Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Two

by Christian Cameron

  Swan realised that he had heard of this man – Leon Alberti. He turned and bowed in the man’s direction. ‘Maestro Alberti, the architect?’ he asked the demoiselle.

  The demoiselle shook her head in frustration. Ignoring his question, she asked ‘Why are you not panting for me by now?’

  Swan sighed. He was, in fact. Every heartbeat or two, his eyes tried to move to her luminous ivory skin and her deep gold hair. The hollow between her breasts – his eyes wanted to check to see that it was still as he remembered it.

  He kept his eyes fixed on her father. ‘Where is the ring of the conqueror?’ he asked. He turned to look at her as he said it, so he caught the flinch.

  She tossed her head. ‘Ah, jewels catch your attention, not … lovers.’

  Alberti had stepped forward and unrolled a great parchment, and was lecturing. He had a beautiful, fully mature voice and he spoke brilliantly. He was going through the lord’s horoscope in detail – but quietly.

  Swan found that now he was looking at the demoiselle, he couldn’t take his eyes away. ‘You stole something of great value to my master,’ he said. He had meant his voice to be hard, and threatening, but the result was more the whine of a disappointed dog.

  She frowned. ‘I did nothing of the kind,’ she said. Her collarbones looked as if they had been carved by a sculptor – he wanted to touch them.

  He found that his voice still worked and followed his orders. ‘You stole the ring from the cardinal’s study and then hid in my room,’ he said. ‘I would like it back.’

  ‘Perhaps, if you behave yourself,’ she said. ‘You have … things I need.’ She smiled.

  Alberti was coming to his main points – his whole body was tensed like a swordsman’s.

  ‘You can be very helpful to my father,’ the demioselle said quietly. ‘I will see to it that you know which side you are on.’

  Swan looked away. ‘You used me,’ he spat.

  ‘I have scarcely begun to use you, lover,’ Iso said. She made a motion with her hand. ‘Come to me tonight and I will use you again.’

  ‘Your father will have me killed,’ he hissed.

  She made a face, as if annoyed, not with him, but with someone over his shoulder. ‘I must have miscast my spell, Tommaso. You should be willing to die to possess me. Do you remember? Me?’ she asked, leaning forward. She curved her body and her arm – it was more suggestive then all the false fluttering of every whore Swan had ever seen. It was …

  Beautiful.

  Swan made himself swallow, and forced himself to think of the darkness – the dagger – the crushing of a man’s skull. His own private hell. His heart raced.

  ‘No,’ Swan said. ‘I can’t say that I do.’ He stepped away.

  ‘Come to me tonight or I’ll strip you of your balls – for good,’ she spat.

  Swan was all but reeling as he stepped away from the demoiselle. He had enough sense to see that Alberti had stopped talking and that there was a palpable tension in the hall. He stumbled to the curio cabinet in a fog of suppressed lust, fear and nightmare trauma – all self-inflicted. But his passion for the past, and the things of the past, steadied him – even through the haze of his desire for Iso, he couldn’t help but admire the bust of Seneca, the little tray of Egyptian cartouches …

  He picked one up to study it.

  ‘You know what that is? I suppose you do – I understand you know Cyriaco of Ancona. You know that the cognescenti in Rome think that hieroglyphs are a primal language?’ Alberti smiled and went on. ‘Imagine – instead of memory palaces and memorisation and careful reading of our script, you could read another man’s real thoughts directly through pictographs.’

  ‘Imagine,’ Swan said. He knew the theory. He suspected he knew more about it than Alberti did, but the man went on as if determined to be as patronising as he could manage.

  ‘Too many of the humanists don’t even recognise Egypt. Or they think that Egypt’s civilisation is debased, or late, when I think it pre-dates Greece and Rome, too.’ He looked at Swan as if waiting for applause.

  ‘You are Maestro Alberti, the architect?’ Swan asked. He bowed.

  ‘I am so much more than an architect. Just as you are much more than a hired thug.’ Alberti returned the bow. ‘I mean a compliment.’

  Swan had to smile – as one smug bastard to another. ‘Truly, Maestro, I meant no insult. My master, Bessarion, thinks very highly of you. So does Della Rovere, his chaplain.’

