Текст книги "Venice"

Автор книги: Christian Cameron

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Swan knew that it was foolish to feel that the pain in his hip was important when they were trying to save the captain’s life – but he muttered, ‘Hurry, then!’

The doctor took a deep breath. He was praying.

This is a man with a genuine courage, Swan thought. The Turkish galley was towering over them. The oarsmen were silent. Twenty heads leaned into the circle to watch the doctor work.

‘I need light,’ he said.

Men made room.

The doctor’s hands moved. He slashed the skin. Blood flowed. He folded a flap back, and his left hand went in, the loop trailed in the blood. The blood spread over Swan’s hands, and he felt the artery under his forefinger begin to slip.

The loop missed. Swan couldn’t really see – he couldn’t get his head at the right angle, and his armet suddenly weighed a ton, and there was sweat flowing over his eyebrows and he couldn’t move. He grunted – it was not exactly pain, but it was a lot of minor discomforts piled one on another.

‘Fuck!’ said the doctor. ‘Tell the Dutchman to prepare me another loop.’

Swan said, ‘Peter—!’ but the Fleming understood enough.

‘Here! I’ve made three.’

The doctor muttered – something about the white of the waxed thread his only hope.

Something happening aft.

‘Got it,’ said the little doctor. ‘Got it! Hold hard!’

But the artery was slipping. It felt like a snake, a hard worm under Swan’s finger, and he brought his thumb down alongside the finger.

‘One. Two,’ the doctor counted. ‘Three!’

He paused. There were a series of rapid motions – the Turkish ship was doing something, the sailors were moving, the doctor thrust the needle hard – hard enough to make the muscles stand out on his neck.

‘Five,’ he said. ‘Six. Seven. Second stitch. Third stitch.’ The man looked triumphant – like a man who had won a serious fight, or won a fortune on the turn of a card. He radiated joy.

He looked over at Swan. Took Peter’s third loop, and took a deep breath. ‘Let go,’ he said. ‘Slowly.’

Swan found it hard to let go. His thumb and forefinger were stuck together with blood and pain.

‘Swan!’ Alessandro shouted.

He got to his feet. His knees and stomach muscles didn’t want to hold him up.

The doctor raised his face. ‘It’s holding,’ he said. He was staring into the blood and flesh.

Swan stumbled.

The Turkish ship, oars folded in like a bird’s wings, lay alongside. A man in a magnificent turban with a jewel holding an ostrich plume was standing at the base of the aft mast, hands on hips. He roared something.

Alessandro turned to Swan. ‘Do you understand him?’

Swan leaned out on to the oar box, put his bloody hand to his mouth, and called ‘Shukraan!’ Thanks!

The man at the mast grinned. ‘May I come aboard, Frank?’ he called, in Arabic. From his accent, it wasn’t his first language.

‘May we speak Greek?’ Swan shouted back, and the Turkish officer waved. Without any further ceremony, he swung out on the spar of his lateen and landed accurately on the deck by Swan’s feet.

The Turk was taller than Swan by a head, with a magnificent beard as good as Rabbi Aaron’s, heavy chested, with a long, curved nose and heavy black brows. On the Turkish ship, a row of marines were pointing hand cannons over the rail, and two officers were screaming at each other.

Giannis snarled. ‘I know this one,’ he said.

The Turk inclined his head. He was more like a king than anyone that Swan had ever met – certainly far more like his idea of a king than Henry VI of England.

‘Omar Reis,’ spat Giannis. ‘Christ the Saviour.’

The Turk smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth. He wore a silk robe worth a thousand ducats and a gold-hilted sword worth as much again. The emerald in his turban was worth another thousand. At least. ‘The Greeks call me Omar Reis. I am Turahanoglu Omar Reis. You are in some small difficulty,’ he said. He was looking around.

Alessandro’s Greek wasn’t up to the exchange. Swan translated, and then said, ‘No difficulty, my lord. Just some pest control.’

Omar Reis smiled again. ‘Yes. I see that some of the rats had teeth.’

