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

by Christian Cameron

  An hour later, a dirty Christian beggar stopped a small Jewish beggar on the street.

  ‘I need to get a message to King David,’ the Christian said.

  The boy nodded. ‘Sure, boss,’ he said, in Greek.

  ‘Just knock it in,’ Peter said.

  Swan didn’t like waste. He prowled around the wellhead, because if they knocked it to pieces, it would be obvious to everyone how they’d escaped. And Swan liked to leave mystery behind him, when he could. It made for a better prank. A finer jest. And practically speaking, while he wasn’t sure who would be following him, he had a feeling . . .

  On hands and knees, he found the deep crack that ran around the heavy marble block that held the cast bronze and stone wellhead. Under the dry-sink, he found a pair of holes in the marble, cut in at an angle.

  Even better, leaning against the wall, he found two iron bars which fitted into the wellhead block.

  It took four of them to lever it up. When they were done, they had an opening the size of a small cart, leading down into the darkness.

  After dark, a wagon rolled up to the gate. Peter and Constantios watched it with bows drawn, while the two dancers covered the street and Swan went out the door into the courtyard.

  Isaac slipped off the wagon box. ‘A boat?’ he asked. ‘It’s not even illegal to get a boat. You summoned me to get you a boat?’ He glared. ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Simon means to sell me to the Turks,’ Swan said. ‘You?’

  Isaac froze.

  ‘I find that sometimes this sort of talk saves time,’ Swan said. ‘There are more plots here than in the Bible. I want to make a straight deal. I will give you some very valuable items and some information, and you will provide me with this boat and take a single message to the Venetian quarter. And we’ll part friends, and be available to help each other another time. Simon won’t ever get to betray me, which he’ll live to be glad of. And I’ll survive to take your letters back to Venice.’

  ‘Why would I need you to carry my letters?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I assume you plan to play the Venetian markets based on the Sultan’s invasion of the Morea.’ Swan shrugged. ‘I would.’

  Isaac laughed. ‘Not bad. Why trust me?’ he asked.

  Swan shrugged. ‘It saves time. And if everyone here is going to sell me, I’m dead. I have to trust someone.’

  ‘I agree.’ Isaac rubbed his beard. ‘I’m just not sure anyone has ever chosen me as the one to trust before.’ He laughed. ‘I like you, mad Englishman.’

  Swan grinned. ‘Come back in two days. Everything you find in the house is yours.’ Swan handed over a note. ‘See to it this goes to Alessandro in the Venetian quarter. Like your packet – there’s nothing in it worth reading.’

  Isaac smiled mirthlessly. ‘Balthazar said he liked you,’ he said. ‘So I will extend the courtesy of honesty. I can give you a day. Perhaps the two you want. Then I have to sell you, or I look . . . bad – to the Grand Turk.’

  ‘If you can make it two,’ Swan said, ‘I will count it an honest deal.’

  Isaac bowed. ‘I will do my best.’

  Swan took his hand, and they embraced briefly.

  An hour later, the boat was floating, fully loaded, in the current.

  Then they all climbed up one more time, swept the floors and the fireplaces, and the women went out and dumped the ash. Everything else went into the sewers until the house was clean. Then they levered the wellhead back into position and slid down the rope.

  And then Irene climbed the wall like a spider and retrieved the rope.

  ‘What do we do with the ladder?’ Apollinaris asked.

  Swan smiled. ‘Float it with us. Not far,’ he muttered.

  Swan led them along the sewers, following his map. After the first arch – foundations, he assumed of the old city walls. Passing under the arch required very careful management of the boat and the floating ladder, but they got through, mostly dry. Swan counted the wells above them, and then stopped, cut loose the ladder, and raised it on to the walkway. He grinned at Peter and offered no explanation, and they were away again in moments.

  The second time they had to pass under an arch, everyone had to swim, and Nikephorus, who couldn’t, had to hold on to the back of the boat. The older man was clearly terrified, and equally clearly in control of himself to a degree that caused him to rise high in Swan’s estimation.

