Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome tsathosg-4

by Christian Cameron

  Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome

  ( Tom Swan and the Head of St. George - 4 )

  Christian Cameron

  Christian Cameron

  Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome

  Rosy-fingered dawn.

  The very first hint of light spread from a vague grey to the merest hint of pink, like the touch of colour on a pretty girl’s face before she kisses you.

  The three Turkish galleys had rowed all night to close the distance, and now they were at ramming speed, and the froth at their prows was tinted the same grey and salmon pink as the rest of the world, and the sea appeared to be a thousand shades of black, and behind the standing rigging of the enemy galleys, a flock of migrating waterbirds rode the air. Just for a moment, Tom Swan watched them and wished that he, too, could just fly away.

  Behind him, on the command deck, Ser Marco was rattling orders as fast as a Florentine auctioneer sells a dead man’s household items.

  Swan continued to arm himself.

  He’d slept in his doublet, and he stripped out of it, the lace-on sleeves sticking to his arms because in his hurry he’d forgotten to unlace the wrists. He tore them off, and Peter had his arming coat ready. Once, it had been a handsome garment of wode-dyed elkhide quilted to silk, but now it had been soaked in successive layers of sweat and blood, his and others’, and it smelt.

  He got it on anyway. He ran the central lace as fast as he could, missed a hole — and went back.

  Experience had taught him a great deal about fighting in armour, and one thing he’d learned was to arm as carefully as possible, because a minor discomfort at the start meant screaming pain and lack of mobility in the fight.

  He braced his feet as the galley heeled under him. The arsenali — the Venetian professional oarsmen, every man a citizen, every man armed — were awake, and rowing hard, but Ser Marco had just turned them very slightly to the east, towards the coast of Asia. Swan had no idea why, but Ser Marco was the best naval capitano he’d ever served with-

  Swan laughed. Ser Marco was the only one he’d served with. He had to laugh at himself, sometimes.

  ‘He’s smilink, the gapitano,’ Peter said in his Flemish-accented English.

  ‘How’s the Spaniard?’ Swan asked. He had his right cuff tied, and went to lace his left.

  ‘Pfft! Toe nou! That one is stuffed with old rope and nails and leather and not guts. My friend Antonio and I have him vell enough in hand, eh?’ Peter grunted. ‘Get your breastplate on. I’ve been holdink it too long.’

  Swan reversed into the breast and back, and Peter folded it closed around him, pulling a little too vigorously to get the mail of the voiders and the skirt in under the fauld.

  ‘Ouch!’ spat Swan when the front and back closed on his flesh, right through mail and leather.

  ‘Don’t be a girl,’ Peter said. ‘Even when you smell like one.’

  For the first time that morning, Swan thought of Khatun Bengul — her ivory-white body, her breasts like the domes of a Greek church, the taste of her, the smell-

  He could still smell her on his hair.

  The timoneer was shouting at the arsenali, who were now pulling hard enough, three men to an oar, to grunt with every pull. The sound was obscene.

  Irene and Andromache, the women from the acrobat troupe, began to stretch on the small open deck in the stern. Irene did a handstand.

  The arsenali’s grunts quickened, and so did the pace of the oars.

  The Turkish galleys were closer now — a long bowshot, and with the wind behind them.

  ‘Where’s the head?’ asked Nikephorus, in Greek.

  Swan was trapped — Peter was lacing on his right arm harness, and he had nowhere to go. ‘It is in my armet,’ he said. ‘I — er — borrowed it.’

  Nikephorus looked old and very serious. ‘When I found it gone, I assumed that you had betrayed us,’ he said. ‘Messer Peter here insisted that you would not abandon us, and went as far as to promise to kill you himself if you did.’

  It is difficult to be persuasive while men are putting you into plate armour. Tom Swan gave it up as a bad job. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d make it.’ He managed to meet the Greek scholar’s mild eyes. ‘I’ll see you get your share. I was … too clever by half.’

  Di Brachio barked a laugh. He jumped down from the command deck. ‘Say that again, English?’ he said. ‘I just want to hear you say it.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘I was too clever. I usually am. When I’m tempted, I fall.’

