my own lady will miss me for dinner.’

  ‘Include her,’ Loredan said. He looked at Bembo, and Swan realised that he was present at a significant moment in someone else’s story. He guessed that only close friends dined out with their wives; women in Venice led a curious existence of mixed freedom and segregation.

  Alessandro had a wry smile on his face. ‘Has it come to this?’ he asked softly.

  Loredan nodded. ‘I think it has,’ he said.

  Alessandro nodded. ‘Very well. I will go and ask her. We will see what she says.’ He bowed, and Loredan returned the bow.

  Alessandro squeezed Swan’s arm and turned away to hail a public boat.

  ‘Strange man,’ Loredan said.

  ‘Which one of you?’ Swan asked, and Loredan smiled. A rare sight.

  Swan was taken up two flights of steps to the highest floor and he sat on a very comfortable chair while wine and olives were brought. Before he’d even praised the wine, Bembo was back.

  ‘So now you will meet my wife,’ he said. He grinned.

  Swan nodded. And thought about age, and maturity, and change. And olives.

  Loredan returned and sat. ‘Your wife is coming,’ he said.

  Bembo shrugged. ‘After she fights her wardrobe for an hour or so,’ he admitted. ‘She does not lack dignity or intelligence, but she is young and vain.’

  Swan laughed. It was his genuine laugh, not his courtier’s laugh, and Alessandro looked at him.

  Loredan leaned forward. ‘I think the Englishman is suggesting that you are not a man to accuse others of vanity,’ he said.

  Alessandro smiled. ‘Ah. Perhaps not, English.’

  Swan looked around. ‘Is this a safe place to discuss a very grave secret?’ he asked.

  Loredan looked startled. ‘I had thought we were done.’ He rose, chewing an olive, and spoke to his servant, who went out, leaving the wine. Loredan closed a door.

  ‘Now you could discuss murdering the Pope,’ he said.

  Swan leaned back. ‘Not far from that,’ he said, and had their attention. He was afraid of speaking, but equally afraid of saying nothing. Especially as the day had reminded him of how much he loved Venice. ‘I have fallen into something,’ he said. ‘It is very ugly, and could affect everything.’ He pursed his lips. ‘And …’ It pained him to say it. ‘And I’m not even sure what I know.’

  Alessandro nodded. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘This sounds like the real thing, then.’

  Swan opened his purse and took out a smal
l leather bag. He dumped the contents on the table.

  ‘Brigands were paid to kill me,’ he said. ‘This was their pay, or maybe the chief’s bonus. Tell me what you see.’

  Loredan picked up a coin. Then another, and another. He rubbed them and then bit one. Bembo did the same, and the two looked at each other.

  ‘Venetian silver,’ Alessandro said.

  ‘Mostly minted this year,’ Loredan said. ‘Some last year.’

  ‘Who sorts coins?’ Alessandro asked the wall.

  ‘Bankers,’ Loredan answered. ‘At least in Venice, new coins have a high silver content and are unclipped.’

  Swan sat back.

  ‘Tell us,’ Alessandro said.

  ‘Yes,’ Loredan said. ‘Myself, I pay in florins.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Exactly.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Yes, I now trust Loredan,’ Alessandro said, as if Swan had asked a question.

  Loredan gave a small bow, only partly ironic.

  Swan sighed. ‘I am over my head,’ he said. ‘Look, I could have this all wrong. But …’ He told of the Medici bank in Vienna, out of funds; of Spinelli’s bank almost broken for non-payment of loans. Of Antonelli trying to bribe him for papal messages. Of the missing money in Milan.

  ‘Is that why the archbishop was poisoned?’ asked Loredan with sudden interest.

  Swan looked at him. ‘I rather promised not to discuss that,’ he said.

  Loredan shrugged. ‘Stay silent. I know all about it. This is my job.’ He paused. ‘But the missing money … I know nothing of that.’

  Bembo sat back and crossed his hands over one wool-clad knee. ‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Swan made a face. ‘I’m on my fiftieth theory,’ he admitted. ‘But what hangs together best is that Antonelli has robbed the Medici bank of many thousands of ducats; maybe hundreds of thousands. And eventually, by moving tithe money and holding the specie, he has affected balances and payments. A further theory … he is looking for the missing papal treasure of Pope Eugenius to cover his debts.’

  Bembo all but spat. ‘That’s gross. Also insane. No one could spend a hundred thousand ducats, not even on palaces and pretty boys and debauchery.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps I could, with a great deal of work, but it would be easy to spot.’ He leaned forward. ‘I know Antonelli. He is a schemer, I agree. Brilliant. Hence, dangerous. But …’ He shook his head. ‘Unless he’s rebuilding the Colosseum, he couldn’t spend the money.’

  ‘Those kinds of sums are only used for one thing,’ Loredan said.

  ‘War,’ Swan and Bembo said, together.

  Dinner was wonderful; an evening that Swan looked back on with pleasure for the rest of his life. Loredan’s wife, Donna Maria, was clever, witty and self-deprecating, pretending she could not run her house without Sophia. She was also self-effacing in a way that surprised Swan, slipping away to watch her servants, or sitting silently when men spoke, in the way of an older Venice. And Bembo’s young wife, Irene, had straight dark hair and a face both severe and serene. She was dressed a little more like a nun than seemed possible for someone who had been described as ‘vain’. But when addressed she spoke with lively intelligence. Swan watched her as she engaged others; she was young but very mature, and as social convention forced her to listen, she listened with care. She often whispered asides to Alessandro.

  Swan noticed that Alessandro paid her many small attentions. He put his hand on her arm often, and when she whispered to him, he smiled.

