Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Two: Venice (11 page)

‘I was the tenth choice for the embassy,’ Claudio admitted. ‘He fancies himself a great man on an important mission, whereas the rest of us know that he’s the only man who’d take the job, and what he’s doing is a formality.’ The doctor shrugged. ‘He wanted a famous medico, and he got me.’

‘You are very good,’ Swan said.

‘You are very kind,’ Claudio said. ‘Before I threw my little loop over Ser Marco’s artery, I had never – in a practical way – manipulated a human body. One that was alive, anyway.’

‘By God!’ Swan said.

‘Oh, I have experimented on myself,’ the little doctor said, as if that made it all better.

A Turkish boat came across and the embassy loaded up to move to Constantinople. Giannis came down to the ship and took Swan, Peter and the doctor and their gear to the Turkish boat, and they were rowed across the Horn – a curious and very exacting piece of small-boat handling, given the current. Giannis chatted with the boat’s crew in Greek.

‘What do they say?’ asked Alessandro.

‘That the taxes are lower,’ Giannis said. He was angry. ‘They are traitors.’

Swan shrugged. ‘I’m not sure they are,’ he said, thinking of the Gascons and the ‘Englishmen’ of the Dordogne. ‘People need peace in order to live.’

Giannis glared at him, and he hid his smile and watched the rapid current sweep them north towards the Euxine.

It took twenty days for the bishop to present his credentials. He was outraged by the wait.

Swan was in heaven, and would happily have had the embassy delayed another twenty days.

It was like a journey to some exotic dream, peopled by the best of classical antiquity and a thousand Sir Palomides, the Saracen knight of King Arthur’s court. The Greeks looked haunted, but shops were open. If there were gaps – enormous gaps, where fifty buildings had burned, where a whole square of shops had been looted and destroyed – there were also whole quarters that looked untouched by war. Many establishments smelled of fire, and in one small square, Swan could smell the unmistakable smell of human corpses rotting. The magnificent Hagia Sophia was a stable for the Sultan’s horses. Swan paid a ducat – a staggering sum – and was allowed to walk around. Earth had been put over the floors, and men on scaffolds were painting whitewash over the mosaics of gold and lapis and marble.

He kept his thoughts to himself.

At the great doors, he met a young man who bowed to the ground. ‘You are the English prince?’ he asked.

Swan was seldom confounded by his own tales, but this gave him pause for a moment – and then he recognised the young man. ‘Idris? Son of Omar Reis?’

The handsome young man bowed again. ‘The same. I . . . owe you my life.’

Swan returned the bow. ‘Well – it proved to be a fine decision on my part,’ he said. ‘I have a suspicion that if you’d been lying in a pool of your own blood, your father would have killed us all.’

Idris shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Truth to tell, I am
not
my father’s favourite.’ He shrugged again. Greeks and Turks had that shrug in common. ‘Come and have coffee. Tell me how I can be of service to you.’

‘How is your hand?’ Swan asked, all contrition.

Idris bowed. ‘I can still hold a sword,’ he said. ‘One small finger – a small price to pay for my life.’

As they walked across the great square, Swan reflected briefly on how narrowly he and this other man had come to one killing the other – and now, under a change of circumstance, they sat together drinking tiny thimbles of hot, sweet liquid and talking about language.

‘I have learned Turkish, of course, and Arabic. Italian. But the most beautiful is Persian. I write poetry in Persian.’ Idris stared off into space. ‘My father disapproves of my poetry writing. And my taste in friends,’ he added with the frank bitterness of the young. ‘I went to sea to prove to him that I am a
man
. He is such a barbarian, he thinks that the ability to ride a horse and fight with a sword defines you. But of course, I was captured.’

Swan flashed briefly on the fierce eyes – on the man parrying with his shield alone, after he’d been hit in the sword-arm. ‘I’ll be happy to testify to your bravery,’ Swan said. ‘May I have another?’

‘Effendi,’ murmured the Greek shopkeeper.

‘I owe you too much already. How can I repay you?’ asked the Turk.

Cash? A bloody great pile of ducats?

‘You could teach me Turkish,’ Swan said.

Idris made a face. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

Next day, Swan took Peter as a guard and went to find the Jews.

