Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  While the stream of sailor's urine added to the filth of the harbour's water at the stern, the black figure slid into the shadows at the ship's side, its hand reaching up for the one of the four ropes that anchored the rigging to the deadeyes on the hull. Under normal circumstances the ropes would be far too high to reach from the jetty, but Parmenio's commissions had exceeded the permitted load for this vessel class by Venetian law and the ship rode dangerously low in the water.

  With a deft hop the figure launched itself up the side and rolled over the rail, dropping to the deck with a sound similar to the lap of waves against timber - bare feet slapping on wood.

  By the time the sentry began to patrol along the deck once more, the figure had disappeared into the shadows of the stern housing, secure in the knowledge that of the twenty five crewmembers, twenty two were safely ashore in the town, with only two sentries working shifts and one man suffering with gut rot in the hold below. It was amazing what knowledge one could glean from simply observing and listening - especially when one was effectively invisible.

  Before disappearing inside and down into the bowels of the ship, the figure removed the drum-shaped skoufos priest's hat and the black veil draped over it, lest it brush the timbers of the ship's ceilings and give away his presence. With deft hands he produced a strip of black cloth and bound up the long, ragged hair so that the white bones threaded throughout did not clack together as he moved.

  The Venetian sailor, still tying his codpiece back into position, stepped across the recent path of the intruder, oblivious to his passage, and peered off towards the port, ever vigilant in his duty.

  After all, the Isabella sailed at the next tide. It would be unfortunate should anything go wrong at this point.

  Chapter Three - Of the beginnings of journeys

  Skiouros took a deep breath of the salty warm air and relaxed, sagging over the rail. He hadn't realised just how tense he had become over the past two days until he'd found himself finally aboard the Isabella and sailing west.

  The sun was a mere dull umber glow at his back - past the caravel's bow - and the jagged, parched shores of Crete's westernmost spurs were little more than a purple smudge against the indigo sky to the east, past the ship's roiling wake.

  All day the Isabella had kept up a good pace, cutting through the warm, pleasant waters of the Sea of Crete, the sailors in good spirits and the mood light and friendly. When one of the sailors had whispered to Skiouros that he was relieved they had made it out of port without being hauled over by the authorities for being seriously over-laden, the young Greek passenger had been beset with worries until he finally confronted Nicolo. The purser had easily smoothed over his fears, explaining that the Isabella was tougher, larger, steadier and heavier than the authorities had down in their records - a deliberate ploy to pay lower berthing fees and port taxes. While Skiouros remained sceptical that the load was truly safe for the ship - the water's surface rode well above the cargo line - he simply had to trust that Parmenio and his men knew what they were doing.

  Despite the low-level background nervousness that the captain might have overburdened them in a desperate attempt to make his fortune, and the continual baseline acceptance that his entire journey was being undertaken in order to place him in the greatest danger he could imagine, he began to relax more than he had in some time. He was no great sailor - had had precious few opportunities to board even small ferries or rowing boats in his past - and the only great sea voyage he had so far undertaken in his life had been less than comfortable.

  Where his last trip had been spent mostly hiding below, dressed as a priest and feigning sea-sickness, this time he could stand upon the deck in the open air and enjoy the view and the rolling motion of the vessel as it plied its way towards the sunset.

  The island of Crete - Candia as the Venetians would have it - had slid by to the south throughout the day, its spurs and coves, caves and villages creating an ever-changing backdrop to the glittering waters. Such a view of Crete had taken Skiouros by surprise. Though he'd seen the island on a number of maps he had perused in the past year and had even journeyed to some of the strange ancient ruins near the city - including the legendary home of the Minotaur that had frightened him as a childhood story - he had not realised Crete was really so vast. It was more than a mere island forming part of the Greek world or the Venetian empire. It was a great land - almost a country of its own.

  Now as the chill began to set in with the loss of the sun's heat and the night started to take hold, the sailors began to work in shifts, some bedding down in their blankets on the ship's deck to get as much sleep as possible before being woken to take their turn. Some captains would have plotted a course that took them along coastal routes and anchored in bays for the night.