  Peter grabbed his left arm and began to fit it into the appropriate harness. He seemed to twist the arm farther than was necessary.

  ‘Ouch! Damn me, I need that arm!’ Swan spat.

  Di Brachio leaned in close. ‘You endangered every one of us when you took the head — the head — into the presence of the Grand Turk. And you endangered us when you stopped to dip your wick with one of Omar Reis’s harem girls. Eh? My young master?’

  Swan felt the red flush rising into his hair. ‘We’re here, aren’t we? And by the grace of God, messire, you know as well as I that Reis meant to betray us from the first, and not because of any antics of mine.’ He felt the rage of the young against the injustice of the old.

  And the rage was fuelled by knowing in his heart that they were right.

  ‘Take the head, Master Nikephorus. Keep it safe.’ He hung his head. ‘I almost lost it, at the end,’ he admitted in a mumble.

  Admitting to something was often a way to avert adult wrath. He’d learned that with his mother, and his real father, and all the other adults who looked for the best in him.

  Di Brachio put an arm around his shoulder, pulled him tight, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I forgive you, you idiot. But you are going to die in one of these escapades.’

  ‘And none of us want to be around,’ Cesare di Brescia put in. He had his own armour on. He’d lost the ring of fat around his middle, and he looked like a statue of Poseidon or Zeus.

  Giannis Trapitzou laughed. ‘Because it will be spectacular,’ he added. ‘And very destructive, I think.’

  ‘Why are we turning east?’ Swan asked. He wanted to ask ‘why are you all picking on me’, but experience had taught him that this only increased the adult feeding frenzy.

  Di Brachio held up his left gauntlet, a magnificent example of the armourer’s art, with sliding plates over the wrist, individual finger assemblies, and a series of sliding rivets on the thumb for near-perfect articulation. Swan raised his left hand and Di Brachio rammed the gauntlet on a little too hard.

  ‘There’s a heavy current by the Asian shore,’ Di Brachio said. ‘But it runs north, not south, and I don’t know how he plans to use it.’ He paused. ‘You and the old man have a lot in common, little fox. He likes to surprise all of us with his plans. He doesn’t hold meetings, and he never explains. Since he’s still alive, men crawl over each other to serve on his ships.’

  Swan grinned at the implied compliment.

  ‘You know what the difference between you is?’ Alessandro asked.

  Swan grinned. ‘Thirty years?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ Di Brachio said.

  Peter got the gorget closed around his neck and seated home on his breastplate, and then he hinged open the cheek plates of the armet and slid it on top of Swan’s head, pushing firmly until he could feel that Swan’s head was all the way into the deep ridges of padding, four layers of linen stuffed with sheep’s wool.

  ‘You’re ready,’ Peter said.

  Irene smiled at him, and did a backflip right past them, her long legs
flashing in the pink light, and the oarsmen on the nearest six benches found the breath to hoot, altogether, as her man’s shirt licked up above her belly button and then fell back without quite revealing an entire breast.

  Alessandro sighed. ‘Women can be …’ he looked amused, ‘spectacular.’

  A dozen arrows came aboard all together, and that was the end of conversation. Two sailors came by, unrolling the heavy leather and canvas awning that covered the rowers in action — and soaked up most of the arrow shafts. They were roping it home, and the acting troupe leapt to help them. Swan dropped his gauntlets and belayed a rope to a cleat set in the deck just above the first rowing bench, and the three men on the bench nodded their thanks at him as they pulled their great oar. Swan had noted before that one of the things that made war at sea so signally different from war on land was that the ship lived and died together — so men-at-arms, archers, sailors and oarsmen had a set of links connecting them that they would never have had ashore. Knights belayed ropes. Oarsmen fought like tigers.

  Irene caught a heavy stay and climbed up it a few yards, caught another and jumped to the rail on the far side of the rowing deck. Swan would never have attempted such a feat of acrobatics. There she belayed more of the lines that held the heavy canvas housing.

  Beyond her shoulders, the shore of Asia seemed to be rushing at them.

  ‘Prepare to turn to starboard!’ roared Ser Marco.

