‘Effendi,’ murmured the Greek shopkeeper.
‘I owe you too much already. How can I repay you?’ asked the Turk.
Cash? A bloody great pile of ducats?
‘You could teach me Turkish,’ Swan said.
Idris made a face. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.
Next day, Swan took Peter as a guard and went to find the Jews.
They weren’t allowed to bear weapons openly, but both of them had daggers under their cloaks. Swan was sure he was followed every time they left the small inn where they were lodged in what had been the Venetian quarter. His experience in Venice had made him aware of people following him, but it was difficult here – every street was a sea of new faces; there were refugees and beggars on every corner. Still, he had an idea that the very tall, thin man he’d seen a few times was a shadow, and he tried various tricks – going down a very narrow alley he’d located in the old arcade of silversmiths, walking around by the old palace.
There was a Turkish guard on the gate of the Jewish ghetto. Swan took one look, scratched his chin, then walked back to the inn and sent a note by a beggar boy to Idris. Then he scribbled a note of his own and folded it inside Rabbi Aaron’s letter.
Idris was delighted to accompany them to the gate. He spoke a few words to the gate guard, and Swan guessed that he’d just been described as the Prince of England. He bowed, the gate guard bowed, and the three of them were allowed into the Jewish quarter.
There was damage, here – the synagogue had taken a cannonball, and Swan could see the glitter of magnificent mosaics inside. The three men stood at the entrance to the ghetto, and a pair of young men approached them.
Swan stepped forward, bowed, and asked for the house of Simon the merchant. ‘I have a letter from his brother in Venice,’ he said.
The two young men took him to Simon’s house. He was led inside, and servants bustled about. Simon was far more prosperous then his Venetian brother, the rabbi – he had a pair of Nubian slaves and half a dozen Slavic slaves, like the richest Venetians and Florentines. They were offered coffee, which was, apparently, to Turks what wine was to Italians.
Simon came, and Swan introduced himself and his two companions. He handed over the letter.
Simon bowed. ‘You will pardon me,’ he said. ‘With the siege, it is more than a year since I have heard from my brother.’ Swan saw him palm the inner note expertly and he relaxed. Simon left them for a few minutes, and they made stilted conversation and admired the calligraphy on scrolls around the walls, all of which Idris proclaimed to be Persian.
‘Except this one,’ he said, puzzling over one particularly odd scroll. The letters were both large and violent – square, almost. And yet oddly beautiful.
‘Chinese,’ said Simon, coming back into the room. ‘I thank you very much, Messer, for your kindness to an old Jew. May I be of service?’
Swan bowed. ‘I am interested in purchasing old manuscripts – old Greek manuscripts. I collect them,’ he said. ‘Your brother suggested you might help me.’ In Hebrew, he said, ‘Do you know the house in the note?’
Simon nodded. ‘I have sent a message,’ he said. ‘I expect he will come and fetch his package in person.’
‘I have it on me,’ Swan said. In Italian, he went on, ‘My poor Hebrew doesn’t go as far – could you direct me . . . to the . . .?’
Simon smiled. He waved a hand, and one of the servants led him to the neatest and sweetest-smelling jakes he’d ever seen. There was a basin of water and a basket of towels. Swan opened the basket of towels and put Balthazar’s package inside.
Then he racked his brain for the Hebrew word for ‘towel’.
Nothing came to mind. When Simon looked at him, he gave the man a small nod and mimed washing his hands.
Not even a blink of recognition.
He wasn’t going to discuss any more business with Idris present. So they spoke at random of a dozen things, asked after the family, and the business, as if he were truly an old family friend. He heard a stir in the doorway, and then there were bows.
The man who was presented – yet another Isaac – might have been Balthazar’s second son. He was the right age, and had something of Solomon’s eager friendliness. He also appeared simultaneously too friendly and ill at ease. Idris in particular seemed to excite him, and he flattered the young Turk unmercifully.
At last, Swan managed to withdraw with many protestations of future visits. They walked out the main gate, escorted by two local men, who bowed low as they passed. The janissary saluted.
