Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople (6 page)

Apparently, there were.

He kissed her at the wellhead, and the whole process began again. He’d meant it to be a kiss goodbye. It didn’t have that effect.

But eventually, she let him go down the rope Or rather, he forced himself out of her arms against his own will.

She dropped the grapnel to him after he was on the ladder. And blew him a kiss.

At the base of the ladder, he could still see her light. He felt an intense temptation to climb right back up, but there had been a change in the air of her apartments. And slaves rise early.

He could smell her on his skin – smell her perfume, which seemed to be in every fold of linen and silk in her room, and on every part of her body – rose and lavender and an Eastern scent he didn’t know. And her own scent – musky and heady. And strong.

He smelled her on his hands, and smiled, and then, after wrapping his clothes in a leather sack that would be waterproof for some minutes, he leaped into the water.

He swam downstream in the cistern, under the arch of the great wall, and again he found that darkness and deep water combined to panic him even when he
knew
that there was an opening at the far end. He emerged and pulled himself out on to the walkway – stronger this time – and, sack on shoulder, walked all the way to the end of the main cistern.

He dressed quietly, surprised to find that the scent of rose and lavender still clung to him, and climbed out of the cistern by the access doors. He crossed the main square, walked partway down the hill, and entered the next system. It was very dark, and when he saw the small fire that the acrobats had burning, he was very happy.

He approached as quietly as he could. But he was fifty feet from the fire when a someone spoke.

‘Don’t move,’ Peter said.

‘It’s only me,’ Swan said.

‘Don’t make too much noise,’ Peter insisted. ‘It took me a long time to get them to sleep.’

Swan walked carefully along the cistern’s shelf to the fire – really, just a small pile of charcoal that had been laid on the stone and lit. But it was warm, and he realised that he was cold.

‘We have wine,’ Peter said.

Andromache appeared beside the fire and smiled at him. She had Peter’s soldier’s cloak around her shoulders.

Swan accepted a cup of wine. ‘All is well?’

Peter shrugged and smiled a secretive smile. ‘I just spent a day underground with a troupe of actors who can’t stop talking.’ He glanced at Andromache. ‘Mind you, there are compensations.’

Swan finished his wine. ‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘Watch for us from the water gate. If you don’t see the Venetian galley—’

‘Yes?’ Peter asked. ‘Yes, what exactly do I do if there’s no ship?’

‘Switch roles and get them to take you out of the city,’ Swan said. ‘Save what you can.’

‘That’s how it is?’ Peter asked. ‘By the way, you know you smell like a Spanish whore.’

‘I lack your experience with Spanish whores,’ Swan said. ‘What do they smell like?’

‘Attar of roses and old sweat,’ Peter said.

The sun was rising when he slipped over the wall into the inn yard. He heard a woman’s voice from the stable, and he smiled, and went into the kitchen, where shocked servants scurried to get out of his way.

An hour later – face and hands washed, in best clothing, neat, and dead tired – he stood in his armour in the atrium waiting for the rest of the embassy.

Alessandro came down with Giannis and Cesare.

Cesare embraced him, then held him at arm’s length. ‘You look like hell,’ he said.

Giannis shook his head. ‘You smell like . . .’ He made a face. ‘Perfume.’

‘Christ on the cross, he does.’ Alessandro laughed. ‘I thought you were going to bed, scapegrace.’

Swan forced a grin. ‘There was a bed involved,’ he said.

The three men roared.

They carried their helmets under their arms, rather than wear them, as Swan had hoped, and he carried his through the streets. He wondered why he’d bothered to wash. It was four miles to the palace of the Sultan, and even in the early morning, it was a walk intended to discomfort and annoy.

As they walked, Alessandro drifted back from the bishop. ‘I have taken some precautions,’ he said.

Swan could barely remain awake. ‘Yes?’

‘I think it possible that the Sultan could . . . decide – to dispense with us.’ He shrugged.

‘You mean, kill us,’ Swan said.

Cesare started.

‘Yes. If so, it won’t happen at the palace. It will be a street attack.’ Alessandro was watching the buildings. ‘So we will not return along these streets.’

‘The palace is too public?’ Swan asked.