  ‘I am intensely gratified to here it,’ Alberti admitted. ‘I long to return to Rome. You do know Cyriaco?’

  ‘I met him last year,’ Swan admitted. ‘We share a common passion for these trifles, and I confess I am nothing but his merest student when it comes to their acquisition.’

  Alberti nodded. ‘You speak like a gentleman, which pleases me. I’m sorry, I had no idea what to expect – the tales I hear of you from the demoiselle are lurid tales of killing, red with blood.’

  Swan felt himself flush. He glanced around and saw Malatesta watching him.

  Alberti went on, ‘I think that you are more a risk-taker than my friend Cyriaco ever was. More the man of action. I gather it is to you we owe the ring of the conqueror.’

  Swan flushed – this time with pleasure, pleasure mixed with annoyance, of course.

  Alberti nodded, as if pleased to see his compliment received. ‘As a hermetical device, the ring is worth ten of the Head of Saint Andrew that the Pope is so anxious to acquire. And as great as the Head of Saint George, which you also … acquired.’ Alberti suddenly looked less like a harmless pedant and more like the Wolf.

  Swan weighed his options, and made his wager. ‘You know that the ring has been stolen from my master?’ he said.

  Alberti paled. He placed a hand on his heart. ‘You kill me! Who would do such a thing?’ He shook his head. ‘The Turk?’

  Swan had no idea of Alberti’s position with the Wolf, nor could he decide whether Alberti’s surprise was real or feigned. He just didn’t know the man well enough, and Alberti, with his pepper-and-salt hair and long robes, was the very image of the magus or the maestro – ascetic and inscrutable. So he bowed. ‘The cardinal seeks it everywhere,’ he said.

  If Alberti knew of its theft, his powers of acting were themselves immortal. He scowled and shook his head. ‘As he should. It is a mighty weapon in the hands of the wise.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you any idea?’

  Swan frowned. ‘I have to assume it was the Orsini,’ he lied smoothly. ‘They had agents in the palace and the church the night – the last night – of the election.’

  Alberti fingered his short beard. ‘Yes. I heard it was bad. Romans are now the merest barbarians.’

  ‘It was like war,’ Swan said with conviction.

  Alberti’s eyes locked on Swan’s, and Swan wondered whether the man could read his mind. The intelligence – and Swan was quite proud of his own – the intelligence burning in the man’s eyes was all but demonic.

  ‘Don’t tell me you are here looking for the ring!’ Alberti said.

  Swan wondered what his own stars said about this day. He wanted to stumble away as he had from the Demoiselle Iso. ‘Why ever would you ask such a thing?’ Swan said with what he hoped was smooth amusement.

  But Alberti was a great mind. ‘Because our men-at-arms were in your master’s house,’ he said. ‘I know they were – I even asked Montorio, the most conversable of them, about Bessarion’s study and what books he had.’

  Swan decided that this was a moment to shut up and listen. He made an interested noise.

  ‘And I suspect – ah, Englishman …’ Alberti looked away and then back. ‘Would you meet with me?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Send me a message by the crooked stable boy,’ Swan said. He wasn’t sure why he was willing to take a risk with Alberti, but the man was famous and he needed commissions in Rome.

  Alberti glanced at the demoiselle. ‘That bitch,’ he said carefully, and then looked at Swan. Very car
efully, he said, ‘Anything from me will be marked with this.’ He showed Swan a tiny eye in the Egyptian hieroglyphs.

  This revealed two things to Swan. One was that Alberti was one of Cyriaco’s contacts. He knew the eye symbol from the old man’s notebooks. The other was that Alberti feared the Demoiselle Iso.

  Swan realised he was in a very subtle game indeed, and he fought the urge to smile. ‘Eh?’ he asked.

  Alberti nodded. ‘I see. Later.’ He bowed deeply – it seemed a genuine bow. Swan returned it.

  Alberti swept away as if he, not Malatesta, was the lord of the hall. Swan watched him go and tried to regulate his breathing. It had been one of the most interesting evenings of his life, and needed to rest. And perhaps …

  He was considering the ways in which he might walk out of the hall with a good grace, trying to keep his eyes from meeting the Demoiselle Iso’s. But any attempt to take his leave was interrupted by the appearance of the lord’s children – five of them, two big boys and three girls. They were led in by their governess – a lady in a veil. The governess curtsied deeply and the children all made reverences to their father, who smiled and beamed like any affectionate parent.