  Not Parmenio. This voyage would not stop before Napoli, travelling day and night.

  Part of the captain's reasoning revolved around the need for speed in order to be certain of fulfilling his contracts punctually and efficiently, and part came from the knowledge that the pirate vessels that operated in the eastern seas of the Mediterranean lurked in many such coves awaiting careless prey. Parmenio knew that traversing the open sea seriously reduced their chances of encountering such a threat. For their part, the sailors were equally happy with their tiring lot as it meant that, though they worked harder on the voyage, their cut of the profits from the captain would be slightly higher and their time spent in port at the end of the trip would be extended.

  "Master Skiouros?"

  His attention distracted from the all-but invisible coastline, the young Greek turned at the voice to see one of the sailors waving at him from the doorway which led to the tiny, cramped rooms. 'Master' indeed! It was distinctly possible that he would never become used to being addressed in such formal terms, rather than the less formal "Stop: thief!" that had become the soundtrack of his youth.

  Bidding a final farewell to the land that had been his home for more than a year, Skiouros padded across the deck, barefoot for safety, towards the sailor.

  "Yes?"

  "The captain has called you to dine, sir."

  Skiouros chuckled. Such formality. If only the sailor knew of his real past, he would soon drop any honorifics.

  "Thank you" he said, nodding as he strode past and in through the door.

  Responding to such novel formality in a manner that was fitting and betrayed nothing of the real Skiouros was becoming something of a talent.

  The interior was extremely dim, with only the reflected light of the dying day through the doorway illuminating the passage. Four doors led to small rooms, the nearer almost cell-like in their tiny simplicity, the farther slightly larger yet still small. The room to the right had been allocated to Skiouros - a bunk that just fitted his fairly diminutive frame and would hardly suit a well-built sailor and left just about enough spare room to stow his single bag of worldly goods. The room opposite was occupied by the other passenger, who had yet to put in an appearance and who Skiouros had seen nothing of since boarding this morning.

  The rear rooms consisted of the captain's cabin that now also played host to Nicolo in order to free up space for paying passengers, and the small social room where the officers' food was cooked and then consumed. It was a cramped way to live, though after the single rickety garret that had been his home in Istanbul the conditions were no hardship for Skiouros.

  A flickering yellow light shone through the cracks around the edge of the common room door and guided Skiouros towards his evening meal. Pausing at the threshold to make himself slightly more presentable, he finally knocked.

  "Come" came Parmenio's muffled voice from within.

  Skiouros gripped the catch and swung the door inwards, stepping into the light and blinking after the gloom of the corridor.

  The table occupied roughly half of the small room, barely providing enough space for four people to eat. The chairs around it were so tightly jammed that they almost touched the walls of the room, the bench and ti
ny stove that served as the galley pushed back up against the far wall to make as much room as possible.

  Captain Parmenio had changed from his daily rough attire into his best clothing - a slightly frayed and faded collection that had clearly once been expensive and well-tailored, before his girth had expanded just enough to put a strain on the ties that held the doublet closed. Opposite him, Nicolo sat in his ordinary work clothes, looking somewhat distant, as though solving an unspoken problem in his head.

  The third seat held a young man, no older than Skiouros, and he was willing to bet more than a year younger. Wearing the sort of elegant yet understated sombre doublet and hose of the lower nobility of the Italian city-states, the fellow looked somewhat aloof and sour-faced.

  "Allow me to introduce Master Cesare Orsini, nephew of the great condottiero, general and swordsman Virginio Orsini."

  "Distant nephew" stressed the young man with a sigh.

  Parmenio ignored the interruption and gestured at the new arrival. "This is master Skiouros, late of Constantinople, an acquaintance and fellow traveller as far as Napoli."

  Orsini raised an eyebrow. "What could possibly urge a man to visit that seething nest of Frankish and Aragonese vipers?"

  Skiouros, somewhat taken aback by the quiet vitriol in the young man's voice, shuffled in the tight confines to his seat and squeezed himself in behind the table, before a wooden bowl of something brown and stew-like and a few chunks of hard bread.