‘And blood. Quite a bit of blood. May we offer you a cup of fresh apple cider, my lord?’ Swan was quite sure there was cider somewhere in the bishop’s gear.

‘You are very kind,’ said the Turkish lord.

The wounded groaned, and the ships made all the small sounds of ships at sea, but otherwise there was complete silence on both ships. An oarsman went below for cider.

‘We have a safe conduct,’ Alessandro said. ‘And an ambassador from the Pope to the Sultan.’

Swan nodded and repeated Alessandro’s statement. ‘This is our captain, Alessandro of the illustrious family of the Bembii of Venice,’ he added.

The Turk inclined his head very slightly. Alessandro matched his inclination to the degree.

‘And you, Bloody Hand?’ asked the Turk. ‘I cannot place your accent.’

‘I’m an Englishman,’ Swan said. Some devil made him add, ‘My great-uncle is the King of England.’

Omar Reis had begun to step past him, but he paused. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘King Henry has no brothers.’

‘John of Gaunt was my grandfather,’ Swan said. This Turk seemed to know quite a bit about England.

The Turk scratched below his beard at the base of his neck. ‘I see,’ he said. He bowed his head – just a little. ‘How may we be of service?’

Alessandro was glaring at him, but he folded up the glare and put it away before the Turk could see it.

Giannis said – in French – ‘He’s looking us over to see if he wants to take us.’

Alessandro nodded.

On the Turkish galley, the slow-match for the hand cannons burned, and minute whorls of smoke rose from the marines’ hands and curled away into the sun.

Swan was working through the problem in his head. Fighting didn’t promote careful planning, but now that he was no longer holding a man who was bleeding to death or fighting for his life, certain thoughts started to percolate through his mind.

First, that Omar Reis had to have known that the other two galleys were there. After all, the third galley had emerged from behind an island. The two ‘Smyrna’ galleys had been out in the current – but they must have rowed hard to get there and hold their stations.

The captain would have known all this.

Swan made a devil’s-horn sign with his left hand and flashed it to Alessandro behind the Turk’s back.

Giannis grabbed his hand. In French, he said, ‘He’s the most powerful Turk on the Greek mainland. His father is Turahan Bey and he’s the Lord of Thrace.’

Swan was watching the young man he’d taken prisoner. Peter was standing by him, and the young man’s eyes were glued on the Turkish lord, who looked around, never quite seeing the prisoner.

Alessandro bowed. A servant presented a tray with a silver goblet full of cider. The Turk took it. He looked at Alessandro.

‘We must share, my lord, if you want me to try it first,’ Alessandro said, and Swan translated.

The Turk handed him the cup.

Alessandro drank and handed it back to him with a bow.

The Turk drained it. ‘Let me see this safe conduct,’ he said.

Swan, watching him like a hawk, saw his glance pass over the prisoner – pause, and move on.

It was like watching a boy trying not to look at a girl with bare legs or nice breasts.

Alessandro was looking at him. In Latin, he said, ‘All three galleys serve Dido of Carthage.’ He smiled.

The Turk turned to look at him.

‘The boy with Peter must be his son,’ Swan went on in Latin. ‘Look at him.’

Alessandro nodded. He gave that thin-lipped smile he adopted when he was going to do something nasty.

The bishop came on deck. He was a heavy man, and he made heavy work of crossing the deck from the coach. ‘Who is this infidel?’ he asked in Italian.

Omar Reis smiled. In Italian he said, ‘I might ask the same,’ and waved. ‘I will have to take this ship until all this is sorted out.’

Alessandro snapped his fingers and motioned to Peter. Peter put a dagger against the young man’s throat.

The bishop had a scroll in his hand, and Alessandro snatched it without a word of apology. ‘My lord, please allow me to offer our safe conduct, signed by the Sultan, Mehmet the Second of that glorious name, and issued to the Bishop of Ostia and his train, so long as they are transported by a Venetian ship. This is a Venetian ship. Venice is at peace with the Sultan, but if you attempt to impound us, I promise you three things; first, that you will die; second, that your son will die before your eyes; and third, that your ship will be as easily defeated as your two consorts have been. I’ll add a fourth, my lord – that Venice will go to war for us.’

