‘No. I’m from the Morea, but Venetian lands are more comfortable than Ottoman ones,’ he answered calmly. ‘Lucky for us the trade road has protectors, eh?’
‘Extremely.’ The man straightened. ‘I would suggest you move on to Voutes as quickly as possible. There may be more of them out there yet. Find other travellers and join them. Safety in numbers, remember.’
Skiouros nodded as he sheathed his sword. ‘Again, my thanks,’ he said, and moved to the side, with Parmenio replacing his own blade and following suit. As the two men strode on up the dusty path towards the village ahead, the leader watched them with interest until they passed around the next bend.
‘You didn’t trust them?’ Parmenio murmured, glancing back over his shoulder.
‘Not particularly. Remember where we’re going. It pays to be careful. Convenient that they happened upon their prey just as we came along. Too convenient for my liking.’
‘What was that dung you were talking about holy men?’
Skiouros shrugged. ‘They’re real. Heard about them last time I was here. Hermits from Moires.’
Parmenio sighed. ‘Let’s get to Voutes and have a drink and a bite to eat, and look for a carter who’ll take us.
March 30th, Agioi Deka.
Skiouros and Parmenio stumped along the dusty road beneath brown, dry hills that rose to the north and endless olive groves marching off to the south like a twisted green army in the dirt. They had said farewell to the carter and his wife, who had transported them in relative comfort from Voutes, across the backbone of Crete and down to the southern lands, departing at the village of Agioi Deka half a mile back, where the couple would be staying the night before moving on to the great market of Moires. Despite the lateness of the day, with the sun now hovering like the sword of Damokles over the low hills that separated this place from the town ahead, the pair had decided to press on, since they were so close.
An ancient city had once stood here, as was attested by the crumbled walls that rose above the olive trees, the shattered aqueduct that they passed, perfectly-worked fluted columns lying ignored in hedgerows, and once-crucial civic fountain basins now used as agricultural water troughs. For more than half a mile they had passed these sad reminders of long-lost glory in the warm glow of evening, but soon, between the gnarled dry trees, they had caught sight of the monument that had to be their destination.
The ruined church stood beside a small stand of poplars and more of the ubiquitous olive trees. Formed of smooth limestone ashlar blocks it almost glowed in the setting sunlight, standing out clear among the undergrowth. Perhaps half the church remained standing – the eastern half close to the travellers – and other ancient civic ruins surrounding it spoke volumes as to its great age. Beyond, on the hillside, stood the ancient arc of a theatre, and the crumbled walls of a fortress crowned the summit.
Skiouros shaded his eyes against the golden orb ahead and peered at the ruins. It seemed such an odd place to find the swordsman. Diego de Teba had been the very epitome of the gentleman tutor, paying more heed to his dress and manners than to the baser side of wielding a blade. This place would have been so much more suitable to that group of bandits they had met on the road than to a nobleman, however exiled he might be. What had he done to fall foul of the authorities and end up in such a place? Skiouros had not wanted to enquire back in the city, for fear of provoking some kind of reaction, but the question nagged at him.
Parmenio seemed to have been experiencing similar thoughts.
‘What a shit hole. Not a place to seek a reputable teacher. Are you still sure you want to find this Diego fellow?’
Skiouros huffed. He might have been tempted to complain about his friend’s repeated grumbling on the subject, but in truth the man was right to question, given what they were going through, and Skiouros did indeed doubt the wisdom of this journey. With a sigh, he took from his pack one of the apples they had purchased from the carter along with other sundry morsels, and crunched into the sweet, juicy flesh.
‘No point in backing out now,’ he mumbled through his mouthful.
Ignoring the look on his friend’s face, Skiouros left the road and angled off between twisted trunks and towards the ruined church. Instinctively, his hand went to the hilt of the sword at his waist as he closed on the building, and Parmenio did the same. Carefully, Skiouros dropped the chewed apple core into soft grass as they advanced.
Some twenty yards from the church they paused and fell silent, listening carefully. Above the gentle sounds of nature and the trickle of water somewhere nearby, there was a faint scrabbling noise from the church and that tiny skittering of grit falling down stonework. Skiouros felt his heart beat faster and motioned to Parmenio to move quietly. Slowly, silently, they closed on the church and rounded the corner of a high side-aisle into the naos, only the eastern end of which still stood, covered with a perfect arched roof. Though there was no sign of life in the centre, a low, dark doorway led to one of the side-aisles, and Skiouros nodded at Parmenio before taking the lead and stepping towards the doorway.
‘Slowly draw your blade and toss it away,’ said a rough voice from behind them, almost a heart-stopping repeat of their encounter on the trade road. Skiouros spun round in surprise to see the dusty and dark figure of Don Diego de Teba immediately behind Parmenio, his fine sword at the Genoese sailor’s throat, the razor edge tickling his throat apple.
‘We’re not here for trouble,’ Skiouros said carefully.
‘Then lose the sword,’ Diego said, his blade drawing just a tiny bead of crimson from Parmenio’s neck.
‘One of the first things you taught me, de Teba, was that only a fool voluntarily disarms himself.’
The words had the desired effect, and the blade moved a fraction from the skin, allowing Parmenio to swallow at last. ‘Who are you?’ the Spaniard demanded quietly.