  Nicolo leaned slightly towards him. "Tastes alright, so long as you don't look too closely at the lumps. That might put you off. I'm worried that Arnolfini dropped bits of himself into the pot."

  Skiouros shot him a worried glance and the purser grinned wickedly. Turning away from the joking purser, he studied the young Orsini. The young man had a two day growth about his cheeks and chin, though it would likely mature to resemble more a seeding dandelion rather than a manly beard.

  "I confess I know little of the Kingdom of Napoli, Master Orsini. In truth I am merely alighting there en-route to the Papal States and Rome itself."

  He was rather proud of his answer. In his own head, he had sounded educated and classy. If Orsini thought so, he paid it no heed.

  "Rome is little better - though the snakes are smaller and prettier, they are twice as fast and twice as deadly - and the pope himself can only be seen when he crawls out of the pocket of the French King in order to breach Holy laws with his simony. 'Innocent' indeed!"

  Skiouros leaned forward, his gaze taking in the other traveller, attempting to unpick the man's mind, conscience and soul through a simple examination, but Cesare Orsini was inscrutable, his outer a blank and impenetrable shell.

  "I will defer to your knowledge on that count, Master Orsini, given that I owe my faith dues to the Patriarch Maximus in Constantinople."

  "Hmph" was all the response the young man deemed necessary to this titbit.

  "And where are you bound, master Orsini?"

  "Genoa. As far from the Neapolitan Kings and my dearest uncle as possible."

  "Your uncle serves the King of Napoli?" Skiouros frowned. His studies of the politics of the Italian peninsula had done little other than serve to confound him and bring forth a collection of headaches. The whole tangled web seemed to be more complex than even the Venetian port bureaucracy or the Medici banking system. And where the sensible Orthodox Church remained safely separate from the political morass, the Catholic Pope seemed to revel in miring himself down in the whole snarled mess.

  The humourless, seemingly bitter shell of this young nobleman irritated Skiouros, and he would like nothing more than to break off the conversation and ignore him and his superior pretentions entirely, but something selfish deep inside prodded him to investigate further. He was bound for Napoli and Rome and if this young man knew things of import, Skiouros would be foolish indeed to ignore him merely for the sake of personal comfort.

  "My uncle serves many masters. He is a prince among Condottieri. The Orsini languish in vile state beneath the rich protective skirts of the sickening pope and the treacherous Neapolitans, making themselves rich and powerful at the expense of their very souls, while shipping off the family's dissenters and their children to virtual exile on desolate islands - islands not even under family control."

  Skiouros nodded, his face a mask of concerned understanding for the plight of the young man - clearly a black sheep of his noble house - while beneath that manufactured expression, his mind raced with what use this might be. Perhaps he would be better staying on past Napoli as far as Genoa if Parmenio would permit it? Young Orsini could be an invaluable contact, particularly if Skiouros could nurture some sort of budding friendship with him?

  "You have my sympathy, master Orsini. Family can be difficult. My own brother caused me endless trouble" - a horrible stab of guilt - "but then I fear I returned the favour tenfold."

  Orsini simply nodded, his expression as hard as ever, and Skiouros fought to avoid grinding his teeth. The man was less forthcoming a conversationalist than Lykaion, and the latter had been dead nigh on two years. Skiouros took a deep breath to try and engage the man one last time, but was interrupted by a rapping at the door.

  Parmenio and Nicolo shared a concerned look. No one interrupted a captain's meal without good reason, even on a small trade ship like this.

  Nicolo's jawline hardened. "If I don't get to eat this swill in peace soon I'm going to start taking it out on the crew." He turned to the door. "Come!"

  The portal opened to reveal two burly sailors in the gloom. It took Skiouros' eyes a moment to penetrate the darkness and pick out the figure that stood behind them. It looked pitiful - a thin, dirty figure, dishevelled and unkempt.

  "What's this?" Nicolo demanded, narrowing his eyes to squint into the gloom of the corridor outside.