Idris laughed. ‘Franks are famous for their bigotry,’ he said. ‘And you seem to be friends with everyone.’
Swan shrugged. ‘I make a habit of pulling thorns from the paws of every lion I meet,’ he said.
‘My father likes you,’ Idris said. ‘He’s going to invite you to go hunting with him.’
‘Should I?’ Swan asked.
Idris thought for a moment. ‘It would help me,’ he said.
‘Will your father give me a safe conduct in my own name?’ Swan asked. It was a little too bold, but he wasn’t sure how often he’d have access to the young Turk.
Idris smiled. ‘So – that’s what you want. Why? These old books?’
‘What would you do, to have unlimited access to Persian manuscripts?’ Swan asked.
Idris smiled. ‘You are too intelligent, and I suspect you are using me. But you saved my life – you are entitled to a little use.’ He inclined his head – very like his father – and his bearing reminded Swan that he was not always as clever as he thought he was. ‘I will ask on your behalf.’ He looked at Swan. ‘Listen – promise me something.’
Swan laughed. ‘Yes?’
‘Promise me you aren’t after this thing. This head that all the Christians want. The Sultan spoke of it today. My father has men all over the city looking for it.’
Swan looked confused, or at least, he hoped he did. ‘Head?’ he asked.
‘Christians worship the parts of dead men,’ Idris insisted. ‘In their churches. Feet. Toenails. Arm bones. This is the head of the great warrior.’
‘Maurice?’ Swan asked. He was sweating now. It wasn’t really very funny.
‘Saint George.’ Idris’s brown eyes bored into his. ‘Promise me you are not trying to steal it.’
‘Because you Turks stole it first?’ Swan asked. Sometimes, according to his uncles, it was best to attack.
Idris met his eye – and laughed.
Almost a week passed in which they weren’t allowed out of the Venetian quarter. No reason was given, and the janissaries were polite but absolutely adamant. Swan walked to the market every day, and purchased anything that caught his fancy and that he could afford. He received notes and invites from Aaron’s brother and from Balthazar’s business associates. He had to decline them – he wrote careful notes in stilted Hebrew accompanied by other notes in Italian, trying to make clear that his refusal was not his own choice.
The bishop, who had never deigned to notice him, turned after one of the messengers had gone away, and said, ‘How is it that you have friends in Constantinople? Infidel friends?’
Swan bowed. ‘Your Grace must know by now that I took young Idris prisoner in the fight on the boat,’ he said politely.
‘I know nothing of the kind. But I forbid you to have any further communication with him.’ The bishop looked at him. ‘His father is the most terrible of men – an enemy of God. The Greeks call him the son of Satan.’
Swan was about to remonstrate, but Alessandro, who was forced to spend most of his time attending the bishop, made the motion of a blade crossing his throat, which Swan took to mean he should shut his mouth.
The bishop moved on, as if, having given instructions to a servant, he had no further need to communicate. Which, as Swan considered it, was probably how the bishop viewed him.
Cesare sat back and dealt another hand of piquet. ‘If only . . .’ he said. ‘God forgive me for what I’m going to say, but if only he was
an aristocrat, and not a jumped-up little Romagnol peasant.’
Swan had to laugh. ‘This from you?’
Cesare spat. ‘Bah,’ he said. ‘Now that I see you are the lost Prince of England, I no longer believe that you are a true man like me, anyway.’
Then he grinned. ‘You are the bastard of a great man. I am the bastard of some roadside tryst.’
‘I’m a better swordsman, too,’ Swan said, and Cesare aimed a swipe at him that almost connected. The four of them – Alessandro, Swan, Giannis and Cesare – fenced with sword and buckler every day. Cesare was growing better by leaps and bounds, closing the gap between his ability and Swan’s even as Swan closed in on Giannis and Giannis drew fractionally closer to the gifted Alessandro.
There was little else to do. Sometimes they fenced for three hours, drank wine and ate good bread in olive oil, and fenced again. The janissaries came and watched. And wagered.
One day Alessandro paused, buckler high, and said – quietly – ‘Can your Jews cash Bessarion’s bill? We’re running low on money.’