‘I have to hope so. If he chooses to kill us in the palace . . .’ Alessandro glanced over his shoulder.

Swan followed his eye. He hadn’t seen Yellow Face in days, and there he was.

‘Why, though?’ Swan asked.

Alessandro shrugged. ‘As a message? Because the bishop will annoy him? Because he’s ready for war with Venice anyway?’ Alessandro shook his head. ‘Your Jew friend – Isaac – sent me a warning.’

Swan tried to imagine some higher order of plot where Isaac would send them a false warning. He shook his head – fatigue was not helping him think. ‘I would listen to Isaac,’ he said carefully.

‘Listen, sleepy-head! Damn you, you English pup, I need you, and you smell like a French whore and look like a three-day drunk! Now that I have your attention – how far north do the sewers come?’

‘Christ – sorry, Alessandro. I haven’t come this far north. And I haven’t been in – or out – north of the market by the Venetian quarter.’

Alessandro shook his head. ‘Damn it to hell.’

The Palace of Blacharnae was at the north-east corner of the city. It had suffered substantial damage during the siege, but its woods and fountains appealed to the Sultan and he had taken it for his residence, although rumour said he usually lived in a great palace of tents on the plain just beyond.

The entrance hall was grander in every way than any similar hall in England, even the Guildhall in London. The square of St Mark’s in Venice had something of the majesty, but the apparently infinite vista of mosaics stretching away from the viewer struck Swan with wonder. And it was old. Swan couldn’t tell how old, but he was awestruck. A thousand years old?

The only man who seemed unaffected was the bishop, who led them into the great hall without looking to the right or left, up or down. Neither the mosaic ceilings nor the marble floor seemed to interest him.

The hall was lined by armoured sipahis, who leaned indolently on their lances and did not speak. The great doors at the far end of the hall were closed.

Swan stood still. There were six Christian men-at-arms, counting Cesare; and four more Venetian marines. They stood, five a side, flanking the embassy – the bishop, two interpreters, and four sailors with the gifts.

They stood. And stood.

So did the sipahis.

Sweat ran down Swan’s neck, gathered momentum in the middle of his back, and rolled all the way down to the top of his buttocks under his arming coat. The arming coat began to grow alarmingly heavy and wet. The weight of his harness seemed to grow. He could even feel – feel viscerally – the weight of the sword at his hip.

He flexed his knees.

He had too much time to think. Time to consider the troupe in the cisterns; time to consider the flaws in his plans.

Time to consider Khatun Bengül. Time to think about the risk he’d run. And why.

Revenge
.

The joke was on him. He couldn’t get her out of his head, and he had gone to lie with her to revenge himself on her father. A petty, wicked sin.

Where did that thought come from?

‘I’m too fucking old for this,’ muttered Cesare, immediately behind him.

Alessandro was a statue of steel.

The bishop began to complain. At first, his complaints were aimed at members of his own staff. Then he walked over to one of the silent sipahis.

‘I demand to see the Sultan!’ he shouted, spittle flying.

The man ignored him.

‘Immediately!’ shrieked the outraged prelate. ‘I have waited nineteen days to deliver a letter and some presents!’

The sipahi might have been carved of leather. His aged face had vertical lines etched by sun and weather, and the man might have been a hundred years old, yet he stood in chain and plate, his pointed helmet a magnificent display of blue and gold, his scimitar hilt made of jade.

Swan looked him over and thought,
There’s a killer
.

‘I demand to see the Sultan immediately!’ shouted the bishop.

Very softly, Cesare said, ‘If we kill him ourselves, do you think the Sultan will let us go?’

And the great doors opened.

The bishop, caught a hundred feet from his entourage, scurried back, his heavy garments making the noise of a woman’s skirts as he crossed the marble floor.

No one watched him, because Sultan Mehmet II entered – led by fifty Royal Sipahis, followed by his personal bodyguard, surrounded by his advisers and friends. Every man was dressed in silk; every soldier’s armour was engraved with verses of the Holy Koran, inlaid in gold, blued like the sky. The courtiers had jewels in their turbans the size of bird’s eggs. Their robes were woven in complex patterns, and yet the whole made one pattern around the central figure of the Sultan as if a single intelligence had chosen all their clothes.

Swan bet that someone had.