Omar Reis didn’t show a shadow of fear. He smiled, and looked around. ‘Son? I have no son,’ he said. ‘Your threats are as empty as air. I have driven off your enemies. I am the Lord of Thrace – these waters are mine, under the Sultan, who’s slave I am. If you touch me, all of you will die, crucified after you have been degraded by my galley slaves. Ask your pet Greek what I do to my enemies.’ His smile deepened. ‘Come – you have made your threats, and I have made mine. I would like my food.’ He snapped his fingers, and an oarsman brought him the safe conduct. He read it as if they were of no further concern to him.

Swan thought it might be the finest performance of bravery he’d ever seen.

Omar Reis shrugged. ‘I do not read Latin,’ he said. ‘This might be the directions to a brothel.’ He was looking at Swan, who grinned. Alessandro couldn’t stop himself – he grinned too.

‘But I will issue you my own safe conduct. If you are a Venetian ship, why is your flag not flying?’ he asked. ‘The Lion of Saint Mark is sacrosanct in these waters.’ In fact, the red flag with the lion was flapping away a few paces behind the Turkish lord.

Giannis snorted.

Alessandro shrugged. ‘It must have been cut away in the fighting,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps it was difficult to see from the angle at which you approached.’

As the two galleys had both attacked from astern, this was preposterous. As everyone present knew.

Omar Reis nodded. ‘Is your uncle really the King of England?’

‘Great-uncle,’ Swan said. In Arabic, he said, ‘The boy is your son.’

Omar Reis met his eye. ‘Your Arabic is terrible,’ he said. He nodded very slightly.

‘Peter, let the young man go,’ Swan said.

There was a grunt, and Omar Reis’s eyes moved, just for an instant.

‘I will escort you to Constantinople,’ said the Turkish lord. He turned to Swan and bowed. ‘I thank you.’

Swan waved the Turkish lord on his way, just as he’d seen his father do a hundred times. ‘It is nothing,’ he said, in his most haughty voice.

When the Turks were gone over the side, Alessandro embraced him. ‘I think that one is on you,’ he said. ‘I owe you a fine cup of wine. And the Virgin a hundred candles of white wax.’

Giannis shook his hand. ‘You have matched wits with Satan’s own son,’ he said. ‘And the Virgin will do well from me, as well.’

The Golden Horn was perhaps the most magnificent sight that Swan had ever seen, and the towers and palaces of Byzantium – even six months after a brutal siege and sack – were the most splendid he could imagine. The tower of Galata on the Asian side was matched – or exceeded – by the golden onion domes of the great churches – some already converted to mosques. Two new minarets towered over the centre of the Palace of Blacharnae, and yet the great breaches blown in the walls by the Turkish cannon remained unrepaired.

The Turkish warships ‘escorted’ them all the way to the harbour mole for Galata. The fiction that the two ‘Smyrna’ galleys were somehow enemies of Omar Reis was thinly preserved – the two ships followed the Venetian at the distance of a few leagues, while the Turkish lord himself was always hull up, often broadside on a mere two hundred paces away.

For the last three days, they were on deck all the time – strings to bows, in harness. Swan had never worn armour four days running. The breast and back – slightly too tight – cut into him like a blade. He had constant diarrhoea, as did half the ship, and the wounds on his right leg bled yellow pus, and still he didn’t take off his armour.

The bishop’s doctor worked double tides. He proved an increasingly confident professional, and he seemed to grow in stature each day. By the time they sighted the tower of Galata, he seemed four inches taller, and six men owed him their lives.

Ser Marco was one of them. He was awake, and he screamed each day when his bandages were changed – Messer Claudio insisted on pouring vinegar on wounds. But aside from the screams, he seemed better.

They landed to a silent, hostile town. Most of the citizens were Genoese, and resented the handing-over of the town to Venice. Turkish soldiers still roamed the town.

‘It was bad here,’ Alessandro said, after he’d been ashore.

