Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Five: Rhodes (10 page)

No ship. No pitching deck, no orders to give, no tiller under his hand. No masts to examine. Very little wind.

He let his mind wander – to Violetta, to Khatun Bengül, to Tilda and any other woman he could imagine, but what came to him instead were the sound of an assassin’s footsteps in an alley in Venice and the feeling of a skull popping under his weight.

‘Christ,’ he cursed, now fully awake. He sat up and shivered in the pre-dawn cold.

He got up and found his writing kit, and carried it down to the beachfront littered in tables and chairs, and sat in the dawn and wrote a letter to Violetta. It was only the second letter he could remember writing, on his own, and it took him quite some time to compose – he wanted it to sound witty.

He was not altogether pleased with the result, and one paragraph in particular sounded the wrong note. He’d tried to explain about fighting – about how he felt when he fought. It sounded … foolish.

He took his sharp quill knife and cut the parchment. Then he rummaged again in his writing kit, looking for a scrap of parchment to glue on for a better paragraph, and instead found Cyriaco of Ancona’s little book.

He had forgotten about it altogether.

He opened the book to Mytilini, and sure enough, there were four names, with addresses and amounts of money. None of them, he noted, were women, and for a moment he wondered how he could write a letter to Violetta while contemplating finding a nice warm …

He smiled and sighed.

He found the four houses easily enough. The nearest was in the street immediately behind the taverna – the farthest was all the way on the other side of the fortress, just a ten-minute walk. The air was pleasant and the Greeks greeted him as if he, too, lived there, despite his sword and dagger and Italian clothes, and he responded in kind, with the saint’s day and the local benison.

When he came to the most distant house, a man was sitting in a chair by his front doorstep, mending a net.

‘
Khairete!
’ Swan greeted the man.

The man frowned and went back to his net.

‘You fish?’ Swan asked.

‘No, I use this to catch demons, and to imprison rude fellows who ask impertinent questions.’ The man raised his eyes and smiled. He was fifty or more years old, and he had the eyes and nose of a heavy drinker. He shrugged. ‘Eh, and sometimes I catch fish. You? You kill people, eh?’

Swan shook his head. ‘Only when they annoy me,’ he said, hoping he had the tone of the conversation right. ‘Do you know Cyriaco? The Italian?’

The man on the chair raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps.’ He affected indifference. ‘There are many Italians named Cyriaco,’ he said.

‘De’ Pizzicolli?’ Swan asked. ‘From Ancona?’ He reached into his purse and extracted a good coin – a Venetian soldino which he’d kept because it was new minted, shiny, and the relief was excellent.

The old drunk eyed the coin for a moment. ‘I don’t sell wine,’ he said. ‘And a Venetian coin on a Genoese island is a hard thing to spend. Eh?’ He got up and went inside.

Walking away, Swan realised that he might have played that game better – he might have had a small payment ready in the form of a gift – or even a jug of wine. He might have spoken to the man in a more private place. He might have done many things, but he hadn’t, and he’d only make a fool of himself trying to get the man back.

And he wondered how the Gattelusi would feel about his quest for informants. He began to watch the streets around him the way he would have done if it had been Venice. Or Rome.

After a breakfast of stale bread and wine, he tried again, at the third address. This time, he watched the house for an hour from the steps of the nearest Greek church – watched the owner turn a key in his door, and walk off towards the harbour with a bag on his back. Swan followed him into the main market in the middle of the town, where the man hooked curtains over the bare poles of` a stall, hauled a table from a nearby shed, and began to lay out wares.

Swan wandered over. The man was a silversmith, and Swan examined his wares and chose a set of twenty buttons, equally useful to a rich Greek or a prosperous Italian, with the head of the Virgin on each one.

He took the last six ducats from his purse and counted down two for the buttons. And then two more.

‘Cyriaco of Ancona sends his greetings,’ he said as casually as he could manage.

The man’s hand hovered over the gold coins.

Swan’s gut tightened.

And then the hand pounced like a cat on a rat. ‘I have missed our chats,’ the Greek said. ‘I sent a letter,’ he whispered. ‘I never got a reply.’

Swan nodded. ‘All I want is for you to continue writing letters,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a cup of wine?’ he added, motioning to where a small taverna was just opening, the owner blinking in the new sunlight.

The Greek man’s smile tightened.

