Tom Swan and the Last Spartans 2

by Christian Cameron

  ‘The conqueror of Belgrade,’ Bembo said. He led Swan to his father, who also embraced him. Then Bembo looked at Kendal. ‘I remember you from a dinner. You are Giovanna’s young man.’

  Kendal bowed. His bow had improved with his Italian and his clothes. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Bembo laughed. ‘I remember when you were an English lout. Now you have the same tailor as Ser Thomas. Soon we will all be flooded with Englishmen.’

  Kendal smiled warily. ‘May I see Giovanna?’ he asked.

  Bembo senior nodded. ‘Already sent for, I think.’ He looked somewhat coolly at Kendal. ‘My servants are not encouraged to have affairs, Master Kendal.’

  ‘My intentions are honourable,’ Kendal said in nice Tuscan Italian.

  Bembo Primo nodded. ‘Excellent. I expected nothing less. Are you here long enough to marry, Master Kendal?’

  Swan blushed. ‘That is the question,’ he admitted.

  Seated in the albergo grando of the piano nobile, in a low-backed chair that might have been more comfortable had he been in armour, Swan sipped excellent wine in a silver cup and wished desperately that he could have Alessandro all to himself. Instead, he endured an hour of political small talk and realised, as they discussed the limitations of Foscari and the ramifications of Belgrade, that Bembo Primo was taking him seriously as a soldier and, God help them all, as a Venetian.

  Swan was briefly reminded, again, of Cosimo di Medici. Christ, at this rate, I’ll have to become a mature statesman, he thought.

  ‘What do you see Hunyadi doing?’ Bembo Primo asked.

  Swan took his time. ‘I’ll know better in a few weeks,’ he said. Just thinking about it gave him the shivers. He could be fighting again in three weeks, a month at the outside. ‘Magnifico, I can only give you the barest outline of an idea. I know that the Ban engaged my company of lances at his own expense. His son László suggested they would mount an immediate pursuit.’

  Bembo looked at his son. ‘But have they?’ he asked.

  ‘My news is more than a month old,’ Swan said. ‘This is Venice. I’m sure you know better than I do.’

  Bembo looked again at his son. ‘They say the papal fleet is at sea.’

  Swan was disturbed. ‘My lord, they are indeed already at sea and on their way to Rhodes. I would have expected to find my friend Alessandro long gone.’

  Alessandro rescued Swan. ‘The Council of Ten is hesitating, Thomas.’

  Swan’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Belgrade was a great victory,’ he said. ‘The Sultan fled. He lost his entire camp.’

  Bembo Primo nodded. ‘We have seen great victories before,’ he said. ‘Before Varna … Hunyadi has won before, and nothing has come of it.’

  Swan nodded. ‘The Sultan lost his entire army,’ he said. ‘I assume some of his sipahis got away. When I left with the dispatches for Rome, they were hunting the janissaries in the fields.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have come here first,’ Alessandro said. ‘Instead of Rome.’

  Swan shrugged.

  Alessandro crossed his legs. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know you serve many masters. I was you, remember? But Venice … pardon me, Pater, but, Holy Mother of God, Swan, you cannot imagine how cowardly the Ten are, and the Senate.’

  ‘They are not cowardly. Not usually. Rather, they are cautious. We have a great deal to lose; a vast empire that is mostly defended by reputation and not by force of arms.’ Bembo Primo shrugged.

  ‘In Milan, they think the Turks are easy to defeat,’ Swan said.

  Bembo Primo laughed. ‘Eh! In Milan, they don’t fight the Turks. They laugh when we fight them.’

  His son mirrored his shrug. ‘Even so. If you had come in the euphoria of victory, Thomas, I might have moved some people.’ Alessandro shook his head. ‘We may never sail.’

  Swan nodded. ‘And Milan has little money for the crusade,’ he said. ‘Are we to squander this victory?’

  ‘Europe is saved,’ Alessandro said bitterly. ‘It’s time to go back to business as usual.’

  ‘My son is too forward,’ Bembo Primo said. ‘And yet, I am sad to say there is something in what he says.’ He rose. ‘You two will want to talk. I would appreciate it if you would come, as a knight of Saint Mark, to address the Ten on the Turks. I can make a place for you tomorrow.’

