Текст книги "Chios"

Автор книги: Christian Cameron

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Fra Domenico was by the mainmast amidships. His head was in Fra Tommaso’s lap, and his eyes sparkled like the ring’s jewel. The whole right side of his breastplate was caved in, and no one had even tried to remove it.

His brilliant eyes met Swan’s.

Swan bowed, and he found that his eyes were full of tears.

‘Ah!’ Domenico whispered. ‘The English spy. Or prince.’ He laughed, and coughed, and blood sprayed across the deck. ‘You know, as long as I wore the ring, I was invincible, eh?’ He nodded.

Fra Tommaso pointed at the ring. Swan took it from his own finger and held out to the other man, but the dying man pushed him away with surprising strength.

‘Yours now, boy. I go to meet my god. I have left no sins untried, nor am I a humble and contrite heart, but by our lord, I have beaten the enemies of the faith like a drum.’ He smiled. A long sigh escaped him, and Swan thought he was dead.

But the man’s eyes rolled open. ‘And if we were wrong – if killing in war is murder …’ He laid his head back. ‘Then I console myself that Christ died even for such as I.’ His smile changed its character. ‘Tell the English they were beautiful. Will you tell them, Master Swan?’

‘I will, my lord.’

Domenico’s smile was now almost too much to bear. He raised the jewelled cross on his breast and touched it to his lips, and looked at Tommaso. ‘I am not afraid,’ he said.

And died.

After a while, Fra Tommaso put the dead knight’s head on the deck. He turned to the two Venetian knights. ‘Are we agreed that we follow the rest of his plan?’ Tommaso asked.

Fra Giovanni nodded. ‘First, because he was who he was.’ The Venetian shrugged. ‘Secondly, because it is still the best plan.’

Later, Swan half carried Tommaso into his room at the hostel. The older man was so far gone – fatigue, and sorrow, and a small wound on his left thigh – that he could scarcely walk. Outside, the town celebrated as if it were Easter. It almost was, if you were a Frank.

Recklessly, Swan poured his mentor a cup of wine, and the older knight drank it off. He stared out at the revellers just outside his window.

He turned his head, and by the fitful candlelight, Swan could see that the other man was crying.

Swan put a hand on his shoulder – embarrassed as children are when parents show weakness. But Tommaso pushed him away. ‘What if it is for nothing?’ the old man asked the darkness. ‘What if Drappierro is right, and we’d be better to sail away and leave them to surrender?’

Swan sighed. He’d wondered the same thing, even as his arrows plucked lives. He thought of all the Turks he knew – and admired. And all the Italians he detested.

But he didn’t suggest any such thing. Instead, he straightened and said, ‘It can’t be for nothing. Fra Domenico …’

Tommaso turned back to the darkness. ‘Lived by the sword, and died by it. Bah – be gone, boy. Go drink wine, or worse. I’m in a black mood, and I’ll console myself in the usual way.’

Swan went to pour him more wine, and the old man managed a slight smile.

‘Prayer, foolish boy. Be gone.’ He put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘We’ll play this through to the end in the morning. Eh? I know you won’t do it, but I’d recommend some sleep.’ He sniffed. ‘Or a bath. Do I smell fish?’

Swan left the knight on his knees.

Fra Tommaso knew him all too well, and the bells at midnight found him on the slope under the castello, drinking his third cup of wine with a dozen English sailors. Shipman had his arm around Swan’s waist, and said, ‘Just come aboard and we’ll see you home, Master Swan. These foreigners are no friends, let me tell you, for all you’ve steered us through ’em like a ship through reefs and sands. Eh, Master Richard?’

Richard Sturmy had his arm around his wife, a tall, brown-haired woman who looked very much in charge of her own destiny. She dropped a pretty, straight-backed curtsy and said, ‘Your servant, Master Swan.’

Swan gave her a bow.

‘If my husband is to be believed, we owe you a real debt,’ she said. She smiled to show she was teasing. ‘I came for adventure, and I confess I’ve had a good deal more adventure than I wanted. But our thanks are genuine.’

