Perhaps Dragi would be able to help? Maybe it was time to leave a message for him?
They had not seen their friend since their arrival, the Romani sailor closeted away in the Ducal Palace with Kemal Reis, involved in complex trade and treaty negotiations, but the man had left them a message a few days ago, telling them not to expect departure until mid or late April. Rather than suffer so many weeks of languor, the pair had decided upon a course of action.
Skiouros took a pull of his cup of wine and smiled to himself as he realised he was sitting at the very table at which he had first spoken to their Romani friend. He’d not known who he was at the time, of course. The man had just been some itinerant Romani vagrant with an outspoken manner and a strange – ridiculous even – accent, which Skiouros now knew to have been affected for the benefit of performance. Dragi was a consummate assumer of roles, and had a personality and tone that seemed to fluctuate to fit the situation. Skiouros was pretty sure that if he lived to be a hundred, he would still never really know the man.
Parmenio, sitting opposite, nodded slightly towards the street. ‘Hello. Here we go.’
The two men kept their gazes casually out on the street as a shabby man with a slight limp strode past the table in the open-fronted tavern and on up the street, a small, folded piece of paper fluttering to the table-top in his wake and settling between the two wine cups in the bowl of olives.
‘I wasn’t made for all this clandestine stuff,’ Parmenio grumbled, prodding at his midriff – still surprisingly ample considering the privations of a sea voyage – as a hungry murmur issued from it.
Skiouros nodded sympathetically. Of course, clandestine stuff was very much what he was made for, but he’d believed that part of his life to be behind him now, for all that Dragi had hinted at further, darker enemies lying in wait in his future. He was just a traveller returning home. And planning to steal a holy relic from a church. And track down a fugitive…
He opened the piece of paper and scanned the four words upon it.
Michele Testabianca – Lanterna Azzurro.
‘Do you know it?’ Parmenio enquired, indicating the paper.
Skiouros nodded. ‘The Blue Lantern, in the back streets towards the Rethymno gate. Never been in, but I’ve been past it occasionally and avoided a couple of fights outside it. Come on.’
The pair rose, threw down the last of their drinks and gathered their bags, stepping out into the street and heading southwest, deeper into the city.
Clandestine. A good word for it. Surprisingly so.
He and Parmenio had spent a few days in the city after they docked just getting their land legs once more. Skiouros had shown his friend around the parts of the city that he had known well during his sojourn here a few years back, for Parmenio had a sketchy knowledge of the city at best, his own experience largely limited to the port.
And then, upon discovering that they would still languish here until at least mid-April, Skiouros had decided that the time had come to try and find Diego. When they finally came to retrieve Lykaion’s head the assistance of the aloof, talented Spaniard could only be of help. Full of confidence and optimism, Skiouros had strolled into the tavern near the market where he had first met the swordsman and which remained a favourite of expatriates from Iberia. Wandering up to the counter with Parmenio in tow, he had smiled at the portly, grease-stained innkeeper and had asked after the whereabouts of the fencing master Don Diego de Teba.
He had been shocked at the sudden change in the owner’s demeanour. The man reacted as though he’d been asked to kiss the devil’s backside, recoiling and pointing past Skiouros, his eyes flashing. ‘Get out of my tavern!’ he’d snarled. Taken aback by the vehemence, Skiouros had done just that and, as he and Parmenio had stood in the alley next to the tavern, an old soak had tumbled out of the side door and accosted them.
‘Shhh,’ the man had said, crumbs and froth dripping from his face. ‘Askin’ after Teba can bring a man a heap o’ trouble.’
‘But why?’ Skiouros had managed.
‘Runaway, he is. Wanted by the guard. Every few days they rough up a few of us trying to find out where he is. You din’t know?’
Parmenio had shrugged. ‘We’ve only been on the island a couple of days. Just got in from Napoli.’
The man had nodded his understanding.
‘I knew him a few years back,’ Skiouros added. ‘He was my sword instructor.’
Again that nod, and more crumbs. ‘There are those as claim to know where he is, though they be secretive and dangerous folk.’
