Tom Swan and the Last Spartans - Part Four

by Christian Cameron

  Orietto and Columbino appeared.

  Swan had trouble recognising them, or even caring. Part of his head was still in the hole, and he shrugged and then flinched.

  ‘Thomas?’ Di Silva said.

  Swan took a deep breath, and burst into tears.

  It took him two full days of food and solitude to achieve some sort of equilibrium. It wasn’t really good, but a sense of responsibility came to him, and a sort of nightmare-like appreciation of reality. He was beyond listless. He had no desire to do anything, except perhaps prepare himself for death.

  His friends watched him with obvious concern.

  He ignored them, struggling to find something.

  Something to live for. Someone to be.

  Two fucking days. How weak am I?

  He lay awake on the evening of the third day. He was trying not to think; it was his new pastime; a sort of negative meditation where he attempted to blank his mind against the images of the pit and the expected humiliation, which somehow still haunted him, waking and sleeping. He was afraid.

  The door to the corridor opened.

  Swan lay still. But when he didn’t hear Clemente’s footsteps, or his voice, he raised his head.

  There was Marie.

  She sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘I have never felt less like sex in all of my life,’ Swan said.

  ‘I know who killed the banker,’ she said.

  ‘So do I,’ Swan said. ‘Demetrios.’

  ‘No,’ she said. She lay down on the bed next to him, fully dressed. She smelled beautiful; a musky scent, but with a sweet overtone. She took his hands, and he let her.

  ‘Not Demetrios,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There is an Italian in the city. Chigi. He is a killer. Now he is waiting for the Franciscan.’

  ‘How can you know this?’ Swan asked.

  ‘The usual way,’ she said, and her face was next to his. She put one of his hands on her suddenly bare thigh, and despite everything, a shock like the after-burn of a lightning bolt went through him. Her lips locked onto his lower lip, and her hands were busy.

  ‘Be alive,’ she said.

  He felt the knife on her thigh, and she laughed.

  And later, he laughed with her. And ordered Orietto to protect the Franciscan.

  The next morning he sat in hose and a shirt with Grazias, Orietto and Kendal, and Di Silva and Columbino.

  Marie sat on the bed, reading the gospels.

  The other men tried not to look at her, although Swan, whose busy head was working again, knew they must have sent for her.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Orietto frowned. ‘Everything … weather, bandits, horse trouble. But the real trouble was Monemvasia. In the end, I got in with the help of a serving brother of the Order of Saint John who claimed to know you. The Florentine factor had no money, as you said; I get a big strong box from the Order and we brought it back. Empty.’

  Columbino nodded. ‘We went south as you said; the country is not so difficult. It was hard to hide camps, and men followed us. I went too far south to lose them, and ended up in sight of the sea.’ He shrugged. ‘For all that, on the fifth day out, I found Orietto by the river, as we agreed.’

  Orietto nodded. ‘So we headed north up the Vale. And sure enough, Trapezetos attacked us on the sixth day.’ He pointed his chin at Grazias.

  Grazias sat back. ‘I was already behind Trapezetos, but he brought more men than I had expected. Still, they couldn’t make any impression on your men-at-arms, and the archers were killing them.’

  ‘Christ crucified, I didn’t want a massacre,’ Swan said with something of his accustomed asperity. ‘How many did you kill?’

  ‘Only a dozen,’ Orietto said, and his voice betrayed the lie. ‘Mostly it was a massacre of horses.’

  Columbino nodded. ‘We took him and two of his sons. Alive.’

  Orietto nodded. ‘Then we came back and threatened to blow down the gates.’

  ‘The Bohemian enjoyed moving the falconet up the next hill to show that he could put balls into the palace,’ Columbino said. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas. We had no idea what the bastard had done to you.’

  ‘I still don’t know what he has done to me,’ Swan said. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. So we have Trapezetos, but no money.’

  ‘That about sums it up,’ Orietto said. ‘And Catacuzenos stood by us. He wants to see you.’

  Swan looked at Marie. She gave him a faint nod.

  ‘Send him in,’ Swan said.

  He didn’t even have time to sink into darkness before Catacuzenos was there. The man bowed deeply, and then he shook his head.

  ‘For my part, I am very sorry,’ he said. ‘So sorry that I would offer to take your place in the hole. We are better than this.’

