The Green Count

by Christian Cameron

  ‘I’m sure that the Acciaioli have already made a private arrangement with God,’ Fiore said. ‘Rich men buy what they want, be it flesh or forgiveness.’

  Nerio frowned. ‘I feel that perhaps I must ask you to retract that,’ he said.

  Fiore smiled. ‘Or what? We’ll fight? Shall I list your tells?’

  Nerio frowned.

  ‘Did you come up with the funds to loan the count?’ I asked, to distract him.

  ‘I love women,’ he said. ‘I do not treat them as whores.’ He paused. ‘Even when I pay them.’

  Fiore shrugged. ‘Tell me you love God,’ he said.

  ‘Would you two consider not talking to each other?’ Miles said. ‘Fiore, you are uncommon snappish. Go visit our hostess and ask for more soup.’

  ‘He was away. I forgot his disgusting ways.’ Fiore left the room.

  Nerio’s hands were clenched.

  I put my hand on his arm. ‘Nerio,’ I said, ‘you love Fiore and he you. Go and find a nice Greek girl. Return in a better mood.’

  Nerio nodded. He took a deep breath. ‘Why must he …’ he began, and then shook his head. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I borrowed it from the Archbishop of Patras. Until I prove to the Venetians and Florentines that I am alive …’ He paused.

  I gave him a gentle push. ‘Watch out for followers,’ I said. ‘Take your sword.’

  ‘In this city?’ he asked.

  I remember shrugging. ‘Or stay in!’ I said, more forcefully than I needed to.

  ‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘Somewhere in this vast city, a woman is crying out for me.’

  What do you say to that?

  While I was considering various crushing replies, Nerio snapped up his sword and went out into the hall. I heard him stop in the doorway and ask Giorgios something, and the Greek laughed and responded at length. Directions.

  Nerio went out into the late summer evening, looking for a willing partner. I didn’t see that he had Achille and Marc-Antonio and a couple of archers with him, but it was none of my business.

  I was sound asleep when Marc-Antonio roused me. I understood that something was wrong, and I got shoes on my feet and Marc-Antonio handed me my sword belt.

  ‘Nerio’s hurt. Red Bill may be dead,’ he said. He was shaking. ‘Ser Nerio has barricaded a room and said to hurry.’ He looked at me, his eyes pleading in the candlelight for understanding. ‘He sent me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t run away! I’m not a coward.’

  It hadn’t occurred to me. People doubt themselves at the oddest times.

  I pulled a maille shirt on over my jupon and buckled on my sword. Ewan met me in the front hallway of the house, and Syr Christos.

  ‘You cannot wear armour in the streets or carry a sword,’ he said.

  ‘One of my men has been hurt,’ I said.

  ‘You cannot …’ he began.

  I pushed past him. I didn’t like his look, but I was sure that I could drop him. Even more so with Ewan at my back.

  Syr Christos buckled his own sword belt and put on his brilliant scarlet surcoat. ‘Come then,’ he said. He shook his head.

  We went out into a very dark street. Listen, London is dark at night, and so is Paris, but Constantinople is black as pitch. Householders don’t light cressets at their front doors, and even the thoroughfares are dark unless there is a church or monastery.

  Marc-Antonio was tired.

  ‘You were with them?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered after a hesitation.

  ‘Fight over a woman?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Horses,’ I said.

  Christos looked miserable in the flare of a torch. ‘I will get,’ he said, and he was as good as his word, back in five minutes, but for those five minutes, all I could do was imagine Nerio dead, captured, abused, humiliated – the Hungarian, or Robert of Geneva, or …

  Imagination is a deadly foe.

  Then we were mounted, and riding. It was as well we had a Varangian; we were stopped twice by military patrols.

  Then we were jogging along. We rode east and then through the inner gates and downhill, towards the Pera tower on the opposite shore. We came to a cross street and Marc-Antonio stopped.

  And I heard footsteps behind us.

  Ewan looked at me and drew a long dirk from his belt.

  ‘We’ll outpace them, whoever they are,’ I said softly.