Swan had his armour off for the first time in four days. He had open sores despite his heavy leather and linen arming doublet, and a wound he’d missed altogether, a long cut that had somehow gone up under the skirts of his fauldand cut above his buttocks into the base of his back. It wasn’t bad, but it explained why he’d hurt so much.

He stank.

The pus kept coming out of his leg.

‘Fuck it,’ he said to Alessandro, and jumped into the sea.

The pain was intense, but he swam through it as the salt searched out every abrasion, every wound. It felt to him as if tiny doctors were cleaning him with tiny, sharp brushes. He swam and swam, until his arms wouldn’t support him, and then he climbed up the anchor cable, feeling curiously heavy.

Dr Claudio hauled him inboard. ‘You are the merest Empiric,’ he said. ‘You don’t know that salt water is good for wounds.’ He leaned over. ‘Let me look at your back.’

He scrubbed the wound with vinegar and then did something that hurt like fire. Swan screeched like a small girl who burns herself on a candle.

Claudio laughed. ‘Alum,’ he said. ‘Nothing cleans a wound like alum.’

The bishop disembarked and moved into a house in the town. Swan heard about his embassy from the doctor, who, as it proved, was much happier caring for the soldiers than being ignored by the churchman.

‘I was the tenth choice for the embassy,’ Claudio admitted. ‘He fancies himself a great man on an important mission, whereas the rest of us know that he’s the only man who’d take the job, and what he’s doing is a formality.’ The doctor shrugged. ‘He wanted a famous medico, and he got me.’

‘You are very good,’ Swan said.

‘You are very kind,’ Claudio said. ‘Before I threw my little loop over Ser Marco’s artery, I had never – in a practical way – manipulated a human body. One that was alive, anyway.’

‘By God!’ Swan said.

‘Oh, I have experimented on myself,’ the little doctor said, as if that made it all better.

A Turkish boat came across and the embassy loaded up to move to Constantinople. Giannis came down to the ship and took Swan, Peter and the doctor and their gear to the Turkish boat, and they were rowed across the Horn – a curious and very exacting piece of small-boat handling, given the current. Giannis chatted with the boat’s crew in Greek.

‘What do they say?’ asked Alessandro.

‘That the taxes are lower,’ Giannis said. He was angry. ‘They are traitors.’

Swan shrugged. ‘I’m not sure they are,’ he said, thinking of the Gascons and the ‘Englishmen’ of the Dordogne. ‘People need peace in order to live.’

Giannis glared at him, and he hid his smile and watched the rapid current sweep them north towards the Euxine.

It took twenty days for the bishop to present his credentials. He was outraged by the wait.

Swan was in heaven, and would happily have had the embassy delayed another twenty days.

It was like a journey to some exotic dream, peopled by the best of classical antiquity and a thousand Sir Palomides, the Saracen knight of King Arthur’s court. The Greeks looked haunted, but shops were open. If there were gaps – enormous gaps, where fifty buildings had burned, where a whole square of shops had been looted and destroyed – there were also whole quarters that looked untouched by war. Many establishments smelled of fire, and in one small square, Swan could smell the unmistakable smell of human corpses rotting. The magnificent Hagia Sophia was a stable for the Sultan’s horses. Swan paid a ducat – a staggering sum – and was allowed to walk around. Earth had been put over the floors, and men on scaffolds were painting whitewash over the mosaics of gold and lapis and marble.

He kept his thoughts to himself.

At the great doors, he met a young man who bowed to the ground. ‘You are the English prince?’ he asked.

Swan was seldom confounded by his own tales, but this gave him pause for a moment – and then he recognised the young man. ‘Idris? Son of Omar Reis?’

The handsome young man bowed again. ‘The same. I . . . owe you my life.’

Swan returned the bow. ‘Well – it proved to be a fine decision on my part,’ he said. ‘I have a suspicion that if you’d been lying in a pool of your own blood, your father would have killed us all.’

Idris shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Truth to tell, I am not my father’s favourite.’ He shrugged again. Greeks and Turks had that shrug in common. ‘Come and have coffee. Tell me how I can be of service to you.’

