And still, despite that closeness, Skiouros had revealed nothing of his true past or his end goal to the good captain - some things were meant to stay private. But without Parmenio's aid and friendship, the past year would have been considerably more difficult.
Then there was the fencing. His skills with the blade and even fist fighting had come on leaps and bounds in the past year and a half. Oh he was no warrior - never would be - but at least now he felt that, should he ever find himself in the same sort of circumstances that had forced him away from Istanbul in the first place, he would at least be confident that he could hold his own.
And around his language skills and his martial training, he had devoted whatever free time he could find to a study of the Catholic church of the Italian Pope, and to maps of the Italian peninsula and its surroundings and even the spider's web that was the politics of the Italian city-states. After all, it was worth knowing everything one could about a dog before placing one's hand in its mouth.
And that dog was likely to be deadly, because where Skiouros was bound there was danger of a level and intensity he could scarce imagine. The Mamluk assassins and the Janissary traitors of his home city would be as nothing compared to what he would face when he left here.
Not for the first time, Skiouros wondered whether there was an alternative open to him? Perhaps he could take on a job? He was skilled enough now to make a decent wage. Then he could retain his rooms and continue to live in this balmy land, improving himself.
But no.
Such thoughts, as always, led down ever more shadowy passages until he found himself picturing Prince Cem Sultan - the failed usurper of the Ottoman throne, exiled these past ten years and imprisoned first by the Knights of Saint John, and then in France by their grand master. Skiouros had never laid eyes upon the pretender lord and knew him to be held captive somewhere impregnable and unattainable at the bidding of that strange shadowy Italian priest-king - the Pope. But with the traitor Hamza Bin Murad and his co-conspirator the Mamluk Qaashiq exploded and buried in the rubble of their own plotting, and the three assassins they had brought sent to their God, only the would-be-sultan Cem remained as an instigator of the disaster that had torn Lykaion from this world.
No matter how difficult the task may be or how long it took, Cem had to answer for the evil he had wrought. Only then would Lykaion go to heaven and stop talking to Skiouros in the silence of the night and the privacy of his head. Only then could Skiouros take his brother home to Istanbul in the knowledge that the Sultan Bayezid the Just ruled solely and benignly over them.
Only then would it end.
No, there could be no ordinary life - no settling down into a mundane job - while Cem Sultan breathed God's air, whichever God that may be.
And there again was the sudden reminder that his spell here was up. Crete was already passing away from him in the endless current of time, as had Hadrianople, then Istanbul - and with it his brother. And it was now time to move on to his goal: on to the fragmented states of Italia and his destiny, whether it be the divinely-ordained death of the Ottoman pretender or - more likely - his own tortured demise in the dungeons of the Pope's castles.
A few more days was all; then gone.
Skiouros took a deep pull of the rich, flavoursome wine and folded closed the ledger, tying it with the thong before slipping it into his doublet and leaning back against the bench, sighing with mixed relief and regret in the warm air beneath the shade of the canopy.
How long he spent with comfortably blank thoughts, enjoying the temperature, he couldn't say. There was the faint possibility that he even drifted off to sleep briefly - the sun tended to have that effect after a morning of exertions.
Skiouros opened his eyes with a start, his heart lurching as it does when one suddenly becomes aware that one is being watched intently.
As he came bolt upright, his eyes hurriedly refocused on the figure sitting on the bench opposite, arms folded on the table.
"What in the name of damnation do you want?"
The Romani beggar rubbed his knee as though soothing a pain, the plaited bones in the strands that gleamed white in his tousled and dusty black hair clattering together as his head moved. The sun-darkened and weather-worn face tilted up towards him and the white, inquisitive eyes narrowed slightly.
"Be off with you" Skiouros snapped. "I came here for a little solitude and peace. Since you seem to be my self-appointed shadow, you must know that's why I chose this place."
The Romani simply smiled and cradled his hands on the table.
"If I buy you a wine will you go away?"
It was a pointless tactic and he knew it. The old Romani beggar had been an uninvited and oft-unwelcome fixture in his life for a year and a half and he knew well enough that the old man only left when he felt like it.
To some extent, Skiouros had brought it all on himself. That first day as he'd left the harbour and walked inland, the beggar had offered his services as a guide for a pittance and Skiouros had, looking him up and down and - somewhat reluctantly, accepted. He had been in a new land and totally lost, and the Romani woman in Istanbul still sometimes occupied his thoughts with her apparent prescience and understanding. And the old beggar had proved a very useful guide in those early days.
But then, after a month, when he had become thoroughly familiar with the city and even some other parts of the island, Skiouros had terminated the man's employment, leaving him with a more than generous severance payment. But the damage was already done. The old Romani was something of a limpet, attaching himself permanently and irremovably to Skiouros' life and cropping up regularly - mostly when his presence was most disruptive.
"Look, I just want to sit in peace and contemplate a few things. I don't want to seem selfish…"
The Romani frowned, though his slightly deranged smile remained locked in place, displaying his crooked and sparse teeth.
"But you is."