  ‘Picked us up at the gate,’ Ewan spat. ‘Didn’t expect us to have horses.’

  Syr Christos shook his head. ‘You cannot just kill who you please in my city,’ he said.

  ‘There are men behind us,’ I said.

  Marc-Antonio was unsure of the way, almost sobbing in desperation, and I began to understand that he’d left Nerio while the fight was still going on. Christos ignored me and pushed ahead.

  ‘I know where they must be,’ he said, ‘if they went to buy women.’ He turned and led us to the right, all the way down the hill, past the spice market again and to the base of the sea wall, where there was a long row of inns.

  ‘Brothels. For foreigners,’ he said, wrinkling his nose.

  The street was completely empty.

  The sound of violence carries wonderfully. Someone was screaming his life away, and there was the sound of that arrhythmic rapid movement that characterises a fight.

  I ran for the outside stairs on a long, low building with an overhanging second storey.

  ‘Nerio!’ I shouted.

  ‘Stop!’ Christos said. ‘Let me …’

  I ignored him. ‘Nerio!’ I shouted again.

  ‘Here!’ he called. ‘I left some for you.’

  I got to the door, an outside door, but not locked, with a simple wooden latch that had been cut through. The door was half open and there was furniture against it inside, and I wrenched it further open to find a big room and enough dead bodies for a storming action. Red Bill was clearly dead, and a woman was also dead, her neck half-severed. She was naked, and so was he. A small man was drumming his heels on the floor, and across him lay one of my Irishmen, bleeding out.

  A man came at me from my right. I drew into his attack; my point grazed his face and his head snapped back to avoid my cover as I gathered his sword. My left hand caught his right elbow and I shoved him, hard, turning him, and slashed him on the descending stroke so that I opened the length of this spine as he stumbled one more step and fell across the Irishman.

  To my left was Nerio’s opponent. I could see Nerio was hurt; he was also naked. He had a dozen cuts, and he was covered in blood. But I had made a plan and I executed it; Nerio’s man was over-extended and I went for him. He pivoted quite competently on the balls of his feet, but his blade was behind his body thanks to Nerio’s parry, and I stepped right through him, planting my pommel in the centre of his forehead and throwing him to the floor with my sword arm.

  There were two more of the rats. One was sword to sword with Marc-Antonio, and he made three mistakes in a row: he crossed at mid-blade against Marc-Antonio’s much longer sword; he stayed close; and he tried to remove his sword while his opponent was still on centre. In other words, Marc-Antonio killed him without much thought, and he died, a monument to poor swordsmanship and bad training.

  The last man was Half-Cloak, and he was off down the stairs in the middle of the building. I followed, leaping the railing, and I was two steps behind him when I realised that there were other men in the middle of the common room. Half-Cloak was yelling in Greek, and a dozen men were drawing daggers. Others were pushing for the doors.

  A girl, no more than fifteen, appeared from my left and I almost killed her. She was naked, and screaming, and I kicked her out of my way without gentility, but she cost me two steps and my man was out of the door of the tavern.

  I went across the common room floor without a glance at the dagg
er-wielding men. It takes a complete fool to attack a man-at-arms carrying a long sword. Not a one of them was such a fool.

  I was, though. I went through the brothel door and he hit me.

  Some reflection saved me, but not by much; I got a piece of his thrust, he cut the top of my leg, and then I was down in the garbage behind the back door of a brothel.

  He kicked at my head. ‘László says goodbye,’ he said, and cut.

  I suppose he thought he’d wounded me.

  My left hand flipped something foul at him from the muck; he turned his head and I rolled and came up. ‘A pity you won’t live to tell him,’ I said. I don’t like to talk when I fight, but I had Half-Cloak’s measure. He was done – he’d fought too long, and now his little ploy had failed and he’d folded.

  ‘I thought I killed you, you fuck,’ he spat. He cut and I parried. Like many men, he raised his hands to assure the parry because I am fast, and I kicked him in the crotch.

  In that moment I knew him. He was the man from the steps of the cathedral, when we had humbled the Hungarian. But brothels need lanterns, and he was standing with his back to one, holding his balls.

