Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople tsathosg-3

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Perhaps,’ Swan said. ‘My only orders are to retrieve his library. Can you help me?’

  Simon rocked his head from side to side. ‘Perhaps. It is risky. Everything is watched right now. You know that a great many of the Christian relics have gone missing – from Hagia Sophia, from the monasteries, from private houses. The Sultan is furious.’

  ‘None of my concern. I’m here for books. When I’m done, you may have the house,’ Swan said.

  Simon made a face. ‘Is it yours to give?’

  ‘Of course,’ Swan said. ‘I’ll have your brother send you a deed.’ He shrugged. ‘A palace near the Hippodrome for some information and a little smuggling . . .’

  Simon lay back and drank quaveh.

  ‘Let me understand this,’ he said. ‘I get you to the house from the Venetian quarter. You go inside and prepare the items you want to ship. I ship them to Galata for you, and I keep the cardinal’s house.’

  Swan nodded.

  It was an excellent plan, and the only hitch he could see was that Simon planned to sell him out. He could see it on the man’s face. Damn it.

  Why are people so greedy?

  ‘How long will you be?’ Simon asked.

  ‘At least a week,’ Swan answered, an utter lie. In his head, he’d already discarded Simon.

  ‘That long?’ Simon said. ‘Why?’

  ‘It will take me that long to figure out what to take and what to leave,’ Swan said, embroidering as he went. ‘I’ll contact you when we’re ready. You get us from the Venetian quarter to the cardinal’s house. I’ll take care of the rest.’ In fact, in his head, he was already moving on to his next plan, but he needed to part amicably from this man before he chose to betray Swan immediately.

  He and Peter said their goodbyes, and slipped out of the Jewish quarter at the guard change. They were followed.

  ‘He’s going to sell us,’ Swan said.

  Peter sighed. ‘I wondered.’

  ‘We have to disappear. Luckily, we can.’ Swan took a deep breath. ‘Let’s buy food.’

  They walked back towards the Venetian quarter. Swan’s fear at every corner was that the two men following them – Simon’s men – would sell them to the Turks on the spot, but they made it to the market, and purchased meat pies. And then they cut across the ruins of the old Forum – down the steep sides of the collapsed fountain, and into the sewers. No one following them had had a sightline. Or so Swan had to hope.

  An hour later, they were in the underground cisterns, eating meat pies made of the same parts of the cow and the pig that were used in meat pies in London. There was more pepper, but the taste was strangely familiar.

  Peter looked at the apparently endless arches receding into the distance. ‘This was built – by men?’

  Swan slapped him on the back. ‘I’m glad you like it. We’ll be down here for a long time.’

  As it proved, it took them two days and a night to find Bessarion’s house and explore the system. They were involved in necessary adventures, including the theft of a ladder from a monastery and carrying it underground and above ground for almost a mile; another theft of rope, and a tedious amount of sneaking through alleys, dropping coloured cloth through the gratings and then hurrying below to see where, exactly, they were.

  Once, Swan had to hope his Greek was sufficient, and went above to purchase supplies. He walked carefully, watched carefully, and dealt with the deafest old woman he could find in the main market by the Hippodrome.

  When they were sure – reasonably sure – that they had the right well, Swan lay on the walkway, on a stolen blanket, and drew a map of every part of the sewers and cisterns as he knew them. As far as he could see, the canals were underground cisterns carrying water from the aqueducts to supply the Hippodrome and the palace quarter and any houses lucky enough to be along the major water routes. Great houses simply had a well cover that opened into a shaft that ran down into the cistern. Some houses had private cisterns – and there was more than one cistern system, and they didn’t all link up. Or rather, in the time he had, Swan couldn’t see where they linked, and he and Peter often had to cross an alley or a small hill above ground, carrying all their tools, stumbling, lost in a darkened city.

  The main canals, or cisterns, had iron rings every so often, and nautical bollards at intersections, clearly for tying small boats against the current. Swan couldn’t discern whether there were still maintenance crews working. As far as he could see, the newest stonework was two hundred years old or older, and there were four major cave-ins unrepaired.

  ‘We need a boat,’ he said, as he sketched his map.

