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

by Christian Cameron

  Swan was covered in Di Brachio’s blood – his hands were sticky with it. But he got his friend on to the table, half-rolled him over, and used his dagger to cut the Venetian’s doublet off his body, an act for which he suspected Di Brachio wouldn’t thank him.

  It was more than a gash. The blow had penetrated the skin, not between the ribs, as Swan had imagined, but below the ribs. The skin sagged open in a way Swan found a little obscene. It wasn’t like any other wound he’d ever seen, and it began to dawn on him that Di Brachio might really be badly hurt.

  Violetta was not as shocked. ‘Hot water,’ she said, clapping her hands. Then she pulled her light linen chiton over her head. She twirled it once – and handed it to one of the kitchen women before taking a sponge full of warm water from the head cook.

  ‘It’s boiled,’ said the cook. ‘Looks bad,’ she added with apparent indifference to the wounded man and the naked woman.

  Swan watched Violetta take the hot sponge to Di Brachio and conquered his own fear. He had to climb on to the table, but he took various rags handed to him by the kitchen staff and began to probe the wound. Violetta opened it with her fingers and looked at it carefully even as it filled with blood.

  ‘It’s not a death wound,’ she said. She was kneeling on the table, her thighs and lower legs already red. ‘No bubbles – not into the lung and whatever else is there. Unless he bleeds out. Stupid fuck. What did he do – run out and attack an army?’

  Swan managed a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. He remembered Master Claudio’s instructions, and he pressed the edges of the wound together and pushed down as hard as he thought he should. The rags began to turn red.

  It occurred to Swan that all this had happened before – that the kitchen staff at Madame Lucrescia’s was highly skilled in dealing with sword wounds. He smiled across Di Brachio’s insensate body at Violetta. ‘You are beautiful, even covered in blood.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said, and shrugged, and her breasts moved. Swan seldom got to watch naked women in good light. It had an artistic quality …

  The cook began to use a small portion of the work surface to make mulled wine. It all had the air of comedy – the kitchen staff, now cleaning the floor; the naked beauty, the man, possibly dying. Swan bit his lip, trying to keep the edges of the wound steady. ‘Has someone sent for a doctor?’ he asked.

  Violetta nodded. ‘Yes. Let me take some of that. Christ, that’s a lot of blood.’

  ‘How is it that you are so good at blood?’ Swan asked.

  ‘My mother was an army girl,’ Violetta said. She shrugged. ‘She followed armies until she got the cough and died. She protected me like a wolf – kept the men off me. I did laundry and sewed wounds to pay my way, but when she died’ – Violetta smiled at Swan, and the smile was as hard as steel and as comforting – ‘I sold – what I had. Eh?’

  One of the cook’s boys appeared with needles and white linen thread. ‘Demoiselle?’ he said, as if he saw a magnificent naked woman every day. It occurred to Swan that perhaps he did.

  ‘And I still have a soft spot for soldiers,’ she said.

  Swan felt the strength of her grip along the line of the wound and he moved his left hand, which had long since begun to cramp. ‘I’m not really a soldier,’ he said.

  ‘You are a great deal more like a soldier than most of the soft worms who come in my bed,’ she said.

  There was a commotion in the back. The sound of horses.

  ‘Still want a fencing lesson?’ Swan asked. ‘I’m a good deal better than I was last time.’

  She turned her head then, and met his eye steadily. ‘You don’t even intend these double entendres, do you?’ she asked coolly. ‘Of course I’d like a fencing lesson. And a hundred dagger lessons. I’d like to teach every girl in this house to handle a dagger well. And then …’ Her eyes sparkled.

  Swan saw Di Brachio’s eyelids flutter. Violetta was all but kneeling on his chest. ‘Can he breathe?’ he asked.

  Violetta moved. Di Brachio coughed. There was more blood.

  The kitchen entrance filled with people, and one was Master Claudio. The bishop – their former employer – was only four palazzos away.

  ‘Swan,’ Claudio said. ‘Ah – Messire Di Brachio. Christ on the cross. Demoiselle Aphrodite, do not let go. Swan – you remembered my little class on pressure. What happened? No, I don’t need to know. He was in a fight and lost?’ Claudio’s hands were moving rapidly, at odds with his speech.