  He pulled the eldest boy on to his lap and whispered in his ear, and the boy laughed and shot a fist in the air.

  The governess stepped away from the dais, and then, when no one spoke to her, stepped back again and almost fell across Swan’s knees. He caught her arms.

  Then he caught her strong right hand as she aimed a blow at him.

  ‘I mean no harm!’ he said.

  She stepped back, one hand raised. And then curtsied stiffly. ‘Ten thousand pardons, messire,’ she said in elegant northern Italian. ‘I am so used … that is, in this hall!’ She stepped away again.

  Her voice was lovely. So was something about her veiled figure. But as Swan stepped forward, she stepped back.

  ‘We have not been introduced,’ she said. Her voice held just a hint of apology. ‘I do not hold conversation with men in this hall.’ Her head bobbed again, and she walked away from him, back straight.

  ‘Ah, the governess,’ Montorio said. He appeared at Swan’s elbow as if by magic, and they exchanged friendly bows. Swan thought that, if Malatesta were to order him killed, he’d have Montorio do it. And he thought that would be odd – to die at the hands of a man he liked. But that was the business.

  ‘I feared for you for a moment,’ Montorio said.

  Swan made dismissive motion with his hand.

  ‘And again with the demoiselle,’ Montorio said, with a glance at the ivory back of his mistress. ‘May I ask you to be very … wary in that direction?’

  ‘I accept your warning,’ Swan said.

  ‘We call the governess Signora Fredda,’ Montorio said with a grin. ‘In fact, I think she just said more words to you than I’ve ever heard from her.’

  Swan laughed. ‘She only spoke to tell me she doesn’t speak to men.’

  Montorio frowned. ‘She is well born, and if she ever wishes to marry well, she musty be seen to be a virago.’ His eyes followed her. ‘I feel for her. I acknowledge she does the right thing, but…’

  Swan liked women, and he tried to put himself in their position – tried to consider the world from a woman’s point of view. He realised that Montorio was probably appreciating the governess’s world for the first time.

  Swan smiled. ‘I feel for her too. I suspect she would like some gentle conversation, after a day of children – if she thought she could have it without scandal.’

  Montorio looked at him. ‘You are a thoughtful bastard, for a killer.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘I need to go to bed,’ he said. ‘How do I take my leave of your lord without causing offencde? I see that people are going to dance.’

  ‘You need to stay for one or two dances,’ Montorio said. ‘He’s very touchy with guests.’ He shrugged and looked at Swan. ‘May I tell you something touching your honour? Truly, I mean no offence.’

  Swan nodded.

  ‘You are of the Order, and obviously a gentleman. And some say you are an English prince in disguise, and others say you are Bessarion’s assassin.’ He made a face. ‘My lord asked me if you were a servant or a lord, and honestly, I couldn’t tell him. As the captain of my lord’s men-at-arms, I’m sure this same conversation is had about me in many great halls, eh? So I mean no disrespect. But we do not know if you are guest, friend or foe. I put you out in the tower, not my lord. Please accept my apology.’

  Swan bowed. ‘Your honesty does you credit, Montorio! And I take no offence. I am not an assassin – but it is true. I solve problems for the cardinal, and some problems can only be solved with a sword.’ He shrugged. ‘Until collecting antiquities can be made a job …’ He smiled.

  Montorio did not meet his smile. ‘I note you do not declare yourself friend or foe,’ he said carefully.

  Swan watched his hands. Odd to like a man, and know that despite mutual liking, the possibility of conflict—even death--was all right there. Several men in the hall wore swords.

  Musicians were coming in. Chairs were fetched. Swan found his eyes locked on Montorio’s.

  ‘I give my word I mean you and your lord no harm at all,’ he said. He noted that Alberti was slipping from the hall towards the courtyard – and he further noticed that the Demoiselle Iso was watching Alberti intently.

  Montorio’s shoulders relaxed. ‘You please me greatly.’

