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

  ‘Walk away,’ Swan said.

  Almost as if the dagger was controlling the man, the right arm went up, and Zambale slammed the dagger at Swan overhand.

  Swan took the weight of the blow with his open left hand – which then closed like a vice, thumb down, on Zambale’s wrist. He twisted, and Zambale’s face came so close that they were eye to eye, nose to nose, as Swan twisted the other man’s wrist on the blade of the dagger and stripped the weapon, which fell to the floor with a clatter.

  He backed away, leaving the other man with nothing but a sore shoulder.

  The Italian captain took another sip of wine.

  The prostitutes and the wine-boys were watching intently.

  Zambale sighed. He sank to one knee – and plucked up the dagger. ‘Fuck you,’ he said, in Italian.

  The Italian captain drew his dagger and tossed it across the table to Swan, who caught it by the blade and flipped it into his hand.

  ‘Walk away,’ Swan said, again. ‘Whatever you think is worth this – manhood, honour, chivalry, money – it’s not worth it. All lies. Walk away.’

  Zambale shouted incoherently and lunged, and Swan killed him.

  ‘Giovanni della Scalle,’ the Italian captain said, introducing himself. ‘You have killed before, I think.’

  ‘Many times,’ Swan said, in utter self-disgust. He drank down another cup of wine.

  Della Scalle shook his head and made a wry face. ‘I think that you tried not to kill him. I did not really understand – I’m sorry, I didn’t know what was happening.’ His insincerity was as alarming as his initial reluctance – Swan thought that Della Scalle could have disarmed Zambale at any time.

  Swan bowed and returned his cleaned dagger to the man. ‘Messire, I hope it is so, and you will pardon my cynicism, but it must be very convenient in certain quarters that Messire Drappierro’s friend here is … dead.’

  Della Salle blinked, and his eyebrows rose. ‘Very convenient,’ he said. ‘I ought to arrest you, as duelling is illegal, but I find that you acted in self-defence, and I will so report it to the Mahona.’ He leaned forward. ‘I might have killed you, too. My employer would fancy that.’ He nodded.

  ‘I need to leave this place,’ Swan said.

  Two days later, a fishing boat carrying the English squire doubled the long point guarding the Bay of Kalloni and turned into the channel itself on a favouring wind. As the arms of the land opened, Swan could see all the way down the great bay. He could see the pair of galleys on guard just a few bowshots into the bay, and behind them …

  … behind them were forty galleys – some with the arms of the Gattelusi, and some with the arms of the order, and another dozen with the arms of Venice.

  Swan watched them for hours as his fishing boat tacked down the bay, and twice, he wept.

  Eventually, he found himself before Fra Tommaso in the great stern cabin of the Blessed Saint John.

  Fra Tommaso sat quietly, hands crossed.

  Swan stood in silence, too, after an initial bow.

  Finally, Tommaso cleared his throat. ‘I’m glad you survived,’ he said.

  Swan didn’t really trust himself to speak. He tried twice, and Fra Tommaso handed him a cup of sweet wine.

  After he had taken a sip, he managed to begin. He wanted to be calm, and rational. And instead, all he could find was anger.

  ‘It was all a ruse!’ he said.

  Fra Tommaso looked away. Swan had to admit to himself that the man was genuinely moved.

  Swan shook his head. ‘Drappierro was not a spy,’ he said.

  Fra Tommaso spread his hands. ‘That is between Messire Drappierro and God,’ he said. ‘But I think the truth is that he was a very good spy.’

  ‘Drappierro was playing the double agent, but all along he was helping to pin the Turkish fleet in place on pointless little sieges until you rallied the great powers.’ Swan pointed out of the beautifully glazed stern windows at the fleet arrayed behind them. ‘You have the ships for a battle. Odds of two to one are nothing to the order.’ He could not conceal his bitterness. ‘You must have been ready to pounce on their vanguard.’

  ‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘When they separated half their fleet, we sent for the Venetians.’ He shrugged. ‘They came a day late – after the Turks scuttled away.’ Tommaso shook his head. ‘There will be no battle now. Would I be a foolish old man if I guessed that you started the fire on the Turkish flagship?’

  Swan nodded.

  Fra Tommaso hung his head. ‘Thy will be done,’ he said to the crucifix that hung on the cabin wall.

