Текст книги "Chios"

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Tom Swan and the Head of St George

Volume Six: Chios

Christian Cameron

Contents

Cover

Title Page

The Conqueror’s Ring: Part VI

Mytilini, Lesvos

Also By Christian Cameron

Copyright

The Conqueror’s Ring

Part VI

Mytilini, Lesvos

It was the English ship that had brought the warning and sounded the alarm.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, Tom Swan had worked himself into a state of exhaustion. Working side by side with all the oarsmen, the mercenaries, the sailors and a hundred Greek fishermen, he’d helped to haul all five of the order’s galleys up the beach on rollers, and then, one by one, to haul the town’s fishing boats ashore.

The only ship still lying in the harbour was the very ship that had warned them. The Katherine Sturmy, an English vessel whose owner and captain were working stripped to the waist, at his side, was a round ship – her stern castle was almost fifty feet above the water, and her cavernous holds made her too big to beach in a crisis.

Out beyond the new-built breakwater in carefully dressed stone lay the reason for the near-panicked movement of the hulls – a two-hundred-ship Turkish fleet lying easily at anchor on a sea so calm that the west wind scarcely riffled it.

Swan paused and put a hand to the middle of his back like a much older man.

Richard Sturmy laughed. In English, he said, ‘I used to complain about the prices on Turkey goods – carpets and the like.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘If I live to light a candle in St Magnus Martyr by the Bridge at home, I’ll never speak ill of the Turkey merchants again. These are the most violent folk in the world.’

Swan had to laugh. ‘The French say that of us!’ he managed.

But Sturmy saw nothing funny in it. ‘What do you expect from your Frenchmen?’ he said. ‘Sweet Christ, I was a fool to allow the goodwife to convince me to bring her on this fool expedition. And my daughter – by Saint George, Sir Knight, I fear for them more than for myself. Hannah is but twelve.’ His voice wavered. Sturmy was a strong man – but not in the face of the level of calamity facing him.

Down the beach, Swan could see Fra Tommaso giving orders to a dozen Burgundian archers, but the Turkish fleet, despite its vast size, was making no motion of immediate attack. Swan bowed to the English party. ‘I must see if my lord has further orders,’ he said. ‘It is very possible that the Turk will pass us by and your ship will be safer here than most places.’

‘Except that this place is ruled by the fucking – pardon me – Genoese, who are allies of the frog-eating French and hate us,’ said the mate of the Katherine Sturmy, who was called – with rare appropriateness – John Shipman.

Swan grinned. ‘I can’t drive away the Turks, Master Shipman,’ he said. ‘But I think I can promise that Prince Dorino will honour your firman and your letter from the Council of Genoa. He is …’ Swan paused, trying to imagine how to describe the Prince of Lesvos, who was old and not old, clever, witty, dangerous, effeminate and masculine, aesthetic and vicious. And very hard to describe. ‘He is a fair man,’ Swan said.

Master Shipman shrugged. ‘Gentle is as gentle does, eh? But I’d be most grateful, and so would my owner, if you was to put in a good word for us.’

Swan bowed, and then ran, half naked, up the beach.

Fra Tommaso and Fra Domenico stood side by side, watching the Turks. Fra Domenico managed a brief smile at Swan as he ran up.

‘Ah, the energy of youth,’ Domenico said. ‘Or perhaps you were snug in bed when the alarm rang?’

‘Someone’s bed,’ Fra Tommaso said. But his look was mild. ‘These English sailors are good men.’

Swan bowed. ‘The English are afraid that their cargo will be seized,’ he said. ‘And afraid of the Turks, as well.’

Fra Tommaso narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ll see to that. They’ve earned their keep with their warnings to us and their hard work.’

Fra Domenico waved at the Turks, the ring he wore flashing in the sun like a weapon. ‘Young man, can you swim?’

Swan’s heart sank. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

‘Well?’ Domenico asked.

‘Well enough,’ Swan said. Well enough to bathe in the Thames in February when the ice is running, he thought.

Domenico looked at Tommaso. Then, as if they had but one mind, the two knights turned and looked at Swan.

