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

Di Brachio shrugged again. ‘I am not yet ready for this surrender,’ he said. ‘I am like a citadel that, having survived a nasty siege, is not anxious to join the new peace. And what of the poor girl?’

Ser Marco looked offended. ‘What of her? Girls are girls. They know the game.’

Di Brachio shook his head. ‘Messire, you are the finest commander under whom I have shipped, but on this, we do not agree.’

Ser Marco embraced him. ‘Well, you are a fine soldier, and I’m sure we don’t like other things, too.’

Later, after the ship had docked right against the quay in St Mark’s Square and Ser Marco had returned his banner to the church and ordered the rowers to begin the last leg of the journey round to the arsenal, he also embraced Swan.

‘Try and keep Master Di Brachio alive,’ he said. ‘He might grow to be a great man — and a great Venetian.’ The knight shrugged. ‘If he survives long enough. You are a good man, Master Swan. I believe I owe you my life, and I remain at your service.’

Di Brachio went ashore to see his father, and Swan stood alone on the dock, his spirits oppressed. Many of the arsenali had pressed him to come and drink, but he knew that as a ‘gentleman’ he would only slow them. The archers were men he liked — he’d played dice and piquet with them, and the Spaniard, now much recovered, was a well-lettered man whose friendship he was happy to have.

But the archers had left the ship in St Mark’s Square, and were probably already drunk. The other men-at-arms were Venetian gentlemen, and their families had met them at the arsenal.

He saw the unloading of the wicker baskets carrying his armour, and the second basket with all the scrolls that he and Peter had rescued. Then he arranged a boat for all the mimes, and, aided by Giannis, still recovering, and Irene, he got them and their various treasures aboard and rowed across to the western part of the city.

The old whore was still on duty at the end of the warehouses. He waved, and she grinned, and he felt a fool, but the familiar sights were cheering and he had an odd feeling of isolation, as if he was wrapped in a carpet. Giannis and Irene kissed and cosseted each other at every turn, and Nikephorus was sunk in a study, and Swan missed Di Brachio and missed Peter.

The boat landed them near his old inn. He paid the boatman to stay.

‘Giannis — wait here,’ he told the soldier, and the other man nodded. His whole attention was on the girl.

Swan ran up the ladder, found that his sea legs were still strong on him, and rolled down the street for some paces before he recovered the ability to walk. But he got to the inn without being robbed, and established that they could lodge six foreigners and their belongings.

‘Where’s Joan?’ Swan asked the innkeeper.

‘Bah! She ran off with a sailor,’ the innkeeper said. ‘I have another slut if you feel the itch.’

Swan made a face and returned to the boat, and got his party of Greeks ashore and to the inn. He shared a room with Nikephorus, and he went to bed early after two cups of horrible wine. He lay listening to Irene giggle and groan and make sweet little shrieks, and tried to decide why he might be jealous. He wasn’t jealous of the woman, or the man. Merely their satisfaction in each other.

In the morning, he left the Greeks to their own devices — Greeks in Venice had many friends — and had himself rowed to the Jewish quarter after an injunction that the head must be guarded at all times. He arranged to see Rabbi Aaron.

None of the men at the gates were his friends. He felt as if he’d died and gone to a place like Venice, but populated with shadows of the men he’d seen before, and he all but growled at the young Jews, and they bridled.

Rabbi Aaron greeted him soberly, and Swan handed over a thick packet of letters from Constantinople.

Aaron bowed stiffly. ‘My thanks, and that of my house,’ he said.

Swan’s sense of dislocation was increased by Aaron’s distance. ‘Rabbi?’ he enquired.

‘I have another student to whom I must attend,’ Aaron said, and bowed again.

Swan knew he was dismissed, and withdrew, feeling as hurt as if he’d received a sword thrust.

The next week in Venice was one of the longest of Swan’s life. The strangest premonitions ruled him, and he found himself looking at the head six times a day — at one point, on his way across the lagoon to see Di Brachio, he was so pierced with worry about the head that he ordered his gondolier to turn the boat and row him back to the steps nearest his inn. Notes to Di Brachio brought no response, and the Greeks were constantly busy with their own friends — Venice was full of Greek exiles.

But on Friday Di Brachio sent him a note; that night he dined with Di Brachio’s father, who was effusive in his praise, and the next morning they prepared a convoy of horses and a cart to take the Greeks and all of their belongings to Rome. The next two days passed in a pleasant whirl of near-military preparations, and on Monday, they rode for Rome, with two carts, all of the Greeks, two French merchants and a priest and six soldiers provided by Messire Bembo. Despite the season, they made good time, and passed the length of the Romagnol with no more trouble than they travelled the Veneto — although the tolls were higher and the local soldiers looked like criminals dressed in armour. They climbed into the hills, drank thin red wine that never seemed to warm them, and endured three straight nights in hostels built to accommodate pilgrims, where they endured fleas of a number and viciousness unlike anything they had encountered. The Greeks went and stayed in the stable, and Andromache reproved Swan.

‘You rescued us from the Turks so that we could be eaten by your ferocious heretic insects! Are you sure this isn’t hell? It’s cold, and the bugs …’ She shook her head.

The third night, Di Brachio returned from a long ride ahead to report that all four inns were full to the rafters.

Swan shrugged. ‘In England, sometimes a gentleman will rent a barn,’ he said.

Di Brachio nodded. He was biting the leather of his riding glove, trying to get it off. ‘Yes, it is much the same with us,’ he said. He pointed his chin at the distant towers of a small castle. ‘Go ask them. Be English and noble — everyone here likes that.’

Swan’s cloak and gloves were soaked through with icy rain, and he could see that Master Nikephorus’s lips were blue, so he cantered his rented horse across the fields to the castle, which, close up, proved to be very small. But they had a small stone barn, and the very cautious owner, who conducted his entire negotiation from behind a cocked crossbow, agreed to rent them the barn for five ducats — an outrageous price. But some hours later, when they sat in the firelit dark with good food — brought by the cautious lord’s servants — and good wine, the ducats seemed well spent.

Di Brachio was in no hurry to make his blankets, and he and Swan sat up, listening to the others snore.

Swan told his mentor the tale of the rabbi’s stiffness, and Di Brachio shrugged elaborately, palms up. ‘Listen — you stole the head of Saint George and twisted the Sultan’s tail,’ he said. ‘You think this will have no consequence? Are you an idiot? Jews were probably arrested — mayhap Solomon himself was arrested.’

Swan froze.

‘Your friend Omar Reis will not lightly accept a defeat, Messire Swan. Men will die. Others will be tortured. The price of your little escapade …’ He shrugged. ‘Bessarion may be none too pleased with us.’

Swan shook his head. ‘Why — damn it! I did everything he asked!’

Di Brachio lay back in the straw. ‘Yes — well. Goodnight, English. And don’t forget the Orsini, tomorrow. They have long memories — eh? And long knives.’