Tom Swan and the Last Spartans - Part Four

by Christian Cameron

  He gazed into her eyes. ‘Not really,’ he said. In truth, he was all but writhing in agony; now they were almost a day late, and he didn’t like waiting.

  She made a face. ‘It is a pity you cannot ask Catacuzenos,’ she said. ‘I suspect he knows. He sent messengers as soon as he heard that you were convoying gold from Monemvasia. And Demetrios sent a man to Trapezetos.’ She sat up. ‘See? I am honest with you. I can be a good asset. And yes; I would love to go to Rome. Or Paris, better still.’

  She had no hint of hardness about her. She was a handsome woman who appeared vulnerable and at the same time enticing, and yet she could produce two daggers in a blink of her grey eyes.

  Loredan would hire her in a blink, too, Swan thought. This is a dream agent, if I can only win her.

  ‘I will trust you too,’ he said. ‘If all goes well, I will take you to Rome. You have my word. Now here is what I want to know; why does the Medici banker have no specie?’

  ‘You should join arms with the Franciscan,’ she said. ‘I will endeavour to get you an answer. You work for the Pope?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Directly?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply. He shrugged. ‘I doubt that he remembers my name,’ he went on with more honesty than perhaps he had intended, but he was already beginning to like her. There was something very winning in her directness.

  She smiled. ‘Well, then, you know what it is like to be a whore,’ she said. ‘Could you get me an indulgence? A forgiveness for my sins?’

  Swan nodded. ‘Yes, Marie,’ he said. ‘I can promise that.’

  She smiled, suddenly flirtatious. ‘Then let us seal our new bargain, mon vieux.’ She unbuttoned the jacket the rest of the way.

  ‘Men generally shake hands,’ he said.

  She stepped out of her gown, naked except for her hose. Her body was not just good, but glorious; small where small was best, and full and soft in other places, although her thighs shone with muscle. ‘The more fool they,’ she said. ‘I know Albanians who will not make a bargain until they see a man drunk. I have my way.’ She smiled winsomely.

  ‘I agree,’ Swan said, light headed with lust.. He pulled the wool gown over his head. Then he reached out as if to fondle her breast and instead caught at the small dagger that dangled between them. ‘Could we not have this somewhere else for a few minutes?’ he asked.

  She smiled and pulled it over her head, and added the dagger from her hose-top. ‘Trust,’ she said. And put them under her pillow.

  When her daughter came back with wine, Marie was just lying back and mocking him for his speed.

  ‘Ma donna,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘If you only knew how long …’

  She laughed. ‘You are easy to like,’ she said. ‘It has always been my curse that I like men.’

  They drank the wine and persevered, and the second time was much better. She was lying across him, drinking her wine, and Swan was contemplating a third engagement.

  ‘I just wasn’t made for marriage,’ she said. ‘I like soldiers, and camps, and excitement. I am easily bored.’

  Swan thought of Violetta and Sarka, and wondered how many women there were in the world who felt the same. ‘We have a good deal in common,’ he said.

  She laughed, and raised her head.

  ‘You know where your soldiers are,’ she said suddenly, her grey eyes fixed on his.

  She raised her hand as she looked at him and Swan’s reflex was to reach for a dagger under her pillow. But he didn’t. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I hope so.’

  Too much trust. But he was naked and so was she, and he was a fool for women and always had been.

  She nodded. ‘Good. You are subtle. Now you know I am subtle too.’ She rolled off the bed. ‘And now I know that you will confide in me when you are naked, which, in some way, makes me trust you too. I am sorry that I need my house to myself, Ser Suane. May I bid you go? My daughter can get you into the palace unnoticed.’

  ‘Your daughter …’ Swan paused. ‘… knows you are a courtesan?’

  Marie smiled bitterly. ‘You have no children, I think?’ she said. ‘You cannot keep anything from a child.’

  Swan suspected that dismissing him was also a test. Or just possibly she was intending to betray him. He thought about it. He was worth money to Omar Reis; worth money also to various factions in Rome.

  He shrugged. Little things count, with spies. She had kissed him hungrily. She had prayed to the icon of St John on the wall, and covered it before they made love. She was truly religious, and she wanted the indulgence. She had used the term heretic about the Greeks in a way that spoke of deep emotion.