  ‘More rags,’ he said to the cook. ‘All boiled. You understand?’

  The cook nodded. ‘We keep boiled linen,’ she said.

  ‘Good. How deep is it? Did you see?’ Claudio asked Swan.

  Violetta answered. ‘Not to the lung, master. It cut an artery – I have one end in my hand. That’s all.’

  Without any more talk, Claudio cast a loop over the artery that Violetta produced, a very small twist of rawhide covered in blood, or so it appeared to Swan.

  ‘Amazing that something so small makes so much blood, eh?’ he said. ‘Demoiselle Aphrodite, you are a superb nurse. Much better than this big Englishman.’

  ‘I had lots of practice,’ the girl said.

  ‘Where?’ Claudio asked.

  ‘Milan,’ she said. ‘The army.’

  ‘That’s why you know to strip,’ Claudio said with satisfaction. ‘Soldiers must love it.’

  She shrugged. ‘Clothes cost money,’ she said. ‘White linen is never the same after blood.’

  The bell rang for matins, and she kissed his nose. ‘Shall we go and check on our patient?’ she asked.

  He didn’t leap out of bed. Naked, in a closed bed with a beautiful woman in Roman winter, he was as warm as anyone in the city, but out beyond the bed curtains, the temperature was roughly the same as it was outside the palazzo. Instead, he reached out to the shelf overhead and grabbed a fur-lined robe that the house apparently provided for male guests. He got his feet into his shoes, which were disgusting with dried blood.

  The two of them had washed in a basin of steaming hot water. Now it was dark red and very cold. The washing had very quickly escalated. Even now his loins stirred.

  He walked along the corridor in the growing light and found her behind him, muffled in a massive over-robe of familiar-looking English wool.

  He found himself holding her hand.

  Violetta’s odd and beautiful eyes met his. ‘I like you,’ she said quickly, and kissed him on the corner of the mouth. Considering how widely both of their mouths had travelled, it was curious how intimate this little gesture was.

  They walked into the receiving room. Di Brachio was in bed. He had Master Claudio on one side of him, and Madame Lucrescia herself on the other. He was breathing.

  They tiptoed out again.

  In bed, their warmth had not dissipated, and they lay together, just being warm, for long enough that hands began to wander.

  Eventually, Swan rolled off her and pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘When do the bailiffs come to throw me out? And when is the fencing lesson?’

  She laughed. ‘I have days off,’ she said. ‘One a week, or six a month when my courses run.’

  Swan had grown up in an inn. ‘Oh!’ he said, understanding. ‘Can you fence then?’

  Violetta shrugged. ‘We’ll find out,’ she said.

  Di Brachio was moved to the cardinal’s palazzo later that day. Swan had a word with the steward – a quiet word – about how he would feel if any harm came to the Venetian. Later that day, without any coordination, Giannis cornered the priest on much the same mission, as he reported, laughing, to Swan.

  The Greeks desired to see Rome – Master Nikephorus from the standpoint of academic enquiry, and the others with the enthusiasm of visitors.

  Two days later was one of Violetta’s days off, and he took her out with Di Brescia, Giannis, Irene and Andromache. The younger Apollinaris was in bed with a fever that didn’t promise well – Rome was notorious for such things – and Master Nikephorus was pr
eparing to give a lecture on the head of St George and was practising his Latin and cursing all Franks.

  ‘You are all ignorant barbarians!’ he said to Swan, when Swan came to the suite allocated to the Greeks to collect his friends. The master was declaiming to an audience of two sleeping cats and three attractive young women.

  ‘The cardinal told him that his Latin pronunciation would be incomprehensible to the Italians,’ Irene said quietly.

  ‘I come from the city of New Rome, where the empire endured without change! Tribes of Goths and Lombards overran this worthless, ruined town while Constantinople had running water and a thousand poets and philosophers!’ The old man sputtered.

  Giannis continued to watch the older scholar with something like worship, but Irene plucked at his kaftan. ‘Our Italians are going out – shopping,’ she said.

