Tom Swan and the Last Spartans - Part Five

by Christian Cameron

  Swan was by then gasping for breath, and Clemente was so convulsed that he hung his head over the side.

  ‘I’m so glad that I can keep you gentlemen amused,’ Bembo said. ‘I suppose I should row.’

  ‘Nah,’ Padraig said.

  ‘No, I insist,’ Bembo said.

  Swan hauled his oar in and handed it to Bembo like a man handing over a prized sword.

  ‘Be my guest,’ he said.

  Bembo took the oar and demonstrated, in a minute of rowing, that he was, in fact, quite expert. ‘You don’t grow up as a bastard in Venice without learning to row a boat,’ he said. ‘But my hands are soft.’

  ‘You can have my gloves,’ Swan suggested maliciously, allowing Clemente to vanish in another tide of laughter.

  Padraig raised an eyebrow. ‘And you, my young friend.’

  Clemente stopped laughing. ‘I’m a cripple,’ he said.

  ‘Not any more,’ Swan noted. ‘Peter fixed that, didn’t he?’

  Padraig began teaching Clemente to row.

  Later, they drank sour wine on an Italian beach and Padraig chuckled to himself.

  ‘I can’t rightly remember the last time I enjoyed rowing so much,’ he said.

  Bembo looked at his hands. ‘Don’t expect me to fight anyone tomorrow, you bastards,’ he said.

  ‘I think the comedy here is that we are all bastards,’ Swan said.

  On the sixth day they landed on an open beach just south of Ancona. Swan knew the town well; he’d lived here with Violetta.

  ‘Well,’ he said, when all four men had bathed in the sea and dressed in the clothing appropriate to their stations. ‘Now for it.’

  They walked into Ancona and bought accommodation. Swan had gold; he purchased four horses, as well as a sword and a dagger, and before the sun was fully over the coast of Dalmatia, the four men were mounted. They passed west; up and over the ridge of mountains; through the estates once the property of the Wolf of Rimini, and now the property of the Pope, and down into the rolling hills of the Romagnol and the open ground around Rome. They moved very fast, because time was limited, and they didn’t talk, for fear of being overheard.

  The last night before Rome, Swan carefully forged a travel pass for Bembo and silently handed over his donat’s ring, and early in the morning, by the Via Appia, they entered Rome as four soldiers newly come from the Order to report to the Roman commandery. No one deigned to notice them; they passed the gate after the most cursory inspection of their swords and travel document, and then they rode south, away from Bessarion’s but towards the Order’s holdings. However, they never went there; instead, they rode into Spinelli’s yard and stabled their horses until nightfall, when they cut back, quickly, arriving at Bessarion’s gate just as torches were being lit for the cardinal, who was going out.

  The four men passed in without a word, and before they’d made their way to the stables, Giannis was there.

  ‘So,’ he said. He couldn’t hide his grin. ‘You’ve both come home.’

  Swan embraced the Greek, and then Bembo did.

  ‘His Eminence said he recognised you,’ Giannis said. He could not stop smiling. ‘I missed you; I thought you were sell-swords looking for work.’ He sketched a bow. ‘I have to go. It’s bad out there, and I can’t let him out without swords. But he says don’t you dare stir a foot until he returns.’

  Swan bowed back. ‘Giannis, we’re here until … it’s over.’

  Giannis’s eyes narrowed. ‘We’re ready,’ he said. ‘When they took Loredan, I told His Eminence you’d come.’

  Bembo smiled, his fine teeth glinting in the dark stable. ‘Of course, dear Giannis, if you think that, so does Antonelli.’

  Giannis shrugged. ‘He has a lot of thugs,’ the Greek said. ‘We have us.’

  As soon as the captain of Bessarion’s guard was gone, Swan untacked his horse and set his saddle carefully on a saddle horse, atop a beautifully made but very plain saddle. He tipped the other saddle on the straw, and ran his hands along it, until he felt what he half expected, half feared; almost, his heart stopped. He took a knife from his belt and slit the stitching, ran his thumb inside, felt the crackle of parchment and slid it out. Then, heart beating as if for combat, he hung his bridle on the wall after Padraig lit torches, and he took time with a pick to examine to his horse’s hooves.

