Tom Swan and the Last Spartans 1
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Swan had experience with men who were distraught, but not much skill. He suspected what the man needed was a warm embrace, but he lacked the courage to offer it, and besides, one does not easily rise from a campfire, walk around it and offer comfort.
Silence fell.
‘I am sorry for my part in this,’ Swan said. ‘And I still worry for your safety. Unless I am wholly wrong, Cardinal Piccolomini and his people think that you know something of the treasure of Eugenios.’
‘And you think they killed poor Giannetti,’ Spinelli said.
‘And I think they have connections with the Medici,’ Swan said.
Spinelli shrugged. ‘I have good connections with the Medici. Antonelli is playing his own hand, I’ll guess. Do you plan to continue looking into this, young man?’ Spinelli walked around, collecting sticks in the dark, by touch, and adding them to the fire with the devotion of a young boy. He clearly liked fire. ‘I might recommend that you do not. As I have just seen … again … and to my cost … the great ones will do things for money that they will not do for other honours.’
Swan nodded. ‘I know that much,’ he said. ‘Frankly, I’m curious, at this point.’
‘Curiosity kills,’ Spinelli said.
Swan shrugged. ‘It may kill bankers, but it is essential in … courtiers.’ He almost said spies.
Spinelli shrugged. ‘Eh,’ he said. ‘I warned you. So let me tell you this much. I thought more than a year ago, when we started finding the funds for Hungary, that Antonelli was playing his own hand. There are rumours of critical shortfalls of specie at Medici banks …’
Swan sat up. ‘The branch in Vienna had no cash at all.’
Spinelli stopped stirring the fire. ‘When?’
Swan cursed. ‘Late May. Early June.’
Spinelli shook his head. ‘I think Antonelli is stealing on a major scale,’ he said, as if tasting the words. ‘There is no other reason I can think of.’ He put a stick into the flames. ‘Perhaps I should not tell you this, but I am out of the Pope’s famiglia, and someone should know. Perhaps the Holy Father. Or perhaps …’
Spinelli would not speak his thought, but Swan saw it in the flames. Perhaps the Holy Father was, in effect, stealing Antonelli’s money.
Jesus Christ, Swan thought, in several different ways, only one of which was blasphemous. What if the Pope is stealing from the Medici?
He leaned forward. ‘Messire, you must never give the slightest hint that you have thought this.’ He could see it now. He even knew where to look for evidence. Callixtus was stealing from the Medici and using Antonelli to do it, and Antonelli was scrambling to find a long-missing treasure to cover his bad debt. Or the Pope’s.
Spinelli laughed. ‘You plan to save me, eh?’ he asked. ‘Ser Thomas, if I whisper a word of any of this, my bank will break and all my creditors will descend on me and I will, in fact, be a pauper.’
Swan thought about that for a little while.
He was still thinking when he went to sleep.
The next day was Thursday, and they made good time. The road was packed as they made their way through the hills and into Tuscany, and Swan, who was by nature a talker and sometimes a listener, rode with a pair of monks and heard a fascinating sermon on the Virgin and her role in the salvation of man, which he enjoyed as much for the sheer erudition of the two men as for the theology, especially as they delivered it together and he was a congregation of one. He invited both poor Franciscans to join his convoy for dinner and safety, and the two men gave him many blessings. Kendal scouted ahead and returned with two pilgrim flasks filled to brimming with a good, strong red wine of the country, bought from some girl by the roadside, and Clemente, as the shadows grew long, held up a string of small fish.
Swan was an accomplished camp cook, a skill learned at his mother’s knee, and Clemente was not without skill either. They cleaned the fish, small, fat trout, and Swan produced one of his prize possessions, a small skillet with a folding handle. Kendal cut their firewood and then lay on the newly fallen leaves, waxing and then wrapping a fresh bowstring from new flax he’d purchased on the road.
‘It’s like Cheapside market,’ he observed in English, ‘except that everyone’s moving.’
‘Happy to do work,’ Fra Davide said, rolling up the brown sleeves of his habit.
Swan waved the monk to sit. ‘Give us your sermon again,’ he said. ‘Messire Spinelli will enjoy it as much as I did.’
