‘What’s in the bag, friend?’ added the second man with a leer.
‘Trouble, woe and a few interesting leaves I picked up.’
The two men frowned in surprise at the reaction, but quickly recovered into evil grins. ‘If’n you feel like breathing another day and walking with both legs, you might want to toss that bag over here and piss off?’
Skiouros sighed. Confrontation already? He’d barely set foot on the continent and already someone was seeking blood. They’d picked the wrong target today, though. The Skiouros of three years ago would have fled and hidden already, his mind fixed on safety and an easy penny. The Skiouros of a year ago was more than competent with a sword, but uncertain and floundering a little - not quite sure of whom he was. The Skiouros who stood in this Spanish backstreet was the man who had grown from those youths. Self-assured, skilled, and with a sense of purpose most men would never achieve in a lifetime.
‘I’ll give you but two warnings. Here’s your first. I am not the easy prey you think, and what’s in my kit bag is not worth the cost to you. Go find some other poor soul to rob before I decide to take a real dislike to you.’
The anger flared in the first man, his blackened and metal teeth clenched as his brow beetled and his free hand twitched. The second man, Skiouros noted, looked momentarily rather unsure, but then a calmness settled on him. That man knew something to his advantage, and with an ear cocked, Skiouros was reasonably confident he knew what it was.
The first man sneered and stepped forward. ‘I don’t care whether you can handle that darkie sickle at your side or not, you don’t want to mess with us, laddie. Give us the bag and I might not cut off your balls and feed you them.’
Again, Skiouros sighed, though this time more for dramatic effect than genuine despair. With a deft flick of his hand, he gripped the carved hilt of the hardwood club at his side, ripping it from the leather loop in which it hung and spinning it once before jabbing backwards with it over his shoulder.
There was a cry of pained alarm behind him where the third man - who had been sneaking up - suddenly forgot all about the knife in his hand, reaching up to his eye, which had taken the full force of the blow. The other two in front faltered for a moment as Skiouros swung the club once more, still facing forward with his eyes on them, and cracked the wooden tip with some force into the man’s knee. As the unseen assailant yelped and wobbled, Skiouros hooked his foot behind him, around the man’s ankle, and jabbed with his elbow, sending his would-be mugger to the ground with a thump.
‘There’s your second warning. Go home.’
With a snarl ‘black teeth’ ran at him, brandishing the knife angrily. Skiouros watched him come and at the last moment stepped lithely aside, watching his attacker stumble over the fallen form of his comrade, the pair ending up in a heap on the ground. With an arched eyebrow, Skiouros beckoned to the man with the serrated knife, who suddenly found new value in his skin and backed away into the alley from whence he had come before turning and pounding away across the cobbles.
Skiouros looked down at the pair, who were struggling. Black teeth was trying to rise, the knife still in his hand, but the other man was motionless. His chest heaved, so he was still breathing, but the small pool of red beneath his head, gathering around and between the cobbles revealed that his skull had struck the ground hard when he fell.
With a single breath, Skiouros flicked out his club, rapping the end sharply on the metal-toothed man’s wrist. There was a crack of bone and the sword-breaker fell from his agonised grasp. As the mugger gasped in air, Skiouros delivered a second, similar tap to the man’s head, driving his wits from him and sending him into the deep black of unconsciousness.
‘Idiots,’ Skiouros hissed. ‘If the Taino had been as stupid as you two I’d have been a king by now.’
He smiled lightly and, leaving the pair unresponsive on the cobbles, tried to recall the old man’s instructions. A moment later he was turning the corner, his eyes wandering around until they fell upon a sign.
Neckings!
The building had probably been a Muslim Khave house - it had all the hallmarks of one - but now it had become a tavern. The sign above the door did little to warm Skiouros and endear him to the city. On a well-painted board, a ringletted Jew swung by the neck from a three-legged mare, the rope taut and a crowd of black-robed men watching in approval.
‘Nice. Friendly.’