Inside his own head, Swan kicked himself. ‘Ah – of course. Perhaps we might meet …’ Swan struggled for some way they might appear together in public – a Greek and a Frank.

‘Cyriaco sometimes liked to visit the old ruins,’ the Greek said. ‘I can hire donkeys and horses – if you have time. Perhaps tomorrow?’

Swan bowed. ‘I would like that of all things,’ he said. ‘Might we visit the temples near Kalloni?’

The Greek sniffed slightly, as if detecting a foul smell. ‘That is … very far. The baths at Thermi? A quick trip.’

Swan sighed. ‘Of course.’

They parted with every evidence of goodwill.

The next few hours taught Swan that spying – the gathering of information – was the very dullest of occupations. Had there been anyone to train him … But there was not, and Swan criss-crossed the town, seeking excuses to talk to people who would never, ordinarily, talk to foreigners. He had the advantage of a list of people who had, at least, been willing to do such a thing in the past – but the list of people didn’t include any methods of making the first contact, and he had to learn every element from first principles.

By mid-afternoon, when the church bells rang for nones, he was tired, hungry and irritable.

And then he realised that he was due in two hours at the castle, and he hurried to his inn.

‘There’s a package on the bed for you,’ Fra Tommaso said. ‘And a note from a Greek silversmith, and another from a man who rents horses. What a busy, busy boy you are.’

The package on the bed was a magnificent piece of linen with woven-in stripes of deep Tyrian red-purple, the very colour most prized by the emperors at Constantinople. It had a stripe along each selvedge. The whole was sewn in a tube. There were, included in the package, a pair of pins – really, brooches – that were in the form of lions. They were made of solid gold, and worth … Swan guessed they were worth twenty ducats a piece. There was also a belt of tiny gold links, and a pair of sandals in red leather with gold buckles. And a very short cloak – a wonderful, soft wool, dark blue, but with a Tyrian red hem that matched the rest.

Swan played with the fabric, trying to imagine how to put it on.

Then he went to the baths. This time, he moved more quickly, avoided boys with trays of wine, and was neat, clean, and presentable an hour before he was due at the castle. He walked down the beach, where two work parties – oarsmen and sailors who had earned Fra Tommaso’s wrath – were scraping the hulls and applying clean, new pitch.

The Lord of Eressos was watching. With him were a dozen mounted
stradiotes
and two heavy wagons. Swan walked carefully across the sand and paused, a little unsure of himself. As a volunteer of the order, did he outrank a local lord? Or rather, would he annoy the knights?

He was saved from his social predicament by the Lord of Eressos bowing from the saddle. ‘Ah! The English prince.’

Swan returned the bow with interest. ‘My lord,’ he said.

‘Happy Saint George’s Day, Your Grace’ the man said. He smiled. ‘For you heretics!’

The Lord of Eressos was not as old as he had appeared the day before. Rare among Greeks, he had blond hair – ruddy blond, with a snub nose and freckles. With time to examine him, Swan noted that he had Genoese gloves tucked in his belt, and wore Italianate hose and boots, very different from what his retainers wore. And a fine sword that looked – to Swan’s professional eye – like a German sword with some age to it.

All this in an instant. Swan nodded. ‘I shall sail back in ten days and wish you the same, my lord.’ He wasn’t sure he’d ever actually been referred to as ‘Your Grace’ before, and he was prepared to like it.

‘My father was a great one for Saint George,’ the lord went on. ‘And Saint Andrew and Saint Patrick. He was not a Greek.’

‘English?’ Swan asked, because he was coming to believe that half the population of Lesvos was English.

‘Scots,’ the Lord of Eressos said. ‘He came out when the Company of Saint George took the
condotta
for the Gattelusi. He was constable,’ the young man said with pride. ‘By the way, I’m called Hector. Hector Zambale of Eressos.’

Swan tried to parse Zambale and came up with nothing. ‘Is Zambale a local name?’ he asked.

The young tow-headed Greek grinned. ‘In Scots, its Campbell. Zambale is what the Emperor made of Da’s name.’

Swan grinned. The Lord of Eressos’s smile was infectious. ‘Enjoying our ships?’ he asked.

‘The prince ordered us to provide pitch this morning. Prince Dorino likes to see his orders carried out quickly. He wants you to sail away and leave us alone as soon as possible, so that if the Turks return he can claim he didn’t know you.’ Zambale watched two men with a red-hot iron sealing the patched seam on the bow of the
Blessed Saint John.
‘We offered shipwrights, but apparently your knights don’t trust Greeks near their ships.’