When they were all fed, Spinelli sat next to Swan. ‘Are there other soldiers like you?’ he said. ‘You make me think I have the wrong calling. A life of ease and health, superb food, and brilliant conversation. Even religion.’
Swan sat back with his cup of wine. It wasn’t even full dark yet. ‘Sometimes it is good fun, messire.’
‘I think we can call each other Thomas, don’t you?’ Spinelli said.
‘Mi fate honore. Sometimes it is good fun. Even war can be a pleasure; I will not hide it. But too often, it is a man-made hell, a cruel thing that breaks and never builds.’ Swan thought of the boy who had died next to him in Belgrade, his head destroyed by a splinter of stone. ‘After Belgrade, I’m not sure … not sure I can ever …’ He was surprised at the words he was saying. He paused and found his hands trembling. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. He drank the rest of his wine. ‘Sorry, Thomas.’
Spinelli sat silent, as was his wont. And then he shrugged. ‘So. Like banking, then.’
Both men laughed.
Before they could return to the topic, Swan gathered the younger men and assigned watches, and the monks came and joined them for prayers.
By Saturday they were near enough to Florence to smell the dye vats and see the Duomo. Spinelli invited Swan and his people to come and stay with him, and Swan, who was in a hurry to get to his lady in Milan – if she was still in Milan, as he had not had a letter from her in weeks – accepted anyway, as he had an idea he meant to explore.
‘Would you be kind enough to do me not one but two favours, messire?’ he asked.
‘As I am, at least at the moment, in your debt for the amount of your wages, I will be happy.’ Spinelli gave his slight smile. ‘Really, Thomas. Anything I can do for you.’
Swan nodded. ‘Neither favour should beggar you. I need to find the house of Messire Giacomo Accaiauolo. And I need a jeweller, preferably one who will pay a good amount for a fine piece.’
‘As for the Accaiauoli, they all live in two blocks by the Duomo, and any urchin could lead you to them. Giacomo …’
Swan shrugged. ‘I have never met him, but he must be my age or a little older.’
They were almost to the gates. Swan was very much on edge, although he wasn’t sure what he feared. He was speaking too fast, because he was afraid.
He’d suggested that they ride round and enter from one of the northern gates, and Spinelli had ridiculed him.
‘I’ll send a lad to make enquiries. I’m sure I’ve met some younger Accaiauoli. There are a lot of them. Some in my own line; I think there may be a Giacomo in the Guild. That would be very simple. But I warn you, I have been away for years and I’m barely considered a Florentine.’ Spinelli smiled his bitter smile. ‘As for a jeweller, I know a dozen. Everyone does. They have their own street and a corner of the financial market too.’
‘Closed Sunday?’ Swan asked. They were at the gate.
‘I’m sorry, but of course,’ Spinelli said.
The soldiers on the gate were professionals, and they were anything but relaxed. Swan found himself behaving incorrectly, his nerves twitching, and he tried to clamp down even as a pair of the professionals eyed his long sword and swaggered over.
The older man was impressed with his credentials and his Hospitaller ring. ‘Illustrio, I’ll have to ask you to keep that sword off your hip,’ he said.
Swan was aware that he had the right to wear it anywhere in the Christian world, at least according to the Pope. But the Pope was not there, just then, and the soldiers seemed sure of themselves, an
d Swan didn’t need his sword in a city with strong law and real enforcement.
He unbuckled his sword belt and handed the weapon to Clemente. ‘I hope that suits you, sir,’ he said gravely.
The soldier nodded. ‘Thanks, Illustrio,’ he said, obviously grateful not to have had a struggle.
They rode into Florence. Swan admired the magnificent dome on the Duomo, looking at it for so long that Spinelli noticed.
‘You like our church, eh?’ he asked with the pride of a local.
Will Kendal laughed. ‘It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,’ the archer said. ‘It makes me proud to be a man!’
Swan looked at him, as if he’d just discovered something, which perhaps he had. Kendal frowned and shrugged. ‘Well, it does,’ he said. ‘I’d like to help build something like that.’
‘Are you also tired of war?’ Spinelli asked.