  She had shown him her daughter.

  On balance, Swan felt inclined to trust her.

  He also left her neat house in a haze of unaccustomed guilt. The pleasure of the sex had not hidden this odd feeling; that he was betraying Sophia. It was a new feeling to him, and he hated it.

  Marie-Eve led him out the back, through the blacksmith’s yard, and through a tiny sally-gate that was probably supposed to have been walled up when the lower level was built. She led him up a flight of stairs inside the second wall and then along the catwalk above the third wall, into a tower.

  ‘Will you be nice to my mother?’ she asked. ‘Some people are, and some are not.’

  Swan gave her a gold florin. ‘I think your mother and I will be good friends,’ he said.

  ‘I will never be a whore,’ the girl said. ‘I’m not tough enough. Mama says so, and I agree.’

  Swan felt a lump in his throat and wondered why he was so soft about some things and not others.

  ‘Your words to God’s ear,’ he said, and went out of the tower and across the palace’s outer yard.

  Clemente was waiting in their room.

  ‘Where in all of the hells has m’lord been?’ Clemente asked. ‘Francesco the banker is dead.’

  Swan stopped in the doorway and swore, fluently, first in English and then in Turkish. ‘Suicide?’ he asked.

  ‘Only if you can cut yourself open and drop your guts on the floor,’ Clemente said. ‘Whoever did it killed his wife and son too.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Swan cursed. ‘The Despot knows?’

  ‘Right now, m’lord, only you and I know. And the flies and maggots. You sent me to watch the priest; he went to the banker, as you predicted, and then you set me to watch the banker, and he is dead.’ Clemente shrugged. ‘I have to sleep,’ he said, showing some remorse.

  ‘Sleep, or sex with one of the Albanians?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Yes, whatever, yes,’ Clemente answered. He was the company’s most notorious lecher, and had been since Peter had helped him recover from his humped back and a lot of abuse. ‘You cannot expect me to watch the banker every minute.’

  ‘Damn,’ Swan said. He was tempted to kick the boy, as this was almost exactly why Clemente had been set to watch.

  ‘I can’t do everything myself,’ Clemente whined.

  Swan made a hand motion of negation. ‘Why did the banker have to die?’ he asked the walls. No answer came.

  ‘Find me the priest,’ he said to Clemente.

  Then he went to find Di Silva, and the two of them paced the walls and worried together. Darkness fell abruptly, and Swan went to his room, anxious and truculent. But the Franciscan was sitting, bound with ropes, at Swan’s side table.

  ‘Clemente,’ Swan said, shaking his head.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll throw me out,’ Clemente said.

  ‘Never,’ Swan said. He ignored the priest and gave his servant a warm embrace. ‘Relax, it is not your fault. But I mean the priest no harm.’

  Still, he took his time before he cut the bonds on the priest’s hands and feet. Then he kicked the chimney stool in front of the man, who was moaning with the pain of returning circulation.

  ‘Welcome back, Father,’ he said.

  ‘I am a servant of Cardinal Picclomini and you thwart me at your peril,’ the Franciscan spat, wi
thout a trace of his former humour.

  ‘Did you kill the banker, Francesco?’ Swan asked.

  ‘No, but you probably did,’ the priest accused.

  ‘You work for Aneas Picclomini?’ Swan asked. ‘I know him. Well.’ He sat back.

  The priest put a hand on his wrist and began to rub it.

  ‘Do you know Niccolo Forteguerri?’ Swan asked.

  The priest glowered. But he was a man with a sense of humour, and his glower was not his natural expression. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He’s a bastard. But in my master’s service.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Well, I perform much the same set of services for Bessarion, and now the Pope,’ he said. ‘I too am a bastard, both literally and in most other ways, but I suspect we are not adversaries here. You are investigating banks and the collection of papal tithes?’

  The Franciscan shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you anything,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Swan said with more confidence then he felt. ‘I already know the answer.’

  Clemente brought the priest a cup of wine, which he drank off. Then he nodded sharply and managed a half-smile.

  ‘If you didn’t kill the banker,’ the priest said, ‘who did?’