Swan quailed and wondered which of his sins had been discovered. The illicit cargo of mastic?

‘He wants you to try something insanely brave,’ Fra Tommaso said. He shrugged. Swan didn’t like the look Fra Tommaso gave his fellow knight. It held … reproof.

Fra Domenico’s eyes sparkled like his ring. ‘It is not so insane,’ he said. ‘I want you to cross the island, get a fishing boat from Kalloni and land on Chios. You’ll have to swim to get into the city. With a message.’ He grinned. ‘Twice, if my little plan works out.’

Swan sighed. He heard a voice say ‘I’ll do it!’ with reckless enthusiasm.

It took a moment to realise that the voice had been his own.

Fra Tommaso pursed his lips. ‘The Turks may sail away tomorrow …’

‘In which case, we will not risk Master Swan,’ Domenico said. ‘But they have stolen a march on us, and a dozen galleys can hold us pinned to this beach, and the Pasha knows that as well as you and I.’

‘How will a message help Chios? If the truth is that we are blockaded here?’ Swan managed.

Domenico smiled. ‘Truth? Who said anything about the truth?’ He looked at his left hand, and put his right on his sword hilt. ‘Quid est veritas? Pilate was right.’

‘He wants you to tell Chios that the Genoese Grand Fleet is at sea,’ Tommaso said. He glared at Fra Diablo. ‘You sail perilously close to blasphemy.’ To Swan he said, ‘Do not take any foolish risks. Don’t get captured.’

‘Better yet, get captured and tell the Turks,’ Domenico said. He shrugged. ‘I am what I am.’

Bathed and dressed, Swan drank three cups of watered wine and walked down into the town. Many shops were closed, and the market was shuttered, but the silversmith was sitting in the spring sun with a wine cup between his hands.

Swan sat down. ‘My apologies, Kyrie. My day has been rather spoiled by the advent of the Turks.’

The silversmith laughed. ‘In this, Frank, you are forgiven. I saw you working on the beach – indeed, you helped haul one of my brother-in-law’s boats up.’ He looked out to sea. ‘My brother-in-law has another boat around the headland at Thermi.’

Swan leaned forward. ‘What I need is a guide …’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry? Why does it matter that your brother-in-law has another boat?’

The silversmith smiled. ‘Before dawn, my brother-in-law was among the Turks, selling sardines and lobster.’ His eyebrows shot up and a frown flickered – a complex Mediterranean facial expression the registered mock surprise that such a thing could even happen.

Swan nodded. ‘Ahh,’ he said.

‘Maestro Cyriaco paid me silver for such news,’ the silversmith said.

Swan nodded. ‘I can only make you promises. I brought no silver.’

The smith frowned. He looked away, as if Swan had embarrassed him.

Swan leaned forward. ‘I will pay. In a matter of hours.’

The silversmith was obviously offended.

‘I recognise that you do this mostly out of a desire to be a patriot,’ Swan said. He phrased it as carefully as he could, watching the man’s face.

Immediately. the other man smiled. ‘I do not like to talk about money,’ he said. ‘I do this for the love of my island and hatred of the Turk – understand?’

‘Of course,’ Swan said.

The silversmith handed over two sheets of good Egyptian paper. ‘Ship names and crews. A few officers’ names, and some important personages aboard. He sold to six ships and ended aboard Omar Reis Pasha’s flagship. He will sell more tonight. And the Turks will summon the town to surrender, and the island. What do you think?’ the man asked suddenly.

At the mention of Omar Reis, Swan stiffened. He felt his heartbeat increase. He looked out to sea with studied calm and scratched the base of his chin. ‘Dorino will never surrender,’ he said, wondering whether that was, in fact, the way the prince would behave. Wondering whether he was the silversmith’s only customer for information. ‘The information is … excellent.’ His eye caught a name, and he translated it several times in his head, sounding it out. ‘Is this an Italian name?’ he asked.

The silversmith frowned. ‘Draviero,’ he said with his Ionian pronunciation.

Swan looked at him. ‘There is an Italian gentleman with the Turkish fleet?’

