Tom Swan and the Last Spartans - Part Three

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Really?’ Swan asked.

  ‘No, but it’s a first-rate story for the troopers,’ Bembo said.

  ‘The moment that we land at Corinth and Omar Reis knows we are behind him, he will have to run for home,’ Swan said. ‘That is, he will have to run at us.’

  Bembo nodded. ‘I am more of a sailor than a soldier,’ he said.

  ‘We are both more hired assassins than soldiers,’ Swan said. ‘But let us treat the army as the man. He hates me, and he has to fear that Venice will cut him off from his base. The combination should make him react.’

  Bembo smiled slowly. ‘You are a great man,’ he said.

  ‘We need to know where he is, without him knowing we are here.’ Swan was looking south, as if he could see the Turks.

  ‘Surely every captain since Cyrus the Great has wanted to see his enemy without being seen,’ Bembo said. ‘But I have an idea.’

  ‘Yes?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Money,’ Bembo said.

  They spent two days paying fishermen to gather information, and in the end, Bembo built a picture that appeared solid. The Turks were camped outside Argos, well to the south, three days’ march away, laying waste to the most prosperous portion of the Morea.

  Swan sent Grazias to Mathew Asan and asked for his support. And then, in one night, their squadron crossed the Bay of Corinth and landed the compagnia, with fifty Venetian marines and two hundred armed oarsmen, on the Morean coast west of Corinth at a village that Grazias told them was called Kiato.

  Before the sun was clear of the bay towards Delphi, where Swan dreamed of going, the little army was moving inland on an ancient Roman road, well paved, that went inland over the mountains.

  The mountains, tall and dust-coloured, appeared incredibly imposing from shipboard, but proved on climbing to be less Herculean in scale than they appeared. They even got the falconet over the hills and it was still mid-morning as they descended to an endless plain of olive groves and vineyards.

  Swan was in pain; his shoulder hurt terribly, and he was already exhausted from his first real exercise in twenty days … and yet, the lure of the name of the next town was enough to transport him.

  Nemea.

  ‘It’s like living in the classics,’ he said. ‘By God. Are we myrmidons?’

  Grazias, a well-read man, laughed. ‘Every Greek feels thus,’ he said. ‘But it is a pleasure to see a foreigner … that is, a friend, who thinks the same.’

  Despite the pleasure, they were very careful. Olive groves and vineyards could hide entire armies, and Grazias’ men rode wide, and the archers secured each road junction, at one preventing a dozen very angry Greek men from moving a flock of sheep across the intersection.

  Grazias was unapologetic. ‘Anyone will sell us to the Turks,’ he said. He had a Thracian contempt for the Morean peasants, whom he derided as ‘Vlachs’. Swan noted that in one of the villages all the men spoke Albanian, and in another, something like Italian.

  ‘A much-conquered land,’ Di Silva said. ‘I just read a sign in Catalan.’

  Swan had lost interest by then, and when Clemente and Kendal laid him on a clean bed in an inn in Nemea, he was almost unable to mutter thanks to them, he was so tired and in so much pain. He summoned Grazias and the other officers, muttered a few orders about security, and went to sleep.

  He was awakened by Crespi and Bembo.

  ‘Come, wake, messire.’

  Swan sat up, muzzy headed with opium. ‘Attack?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Alessandro said. ‘More drugs for him,’ he said. ‘Listen, Tommaso. Omar Reis is not here; he has marched south, to Nafplion. It is meant to be a surprise attack, and Nafplion is perhaps our most valuable city in all the Outremer. Maybe worth more to us than Belgrade.’

  Swan couldn’t make sense of it. ‘Where is Nafplion?’ he asked.

  ‘On the far coast, facing Attica.’ Bembo sounded urgent, impatient.

  ‘What do you fear, brother?’ Swan asked.

  ‘I fear one of those bold strokes that reverse everything. If we lose Nafplion we lose all the Morea at a stroke. The best harbour, the largest garrison …’

  Crespi got a candle lit at last. Bembo looked white. Swan was cold.

  ‘You need food,’ Crespi said.

  ‘I’m never hungry,’ Swan said.

  ‘That is the opium,’ Crespi said. ‘You make me afraid. It is such a small dose.’