‘How is your hand?’ Swan asked, all contrition.

Idris bowed. ‘I can still hold a sword,’ he said. ‘One small finger – a small price to pay for my life.’

As they walked across the great square, Swan reflected briefly on how narrowly he and this other man had come to one killing the other – and now, under a change of circumstance, they sat together drinking tiny thimbles of hot, sweet liquid and talking about language.

‘I have learned Turkish, of course, and Arabic. Italian. But the most beautiful is Persian. I write poetry in Persian.’ Idris stared off into space. ‘My father disapproves of my poetry writing. And my taste in friends,’ he added with the frank bitterness of the young. ‘I went to sea to prove to him that I am a man. He is such a barbarian, he thinks that the ability to ride a horse and fight with a sword defines you. But of course, I was captured.’

Swan flashed briefly on the fierce eyes – on the man parrying with his shield alone, after he’d been hit in the sword-arm. ‘I’ll be happy to testify to your bravery,’ Swan said. ‘May I have another?’

‘Effendi,’ murmured the Greek shopkeeper.

‘I owe you too much already. How can I repay you?’ asked the Turk.

Cash? A bloody great pile of ducats?

‘You could teach me Turkish,’ Swan said.

Idris made a face. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

Next day, Swan took Peter as a guard and went to find the Jews.

They weren’t allowed to bear weapons openly, but both of them had daggers under their cloaks. Swan was sure he was followed every time they left the small inn where they were lodged in what had been the Venetian quarter. His experience in Venice had made him aware of people following him, but it was difficult here – every street was a sea of new faces; there were refugees and beggars on every corner. Still, he had an idea that the very tall, thin man he’d seen a few times was a shadow, and he tried various tricks – going down a very narrow alley he’d located in the old arcade of silversmiths, walking around by the old palace.

There was a Turkish guard on the gate of the Jewish ghetto. Swan took one look, scratched his chin, then walked back to the inn and sent a note by a beggar boy to Idris. Then he scribbled a note of his own and folded it inside Rabbi Aaron’s letter.

Idris was delighted to accompany them to the gate. He spoke a few words to the gate guard, and Swan guessed that he’d just been described as the Prince of England. He bowed, the gate guard bowed, and the three of them were allowed into the Jewish quarter.

There was damage, here – the synagogue had taken a cannonball, and Swan could see the glitter of magnificent mosaics inside. The three men stood at the entrance to the ghetto, and a pair of young men approached them.

Swan stepped forward, bowed, and asked for the house of Simon the merchant. ‘I have a letter from his brother in Venice,’ he said.

The two young men took him to Simon’s house. He was led inside, and servants bustled about. Simon was far more prosperous then his Venetian brother, the rabbi – he had a pair of Nubian slaves and half a dozen Slavic slaves, like the richest Venetians and Florentines. They were offered coffee, which was, apparently, to Turks what wine was to Italians.

Simon came, and Swan introduced himself and his two companions. He handed over the letter.

Simon bowed. ‘You will pardon me,’ he said. ‘With the siege, it is more than a year since I have heard from my brother.’ Swan saw him palm the inner note expertly and he relaxed. Simon left them for a few minutes, and they made stilted conversation and admired the calligraphy on scrolls around the walls, all of which Idris proclaimed to be Persian.

‘Except this one,’ he said, puzzling over one particularly odd scroll. The letters were both large and violent – square, almost. And yet oddly beautiful.

‘Chinese,’ said Simon, coming back into the room. ‘I thank you very much, Messer, for your kindness to an old Jew. May I be of service?’

Swan bowed. ‘I am interested in purchasing old manuscripts – old Greek manuscripts. I collect them,’ he said. ‘Your brother suggested you might help me.’ In Hebrew, he said, ‘Do you know the house in the note?’

Simon nodded. ‘I have sent a message,’ he said. ‘I expect he will come and fetch his package in person.’

‘I have it on me,’ Swan said. In Italian, he went on, ‘My poor Hebrew doesn’t go as far – could you direct me . . . to the . . .?’

