Christian Cameron - Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four - Rome

The Anconan shook his head. ‘No time to play collector, my friend. Fra Tommaso wants your goods at the ship tonight, and he intends to sail-’

‘He can sail when I tell him to sail,’ Drappierro said. It was said with such a flat certainty of authority that Swan was tempted to stand straighter. ‘I have gifts for Mehmet — not the sort of shit the Pope sent him, either.’ Drappierro turned his back to Swan. ‘Now, show me what’s new.’

Cyriaco smiled an ingratiating smile, but his voice went up half an octave. ‘Fra Tommaso has men-at-arms for Monemvasia and for Kos, my friend. He will not welcome your gifts, and he’s had his yards crossed for a week. He plans to sail in the morning.’

‘More soldiers — provocations like that are bad for business.’ Drappierro pointed at Swan. ‘Will he report everything I say to the knights?’

Cyriaco’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He is a young volunteer, and a friend of friends of mine.’

‘Very well, Cyriaco. I’ve met him, I’m suitably impressed, and I have some issues to discuss with you. Send him home. I’ll find him something to make him some money when the time comes.’ Drappierro’s hand made a finger-flicking motion — a rude gesture of dismissal.

Cyriaco looked at Swan and he let out a sigh. ‘Francesco, your manners used to be a great deal better,’ he said.

The Genoese shrugged. ‘I was poorer then,’ he said. His eyes met Swan’s for the first time. ‘I’m not at my best when I travel,’ he added.

Swan bowed.

As he let himself out, he heard the Genoese say, ‘Really, Cyriaco. Another penniless waif?’

Swan got very little sleep.

At the door, in the cold, Violetta kissed him for the hundredth time. ‘You can’t take Antoine,’ she said. ‘I’m not a cook.’

He laughed. ‘You can eat gold. I left you all mine. I’ll be back in a few months.’

She kissed him again. ‘You are the best husband I’ve ever had,’ she said.

They laughed together, and she squeezed her body against his, and he considered missing his ship.

Later, he watched Ancona roll down over the horizon from the stern of the galley, while Fra Tommaso shouted at his timoneer and the new crew tangled their oars. When Ancona was gone, he walked forward, down the ladder, and entered the galley’s only cabin, which was as spartan as you would expect on a warship whose captain was sworn to poverty.

‘And who might you be?’ a man asked in Genoan Italian. The accent reminded Swan of Father Ridolpho. Rome seemed very far away.

‘I’m Thomas Swan,’ he said. He bowed as the ship rolled in the swell of the Adriatic. ‘Cyriaco introduced us last night.’

‘Did he?’ the man drawled. He looked up. ‘Ah — you. Get me some wine, will you?’

Swan put a hand on his hip, as he had learned when he was a royal page. ‘Words of courtesy would make me the more willing,’ he said. ‘I am not your servant.’

‘Are you not?’ asked Drappierro. He glanced at Swan. ‘Never mind, then.’ He read his document further and said, ‘Fetch me a servant, will you? There’s a good fellow.’

Swan went back on deck.

He wasn’t welcome forward, with the sailors, nor amidships, with the oarsmen. The cabin had just become a little too close.

He found a place to sit out of the wind where the stern cabin joined the rowing deck, pulled his heavy cloak around himself, and prepared for a long voyage.