Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome (4 page)

The boat landed them near his old inn. He paid the boatman to stay.

‘Giannis – wait here,’ he told the soldier, and the other man nodded. His whole attention was on the girl.

Swan ran up the ladder, found that his sea legs were still strong on him, and rolled down the street for some paces before he recovered the ability to walk. But he got to the inn without being robbed, and established that they could lodge six foreigners and their belongings.

‘Where’s Joan?’ Swan asked the innkeeper.

‘Bah! She ran off with a sailor,’ the innkeeper said. ‘I have another slut if you feel the itch.’

Swan made a face and returned to the boat, and got his party of Greeks ashore and to the inn. He shared a room with Nikephorus, and he went to bed early after two cups of horrible wine. He lay listening to Irene giggle and groan and make sweet little shrieks, and tried to decide why he might be jealous. He wasn’t jealous of the woman, or the man. Merely their satisfaction in each other.

In the morning, he left the Greeks to their own devices – Greeks in Venice had many friends – and had himself rowed to the Jewish quarter after an injunction that the head must be guarded at all times. He arranged to see Rabbi Aaron.

None of the men at the gates were his friends. He felt as if he’d died and gone to a place like Venice, but populated with shadows of the men he’d seen before, and he all but growled at the young Jews, and they bridled.

Rabbi Aaron greeted him soberly, and Swan handed over a thick packet of letters from Constantinople.

Aaron bowed stiffly. ‘My thanks, and that of my house,’ he said.

Swan’s sense of dislocation was increased by Aaron’s distance. ‘Rabbi?’ he enquired.

‘I have another student to whom I must attend,’ Aaron said, and bowed again.

Swan knew he was dismissed, and withdrew, feeling as hurt as if he’d received a sword thrust.

The next week in Venice was one of the longest of Swan’s life. The strangest premonitions ruled him, and he found himself looking at the head six times a day – at one point, on his way across the lagoon to see Di Brachio, he was so pierced with worry about the head that he ordered his gondolier to turn the boat and row him back to the steps nearest his inn. Notes to Di Brachio brought no response, and the Greeks were constantly busy with their own friends – Venice was full of Greek exiles.

But on Friday Di Brachio sent him a note; that night he dined with Di Brachio’s father, who was effusive in his praise, and the next morning they prepared a convoy of horses and a cart to take the Greeks and all of their belongings to Rome. The next two days passed in a pleasant whirl of near-military preparations, and on Monday, they rode for Rome, with two carts, all of the Greeks, two French merchants and a priest and six soldiers provided by Messire Bembo. Despite the season, they made good time, and passed the length of the Romagnol with no more trouble than they travelled the Veneto – although the tolls were higher and the local soldiers looked like criminals dressed in armour. They climbed into the hills, drank thin red wine that never seemed to warm them, and endured three straight nights in hostels built to accommodate pilgrims, where they endured fleas of a number and viciousness unlike anything they had encountered. The Greeks went and stayed in the stable, and Andromache reproved Swan.

‘You rescued us from the Turks so that we could be eaten by your ferocious heretic insects! Are you sure this isn’t hell? It’s cold, and the bugs …’ She shook her head.

The third night, Di Brachio returned from a long ride ahead to report that all four inns were full to the rafters.

Swan shrugged. ‘In England, sometimes a gentleman will rent a barn,’ he said.

Di Brachio nodded. He was biting the leather of his riding glove, trying to get it off. ‘Yes, it is much the same with us,’ he said. He pointed his chin at the distant towers of a small castle. ‘Go ask them. Be English and noble – everyone here likes that.’

Swan’s cloak and gloves were soaked through with icy rain, and he could see that Master Nikephorus’s lips were blue, so he cantered his rented horse across the fields to the castle, which, close up, proved to be very small. But they had a small stone barn, and the
very
cautious owner, who conducted his entire negotiation from behind a cocked crossbow, agreed to rent them the barn for five ducats – an outrageous price. But some hours later, when they sat in the firelit dark with good food – brought by the cautious lord’s servants – and good wine, the ducats seemed well spent.

Di Brachio was in no hurry to make his blankets, and he and Swan sat up, listening to the others snore.

Swan told his mentor the tale of the rabbi’s stiffness, and Di Brachio shrugged elaborately, palms up. ‘Listen – you stole the head of Saint George and twisted the Sultan’s tail,’ he said. ‘You think this will have no consequence? Are you an idiot? Jews were probably arrested – mayhap Solomon himself was arrested.’