  Sophia, on the other hand, was completely silent, like a proper maiden, but she delighted Swan by arriving veiled for dinner, and then, after a whisper with Donna Maria, removing her veil. She sat across from him.

  Swan was almost unable to eat for the pleasure of looking at Sophia. He caught Donna Irene watching her, too. He couldn’t decide, watching them, whether they knew each other or not; while Irene looked at Sophia, Sophia never returned her glances.

  The food was glorious and very Venetian; rice, squid in its own ink, ducks from the lagoon, fish. The wines were superb, and when the boards were lifted, the ladies retired to look after themselves, as someone graciously phrased it. Loredan went to look out a dessert wine, and left Swan alone with Bembo.

  ‘My wife finds you scary,’ he said. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘She must find you terrifying,’ Swan said, trying not to be displeased.

  Bembo shrugged. ‘For an arranged marriage, it is surprisingly good. In fact, our parents were perhaps … attuned to us.’ He shrugged. ‘As to the other matter?’

  ‘Which other matter?’ Swan asked.

  ‘The money,’ Alessandro said. ‘It must be the Pope himself.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Almost certainly.’

  Bembo cursed. ‘You make me want to come back,’ he said.

  A week. A week of dinners with Sophia, with a conspiracy of friends arranging, against social convention, that she either accompany her mistress to the Ca’ Bembo, or that Loredan feed them.

  One glorious autumn afternoon, she and Swan were mysteriously sharing an open gondola as they made their way to an offshore island convent for a mass that Loredan’s wife ‘had to attend’. They were part of a small flotilla with a dozen other boats carrying the whole family, including the children, who were quite taken aback that they were not travelling with their beloved governess, and a picnic.

  There was no privacy at all; the boatman was a family retainer.

  ‘I think that Messire Loredan would drop me in your bed if it would tie you to Venice,’ Sophia said. She smiled at him. Her veil was off.

  ‘To be fair, he values you very highly as well,’ Swan said. Just the word bed made him want her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am valued because I’m good with his children, who are very good children anyway. You are valued because you might serve the state. Hmm?’ She spoke without anger.

  ‘I think you are going to be a most uncomfortable partner, Demoiselle Sophia,’ Swan said. ‘And I seem to remember you serving the state.’

  ‘Only by mistake,’ she said with a pretty shrug. ‘Or so the story might be told. You know, Swan, sometimes I hate being a woman.’

  Swan nodded.

  And at the convent, a long parade from the small, brick-lined wharf to the distant church. Demoiselle Sophia shepherded her children and Swan accompanied them, getting to know the Loredan son and daughter, whose manners were excellent. The boy was very small and yet very lively. The daughter copied anything Sophia did and was five years older.

  Donna Maria came up and seized both children. ‘I want to show you where my sister is buried,’ she said to her daughter, and then she smiled shyly at Swan.

  Sophia waited until they turned down the narrow path to the small cemetery and then sat on a small bench. ‘I have something in my shoe,’ she said. She was blushing furiously.

  Swan stood patiently as a dozen servants passed.

  He was thinking about the Pope, and the money.

  ‘You might help me,’ she said.

  He knelt by her; her face was almost scarlet.

  She leaned forward and put her mouth boldly on his. The shock was still rippling through him when she tore herself away, leaned back, and got to her feet.

  In a flash of hindsight, Swan realised that the whole process – the cemetery, the stone in the shoe – had been masterminded to make time for the kiss.

  She looked at him and began to walk rapidly along the path after the servants in the distance.

  Swan shook his head. He hurried after her.

  ‘You weren’t doing anything,’ she hissed. ‘Someone has to.’

  They were both laughing like fools when they reached the church. But the incident decided him; he wanted to marry her. There was a great deal to the demoiselle, and she was not just a bluestocking.

  The next day, Swan caught men following him. They were not very good at what they did, and the street- and canalscape of Venice offered very d
ifficult terrain for pursuit or surveillance. Swan came to the conclusion, while sword shopping, that there were only two of them, and they were more used to murder than to stealth. He stood in a Brescian shop, swishing a long, slender sword through the air and admiring its ease of handling, loving it, wanting to cut and thrust with it; the glass window at the front was open, and both of his men were in sight, both lounging against buildings like the bravos they were. One actually threatened a passer-by for bumping into him.

  Swan had learned his first lessons in invisibility in Southwark, stealing questionable meat pies with other boys, and attended his finishing school by working for Alessandro. One of the cardinal lessons Alessandro taught was that one should never call attention to oneself. This was exactly in line with Swan’s lessons from Southwark, so he learned easily; the men across the street were more interested in being tough than in being invisible, and it made them obvious.

  Swan left Clemente behind him in the shop and went to a glover to get gloves, having ruined all of his at Belgrade. He created errands, moving from one shop to another, taking a boat, leaving it to walk, then climbing steps …

  There were men following the men following him. They were much better at their trade, and very self-effacing. Swan was looking for them, though, and he twice had the advantage of using small bridges to watch his pursuers pass under him in boats. The canals served as funnels. They forced the hunters to take a single route; this allowed Swan to see the whole parade.

  After two hours of fittings and visits, he came back to the sword shop and played with the beautiful weapon again. It was longer than most long swords, with a fine, extended grip for two hands and a simple cross-guard that was turned in a gentle ‘S’, allowing far more protection for the hands.

  The shop’s owner appeared for his second visit, allowed him to play with the weapon and nodded. ‘A brilliant sword,’ the man said.

  Swan made a one-handed fendente cut with it. ‘Wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘Messire is a soldier,’ the shopkeeper said. His Italian was heavily accented with Veneziano.