Master Richard nodded. ‘Anything for you, Master Swan. Any time. That alum will make my fortune.’

Swan nodded. ‘There are – to be frank – three things you could do for me. And one is to take my mother a letter.’

If they were shocked to hear that a gentleman of the order had a mother at an inn in Southwark, none of them gave themselves away by midnight torchlight, although Katherine’s twelve-year-old girl shrieked and asked her mother, ‘Aren’t they all whores in Southwark? Pater says so!’

And Master Shipman laughed. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘I know the Swan quite well.’ He shook his head. ‘I probably know your mum, lad.’

Swan laughed, because social embarrassment was the farthest thing from his mind. ‘She owns the place,’ he said.

‘Christ on the cross!’ exclaimed Master Shipman. ‘You mum’s Ann the Swan of Southwark?’

‘It’s a small world,’ Swan said. He knew his mother would be flattered to hell and back to know that men stood on a beach in Greece and spoke of her inn.

‘And the second thing?’ Sturmy asked.

Swan shrugged. ‘I noticed you have a small wherry on your decks. I need her.’

Shipman looked pained, but he nodded. ‘Can you handle her?’ he asked. ‘We brought her all the way from the Thames!’

Swan shrugged. ‘I stole a dozen of them as a boy,’ he admitted. ‘I’d also like a small cask, and some tallow.’

‘Tallow we have.’ Sturmy laughed.

Eventually, it was all too much for him – their gratitude, the matter of his mother, and their offers to take him home. He sent a taverna boy for pen and parchment, paid in good silver, and sat on a camp stool to write a letter that would cross many thousands of miles before it reached his mother – if ever.

‘Dear Mater,

You may be surprised that I am still alive …’ he began. He grinned, feeling a little better, and wrote on for almost half an hour, until the small blond girl came shyly to his elbow. She watched him write. She’d been asleep twice, but now was awake because cannon had been fired out over the harbour – at first, men thought it was an alarm, but it proved just the garrison clearing loads from the day.

‘You write very well,’ the girl said.

Swan nodded. He was almost done.

‘You said you was writing your mater, but that says “Messire Drappiero”.’

Swan glared at her.

‘The princess in the fortress …’ Hannah Sturmy paused. ‘She said if I met the English knight, I was to give him this. But I think my mother won’t approve.’ Young Hannah looked at him – a frank appraisal, as if trying to work out why her mother might not approve.

It took Swan several moments to work it out – he was composing something very carefully. He looked up. ‘At the palace?’ he asked.

‘You smell really bad,’ Miss Sturmy said.

Swan managed a laugh. He rose and stretched and caught a whiff of his own smell, and wrinkled his nose.

‘By Saint George,’ he said to Hannah. ‘I am rather foul.’ He saw her mother close at hand, by the family fire. ‘Goodwife Sturmy?’ he called out, dusting sand from the beach under his feet on the small square of parchment. Then he used the seal he’d pocketed from Fra Tommaso’s room.

‘I think we are gossips, now, Master Swan – you being from Southwark just as we.’ She nodded graciously. ‘Londoners or near enough.’ She curtsied. ‘You may call me Katherine. Or even Kat.’

He nodded, warmed by the accent – the exact accent – of home. ‘Please call me Tom,’ he said.

He smiled at Hannah, and the child looked at her mother. ‘I have a note. For Master Swan. But that’s wrong, isn’t it? From a lady, I mean.’

Goodwife Sturmy took the note from her daughter and placed it in Master Swan’s hands.

‘But I cannot receive notes from men!’ Hannah muttered. She rolled her eyes like twelve-year-old girls the world over.

Katherine Sturmy looked, for a moment, like her namesake in the harbour. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You may not, Hannah Sturmy.’ She allowed herself the slightest smile at Master Swan, although there was disapproval there, too.

Swan made himself finish his letter to his mother, although he longed to read the note and rush off. In truth, he knew that the Sturmys had left the palace shortly after the battle. The note was six hours old.