With more than an ounce of trepidation, Skiouros took a step inside. The place was dingy and smelled of the cured and salted meats that hung from the ceiling near the bar. Perhaps half a dozen men sat at tables, though none of them even looked up at him and despite his worries Skiouros relaxed, grateful for now for a place with few patrons and fewer questions.
In his best Portu-Spanish, Skiouros ordered a mug of beer and carried it across to the most secluded table he could find, in a dark rear corner next to an unlit fireplace. Sinking into the seat with gratitude, he thought on what had just happened. Perhaps it had been the Arab blade that had drawn the idiots? They couldn’t have had a clue what was in his bag. Most sailors’ kit would hardly be worth the effort of a mugging. He resolved to pack the blade away in his bag and attract fewer eyes from this point. His macana club would do nicely anyway, giving him the considered choice of lethal or non-lethal blows. He was grateful for the many happy hours he had spent at sea, learning its use from one of the natives they had brought back.
He wondered for a moment what would become of Caracoa and the other Taino who had crossed the sea with them. Colombo had taken them to display to the Spanish rulers and their court as a curiosity of his ‘New World’. No good end awaited them there, Skiouros felt certain, and he offered up a private prayer to the universal God for their safety, his fingertips brushing the cold stone zemi figure of Maquetaurie Guayaba which hung on a thong around his neck beneath his doublet.
But it didn’t do for Skiouros to brood on such sentimental matters. Sentiment had no place in Skiouros’ life now, for the time of his revenge was at hand and he felt, for the first time since Lykaion’s death in that church in Istanbul, ready to face it and control it. He was the very spirit of vengeance, coming to claim the soul of the pretender sultan, Cem.
With a quick glance to make sure no one was observing and manoeuvring his chair so that his body hid his actions from the room’s occupants, he unlaced the top of his bag and brought out three items, laying them on the table before him. Yes… if the Taino had been as stupid as that pair in the street, he might have been a king, but thanks to their innocence and generosity, he might yet be nearly as rich as one. And what he had to do next would require money.
He smiled for a long moment at the three heavy, intricate gold idols he had brought back from that warm, green, sweat-ridden island. They would afford him all he needed to bring the usurper to a just end and allow the soul of Lykaion to rest in peace.
‘I’m coming for you, Cem, son of Mehmet.’
CHAPTER ONE - Malaga, March 1493
‘I presume it is hopelessly optimistic to wonder whether there would be a Jewish moneylender anywhere in the city?’ Skiouros enquired of the bartender.
The man shook his head with a none-too-pleasant smile. ‘Only Jews in this city have decided to kiss the cross and trim their hair. An’ there’s fewer of them by the month. The Dominicans keep uncovering their secret ikey temples and hangin’ the Christ-killin’ bastards. None of ‘em’s really converted, y’know.’
Skiouros restrained his arm which seemed to have taken on a life of its own and was already rising to grasp the ignorant pizzle by the throat. With some effort he forced his arm back down and smiled as though the barkeep spoke his own mind.
‘So without them, and assuming I don’t want to bother the good Dominicans with this, to whom would I turn in Malaga if I had a few saleable items and a need for ready cash?’
The barkeep scratched his head. Flakes of skin drifted down to the wooden counter and Skiouros leaned back out of the flurry.
‘You could try Black Bob.’
‘Black Bob?’ Somehow, Skiouros already had the feeling that he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
‘’Aye, Black Bob. He’s a Morisco, an’ about the closest thing you’ll find here to one o’ your ikey moneymen.’
‘Morisco?’
‘A converted Moor who works from a shop out by the Granada Gate. Probably about as Christian as any o’ them Jews they keep rootin’ out, but he goes to church and does what he’s told, an’ the authorities have give him license to trade and bank in the city. But watch out. He’s not one to trust or cross.’
‘I am starting to get the feeling that such is a common trait in this city,’ Skiouros sighed and straightened, dropping a coin on the bar and leaving the building before the barkeep’s slow brain informed him that he’d probably just been insulted.