‘Not all Jews are moneylenders,’ Swan said. He shrugged. ‘But let me ask.’
He sent Simon a note.
The next day, Simon sent back that he would be happy to change the note for cash. And the janissaries bowed, their high hats nodding on their heads. ‘You are free to visit anywhere inside the confines of the city walls,’ said Murad, the corporal.
The bishop sent word that none of them was to leave the inn.
Alessandro waved him out. ‘I’ll explain,’ he said.
‘Tell him I’m on an errand for the cardinal,’ Swan said. ‘Listen – tell me the address and I’ll take a look at the cardinal’s house.’
Alessandro wrote it down for him.
He went to the Jewish quarter first.
Isaac met him inside the gate, and walked with him to the house of Simon. ‘Your embassy is very carefully watched,’ he said. ‘You know the Sultan is contemplating war with Venice? And the Pope?’
Swan started.
Isaac went on, ‘You Franks are the most arrogant creatures on earth. Do you think that the Sultan is fooled by Venice? He plans to take all Greece – indeed, Omar Reis, who I understand you have met, is even now raising the troops to take the Duchy of Athens and the rest of the Morea.’
Swan stopped in the narrow alley. ‘I know you mean well,’ he said, although he wasn’t sure of that at all. ‘But I am the lowest member of the embassage, and I have no idea what you are talking about. I am a mere soldier.’
Isaac frowned. ‘I am informed that you are, in fact, an agent of Cardinal Bessarion.’ He met Swan’s eye. ‘Are you here for the head of Saint George?’ he asked.
Swan felt as if he had no ground beneath his feet. He couldn’t decide how to answer this accusation. He wasn’t sure why it would be a bad thing to admit to such a status.
‘Messire, I am a poor man who performed an act of friendship for Rabbi Aaron, because he has been kind to me. He is my Hebrew teacher in Venice.’ He paused and looked at Isaac to see how this speech was going down.
‘You are the friend of young Idris, the Wolf of Thrace’s youngest son. You are, I understand, an English prince come to threaten a crusade against Islam.’ Isaac all but snarled.
Swan laughed. ‘I am no prince of England,’ he said.
Isaac smiled for the first time. It was a very small smile, but it changed his demeanour and made him seem very much less threatening. ‘For such a young man of no apparent power, you have quite a few rumours surrounding you,’ he said. ‘But Balthazar said I should help you. At the same time, there’s so much happening here that I’m not at all sure that I can help you.’ He paused. ‘The Turks are ripping the city apart for the head – or so they say. It may be a pretext. Some people say the head is in Athens, and some in Corinth, and some that it is already in Rome. Some say that the Christian princes have a great army, and are luring the Sultan to his doom.’
It was obvious he had something more to say, but they had arrived at Simon’s house. Isaac bowed. ‘I will attempt to see you again. Let me say, Englishman – if you need to reach me, ask any beggar to get a message to King David.’
He nodded and walked off down the alley.
Simon received him like a visiting prince, and gave him every centime of three hundred ducats in gold.
Since it was traditional to discount a bill the further it was from its origin, Swan bowed. ‘You are a true friend.’
‘You came well recommended, and in truth, sir, I will send this bill back to my brother to be changed.’ Simon smiled. ‘I assume that you will take a packet of letters back to him?’
‘Of course,’ Swan answered. ‘If we ever leave. The Sultan seems in no hurry to receive the Pope’s ambassador.’
‘A few more days. He is preparing his armament against the Morea. He wants the campaign to begin before he receives the bishop. It is, I’m afraid, the way of the Turkish mind – to deliver an affront to Christendom while receiving Christendom’s ambassador.’ Simon shrugged. ‘Is the ambassador a man of status? Is he intelligent?’
Swan was about to answer honestly when he perceived that perhaps Simon was compromised – or perhaps, living in Constantinople, his interests were very different from Swan’s.
The world was, indeed, a very complex place. And yet, at another remove, not so very different from the world of his mother’s inn. ‘He is a famous man, in Rome,’ Swan said. ‘As for his intelligence . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He’s never said four words to me.’
Lying was best done with a tinge of truth. Uncle Dick used to say that, and it always seemed appropriate.