Swan froze.

‘Your friend Omar Reis will not lightly accept a defeat, Messire Swan. Men will die. Others will be tortured. The price of your little escapade …’ He shrugged. ‘Bessarion may be none too pleased with us.’

Swan shook his head. ‘Why – damn it! I did everything he asked!’

Di Brachio lay back in the straw. ‘Yes – well. Goodnight, English. And don’t forget the Orsini, tomorrow. They have long memories – eh? And long knives.’

Swan was embarrassed to admit he’d forgotten all about them.

There were no red and yellow Orsini liveries in evidence as they entered Rome, and they crossed the city – a city that seemed empty after the crowds of Venice. They rode across the forum and Swan watched footpads fade into the ruins like beetles at the first sign of the cook entering the kitchen. He fondled his sword and kept his eyes moving.

But if other places seemed odd, Bessarion’s shabby palace was like home. The servants welcomed them, and the great man himself came down to the tiny yard to watch the unloading of the carts – to embrace each one of the Greek mimes, and to chatter with them in Greek. When he came to Di Brachio, he buried the Venetian in an enormous embrace, a bear hug.

‘You lived, young pup,’ he said with enormous affection, and Di Brachio returned the embrace.

Swan stood with an armload of scrolls. Bessarion met his glance over Di Brachio’s shoulder and winked, and Swan felt something give way in his chest. He’d been holding his breath. Rabbi Aaron’s dismissal had hurt.

He guided the cardinal through the scrolls he’d rescued, and he gave credit in double handfuls to the others – to Giannis, to Peter, to the archers on the ship. Di Brachio shrugged and disclaimed all responsibility.

‘The English did it all,’ he said. ‘None of the rest of us could even leave the quarter. He and his man did the work.’

Bessarion blessed every one of them in the yard, even though they all had to move carefully because the pair of two-wheeled carts filled the whole space. He helped carry scrolls up into his library, where he saw to their installation in his own network of pigeonholes.

‘This one for the Pope,’ he said. ‘This one – the Cicero – for my friend Aneas Piccolomini. A great man in the Church. And a great lover of Cicero.’

He flirted with Irene and Andromache, chatted amicably with Giannis, and repeatedly wrung Nikephorus’s hands, but when he’d seen his fellow Greeks situated in comfortable rooms, he finally took Swan and Di Brachio to his inner sanctum and closed the door.

‘Well,’ he said. He sat back on an old leather chair from the last century and put his booted feet up on his great work table. ‘The bishop has sung your praises and Master Swan’s to the Pope and to the College of Cardinals. But I can’t help but think that the head of Saint George might have been …’ He shrugged. ‘Better left at the bottom of the sewers, perhaps?’ He looked at Di Brachio. ‘Ten Jews have been executed – crucified. And forty Greeks. Mehmed II has forbidden the Pisans or the Florentines to maintain posts in the city, and he’s made other threats.’

Di Brachio shrugged. ‘We didn’t steal the head, Excellency. Your servants did that.’ He glanced at Swan. ‘Servants you didn’t see fit to mention to us.’

Bessarion shrugged. ‘I can’t …’ he began. Then he shrugged. ‘Gentlemen, I owe you some apology, and yet, I cannot let you – even you, Alessandro – know all my little secrets.’ He glowered at Swan. ‘And you, my lying Englishman. I gather that it is to you I owe the head’s recovery – and the chaos in Christian affairs in Constantinople!’

But his tone was more jesting than solemn or admonitory, and Swan failed to hide his grin of triumph.

‘There are interests in this town that received a sharp rap on the knuckles owing to your actions. But – you were there and I was not, and on balance, you have saved some wonderful books, and brought back some people I value strongly – the insides of Master Nikephorus’s head hold more books than my library, if I can find a scribe to write for him – and the head will buy me a great deal of influence somewhere.’

‘You won’t keep it?’ asked Swan, suddenly and unaccountably devastated.

Di Brachio nodded to his master. ‘Eminence, you really must see this thing to believe it.’

Bessarion raised an eyebrow. ‘Gentlemen, I am a Greek, and a man of God. I have every faith that the head of Saint George is a wonderful relic.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Anything you’d care to report to me?’ he asked.

Di Brachio looked out of the small window by his shoulder at the wintry remnants of a Roman garden. ‘We touched at Monemvasia while English here was wounded,’ he said. ‘The Hospitaller officer there wants the Pope to take the town, or the even the Venetians.’ Di Brachio produced the letter.