Simon smiled. He waved a hand, and one of the servants led him to the neatest and sweetest-smelling jakes he’d ever seen. There was a basin of water and a basket of towels. Swan opened the basket of towels and put Balthazar’s package inside.

Then he racked his brain for the Hebrew word for ‘towel’.

Nothing came to mind. When Simon looked at him, he gave the man a small nod and mimed washing his hands.

Not even a blink of recognition.

He wasn’t going to discuss any more business with Idris present. So they spoke at random of a dozen things, asked after the family, and the business, as if he were truly an old family friend. He heard a stir in the doorway, and then there were bows.

The man who was presented – yet another Isaac – might have been Balthazar’s second son. He was the right age, and had something of Solomon’s eager friendliness. He also appeared simultaneously too friendly and ill at ease. Idris in particular seemed to excite him, and he flattered the young Turk unmercifully.

At last, Swan managed to withdraw with many protestations of future visits. They walked out the main gate, escorted by two local men, who bowed low as they passed. The janissary saluted.

Idris laughed. ‘Franks are famous for their bigotry,’ he said. ‘And you seem to be friends with everyone.’

Swan shrugged. ‘I make a habit of pulling thorns from the paws of every lion I meet,’ he said.

‘My father likes you,’ Idris said. ‘He’s going to invite you to go hunting with him.’

‘Should I?’ Swan asked.

Idris thought for a moment. ‘It would help me,’ he said.

‘Will your father give me a safe conduct in my own name?’ Swan asked. It was a little too bold, but he wasn’t sure how often he’d have access to the young Turk.

Idris smiled. ‘So – that’s what you want. Why? These old books?’

‘What would you do, to have unlimited access to Persian manuscripts?’ Swan asked.

Idris smiled. ‘You are too intelligent, and I suspect you are using me. But you saved my life – you are entitled to a little use.’ He inclined his head – very like his father – and his bearing reminded Swan that he was not always as clever as he thought he was. ‘I will ask on your behalf.’ He looked at Swan. ‘Listen – promise me something.’

Swan laughed. ‘Yes?’

‘Promise me you aren’t after this thing. This head that all the Christians want. The Sultan spoke of it today. My father has men all over the city looking for it.’

Swan looked confused, or at least, he hoped he did. ‘Head?’ he asked.

‘Christians worship the parts of dead men,’ Idris insisted. ‘In their churches. Feet. Toenails. Arm bones. This is the head of the great warrior.’

‘Maurice?’ Swan asked. He was sweating now. It wasn’t really very funny.

‘Saint George.’ Idris’s brown eyes bored into his. ‘Promise me you are not trying to steal it.’

‘Because you Turks stole it first?’ Swan asked. Sometimes, according to his uncles, it was best to attack.

Idris met his eye – and laughed.

Almost a week passed in which they weren’t allowed out of the Venetian quarter. No reason was given, and the janissaries were polite but absolutely adamant. Swan walked to the market every day, and purchased anything that caught his fancy and that he could afford. He received notes and invites from Aaron’s brother and from Balthazar’s business associates. He had to decline them – he wrote careful notes in stilted Hebrew accompanied by other notes in Italian, trying to make clear that his refusal was not his own choice.

The bishop, who had never deigned to notice him, turned after one of the messengers had gone away, and said, ‘How is it that you have friends in Constantinople? Infidel friends?’

Swan bowed. ‘Your Grace must know by now that I took young Idris prisoner in the fight on the boat,’ he said politely.

‘I know nothing of the kind. But I forbid you to have any further communication with him.’ The bishop looked at him. ‘His father is the most terrible of men – an enemy of God. The Greeks call him the son of Satan.’

Swan was about to remonstrate, but Alessandro, who was forced to spend most of his time attending the bishop, made the motion of a blade crossing his throat, which Swan took to mean he should shut his mouth.

The bishop moved on, as if, having given instructions to a servant, he had no further need to communicate. Which, as Swan considered it, was probably how the bishop viewed him.