  Swan looked at the man who had arrested him; considering cruelty, which came very easily to him suddenly. Anger. Pain. Lust. He was suddenly a very simple man.

  He let go a breath. Took another. ‘Who are the other men in the cells?’ he asked.

  ‘My family,’ Catacuzenos said. ‘It is very complicated.’

  Swan already knew the story from Marie. But he leaned back, feigning nonchalance, crossed his legs and nodded. ‘I have time,’ he said. ‘Sit.’

  Catacuzenos sat, eyes shifting wildly. He was nervous; deeply unhappy.

  Vulnerable.

  Swan half-closed his eyes.

  ‘They were wrong to revolt, my cousins,’ Catacuzenos said. ‘I refused to join them, and later I fought them for Demetrios.’

  ‘Wrong why?’ Swan asked.

  ‘You know the phrase, any king, however foolish, is better than no king?’ Catacuzenos asked.

  Swan smiled. ‘We do not have this phrase in English. We mostly kill our kings when they annoy us.’

  Catacuzenos muttered something that sounded very like ‘barbarian’. Then he looked around. ‘What would they have done? My cousins? Raised taxes, fought the Albanians, fought among themselves. Demetrios has friends among the Turks. I thought he would find us a path to save our people. Our way of life.’ He shook his head. ‘I have seen too many betrayals,’ he said.

  You have betrayed too many friends, Swan translated.

  Swan leaned forward. He was surprised to find no excitement, no spirit of the game in his heart. Only pain, and a cynical weariness.

  But he knew his role. He glanced at Marie. She smiled warmly, as if reminding him of God’s love, or the rules of espionage, or both. ‘I could arrange the release of your cousins,’ he said.

  ‘Demetrios will never let them go,’ Catacuzenos said. His face writhed. He was a man with an inner torment; every spymaster’s dream.

  ‘I can take them to Venice as stradiotes,’ Swan said. ‘They will have no reason to return.’

  Catacuzenos blinked. ‘By the risen Christ,’ he said. ‘You could do that?’

  ‘And I can offer you a unique opportunity,’ Swan said wearily.

  Before Catacuzenos left the room, his name was in Cyriaco’s black book, and the man himself owed his family’s survival to Thomas Swan.

  Marie stayed for two days. He prayed with her; he was silent with her. He made love to her. He took her like a drug for sadness, for the blackness. She never stopped being cheerful, laughing, teasing him, reading aloud, asking him questions.

  Someone tried to kill the Franciscan with a crossbow. The attempt was foiled by John Drake, an archer; but he failed to catch the bowman.

  Clemente, quieter and more careful than before, reported that a mongrel dog had died eating Swan’s food. Columbino had most of the company living outside the walls, with a subsidiary watch at the town’s main gate, which they had siezed by coup de main during a guard change. Swan’s archers had taken to charging a toll at the gate, like soldiers the world over, and the situation was becoming untenable as the Greeks grew increasingly angry.

  Swan sat in the palace and waited.

  The third day, the Despot summoned him.
/>   He went with four armoured men-at-arms at his back.

  The Despot sat in the same place. Sun shone in through the magnificent windows, the tapestries were beautiful, and the air was full of incense.

  ‘So,’ he said. The court chamberlain fled, ceremonial uncompleted.

  Swan looked at the man who’d ordered him into the pit. He found that he had very little to say.

  ‘I want Trapezetos,’ the Despot said.

  ‘So that you can release him?’ Swan asked. ‘Majesty?’ he added, with a trace of sarcasm.

  ‘Yes,’ the Despot said. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘Let me just sum up, may I, Majesty?’ Swan said. ‘You accused me of betraying you, and yet you always planned to sell me to Omar Reis, even while you informed Trapezetos of my shipment of gold going north from Monemvasia. Correct?’

  The Despot looked bored. ‘You would do the same in my place,’ he said. ‘And the very best use I could make of you would be to sell you to Omar Reis. That would buy me five years’ peace. Your three hundred men, even if they were Leonidas and his three hundred, would never buy me five years’ peace.’

  ‘I do not think that we can continue to serve you,’ Swan said. ‘I will be taking my company and leaving. I think this may be the time to note that my people defeated your notorious Trapezetos and took him prisoner with very little effort. I don’t think you stand a chance against the Turks. I think you need every real soldier you can lay hands on. But not mine. Majesty.’