  Swan nodded. ‘May I, in exchange, ask if I could have transport along the Dalmatian coast?’

  Bembo Primo pursed his lips. ‘I suspect we might manage that,’ he said. ‘Alessandro will insist anyway.’ He smiled thinly. Swan rose, and Alessandro kissed the ageing man on both cheeks.

  As soon as he was gone up the stairs to the living floor, Alessandro embraced Swan. ‘Take me with you!’ he said. ‘Sweet Christ, I need to leave this place.’

  ‘How is marriage?’ Swan asked.

  Bembo smiled a surprising smile. ‘My wife and I are both very pleased with each other,’ he said.

  Swan tried, and failed, to hide his astonishment.

  Alessandro embraced him again. ‘And you?’

  ‘I am not here to get your fleet to sea. I’m here to find Sophia and ask her to marry me,’ Swan said.

  ‘She’s working for Loredan,’ Alessandro said. ‘She’s really a very good governess. She has more learning than most women and many men, and Loredan dotes on her. He and his wife took her to Milan …’

  ‘I know,’ Swan said.

  ‘I’ll send Loredan a note,’ Alessandro said. ‘He and I are … closer.’ He shrugged. ‘Everything is changed, except the boredom. I’m considering a life of piracy.’

  ‘I’d be in your debt. She never says in her letters … I had no idea she worked for Loredan.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Ah. Of course. He’s secretive.’

  ‘He makes you and me look like the blabbermouth rogues we really are,’ Alessandro said. ‘Perhaps we’ll manage to get you there in the morning. I see her as often as business allows. She’s never hesitated to ask for news of you.’

  ‘I’m going to ask for her hand. I’ve spoken to her brother. Who, by a rather comic coincidence, I already know.’ Swan told the story. Alessandro had, of course, heard it before. He slapped his thigh in delight.

  ‘So you went whoring with your brother-in-law-to-be!’ he said. ‘Delightful. You really are Italian.’

  Swan didn’t find that so funny. He couldn’t decide whether to defend Violetta or Giacomo. Or himself.

  ‘I miss you,’ he said to Bembo.

  Alessandro grinned. ‘I miss you, too, you English pirate. I’ll get Pater to let me run you down the Dalmatian coast to Ragusa, and mayhap I’ll jump ship and come with you. You think Bessarion would take me back?’

  Swan shrugged. ‘I’m not as good as you in Rome. In fact, before we part, I’d like to discover some of your sources.’

  Alessandro looked away and then looked back. His smile was not precisely bitter; almost wistful. ‘None of my Roman sources would meet you,’ he said. ‘Oh, they might meet you, but they wouldn’t trust you and they wouldn’t work with you.’ He shrugged.

  Swan was a little piqued. ‘Oh, really?’ he asked.

  Alessandro gave him that arch smile. ‘Really. Don’t be difficult, English. You lack the qualification for my club.’

  Swan raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Men who prefer men, you dolt. We tend to keep to our own.’ Alessandro lifted his glass in a toast. ‘And my two best are no longer in the places that made them valuable. Really, you’ll just have to build your own network. It’s the best way, because the process of recruiting your sources will teach you a great deal.’ He shook his head. ‘I sound like a professor of canon law at Bologna. A professor of spying. How is Cesare?’

  ‘Working for another faction, as far as I can see,’ Swan said.

  ‘You should believe in him more. I wanted him attached … elsewhere.’ Alessandro gave a wry smile. ‘I was entering a deep game when my father called me. I should probably let you play it for me.’ He sounded wistful.

  Swan leaned back
and grinned. ‘That’s delightful. I hated the notion that he’d gone … bad.’

  Bembo shrugged. ‘He’s venal and ambitious, but so are you and so am I. He loves Bessarion, and even if he’s too much of a fool to refuse his father’s arranged marriage …’

  ‘You didn’t,’ Swan said.

  Alessandro shrugged. ‘I got some choice,’ he said. ‘You might say we’re … two of a kind.’ He allowed himself a small smile. ‘You know the Orsini are still on you.’

  Swan started. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Damn. I did a small service for Orsini Primo. I thought the dogs were off.’

  Bembo frowned. ‘And there’s a small-time condottiere named Bandalino or some such right here in Venice. I believe he’s waited here a week to kill you.’