  Swan didn’t think it was the moment to tell Crespi that he took more whenever it suited him; it dulled the pain and made him able to command.

  ‘How far?’ he asked, throwing his legs over the side of his bed.

  ‘Thirty Roman miles,’ Bembo said.

  ‘Slowly, slowly,’ Swan said. ‘I am not going to attack Omar Reis and his ten thousand with my one thousand, even in heroic Greece, under the eyes of Leonidas and Philopoeman. Spend money and buy us guides. As soon as Omar Reis hears we are behind him, he’ll come away from your prize.’

  ‘He may already have it!’ Bembo said.

  Swan frowned. ‘Then there is nothing whatsoever I can do about it,’ he said.

  He put his feet back on the bed, and went back to sleep.

  Four hours later. The sun was rising over distant Attica, invisible far to the east. The compagnia and their Venetian allies were formed in the twisting streets of the little town, and the Greek schismatic priest was blessing Grazias.

  ‘I have four guides,’ Bembo said.

  ‘We need a place to fight an ambush, and with a clear line of retreat; even rout,’ Swan said.

  Bembo shrugged. ‘You are the soldier,’ he said.

  Swan wanted to scream that he had never commanded an army; that he was doped to the eyes on opium; that he couldn’t even wear armour.

  He took three deep breaths. His opium-heavy head told him he could do this; his heart told him he was taking an insane risk.

  He rode to a small hill just east of the town. The view was spectacular; he could see the great mountain of the Acrocorinth off to the north, towards the coast, and the plain was ringed with dramatic hills.

  ‘Grazias, I need an ambush site,’ he said. ‘With a clear line of retreat, but on the road to Nafplion.’

  Grazias shrugged. ‘I have only been here once,’ he said. ‘But I will keep my eyes open. It is all narrow valleys and big hills; the pass over the mountain into Nafplion could be held by five men.’

  ‘Too narrow,’ Swan said. ‘Can you put scouts well out, so we have lots of warning if the Turks move?’

  ‘Do Italians smell bad?’ Grazias said. ‘Of course.’

  Swan raised his eyebrows. He looked at Kendal; the English had picked up a dozen more of their countrymen in Naupactus, more dissatisfied mercenaries. Robert Bigelow, who spoke Greek, waved. Cressy was barking orders.

  ‘Seventy archers and fifty Venetian marines, to say nothing of their oarsmen, all with crossbows,’ he said. ‘We can keep the Turks warm a long day. Very well. Let’s go. But only until we know the Turks are moving towards us.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’ Bembo asked. ‘I’m sorry, Tommaso. But this has become very serious.’

  ‘Then I’ll make up something new,’ Swan said, more snappishly than he’d intended. ‘Grazias? Choose us a rally point. Shade, spare horses …’

  ‘What is a rally point?’ Bembo asked.

  ‘It’s where you run to, when everything goes wrong,’ Swan said.

  Bembo’s eyes grew uncharacteristically wide.

  It was odd for Swan, to think that he knew more about anything to do with violence than his mentor, much less to act the great captain while Bembo acted the part of the patron. But those were their roles.

  ‘Do you fear that everything will go wrong?’ Bembo asked. ‘I’m not a soldier, Inglis. Tell me.’

  Swan shrugged and his shoulder hurt. ‘I can’t tell,’ he said. ‘First, it is always a good idea to have a bolt-hole; I learned that from Zane, bless him. Second, you are commanding me to fight against the best army in
Europe at odds of five to one or more.’

  ‘Yet you are sanguine?’ Bembo asked.

  Swan nodded. ‘I think we can bloody Omar Reis’ nose,’ he said with a little too much emphasis.

  But as the sun rose over the mountains, he took the precaution of sending Orietto’s lance off to the north, looking for Mathew Asan. Just in case the Greek commander had, in fact, marched.

  It rained at mid-morning; a cold, heavy rain that wet everyone through their armour, and left men sneezing. But it only lasted an hour and then it blew away; the sky was blue, the sun high and warm enough.

  Swan stayed in the middle of the column. He rode slowly, and the day was a misery for him; his doublet seemed too heavy, his skin prickled with an ugly sweat, and he was more angry every minute; more angry than he could remember being with Alessandro, who was clearly concerned about the loss of Nafplion. Swan didn’t feel there was anything he could do and thought the usually cynical Bembo was showing too much terror.