He kissed Katherine Sturmy’s cheeks and embraced Richard Sturmy. He embraced half a dozen sailors and Master Shipman, and then, free at last, he wandered down the hill towards the torchlit tavernas open along the beach. The night was still full of revellers.

He read the note.

I will wait. Find me.

Fatigue fell away from him.

Where would she wait? The palace? He walked up the winding road, almost half a mile around the great stone bulk of the fortress and its many bastions. There were revellers everywhere, and just short of the torchlit main gatehouse, he found what he’d hoped for – twenty noblemen and women gathered in the softly lit darkness under the great walls. He watched them from a distance for a long minute – but none of them was the woman he sought. He went into the gatehouse, and was passed without question – he was still, he was shocked to find, in his breast and back plate and his red surcoat.

Halfway into the inner ward, his elation and his energy deserted him. Suddenly the sword on his hip was a grinding spit of iron, and the armour was a prison, and every muscle in his back and shoulders whined and moaned or screamed in agony. He paused, and for a moment he considered simply sitting under the wall and going to sleep.

Sleep.

He looked up the hill of the great fortress’s interior from the main gate. But the palazzo was dark – even the cressets at the doors were extinguished.

He turned and began to walk down the cobbles to the gatehouse. It suddenly seemed very far, and he felt very foolish. In fact, he laughed aloud.

His feet were loud on the stones.

He emerged from the gatehouse and turned to look at the aristocrats and their party, but they weren’t people he knew – he saw one older man from the festival at the palace, but the others were strangers – and he couldn’t very well ask whether they’d seen a princess of the blood wandering loose.

‘Christ, I’m a fool,’ he said, and started down the road.

As soon as he heard the footsteps behind him, he thought of Drappierro’s warning – that he had people on Lesvos. He whirled, the German long sword coming silkily out of its scabbard.

Princess Theodora stood behind him. Her face was clear in the moonlight.

‘I followed your laugh,’ she said. ‘I hear you are a fool.’ She raised an arched eyebrow. ‘The sword is, I promise you, unnecessary.’

‘Who says I am a fool?’ Swan asked, his heart beating harder than it had in the sea fight.

‘An expert,’ she said. She came close to him – so close that suddenly her eyes were alive in the moonlight and he could feel the heat of her body. She paused and put a hand on his arm. ‘You stink, Englishman.’

Swan laughed. ‘There were fish,’ he said. Which was suddenly a very funny thing to say.

She nodded. ‘I’d say there was also blood, and worse,’ she said. ‘I happen to know where there is a great deal of water.’ She raised her face, and her lips brushed his, and then she was away into the darkness.

‘That’s all I dare,’ she said. ‘I’d hate to be overwhelmed, and faint.’

Fatigue forgotten, he chased her into the darkness.

In the morning, the Katherine Sturmy weighed anchor and sailed away, north and west. And the order’s fleet rowed out of the harbour, and turned south, towards Chios. A Thames wherry was roped down amidships on the Blessed Saint John’s deck, and Swan stood by the helmsman, bleary-eyed with fatigue.

Just before the bells would have struck for nones, with Mytilini almost lost in the day-haze behind them and Mount Olympos plain as day on their starboard side, Fra Tommaso sent for Swan in the aft cabin.

‘I’m guessing you had mass this morning,’ Fra Tommaso said.

Swan nodded soberly. He had left Princess Theodora by a postern gate that opened – magically – without a knock, and had proceeded, carrying his breastplate, to the grotto church, where he’d heard mass in the pre-dawn darkness. He wasn’t sure whether he’d had any sleep or not. It was all like a dream.

‘You’ll still go through with this?’ Tommaso asked. His voice was dry. He was very much the same as he had been in their first days together. He handed Swan a glass of sweet wine. ‘Listen, lad. You are a passable liar and a fine sword, and with a little humility, you might make a man. If you do this – the odds are you’ll die hard, and for nothing.’

Swan frowned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it.’ Some time in the darkness, instead of mumbling endearments, she had said my world is ending. He had promised her. She had also told him not to trust Zambale. What could possibly be wrong with Zambale?

