Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople tsathosg-3

by Christian Cameron

  Swan went from walking to a stumbling, shuffling jog. Two arrows passed close to him, but the Turks were now concentrating all their arrows on the Spaniard, and all that came his way were overshots.

  He managed to run.

  The bishop lay unmoving. The head of St George lay in the middle of the street, wrapped in his armet.

  He couldn’t think of rescuing either of them, right now. Instead, he passed the bishop, got a hand up, and seized the bridle of the horse standing by the corpse of the first man Giannis had killed. Without breaking stride he vaulted into the saddle, gathered the reins, and leaned way out over the horse’s neck.

  ‘No! Thomas!’ yelled Alessandro at his back.

  I got them all into this, Swan thought.

  He pointed the head of the Turkish horse at the enemy, pressed his spurless heels into her sides and rolled his weight forward over her neck. She got the message and leaped into a gallop. Swan finally got the reins under his buckler hand and concentrated on holding on with his knees.

  He kept his buckler up near his head.

  He heard the flat crack as Giannis discharged another bolt.

  And then he was on them, although his mare was suddenly sluggish – she slowed from a gallop to a canter, and he couldn’t make her turn. His buckler slammed into an archer’s hands as he raised his bow, and Swan almost lost his seat cutting across his body to get the man – a weak blow that nonetheless mangled his opponent’s bow-arm.

  Swan had never actually fought from horseback before.

  The second Turk loosed at him from a horse length away, and the arrow went through the outer rim of his buckler, passed up the length of his arm, and cut into his neck. Swan was again forced to cut across his body because his damned horse wouldn’t turn – he missed his cut, but by sheer luck the mare’s stumble and the alignment of his point spitted his opponent on his sword, and the man grabbed the blade in his neck with both hands and ripped it from Swan’s grasp.

  At that moment, Swan’s horse, shot by a dozen arrows, subsided to the ground. Swan fell and hit the ground gently enough, but now he lost his buckler too.

  He rolled to his feet.

  There was dust everywhere, and they couldn’t see him, and he had trouble finding them, even a horse length away. He drew the dagger from his hip, ran three steps and threw himself at a man who was looking the other way in the dust. The dagger went home in the man’s back and Swan dragged him from his saddle, but instead of a clean kill and possession of the man’s horse, Swan found himself pinned under the falling man, his feet still caught in his stirrups, and the horse wheeling around them like the equine rim of a human wheel. Swan let go in disgust and fell backwards, and the horse bolted, the corpse of the dead man jolting obscenely behind.

  Swan just sat in the swirling dust. It was as if he was a puppet and his strings had been cut. He couldn’t seem to get to his feet.

  But the Turks – the survivors – had given the fight up as a bad job, and ridden free. They’d cantered away north, to the next major intersection almost a stadion away. Even as Swan tried to watch them amid the dust and his own fatigue, he saw the first of their arrows winging towards him.

  It missed.

  He began to crawl back towards the bishop. Then he realised that his most prized possession – the count’s sword – was lying pinned under a dead Turk. He turned and crawled like a baby to the man’s corpse. His hands were still locked around the blade.

  Swan got his feet under him and rose.

  Arrows began to sink into the street around him.

  He got his hands on the hilt and pulled. He wiped it on the dead man’s kaftan, and sheathed it.

  And, out of pure stubbornness, he took the man’s curved dagger and his belt purse. Only then did he lurch into an exhausted run. It was only a hundred paces back to the bishop, but it seemed like an English country mile. Men were shouting – another of the Venetian marines was loosing arrows, and arrows were falling around him. The Spaniard slumped to his knees and then fell to the ground.

  The bishop rose to his knees and lifted his pectoral cross. The second marine took a Turkish arrow in his shoulder and fell. The sailor who had carried the head lay unmoving. Even as Swan stumbled up, Alessandro lifted the Spaniard over his shoulder – the man must have been hurt worse than had at first appeared. And Giannis snapped another shot at the now-distant Turks and slung his crossbow.

  ‘Bishop!’ croaked Swan.

  Giannis saw what he wanted and went to the bishop.

  Swan got his hands on the armet. The tight-wrapped cloth inside the helmet looked intact.

  He shuffled towards the market.

  Giannis got the bishop on to his shoulder and followed him.