The smith nodded. ‘The gentleman was rude to my brother-in-law while his steward bought lobsters through a stern window. And he demanded that my brother-in-law tell no one.’ The man smiled at the naive ways of the world.

Swan smiled. And had the glimmering of an idea, even while he tried to imagine how and why the Genoese ambassador was aboard a Turkish warship. ‘A captive?’

The silversmith nodded, obviously delighted at Swan’s delight.

Swan looked at the table a moment. ‘I need a guide to Kalloni tomorrow. And I wonder …’ Swan was trying to find a way to flatter the man, to engage his interest. ‘I wonder if you would make me a piece of jewellery?’

The smith nodded. ‘Business is not so heavy,’ he admitted.

Swan sketched what he wanted.

The jeweller frowned. ‘The stone engraving is beyond me,’ he said. He flicked his front teeth with his thumbnail. ‘In silver, you say?’

‘Gold plated,’ Swan said.

‘Oh.’ The man shrugged. ‘Silver gilt. Costume stuff.’

Swan shrugged in turn.

The jeweller looked about. ‘I will ask around. The head of Herakles in a clear crystal? It is not impossible to find such a thing.’ He flicked his teeth. ‘I’m thinking a hundred ducats here.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I know where there is a head of Athena in a crystal. Roman, I think.’

Swan rose and bowed. ‘For a hundred ducats I could buy half this town,’ he said. But then he shrugged. ‘Athena is too feminine. But if there is nothing else …’ He felt foolish, spending money on such a tenuous plan. On the other hand, it provided him with a painless way to repay his informant. He sat back. ‘I might find that much money,’ he admitted.

‘I have a boy who will guide you to Kalloni,’ the silversmith conceded. ‘He can show you the ruins as well.’

Swan’s intention was to make an excuse to return to the palazzo, but by the time he reached the hostel where the knights were staying, the Lord of Eressos had joined them – a Graeco-Scot lord, at home in Greek or Italian or slightly accented English or perfect church Latin. Zambale bowed to Swan.

‘The English prince. Madama Theodora sends her best wishes and a small token.’ He handed Swan a small envelope.

Swan bowed and looked at Fra Tommaso.

The older knight nodded. ‘The Lord of Eressos has offered to be your companion – all the way to Chios. He wishes to serve us as a volunteer.’

Swan bowed again. ‘I will be at your service,’ he said. ‘As soon as I pay my respects—’

Fra Domenico failed to hide a sneer. ‘No need, my boy. I’m sure that Prince Dorino understands the press of our business.’

Swan had an answer ready. ‘Sir – I understand, but I promised the English owner to represent him to the prince.’

‘And Madama Theodora, as well, no doubt,’ Fra Tommaso said. ‘Please allow me to protect you from yourself. There is no wind and likely to be none tomorrow, either. Please go and warn Chios, and put some heart into them.’

Swan cursed inwardly with a boy’s peevishness. At that moment, he hated the Turks for interrupting his lovemaking and the order for their own share in his endless chastity.

But he knew his duty. He bowed. ‘My lords,’ he said. He flicked his eyes at the Lord of Eressos.

Fra Domenico caught his gesture.

‘My lord, if you have any arrangements to make, I’ll ask you to set off after nones,’ he said.

The Lord of Eressos bowed deeply. He grinned with a minimum of offence at Swan. ‘You can ride?’

‘Slowly,’ Swan allowed.

Zambale laughed. ‘I’ll have a dozen men-at-arms and spare horses,’ he said. ‘I have friends in Kalloni with boats.’ He made a Greek gesture with his arms and thumbs. ‘Who knows? If God wills it so, perhaps we will not swim.’

Swan nodded. ‘One hour,’ he said.

Zambale bowed in all directions and left the inn.

Domenico waited until they could hear Zambale’s voice in the yard. ‘Well, lad?’ he asked.

Silently, Swan handed over the sheets of paper with the silversmith’s careful Greek letters nearly covering both.