  Peter shook his head. ‘People built this?’ he said again. He found wonder in everything – the grafitti, the underground mosaics, the bronze fittings where no one could see them. ‘No one is this rich.’

  ‘The old Romans were this rich,’ Swan said.

  ‘Imagine fresh water in every house,’ Peter said.

  ‘We need a boat,’ Swan insisted.

  ‘I’ll just steal one on the waterfront and carry it through the streets, shall I?’ Peter asked.

  Swan stopped drawing, the charcoal pinched in his fingers. ‘Mary and Joseph,’ he said. ‘There must be a water gate.’

  Peter’s head came up. He grinned.

  ‘I know who can get us a boat,’ Swan said. ‘Let’s cast east.’

  It took the rest of the day, but they found that the eastern branch of the sewer did indeed run down all the way to the sea. It ended at a grate like a portcullis, strong iron carefully wrought. The water ran out into the sea.

  Swan’s legs hurt from climbing and crawling, but he looked at the sea with infinite satisfaction. ‘Thalatta, Thalatta,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Peter asked.

  ‘That’s our way out, my friend.’ Swan watched for a while, and began to search around the water gate for signs of use.

  There were several.

  Very cautiously indeed, he pushed against the great iron gate.

  He found scratches on the floor that proved it had been opened. Repeatedly, and recently.

  He climbed up the rough stone inside the gate, and near the top he found the simple bolt that held it fast. He released it, felt the heavy iron start to swing, and shoved it back with his shoulder, almost losing his grip. He put the bolt back and dropped to the walkway.

  ‘We can open it whenever we want from inside,’ he said. He pointed out the headland opposite. ‘We’re south of Galata. Look at the current.’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Our galley can drop down on the tide – and pass within a stone’s throw of right here.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Nightfall or daybreak would be best.’

  Peter rubbed his beard. ‘It would be all or nothing,’ he said. ‘If the galley misses the boat—’

  ‘The boat is swept away on the current never to be seen again.’ Swan grinned.

  Peter shook his head. ‘I pity the poor bastards in the boat.’

  ‘Save your pity,’ Swan said. ‘You’ll be with them.’

  That evening, they climbed the ladder up the well-shaft into what they believed to be Cardinal Bessarion’s Constantinople house. Despite his meticulous scouting, Swan’s heart beat like an armourer’s hammer smoothing metal as he climbed the ladder as far as it would go. Then he threw the rope with a grapnel. It went up, and then it came down, and nearly hit him on the head.

  ‘Damn,’ Swan said.

  Peter nodded. ‘I’ll just climb down and wait for you to do this on your own,’ he said.

  Swan waited for the archer to climb down. Then he tossed the grapnel as high as he dared, and covered his head.

  Nothing happened.

  Head still covered, he tugged the rope.

  It seemed to have caught.

  Suddenly his whole plan for climbing out of the well seemed very, very foolish.

  He climbed the rope anyway. He tied a second rope to the ladder, hoping it would break his fall.

  And then
he was in. He could smell old incense, and there was enough light in the sky to see that he was in a kitchen, and that someone had opened the grain pithoi set into the floor.

  Enough light to see the row of palettes where people slept. Kitchen slaves, perhaps.

  And enough light to see the sword, held at eye height, pointed at his face.

  On the positive side, it was a European sword, and the man behind it looked Greek.

  It’s not always easy to take note of a man’s appearance when he’s looking at you over a sword, but the Greek was very handsome, with a small pointed beard and moustache, excellent skin and a strong chin. He was heavily muscled, like an athlete or a rower.

  ‘I’m from Cardinal Bessarion,’ Swan said.

  The young man – he was no older than Swan – breathed out. ‘Christos Anesti,’ he said. ‘Christ is Risen.’ He looked at Swan. ‘We’ve been waiting.’

  Swan lost a few hundred heartbeats when he saw how precariously his grapnel had grabbed the very edge of the well cover. He vowed never, ever to do such a foolish thing again.

  Peter came up the rope.

  The young man’s name was Apollinaris. He spoke perfect Italian. ‘I work for the cardinal,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Are you his steward?’ Swan asked.

  ‘I’m a philosopher,’ the young man said. ‘Sometimes an actor.’ He frowned. ‘Sometimes I steal secrets. And I’m an astrologer. And a hermeticist.’