  ‘Good riddance,’ Demetrios, Despot of the Eastern Morea, said. ‘Get your thieves out of my gatehouse.’

  ‘But only when I’m done here,’ Swan said, his voice hardening. ‘We will be here a little longer.’

  ‘Really?’ Demetrios said. ‘I think not. I order you to leave. That is why I summoned you. Your services are no longer required.’ He shrugged. ‘I never asked for you in the first place. If you make trouble, I will not be able to prevent a massacre.’

  Swan nodded. ‘If any of your soldiers touches any of mine, I’ll see your fucking city burn to the ground,’ he said. ‘In fact, I promise it. And I have the incendiaries to make it work. Do not cross me, Despote.’

  ‘What do I have to do the rid myself of you?’ the Despot asked. His tone changed; from hard to reasonable.

  ‘I want an Italian named Chigi,’ Swan said. ‘I will have a few other demands; mostly, I will want you to release all the Catacuzenoi you hold. And my sword. Immediately.’

  ‘The sword, yes. The Catacuzenoi, never,’ Demetrios spat.

  ‘Soon,’ Swan said, ‘I will take them away with me, so you needn’t be afraid. I will take them to Venice, where they will be valued. In the meantime, you are aware that your main gate is now in my hands. As soon as I have Chigi and the Catacuzenoi, I’ll move outside your walls.’

  ‘God’s curse on you,’ Demetrios said.

  Swan found his tendency to shrug was returning. ‘You put me in the hole,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a mistake.’

  A few hours later, Swan sat with Simon Aten, Michael Aten’s brother, a Paleologi and most commonly known as Trapezetos. With him was his son, also Michael. Both were pretending good humour.

  ‘You cannot hold us,’ Simon said with a bearded smile. ‘Every hand will be against you.’

  ‘I can cut your throats,’ Swan said reasonably. ‘Or have it done.’

  ‘Then there would be a blood feud that would destroy you,’ Michael said hotly.

  Swan shrugged. ‘You could come and find me in England? Seriously? No. I came to rescue you so-called Spartans, but really, I think I’ll just go home. I have had enough of Greece and Greeks. I think the Turks deserve you, and your deserve the Turks.’

  ‘Fuck yourself,’ Simon spat.

  Swan smiled. ‘I’m so glad we are getting to know each other. Now here is what I want from you, gentlemen. There are Turkish envoys coming; coming to collect me, I expect.’

  Michael’s face gave him away.

  ‘Good,’ Swan said, and his voice rang with a cruelty he had not even known he possessed. ‘Bring me their heads. Or bring them alive.’

  ‘Blessed Saint Demetrios!’ Simon Trapezetos said. ‘You cannot mean it.’

  ‘I can,’ Swan said. ‘And I have a very good way of knowing whether you bring the correct heads, so please do not waste my time.’ This last was all bluff, but he had them, and he knew it. ‘I will release Michael. If he does not return with the heads in two weeks, all the rest of you die.’

  ‘You stupid fucking Latin pig,’ Simon Trapezetos said. ‘How dare you? You will land us in a war, a war we cannot win. You doom us.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘You doomed yourselves. I came to help you.’

  When the two prisoners had been removed, he sent out messengers; to Nafplion, to Monemvasia, to the west coast, where Despot Thomas held sway. It was the poorer half of the country. But he thought he might yet get a welcome there.

  And he wrote a long letter to Bessarion, and another to the Ten. He sealed both with his personal seal and sent copies with every messenger.

  The sun rose and the ground hardened. Olive trees came into flower; the plains of Sparta became a carpet of thousands of tiny blossoms, and the heavy smell of jasmine filled the air. Swan and Marie made love, and read the gospels, and Swan began to stretch inside his mind and return to being himself.

  Nineteen days after his release, Michael Aten, son of Simon, brought him two heads. Swan was glad, in a distant way, that neither was Omar Reis’s son Idris.

  I killed them.

  Their deaths sat in his head like cesspools. He didn’t mind killing men on battlefields, or even in alleys, but this was bad. He knew it.

  He was committing a lot of sins lately.

  He thought the thinner, bloodless face might belong to a man he’d gone hawking with, outside Constantinople.