‘We were paid three hundred ducats to carry this message,’ Swan added. ‘I had to leave my man there. I’d like … to go back. And retrieve him. If time allows.’

Bessarion leaned back and stared at his star-studded ceiling while he played with his beard. ‘Monemvasia. The property of the Despot, I think. Demetrios.’ He shook his head. ‘There are rumours that Demetrios is threatening to turn to al-Islam.’ He sat up. ‘The Turks are readying a fleet for Lesvos and Chios.’

‘A priest in Monemvasia said to me that the monasteries on Lesvos and Chios might have old books,’ Swan said.

Bessarion nodded. ‘Very likely. People on the islands are very rich, and well educated. The Genoese took Lesvos in – bah, I can’t remember. A hundred years before I was born, or more. Chios the same.’ He put his chin in his hand. ‘If Genoa puts a fleet to sea to save Chios …’

Di Brachio smiled bitterly. ‘Then Venice will help Turkey. They are like bad brothers – you know.’

Bessarion nodded. ‘We Christians are our own enemies. Orthodox against Catholic – Genoese against Venetian, French against English.’

Swan laughed. ‘With due respect, Eminence, the Turks are no lovers of the Mamluks, nor the Mamelukes of the Turks, nor the various mainland Turks of each other. I heard much about this in Constantinople.’

Bessarion nodded. ‘Perhaps this is just the Tower of Babel playing out among men,’ he agreed. ‘In the meantime, I’d like to see the islands saved. I have had it in my mind to send one or both of you to the Knights Hospitaller. But only if the Pope is willing to take action.’

‘Can the islands be held against the Turks?’ Swan asked.

Bessarion watched the rain for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Which is why you must buy every manuscript there that you can find.’ He nodded to Di Brachio. ‘You have had a hard journey and you will want to rest. But if the Pope will send a deputation to the knights – will you go?’

Di Brachio smiled. ‘I’d be delighted.’ His grin grew lopsided. ‘My father will be delighted, as well. What an odd occurrence.’ He leaned forward, rose to his feet. ‘Not until spring, I assume?’

Bessarion sighed. ‘It could come sooner,’ he said. ‘The knights sail in all weathers.’ He looked at the two young men. ‘It is said in the College of Cardinals that Mehmet II plans to destroy all the learning of the ancient world and replace it with the Koran. That he means to conquer the whole world.’

It occurred to Swan that this was not the place for him to declare his almost absolute admiration for the Turks – their manliness, their horses, their swords and their war machines and their poetry. But the picture of Mehmet II destroying manuscripts seemed a little extreme. ‘The Grand Turk reveres learning,’ he said.

Bessarion’s baleful glare fell on him squarely. Swan liked his employer, and he’d heard many foolish things about Christians while he was with Turks. He nodded. ‘But of course, he is the merest infidel,’ he added piously.

Bessarion’s basilisk stare faded into a pleasant smile. ‘Excellent. Get some rest – well-earned rest – from your Herculean labours. There is a new steward about the place – Father Ridolpho. A protégé of the Cardinal of Avignon.’ His eyes crossed Di Brachio’s, and some message passed. ‘He is very’ – here the cardinal gave the slightest sniff, as if he detected an unpleasant odour – ‘very
careful
with money.’ He scribbled a note and handed it to Di Brachio.

‘Do not, I beg you, bait our employer,’ Di Brachio said. ‘You and I know that Mehmet has every intention of conquering the world. This Bessarion needs to know. You and I know that Mehmet the Second, may his name be blessed, is a far, far more moral ruler than most of the perverted creatures who inhabit the College of Cardinals. We do not say this out loud. Mm?’

Swan nodded in humility. ‘I’ll watch my tongue next time,’ he said.

Di Brachio laughed. ‘No, you won’t. But never mind. I have a note in my hand that authorises the steward to pay us. I can see, with nothing more than a glance about this palazzo, that the good cardinal is in funds – look, those silver ewers were in pawn when we were here before. Eh? So we’ll be paid.’

He suited action to word, walking down to the offices on the first floor, where Swan had rarely been. A dozen clerks, some in holy orders and some just ink-stained young men, sat at desks like oar benches, writing furiously. The steward of the household was a middle-aged priest, tall, with chiselled features and a strong build, and he took the note from the cardinal and nodded.

‘Ah – you are the famous young Messer Swan,’ he said in Genoese Italian. He frowned. ‘I understand that after your last escapade, half my clerks were lamed by the Orsini, who chased them through the streets every day for a month.’