They weren’t allowed to bear weapons openly, but both of them had daggers under their cloaks. Swan was sure he was followed every time they left the small inn where they were lodged in what had been the Venetian quarter. His experience in Venice had made him aware of people following him, but it was difficult here – every street was a sea of new faces; there were refugees and beggars on every corner. Still, he had an idea that the very tall, thin man he’d seen a few times was a shadow, and he tried various tricks – going down a very narrow alley he’d located in the old arcade of silversmiths, walking around by the old palace.

There was a Turkish guard on the gate of the Jewish ghetto. Swan took one look, scratched his chin, then walked back to the inn and sent a note by a beggar boy to Idris. Then he scribbled a note of his own and folded it inside Rabbi Aaron’s letter.

Idris was delighted to accompany them to the gate. He spoke a few words to the gate guard, and Swan guessed that he’d just been described as the Prince of England. He bowed, the gate guard bowed, and the three of them were allowed into the Jewish quarter.

There was damage, here – the synagogue had taken a cannonball, and Swan could see the glitter of magnificent mosaics inside. The three men stood at the entrance to the ghetto, and a pair of young men approached them.

Swan stepped forward, bowed, and asked for the house of Simon the merchant. ‘I have a letter from his brother in Venice,’ he said.

The two young men took him to Simon’s house. He was led inside, and servants bustled about. Simon was far more prosperous then his Venetian brother, the rabbi – he had a pair of Nubian slaves and half a dozen Slavic slaves, like the richest Venetians and Florentines. They were offered coffee, which was, apparently, to Turks what wine was to Italians.

Simon came, and Swan introduced himself and his two companions. He handed over the letter.

Simon bowed. ‘You will pardon me,’ he said. ‘With the siege, it is more than a year since I have heard from my brother.’ Swan saw him palm the inner note expertly and he relaxed. Simon left them for a few minutes, and they made stilted conversation and admired the calligraphy on scrolls around the walls, all of which Idris proclaimed to be Persian.

‘Except this one,’ he said, puzzling over one particularly odd scroll. The letters were both large and violent – square, almost. And yet oddly beautiful.

‘Chinese,’ said Simon, coming back into the room. ‘I thank you very much, Messer, for your kindness to an old Jew. May I be of service?’

Swan bowed. ‘I am interested in purchasing old manuscripts – old Greek manuscripts. I collect them,’ he said. ‘Your brother suggested you might help me.’ In Hebrew, he said, ‘Do you know the house in the note?’

Simon nodded. ‘I have sent a message,’ he said. ‘I expect he will come and fetch his package in person.’

‘I have it on me,’ Swan said. In Italian, he went on, ‘My poor Hebrew doesn’t go as far – could you direct me . . . to the . . .?’

Simon smiled. He waved a hand, and one of the servants led him to the neatest and sweetest-smelling jakes he’d ever seen. There was a basin of water and a basket of towels. Swan opened the basket of towels and put Balthazar’s package inside.

Then he racked his brain for the Hebrew word for ‘towel’.

Nothing came to mind. When Simon looked at him, he gave the man a small nod and mimed washing his hands.

Not even a blink of recognition.

He wasn’t going to discuss any more business with Idris present. So they spoke at random of a dozen things, asked after the family, and the business, as if he were truly an old family friend. He heard a stir in the doorway, and then there were bows.

The man who was presented – yet another Isaac – might have been Balthazar’s second son. He was the right age, and had something of Solomon’s eager friendliness. He also appeared simultaneously too friendly and ill at ease. Idris in particular seemed to excite him, and he flattered the young Turk unmercifully.

At last, Swan managed to withdraw with many protestations of future visits. They walked out the main gate, escorted by two local men, who bowed low as they passed. The janissary saluted.

Idris laughed. ‘Franks are famous for their bigotry,’ he said. ‘And you seem to be friends with everyone.’

Swan shrugged. ‘I make a habit of pulling thorns from the paws of every lion I meet,’ he said.

‘My father likes you,’ Idris said. ‘He’s going to invite you to go hunting with him.’

‘Should I?’ Swan asked.

Idris thought for a moment. ‘It would help me,’ he said.

‘Will your father give me a safe conduct in my own name?’ Swan asked. It was a little too bold, but he wasn’t sure how often he’d have access to the young Turk.

Idris smiled. ‘So – that’s what you want. Why? These old books?’

‘What would you do, to have unlimited access to Persian manuscripts?’ Swan asked.