  Swan looked the young man over. ‘Are you alone here?’

  ‘No,’ Apollinaris said. ‘My whole troupe is here.’

  ‘Troupe?’ Swan felt as if he was missing something.

  ‘We’re mimes. We perform mimes, and ancient plays.’ Apollinaris shook his head. ‘You are a barbarian, I see.’

  Peter’s head emerged from the well.

  ‘This is Peter – my . . . friend. Peter, this young man is Apollinaris. He says he is . . .’ Swan hesitated. ‘A philosopher. And the leader of a troupe of actors.’

  ‘Good Christ,’ Peter said.

  ‘I’m not the leader,’ Apollinaris said. ‘Nikephorus is the leader.’

  ‘I see,’ Swan said. The young man was on edge, and Swan had the oddest feeling that the young man was an escaped lunatic. He seemed to bounce slightly on the balls of his feet, as if overfilled with spirit.

  Apollinaris leaned over the well. ‘Did you really come from the sewers? I always meant to explore them.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Am I right in assuming you need to get – er – out of Constantinople?’ he asked.

  Apollinaris nodded. ‘Cardinal Bessarion sent a coded message and said he was sending someone to pick us up,’ he said. He sagged. ‘But that was months ago.’

  Swan delivered a long string of obscenities. Peter arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Of course he didn’t tell us. What else could His Eminence do? What you don’t know, you can’t reveal.’ The Fleming sounded vaguely envious.

  ‘Books, he said. Relics. The head of Saint George.’ Swan all but spat. ‘A troupe of actors.’

  ‘You know about the head?’ asked the young man. ‘We have it.’

  Swan crossed himself, something he very rarely did. ‘You . . . have it?’

  ‘Yes. We stole it. From the Turks.’ Apollinaris seemed very matter-of-fact about the whole thing.

  He led them down a hall, and up a servant’s stair. At the top, he knocked softly at a pair of double doors. They opened.

  Inside stood an enormous man with a cocked crossbow, a normally sized older man with another, and two women with the muscles of dancers, wearing men’s clothing, and with Turkish bows.

  ‘They’re from Cardinal Bessarion,’ Apollinaris said.

  The room had pigeonholes in the walls, from floor to fifteen-foot ceilings, and every pigeonhole was filled with scrolls. Scrolls lay on the floor, and more were in baskets by the chairs.

  In the middle of the room was a vast table, and in the centre of the table sat a reliquary slightly smaller than a man’s helmet. It looked to be made of solid gold, studded with pearls, enamel work and jewels.

  Swan took it all in.

  The crossbows didn’t waver. ‘Prove it,’ said the big man, in Greek.

  ‘How?’ Swan asked.

  The man looked confused.

  ‘Look, I’ve come a long way. I thought I was coming for some books, but it appears I’ve been sent to get you lot. I have an escape plan, and all I need is a boat. If you don’t want to come, that’s fine.’ The whole time Swan was speaking he was looking at the reliquary.

  It was . . . incredible.

  First, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so much gold in one place at one time.

  Secondly, the workmanship was . . . exquisite. Divine. Amazing.

  Thirdly, it was covered – almost vulgarly so – in jewels. Swan wasn’t a jeweller, but he was pretty sure he was looking at diamonds. And rubies.

  Large ones.

  One of the dancers stepped between him and the reliquary. ‘We stole it,’ she said. ‘It’s ours.’

  Peter fell on his knees.

  So did Swan. He couldn’t help himself. He was twenty years old, and he’d been a devout Christian for every minute of the time – his mother had seen to that. He didn’t make a conscious decision to kneel. He just did.

  Apollinaris grinned.

  ‘It really is the head of Saint George,’ he said.

  ‘May I . . . touch it?’ Swan asked, filled with the same vague piety that infected him when he was around Cardinal Bessarion.

  The woman smiled. ‘Yes. I suppose.’ She stepped back. ‘How are you getting us out of here?’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Since the siege.’ Apollinaris shrugged. ‘Eventually we’d have abandoned the head and left the city. There’s no getting it out.’

  ‘The Turks know it is missing. And they’ll stop at nothing to get it.’ This from the older man.