  Maestro Crespi rode by him on a palfrey, gave him bits of fruit and made him eat them, and generally treated him like a child.

  ‘Have a little of this orange,’ he said. It was two in the afternoon, give or take half an hour.

  ‘Stuff the orange up your …’ Swan paused. ‘What in the name of God is that?’ he asked, looking up into the hills above the plain.

  They could not see the sea in the distance, but the stradiotes had already reached it. The mountainsides were dramatic; magnificent. It was the most incredible backdrop to violence that Swan had ever seen.

  Crespi segmented the orange. ‘Have just a piece,’ he said.

  ‘Dottore,’ Swan said, preparing to use some serious invective.

  Crespi looked up the hillside and saw what Swan had seen.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ the Neapolitan said.

  Bembo was just behind; riding apart, sensitive that he had offended Swan and yet unwilling to be far from command.

  ‘An old fortress?’ Swan knew the look; he’d seen hill forts over most of Europe.

  ‘I see Roman columns,’ Bembo said.

  Swan looked at Bembo, and the tension was broken. He laughed. ‘I’m ready to abandon war with the Turks to look at Roman columns,’ he said. ‘And I want a view of the surrounding terrain. That hill must have one hell of a view.’

  ‘You are rationalising,’ Bembo said.

  ‘I’m the captain,’ Swan snapped. He turned his horse out of the column. He’d been riding with the falconet. He grunted as he turned his Arab around Jiri, one of the last two Bohemians to stay with him, and leaned forward, even as Crespi shouted at him.

  The horse had no orders from his doctor, and flowed from an uncomfortable trot to a very comfortable gallop so smoothly that Swan was transported effortlessly, one with his horse.

  He reached the hilltop sooner than he would have imagined. The landscape of the Morea was so dense, so rugged, with such rapid changes, that distances continued to deceive, and the hill proved to be only a couple of hundred paces high. Nonetheless, from the top he could see the sea. He could see the whole of the valley; the Argolid to the north and west, and then away east towards Nafplion.

  He saw the dust cloud first. It was big enough that for a moment he thought it was natural; but it was a yellow brown, not white, and there were no longer any clouds in the sky.

  Five miles?

  It was very difficult to gauge distance in Morea.

  Closer to hand, he could see movement; just to the south and east. Dust on two roads.

  He looked back. The old fortress lay behind him, on the apex of a lone mountain or high hill. Behind it, to the north, was a whole range of hills, higher and steeper; the old fortress sat on an outlier, a very secure position.

  Swan began to consider the merits of the position. His brain was working well; his thoughts came very quickly, and much of the fog of the opium was gone, although that made little sense to him.

  Didn’t matter.

  There was a long, shallow slope tapering into the distance; a perfect cavalry charge in the making. Perhaps an ideal ambush site might have had a deep ravine across the road, but here there was instead the plain of the Argolid, dotted with dense groves of olive trees. Beyond the olives was a ravine. It looked deep. Almost at his feet, the road ran through a gate in a low hedge with an old stone wall in front of it. He wasn’t going to do any better.

  ‘This will just have to do,’ he said aloud. He was perfectly calm, for a man about to command his first battle. He didn’t know why he was so calm, but he felt as if the old gods, the ones that the Wolf of Rimini was always invoking, were watching. It was an odd place, and his whole spirit cried out for him to go up and look at the Roman ruin atop the old fortress.

  Instead, when Clemente reached him, not having chosen to gallop over broken ground, Swan pointed right back down the hill. ‘All officers,’ he said. ‘And start the wagons and the guns up the hill to me. Leave one wagon to block the road at the hedge, and have the English move up to the hedgerow.’

  Clemente saluted without irony, and turned down the hill.

  Alessandro rode up. ‘Your horse makes me feel inferior,’ he said. ‘You went up the hill like Bellerophon on Pegasus.’

  Swan smiled, warmed by the compliment. ‘She’s magnificent,’ he admitted. ‘I could ride her for ever. I think that she even knows I am hurt.’

  Alessandro nodded. Swan was watching him, and he recognised the moment at which Alessandro registered the size of the dust cloud approaching them. His eyes grew fractionally wider, and his nostrils dilated somewhat.