  He threw his sword.

  It was a very good throw. Men usually only throw their swords when desperate; in the dark, it’s a good gambit, and as usual, Fiore saved my life – his training, and the red lantern at the door – because I was across the garbage pile from him, in a low garde. As I saw his arm move, I guessed and covered with a rising cut, and I caught his sword in the air so that the hilt only clipped my thigh.

  And he ran.

  I had to let him go. His thrust into my thigh had done damage and he’d just hit it again with the pommel of his thrown sword. I couldn’t walk, much less run.

  But we had a prisoner, and after a doctor was summoned and damages paid, I tied the man I’d knocked unconscious to a bed.

  I spent about an hour moving bodies with the brothel keeper. I didn’t want to let my wound cool or seize up. Syr Christos and I went through every purse. The brothel keeper made a long complaint to Syr Christos, who looked at me from time to time and made me wish for a translator.

  ‘He thinks your man started killing his girls,’ he said.

  I shook my head. I was slow; I was just wondering where Ewan was. He had been with us, and now he was not.

  I looked at Christos. ‘This was an assassination,’ I said. ‘These men were paid to kill me, and Ser Nerio. Look at this man,’ I said, pointing to poor Red Bill, who was a good deal redder by then.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, and he sounded unhappy.

  ‘The man who ran – I know him. He serves a Hungarian mercenary named László Makkrow or Makrov.’

  Christos’s eyes were blue. They met me across Red Bill’s cooling corpse. ‘I see,’ he said.

  And I could see that he did see. He knew something; perhaps a great deal. And he was not telling me. His face closed; he rose to his feet and dusted his hands.

  ‘I have duties at the palace in a few hours,’ he said woodenly.

  I swear; my first thought was to tackle him, and beat it out of him. I’d almost died; Nerio was hurt.

  I drew on what the Order taught – on what Father Pierre Thomas taught.

  ‘Would you care to tell me?’ I asked, as mildly as I could. ‘You know the name.’

  He looked away.

  ‘You are far too honourable a man for lies,’ I said.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, in English.

  I put my hand on my sword hilt. The brothel keeper backed away, and Marc-Antonio covered him.

  Syr Christos didn’t unlock his gaze from mine. ‘If you draw,’ he said, ‘it will only be worse.’

  ‘For whom?’ I asked.

  He looked away and cursed. ‘I am not trying to kill you,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think I have just saved you.’

  ‘So you say. You know who is, though,’ I said.

  ‘Look to your prince,’ he said. ‘Why the fuck did you have to be English?’ he added.

  Then he turned and clattered down the exterior steps.

  I sent Marc-Antonio for more men; he returned an hour later with all the archers. The brothel keeper had sent for the watch, but they stayed well clear of me. We put Nerio in one handcart and the unconscious man in another, and walked them through the early morning streets to Christos’s mother’s house. I did not believe that she’d allow us to be killed, and I didn’t think, somehow, that the Varangian was my enemy.

  By Matins I was bandaged and dressed. I took the time to wash carefully with hot water and sweet-smelling soap; I’d rolled in that foul garbage pile, and every laceration on my back was bleeding again, and everything hurt, led by my right thigh. I hate punctures; you never know what’s going on in there. I poured wine into it, made it bleed again, pushed some honey in – which felt terrible – and put a good linen bandage made from the hem of my clean shirt on it.

  Then I sent Gospel Mark and the Davids out to find Ewan, and had the rest of them guard Nerio and the unconscious man. I saddled my own horse; Marc-Antonio was face down on a bed. Achille was with his master. My only companion was Miles; Fiore stayed to watch.

  We clattered across the cobbles and out into the fields, and a few minutes’ riding brought us to the palace of Blacharnae.

  The Varangians were on guard. I was dressed for court, in a silk pourpointe and chausses and long, absurdly pointed shoes, with my best purse and my tallest hat. The guards ordered me to dismount and then demanded my sword.

  I handed it over and gave Miles a nod, and he backed his horse. We’d agreed on this already.