  Swan didn’t always relish honesty, but he’d survived a hard night with this man. ‘We may still have a problem,’ he said, and his eyes returned to the demoiselle. She was turning to the music, and her beauty pierced him the way he thought Montorio’s dagger might have – but even as he watched, she flicked a glance at her father and stepped behind a curtain. He looked back at the captain.

  Montorio’s head went back in sudden understanding. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You should take care, then.’

  ‘I mean her no harm,’ Swan hurried to add. ‘But there is an issue. I may say no more.’

  Both men bowed. And for the first time in the evening, Swan felt himself breathe. He had judged the balance correctly.

  Or else he was going to get a cold knife in the back.

  He went towards the dais. As soon as Malatesta saw him, he smiled – Swan guessed some signal had been passed. The Wolf nodded politely. ‘Do you dance, Suane?’ he asked.

  Swan bowed. ‘A little, my lord. And badly.’

  The Lord of Rimini sat back. ‘I wish you would talk like a man. What you mean is that you think yourself a fine dancer.’ He nodded. ‘My daughter here wishes to dance with you.’

  Swan smiled. He couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘But I’d rather see you dance with this tall drink of water, my son’s governess. The soldiers call her Signora Fredda – eh? Isn’t that true, Montorio?’ The Wolf laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh.

  ‘My lord has asked me to dance before, and I have been forced to decline, with nothing but—’

  The Wolf ignored her. ‘She will dance or I will have her flung in the street,’ he said, in a cold, offhand manner. ‘She needs to know that I am the lord of her body.’

  The governess stumbled as if she had been struck.

  Swan realised that the Lord of Rimini was very drunk.

  He turned and bowed very low to the governess, as if she were a duchess or a countess or the Pope in skirts. ‘My lady,’ he said. ‘As my lord has ordered it, would you do me the extreme kindness of dancing with me?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘I promise to do my best not to ruin your shoes,’ he said loudly enough to carry everywhere in the hall. ‘But I certainly understand your hesitation.’

  She made a noise somewhere between a sob and a choked laugh. And she returned his bow with a curtsy. She said something, but it was lost in her veil.

  Swan pivoted. ‘What will we dance?’ he asked.

  The demoiselle’s eyes were as hot as coals.

  The Lord of Rimini wasn’t eve
n watching. ‘I care not, as long as I am obeyed,’ he said.

  Montorio bowed to the Demoiselle Iso. The two boys each bowed to their sisters. Others among Rimini’s courtiers gathered partners from the handful of women in the hall.

  Swan could see through the governess’s veil. She was biting her lip.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Fredda,’ she spat.

  The music began.

  It was a dance Swan knew well, having practised it a hundred times with Violetta, the saltarello. He could do it beautifully – he could pivot his hips, rise on his toes, and thrust his long legs in perfect time to the music. It had several lewd moments, and Swan was quite sure it had been chosen to humiliate the governess.

  He suspected that defending the governess would gain him no concessions with the Lord of Rimini, and would infuriate his daughter. So the path he chose gave him a perverse pleasure. He could all but hear Alessandro’s laughter, although the man was hundreds of leagues away.

  Swan knew how to dance the saltarello beautifully. He also knew how to dance it like a clown. He’d made Violetta fall to her knees, helpless with giggles, on several occasions – usually by aping people they knew in the privacy of their tiny rooms in Ancona.

  Swan began the dance in perfect time, and began to slight his performance only in the third measure. He pretended to be drunk. He stumbled – just to the music – and almost fell – just to the music – and when Montorio took his partner and leaped, Swan tripped over the governess’s innocent feet and rolled under them – perfectly in time to the music.

  Alberti roared his laughter. Swan was not surprised that the artist was the first to see his jibe for what it was. He rolled to his feet, inches from his partner’s nose, and she stumbled back.

  He caught her outflung wrist and pulled her with a snap that put her back into the pattern and caused the lord to laugh.

  Someone said, ‘He’s drunk!’ and there were giggles and guffaws.

  It was coming time in the pattern for him to raise his own partner – passing between two other couples to steal her. He was quite sure that this was the moment the lord wanted – the staid governess in her demure clothes swept off her feet and perhaps unsettled.