"What?" Skiouros asked, taken aback by being spoken to in such a manner. The old man had always shown a certain grudging deference before.
"You is" the man repeated. "Selfish" he explained as though educating a child.
Skiouros felt confusion and anger battling for dominance in his mind. As he tried to decide how best to rid himself of the unwanted beggar, he reached for the wine and took a pull, only to find the cup empty. Had the damn Romani even stooped to stealing his wine now? He'd only had one long sip himself.
"I am going to grant you that one free insult. You're a mad old man and I'm not a belligerent fellow. Consider my wine that you've clearly already drunk a parting gift and be on your way before I have to start taking offence."
"You can be what you wants to be, sure-en, sure-en. But yous bin a thief and a cheat and that sticks to a man's soul like wet shit, so t'does. Selfish's in the bone, even if'n you doesn't want it like that."
"Look, I'm getting a little irritated by this."
The Romani shrugged.
"Where's you bound?" he said as if the younger man's agitation was of no import.
Skiouros narrowed his eyes. This particular tack of questioning was getting close to something that he really did not want to discuss, particularly with a mad beggar and particularly in the open street.
"I have tasks in other lands. Now kindly leave me alone."
"To Rome, eh?"
"Shut up" Skiouros snapped, panic suddenly overwhelming his surprise. His eyes strayed across the other patrons and those folk in the street, but no one had been paying them any attention. A few heads turned at his sharp retort and he paused only long enough to watch them lose interest and go back to their drinks and games.
"Shut up" he repeated, his tone now lower and more conspiratorial. How had this man heard such a thing? Rome? It was hardly something he discussed in the open - or indeed even in private, with the exception of consulting Lykaion's ghost in the church of Saint Titus. Lykaion had become - in a strange way - his confessor.
"I didn't think you'd followed
me into the church. I thought they tried to keep the Romani out - especially beggars. Whatever you've overheard, you would do well to forget it."
His hand slipped to the pommel of the sword at his side - the expensive Spanish rapier that had made such a dent in his bank account, but which Don Diego had insisted he needed. He knew he would not draw it to fight here, as he'd end up incarcerated at the pleasure of the Duke of Candia - besides he had only learned to fight to defend himself and he knew damn well there was every likelihood that he lacked the conviction to attack a man in cold blood.
Except Cem, of course. He would not falter there when the time came.
"Rome, oh yes" smiled the Romani as though picking the thoughts out of Skiouros' mind. "After 'e traitor prince, none less, eh?"
Panic gripped Skiouros once more.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up" he hissed.
"Selfish" declared the old beggar once more.
"What?"
The man simply smiled with irritating smugness.
Glancing around again to make sure they were not being too carefully observed, and removing his hand from the sword pommel with deliberate slowness, Skiouros lowered his voice and leaned forward across the table.
"What is selfish?" he hissed.
"Revenge" the man said quietly. "Revenge be allus selfish."
Trying not to dwell too deeply on just how much this beggar seemed to know, and whether the man really could just see into his head, Skiouros concentrated instead on the argument at hand.
"How can it be selfish to put myself at great risk in order to avenge my brother? Even to avenge a whole empire and protect it from the potential danger of a usurper war? How is that selfish?"
"'venge be selfish. Self-indulgy-hent."
"What?"
"You b'lieve ye brother de head care if'n sultan man dead?"
Again, the panic rose and Skiouros had to clamp down on the urge to shout at the old man, his eyes straying around the tavern and the street to be sure they were not being scrutinised.
"Listen to me, old beggar man. My motivations are not a matter for discussion with anyone, least of all you. I can see now that perhaps this is your new plan to dredge money out of me? To learn my secrets and hold me to ransom over them? Well you're in for a tough time, as I've only a little more money than you now, and as soon as I can arrange passage on a ship, that'll see an end of my finances all together. Find someone else to prey upon."
The old Romani simply smiled and leaned back.
"Ye passage be n'ready fated and first sign comen e'en now. Think on't, theh, yon Greek, fer time comen it be put'n to test. Selfishness. Tarnish thar soul."
Skiouros prepared his retort but held it behind clenched teeth as the man rose, accompanied by a variety of clicks and groans and turned, limping away from the table and out of the tavern.
"I will be well rid of you" Skiouros hissed as the man passed close by on the other side of the wooden railing.
"Ye will" the man agreed, pausing. "But na yet. I's 'nother meet fer ye yet."
With a conspiratorial tap of the side of his nose, the old Romani limped off up the street.
Skiouros stared after him, anger and surprise spinning like a maelstrom within. What if someone had heard? What if they went… Foolish. Who would care what happened to an Ottoman usurper here, of all places? Besides, no one had even stirred or looked up.
His eyes refocused as the old man disappeared and Skiouros frowned at the sight that greeted him out in the sloping street.
Nicolo!
The purser of the Isabella and right hand man of Captain Parmenio was walking slowly down the street towards the docks, a dozen sailors around him leading pack mules and carts of stores and supplies. Skiouros' frown slowly cracked and opened up into a smile.