  Swan sighed. ‘Ah, Venice,’ he said. ‘Brandolini? He’s Milanese.’

  Bembo shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But he has found the Orsini.’

  ‘He rode faster than I did, if it is Brandolini,’ Swan said.

  The next morning, Swan went with Bembo to Loredan’s palazzo, which was no less grand, no less elegant, and really quite close by. His hands trembled, and his knees, and his fears owed nothing to Tiberto di Brandolini, if the man had any interest in him at all. Or was actually in Venice. Although, sitting in new clothes purchased just for the occsision, in the stern of a small sandolo, Swan had time to consider that the Orsini, Messire Antonelli, and the outraged Sforza condotierri together amounted to a sort of phalanx of potential adversaries.

  Loredan greeted him with a kiss on each cheek and there was a good deal of bowing.

  ‘You are speaking in forty minutes to the Council of Ten,’ Loredan said. He opened a door. ‘Don’t delay.’

  On the other side of the door was a veiled figure in a fine gown of brown wool that shone like velvet, with snowy linen and separate sleeves. Under the transparent veil, a rope of pearls in her hair marked her as more than a servant. Swan saw little of this, because her eyes were on him.

  ‘My wife has the children for a few minutes,’ Loredan said. ‘Come, Alessandro.’

  The two men walked away into the loggia like old friends.

  Swan walked into the narrow room and stopped.

  ‘Ser Thomas,’ she said. Her voice caught a little and that reassured him.

  ‘Demoiselle Sophia,’ Swan said. He made her a reverence on one knee. ‘I’m come … that is, I have come …’

  ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘Would you marry me?’ he asked. ‘That is, I saw your brother in Florence …’

  ‘You saw my brother?’ she asked.

  ‘I offer you this ring …’

  ‘My brother Giacomo?’ she hissed.

  Swan felt himself flushing. ‘Demoiselle,’ he said. ‘I felt that you deserved every sign of honour that I could arrange.’

  She coloured. Even under her veil, he could see her blush.

  ‘I found I already knew your brother,’ Swan said, a little at random. He was still on one knee.

  She had not taken the ring. ‘Do you know a Demoiselle Violetta?’ she asked. ‘I met her in Milan.’

  ‘Ah,’ Swan said. His whole life passed before his eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. Honesty seemed called for. Her eyes appraised him coolly from under her veil. Detached. Neither angry nor uninterested.

  ‘I was very much in love with her, once,’ Swan said.

  Sophia di Accaiauolo lifted her eyes. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘She speaks well of you.’ The beautiful mouth twitched. ‘In fact, Ser Thomas, she said that if she was ever to condescend to marry a man, you’d be her first choice, as you were amusing and not an arse. I quote her, and leave aside her comments on other talents.’

  She raised her veil.

  Swan thought he might die. His heart was pounding as if he was fighting the Turks in armour. His mouth was dry.

  He had seldom had an extended glimpse of Demoiselle Sophia’s eyes. They were lively, even perhaps a little wicked. So was her smile.

  She tossed the silk veil over her head and reached out a strong hand for the ring. Their fingers touched. ‘I am not fond of my brother, who tried to use force to put me in a convent,’ she said.

  Her fingers were on his.

  ‘I will not marry to become a slave,’ she said. ‘I confess, until a few months ago, I had no thought of marriage.’ She frowned. ‘I am well suited here. I have books, and trust.’ She smiled quietly, as if she was talking to herself.

  ‘I don’t want a slave,’ Swan said. ‘I think we might be … partners.’

  ‘I note you don’t promise to be my slave,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think I’d be a good slave,’ Swan said. ‘Even to you.’

  ‘You do not know me,’ she said. ‘What if we dislike each other?’

  ‘You can always take all my money and ride away,’ Swan said.

  She didn’t smile.

  ‘That’s what Demoiselle Violetta did,’ Swan said.

  ‘Ah,’ Sophia said. ‘I found her fascinating, and perhaps terrifying. Talking to her, I realised what a cage I live in. I thought I knew all about my cage, and then I met her.’ She looked away. ‘She may be … here. I would not share with her, Ser Thomas.’

  ‘Violetta? Here?’ Swan asked. ‘No, to hell with all that. Will you marry me?’ he asked again.