  "Stowaway, sir. One of the lads found him down below while we was movin' things around to make room for Dimitri, sir, 'cause the poor old bastard's come down with the shi… something unpleasant, sir."

  Nicolo turned to Parmenio, a questioning look on his face. The captain simply shrugged, passing the matter back to his purser.

  "Bring him in."

  Skiouros watched with interest as the two men reached back to their charge and then shoved him, none too gently, into the room.

  Skiouros felt a shiver run up his spine as he took in the weathered skin of the Romani beggar, the bone-strewn hair tied up with a black band, a curious half-smile on his face.

  "What in God's name?"

  Every face in the room turned to Skiouros. "What is it?" Parmenio asked quietly. "You know this man?"

  Regretting having spoken, Skiouros was forced to nod. "I wouldn't say that I know him as such, captain. I've encountered him a few times back in Candia. I retained him as a guide when I first arrived, and he was a common enough sight around the city with his begging bowl, crying out for alms."

  "That's where I know him from" Nicolo said suddenly. "Always hanging around the port at the end of our dock. Should have driven him away weeks ago. Should have expected it. Paid far too much attention to the Isabella, he did."

  Parmenio pursed his lips. "Why stow away? A beggar will do no better in any other port, so what difference whether you stay in Candia? Why risk so much trouble just for a change of scenery behind your bowl?"

  The filthy man stretched his neck left and right, causing the bones within to click unpleasantly, and then opened his mouth, issuing a torrent of indecipherable syllables.

  "What was that? Parmenio snapped in confusion.

  "It's the tongue of the Romani" Skiouros replied, frowning at the man. The beggar spoke reasonable Greek - he'd discovered that early on - and at least a smattering of Italian, if Skiouros remembered correctly.

  "You know their language?" the captain asked in surprise.

  "No. Not a word, I'm afraid, but I have heard it spoken oft-times back in Istanbul. The Romani are not uncommon in the backstreets there."

  "Was he armed?" Nicolo enquired.


  "No sir" the sailor replied quietly. "Just a pile of clothes that we've confiscated and put in the deck locker. Weird stuff- looks like the robes them Greek priests wear, sir."

  "Peculiar" Parmenio noted, looking the captive up and down. "Well we're too far out from land now. Lucky little devil managed to keep secure until we were at open sea, and the next land we'll make will be Sicilia as we round the straits to head north. Looks like we're stuck with him."

  "Can you not simply tip him overboard" enquired the young Orsini, peering at the beggar with some distaste.

  "I'm no killer, master Orsini" the captain replied coldly. "Besides, one doesn't cross the Romani, lest they curse one, eh Nicolo."

  The purser folded his arms. "Oh I dunno, captain. I might be tempted to try, particularly if that ungodly ripe smell is him - though in fairness that could just be Arnolfini's cooking."

  "Did you say one of the crew is ill?" the captain frowned.

  "Two now, sir" the sailor replied. "One with the… with rear end trouble, and the other with gut rot."

  "Then we're two men down. Master Skiouros here has kindly offered to help out when needed, but I suspect he has all the sailing nous of a crippled sheep, and we could do with more manpower during the night if we're to keep up our pace. Take our friend here forward and dip him in the bathing barrel. Clean him up, feed him, and then show him how to furl, unfurl and reef a sail and where the deck cleaning gear is. He can work his passage to Sicilia at least."

  The beggar looked up for a moment, his eyes meeting Skiouros', and the young Greek felt a strange thrill as something indescribable and intangible passed between them. The hairs stood proud on the back of his neck and he shivered.

  The door closed behind the three men as the sailors took away their charge to clean him up and put him to work. For a long moment Skiouros peered at the featureless wood panel of the door, and then turned back to the others. Parmenio and Nicolo had already largely dismissed the incident and returned to their somewhat miscellaneous meal. Cesare Orsini was watching him intently. Skiouros had the sudden suspicion that the young nobleman was far cleverer than he had initially estimated and that all this time of superior silence had simply given Orsini the time and leisure to examine his fellow traveller.