What’s wrong with me? Swan thought. Tommaso was offering him a way out, and he was eager to go.

Tommaso narrowed his eyes. ‘Let me try this another way,’ he said. ‘I’d far rather that you sailed away now – or had left last night with the Sturmys – than that you went to Chios and … betrayed us.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

Swan shook his head. ‘Don’t be, my lord.’ He smiled, and glanced at the ring on his finger, the crystalline head of Athena sparkling in the sun. ‘You and Domenico read me aright.’ He shrugged. ‘It is hard to explain. But I think – I think that I cannot betray you.’ He flashed the ring. ‘Besides, I’m invincible.’

Tommaso rose and crushed him in an embrace. ‘Well, boy, you are my kind of fool, and no mistake. If you live – I’ll see that your patents of nobility pass the chapter, even if they’re as false as a tartar’s heart.’

While Tommaso embraced him, he dropped the order’s command seal back on the man’s sea table.

Then Swan bowed deeply. ‘I think I’d make a very poor knight,’ he said. ‘But I promise that if I survive this, I’ll always be at the order’s service.’

Ten minutes later, the wherry was over the side, and he had the little sail up, and was skimming the waves like a boy on the Thames, headed south. At his feet was a bundle of Turkish clothes, stripped from a corpse on the beach – there had been a selection on the small tide. When he was well clear of the Christian fleet, he stripped and went over the side with a painter around his waist and a lead-weighted keg – just a small keg, the kind in which men shipped valuable cargoes of alum or such. He went under his own hull twice, and then surfaced, and almost ruined his plan by being so tired he had trouble getting back aboard.

But he finally got a leg over the gunwale, and as he rolled back aboard, he saw the order’s galleys under full sail, line astern, obviously making for the Bay of Kalloni. And to the south, he could see the pickets of the Turkish fleet. Fra Domenico had wanted the Turks to see the order sail into the Bay of Kalloni.

At the last command meeting, he’d smiled – wryly – at the knights, and Richard Sturmy. ‘We do not have to win,’ he said. ‘We do not have to provide a massed Christian fleet. We only have to sow doubt. Doubt is our greatest ally. The Turks think their traitor sent the Genoese Grand Fleet away.’ Domenico had paused. ‘What if Domenico is not a traitor? Omar Reis has to consider that.’

Nor had Swan wasted his writing time solely writing to his mother.

He concealed the forged letter to Messire Drappierro very carefully behind the wherry’s backboard – a location every London boy knew. He hoped that Turks knew the trick too, because he wanted the letter to be found.

Drappierro thought he was so very smart.

Whistling, Swan got the sail back up, picked up speed, and put the bow south again.

To Chios.

The only problem with Swan’s plan was that it depended on several people behaving in predictable ways, and Swan knew that at any point, he could simply be killed. Some parts of the plan would then continue to function, but – despite the order’s teachings – Swan wasn’t very interested in the functioning of his plan after his own death.

And what if they haul the boat out of the water? he asked himself. What if they haven’t landed their oarsmen?

He thought of a hundred flaws.

He landed with the dawn on the northern tip of Chios and saw the Temple to Zeus as the sun crossed the mountains and kissed the still-standing columns. He lay on the warm marble and slept – all day. He awoke to watch half the Turkish fleet sailing away on a long reach west, probably headed for the entrance of the Bay of Kalloni, and he grinned at the ring and the head of Athena on his hand and thought of Fra Domenico.

Then he worried that Auntie’s galley was heading south.

Eventually, he decided that it was, truly, out of his hands, and he went back to sleep.

As darkness fell, he woke, and swam off the east pediment of the temple, in what might have been the most beautiful place he’d ever seen. And then dried himself, and put on the dead man’s clothes, tied his turban, and launched his boat.

He took the time to say a prayer. And to look at the ring, and the temple.

The Turkish fleet – at least, the half still in the Asiatic Straits off Chios – was far more bunched up than it had been – less confident, Swan suspected.