Domenico’s Greek was apparently very good. His eyes moved rapidly, even while Fra Tommaso was sounding out ship’s names in Turkish.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked Swan. He raised his eyes, and they met Swan’s.

Swan swallowed. It was not a tone he’d heard before from the pirate. It cut like a sharp sword.

Swan shrugged. ‘I have friends,’ he tried.

Domenico’s expression didn’t change. ‘I’m sure you know a great variety of attractive young women in every port, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you’d bedded three or even four since you arrived. This is a well-penned report by a professional, who notes even the number of archers on the Turkish galleys.’

Swan wanted to hold the other man’s gaze, but he couldn’t. Domenico had an almost magical ferocity that wilted him.

I did think about this before handing over the report, he thought.

Fra Tommaso was still sounding out the names. He looked at Domenico. ‘You must know he works for Bessarion,’ he said quietly.

Domenico nodded. ‘I want to hear him say it,’ he said.

Swan looked at them both.

Domenico raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

Swan took a deep breath. ‘I collect information,’ he said.

‘And antiquities?’ Tommaso said. ‘For Cardinal Bessarion?’

Swan sighed. ‘If I were to concede that something of the sort was true, I would still insist that what I do is of no danger to the order and in this case is actually to the order’s benefit.’

Domenico whistled. ‘I thought you were a spy – but then you fought so well.’

Tommaso threw his hands in the air. ‘Why do we care? I like the boy. He’s got moments of honesty and honour to him, and otherwise he’s a poor sinner like the rest of us. Angelo, you cannot imagine he’s going to sell you to the Turks.’

Fra Domenico looked at Swan. ‘Someone is selling us to the Turks,’ he said. ‘Men would kill for this list,’ he went on. ‘You know why?’

Better to be hanged as a lion than hanged as a lamb, Swan thought. He met Domenico’s glittering eyes.

‘It all but proves who is the traitor,’ he said.

Domenico tugged his beard and looked out to sea. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You know there is a traitor?’

Swan drew himself up. ‘Cardinal Bessarion sent me on this trip to identify the traitor. He must have known already.’

Fra Tommaso pointed at the Turkish fleet. ‘Everyone in the eastern Mediterranean knows who the traitor has to be,’ he said. ‘It is not so much about catching him. He’s more powerful than …’ Tommaso hesitated, apparently searching for a metaphor. ‘The Pope,’ he managed. ‘It is a dirty business. And no one should jump to conclusions.’

Domenico looked at Fra Tommaso. His smile was so enigmatic that Swan, who prided himself on such expressions, could not read it. ‘No. I disagree. This is proof.’ He didn’t sound accusing. He sounded … ironic.

Swan leaned forward. ‘Perhaps he is there negotiating with the Turks about Chios.’

‘That is what he will say,’ Domenico said. He looked at Swan. ‘Do not, I pray, reveal our views on him to anyone.’

Before the sun began to set, Swan was away, cantering up the long ridge behind the town, first through dense-set cobbled streets and then up a series of switchbacks until the good road became a cart track over rock. A great mountain appeared on their right after they crossed the ridge, and one of the men-at-arms – yet another Giannis – grinned and told Swan it was called Mount Olympos. Behind him, most of the Turkish fleet was rowing on the calm sea towards Chios, and he could see their vanguard in a narrow crescent followed by the main body.

He’d had time to make a fair copy of the spy’s report and to receive Tommaso’s promise that, regardless of the outcome of his mission, the report would find its way to Cardinal Bessarion. He had time to read the small parchment slip from Theodora, which said, in neat Latin, that she looked forward to their next meeting.

He’d also experienced a frisson of fear – and excitement – to find that one of the Turkish galleys was called The ship of the sister of Turahanoglu Omar Reis, benefactor of the poor. It had taken him long minutes to pick the Turkish out of the Greek letters, but when he had it …

He watched the Turkish fleet as if Auntie might come on deck and wave.

Swan’s easy Greek and charm made him many friends among the Stradiotes, and they were a cheerful party over the hills to Kalloni. They camped in a grove of enormous pines and firs that seemed to touch the stars above them, and the next morning Swan arose to sage tea and fresh pork cutlets purchased from a peasant. He curried his horse in the dawn and wondered why anyone would ever live anywhere but Greece.