Kendal spat. ‘War’s daft,’ he said. ‘When I was younger, I liked sitting in a nice castle and drinkin’ wine and chasing girls.’ He looked around. ‘But there ain’t no castle as pretty as Florence, and actually fightin’ is shit. Pardon my … Italian.’
Swan nodded agreement.
‘I admit he makes me think,’ Kendal said, glancing at Swan. ‘I used to think he was daft, but now I think he’s just …’ He paused. ‘Sorry, sir.’
Spinelli threw back his head and laughed, and Swan roared with laughter too, attracting a great many stares from the men in the street. There were very few women, as it was towards evening, and Florentine women had their own hours to be out. It was time to cook, with scarce a woman to be seen until they entered the temporary Casa Spinelli and the governess brought the children, who threw themselves at their father.
Swan hadn’t even thought of how the children would miss the father, or how much the father would miss the children. He wondered whether this might happen to him some day.
The next morning, Swan, Kendal and Clemente, dressed in their best, accompanied Spinelli, his governess and the children, as well as all his clerks, to church for mass at San Croce. Many men greeted Spinelli with real warmth; he was a man with many friends, and after two weeks on the road with him, Swan had no trouble believing he was popular. He was introduced to a bewildering and glittering array of local notables, all of whom were Spinelli’s cousins.
The most magnificent of the lot was Lorenzo di Rinieri, who was Spinelli’s age and wore more silk than Swan had seen since Hunyadi’s camp. But he answered Swan’s bow very pleasantly and threw his arms around Spinelli, and when questioned, he smiled at Swan and his eyes sparkled.
‘I know a Giacomo Accaiauolo,’ he said. ‘He is a very capable young man and I have even had a small partnership with him in some silks for Baden. May I ask why you seek him, sir knight?’
Swan actually blushed. He hadn’t blushed in a long time.
Both men looked at him in surprise.
Kendal looked away, clearly embarrassed by his employer’s behaviour.
Swan cleared his throat. Of course they were going to ask him. He considered dissembling, but Florence was not so big a city that everyone would not know everyone’s business by the end of the day. Especially a foreigner who was an Englishman.
‘Well, sir,’ he began. He looked around, wondering whether one of the statues might turn into an angel and save him. ‘Actually … I have never met him, but …’ He paused.
‘You owe him money?’ Rinieri asked. He smiled, as if these things were known to happen, even in the best families.
‘No. That is, messire, I rather hope …’ Swan shook his head – at himself. ‘The trouble is that I do not want to approach the wrong man.’
Rinieri laughed aloud. ‘Young man, you sound as if you need a priest, not a silk merchant.’
‘He’s usually quite glib,’ Spinelli said. ‘I’m enjoying this. Suane, buy us a cup of wine and tell us in small words.’
The chief clerk took the rest of the party back to Spinelli’s temporary house, and Swan crossed the square of the Duomo with the two men and sat in the brilliant sunshine. He was served a fine cup of good red wine.
‘So,’ he began when they were seated. ‘When I was on a mission for my master, Bessarion, I met a young woman at Malatesta’s court. She was Sophia di Accaiauoli.’ He looked at them, hoping someone would say something like ‘Oh, I remember her’.
Getting no response, he nodded and went on. ‘I met her again in Venice. She was responsible for Malatesta’s son there. And she did me a signal service.’
Two pairs of eyebrows rose.
Swan shook his head. ‘No, please, gentlemen. She is a lady of the very best breeding. She helped me …’ He looked at Spinelli. ‘This is a very delicate matter.’
Spinelli frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I cannot explain. It is a matter of politics.’ Swan shrugged. ‘At any rate, I would like to find her brother, who I believe is Messire Giacomo Accaiauolo. But to be honest, I do not know for sure. I know her father is dead, and her mother too.’
Rinieri nodded. ‘I begin to understand. To be sure, Giacomo’s parents are dead. I did not know he had a sister. In fact, he might. A governess?’ Rinieri made a face that suggested that such a role was beneath any woman with whom he’d associate.
Swan bridled.
Rinieri shrugged. ‘These young women. Always trying to pretend that they can live without men.’ He laughed.