  Irene’s figure also caught Swan’s attention.

  Cold, but triumphant, they passed east almost a mile, moving easily downstream. Once they had to get out on to the walkway, empty the boat, and carry everything around an obstruction where the street above had collapsed into the cavern, but there was water on the other side, and by late afternoon, Swan found them a campsite he’d scouted in the days before. ‘Don’t go anywhere!’ he insisted. ‘Tomorrow – at sunset. Out the water gate. I’ll meet you. If I can’t come, follow Peter.’

  Peter came and stood with him. ‘Is this situation covered by my wages?’ he asked.

  Swan considered the question. ‘No,’ he said.

  Peter nodded. ‘Would you consider me off my head if I said I want a share?’

  Swan considered this, too. ‘I’m still not quite sure how I make a ducat out of this,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t help but notice that you filled your quiver with the cardinal’s scrolls.’

  ‘I may be the only archer in the world with a quiver full of Aristotle, it’s true.’ Peter nodded.

  ‘You are a far better thief than I am,’ Swan said quietly.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Peter looked at the acrobats. ‘You stole the head of Saint George. I saw you.’

  Swan considered denial. Then he shrugged.

  Peter nodded. ‘So – I’m in for a share.’

  ‘So noted.’

  ‘What happened when you touched it?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Try yourself, and see. It’s real.’

  Peter made a noise of derision. ‘The gold and jewels are real.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘As you will. I’m off to the Venetian quarter. Don’t get lost.’

  Peter nodded.

  It was after dark when he dropped over the wall from the Pisan quarter into the Venetian. Shutters opened when he inadvertently overturned a handcart. He kept moving.

  The inn in which the embassy were staying almost defeated him. With high walls and a gated entrance on the first level, surrounded by high buildings in the Venetian Gothic manner, it was an impenetrable fortress to a lone beggar.

  He walked all the way around its block, heard voices, and found the stables – now empty. The stables didn’t have any windows, but as in buildings with ill-paid servants the world over, there was an obvious place to climb the wall. Swan was up and over and in the back yard, where once there had been a working fountain and horse troughs in a happier time.

  A door was open at the back of the inn, and light seemed to flood out into the yard, brilliantly illuminating the man who stood there. He was talking to a woman who stood with her back to the light.

  They blocked the door, and access.

  Swan spent a weary half-hour listening to them flirt, and considering the irony – he’d crossed Constantinople undetected, and now couldn’t pass his own inn door because of a flirting couple.

  ‘You only want one thing, you dirty lecher,’ said the woman, with a laugh.

  ‘You want it too, my darling. My pomegranate,’ the man cooed.

  ‘My pomegranates aren’t all they were, either,’ she said. ‘Why do I even listen to your nonsense?’

  ‘Because the night is warm and you are beautiful—’

  ‘Does this work on other women, lout?’

  ‘There are no other women, divine one.’

  She laughed. In Tom’s expert opinion, the whole thing was just a matter of time. He sat on his haunches in the shadow of the old horse yard.

  ‘Not here, lout!’

  ‘No one will come, Aphrodite.’

  ‘You are right that no one will come h
ere – not me, and not you!’

  ‘I need you, navel of the world. Oh!’

  He had her kirtle open – she had to have co-operated in that part, and Swan gave him full points, whoever he was. He was trying to get farther aboard her in the doorway. Swan cursed his hurry.

  But she was of the same mind as Swan, and boxed the man’s ears.

  As it turned out, her notion of privacy was the stable, which suited Swan. They made their way across the yard, one amorous exchange per step. For two people who seemed to him too old to care, they protracted the trip across the yard with more moans and caresses than he felt were possible.

  But eventually, they vanished into the stables, and he ghosted across the inner yard, and in through the kitchen door.

  The great inn kitchen was empty.

  He stripped off his over-robe, threw it in the fire, climbed the steps with his bag on his shoulder and walked boldly to Alessandro’s room – he was now a Frank, exactly where he was supposed to be.

  Alessandro was alone.