  Then I allowed the Varangians to escort me to the nearer church, where the Prince of Lesvos was hearing Matins.

  I allowed myself to breathe when I saw Prince Francesco kneeling at prayer. He gave me a nod, and I went to stand with Sir Richard on the cool marble.

  ‘You look like you’ve been in a fight,’ he whispered.

  I managed to make all the correct responses as the Latin priest made his way through the service. It was equally clear to me from the magnificent music coming from the next building, another church, that there were two services running side by side, and in the other church, the music sounded like all the choirs of Heaven.

  I didn’t know the magnificently dressed man kneeling beside Francesco Gatelussi. I raised an eyebrow. Sotto voce, Sir Richard nodded at him. ‘The Venetian bailli,’ he said. ‘We’ve already had the Genoese.’

  ‘Men tried to kill us last night,’ I said very softly.

  Sir Richard’s body stiffened.

  ‘A Varangian told me to “look to my prince”,’ I said.

  Sir Richard rose to his feet with a fluidity I envied. ‘Stay,’ he said. He slipped out of the service at the back and left me on my knees.

  I needed some prayer.

  We crossed the magnificent gardens to return to the prince’s lodging; I didn’t see a rose, I was so focused on possible threats. Sir Richard was back just before we left the church, face closed, walking stiffly.

  Just at the corner of the palace hall, where the wall passed the magnificent windows, there was a patch of shadow. Sir Richard drew the prince’s attention. There, lying by the window, was a fine gaze-hound, and it was dead.

  ‘Your breakfast,’ Sir Richard said, stiffly.

  The prince turned to me. ‘We didn’t eat last night,’ he said. ‘They all fell into beds. I had wine with the Genoese bailli and the old empress’s chaplain and nuns …’ He paused. ‘I have it,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Dannazione!’ he spat. ‘They tried to poison me. Or all of us.’

  His men-at-arms closed in around us; Maurizio di Cavalli was there, close behind me. Young Francesco was there as well, harness well polished.

  We got him to his rooms. No one had so much as a sausag
e.

  ‘Hail Constantinople, queen of cities,’ the prince said.

  Sir Richard shook his head. ‘I need to understand,’ he said.

  Prince Francesco looked out his window. Below us, a long procession was threading its way across the gardens from the second, larger church to the palace. It was led by two men with swords on their shoulders, and then a long, magnificent gold and purple canopy; from above, I could not see who was within, but the eagle embroidered in gold suggested it was the emperor.

  Except that the emperor was five hundred miles away, a prisoner of the Bulgarians or the Hungarians.

  Behind the canopy were incense bearers, and then a dozen men with axes on their shoulders.

  ‘He intends to make himself emperor,’ Prince Francesco said. ‘Or he already has. Christ on the Cross, how very unsettling our arrival must have been!’ He looked at the Venetian bailli. ‘You were right, of course.’

  The Venetian bailli tugged at his beard. ‘Do I have the honour of your acquaintance, Signore?’ he asked.

  I bowed. ‘I am Sir William Gold,’ I said. ‘If you were feeling very courteous, you might style me Baron of Μάριον.’ Marion in Greece was one of the few words I could pronounce in Greek.

  That made the prince smile.

  ‘You trust him?’ the Venetian asked. He took my hand. ‘I mean no offence – these are difficult times.’

  ‘I trust him,’ the prince said.

  The bailli nodded. ‘Well – so you were attacked,’ he said. ‘I tried to send you a warning.’

  ‘No warning reached me,’ I said. ‘Would you have known where to find us?’

  ‘Of course. All the world knows that actual Englishmen, all the way from Thule, are in the Enkliskvarangan quarter.’ He nodded.

  ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Who would attack us?’

  ‘The emperor’s scheming son, Andronicus,’ Prince Francesco said. ‘Damn them for fools. They’ll fight among themselves until there’s nothing to fight over.’

  ‘Nerio told me that this son may have paid to have his father taken,’ I said.

  The bailli nodded. ‘Ah. Where did the young Florentine hear this?’