  In the kitchen, he endured the embraces of Antoine, cook and swordsman, and a dozen other staff; servants, clerks, pages and equerries.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am not here, and Messire Bembo is also not here. If you allow anyone to know we are here, we are dead men, and so, perhaps, is His Eminence.’

  Bembo, who was smothered in as many prodigal returns as Swan, stepped back from a particularly affectionate page.

  ‘Listen to what Messire Swan says. Because if you blab, and I survive, I will find you and cut your prick off and feed it to you.’ Bembo smiled his horrible smile, and men turned white. Even Padraig looked a little pale.

  The party was subdued for a little while. Then Antoine served apple tarts, and everything was fine again.

  Later, the cardinal returned. He had the candles lit in his study, and Swan had the oddest feeling that three years had fallen away; there he was in his usual seat, and Bembo in his, with his booted feet up, as if no time at all had passed.

  Bessarion steepled his fingers. ‘So,’ he said. ‘I cannot pretend. Your being here tells me that the crisis is reached.’

  Bembo took the lead, as was his right. ‘The crisis was reached when Antonelli took Loredan, an accredited ambassador,’ he said.

  Bessarion nodded. ‘I tried …’

  ‘Eminence, we are your men, boot and spur,’ Bembo said. ‘But in this … I am your man and an agent of Venice, too. And I say, enquire not too closely.’

  Bessarion frowned. ‘That is not my way,’ he said. ‘If I am to benefit from a base act, I would know it.’

  Bembo flicked a glance at Swan. ‘We have a plan,’ he said.

  Swan spoke quietly. ‘It will move very fast when it moves,’ he said.

  ‘We ask only that you hide us for perhaps ten days,’ Bembo requested.

  ‘Perhaps fewer,’ Swan added.

  ‘And then?’ Bessarion said. ‘What if they put Loredan to the torture?’

  ‘Then there will be a great deal of blood,’ Swan said.

  ‘Some of it ours,’ added Bembo.

  Bessarion looked out of the window. ‘He’s a fool,’ he said. ‘He has no notion of how to guide the Church, and he is unbelievably intelligent without being in any way capable of self-criticism. And this victory at Mytilene will double his power.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Bembo and I will …’ He looked at Bembo. ‘Act. To save Loredan. Indeed, Eminence, I held two powerful weapons in my hands and on both the bolts are loosed. I have told Sforza and Di Medici the truth about where the money has gone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bessarion said. ‘Of course you have.’ He rose, and held his rosary in his hands. ‘I ought to have done it …’

  ‘We spared you that,’ Bembo said.

  ‘Both bolts will fly to the heart of the Church,’ Bessarion said.

  Swan shrugged. ‘The Holy Father made that decision,’ he said. ‘Sometimes the means are the method. You taught me that, Eminence.’

  Bessarion sighed, closed his eyes, and prayed.

  Then he opened them. ‘Despite everything, seeing you two gives me joy,’ he said. ‘I will hide you. But I do not think you have ten days. Antonelli hates Loredan; he has a regiment of bravos, many of them brought from Spain; and he thinks that he can still win, simply by telling lies and killing dissent.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘Good?’ Bessarion almost erupted.

  Swan spread his hands. ‘I hate fighting Turks,’ he said. ‘I don’t hate them. I rather admire them. And many of them are honest, religious men, better men than I. So I am delighted to find that Antonelli is a righteous fool, a loath
some worm, and using Spanish bravos. Good. Because, Eminence, this is going to be messy.’

  ‘You are speaking of fighting in the streets,’ Bessarion said quietly.

  ‘No,’ Bembo said. ‘This will be about murder.’

  The next day, dressed as a servant, Swan saw the Spanish bravos. There were dozens; they lounged on every street corner. One tall, handsome fellow ripped a lady’s veil off and then killed her gallant for protesting; the tall Spaniard laughed at the irony of it. On another corner, the Spaniards all bowed to nuns while calling every other woman who passed a ‘whore’.

  Swan was surprised, even after Bessarion’s warning, at how many of them there were, and how cowed the Romans already were. There were no Orsini in the street, and the only Colonnas were near their palazzo. The Malatesta fortress was boarded over and empty.

  Swan knew how to get in, and he did. It was odd to walk through the dusty, empty hall; the curio cabinet was empty, the statue niches stripped. But he found beds and bedding, and the well had good water.