  ‘By the Virgin!’ he said, when Swan came in.

  Swan grinned.

  ‘Alessandro,’ he said happily. ‘Listen, capitano. I have been to the cardinal’s house.’ He watched Alessandro’s face, but the Venetian gave nothing away.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I found a troupe of acrobats living there,’ he said.

  Alessandro raised an eyebrow. ‘Eh?’ he said.

  Either it was the finest performance Swan had ever seen, or Alessandro knew nothing.

  ‘They claim to be . . . spies – working for our cardinal.’ He shrugged. ‘They claim they have a message from the cardinal saying that someone would come and take them out of Constantinople.’

  Alessandro nodded and stroked his short beard. ‘I see,’ he said slowly.

  ‘It occurred to me that they might be lying,’ Swan said.

  Alessandro shrugged. ‘He has many . . . agents.’

  ‘So you weren’t told – perhaps when I was asleep – go and fetch the troupe of acrobats.’ Put that way, it sounded insane.

  Alessandro rubbed his chin again. ‘The cardinal is most scrupulous at keeping all of us apart. Especially those he calls “day workers” from those he calls “night workers”.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Did you get my note?’

  Alessandro nodded. ‘I didn’t have to do anything. The bishop has already sent for the ship. Ser Marco will take us off from the quay at evensong tomorrow. Everyone is packed.’

  Swan breathed a sigh. ‘Is the bishop ready? The word is he’s to be humiliated. That we will watch a procession of Christian slaves taken by Omar Reis, and see the Turkish army setting off to take the Morea.’

  ‘I know.’ Alessandro shrugged. ‘Truly, I fear tomorrow. The bishop is a small man, and may behave . . . badly.’

  ‘Am I with you tomorrow? Or not?’

  Alessandro scratched his ear. ‘I think I can use your wit.’

  ‘Are we going armed?’ Swan asked.

  ‘And armoured. We are the bodyguard he is allowed in his letters.’ He crossed his arms. ‘Best we get some sleep.’

  ‘Yes,’ Swan said.

  An hour later, he was making his way along the underground sewers, his oil lamp making a tiny glow in the immense darkness of the caverns under the silent city.

  Every step he took was foolish. He was afraid, and yet elated.

  And a fool.

  He had no need to try this. He was attempting to navigate the sewers at night, without anyone to help him. That was foolish. If he fell and so much as twisted an ankle, his entire enterprise would fail.

  He kept walking.

  I don’t’ need to do this, he told himself again.

  But he kept walking.

  He thought it must be midnight when he arrived at the ladder, just where he had left it. It took him some minutes to raise it alone, and he made considerable noise. Eventually, he got the base firmly seated on the walkway and the top inside the wellhead.

  Khatun Bengül’s wellhead.

  Then he paused, one foot on a rung of the ladder.

  So – I made it here. I have the ladder up. I can walk away. This is . . . insane.

  He found that he was climbing the ladder.

  He shook his head. At himself.

  Two rungs from the top, he rested his back against the well’s wall – probably just where his shoulder had struck in falling, he thought. Shook his head.

  Insane.

  He took the coil of rope off his shoulder and secured the grapnel.

  I’m sure I swore yesterday never to do this again.

  What if there are people in the kitchen?

  Smiling at his own foolishness, he tossed the grapnel straight up.

  He did cover his head.

  Which was good, as it fell back with a lot of noise.

  He sighed. Paid out one more coil of rope, took the grapnel by the stock, and threw.

  He heard it hit. Outside the well. He pulled, and it came quite easily – he pulled it in very slowly, dragging it across the stones of her kitchen. And it caught. He pulled again, and it stayed tight.

  Caught on some tiny projection? Or on the cross-beam?

  He went up, putting as little weight on the grapnel as possible – his back against one wall of the well, feet against the opposite wall, walking up as he’d seen the acrobat girl do earlier.

  She was nice. She was pretty. Why am I doing this?

  Up and up.

  At the top, he stopped to listen. The cover still wasn’t on the well. His back and sides hurt, and his neck . . .