‘What is it like – Scotland?’ asked Zambale.

Swan laughed. ‘I’ve never been there,’ he said.

‘But it is part of England?’ the Lord of Eressos asked.

Swan put his curry back in his saddle pack and shook his head. ‘Is Constantinople Turkish?’ he asked. ‘The Scots and the English are not friends. They merely occupy parts of the same island.’

Zambale laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This is what my father said. And yet – all his friends were English. He said that, out here, none of it mattered.’

Swan laughed too. ‘Perhaps in England, Greeks and Turks are friends,’ he said. ‘They would both miss the sun.’

Zambale was not amused.

The Lord of Eressos’s mood improved as they descended from the forests of the mountains to the plain of Kalloni. Seen from one of the last turns of the road, the bay was laid out like a rich man’s swimming pool in Italy – a perfect, azure blue, shaped like an enormous teardrop.

‘You like everything old,’ Hector Zambale said.

Swan nodded, drinking in the view. ‘I do,’ he admitted.

‘There are a pair of temples here that men say are among the finest in the world,’ Hector said. ‘They are certainly the finest on Lesvos.’

Swan sighed. He had begun to wonder whether life with the Order of St John was to be his bane. Once upon a time, he’d have ridden down to see the ruins – aye, and then found a ship for Italy.

Even as it was, a niggling little voice told him that he’d done his duty, in the main. He had no need to linger for a losing war. He had solid evidence of the traitor. Perhaps proof.

Except that, somewhere in the night watches, a sense of duty – a sense of belonging to the order – had crept up on him. It was not that he believed in the ideal of crusade, or had had a sudden conversion. Merely that he couldn’t bear to disappoint – or desert – men like Fra Tommaso. Or Fra Domenico. They trusted him.

He sighed again. ‘Let’s get to Chios,’ he said. ‘If we make it back here alive, I would like nothing better than to see your temples.’

Zambale nodded.

Kalloni proper was a small town built on the ruins of a city, and Swan gawked like a country boy in the big city until Zambale’s men had hired them a fishing boat. They caught the evening breeze out of the bay, the big lateen, as big as the rest of the boat, moving them swiftly over the dark blue water. They left Prince Dorino’s fleet behind them, securely beached. One pair of military galleys were rowing guard far out in the bay, which was itself like a small, calm sea.

Swan fell asleep, but he awoke as soon as they were out of the bay, passing below a pair of Byzantine towers at the bay entrance – an entrance so narrow that it could be held by a single ship.

‘Why is Kalloni not the most famous port in the world?’ Swan asked.

But the Lord of Eressos was not a sailor, and he merely shrugged.

The sea breeze caught them, and wafted them across the twenty miles of open sea to the north coast of Chios. The mountainous interior was always visible from the moment they left the Bay of Kalloni, the mountains rising like pale ghosts in the distance and becoming more and more solid as they raced across the moonlit water.

Swan wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything more beautiful. And then he thought of Violetta, and of Theodora, and Khatun Bengül.

He smiled, and fell back asleep.

Dawn found them among the fishing fleet of one of the small towns on the north coast of Chios, and they crept along the coast. From time to time, with some smiles and gestures, the Lesbian crew put their nets over the side and fished, and all the while the Turkish fleet was in plain sight six miles away, with the coast of Asia as a backdrop.

‘Shall we land?’ Swan asked Zambale. ‘I suppose we could go cross-country.’

Zambale shrugged. ‘As long as you don’t mind taking until Easter,’ he said. ‘Easter next year,’ he added. ‘Trust these men.’

As the day wore on, they fished their way along the coast and then into the darker, windier water of the Asiatic strait. They never went right among the Turks, but they were seldom out of long gunshot.

Swan’s experience during the brief siege at Rhodos had changed his view of gonne powder and gonnes in general. At some point, he asked Zambale whether he’d shot a gonne.

The Genoese-Graeco-Scot smiled tolerantly. ‘I own a dozen,’ he said. ‘I have shot them all.’