  Swan nodded. ‘You were my first suspect,’ he said. ‘Since Clemente here tracked you to him.’

  The priest practised his glare.

  Clemente was immune.

  ‘I’m guessing that the papal tithes have been collected by the Medici acting as tax farmers,’ Swan said. ‘And I’m going to further guess that the money is gone, and that should not be possible. That there should be three or four thousand florins sitting in bags here.’

  ‘I’m not going to help you,’ the priest said.

  Swan sighed. ‘Tell me your name at least.’

  ‘I am Père Riccardo.’ He extended his hand. ‘Why would anyone kill a banker?’

  ‘Because he knew something about the money. Beyond that, I can’t guess. Will you join me?’ Swan asked.

  Père Riccardo shook his head. ‘I must remain … independent.’

  ‘Take him to his home, or cell, or what have you.’ He looked at Clemente. ‘Where’d you find him?’

  ‘The Venetian factor’s chapel,’ Clemente said, with a shrug.

  Swan glanced at the Franciscan and changed tack. ‘Do you know Cardinal Trevisan?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Franciscan admitted.

  ‘Do you happen to know where he is right now?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Rhodes,’ the priest answered. ‘I left him there less than a month ago.’

  Swan fingered his beard. ‘I will try a different tack, Father. I am supposed to join the papal fleet with some men-at-arms. My orders were to bring my company from Albania all the way here. I cannot carry out my orders without money. Do you have any suggestions?’

  The Franciscan nodded. ‘That is a question I may answer. You know Trevisan is Venetian?’

  Swan shook his head. ‘I should have known that, but I did not.’

  ‘The Venetian factor might find you money. Or you could go to Nafplion. I understand you were just there; that you saved it.’ The priest smiled. ‘You see, I can be quite forthcoming, but I will not discuss the other matter.’

  ‘You know the banker is dead,’ Swan said. ‘If you are doing what I think you are doing, your life is in peril.’

  ‘I am a servant of Christ and Saint Francis,’ the man said. ‘My life is theirs.’

  Swan rose to his feet, bowed and opened the door. ‘I’ll try not to order your arrest again.’

  The Franciscan smiled with his original humour. ‘Perhaps next time I will just come.’

  Swan reached out and touched his arm. ‘We can protect you,’ he said. ‘I can be a bastard, but you would be safe with us.’

  ‘You tempt me,’ the Franciscan said. ‘But I am pretty fair at resisting temptation.’

  He went out and Swan heard his sandals on the steps. His faint smell of sweat and unwashed wool lingered, covering the jasmine-laced spring air of Greece.

  Swan went to his window and stared out of it for a while.

  Then he knelt and prayed. He prayed an entire set of beads; he strove to meditate on the crucifixion, and he wondered when Lent began. He looked through his book of hours and found the date. March third. It had been Lent for days.

  He was in prayer when Catacuzenos came with a dozen Greek stradiotes to arrest him.

  ‘I am truly sorry,’ Catacuzenos said. ‘I am only obeying orders.’

  Swan nodded and handed over the sword Sophia had purchased for him.

  He was taken directly to the great hall on the third floor of the palace. There he was made to wait for a long time with four stradiotes guarding him with drawn swords, which was a compliment of sorts. He considered all the disasters that might have led to this moment and went back to prayer.

  Towards evening, he was led into the audience hall. He felt dirty; the Despot kept the full ceremonial of the court of Constantinople, and a row of beautifully brocaded men in long coats and tall hats awaited him as he was escorted to the throne, where Demetrios sat.

  He bowed. Demetrios was not Emperor, and Swan didn’t intend to prostrate himself anyway.

  ‘Where are all your men?’ Demetrios demanded.

  Swan did his best to look puzzled.

  ‘Your men are gone,’ Demetrios said. ‘There are no guards on my herds; the roads are unguarded. Your men are gone.’

  Swan heard a bustle at the back of the hall, and saw Clemente dragged in, and Di Silva, and his squire.

  ‘My men are right here,’ Swan said. ‘Apparently under arrest, Majesty.’

  ‘Where are your hundred lances?’ Demetrios asked again. There was now a threat in his voice.

  Swan looked around. ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘Possibly they have deserted, because they were not paid.’