There didn’t seem to be a good answer to that.

‘Is it true you are a prince of England?’ Zambale asked. ‘I hope I don’t offend when I say you seem a lot more relaxed than the princes I know.’

Swan laughed. ‘I’m the bastard of a bastard. Nonetheless, John of Gaunt really is my grandfather.’

‘A famous line, even if reached the wrong way,’ Zambale said. ‘Prince Dorino intends to make much of you tonight. Can you dance?’

‘I know all the Italian dances,’ Swan said, suddenly thankful for Violetta’s instruction and a month of home entertainment.

Zambale nodded. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It should be quite an evening.’ He looked around. ‘The oarsmen say you are quite the swordsman. That you killed ten Turks fighting in a mine under Rhodos.’ He grinned to take the sting out of his next remark. ‘You don’t look like such a firebrand.’

Swan scratched his beard. ‘Swords fascinate me. I … practise. And the knights – they have very high standards for everything – wrestling, swordsmanship – even fighting with the dagger.’

Zambale’s eyes fairly glowed with enthusiasm. ‘Would you care to teach me?’ he asked.

‘Teach you what?’ Swan asked.

‘Anything!’ Zambale said. ‘I’m a young pup in a backwater and nothing ever comes here. We don’t get good sword masters and we don’t get good dancing masters. I learned everything from Da’s friends.’ He said it with the air of a man who didn’t believe a word of his own modesty.

Sweet Jesu
, Swan thought.
He thinks he’s a swordsman.

The Lord of Eressos dismounted and threw his reins to an oarsman, who glared at him with the resentment of a free man for an aristocrat.

‘You don’t practise with sharp swords,’ Swan said as kindly as he could manage. ‘In Italy and Rhodos they have practice swords.’

Hector Zambale was young and immortal. ‘Oh –
we
do. Nothing to it. I’ll be careful.’ The younger man was bouncing on his toes. He was a clear six feet tall and probably three fingers taller than Swan, and had shoulders as broad as an ox. He drew his heavy long sword with a flourish.

Swan wasn’t wearing a long sword. ‘If you’d like me to show you some things, perhaps you’d like to use an arming sword?’ he asked.

The other man nodded. ‘Sure, it would be a great shame to have a mismatch.’ He went to his horse and drew a smaller sword from the scabbard on his saddle.

‘The big sword was my da’s,’ he said. ‘Now we’ll have a proper tiff.’

His arming sword was much more modern – with a finger ring and a complex ricasso, it was like a slightly more aristocratic version of a Venetian marine’s sword, complete to a spur on the backbone for trapping the unwary.

‘Guard yourself, now,’ Zambale said, and attacked.

The Graeco-Scot was big and fast and, unlike a genuine swordsman, seemed to be willing to squander energy with every blow, so that he twirled his weapon, made a dozen fanfaronades, cut the air, and bounced on his toes. Swan moved around the beach as quickly as he could, trying to remain fluid and graceful and hoping desperately that someone would come and put a stop to it.

Instead, the oarsmen gathered in a ring and began wagering.

‘Stop running away!’ Zambale shouted. ‘You were going to
teach me.
’ He laughed.

Swan cursed and backed away again. The younger man would have been easy to kill – his whole style invited Swan to cut his sword-hand off at the wrist, and the temptation to do so was growing. The redhead was swinging hard – swinging to intimidate. If he missed a parry, he’d be dead.

Swan tried a simple overhead cut, and the other man parried heavily, so that the sword-blades locked for a moment. Zambale pushed – hard – and made Swan stumble.

Swan thrust outside into the bigger man’s covered line – a foolish move, but it did guarantee the man would be safe. As Swan stepped back from his failed attack, Zambale twirled his sword over his wrist …

And Swan cut at his head, forcing him to make a rapid parry. It was the same blow as before – the Graeco-Scot grinned as the blades locked.

He began to use the force of his wrist on the bind, but Swan had a different notion, and had stepped forward and offline. His left hand shot out and he grabbed his opponent’s blade high in the air – near the point – while keeping the blades locked by the hilt. Then he pushed with his left hand, rotating the other man at his knees and midsection. His left elbow passed over Zambale’s head, and the blade – his own blade – lay along his neck.