Outside, Skiouros stretched. He would have to get out of Malaga… clearly the place ate away at a man’s soul without him noticing. A few months here and he’d probably be kissing crosses and hanging Jews and Muslims with the rest of them. He could just book passage to Italy now, of course, but years of stumbling from one disaster into another had impressed upon the once-naïve young Greek the value of patience. What was coming had to be approached with care and restraint. Besides, for all his urge to leave this dangerous place, he had no desire to board a ship any time soon, given his record with sea travel thus far.
An urchin was watching him with interest from a doorway on the other side of the street as he emerged into the light, and Skiouros fished in his purse for a small, cheap coin, flashing it at the boy.
‘Granada Gate?’
The boy sprang to his feet. With impressive energy, he gestured to the wall next to him, a rough, featureless brown stone one, and picked up a piece of broken pottery from the gutter. Quickly, he began to draw lines on the wall.
‘We’re here, see?’
Nod.
‘This big thing is the Alcazaba - the big castle on the hill. Follow this route,’ he tapped along three of his marked lines, ‘til you find yourself facing a big curve. That’s the old theatre beneath the castle. Turn left there and follow the main street past the foot of the hill and the gate you’ll see at the end is the Puerta de Granada.’
‘So this grand cartographic show was a long-winded way to say left, left, right and left, then?’
‘Man pays for directions when they’re so easy might want more for his money, else he might think to keep the coin,’ grinned the boy and Skiouros couldn’t help but smile. There was a distinct reflection of his own youthful self in there.
‘Good lad. You’ll go far, I’m sure.’ With a chuckle, he tossed the coin to the boy, who caught it, bit it and scurried off, laughing. With a last glance at the wall - the map might prove valuable, after all - he followed the directions until he found himself at the base of the hill with the towering fortress above. What could have once been an ancient theatre occupied the lowest slopes, though it was more like a muddy upturned bowl full of cacti than anything grand. Sparing it only the interested glance of the first-time visitor, he walked on down the wide avenue towards the distant Puerta de Granada.
The tall towers of the gate stood proud of the heavy defensive walls and though the main thoroughfare marched straight to it, a number of side streets led off in the area into a veritable maze of smaller alleys. An initial scan of his surroundings gave no indication of the Morisco’s place of business on the main street and, given the attitudes he had encountered so far in the city, he thought it impolitic to start asking around. Instead, he peered down a couple of the side streets until at the last one before the gate he noted where it widened out into a long, narrow plaza. One building in particular drew his attention, not for the architecture or any official sign, but for the fact that a couple of thugs sat on chairs beside the door, and both of them had the swarthy skin tone of the Moor, for all their western doublets. Neither was armed, but Skiouros was willing to bet they would be more than capable of dealing with most troublemakers. Just the sort of men a moneylender might have protecting his place of business.
With a deep breath and his most disarming smile, he strode purposefully across to them. Neither man moved, but they both watched his approach with suspicion.
‘I’ve come to see the man in charge.’
The pair were silent and Skiouros frowned at their implacability. With a sly grin, he switched to Arabic: ‘I’ve come to see the one the morons in town call Black Bob.’ The comment had the desired effect. Surprised at the young man’s easy and colloquial command of Arabic, they paused for a moment as broad white grins spread across their faces.
‘In the back, young master. God be with you.’
‘As-salamu alaykum,’ Skiouros replied quietly with a smile. The grins swept from the two thugs’ faces and they hustled him through the door. ‘Get inside, idiot,’ one of them grunted in Arabic.
Skiouros’ eyes slowly adjusted to the dim interior and he spotted the man who could only be Black Bob seated behind the counter with a mug of frothing ale, jotting something in a ledger. The big, dark face looked up at him as he entered, appraised him in one glance, and then nodded to a chair opposite. Skiouros opened his mouth to speak, but the Morisco silenced him with a ‘Tsch!’ noise and finished working his figures. Skiouros took the offered seat and waited, dropping his kit bag by his side with a clank that drew the man’s eyes momentarily.