Omar Reis was standing at the Sultan’s right hand.

The Sultan settled on to his throne, and Omar Reis was allowed a stool at his feet. The other courtiers bowed – some actually lay flat on their face before the sultan.

Alessandro said – quietly – ‘Kneel.’

All of the men-at-arms sank to one knee.

The bishop hissed, ‘On your feet! We do not kneel to some infidel warlord!’

None of the men-at-arms moved until the Turks began to move at the word of a chamberlain, who thumped the floor with his baton.

The bishop looked close to apoplexy.

The chamberlain began to speak. He spoke in Turkish, and another chamberlain spoke in Persian. One of the embassy’s interpreters began to speak.

‘It is a recitation of the Sultan’s titles and names. Allah’s servant, flower of felicity, lord of Rum and Antioch . . .’ The titles went on and on – some religious, some military, some tribal.

Swan went back to thinking about Khatun Bengül. Her hair – the scent of her. The scent was with him yet. He smiled.

‘Conquerer of Constantinople, Lord of Greece. He bids us welcome.’

Mehmet was young – of middle height, and quite handsome, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. He had large eyes that sparkled with intelligence, and the shoulders and arms of a swordsman. Yet he sat in quiet repose with a dignity often missing in young men, especially fighters.

Swan found him the most impressive monarch he’d met. On the other hand, Mehmet II had only Henry VI of England as a rival in that regard, and the comparison wasn’t even fair. It was like comparing a magnificent stallion with a small and rather shy donkey.

‘The Sultan greets you and asks if your lodging was to your satisfaction. Are you well fed? Has your stay in his new capital been pleasant?’ asked the interpreter.

Swan realised the there were Europeans standing among the Turkish courtiers. He didn’t know them well, but there was the Venetian senior merchant, and there was a Florentine who Alessandro had pointed out, the chief factor of the Florentine merchants.

They were standing with the Sultan.

Swan looked at Alessandro, caught his eye, and gave the slightest nod in the direction of the Venetian.

Alessandro allowed the slightest smile to cross his face. And gave his own minute nod.

So Alessandro had pulled strings to get Venice to send a representative, which made it
almost
impossible that they would all be murdered.

The bishop bowed – it was the closest thing to a social concession Swan had seen the man make. He spoke very quietly to the interpreter, who himself bowed.

He spoke in Turkish for what seemed to Swan to be a very long time.

He became aware that Omar Reis was watching him. The man had a slight smile on his face.

Swan smiled back. It wasn’t the wisest choice, but Swan couldn’t stop the smile.

It became a grin.

Omar Reis’s smile faltered.

The introductory oration ran to its final stanzas – in Persian.

‘That’s my bit,’ said Cesare.

At the poety, Mehmet sat forward.

The bishop, who had been toying with his magnificent crystal crozier, suddenly looked up.

Mehmet smiled. He leaned over and whispered something to the Florentine, who nodded and walked across the hall to the embassy, even as the chamberlain answered the embassy and the translator began to say:

‘The Sultan is delighted to accept the plaudits of his cousin, the Pope . . .’

The Turkish answer ground on – a little more pointed than the papal oration, in that it suggested that Christians had always been the aggressors and Islam, and Allah’s servant Mehmet and his father Murad, were but innocent servants of Allah’s will.

The Florentine stopped and bowed. ‘The Sultan wishes to know who among the embassy composed the poem at the end?’

Before he could be stopped, Cesare bowed. ‘I had that honour.’

‘You write in Persian?’ asked the Florentine.

‘I write in Latin. I found a translator.’ He bowed.

The Florentine returned his bow.

The Pope’s gift was a bridle – a magnificent piece of horse tack, decorated in gold, with medallions of the finest Italian work, buckles in blued steel and gold, dyed a deep red.

The Sultan looked at it, smiled, leaned over to Omar Reis and made some remark which caused all the men around him to laugh.

Their interpreters paled. The nearer said, ‘The sultan says the Pope takes me for a horse.’

The bishop went forward with the second gift, a cabinet such as Italian noblemen used to display their jewels and their antiquities – a magnificent piece of vulgarity, with a hundred drawers of exotic woods and mirrored backs, gold and silver wire inlay, marble terraces . . .