  ‘Christ!’ he barked, and his horse fretted.

  Swan nodded. ‘There are a great many of them,’ he said.

  ‘Cut your understated English crap,’ Alessandro said. ‘We cannot fight that.’

  Swan allowed himself to glare at his friend. ‘You ordered me to fight them, to save Nafplion,’ he said.

  Alessandro shook his head. ‘Are you insane?’ he asked. ‘Look at them! You cannot fight them all. Even you, my English firebrand.’

  Swan frowned. ‘I don’t think we can slip them now. They’ve seen our scouts, and they know we’re somewhere out here.’ He pointed at the cloud. ‘And they are moving very fast.’

  Bembo watched for long heartbeats. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You know what I fear?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Death?’ Swan asked. ‘Dismemberment? Humiliation? Torture?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alessandro said, grinning. ‘All of those, of course. But now I dread losing … that thing. That thing that makes us able to do the thing, when other men do not. Look at me; afraid of a mere ten or twenty thousand Turks. Is it marriage, do you think?’

  Swan drank a little water from his canteen. ‘I’d like to try,’ he said. ‘No. For me, it is that every time I fight, it seems more like luck and less like skill.’

  Bembo nodded. ‘I met a man once who said that courage was infinite, and men ran out.’

  Swan nodded. ‘I’m a little low just now,’ he admitted. ‘So I’d rather you started telling everyone how we’ll smash the Turks like the wrath of God.’

  Bembo rolled his eyes. ‘Of course, Illustrio!’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I live to serve. By the saints, Swan, if I hadn’t known you for years, I’d think you were some great captain.’ But his smile took the sting out of his words, and when Orietto and Di Silva and Columbino and Bigelow and Cressy and Grazias gathered around them with their pages and two trumpeters, and Orietto exclaimed at the sheer size of the Turkish force, Bembo laughed.

  ‘Crap cavalry from half of Europe; renegades who come for plunder and not for a fight,’ he said, and winked at Swan.

  Swan found himself once again in prayer.

  The dust cloud was much, much closer.

  The wagons, minus the old Bohemian wagon with its heavy armoured sides, which was now hidden behind the hedge below them on the road, rolled up over the lip of the hill and Bigelow ordered them laagered. He parked the falconet at the very
point of the ridge and the Bohemians dropped the trail and began to load with a dozen Italians and Germans who had joined the compagnia in the aftermath of Belgrade.

  William Kendal, who looked too much like a gentleman to be ignored, rode up on his hackney, spoke briefly with the archer captain, Bigelow, and looked at Swan.

  Swan knew that he had a ‘leadership issue’. Kendal was his man; Kendal was also a natural leader, and men liked him, Hungarians and English and French and German. Cressy had been the next archer of seniority when Willoughby died at Belgrade. But he didn’t have Kendal’s authority, even if he did, in fact, have other excellent qualities, as he was demonstrating by organising the camp servants as muscle for the gun. And Bigelow was his equal in seniority. In fact, being English, they all seemed to command together, and Swan didn’t need to solve that. It worked.

  Kendal also had the horse sense not to step on the older men. So he looked at Swan, trying to catch his eye.

  Swan beckoned the lanky young man; young in that he was a year younger than Swan.

  ‘Left flank at the hedge is just hanging in air,’ Kendal said, pointing down the hill.

  ‘I know,’ Swan said pettishly. He hated it when people told him things he already knew. As if he didn’t know them.

  He could see the whole length of hedge and wall, and the olive groves beyond.

  The other officers were watching him.

  God, the risk would be incredible.

  His heart began to pound, and he wasn’t even close to combat. Just thinking about what he was thinking about …

  He grinned.

  Bembo rode over.

  Swan drew his beautiful, long, slim sword. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Master Bigelow, attend me, please.’

  When he was done describing what he wanted, Bigelow looked at him with the look a good dog gives his master, when his master asks too much of the dog.

  And Orietto frowned. ‘This is foolishness,’ he said. Then he looked both sullen and guilty.

  But there was something – always had been, for Swan, since he stole his first pie in Cheapside – that fired him with happiness about risk. Instead of bridling at Orietto’s challenge to his authority, Swan grinned.