When Black Bob finally looked up, Skiouros smiled. ‘Your doormen seemed in a rush to invite me in when I wished peace upon him in the traditional manner.’
‘And well they might. That kind of talk buys a man the dangling jig around here.’ The Morisco looked him up and down again. ‘What is a man like you doing talking my tongue?’
‘I’m no Spaniard,’ Skiouros smiled. ‘I was brought up in the Ottoman Empire.’
‘You don’t look like a Turk.’
‘And you don’t look like a Christian, so let’s agree that appearances can be deceptive and get down to business. They tell me that you are the man to look to around here for money.’
The Morisco leaned back and smiled. ‘I have had a run of good fortune. My countrymen - and the children of Abraham - were urged to leave this place in a hurry. Many were forced to sell their lands and goods at a regrettably pitiful price. A steal, really. And as long as I continue to prove myself a good Christian and a friend of all Spaniards, the new citizens of the province seek to purchase those self-same lands and goods at a healthily inflated price. A few years ago I sold pots and pans. Now, for the price of a little ‘lip service’, I am a wealthy and influential man, and that means that I am in a position to dole out money to those who please me. Will you please me, do you think?’
Skiouros smiled. ‘I am not selling favours or promises or land or titles. I am selling hard goods: treasure of the highest quality, for cash.’
Briefly, he rummaged in his bag and retrieved the three gold idols which he lay carefully down on the table between them. ‘These are worth a great deal. They are - and I can vouch for this as I watched one being made - formed from solid gold. And gold of a deeper glow than the impure debased rubbish floating around here. Even as bullion they are worth a great deal. To a collector of curiosities, however: far more.’
‘May I?’ As Skiouros nodded, the Morisco picked one up, weighing it and then turning it over and over, examining it closely. He nodded appreciatively. ‘They’re certainly the correct weight. And yes, some folk would pay a pretty penny for them, but pagan art is not exactly at a premium in Spain these days. Where are they from? Somewhere in Africa?’
‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Suffice it to say they are the only examples to be found in Europe. Or Africa or the east for that matter. They are - in effect - unique.’
‘In Spain they are basically pretty bullion,’ the Morisco shrugged. ‘Man could find himself on the wrong end of the nice men in black robes for toting such graven images around.’ He sat back
and blew a faint whistle through his teeth. ‘I’ll give you three hundred florins for the lot.’
Skiouros frowned as he performed a quick mental calculation. ‘Each of these contains enough gold to make that, and purer than that crap in the coins. So even at a bullion level you’re offering me considerably less than a third of their value. As artworks they are worth a great deal more.’
‘Not around here. And I have to have them melted down into bars before I can do anything with them that might draw church attention. It’s my offer. I’m hardly desperate for the things, so take it or leave it.’
‘Four hundred?’ prompted Skiouros, trying to put on his hard-bargaining face. The Morisco leaned back further in his chair and drummed his fingers on his chest. ‘No. I will give you three thirty and no more. And that extra is only because I haven’t heard my native tongue in far too long and against all my better judgement I like you. I have other matters to attend to, so decide now.’
Skiouros narrowed his eyes, peering at the Morisco and then at the idols. It was clear from the man’s expression and posture that he would not shift his offer any further upwards. The young Greek nodded. ‘Three thirty it is, then. And enjoy your very healthy profit.’
‘Oh I will, young man. I will. How do you want the money?’
‘I am presuming that carrying it in bags through the streets might be a touch risky?’
The man simply shrugged.
‘But I presume there’s a Medici banking house in the city? Big port like this.’
‘There is. A draft for the Medici is it, then?’
Skiouros nodded and stood quietly as the man filled out a monetary draft and signed and sealed it. Handing it over, the Morisco waited as the young man ran his gaze carefully over the details. ‘All seems to be in order.’
‘Come back any time,’ the Morisco grinned as Skiouros collected his bag and turned, making his way out of the building.
Assassin's Tale Page 2