  Irene and Violetta circled each other like swordsmen upon introduction. Irene threw back her head and Violetta stood taller and threw out her chest, and Swan had to fight the urge to laugh. It was cold in the cardinal’s garden and he realised that he had not thought this through well enough.

  But half an hour of walking arm in arm with Irene and Andromache broke through Violetta’s reserve, and she became as animated as Swan had seen her, speaking her Milanese Italian quickly, laughing constantly, as she showed the two Greek girls the markets of Rome.

  Swan’s errand was clothing, and he brought them to the used-clothing market.

  Di Brescia laughed. ‘You are a Roman, now,’ he said.

  Violetta was walking, cloaked, with a veil over her face, between two equally hidden Greek ladies. The clothing market was a masculine space – men changed their hose and codpieces at the tables – and there was some consternation.

  The nearest girl – most tables were run by girls – turned to the veiled women. ‘You shouldn’t be here, and if you’re here on a wager, get lost. Not a place for nice girls, sweetie.’

  Di Brescia bowed. ‘I will escort the demoiselles into the church,’ he said. ‘If you and Giannis wish to see to your sartorial splendours.’

  All three veiled women were laughing as hard as women in veils could laugh with dignity as Di Brescia led them away across the square. Irene began to put on a show of offended modesty – she was, after all, an actress, thought Swan. Andromache and Violetta began to match her, and men in the market began to dress hurriedly, and to apologise under their breath. And curse.

  The Englishman and the Greek went up an alley and found the shop – really a house with a table outside – where Swan had purchased his first suit. The old man laughed and took his hand.

  ‘By Saint Christopher, my boy – you are still alive! I must say I’m surprised.’

  Swan opened the pilgrim’s scrip he’d carried through the whole walk and produced the suit of scarlet and the matching cloak. ‘Too small for me,’ he said ruefully.

  The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes – your shoulders are much bigger. And you are an inch taller. Well – I must say that you are the first customer to return this suit standing up,’ he said. ‘Look at this slash!’ he complained.

  After some haggling and much poking through neatly piled clothes, Swan emerged with two good suits of brown wool; doublet, hose and gown all matching – almost clerical in their plainness, but the cloth was good and the stitching perfect.

  ‘A gentleman from the far north,’ the old man said, shaking his head. ‘Here one day, caught by footpads and killed. A pilgrim from Danemark.’

  Swan also picked up a pair of silk hose, only slightly worn at the knees, and a not-quite-matching doublet in superb blue velvet with embroidery. It was the finest doublet he’d ever owned, and the knife-cut in the back went between the embroidered panels neatly and had been cunningly repaired. The bloodstain on the inside hadn’t reached the velvet.

  ‘I could have the lining unpicked and resewn if you’d rather,’ said the old man.

  Giannis just rolled his eyes. He had a good leather jerkin, carefully tooled and sporting fine buttons like acorns, and he was uninterested in any colour beyond black.

  The old man smiled. ‘Soldiers,’ he said. ‘Either they are popinjays, or they are not.’

  The two young men dickered for what seemed an appropriate length of time and walked off, carrying their purchases. They retrieved their party from the Chapel of St Maurice. Then they walked down the perfumers’ street, and Swan gave way to impulse and purchased something exotic for Violetta, who smelled it and glowed at him. In the street of glovers he bought gloves – plain chamois, from Austria, for fighting, and another pair for her.

  The three men spent money at a remarkable rate, in fact, and drew a small crowd of beggars and worse. In the street of swordsmiths, while Swan ordered Di Brachio’s war sword dismounted and a new blade added, the commotion around the Greeks became bad enough that four men in city colours came with truncheons and began beating the beggars away.

  The smith’s apprentice shook his head. ‘Everyone knows the old Pope is dying,’ he said. ‘The nothings are getting ready to riot.’

  Swan collected a pair of training swords – light arming swords with no edges – and emptied his purse on the counter.

  They crossed the forum carefully. Because Swan was watching the beggars, he caught sight of the red and yellow of the Orsini well to the north, and Di Brescia led them south, down the ancient steps and across the palazzo.

  ‘Surely they are not after us,’ Giannis said.