Skiouros had nodded and the pause stretched out expectantly, until the man widened his eyes and waggled his brows meaningfully.
‘Oh,’ Skiouros said suddenly, ‘of course.’ He’d gestured to Parmenio, who sighed and fished out his purse, selecting four gleaming coins, glancing briefly at the man and then sliding one back in before dropping the three into the hungry palm. The sot narrowed his eyes at Parmenio, but nodded.
‘Might take some days. Where you staying?’
Skiouros had replied easily and the man told him to sit tight at the tavern.
There had followed a week of tense waiting. Every few days the old man had wandered up to their table to let them know he’d had no luck yet and to fleece them of a new coin. Parmenio had been full of doubt. He’s just playing us. He’s draining our purse faster than the rent. Is this swordsman really worth all this fuss?
The truth was that Skiouros was experiencing the same doubts. But then, they had weeks to kill on Crete before departure and little else to fill the time. And while he was not at all sure what to make of this turn of events, he remembered the Spaniard’s skill as a match for Orsini – may God have mercy on the nobleman’s soul. If they were to attempt to retrieve a holy relic from the church, a master swordsman might just mean the difference between success and failure. Besides, Skiouros was still intrigued by the man, and felt for a fellow exile down on his luck.
And then yesterday, just when the pair had made the decision that they were being cheated and to cut the old man loose, he had dropped by for yet another coin, but had claimed to have found his lead at last. They should sit tight one more day, he’d said, and then they would have what they wanted.
Skiouros smiled as he made his way through the streets. It would be more than interesting to meet the Spaniard again and find out what had brought him to this situation. Half an hour later, he and Parmenio had passed through the city centre and made their way out towards the gate from which the road led along the coast west to Rethymno. Turning off the main street, they took a narrow alley to the right that sloped down towards the sea and lay deep in shade, three storeys of building to either side of a lane too narrow for a man to lie across. The white paint to reflect the heat was chipped and peeling all over this neighbourhood, but soon they emerged into a small square with a wilted-looking maple dominating the centre and overhanging a marble fountain formed from re-used ancient stonework.
The Lanterna Azzurro tavern occupied a wedge-shaped building between two streets that led off down to the north. If any single word could describe it, that word would be seedy. Skiouros had been past the place once or twice in his time, but had never had cause – nor the desire – to enter. He could easily imagine shady deals being made inside and occasionally bodies being carried back out. It occurred to him that he was about to experience the former. Hopefully he wouldn’t be experiencing the latter too.
Parmenio held his shoulder for a moment.
‘Are you sure this Spaniard is worth this?’
‘No,’ Skiouros smiled, and pushed open the door.
The Blue Lantern smelled like feet. Bad feet. Sick feet. The hazy atmosphere enveloped them in a reeking fug. Behind Skiouros, his friend made a gagging sound and pulled a stained kerchief up to cover his mouth and nose. He looked around. The source of the interesting atmosphere quickly became apparent: miscellaneous reeking meats were being smoked in a kitchenette that was only separated from the bar
by a wide arch. Three men crouched over a table playing dice by the light of a stinking, dribbling, dysentery-brown and poor quality tallow candle. An old man sat over a commode in one corner, flies buzzing around the bucket beneath the wooden seat as he groaned and strained in full view of the clientele.
Skiouros sauntered over to the bar, affecting a somewhat-false air of confidence, and nodded to the scarred barkeep. ‘I’m looking for Michele. Michele Testabianca?’ he asked in his best Italian.
The barkeep frowned at him suspiciously, but a swarthy-skinned, neatly-shorn and bearded man supping wine at the far end turned to them, hazel eyes gleaming unpleasantly in the dim light. The slight smile on the man’s face didn’t quite touch his eyes.
‘Who wants him?’ he replied in Venetian-accented Italian.
‘I’m looking for an old friend,’ Skiouros answered truthfully.
‘Anyone important?’
‘I am led to believe so.’ Skiouros glanced around and lowered his voice. ‘The fugitive De Teba.’