Swan swallowed his reaction to what would have been, among soldiers, a provocation, and wondered why men, mature men, allowed themselves to speak so broadly.
Spinelli saw his eyes move and put out a hand. ‘I believe that Ser Thomas honours us with a secret,’ he said to Rinieri. ‘You wish to ask for her hand?’ he said.
‘I do,’ Swan said.
Rinieri straightened up as if he’d been slapped.
Spinelli nodded. ‘Now I see why you wish to be sure to have the right man!’
Rinieri bowed, sitting. ‘My apologies,’ he stammered. ‘Of course, any chance remark that I made …’
Swan, over the hump of disclosure, was disposed to generosity. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. ‘Although I will say that although she has no meekness, the lady is the model of chaste and intelligent virtue, and I think that many young women simply seek to use the wits God gave them.’
‘Ah,’ Rinieri said. ‘The doom of civilisation is at hand.’
Swan sighed inwardly. ‘I find women the equal of men in wit and intelligence,’ he said.
Rinieri smiled. ‘You are in love. What woman has built a dome like Bruneschelli? Run a bank …’
‘My wife could have run a bank,’ Spinelli said.
‘I am outnumbered,’ Rinieri said pleasantly. ‘Of course there are a few. Your wife was, I confess it, a paragon. And had a good head. Mine can’t keep count of the money she spends on clothes. However, despite your foolish and benevolent views on women – and really, Ser Thomas, you should read Alberti on the subject – I will help the cause of matrimony. Giacomo must be your man. He’s the only young Accaiauolo of this generation whose parents have passed to their reward. I can have him wait on you at Spinelli’s, if that suits.’
‘I can go to visit him,’ Swan said.
Rinieri gave him a strange look. ‘Of course, whatever you prefer,’ he said, as if dealing with a fool.
Spinelli nodded. ‘Splendid. Send him to us and we’ll have him to dinner tonight.’ When they were out in the square, Spinelli gave him a pitying glance. ‘Rinieri expects you to act like a great man,’ he said. ‘Great men do not visit Florentine merchants. They send for them. Trust me on this.’
As he was ushered in by a servant, it was apparent that young Giacomo Accaiauolo was not so very young; older than Swan. His clothes were fine without being ostentatious, all wool and very well cut. Once, Swan would have thought him rich.
As soon as he bowed, Swan knew they’d met before, and the same showed in Giacomo’s narrow face. He was handsome, in a Florentine way, with a craggy nose and long chin.
Swan racked his brain trying to imagine where he’d met the man before. ‘Do you travel to Rome, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes!’ Accaiauolo said.
It struck both of them.
‘Dancing!’ they said simultaneously. Both men laughed, braying like donkeys, so that Spinelli’s governess hurried out of the room and Spinelli himself made a face.
Accaiauolo bowed to Spinelli. ‘Ah, you must think us a couple of fools,’ he said. ‘But when I met this fine Englishman, he was with the most beautiful courtesan I have ever laid eyes on, and we all danced with her. And her pretty friend. And then half a hundred Orsini attacked the tavern and we all fought them like heroes.’
‘Indeed,’ Swan said, putting a hand on the other man’s arm, ‘it might be said you saved my life.’
Accaiauolo flushed. ‘That is too much praise. Mi fate honore. And now you are a knight? Were you a knight then? I do not think I ever learned your name … or if I did, I forgot it, I confess.’
‘I was made a knight this summer, in Venice,’ Swan said.
‘Why don’t we all sit?’ Spinelli said.
‘I have told this story many times to my friends,’ Accaiauolo said. ‘The beautiful whores, the fighting … it was like heaven. Even the musician looked like a thug and played like an angel.’
Spinelli was giggling uncontrollably. ‘Yes,’ he said between gasps. ‘This all sounds believable.’
‘I am astounded that you remembered me,’ Accaiauolo said. ‘And delighted, Ser Thomas. And deeply honoured. Men of the sword do not always remember little artisans like me.’ He sounded somewhat bitter. Then he brightened. ‘Perhaps … you wish to see something of the same in Florence. I swear, there’s no girl here as pretty as your … what was her name? Violetta! That’s it!’ Accaiauolo grinned.