Cesare sat back and dealt another hand of piquet. ‘If only . . .’ he said. ‘God forgive me for what I’m going to say, but if only he was an aristocrat, and not a jumped-up little Romagnol peasant.’

Swan had to laugh. ‘This from you?’

Cesare spat. ‘Bah,’ he said. ‘Now that I see you are the lost Prince of England, I no longer believe that you are a true man like me, anyway.’

Then he grinned. ‘You are the bastard of a great man. I am the bastard of some roadside tryst.’

‘I’m a better swordsman, too,’ Swan said, and Cesare aimed a swipe at him that almost connected. The four of them – Alessandro, Swan, Giannis and Cesare – fenced with sword and buckler every day. Cesare was growing better by leaps and bounds, closing the gap between his ability and Swan’s even as Swan closed in on Giannis and Giannis drew fractionally closer to the gifted Alessandro.

There was little else to do. Sometimes they fenced for three hours, drank wine and ate good bread in olive oil, and fenced again. The janissaries came and watched. And wagered.

One day Alessandro paused, buckler high, and said – quietly – ‘Can your Jews cash Bessarion’s bill? We’re running low on money.’

‘Not all Jews are moneylenders,’ Swan said. He shrugged. ‘But let me ask.’

He sent Simon a note.

The next day, Simon sent back that he would be happy to change the note for cash. And the janissaries bowed, their high hats nodding on their heads. ‘You are free to visit anywhere inside the confines of the city walls,’ said Murad, the corporal.

The bishop sent word that none of them was to leave the inn.

Alessandro waved him out. ‘I’ll explain,’ he said.

‘Tell him I’m on an errand for the cardinal,’ Swan said. ‘Listen – tell me the address and I’ll take a look at the cardinal’s house.’

Alessandro wrote it down for him.

He went to the Jewish quarter first.

Isaac met him inside the gate, and walked with him to the house of Simon. ‘Your embassy is very carefully watched,’ he said. ‘You know the Sultan is contemplating war with Venice? And the Pope?’

Swan started.

Isaac went on, ‘You Franks are the most arrogant creatures on earth. Do you think that the Sultan is fooled by Venice? He plans to take all Greece – indeed, Omar Reis, who I understand you have met, is even now raising the troops to take the Duchy of Athens and the rest of the Morea.’

Swan stopped in the narrow alley. ‘I know you mean well,’ he said, although he wasn’t sure of that at all. ‘But I am the lowest member of the embassage, and I have no idea what you are talking about. I am a mere soldier.’

Isaac frowned. ‘I am informed that you are, in fact, an agent of Cardinal Bessarion.’ He met Swan’s eye. ‘Are you here for the head of Saint George?’ he asked.

Swan felt as if he had no ground beneath his feet. He couldn’t decide how to answer this accusation. He wasn’t sure why it would be a bad thing to admit to such a status.

‘Messire, I am a poor man who performed an act of friendship for Rabbi Aaron, because he has been kind to me. He is my Hebrew teacher in Venice.’ He paused and looked at Isaac to see how this speech was going down.

‘You are the friend of young Idris, the Wolf of Thrace’s youngest son. You are, I understand, an English prince come to threaten a crusade against Islam.’ Isaac all but snarled.

Swan laughed. ‘I am no prince of England,’ he said.

Isaac smiled for the first time. It was a very small smile, but it changed his demeanour and made him seem very much less threatening. ‘For such a young man of no apparent power, you have quite a few rumours surrounding you,’ he said. ‘But Balthazar said I should help you. At the same time, there’s so much happening here that I’m not at all sure that I can help you.’ He paused. ‘The Turks are ripping the city apart for the head – or so they say. It may be a pretext. Some people say the head is in Athens, and some in Corinth, and some that it is already in Rome. Some say that the Christian princes have a great army, and are luring the Sultan to his doom.’

It was obvious he had something more to say, but they had arrived at Simon’s house. Isaac bowed. ‘I will attempt to see you again. Let me say, Englishman – if you need to reach me, ask any beggar to get a message to King David.’

He nodded and walked off down the alley.