  And then Swan crossed the city to Donna Lucrezia’s. He had to cross the river; a dozen Spaniards in armour toyed with him, one prodded his arse in a suggestive way, and another asked him whether he was a Jew. The servant girl behind him they called ‘whore’ and they began to prod her, to pull at her clothes.

  Swan allowed himself to be mocked, and escaped after being cuffed a little and kicked once. It was no worse than his youth in London, and he stumbled out the other side of the bridge, aware that the servant girl behind was going to suffer worse – rape, most likely – and that if he acted to help her, his whole plan was in ribbons. For an hour, the indignity and horror of it fired a rage in him. When the Spaniards flung her out, he took her and carried her to Donna Lucrezia’s, his indifference shattered. Mostly, he was aflame with rage, and the frustrated anger of powerlessness; he, who was so often powerful, could not save a little servant girl from being raped by thugs. Or he had chosen not to save her; a terrible thought. Swan was almost ill with the desire to use violence.

  The doorman was new, and competent. He took the girl, and then led Swan to an officer.

  Donna Lucrezia came in. ‘Why the girl?’ she asked.

  ‘She was raped,’ Swan said. His hands shook.

  ‘We know all about that here,’ Lucrezia said. No smile. ‘What are you here for?’

  ‘I’m here to topple Antonelli,’ Swan said.

  Lucrezia settled into her chair. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Why should I care?’

  Swan felt disadvantaged; he was angry, and he was dressed as a servant; she was, as usual, dressed like a princess of a great house, and perfectly calm. She sat like a female cardinal, dressed all in red, surrounded by red drapes and magnificent hangings.

  ‘I could pay you to care,’ Swan said.

  ‘You could pay me?’ she asked, now curious. ‘Messire Swan. I do not wish to brag, but I cannot imagine you could afford me.’

  Swan had not been invited to sit, which was not a promising start. This was the weakest part of his plan; if she sold him to the Pope or Antonelli, he was done.

  ‘Twenty thousand ducats and the friendship of Venice,’ Swan said.

  She looked up, her magnificent eyes suddenly bright. ‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘We are, at least, talking about something that would interest me.’ She sat back and steepled her fingers exactly as Bessarion did, which Swan felt was a trifle disturbing.

  ‘You need Calixtus gone,’ Swan said. ‘He tried to close you. And his Spaniards are the curse of the city.’

  She nodded. ‘Some busy Roman lord will take care of that eventually,’ she said.

  ‘You know that the Pope arrested the Venetian ambassador?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m in the business.’ Her tone was sharp, and even condescending.

  ‘I say it again. In ten days, Antonelli will be gone.’ Swan sat back.

  She leaned forward. ‘Now you interest me. I know you; you believe what you say.’

  ‘Two names,’ Swan said. ‘Then I must ask you to choose. To act with me, or to refuse to act.’

  ‘I think you threaten me,’ she said.

  ‘Just this once,’ Swan said, ‘I do threaten, ma donna.’ He showed his empty hands. ‘I am here because I trust you to defend your own interests. Hellfire, I am here because I knew you’d care for the poor girl.’ He shrugged.

  ‘But if I do not act with you, you will count me an enemy,’ she said flatly.

  ‘So much so,’ Swan said, ‘that if you choose not to aid me, I recommend that you not allow me to leave.’ He shrugged. ‘It will come to the same in the end.’

  ‘What a little cock you are,’ she said. ‘So fucking sure of yourself.’ She leaned back. ‘But if I have to choose between that pig Antonelli and you, I prefer your arrogance to his. So note this; I choose you without the names. But tell them to me now.’

  Relief flooded him. But he didn’t allow himself to sag; rather, he leaned forward. ‘Sforza; Medici,’ he said.

  She turned first white, and then a splotchy pink. ‘Dannazione,’ she said. ‘What is my part?’

  ‘I need to have a meeting with the Orsini, the Colonna and Forteguerri. All at the same time. It cannot be observed and I must not be seen to be involved.’

  She laughed with delight. ‘But they are all my regular guests!’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Swan said. ‘I did think this through.’

  She nodded. ‘Will you really pay me twenty thousand ducats just to arrange a meeting here?’ she asked.

  Swan shook his head. ‘No. But I will pay you so much if you will find me a way in to Loredan and a way to communicate with him.’