  He went over the edge.

  Screaming eunuchs didn’t kill him, so he decided after a few moments that he was still safe.

  He paused at the curtain to the stairwell.

  Now, I can slip down the rope and go. I did it. I entered her apartment undetected. No need to go any farther.

  His soft leather boots made no sound on the steps as he climbed.

  He paused at the curtained doorway to the slave quarters, and listened. Her slaves were silent. Several were snoring.

  He stopped outside the cedar and silver door. It was just as he remembered it.

  If she screams, I’m dead.

  This is foolish.

  In fact, this gives foolish a whole new perspective.

  He put a hand on her door. It was locked.

  A German lock.

  England had German locks.

  It took him longer than he expected to open it. He had to find the tool in his belt purse, and it took him far too long to realise that the local workmen had installed the lock upside down.

  Click.

  I could just let this go.

  Don’t try for revenge on Omar Reis.

  He opened the door, very, very slowly.

  He had to fight the sudden feeling that it was all a trap. The wave of paranoia came, and went, and he could smell the fear he had exuded.

  He slid into the room. Closed the door with infinite patience.

  He could hear her breathing. It was soft, and regular.

  He went to her bedside.

  And put a hand on her mouth, thinking, It is now officially too late to back out.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Remember me?’

  She hesitated – and then threw her arms around his neck.

  Then he put his mouth over her mouth.

  ‘No!’ she said, and pinned his legs with her own. She was very strong.

  There was one lamp lit, and she was magnificent.

  ‘No,’ she said. She smiled. ‘Don’t be angry. It is . . . a matter of life and death.’ She leaned over him and licked his lips. ‘Listen, I’ve read books. There are a thousand other things we can do.’

  Apparently, there were.

  He kissed her at the wellhead, and the whole process began again. He’d meant it to be a kiss goodbye. It didn’t have that effect.

  But eventually, she let him go down the rope Or rather, he forced himself out of her arms a
gainst his own will.

  She dropped the grapnel to him after he was on the ladder. And blew him a kiss.

  At the base of the ladder, he could still see her light. He felt an intense temptation to climb right back up, but there had been a change in the air of her apartments. And slaves rise early.

  He could smell her on his skin – smell her perfume, which seemed to be in every fold of linen and silk in her room, and on every part of her body – rose and lavender and an Eastern scent he didn’t know. And her own scent – musky and heady. And strong.

  He smelled her on his hands, and smiled, and then, after wrapping his clothes in a leather sack that would be waterproof for some minutes, he leaped into the water.

  He swam downstream in the cistern, under the arch of the great wall, and again he found that darkness and deep water combined to panic him even when he knew that there was an opening at the far end. He emerged and pulled himself out on to the walkway – stronger this time – and, sack on shoulder, walked all the way to the end of the main cistern.

  He dressed quietly, surprised to find that the scent of rose and lavender still clung to him, and climbed out of the cistern by the access doors. He crossed the main square, walked partway down the hill, and entered the next system. It was very dark, and when he saw the small fire that the acrobats had burning, he was very happy.

  He approached as quietly as he could. But he was fifty feet from the fire when a someone spoke.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Peter said.

  ‘It’s only me,’ Swan said.

  ‘Don’t make too much noise,’ Peter insisted. ‘It took me a long time to get them to sleep.’

  Swan walked carefully along the cistern’s shelf to the fire – really, just a small pile of charcoal that had been laid on the stone and lit. But it was warm, and he realised that he was cold.

  ‘We have wine,’ Peter said.

  Andromache appeared beside the fire and smiled at him. She had Peter’s soldier’s cloak around her shoulders.

  Swan accepted a cup of wine. ‘All is well?’

  Peter shrugged and smiled a secretive smile. ‘I just spent a day underground with a troupe of actors who can’t stop talking.’ He glanced at Andromache. ‘Mind you, there are compensations.’

  Swan finished his wine. ‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘Watch for us from the water gate. If you don’t see the Venetian galley—’