  Demetrios smashed a hand down on the arm of his throne. ‘I do not believe this.’

  Swan shrugged, and one of the soldiers hit him with the haft of a pole arm. That hurt. He stumbled.

  ‘You have betrayed us,’ Demetrios said. ‘You are in service to the Latin Pope and you have made common cause with my enemies.’ He steepled his hands. ‘Omar Reis has offered me ten thousand ducats for you,’ he said. ‘Alive,’ he added, smiling. ‘I will send you as an earnest of my good intentions. And because betrayal should be met with betrayal.’

  ‘Is that what Jesus says?’ Swan answered, even as the bottom dropped out of his stomach. Alive to Omar Reis. Alive to Omar Reis.

  The pole arm shaft hit him again.

  ‘I have not betrayed your Majesty,’ he said. You intended this all along, you bastard.

  Swan was dragged away.

  The prisons under Mistra’s citadel were dark and surprisingly dry. Most of the prisoners were retainers of the Catacuzenoi who would not recant. Many had been tortured. In fact, in an hour under the citadel, Swan learned more about Demetrios than all his time in Mistra had taught him. This was a tyrant who enjoyed hurting people, personally. Swan lay on clean straw and listened to a grizzled old Turk-fighter with no fingernails tell him of the rebellion and its aftermath.

  ‘We call him the betrayer,’ the man said. ‘He brought in the fucking Turks. He treats them as friends and guests. We are Spartans! By Christ Pantokrator, if we must go down, let us go down fighting.’

  Swan winced.

  He was glad Kendal wasn’t there, and very sad that Clemente was. Clemente had been beaten, and was curled in a ball. Swan cleaned him up and sat by him in the cell, holding his hand. But after an hour, a pair of soldiers came and took him away, stripped him down to his shirt, and put him in a bottle-shaped hole in he rock. He could neither stand nor sit nor lie down.

  ‘Despot says you might kill yourself,’ a soldier said. ‘And if you do, he kills one of us. Please don’t try.’

  Swan stood hunched over and tried to meditate. He tried to imagine what had gone wrong; he tried to see the terrain between Mistra a
nd Monemvasia.

  He was not tempted to laugh.

  A long time passed.

  He had a lot of regrets. He regretted the Moslem man he’d killed in a mine under Rhodes; he regretted that he’d so easily fallen into bed with the courtesan Marie; he regretted a great many other sins, venal and mortal. The pain in his shoulders and back from the hunched position was at first trifling, and later terrible; and the isolation was bad, and the weight of earth atop him, the whole castle, the hole in the rock, made him think of Rhodes over and over, and he knew he whimpered several times, and finally he had to relieve himself in the hole, and that meant that the floor was covered in his own shit, and then there was no water, and that went on for a long time.

  Eventually he would surrender the shred of dignity he had, and he’d slump into the piss and shit in the bottom of the hole.

  And that, of course, was nothing to what Omar Reis would do. Impalement, probably, after some humiliation, maybe rape, and certainly emasculation. It would be bad. He had time to imagine it, and he did.

  In between bouts of shame and guilt, fear of the hole, horror and remembered trauma, he wondered what had gone wrong with his beautiful plan, which was, as usual, far too complex, and had seemed so smart at the time.

  He tried to meditate on the passion of Christ, and he mostly failed.

  The grating moved.

  There was light.

  ‘Haul him out,’ said Catacuzenos. ‘Christ in heaven, is this what we are?’

  ‘The Despot ordered …’

  ‘Saint Demetrios, Saint Michael Taxiarch, and all the saints, Giorgos, is this what … Fuck your mother. Get him out.’

  Rough hands dragged him from the hole. It no longer stank, or at least, he could not smell it.

  ‘How long was he in this hole?’ Orietto asked.

  ‘Two days,’ a soldier said, clearly terrified.

  ‘Perhaps we should put you in?’ Orietto asked.

  ‘We were only following orders,’ the soldiers whined.

  Swan awoke from dark dreams in clean sheets. He could see Clemente; the boy was sitting in a chair, reading the Bible slowly and following the words with a finger. He jumped to his feet.

  ‘You are awake,’ he said, and leaned into the corridor and shouted.