He regaled Swan with a tale of shooting a wolf on the mainland at some great range. Zambale seemed locked in a competition to prove his worthiness to Swan, even as he sought to surpass him. Despite which, Swan was coming to like the man. He was eager to fight, and passionate in his convictions. And well read.

By noon, the two were stripped to the waist, fishing with the other men. Competing to haul the nets faster, to gut more fish.

A Turkish galley came very close to them, and shouted at them. The owner put the helm down and sat, rising and falling on the waves, but the Turks didn’t board or even harass them, although the archers aboard the galley had arrows on their bows as they passed. Swan noted the name of the ship and counted more than a hundred oarsmen. Everyone aboard held their breath, and then the Turk turned south and raced away like a great water insect racing across the surface.

As the sun began to set, the fishing fleet ran for home. By then, the fleets of a dozen seaside villages had mingled, and the owner of their boat, Giorgios, had spent the day moving from the southern fringe of one to the northern fringe of the next in small sprints and short rows, never raising his sail for more than a few minutes. By this time, the boat was full to the gunnels of fish – bream and snapper, beautiful fish.

As full darkness began to fall, the little boat began to run into the port of Chios with a handful of other boats. Giorgios leaned out and called to one of them.

‘Eh, Dmitry! Is that all you’ve got?’

The local man held up a great red snapper, almost three feet long, and Giorgios slapped his thigh and men cheered. This was done under the gonnes of the Turkish flagship, and Swan felt that they had to look – at least to the Turks – like local chain men. He watched the magnificent gilded stern of the Turkish flagship carefully, and was sure – chillingly sure – that he could see Omar Reis, thumbs hooked in his sash, on the command deck.

And the flagship was not the last obstacle. Despite a day’s careful work, there were still half a dozen more Turkish ships between them and the town, and it became clear that the fishing smack would have to pass right among them.

The owner came forward, hat in hand. He bowed to the Lord of Eressos, and to Swan.

‘I will run straight in, if the excellencies order me,’ he said.

Zambale nodded.

Swan sensed the man had more to say. He returned the man’s bow. ‘Do you have an alternative?’

The owner made a particularly Greek motion with his hand. ‘The prince has paid handsomely for this trip – my wife will not be poor whether I return or not.’ He scratched his white hair. And grinned. ‘But I confess that I would prefer to share the money with her rather than leaving her to enjoy widowhood without my nagging. So – if the excellencies will permit it – I would like to go straight to the Turks here and offer to sell our catch.’

Zambale blinked. ‘Sounds risky,’ he said. He grinned. ‘What a story to tell!’

In Greek, Swan said, ‘I think Despotes Dimitrios is telling us that it is less risky.’

The fisherman scratched his head again. And nodded. ‘It might help if we all muttered a prayer,’ he said.

They pulled alongside a Turkish galley in the very last light. They were challenged before they were within a boat’s length, but there were dozens of Greek slaves aboard, anxious to translate for their new masters, and in moments, fish were going up the side.

Swan himself was putting fish in sacks – already cleaned. He stank of fish guts. He heard a shout, and an angry exchange, and turned to find a pair of barefoot janissaries standing amid the dead fish. Without further ado, they began ramming pikes into the piles of fish.

‘They’re spoiling my catch, the pagan fucks!’ roared the owner. His genuine outrage carried conviction, but didn’t stop the janissaries, and even as he went on, another pair of Turks dropped into the fishing boat and grabbed Zambale. They pinned his arms and stripped him before he could react.

In Greek, a voice shouted, ‘Tell the fisherman to shut up or I’ll have his son gutted.’

Swan looked up. There was a scimitar at his own throat, and in a moment men had his arms and there was no chance to resist.

Swan tried not to panic. If the Turks found Zambale’s sword, or his own …

It was dark, and he thanked God. The Turkish captain leaned out over the side and roared. ‘We will pay for his entire cargo. Tell him. Also tell him that if we find gunpowder in his boat, we’ll crucify every man aboard. Eh?’ Reis laughed. But when the original two janissaries were satisfied, the nearer snapped his fingers and the two by the stern let Zambale go. One Turk even patted him on the head. The two men who had Swan smiled, and one gave him a slight inclination of the head, as if to say ‘no hard feelings’.