He came up with them as darkness was falling. His hands shook so badly he could scarcely keep the tiller against the wind, but he held his course, and near full dark, he brought his small boat through the picket ships without raising so much as a shout – in fact, he was ready with a fine story of escape from Christian dogs, but no one called out to him.

He came alongside the flagship, and was finally challenged.

‘Take me to Messire Drappierro,’ he said in brash Turkish. He sounded terrified inside his own head. His heart hammered as if Princess Theodora had just dropped her gown.

He thought of … nothing. He forced a smile, and went over the side, of his own free will, aboard the Turkish flagship, with his Turkish clothes worn incorrectly, and his turban tied in a way no true son of the faith – or daughter – would ever tie such a thing.

A pair of janissaries grabbed him and threw him to the deck, and in a blinding flash of terror, he saw a terrible flaw in his plan.

What if Drappierro isn’t aboard?

But he had to try. ‘Messire Drappierro!’ he wailed.

They stripped him. It was not done gently, and a pair of officers came to watch.

‘A Christian spy!' was the shout.

‘Search his boat!’ another called.

‘Master Drappierro!’ Swan wailed in real terror. The part of his brain that never turned off noted that he was being methodically beaten while stretched across the galley’s supply of gunpowder – the barrels were Italian.

He was kicked twice – in the stomach and again in the privates. He writhed in agony, naked, on the deck.

‘He’s mine,’ Drappierro said. ‘Dear boy – couldn’t you just have come to the town like a civilised person?’

Swan almost wet himself in relief. He couldn’t control his muscles. He was in the grip of a terror so absolute – it is one thing to contemplate capture by a cruel enemy, and another to endure it. In the light of the handful of torches and lanterns, the Turks looked demonic.

‘What do you mean, he is yours?’ one of the Turkish officers asked.

Drappierro waved arrogantly. ‘One of my men. Understand, fool of a Turk? My men. Working for me.’

‘I will search his boat anyway,’ the Turk spat.

‘Suit yourself,’ Drappierro said. ‘I am surrounded by men who prefer violence to thought. Master Swan, I do not think you will live long, lying naked on the deck of this ship. Have you got it?’

Swan pointed mutely at the Turkish officer. He found it hard to speak. Just as he began to recover his wits, he saw Auntie’s shadowy steward watching him.

But that was terror turning to … hope.

The African turned and vanished into the aft cabin.

Drappierro was arguing with the Turkish officer. ‘You took a ring from the prisoner?’ he asked.

The Turk glared at him. ‘Perhaps! What is it to you, sir?’

‘It is mine. The prisoner merely carried it to prove himself from me.’ Drappierro held out his hand.

The Turkish officer drew himself up. Swan had seen the same gesture from an archer in Southwark who couldn’t pay his bill. ‘What does it look like?’ he asked.

Drappierro spat. ‘I can have you bastinadoed, you fool! I am the Sultan’s friend.’ He held out his hand. ‘It has a crystal or a diamond in the bezel and the ring is gold. The head is of Herakles …’

The Turk had the ring on his finger, and he gave himself away looking at it. The crystal winked in the torchlight. The Turk cursed, and flung the thing into Drappierro’s greedy hand. The Genoese man took it.

The other Turk – just clambering back over the galley’s low side – watched with something like amusement. ‘It is your ring?’ he asked in low, grave tones.

‘Yes, yes,’ Drappierro said with evident delight.

The Turk bowed and caught his brother officer by his flowing sleeve and dragged him aft towards the main-deck tent, telling him to stop making trouble in careful Turkish.

The oar decks were empty. Swan had hoped to hide in them, but that had all failed now – he hadn’t expected the guards to be so alert, and now he was in the most desperate position possible.

Drappierro knelt by his side. ‘How did you get here? You are long ahead of time!’ He sneered. ‘So eager for my service?’

Swan wanted to retch. ‘The … order … broke out of Mytilini.’ He coughed. ‘I stole a boat.’

Drappierro scratched his beard. But he wasn’t really looking at Swan. He was trying to see his ring in the poor light. ‘This feels more like crystal than diamond,’ he said. ‘Oh, but I can feel the age of it.’ He smiled. ‘It really is a pity you have so many enemies, young man.’ He stood, and as he stood, a pair of Africans took Swan’s arms.