  Swan felt foolish, but something made him approach the object on his knees. He shuffled along until he reached the low table, and he opened the reliquary – it had a magnificent door, like the door to a miniature cathedral.

  Inside was a brown skull. A cross had been inlaid into the smooth bone of the forehead. Otherwise, it was just a skull, and a very old one.

  ‘They say that whoever has the head of Saint George cannot be harmed by monsters or demons, by weapons, even by torture,’ said the prettier of the two dancers. She bowed. ‘I’m Irene.’

  ‘And I’m Andromache,’ said the other. ‘We are acrobats. And actors.’

  Swan smiled and stood. ‘You’re the old woman at the gate.’

  She smiled back. ‘And you are the Turk.’

  The giant bowed. ‘Constantios, at your service,’ he said, stiffly.

  The older man bowed as well. ‘Nikephorus,’ he said. He smiled bitterly. ‘Nikephorus Dukas.’

  Swan tore his eyes from the relic. ‘Of the noble Dukas family?’ he asked.

  ‘One small branch, devoted to learning. We cannot all be busy ruining the empire.’ He shrugged as if his words were of no account. Then he pointed at the skull. ‘Familiarity will make you more comfortable with it,’ he said. ‘I confess we were silent for days after we . . . took it.’

  ‘It is like living with a gate into heaven,’ said Irene. She laughed – but softly, as if she was in church. ‘I am too much a sinner to be comfortable living with such a gate.’

  Swan reached out and touched the skull.

  Just for a moment, the world went white. Blank. Nothing – no noise, no sight.

  He found he was on his knees again.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said.

  Nikephorus nodded. ‘Exactly.’

  If the head was spectacular, the library was staggering.

  ‘This is all Bessarion’s?’ Swan asked, as he unrolled a scroll that seemed to have six plays in Greek all lined up together. He lacked the true connoisseur’s knowledge, but the scrolls seemed to be very old. The firs
t play was entitled Taxiarchoi.

  Taxiarchs were the archangels, in Greek.

  ‘Not all of it, by any means,’ Nikephorus said. ‘Some of it was mine. And some—’

  Apollinaris laughed. ‘Most of it we stole. Or borrowed. I prefer to use the term rescued.’

  Swan read a few lines. The main character was the god Dionysus, so that the play in question wasn’t about archangels at all.

  After a moment, he guffawed.

  In the scene he was reading, a weapons master was trying to teach the God of Wine to be a soldier. Swan had no idea how ancient the play might be, but just for a moment he had an odd, almost haunted feeling, as if the author of the play might be watching him. It was funny – deeply funny.

  Nikephorus nodded. ‘That was mine. I collected all the plays I could find from the ancient world.’ He shook his head. ‘I used to fear that the Patriarch and his monks would find out, and I would be prosecuted.’

  ‘Who is this Eupolis?’ Swan asked.

  Nikephorus bit his lip. Then he smiled. ‘I don’t really know,’ he admitted with a grandiloquent gesture.

  Irene laughed and clapped her hands. ‘I’ve never heard you say that before, old man!’

  Swan looked at another scroll. ‘And who was Heraklitus?’ he asked.

  ‘A philosopher,’ Nikephorus said. ‘I haven’t even read that one.’ He sighed. ‘The Suda – you know the Suda?’

  Swan smiled. ‘Not at all, I fear.’

  Nikephorus brightened. ‘While your ancestors were living in mud huts in Hyperborea, my dear young man, our monks were writing detailed encyclopedias of classical learning.’ He shook his head. ‘Classical learning comes and goes in fashion and tolerance,’ he said, somewhat peevishly. As if continuing his train of thought, he said, ‘I feared all the wrong things, and now my whole world is gone.’

  ‘Heraklitus was a philosopher like Aristotle? Like Plato?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Earlier, I think,’ Nikephorus said. ‘Not my field.’

  Swan looked up at the scrolls. Hundreds of them. ‘Are any of these Aristotle?’ he asked.

  ‘All this,’ Irene said, smiling. Twenty scrolls sat in niches under a small marble bust. ‘This is an ancient statue of the man himself.’

  Swan had that haunted feeling again. He took a scroll down.