  Swan wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something bad – his most Italianate habit. ‘We spent too much money and made too much noise,’ he said.

  South of the forum, they seemed to be alone. They approached a tavern owner – winter was off season for pilgrims – rented his courtyard and two tables, and sat comfortably, with jugs of hot wine, in the winter sun. The landlord served them hare and a spicy sausage dish.

  Swan put two gold francs into the landlord’s hand. ‘I wish the courtyard to have no prying eyes. Yes?’

  The innkeeper leered. ‘None at all!’ he said.

  If he had a peephole, he was doomed to disappointment, unless he fancied watching three women and three men exchange the very rudiments of swordsmanship. If Swan had imagined that he would be the teacher, he quickly discovered that both Di Brescia and Giannis had as much – or more – to contribute. Giannis was soon the voice of instruction. He had experience training soldiers, and that experience was more valuable than Swan’s youthful passion or Di Brescia’s tempered training.

  The whole might have been riotous, or salacious – perhaps both together – except that the three women were so very serious.

  Irene was merely annoyed when a slap to her knuckles from Di Brescia’s sword drew blood. Violetta took a cut to her right calf that caused her to hobble in the cold air, and made her angry. Andromache avoided injury but was patently afraid of the weapons and yet as eager to learn.

  They played in the courtyard until the light left the sky, by which time all three women could adequately hold a sword, slap an attack away, and respond – too slowly – with a counter. The men finished with some bouts, and except for one heart-stopping moment when Di Brescia’s new right leg lunge almost resulted in Swan taking a blade through his eye, the fighting was pretty and safe.

  The women had all worn hose and heavy linen shirts under their kirtles and gowns. Now they made themselves respectable again, and the men gathered in a huddle and agreed that they should have dinner.

  ‘Can we dine with the ladies?’ Swan asked.

  Di Brescia vanished and returned smiling. ‘With money, all things are possible,’ he said.

  It was cold in the courtyard, and they moved into the tavern’s main room – low ceilinged, with rafters of ancient oak and hams and sausages everywhere, smelling of Eastern spices and male sweat. The ‘house’ had a pair of trulls, the lowest form of prostitutes except those who plied their trade against the churches – hard-faced young women from the country – and a pair of bruisers whose fac
es suggested they were from the same town. The only other people in the main room were some Florentines, a single French soldier and the fat innkeeper and his wife, both busy over-managing the handful of staff.

  ‘I’ve arranged dinner and some music,’ Di Brescia said.

  The food was excellent, utterly belying the appearance of the place – and explaining the wealthy Florentine party’s presence. While they ate, one of the bruisers produced a lute and began to play. Di Brescia arranged things with the innkeeper, who waited on them in person, and Di Brescia introduced each dish – the cappelletti alla cortigiana, the panunto con provatura fresca, the fine sweet Barolo wine after four bottles of Tuscan sunshine. He took charge of dinner as effectively as Giannis had taken charge of the swordplay.

  The bruiser played like Apollo come to earth, as the Greeks commented, and Violetta leaned against Swan. ‘It is like seeing gold appear from dung,’ she whispered.

  The three women had their veils off to eat, and the French soldier was moved to cross to their table. But after an exchange with Giannis, he shrugged agreeably – perhaps convinced that the ladies had defenders – and went back to his wine.

  After the table was cleared, the landlord brought them another pitcher of his heavy spiced wine, and Violetta clapped her hands together. ‘Let’s dance,’ she said.

  Everyone in the tavern agreed to that. Even as Di Brescia had taken charge of the dinner, so Violetta was instantly the mistress of the dance, and she included the trulls, the innkeeper’s wife …

  ‘Let’s do a bassadura. Let’s do Damnes. It’s new!’ she said. And proceeded to teach them the latest dance at the court of Milan. The women – even the Greek women – knew the steps – ripresa, continenze, mezza volta and the rest of the international repertoire of dance steps. Now it was the men who were the students, and the women who taught, and it was obvious from their tone that the men had been pedantic and patronising about swordplay. Swan thought – and not for the first time – how similar dance was to swordsmanship, while Violetta bossed him unmercifully.