  Cesare joined the Greek and took the man’s legs, and they ran in a sort of sideways shuffle towards the fountain.

  North along the avenue, Swan could see a man in a plumed turban on a fine bay horse. He was at the head of a squadron of Turks – perhaps a hundred. He had a horse-tail riding whip in his hand, and he used it to gesture – at them.

  Swan placed his helmet carefully on the ground, picked up the Spaniard’s abandoned bow, fitted an arrow from a Turk’s nearby quiver, and took a deep breath.

  ‘Swan!’ roared Alessandro.

  They had the bishop at the edge of the fountain.

  He raised the bow. The range was extreme – two hundred paces, at least.

  He drew the nock of the arrow all the way to his own ear, as his uncles had taught him. It felt odd with the small Turkish bow, but it seemed to pull very much the way the bows of his youth pulled. Heavy. But beautifully balanced.

  He raised the sharp, barbed point of the arrow twelve fingers above Omar Reis’s head. He compensated for the breeze, let out a little breath, and loosed, his hand flying from the string as in a dramatic plucking of a harp.

  He ignored the shouts of his companions and watched the fall of his shot, because it felt right. An archer knows.

  The arrow rose high over the streets of the ancient city, and then, like one of Idris’s falcons, it fell.

  The Wolf of Thrace and his horse fell silently, two hundred paces away. The horse kicked, and dust flew, and Swan could see no more. He turned, scooped up the helmet, and ran.

  ‘I got him!’ he whooped like a boy when he caught Alessandro.

  ‘Got who?’ asked the Venetian.

  ‘I put an arrow in Omar Reis!’ He laughed.

  Alessandro looked at him in disgust. ‘If you have done such a foolish thing, they will hunt us to the ends of the earth,’ he said wearily. ‘Now lead us through your sewers.’

  There was no further pursuit.

  In an hour, the exhausted and bedraggled survivors were in the Venetian quarter. Swan was pissing blood; the Spaniard had an arrow in his left thigh that the Venetian quarter barber-surgeon refused to touch, and Alessandro sent him on his way. A sailor was dead; another of the marines badly wounded with an arrow in the shoulder, and all of the men-at-arms were virtually unable to move from exhaustion.

  The two Venetian galleys were on their way, halfway across the Golden Horn. The sun was setting. But north and west of the Venetian galleys, half a dozen Turkish galleys were crossing their lateen yards and making ready for sea.

  The bishop had been pinked by two arrows, and was badly bruised by rocks and clods of earth, and despite that, he was everywhere, hobbling on a makeshift crutch, full of spirit – almost cheerful.

  Alessandro watched him.

  ‘Not what I expected,’ Swan said carefully. Alessandro seemed to blame him for the whole incident.

  But the Venetian shrugged. ‘He has surprised himself,’ said the Italian. ‘He is braver than he thought, and a better man. It has made him . . . happy. I have seen this before.’ He managed a rueful smile. ‘Perhaps never such a volte-face as this, but still . . .’

  Cesare was downing a cup of wine. ‘Christ, what if we had to like him?’

  The Venetian bailli entered the yard of the i
nn and began to shout at the bishop.

  Alessandro still had his armour on. He waved at the rest of the party. ‘Get your kit to the wharf. Now. Immediately. The bailli is threatening to hand us over to the Turks.’

  Swan was on his way to his room when he realised that the small boy standing at the open front door of the inn was familiar. The boy brightened when he saw Swan.

  ‘King David is looking for you. At the gate!’ he said. And off he ran, in the way of small boys.

  Swan thought about it.

  Isaac might have something useful to say. He would certainly have a packet of his letters for Venice.

  Or he might have a party of Turks – or even a dozen mercenaries, to take Swan alive, and hand him to Omar Reis, if he lived.

  I don’t have to do this, Swan thought.

  So he went. He was in armour, with his sword at his side. His buckler was lost.

  There was no janissary at the gate. Instead, there was Isaac.

  ‘How did you escape?’ Isaac asked as soon as Swan appeared.

  ‘I have some tricks,’ Swan said wearily. ‘I shot Omar Reis.’

  ‘You killed Omar Reis’s horse,’ Isaac said.