Simon nodded. ‘A famous man, you say?’ he asked.
Swan shrugged. ‘Even in England, I had heard of him,’ he said. Well, that was a lie. But he’d heard of Ostia.
He took the money, bowed agreeably, and escaped as soon as he could, meeting Peter at the gate.
There was a new man near the gate, an Arab in a filthy robe, whose yellow complexion and turtle-like neck would not have recommended him anywhere. His nose was large and pockmarked. His eyes were piercing and far too intelligent for the mean clothes he wore. Swan marked him with a glance, and saw him again, six streets away, emerging from an alley.
Swan walked for an hour, and the yellow-faced man was always there – not every time he glanced, but often enough that, although Swan walked past the cardinal’s house, and noted it well, he didn’t pause. Peter looked at him, and he smiled. They didn’t ask directions – all those hours learning the streets with Rabbi Aaron had had their effect – and eventually they walked past another church, and Swan made a show of being bored. In truth, he was hot and tired – the Jewish quarter was a mile from the Venetian quarter, near the Philadephion at the foot of Third Hill. And Bessarion’s house was in the palace quarter, the oldest part of the city east of the Hippodrome by the Bucoleon Palace. The area was swarming with Turkish soldiers – filthy ghazis, magnificent cavalrymen, janissaries as proud as Lucifer, who were magnificently accoutred in mail, plate brigantines, yellow leather boots and tall felt hats, and yet reminded him of the English archers he’d served with in France.
The cardinal’s house was like a tall palazzo, the portico decorated with original Greek columns from one of the ancient temples, and the windows edged in marble. A man’s head was at one of the windows, but when Swan’s apparently casual glance swept the building a second time, the man’s head was gone.
They walked home.
The moment they turned south, the yellow-faced man was no longer with them. But now Swan saw the tall, thin man from the first days – first waiting ahead of them in the street by the Hippodrome, and then watching them pass, and finally, trailing along behind them all the way to the gates of the Venetian quarter.
He breathed a sigh of relief as they entered the Venetian area.
Peter looked at him. ‘Trouble?’ he asked.
‘We are in over our heads,’ Swan said.
‘More
than usual?’ Peter asked.
‘I don’t even know what the game is, much less the stakes,’ Swan said. He told Peter the whole of it, down to Isaac’s comments.
Peter picked his teeth contemplatively. ‘It’s always better to be thought a prince than a beggar,’ he said.
Swan nodded. ‘I know.’
‘But you told him you were a mere soldier.’
Swan laughed. ‘If you were a visiting nobleman in disguise, what would you say?’ he asked.
Peter shook his head. ‘I’m better putting arrows in things,’ he said. ‘Intrigue makes my head hurt.’
Swan stood on the sea wall and looked across the Horn at Galata. ‘Somewhere in all of this is a way to make money,’ he said. ‘I just have to find the right string, and pull.’ He grinned at Peter. ‘I doubt it’s a bowstring.’
Peter shrugged, and continued picking his teeth. ‘Don’t go getting us killed,’ he said. ‘Master,’ he added, as an afterthought.
The next day, Idris sent a note inviting Swan to drink sherbet and ride.
Swan met the young Turkish aristocrat at the gate to the Venetian quarter. ‘No Frank can ride a horse in the city,’ Idris said, as if it was a matter of no moment. He leaned over and handed Swan a bag of carefully woven wool – the bag itself was beautiful. ‘Go and change,’ he said. Behind him were a dozen other Turks. ‘Friends. We’ll wait.’ He grinned.
Swan didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped back into the Venetian quarter and laid out the foreign garments – baggy trousers of cotton, a doublet very like a European doublet, but buttoned, not laced, and a middle-length coat like a jupon. He knew that this was called a kaftan, as he’d enquired. This one was of a rich blue wool, embroidered with flowers, and with buttons of solid silver, shaped like pomegranates. There was a felt skullcap and a turban.
Alessandro came in while he was changing. He wasn’t attempting to hide, and a number of them shared a room. Alessandro looked at him.
Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Two: Venice tsathosg-2 Page 9