The man simply raised an eyebrow. ‘Who are you?’
‘Just an old friend.’
‘Let me see that sword.’
Skiouros frowned, drew his blade and held it out, hilt first. The bearded drinker looked down at it for a moment. ‘Not a soldier’s sword, that one.’
‘Appropriately so, since I’m no soldier.’
The man nodded and turned back to the bar. ‘Drink gets more expensive every year.’
Skiouros slid his blade back into the sheath. ‘True.’ Gesturing to Parmenio, he waited for the purse to open and then slid a coin onto the bar, ignoring his friend’s sour expression as he shook the purse meaningfully and then shut it.
‘Mamluk gold, eh? You’re certainly no soldier of Venice or Castille, then.’
‘No.’
‘That one will see me through a night’s warm oblivion. But what am I to do for the rest of the week?’
With narrowed eyes, Skiouros slid five more onto the bar. The man stacked the six coins, tapped a finger on the bar and turned a questioning gaze on Skiouros, who smiled. ‘And on the seventh day, Michele Testabianca rested.’
The man at the bar chuckled and reached out to collect the coins, but Parmenio’s large hand slapped down on top of his. The room suddenly felt tense and dangerous.
‘Where is our man,’ the Genoese sailor asked.
Testabianca shrugged. ‘Take the road out of the Rethymno gate and after about a mile and a half, you’ll reach a shrine by the roadside. Turn left there onto the trade road that crosses the island. The great market town of Moires is about twenty-five miles along that road, but five miles or so before that is the village of Agioi Deka. Near there is a ruined church dedicated to Saint Titus. Last I heard, your friend was using the church as a base. For your ongoing health, I recommend keeping this information to yourself.’
Skiouros nodded his thanks and stepped back from the bar. The strange atmosphere in the place was in no way lessened by the occupants who watched with guarded expressions as he and Parmenio left. As they emerged into the fresh air, Parmenio eyed a huddled shape on the ground opposite which could as easily be a corpse as a drunken vagrant, cleared his throat and turned a wary look on his friend.
‘You realise we could be walking straight into some nest of Cretan villains on the word of a man we don’t know and who, frankly, I cannot consider an openly trustworthy character? I’ll ask you once again: is your Spaniard worth this danger?’
Skiouros gave him a strange smile. ‘You might imagine Testabianca to be lying, but I don’t. Believe me, I’ve spent much of my life in dealings with men like him and if he were lying, I’d have known.’ He sucked in air through his teeth. ‘On the other hand, let’s be on our guard, eh? He may not have been lying about the details but there was something he wasn’t telling us, too.’
Parmenio’s expression confirmed how little this information consoled him.
‘I’m a sailor, not a walker, Skiouros. Twenty miles is a long way for a man used to a world only fifty feet long and twenty wide.’
Skiouros nodded. ‘He said we take the trade road to Moires. I remember hearing about it before. There’s supposed to be a lot of traffic on that route. A couple of coins apiece and we can probably hitch a ride on a marketer’s cart.’
‘Oh good. Off into the unknown with a lighter purse, a sore backside and a splinter or two.’
March 28th, on the trade road.
Skiouros and Parmenio dragged their heels as the sun’s last rays sank behind the hills to the west of the valley along which they trod wearily. Despite the renowned busyness of the road, they had tried to hitch a lift with the few carters they had encountered in the three hours since they’d left the city, and had failed each time. Two carters had informed them flatly that there was not room and they would not shift their cargo about for the kind of money the pair were offering. The third had given them a suspicious look and put his hand on the hilt of a knife at his belt before leading his cart away, watching them intently as he did so.
Then one of the locals they passed had told them that many carters used Voutes as a stop along the road, and they might well find a ride there, and so they had pressed on, intending to spend the night in this Voutes – a hamlet some seven miles up into the hills that formed the backbone of Crete. Ahead, they could see the village, all white houses and an ancient brown church, clinging to the ridge that separated this valley from the next. It was a welcome sight. Skiouros felt his tired spirits lift a little, and turned to Parmenio. ‘How many coins do we have left?’