  Most of the marines threw themselves flat. Swan had endured dozens of these high-speed turns in practice, and he grabbed the rail behind him.

  The old man put the tiller down, and the starboard side oarsmen backed water, and the great galley turned like a child’s toy.

  Swan’s gauntlets, forgotten for a moment, shot across the deck towards the waiting embrace of the sea.

  Irene leaped — almost four English cloth yards — from the opposite rail. Her leap was almost down as the starboard rail was now far closer to the sea than the port-side rail — she landed on her toes, did a somersault, and stood, Swan’s gauntlets held aloft in her hands.

  The oarsmen laughed. She presented them to Swan as the ship righted, at the end of her turn, and he took them. Her smile was triumphant and his was a little tight.

  Behind them, the Turkish ships were slow in responding to the turn — which had clearly surprised them by going south into the current, and not north along the shore, using the current to add to the Nike’s speed. But they recovered, their archers changed sides, and in a minute the arrows came again, and the Turkish ships made their turns — and the Nike was slowing despite the best efforts of her crew.

  For a dozen heartbeats the Turks closed the gap. A sailor took a cane arrow in the chest and fell by the mainmast, screaming.

  Ser Marco stood by the helmsman like a statue in armour.

  Peter had his great bow strung and ready, and now he went to the side, licked a finger, and took one of Antonio’s cane arrows from his Turkish-style quiver.

  ‘Eh, son of a whore, use your own fucking arrows,’ said the Italian archer.

  Peter grunted, drew the arrow to the head, and loosed.

  The Fleming’s arrow rose, seemed to hover at perihedron, and then fell to vanish into the nearest galley. Swan didn’t see where it struck, but the Italian spat.

  ‘All luck, you Dutch bastard,’ he said, but he slapped the big Fleming on the back.

  Peter took another of Antonio’s arrows, and Giannis ran to get the Spaniard’s quiver, which was under the opposite scupper. ‘I wondered,’ he said. ‘I saw the Turks use … something to extend …’ He loosed again. The arrow seemed to vanish — it leaped off the bow faster than Swan thought possible.

  ‘Another hit? Really, I think this cannot all be luck,’ Antonio said. ‘Let me try with one of my own arrows, hey, cocksucker?’ He drew his Turkish bow all the way to his ear, the way Peter drew, and his arrow leaped away. The other marines cheered.

  ‘Good way to break a bow,’ Giannis said, dropping the Spaniard’s quiver by Peter. He latched his crossbow and tossed a bolt at the nearest Turk.

  Behind them, the Turks hit the current.

  An arrow struck Swan atop his right shoulder, but it was the very edge of its range and it sprang away.

  The three Turks went to fast ramming speed. The sound of their drums rose like thunder, and they began to close in like raptors in the moment they hover before the talons strike home.

  The Nike’s timoneer looked over his shoulder at his captain, but there was no order to increase speed. The capitano was smiling, not with insane ferocity, but with a calm that made Swan want to leap on the command deck and ask what is it you know?

  The tempo of the Turkish strokes increased in a magnificent crescendo, and all three ships closed to javelin range.

  Now all the ships’ marines and archers were exchanging shafts as quickly as they could draw and loose. The Turkish professionals returned three shafts for one on their prey. The Venetians were brave and had better armour, and their plate cuirasses and heavy helmets kept them in the fight, because the Turks lacked nothing in volume, power or speed. One by one the Venetian archers were shot down — Antonio took an arrow in the right arm, Giovanni took one in the nose, and finally Peter was alone, his hands and arms almost blurred with the speed of his loosing. He was using his own heavy shafts now.

  An arrow took Swan in the helmet, and the diamond-shaped head cut right through the good Milanese steel and hung there — but didn’t go through the padding beneath. Another hit him in the breastplate, and then a third, and both punched through the plate like an awl through heavy leather, but couldn’t penetrate the mail and leather underneath.