  Swan laughed. Perhaps it was the fatigue, or the heat, or the wine, but he laughed and laughed, and he couldn’t stop, like a small child. Isaac shook his head.

  ‘The Turks will be here in a few minutes, to demand you be handed over,’ he said. He pointed across the square, where Yellow Face was obvious by an ancient archway. ‘I have to know. How – how exactly – did you get out of Bessarion’s house? I had watchers, and you eluded them.’

  Swan rubbed his beard. ‘Trade secret, which I will sell you. Can you delay the Turks by an hour?’

  Isaac gestured at himself with both hands. ‘I? A mere Jew?’ He shrugged.

  Swan waited.

  Isaac rocked his head back and forth. ‘Ah. Perhaps I could at that.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I think they want you to get away. I think they have decided to use you as an . . . incident. If they catch you – that might be inconvenient for them as well.’ He handed Swan a heavy packet. ‘My letters for Venice. And my cousin Simon’s, as well. He did not, as it turned out, sell you to the Turks.’ The Jewish merchant nodded. ‘There is a letter in that packet addressed to you. Lord Idris brought it to my brother. In person.’

  ‘Good Christ,’ Swan said.

  ‘Omar Reis will want you dead, even if his master Mehmet has decided to let you go,’ Isaac said. ‘Nonetheless, I can purchase you an hour of time.’

  Swan reached into the leather bag he wore at his shoulder, and took out his tablet of paper, and tore off his map of the sewers and conduits. He handed it to Simon with a bow – he didn’t have the power in his muscles for a flourish. ‘They don’t all link up,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought they would. But you can pass from one to another without being noticed, if your hunters don’t know where to look.’

  Isaac was looking at the map. ‘These aren’t streets—’ he said slowly.

  ‘Sewers. The ancient cisterns. That’s my map.’ Swan leaned back against the gate to the Venetian quarter.

  Isaac laughed. ‘You know the sewers?’ he asked. He shook his head. ‘Hug my cousin Balthazar for me. Pass that packet on, and he will see you rewarded, I promise. You have been . . . most entertaining, Messire Swan.’

  Swan embraced the man, who seemed surprised to be embraced – but they kissed each other’s cheeks, and Isaac chuckled. ‘Go with God, Frank,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks!’ Swan said, and ran back through the gate.

  ‘Wait!’ Isaac called. ‘Where did Bessarion’s library go? And what if I find you more books?’

  Swan waved.

  They boarded Nike in minutes – the men in their armour, the embassy boarding with greatly reduced baggage. Bags went straight to the hold under the rowers’ feet, and Swan took a moment to grab an old, open-faced bascinet from the Venetian guardhouse and put it on his head.

  Alessandro came and stood by him at the edge of the command deck. ‘Where – exactly – are we picking up this boat?’ he asked.

  Swan pointed a mile down the European shore of the Horn. ‘Right at the point.’

  Ser Marco grunted. ‘Where the currents are the worst. Nonetheless – any Venetian knows those waters. That is where Dandalo stormed the city.’

  Claudio, the surgeon, was already at work on the Spaniard before they were under way. And north of them, three Turkish galleys left their docks and started down the Horn towards them in the failing light.

  Alessandro turned and spoke to Ser Marco. ‘Omar Reis will stop at nothing to get us,’ he said.

  Ser Marco fingered his beard and looked at the sky and the sea. He spat over the side. ‘A Turkish ship? Catch me?’ He smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

  And then the bow was clear of the Venetian quay, and they were in the current, moving south, and east.

  ‘I wish . . .’ Swan said, and Alessandro looked at him.

  ‘You wish?’ he asked.

  ‘I wish I’d thought to send a decoy,’ Swan said. ‘Another ship, waiting on the south side of the city. In the old imperial docks.’

  Alessandro laughed. ‘That will have to wait until next time,’ he said.

  Swan looked at the Turkish squadron coming down the current behind them. ‘I don’t plan to come back,’ he said. ‘Ever.’

  Of course, in the same breath he said that, he thought of the letter from Idris. And possibly, Khatun Bengül.

  He sighed.

  The mile passed very quickly.

  He was in the bow, watching. From a little less than half a mile, he could see the water gate. Closer in, he could see fishing boats along the point, and at a quarter of a mile, he could see that there was activity near the gate.