‘Not enough. We can afford a snack and a barn maybe, as well as a cart-ride if we can find one.’
Skiouros nodded glumly.
‘Remove those swords very carefully, drop them to the ground, and kick them away.’
The pair stopped dead at the words, spoken in thick Cretan Greek by some unseen tongue. Skiouros’ hand went to the hilt of his sword.
‘Slowly,’ urged the voice again.
‘We have very little to rob,’ Skiouros said quietly and with genuine feeling as he gently eased his sword from its sheath, Parmenio mirroring the action next to him. He hadn’t yet decided whether the blade would fall or be brandished in defence, though he was already favouring the former. The disembodied voice held the confidence of a man with a small army at his back and fighting would probably be tantamount to suicide.
‘Then this should be quick,’ the voice replied, ‘though the swords alone will earn a pretty ducat or ten.’ As Skiouros’ blade cleared the mouth of the scabbard he hesitated, and a shadowy figure separated from the darkness beneath a juniper, a naked blade in each hand. Just as Skiouros expected, half a dozen others simultaneously emerged from the bushes and trees around them. Perhaps this was why the carters were less than pleased to see two armed men on the road?
‘If you leave us the swords, we will give you what else we have without a fight.’
The man coughed out a dark laugh.
‘Drop the blade or I will find somewhere new to sheathe it.’
Still Skiouros hesitated, and next to him he could see Parmenio in a similar state, waiting to see what his friend decided. The Genoese captain’s knuckles were white on his sword hilt.
‘What guarantee do we have that you will not simply kill us anyway?’
‘None,’ admitted the bandit leader, and the silence became a little more oppressive.
‘Last chance, little man. Cast your blade away or you’ll regret it.’
Skiouros felt helplessness tighten its grip on him as his fingers sweated into his hilt. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the sword defensively. The bandit took three steps forward, emerging from the gloom. He was ugly and unkempt, but clearly confident and strong. The man gestured to left and right with his blades, and the circle began to close around them. Parmenio hefted his sword ready, and cast a nervous glance at Skiouros.
‘Any last-minute bright ideas?’
Both men tensed, and Skiouros almost lost
control of his bowel at the sudden, heart-stopping sound of a crossbow string twanging taut. The bandit leader was suddenly thrown forward, hurled to the dusty ground at the pair’s feet, his swords clattering out to the sides as he bit down on the earth, three inches of a crossbow bolt standing proud from his spine.
‘Shiiiiiiiiit!’ breathed Parmenio, staring at the twitching body. The circle of thieves had stopped advancing and, as two more of them doubled over and collapsed on the ground to the soundtrack of a thwack and a whooshing thud, the rest began to melt away again into the shadows. Two of them managed to disappear into the undergrowth, but two more suddenly found themselves facing new figures closing in around them, crossbows now thrown over their shoulders and swords drawn. The panicked, desperate bandits were quickly and efficiently dispatched by the new arrivals. Skiouros and Parmenio watched in a strange mix of relief and bafflement as their rescuers finished off those on the ground, and four of them were sent off to hunt down the pair who’d escaped.
A man with the distinct air of a leader stepped towards them, wiping clean a bloody utilitarian sword and then sheathing it.
‘Scum,’ he noted, nudging the body of the bandit chief with his boot. ‘This lot have been causing trouble for some time. It’s rare a merchant travels without a weapon these days, and often they move in groups or hire guards. Perhaps things can return to normal now. Where are you bound?’
Parmenio opened his mouth to reply, but Skiouros shot him a concealed warning look as he spoke over the top. ‘To Voutes tonight. Then on to Moires to visit the holy men of Agios Andonis.’
‘Pilgrims? And not local,’ the man said, cocking his ear at Skiouros’ accent. The young Greek shook his head. Though these men wore travelling clothes with no insignia, he had seen enough soldiers and guards in his time to recognise the type.
Pasha's Tale Page 3