  ‘I also forged a letter from Fra Domenico ordering Drappierro to lure the Turks into pressing the siege of Chios until he could launch his counter-attack.’ Swan chewed and spat each word. ‘I hid it where the Turks were sure to find it after they captured me.’

  Fra Tommaso nodded. ‘Brilliant,’ he said.

  ‘But Fra Domenico sent me for the opposite reason, did he not? The ring was the signal – the ring would tell Drappierro that all was well, and my presence was the guarantee to the Turks that all was exactly as Drappierro was telling them. It was double bluff, and I ruined it.’

  Fra Tommaso looked up and met his eye. ‘We didn’t trust you.’ His eyes dropped. ‘It is God’s will.’ He shook his head. ‘We will never have another Christian fleet like this – not for a hundred years.’ But then he raised his eyes. ‘But you will recall that I never wanted this course of action. I am of the faction in the order that says that our duty is to the sick and the poor, and not to Genoa or Venice.’

  Swan drew the ring of the conqueror from his finger and threw it on the table. ‘Here. Keep it.’ He turned to leave, and paused.

  Fra Tommaso narrowed his eyes. He looked at it and sighed. ‘How did you preserve the ring?’ he asked.

  Swan knew he was bragging. But he couldn’t help himself. ‘I had a copy made,’ he said. ‘I gave Drappierro the copy. It was dark.’ He placed his donat’s ring on the table next to the conqueror’s ring. ‘Neither of these will make anyone invincible,’ he said.

  ‘Drappierro is still alive,’ Fra Tommaso said. ‘Keep it. Fra Domenico gave it to you. You are angry – but this is God’s will. I do not pretend to understand to what end God works. Take the rings – both of them. And stop being a boy. Be a man. Yes, we used you. If we had ordered you to board a Turkish galley alone, you would have gone, and died. Yes?’

  Swan thought for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Fra Tommaso met his eyes squarely. ‘You were expendable. If you succeeded too well …’ He shrugged. ‘At the very least, you saved the lives of hundreds of men who would, in this very hour, be locked in mortal combat – Christians and infidels.’ The old man shrugged. ‘But don’t play the injured innocent. It’s a dirty business. That is war.’

  In the end, Swan took the rings, and a blessing.

  Ancona, in late summer, bore no shadow of the conflict raging at the other end of the Mediterranean. The fishing fleet dotted the sea, and the great round ships and fast galleys of the merchants studded the wharves, and so great was the peace then reigning that Ancona had both Genoese and Venetian shipping in the harbour when Swan’s ship dropped anchor.

  He ordered his armour and kit unloaded and left Peter to watch it while he ran up the streets of the town to his rented house. The smile on his face was so wide that other men and women smiled to see him, and men recognised him and called out, so he had to stop three times and be welcomed.

  And then he was in his own street, and he went to the door and knocked.

  After a few minutes, a cold hand seemed to grip his heart.

  And when the bell rang the hour, his landlady came to her door. She looked frightened.

  ‘Where is my wife?’ he asked.

  She put a hand to her mouth and slammed her door.

  Before Swan could leave his landing, her servant brought him a sealed letter. He knew Violetta’s hand immediately.

  He opened it in eager relie
f – in one minute, he’d feared plague, robbery, kidnapping, and Messire Drappierro’s assassins.

  My dear Tommaso, it began.

  He read a sentence or two, and then his eyes lost their ability to see and for a moment, the world went white.

  He went to an inn and ordered wine.

  When his head was better, he read:

  My dear Tommaso,

  I have left you, and taken all your money. I am truly sorry, but it is dull here, and my soul tells me you are dead. And if you are not – well, I enjoyed playing your wife, but I do not think either one of us meant it for ever, did we?

  I will go to Milan with an old friend, and cause you no scandal. I will remember our Christmas with pleasure.

  I found studying medicine dull. Only men could take the saving of lives and turn it into something dead. I spit on them.

  If you come to Milan – well, do not expect to be my husband, or my pimp, and we will be friends.

  Violetta

  Swan read it six or seven times, and finally he raised his face at a startled servant girl and grinned.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said.

  Later, he told the entire tale to Peter, who knew everything anyway, and to Antoine, who had spent four months cooking for strangers and was obviously happy to have escaped the Turks.

  Peter shrugged with Dutch sangfroid.

  Antoine smiled into his wine. ‘I liked her,’ he said. ‘But she was not anyone’s wife.’