Swan had expected this betrayal. In fact, he’d planned on it – but that didn’t really fight the fear. ‘Messire!’ he wailed, and he sounded very desperate.

‘Omar Reis will never even know you were here,’ Drappierro said. ‘Your friend – his sister – has made a fine offer for you. She gave me her word that you will not die.’ Drappierro laughed. ‘We are all men of the world, eh, Swan? If you ever manage to escape, come and see me.’

The Africans had dragged Swan to his feet, but they were not unkind, and Swan settled and they gave him a little space. He used it to bow low.

‘We are, indeed, all men of the world,’ he answered. ‘Think of me,’ he managed.

Drappierro’s head shot round, because Swan’s tone had been too bland by half.

But the Africans were taking him down the main deck. He left Messire Drappierro trying to look more closely at his ring, even as a dozen janissaries came down the deck from the command tent.

Just over his shoulder, he could hear the voice he dreaded most of all – that of Omar Reis himself.

‘Messire Drappierro,’ the Turkish general said in his near-perfect Italian.

And then Swan found himself face to face with Maral Khatun. Auntie.

She was thirty-five – five feet of muscle and silk and black hair. In the dark, she was merely a shape and a set of shawls, but he still knew her – by scent, and by the deference of all the men around him suddenly.

He made himself bow.

She chuckled. In Arabic, she said, ‘Well, he doesn’t lack for manners. Bring him along.’ She turned to her Africans. ‘Mustafa – what is all the shouting in the Frankish tongue?’

‘I do not know, mistress.’ The African bowed. ‘Hamza Beg is … debating, with your brother.’

‘Find out, there’s a dear.’ She looked at Swan. ‘You speak a little Arabic, I think.’

There were men aboard who knew he spoke Turkish, so he bowed again. ‘And Turkish, my lady.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, you are revenged on a poor woman, are you not? So you understood every word, you scamp?’ She seemed neither spiteful nor annoyed.

‘I know we were interrupted,’ Swan said. It was a line he’d practised for this moment. All his dice were thrown.

She stepped back, and her laugh pealed across the deck. ‘You are bold.’ She leaned forward. ‘You know I have purchased thee?’

He nodded.

More shouting from aft.

‘There is talk of taking the Englishman from thee, mistress,’ Mustafa said.

‘Let us be away to our own ship,’ Auntie said. ‘Immediately. I command it. Englishman, what have you done?’

Swan bowed his head. ‘As I serve God, lady, I have done nothing but carry a message from this man Drappierro to the Lord of the Knights of Wrath and then I have brought the lord’s answer to Drappierro.’

She smiled as they settled in a small boat. Her Africans began to pull them away from the side. There was more shouting aboard the flagship, but no heads appeared at the side. Swan could hear Omar Reis and another, deeper voice.

‘Truly, you are the very son of iniquity and father of lies, young man. Despite which, I can see thee as … Ganymede.’

‘Hermes,’ Swan managed. ‘Ganymede’s tastes ran to other things than messages.’

The woman laughed again. ‘Oh, infidel, how I shall use thee.’ She turned to her rowers.

Swan saw his small boat still tied under the stem of the flagship.

‘Shall I merely cut out his tongue?’ she asked Mustafa.

The African grunted and pulled his oar. They were passing down the length of the ship.

‘Why is my brother so wroth with the Genoese ambassador?’ she asked.

Mustafa grunted. ‘This infidel brought the Genoese a message from the Pirates of Rhodos,’ he said.

My hands are not tied, and I do no think this is going to get any better, Swan thought.

‘So he is a double traitor,’ Auntie said with real satisfaction. She smiled at Swan. ‘If my brother kills him, I won’t have to pay him a thing for you!’

Swan smiled at her with every bit of forced flirtation he could muster. All he could see was her eyes.

‘I can use my tongue for many things,’ he whispered.