  There were too many boats, too close to the gate.

  He wondered if they were there ahead of him.

  How could they be?

  Even Isaac hadn’t had time to sell him yet.

  At two hundred yards, he saw that all the boats he was looking at were far too big.

  At a hundred yards, he saw the tiny cockleshell which was their rowing boat. It was emerging from the gate – a tiny, low thing, with too much aboard. Nikephorus was lying atop the canvas sheet, and the rest of them – including Peter – were slipping into the water. The waves tossed the little boat dreadfully.

  Swan ran aft along the companionway that passed between the rowers amidships.

  ‘That’s my boat!’ he said to Ser Marco.

  ‘That little thing?’ Ser Marco grunted. His eyes flicked up to the darkening sky. ‘We’ll tow her under if we throw her a line at this speed.’ Louder, he said to his timoneer, ‘Back your oars!’ He leaned over to the helmsman. ‘Lay me alongside that little boat. Don’t swamp it.’

  The Venetian’s seamanship was incredible. The helmsman turned the ship – a minute turn, but one that allowed the hull to pass directly alongside the little rowing boat that bobbed in the current. It passed under the oars. A sailor at the first oar-port passed a rope to Nikephorus, who took it awkwardly – but he caught it. The oars remained stationary in the water, holding the Venetian galley in place, even as the current moved both boats together, out to sea.

  Behind them, the three Turkish ships began to gain on them.

  The acrobats clearly had had a plan of their own, because Irene appeared from the water with a coil of rope around her waist, and climbed over the ram – glitteringly naked, to the rapt admiration of the Arsenali. As soon as she belayed her rope, her comrades followed her – Andromache, followed by Constantios’s heavily muscled form, followed by Peter, who all but bounced up the side, and last of all, Apollinaris. By then, Swan was in the bows, giving each a hand as they came over the box that housed the marines in combat.

  Alessandro gallantly threw oarsmen’s cloaks over the women. The oarsmen themselves applauded.

  Amidships, a pair of sailors manhandled Nikephorus aboard.

  Astern in the setting
sun, the Turkish galleys were almost in bowshot.

  Swan got Apollinaris up the side, and then turned and ran aft again. Nikephorus was aboard, and dry.

  He had a bag in his hand.

  Behind him the sailors were pitching bags from the small boat up on to the deck of the galley.

  The first Turkish arrows began to fall, and Ser Marco turned to Swan. ‘What’s in the boat? The truth, now.’

  Another bag came up the side.

  ‘Cardinal Bessarion’s library,’ Swan said.

  Ser Marco nodded. ‘Give way, all!’ he roared, and the great oars bit the water. He looked aft, where the Turkish galleys were flying at them. ‘I love books,’ he said. His eyes met Swan’s. ‘But I love my oarsmen more.’

  At their feet, the small boat – still attached to the galley by two ropes – seemed to skip along with the Venetian ship. The sailor who had been aboard throwing sacks leaped clear, and caught himself on one of the oar-ports – got a foot inboard, and then swung up and over the gunwale, as agile as an African monkey.

  More than half of the cardinal’s collection was still in the boat.

  Plato.

  Aristotle.

  Menander.

  Epictetus and Aeschylus. A play by a Greek named Phrynichus, who had witnessed the fall of Miletus. A hundred poems by Sappho. The sayings of Heraklitus. A work on mathematics by Pythagoras.

  Even as Swan watched, the Venetian ship gathered speed – and the two ropes towing the small boat began to skew her course.

  He was still considering making the jump when Alessandro’s strong right arm pinned him to the gunwale. ‘No you don’t, you fool!’ Alessandro shouted.

  Swan squirmed.

  The bow of the little boat buried itself in a wave.

  Almost instantly, the boat filled – just as a sailor cut the tow. The rowing boat tipped once, took another wave directly under Swan’s eyes – and sank.

  The sacks – leather sacks, carefully tied – floated for a few moments. Long enough for Peter to seize a marine’s partisan, lean far out over the stern, and catch one. It hung from the point of the spear for a long moment, and the spear caught the last of the sun – and then Peter whipped the spear up over his head with all his strength, and the bag, flung as if by a trebuchet, passed over the stern and landed in the middle of the ship.