  He took the bag. ‘You may take your men and go,’ he said.

  ‘You are a dead man,’ Trapezetos said.

  Swan shrugged. ‘Death waits for all of us,’ he said. ‘You are, pardon me, no Omar Reis.’ He waved a hand as if brushing them away. ‘Go. Before I add you to the bag.’

  The same day the killer, Chigi, was brought to his camp by Catacuzenos. And there with him were thirty men, dirty, pale, thin. Grazias took them immediately.

  Swan had Marie and her daughter. He had everything from Mistra that he ever wanted.

  He sent a note into the town by way of Clemente, to tell the Franciscan to meet him for dinner.

  He held an officers’ meeting and told all of his people that they would be riding in the morning for the west coast, where he hoped to rendezvous with the Venetian squadron coming down the coast from the Lagoon.

  The priest, in brown robe and sandals, joined them for dinner in Swan’s somewhat dilapidated pavilion.

  Swan had Kendal bring Chigi.

  He was a tough-looking man, with a bushy black beard, heavy brows, a domed head and many missing teeth.

  Swan looked at the Franciscan’s face, and he was surprised that the priest didn’t even give a flicker of recognition, and he revised his views of the plot yet again.

  ‘Well, well, Messire Chigi,’ Swan said. ‘Care to tell us about the banker, Ser Francesco Pergugi?’

  ‘You are the English knight, eh?’ Chigi asked. He nodded. ‘You work for Bessarion, eh?’

  Swan nodded back. ‘You have the better of me,’ he said.

  Chigi looked at the wine. ‘I thought I was for it when the fucking Greeks took me.’ He grinned at Swan. ‘How’d you get me free?’

  ‘I traded for you,’ Swan said.

  ‘Dannazione, capitano. Now I owe you.’ The man smiled a toothless smile.

  Swan looked at the Franciscan. The priest still didn’t give a glimmer of recognition.

  Swan shook his head. He had all the unravelled yarns of the plot, at least as it applied here, and yet he was no wiser. Or not much wiser.

  ‘Why did you kill the banker?’ Swan asked directly. />
  Chigi picked up a cup of wine and drank it off. ‘You don’t want to know,’ he said. ‘Serious as death, capitano. If I tell you, you have to die. Maybe not today, but some day.’

  ‘Everyone dies,’ Swan said for the second time that day.

  The Franciscan looked horrified.

  The big Italian assassin shrugged. ‘Stare all you want, Father,’ he said. ‘You have to go and you know it.’

  Swan felt a rising tide of frustration. ‘You two know each other?’ he asked.

  ‘I know him,’ the assassin said. ‘He’s on my list. I’m just cleaning up, capitano. Seriously; I respect you. Hero of Belgrade. Turk-fighter. Just let me walk away.’

  Swan looked around. ‘I really don’t think you can kill five armoured men.’

  The big Italian shrugged. ‘Oh, as to that, I have no doubt you fine gentles can kill me. But there’s others, and when they know you killed me, you’ll be on the list.’

  ‘Must be a long fucking list,’ Orietto said.

  Di Silva made a gesture of contempt.

  Kendal had his knife in his hand.

  Grazias was already behind the killer.

  Swan shrugged. ‘I’m tired of killing,’ he said. As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. ‘A life for a life, assassin. Let the priest go.’

  ‘Off the list?’ Chigi said. He was incredulous. ‘Jesus wept, capitano. It’s not my list.’

  ‘Whose, then?’ asked the priest. He was watching the assassin the way children watch a dead bird full of maggots, with horrified fascination.

  Chigi whistled, as if appalled by their naivety. He shrugged and made the sign of a tall hat over his head.

  ‘The Holy Father?’ Di Silva asked. ‘Jesus Christ and all the saints, you kill people for the Pope?’

  Chigi shrugged. ‘I didn’t say nothin’. But you gentles need to know what you are into.’ He looked at the priest. ‘I can say that I, personally, won’t touch him. That’s all I can say.’

  Kendal said, ‘Why is the …’ and Swan shut him down with a look.

  ‘Perhaps we will meet in Rome,’ Swan said with careful civility.

  ‘Terrible place,’ the assassin said. ‘Fucking dangerous. Thanks for the wine and getting me out.’

  He turned and went out of the tent.