  She looked aside, and drummed her fingers on the arm of her throne. ‘I could like Venice,’ she said. ‘If this goes badly, will your beneficence extend to a house there and citizenship?’

  Swan had no idea how the Ten would back him. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Jesus the risen Christ,’ she said. ‘Really? I should be nicer to you.’ She shrugged. ‘You walked in here, knowing that I might betray you.’

  ‘I have some insurance,’ he said.

  She frowned.

  He bowed. ‘Will you take care of the girl?’ he said.

  She met his eyes. ‘Women are raped every day. Casually, for entertainment, by soldiers and priests and farmers. Men. Why save this one?’

  ‘I allowed it to happen,’ Swan said.

  ‘You are not God,’ she said. ‘But if it salves your conscience, I’ll save this one. Next time you are talking to God, mention me, eh?’ She coughed, and he saw a flush on her face; one of the few clear emotions he’d ever seen her register.

  He gave her his best bow and withdrew, watching his back carefully.

  Swan walked home by way of the used-clothing market. He had not been in a year, and he was mostly beyond such places now; in fact, as he walked, he was considering that between the Sultan’s jewel and the piece he’d stolen in Venice, he had the makings of a small private fortune. He was wondering whether the servant girl wanted to be a nun. He was thinking about the cell in the floor of a dungeon at Mistra.

  He was not paying enough attention to his environment. He was thinking dark thoughts and frowning and not looking at clothes, and then, suddenly, he knew that someone was watching him.

  He looked up in time to see a man point. He knew the man; one of Forteguerri’s men-at-arms. He pointed, and another man turned his head. The second man was a Spaniard. Swan knew it by his hat and his sword.

  The Spaniard drew the moment he saw Swan.

  Drawing in a public market in Rome, where the wearing of swords was illegal, was an act of such confidence in one’s patron, such bravado, that Swan knew, again, that the Spaniards had to be working for the Pope.

  Swan jumped over a long table covered in gowns. A woman screamed.

  The man-at-arms was in a short gown over hose; he had a dagger and drew it.

  Swan was dressed as a servant and had no
weapon at all. He cursed. That didn’t help, and he ran along the seller’s side of the tables, hip-checked a handsome young woman with dyed blond hair into her own baskets and leapt the last table like a boy leaping fences. He cleared the table and landed well on the smooth marble, an aisle ahead of his pursuers.

  He went straight into the church. It was one of the oldest in Rome; it created the fine square that had become the used-clothing market of Rome. Swan entered through the side of the apse, and ran right through a little crowd of thurifers and sub-deacons and priests preparing to say mass in a side chapel. He ran across the main aisle, crossed himself automatically, and ran out the far door into a much richer square, where prosperous merchants and senior prelates walked gravely in the late afternoon sun.

  The Spaniard burst out of the church at his heels.

  Swan ran straight for a knight of Rhodes, resplendent in rich brown and deep red, walking with his hands behind his back, deep in conversation with a Dominican friar. Swan ran at him from the side, the Spaniard ten steps behind, and then stepped behind him, grabbed the hilt of the knight’s sword with his left hand and leapt the low wall of the square’s central fountain, the sword coming free from the scabbard as he went over the wall. He splashed into the fountain, ran through the spray of water, out the other side, and was up and onto the flagstones in three long paces, now with the knight’s sword in his right hand. It was a fine long sword in the German tradition, with a ring at the hilt to cover the hand and a long, slim blade.

  The Spaniard had run like Achilles pursuing Hector and was now closing from his left, having gone around the fountain. Men were scattering; a woman called a warning to someone.

  The Spaniard didn’t slow, but ran at Swan with a heavy overhand cut.

  Swan covered and let the blow slide off his blade as he allowed his momentum to carry him forward another pace, crossing the Spaniard’s path and then stepping past him. The Spaniard’s blow fell on his borrowed sword like rain on a roof, and slithered down; Swan rolled his wrists and took both of the Spaniard’s hands off with his counter-cut. He dropped the borrowed sword and ran on, leaving the Spaniard on his knees by the fountain.

  He ran through an arch and into the street. There was blood on his hands; he wiped them on his dark brown hose, stopped running abruptly and began to walk quickly with his head down, a servant who knew where he was going.