Idris smiled. ‘You are too intelligent, and I suspect you are using me. But you saved my life – you are entitled to a little use.’ He inclined his head – very like his father – and his bearing reminded Swan that he was not always as clever as he thought he was. ‘I will ask on your behalf.’ He looked at Swan. ‘Listen – promise me something.’

Swan laughed. ‘Yes?’

‘Promise me you aren’t after this thing. This head that all the Christians want. The Sultan spoke of it today. My father has men all over the city looking for it.’

Swan looked confused, or at least, he hoped he did. ‘Head?’ he asked.

‘Christians worship the parts of dead men,’ Idris insisted. ‘In their churches. Feet. Toenails. Arm bones. This is the head of the great warrior.’

‘Maurice?’ Swan asked. He was sweating now. It wasn’t really very funny.

‘Saint George.’ Idris’s brown eyes bored into his. ‘Promise me you are not trying to steal it.’

‘Because you Turks stole it first?’ Swan asked. Sometimes, according to his uncles, it was best to attack.

Idris met his eye – and laughed.

Almost a week passed in which they weren’t allowed out of the Venetian quarter. No reason was given, and the janissaries were polite but absolutely adamant. Swan walked to the market every day, and purchased anything that caught his fancy and that he could afford. He received notes and invites from Aaron’s brother and from Balthazar’s business associates. He had to decline them – he wrote careful notes in stilted Hebrew accompanied by other notes in Italian, trying to make clear that his refusal was not his own choice.

The bishop, who had never deigned to notice him, turned after one of the messengers had gone away, and said, ‘How is it that you have friends in Constantinople? Infidel friends?’

Swan bowed. ‘Your Grace must know by now that I took young Idris prisoner in the fight on the boat,’ he said politely.

‘I know nothing of the kind. But I forbid you to have any further communication with him.’ The bishop looked at him. ‘His father is the most terrible of men – an enemy of God. The Greeks call him the son of Satan.’

Swan was about to remonstrate, but Alessandro, who was forced to spend most of his time attending the bishop, made the motion of a blade crossing his throat, which Swan took to mean he should shut his mouth.

The bishop moved on, as if, having given instructions to a servant, he had no further need to communicate. Which, as Swan considered it, was probably how the bishop viewed him.

Cesare sat back and dealt another hand of piquet. ‘If only . . .’ he said. ‘God forgive me for what I’m going to say, but if only he was an aristocrat, and not a jumped-up little Romagnol peasant.’

Swan had to laugh. ‘This from you?’

Cesare spat. ‘Bah,’ he said. ‘Now that I see you are the lost Prince of England, I no longer believe that you are a true man like me, anyway.’

Then he grinned. ‘You are the bastard of a great man. I am the bastard of some roadside tryst.’

‘I’m a better swordsman, too,’ Swan said, and Cesare aimed a swipe at him that almost connected. The four of them – Alessandro, Swan, Giannis and Cesare – fenced with sword and buckler every day. Cesare was growing better by leaps and bounds, closing the gap between his ability and Swan’s even as Swan closed in on Giannis and Giannis drew fractionally closer to the gifted Alessandro.

There was little else to do. Sometimes they fenced for three hours, drank wine and ate good bread in olive oil, and fenced again. The janissaries came and watched. And wagered.

One day Alessandro paused, buckler high, and said – quietly – ‘Can your Jews cash Bessarion’s bill? We’re running low on money.’

‘Not all Jews are moneylenders,’ Swan said. He shrugged. ‘But let me ask.’

He sent Simon a note.

The next day, Simon sent back that he would be happy to change the note for cash. And the janissaries bowed, their high hats nodding on their heads. ‘You are free to visit anywhere inside the confines of the city walls,’ said Murad, the corporal.

The bishop sent word that none of them was to leave the inn.

Alessandro waved him out. ‘I’ll explain,’ he said.

‘Tell him I’m on an errand for the cardinal,’ Swan said. ‘Listen – tell me the address and I’ll take a look at the cardinal’s house.’

Alessandro wrote it down for him.

He went to the Jewish quarter first.

Isaac met him inside the gate, and walked with him to the house of Simon. ‘Your embassy is very carefully watched,’ he said. ‘You know the Sultan is contemplating war with Venice? And the Pope?’

Swan started.

Isaac went on, ‘You Franks are the most arrogant creatures on earth. Do you think that the Sultan is fooled by Venice? He plans to take all Greece – indeed, Omar Reis, who I understand you have met, is even now raising the troops to take the Duchy of Athens and the rest of the Morea.’