A purse of silver coins was thrown into the boat.

The tallest janissary shook his head. In Turkish, he said, ‘No wonder the Sultan is always victorious,’ he said. ‘These Greeks would sell their own brothers to us.’ He laughed and climbed the side of his galley, and the Turkish deck crew poled them off.

Swan wanted to throw up – or sit down and hang his head – but instead, he joined the crew in waving at the Turks, poling off, and getting the lateen set.

In an hour, they were alongside the great pier of Chios, standing on the wharves, stinking of fish.

Zambale grinned. He seemed to know his way around. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to the Mahona.’

‘The who?’ Swan asked.

‘The council of merchants that rules the island.’ Zambale was impatient.

Swan was not. He walked up the street to the main square, with Zambale protesting, and knocked at the oaken gates of the island’s Latin bishop.

‘This is a waste of time,’ Zambale grumbled.

Swan stank of fish and his clothes were ruined, but he whispered a short message to a servant and the man bowed. The bishop – a tall, heavy man with fierce brown eyes, more like a soldier than priest – greeted them in Genoese Italian. Swan took a minute to explain their errand.

The bishop nodded. He listened intently, and didn’t interrupt. When Swan was done, he folded his hands. ‘We must go to the Mahona,’ he said.

Zambale’s face showed his thoughts.

The bishop raised an eyebrow. ‘I will see that the garrison and other parts of my flock know that rescue is at hand,’ he said. ‘I am glad you approached me, young man. Do you wish to bathe? You both reek.’

Swan bowed. ‘We should make haste,’ he said.

The bishop made a face. ‘They won’t be kind,’ he said.

Swan laughed. ‘What can they do to us?’ he asked.

Before the church struck the hour, they were before the Mahona.

Chios was not held as a feudal fief, like Lesvos. It was, instead, the ‘property’ of a Genoese consortium that included the Bank of St George and a dozen other concerns, including the great landowners of the island. Swan knew a little about their politics from Cardinal Bessarion, and enough about the two islands to know that the lords of Lesvos had proved as adept at making money and far better at defence than the merchants of Chios.

‘Speak, young man,’ said a black-clad Genoese. He wore a chain of office and spoke with more icy disdain than Prince Dorino had ever evinced. He held a pomander ball very close to his nose.

Swan bowed. It is very difficult for a young man to appear to best advantage in hose stained with fish guts and a Greek peasant’s tunic with the sweat of several men on it, but Swan managed a fine bow despite all.

‘My lords, I am here on behalf of the Knights of the Order of St John and the Allies.’ He paused, hoping he’d startled them.

‘It’s a Turkish trick. They are impostors,’ said an older voice – querulous and high pitched. ‘And they smell,’ he added, as if that was all the argument necessary.

Swan removed the donat’s ring from his finger and handed it to the President of the Council – at the same time realising that the ring would have been his death sentence had the janissaries looked him over carefully.

It was examined – handed from one to another.

The Lord of Eressos lost patience. ‘We’re not trying to sell you bad wool, you ungrateful usurers!’ he snapped.

Just for a moment, Swan admired the other young man’s genuine contempt.

Every black-capped head came up together, and forty old men glared at Hector Zambale.

‘We are not used to being addressed in such a way,’ snapped the president.

‘It will seem as mild as a whore’s kiss when you pull an oar for the Sultan,’ Zambale shot back. ‘I am the Lord of Eressos of Lesvos, as at least one of you bastards knows perfectly well.’ He stared at one of the younger black-caps, who wilted.

Swan’s estimation of Zambale’s skills went up another notch.

The president turned to the younger man. ‘Is this true?’ he asked.

The man bowed his head. ‘Yes, messire.’

The president shook his head. And looked at Swan. ‘We have been summoned to surrender the island by no less a pirate then Omar Reis, who raped his way across Thrace last year.’