  Swan’s Turkish bow was right there. He shook the gauntlet off his right hand, took a shaft from the Spaniard’s quiver and loosed it almost unaimed into the vast maw of the Turkish galley ranging alongside, just three oars’ lengths away and trying to draw even. He saw Omar Reis amidships and his next shaft went with intent. One of the janissaries saw him aim and the return volley from the Turkish ship caught him repeatedly. He was hit so many times he was knocked down. His head collided with the deck hard, and the shaft in his helmet splintered and wrenched his neck, and for a moment he thought he was badly hurt.

  He bounced to his feet with another shaft in his hand and had to pause to break off the arrows in his breastplate, which stuck out like pins in a lady’s pincushion.

  The capitano roared, ‘Ramming speed! Everything, now, by the grace of God!’

  The timoneer’s staff began to thump the deck in a frenzy.

  Only two of the Turkish ships were ranging alongside. The third had lost her stroke — a real danger at high speeds, with arrows coming aboard, oarsmen dying or wounded, and the sounds of many sets of drums.

  Peter had an arrow in his thigh and another in his hat, and yet he rose from the cover of the high bulkhead and loosed down into the knot of archers in the nearest ship’s waist.

  Swan rose and loosed — not at the enemy archers, but at the helmsman and the timoneer on the nearest deck..

  ‘Good boy,’ Peter said. It sounded like Gut buoy.

  Peter rose and loosed.

  Swan rose …

  The Turkish vessels were suddenly almost a ship’s length behind. He loosed, almost at random.

  Peter rose, paused, and allowed himself to slump to the deck. He let the tension off his bow and dropped the arrow to the deck. ‘Oarsmen tiring,’ he panted. ‘Theirs, not ours!’

  ‘We have them, my beauties!’ shouted Ser Marco. ‘Everything you have, for by the Virgin, we have them.’

  The Turks fell behind at an astonishing rate. In ten minutes, the captain ordered all rowing halted and had the sail up — in the time it would take for a good priest to say a mass, they were virtually alone racing down the Dardanelles.

  They laughed, and some men cried, and Swan looked down and began to push the spent arrows out of the ruin of his once beautiful breastplate. Such was the spirit of battle and the joy of survival tha
t he had four of them out of his cuirass before he realised that the sixth wasn’t in his fauld. It was below his fauld.

  He’d never felt the arrow. But when he saw it, he saw the blood, and suddenly the pain of it hit him.

  He sat abruptly.

  Peter gave him a long look, and shook his head. ‘Sweet Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s a bad one.’

  Swan opened his eyes. He was on a bed — a very comfortable bed — and the sun poured in on him from a pair of arched windows at the end of the bay. The walls were white, and the sheets were white linen.

  In a single breath, it all came back to him — the ship fight, the water gate, the cisterns and sewers, Khatun Bengul. Omar Reis.

  He looked down, and moved his leg, and it was still there.

  A middle-aged man with ginger hair shot with grey, a short, pointed beard and a black skullcap came down the line of beds. He had a set of wax tablets in his hand and wore long brown robes. He paused at the only other occupied bed, leaned far over, so that his black-capped head vanished from view — and Swan heard a murmur.

  When he rose from the bedside, Swan saw the eight-pointed star on his breast. He looked at Swan, met his eye and smiled.

  ‘Master Claudio!’ he called softly. ‘Your patient is awake.’

  He’s a knight of St John. A Hospitaller. Where the hell am I?

  Master Claudio emerged from the arched door at the far end of the bay with a tall clay bottle and a cup on a tray. His gown had wide sleeves, and as he moved they seemed to flap, enhancing the impression he gave of a small and angry bird of prey.

  ‘Look at you!’ Claudio said. His acerbic tone could not mask his obvious joy. ‘I think you are going to live, and by the Virgin, messire, I intend to exhibit you in every classroom in Padua. I will be the most famous doctor in Europe!’

  ‘Really?’ Swan felt good — tired, but good. He didn’t feel as if death had brushed him.

  ‘You took an arrow in the groin. Don’t worry — your penis is intact, as are your testicles. The arrow was three fingers higher. You ought to be dead. But by St Martin — I got it out without touching the artery, and you must have Lucifer’s very own luck, because you should have died screaming of infection five days ago. Or died silently in a massive fever, burning as if the sun god himself wanted to take you.’