A sign from God if ever there was one. He tried not to think of prescient Romani and granted such providence to the Lord instead.
Here was he, contemplating what to do about the future, and the Lord had provided. There were far too many supplies there in that convoy for the short jaunts Parmenio had been lumbered with this past year. This was no trip to Santorini or even Cyprus. This was Nicolo stocking up the ship for a proper voyage, perhaps to Venezia, or even west past the Italian peninsula altogether.
Serendipity.
Nicolo had barely advanced any further down the street before Skiouros was out of the Tavern and hurrying after, leaving a few remaining coins on the table to pay for his drink.
Chapter Two - Of decisions and plans
Parmenio scratched his beard as he peered down over the Isabella's bow, watching his men struggling to direct a collection of disobedient and irritable Cretan donkeys that dragged carts full of barrels and crates along the jetty. It was one of the joys of sole ownership and captaincy not to have to involve oneself in the day-to-day manual labour of the sea-trader's life.
It was perhaps an ever deeper joy to be able to land the task heavily on the shoulders of Nicolo, particularly after the previous evening's games of Trionfini in which the purser - may his head shrivel and fall off - seemed to have an almost magnetic attraction to that fickle bitch the Queen of Swords. Parmenio's purse had been worryingly lighter this morning.
The big surprise was not the speed and efficiency with which Nicolo had purchased and transported the requisite supplies - the purser was endlessly competent and had been the supporting pillar of Parmenio's business for many a year. No, the big surprise was the figure trolling along in his wake, sword slung at his side and a three day growth on his chin, peering around at the folk in the port as though each and every one were spying on him for some unknown reason.
The young Greek permanently sported a look of the hunted man - it seemed to be an unchangeable facet of his character.
"Well, well, well. Look what crawled out of his pit. Don't you have a fencing lesson or a book to read?"
Skiouros grinned up at the captain at the rail.
"Nicolo informs me that you're bound for western climes?"
"Does he indeed? His mouth is as big as his damn purse, then."
"You've a good commission?"
Parmenio looked left and right as though expecting conspiratorial listeners eavesdropping on their conversation, almost a mirror of the young Greek's general demeanour. The port bustled and thrived as usual, but no one was paying particular attention to them.
"Get up here before you start shouting my business."
Skiouros frowned and followed Nicolo up the bowing, rickety plank ahead of the rest of the sailors, who began to unload the carts and heft the goods aboard between them, bearing boxes and bags on their back and crates and barrels in pairs, their hearts in their mouths as they tried to manoeuvre them up the narrow boarding ramp.
As he stepped onto the deck, noting with surprise its almost-new look, scrubbed clean and freshly waxed, Skiouros followed Parmenio's beckoning finger to the shade of the doorway into the stern compartment and its navigation room, galley and officers' cabins. Skiouros was still frowning as he stepped out of the searing sunlight and into the gloom, blinking to adjust as he did so. The smell of fresh tar, oil, wax and canvas was almost overpowering.
"Have you no wits, Skiouros, you brainless son of a Greek goat?"
"What?"
"I have secured a very agreeable pair of concurrent commissions" the captain hissed, holding up his hand to cup his mouth in a manner that was so conspiratorial it was almost comical to Skiouros. "The two commissions could move me up from my current rut and into the big time, but nothing is ever set in this world until everything is on board and we've cast off. You go shouting your mouth off about my good fortune and the next thing I know is I'll have lost said commissions because some other captain at a nearby jetty with unusually large ears has undercut me. You get my drift, boy?"
Skiouros frowned. It seemed exceedingly unlikely to him that anyone else nearby had stood even the faintest chance of learning anything useful from their exchange. Moreover, what was a life-changing commiss
ion to Parmenio was probably the standard fare to most of the captains in port, who seemed to enjoy a steadier run of luck than the Isabella's owner-operator.
Still, Parmenio was a friend and the business was his livelihood, after all. Skiouros lowered his voice and leaned closer.
"Where are you bound?" Skiouros tried - and failed - to keep a certain tense excitement from his voice.
"Why?"
"Because the time has come for me to leave Candia."
Parmenio narrowed his eyes.
"Why do I get the feeling that there's either some young woman knocking around the city with a growing bump on her front or that some nobleman's wondering where his best silver's gone?"
"Nothing like that" Skiouros answered with a smile. In truth, the very idea of thievery had become almost utterly alien to him over the past eighteen months and he had not contemplated swiping even the easiest of hauls for over a year. As to the likelihood of a romantic liaison… well Skiouros would be forced to admit to himself that while he was finding it easier these days to form friendships with people - such as Nicolo and the captain - he was a long way from opening up and trusting someone in a more intimate way. Such vulnerability was anathema to him. The habits of his formative years would be many more in the breaking.
"You're not in a hurry? Why me and now, then?"
"Because with that level of supplies you have to be on a long trip west, and not just island-hopping; and because you're a friend" Skiouros said, trying to interject a level of dismay into his voice at the very idea of his motives being questioned.
Priest's Tale Page 3