Christian Cameron: Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Five: Rhodes

Every time his hand met Theodora’s, he felt a pressure from her fingers. And her eyes lingered on his, so that, in the last figure, the prince leaned over to him and said, ‘I’ve always thought that a man who could communicate with a woman by means of his eyes was a man who could govern other men.’

Swan bowed as he passed. ‘That is a fine compliment,’ he said.

‘A lifetime of listening to them, and you become quite expert, my boy,’ Prince Dorino commented, before they were swept apart.

And there was a moment when all five sets were moving together. They’d danced it twice — now even the slowest participants knew the dance — and finally every foot was moving on the tempo; the saltarellos looked as if they’d been performed by professionals, and the men all managed their turns together, and clapped — and Swan was, for a moment, in the heart of the music — turning, weaving, touching hands, and back — turn — a glance from Theodora, and he was so deep in the dance that he had no feeling that he was dancing, but rather, flying. It had happened to him before, fencing, but never in the dance, and he ended it flushed, and full of excitement.

Theodora came and for a heartbeat leaned against him. She smelled … like heaven. A heaven that included young women and jasmine. ‘Don’t disappoint me,’ she said, and pressed something soft into his hand, and walked with dignity to where the prince was congratulating his daughter.

Swan picked up someone else’s cup of wine and drank a draught, and then walked into the first corridor and found a servant, who pointed him to the jakes — up a set of stairs, and past a couple moaning against a pillar. And then through perfumed near-darkness, where sounds of kissing seemed to resonate on every side — it was like having to run a gauntlet of lust.

But Swan smiled the smile of a lover close to his desire. By the light of a resin-scented torch, he opened the cloth in his hand. He looked at it carefully, then folded it away — used the jakes for their natural purpose, and then went back to the torch and looked again.

At some point, the lines came clear. They’d been written in a pretty sepia on linen, and the tiny, perfectly rendered picture of the krater on its plinth told him everything, once he recognised it.

He ran Aphrodite’s gauntlet again, and returned to the hall in time to hear ten local Greek men sing a near-perfect polyphony. He applauded as wildly as every other person, and then they were going to the dressing rooms, where half-naked men fought for possession of enough space to pull on their hose and lace their hose to their doublets. Most of them were dressed magnificently, and Swan was very pleased that the Greek dress had been the theme — his clerical brown would never have won the hand of the fair lady, he suspected.

The Lord of Eressos was dressed long before Swan, and waved at him. ‘I will join you tomorrow,’ he said. There was something in his smile that suggested that he — like Swan — had another errand.

Swan contrived to be among the last men to change, and then he wandered to the table, which still groaned under pitchers of wine, and poured himself a little.

‘You don’t seem to be in a hurry to leave,’ Prince Dorino said, his high voice slurred. ‘Never leave.’ He put a heavy hand on Swan’s shoulder. ‘Dance until you die, boy. There’s nothing after this but darkness.’

Swan didn’t have a ready answer.

‘Go on, boy,’ the prince said. ‘Not every night is magical. Fortuna is a fickle bitch.’

Swan put the cup down, and bowed. And then walked through the archway.

He made it through all the turnings — there were six. Outside the door that had been marked, there was a servant sitting in a chair — but even after a magical night of moonlight and dancing, Swan’s brain worked, and he noted that the servant was reading a book in Italian — had curling black hair, and slim feet.

Swan leaned down and kissed her without a word — possibly the boldest thing he’d ever done. Even as her lips explored his, her eyes — wide open — acknowledged that he had been bold, and for a moment he thought that perhaps — perhaps — he had the entire thing wrong and she was going to scream.

She stood up into his arms. She was as strong as a man.

For a moment, with her gold-flecked eyes open under his, Tom Swan’s world was utterly perfect.

Then the bells of the town began to ring — and then the bells on the fortress chapel.

‘Oh,’ she said.

They both laughed. There was no other possible reaction.

A voice in the courtyard yelled, ‘The Turks! The Turkish fleet!’

Swan turned and gathered her in his arms, and she put her hands behind his head. ‘I think you should come back,’ she said. ‘Heroes generally bore me, but you seem-’ she sighed. ‘Like Odysseus,’ she said. ‘Don’t die,’ she added.

Can Tom Swan get the girl? And which girl? Can he stay alive while he catches the traitor, steals the ring, saves the English family aboard the Katherine Sturmy and arranges for the defeat of the Turks?

Probably not. It may be enough if he lives — to get home to his wife.