  She took the ring from his fingers. She looked at it as if it was something beyond her ken.

  ‘Sophia,’ he began.

  ‘Just stop talking,’ she said. ‘That is, answer my questions.’ She looked at the ring for approximately half of Swan’s life. ‘Partners? What does this mean?’

  Swan paused. The ‘Romance of Troy’ did not include a variation in which women asked men to explain. Nor did ‘Giron le Courtois’ or ‘Lancelot’. ‘You are very intelligent,’ Swan said.

  ‘Very good of you to notice, Ser Thomas.’

  ‘I believe we could enjoy …’ He paused. ‘Working together.’ He shrugged. ‘I love antiquities. The past. And …’

  ‘And spying?’ she asked. Very gently.

  Swan looked up and met her eyes. They were wide, and deep, with that delicious hint of wickedness and yet a serious practicality that Swan knew his own eyes lacked altogether. ‘Sometimes, there is some … diplomacy …’ he said.

  ‘And when you go to war?’ she asked.

  Swan shrugged. He was suddenly very uncomfortable. ‘Ma donna, if I say war is no place for women, you know how to put me in the wrong. But I would so fear to take you to a camp. But perhaps. And … war is not my business.’

  ‘Is it not, O hero of Belgrade?’ she asked.

  ‘A hit, demoiselle.’ He was enjoying looking into her eyes too much.

  She took the ring and lowered her eyes. She frowned, rolling it between her fingers, and Swan readied himself as if to receive a blow.

  She looked up, eyes hard. ‘I will give you a firm perhaps. Very possibly, I would marry you, Ser Thomas.’

  ‘Ah – oh.’ Swan couldn’t help it. He grinned. The eyes were more wicked than hard. In truth, he did not know her. But … ‘What are my odds of kissing your beautiful lips without you hitting me?’ he asked.

  She paused for a moment, considering. ‘You will have to find out for yourself,’ she said softly.

  There was an intensely clumsy moment, and it occurred to Swan that just maybe, she had never actually kissed a man. Her eyes were open, her eyes … were on him, and suddenly it was not clumsy at all.

  Some time passed.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve never … kissed anyone,’ she said, a little breathless. ‘My, my.’ She put a hand on his chest and pushed firmly. ‘You have a meeting to attend,’ she said.

  Swan followed her, ardour overcoming sense. She retreated, he advanced.

  But then he stopped and laughed. She laughed too.

  ‘Kissing,’ she said. ‘I might like it. I think I might have to marry you.’ She pushed again, and she meant business. ‘Get away now,’ she said, and pulled her veil firmly over her fac
e.

  The Council of Ten was not the government of Venice by any means. It was not even an ancient body; it was merely a subcommittee of senators chosen to deal with matters of foreign and internal security.

  Loredan was one of them, and he sat in his all-black clothes, an ebony flame, the thinnest and the youngest of the men in the room save Swan and Alessandro Bembo, who had accompanied Swan.

  Loredan asked Swan to describe the whole of the siege and battle of Belgrade. Swan obliged at length. The councillors were not warriors, but most of them had served in some capacity, and four of them had been provetidores on Terra Firma and understood war from a technical and professional perspective. It amused Swan, even as he spoke, that they were in almost every way a better audience than Sforza’s captains. For them, war was but one aspect of business and of politics.

  He made them all laugh when he described the building of boats, and when he described the services of the page, Marco Corner, they all applauded and Loredan wrote his name down with a stylus.

  ‘He will receive some reward,’ Loredan said. ‘Anyone know his father?’

  Swan shrugged. ‘He has a boatyard in the lagoon,’ he said.

  Loredan frowned and nodded. ‘We’ll find him,’ he said. ‘If the boy has survived the campaign, we want him. He should be serving Venice.’

  Swan bowed his head in agreement. ‘He is a very useful boy.’

  There were several side discussions; one about the river fleet, another about Genoa, a third about the number of casualties the Turks had suffered. Another senator was summoned. He sat with Swan as if they were in a tavern and asked for all the details of the armaments of the river galleys the Turks had used. Swan gave him details and eventually made drawings.

  Another senator came and took yet another padded seat. He asked Swan for details about the Turkish artillery. Swan realised to his own surprise that he was speaking to the Master of the Arsenal.