She giggled. ‘Well – perhaps we will have a test of that. If you pass, you may keep it. We could apply these tests one part at a time – anything that fails is removed.’

‘Anything that fails you, mistress, deserves nothing more,’ he said in Arabic. His right hand moved very slowly.

They were twenty cloth yards from his little boat.

He saw her close her eyes as he leaned forward to kiss her, and his hand trailed along behind Mustafa’s back.

He took Mustafa’s belt knife out of the sheath at his back and cut the man’s throat before Auntie’s eyes were open again. The other rower went for the knife – Swan broke his arm and he screamed and got the knife in his eye for good measure, and then Swan slammed the pommel into Auntie’s head as she drew her own knife.

The woman moaned and subsided, eyes wide with terror and the weight of the blow. She was stunned, but not unconscious.

The boat was suddenly full of blood.

Swan was sick of all of it.

He knelt by her in the bow and wrestled the boat with one oar alongside his own. No one looked over the side to see the source of the dying man’s scream. Swan panted twenty long breaths, his mind almost blank.

The woman opened her mouth.

He put his hand over it and she bit his hand until he put the knife to her nose.

‘I won’t kill you,’ he said. ‘But I’ll take your nose off.’

‘Try, you dog! You killed Mustafa, you—’

He rammed a thumb up under her jaw and she grunted in pain and subsided.

Carefully, he tied her hands and feet and then crumpled one of her shawls into a gag and shoved it into her mouth. She was unresisting.

‘Please note that I am not killing you,’ he said carefully. ‘I could. But I’m sick of the whole thing. I’m … sorry about Mustafa.’ He sounded insane, even to his own ears.

For a moment, in the darkness, he almost lost it. The man’s skull popping under his hands – the feel of the dagger. In the stinking, hot darkness.

He threw up over the side.

He rolled into his own boat, and shoved Maral Khatun’s boat as hard as he could, sending each of them in opposite directions.

Forty feet away, Drappierro said, ‘Your accusations are pure foolishness, Pasha. Get a grip on yourself. There is no mighty Christian fleet, and there is no trap.’

Omar Reis did not sound angry. Merely professional. ‘Why the letter, then, messire?’

‘A forgery!’ Drappierro spat. ‘An obvious forgery.’

Swan went into the water. It was colder than he expected, and he felt the current as soon as he went in. He fought fatigue and revulsion.

And fear.

As soon as he put his head under the water, it was dark, and he felt the man’s neck go just as he pounded the blade into the man’s skull. The skull cracked like an egg and then the whole head collapsed under his weight. Then he felt himself repeat the blow, even though he knew the man had to be dead.

He tried to rise off the new corpse, but his leg failed him and he sank back – now kneeling on both knees. He could see nothing. He could hear at least two men dying. Everything smelled of blood, and faeces, and despair.

He was there for long enough to feel the total panic. He couldn’t get his head under the water. He would not do it.

Any moment, a Turk would put his head over the stern and see Auntie – or him.

He tried again.

Damn it.

He tried prayer, and nothing came.

Tried thinking of beautiful women. Of the head of St George.

Of life.

He didn’t breathe deeply enough, but in the end he got his head under water, and he got under the boat, and his desperately questing hand found the little keg secured by the rope. Weighted with lead.

Fuck them all, he thought. I’m going to pull this off.

He made enough noise to wake the dead, getting back in his boat.

No one paid him any attention, because Drappierro and Hamza Beg and Omar Reis were shouting like bulls.

Swan opened the small keg. Inside it was full of tallow, except for the bars of lead that killed its buoyancy, the oiled leather packet of gunpowder, and the small oiled silk packet. Swan took that. He didn’t smile. The fun of the prank was gone with Mustafa’s throat.

Now it was just a job.

Inside the powder bag was the length of a man’s hand of slow match, and his tinder box. Swan reassembled his device – the packet of powder inside the tallow, which he packed back, his hands greasy with the stuff. He pulled the waxed plug on the barrel and fed the fuse through it, and then he tapped the top of the keg into place until the thin board snapped past the ends of the staves.