  Swan bowed to the truth of the statement and raised his cup. ‘To Violetta,’ he said.

  The candlelight winked on Alexander’s ring.

  And ten days later, Swan stood before Cardinal Bessarion, with Peter and Antoine at his shoulders. He’d been careful crossing Rome – but not too careful. He rather fancied a fight with the Orsini.

  Bessarion embraced him and offered his ring for a kiss.

  Swan handed the cardinal a thick packet of papers. ‘From your steward on Lesvos,’ he said.

  Bessarion laughed. ‘I gather you return a Christian hero,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Swan allowed. He raised a hand. ‘First – how is Di Brachio? And Giannis? And the rest – Cesare?’

  The cardinal nodded. ‘Di Brachio is still recovering. He had more than a month with the fever. Messire Cesare is at the Curia even now. Giannis and his wife no longer live here, but remain in my employ.’ The cardinal reached across his desk and squeezed Swan’s hand. ‘By God, sir, it is good to have you back. I have a letter from the master of the order praising your work – and your courage.’ Bessarion raised an eyebrow. ‘I have a meeting in five minutes – tell me quickly and then take some weeks and write a full report. Did you catch the spy?’

  Swan thought of Drappierro. And he thought of Prince Dorino, and his three traitors.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Bessarion shrugged. ‘It was a long shot at best.’ He rang the bell on his desk and rose. ‘You have a star from heaven on your finger.’

  Swan drew it off and handed it to the cardinal. ‘I’m told it was the signet ring of the great Alexander.’

  Bessarion slipped it on his finger. ‘We’ll dicker later. As usual, you have exceeded my expectations. Go and sin with your friends, and I’ll see you when I can make time for a cup of wine. Go – go – I don’t want the Pope’s French secretary to even know you exist.’

  Swan slipped out the private door into the servants' corridor, and was enfolded in a deep embrace.

  He looked into Di Brachio’s eyes. They were slightly too bright, as if fever had marked him – but he had weight on, and some muscles, and looked a little more alive than the last time Swan had seen him.

  Alessandro grinned. ‘You English – everything loud, eh? Could you not have saved Chios quietly?’ He embraced the Englishman again.

  Swan grinned back. ‘I missed you – and Giannis and Cesare – every day. I was … way over my head.’

  ‘Ah!’ Di Brachio said. ‘Welcome to the profession.’

  And that night, they sat in a small, quiet inn north of the forum – all seven of them. Giovanni Acudi was brilliant in scarlet robes, and De Brescia looked more prosperous then Swan had ever seen him. Giannis and his new wife Irene sat hand in hand, almost uninterested in the others, and Peter sat with Di Brachio. The cardinal’s other Greeks were on a mission. It was not discussed.

  He heard that De Brescia had been all the way to the Germanies and back, and that Acudi was trying a case against the Orsini and had to be protected by Giannis and thirty men. They drank, and drank, and went to vespers and returned and drank more.

  ‘What were you doing in Germany?’ Swan asked De Brescia, who laughed.

  ‘What indeed?’ the man answered. ‘I went to great conference – almost a parliament. Every ruler in Europe sent their representatives. They met to discuss a crusade, and I believe that I have never seen so many nobly born fools posture so ineptly. The Emperor sponsored the conference – although he does not want a crusade – and the English and French helped pay for it – although they hate each other worse than twenty Turks.’ He shrugged. ‘I was bribed every day.’ He snorted.

  Giannis leaned forward. ‘Despite which, the Hungarians and the Germans may put something together.’ He put a finger to the side of his nose. ‘Do you know who this man is, called Hunyadi?’

  Di Brachio smiled. ‘Fancy a visit to Romania?’ he asked, and everyone laughed except Peter and Swan, neither of whom understood.

  Acudi drew on the table in wine. ‘Mehmet is going to try to take all the rest of the Empire,’ he said. ‘He has four armies preparing.’

  ‘And the Crusaders and their legate will rally to the Hungarians at Belgrade,’ Di Brachio said.

  Swan shook his head. ‘I have a report to write,’ he said. But he laughed. And before the evening ended, they all drank to it.

  ‘To Belgrade!’ they all shouted.

  Also 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

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  Out in hardback and ebook August 2013

  Copyright

  An Orion eBook

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Orion Books

  This eBook first published in 2013 by Orion Books

  Copyright © Christian Cameron 2013

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  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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