Skiouros smiled and spread his arms, sword still in hand. ‘Have I changed so much in three or four years?’
‘I taught you?’
Skiouros felt slightly crestfallen. ‘Well, yes.’
‘You’ll have to give me a clue, young man. I’ve trained a lot of people.’
‘I think I broke your toe when I stamped on it,’ Skiouros said quietly, and Diego’s face darkened with recognition.
‘The Greek boy. Skirris, is it?’
‘Skiouros, but yes.’ The man’s blade was still hovering close to his friend’s neck and showed no sign of further movement. ‘Is this necessary?’
‘Until you tell me why you’re here, yes.’
‘I’ve come seeking you.’
‘Why?’
Skiouros frowned. ‘That is actually a surprisingly good question. A landslide of reasons, I think. I was in your homeland a year or so after I last saw you. I hear that Teba is now the haunt of bandits and thieves. It’s something of a disappointment to come back to Crete to find that you seem to have followed that same path.’
‘I am no bandit. What do you want?’
‘To be honest, I have a task ahead of me for which I think I might need your help, but what’s certain right now is that we mean you no harm. Could you kindly lift the blade and let my friend go?’
There was a pause and finally de Teba removed the weapon from Parmenio’s throat and stepped aside. With a gesture to Skiouros, he strode off towards the arched apse of the church. Parmenio flashed Skiouros a dark look and they followed on as de Teba carefully cleaned off the tiny red mark from his blade and then slid it back into the scabbard.
‘How did this come about?’ Skiouros asked, indicating the church with a sweep of his arm.
The Spaniard’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then he sank to a stone block that, covered with a folded cloak, formed a seat. ‘I had an unfortunate disagreement with an employer. He took my refusal to obey his order blindly rather to heart, and was foolish enough to draw a blade on me in anger.’
‘You killed him?’
De Teba shook his head. ‘If I had, things mig
ht have been easier. He will take many years to retrain left-handed, though. And he will probably require help at his toilet in the coming years.’
Skiouros shook his head. ‘Who was this man?’
‘His name is Antonio Rizzi. He is ostensibly a nobleman and a distant cousin of the Duke of Candia. In reality he is a highborn criminal with no ethics or morals – a rich, landed thug, who is quite possibly also completely insane. I was working as one of his bodyguards, but there are some depths to which I will not stoop even in the most desperate of circumstances.’
‘How did you end up as a bodyguard? Surely teaching the sword is more lucrative? Certainly it’s safer.’
De Teba snorted. ‘It’s also a little dangerous to be so publically advertised when the Dominicans are busy looking around for anyone they consider worth burning. There is that in my lineage for which they would single me out. It seemed prudent to seek a position with some protection. Rizzi was well-placed enough that I needn’t fear the inquisition while in his employ. In retrospect, it seems that I avoided the black wolves by seeking refuge in the cave of a mad bear. And so I find myself a fugitive. I would be interested to know how you located me, though.’
Skiouros shrugged. ‘It wasn’t easy. Took us more than a week and quite a bit of coin. But there are taverns in Heraklion where you can learn anything if you know who to ask.’
De Teba nodded his understanding, and then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What tavern?’
‘The Lanterna Azzurro.’
The Spaniard straightened in his seat, his face becoming suddenly very serious.
‘Have you nothing but cloth between your ears, Skiouros the Greek?’
Parmenio grinned as he rubbed his sore throat. ‘I think I’m going to like you.’
‘Have you any idea how many eyes will have followed you in and out of that place?’ de Teba snapped.
‘I’m guessing it’s not an odd number,’ Parmenio grinned, drawing a sharp look from the Spaniard.
‘We thought…’ Skiouros began, but de Teba cut him off sharply. ‘No you didn’t. Be quiet.’
Skiouros began to object, but the Spaniard put a finger to his lips and glared him into silence. The sound of birds chirruping and flapping their way from tree to tree in the late golden sun filled the silence, but Skiouros’ sharp ears, alerted to danger by de Teba’s manner, could just pick out a scuffing, scrabbling noise that could so easily be wildlife in the undergrowth and yet so clearly wasn’t.
As quietly as he could, Skiouros drew his sword, the blade leaving the sheath with a faint hiss. De Teba rose from his stone block seat and crept past the others, though another arch, into the darkened side-aisle, where a deep, wide window looked back east along the road toward Agioi Deka. For a moment, he peered out through the lowest corner of the dark aperture before dropping back and returning to the others, holding up a hand and flashing five fingers and then three at them.
Skiouros felt a moment of panic. Eight men. And from what de Teba was suggesting, it seemed unrealistic to think they might be anything except men of the Duke of Candia’s guard. His helpful mind’s eye supplied him with a memory of that group of not-quite-soldiers who had saved their life on the trade road and then asked a few pertinent questions. Idiot! Not only did Skiouros not relish the thought of taking on eight men with only three – even if one of them was Diego de Teba – but he could finally, after years, count himself a law-abiding citizen, and the idea of having to fight and kill men of the guard did not sit well with him.
Fortunately, the fact that de Teba had not unsheathed his blade suggested that there would be no violence. Skiouros felt a further quickening of his blood as the Spaniard grabbed his cloak and dashed off between the shattered piers that had once supported columned arches in the church, past a cypress and out of sight. Without pause, the two friends scooped up their packs and scurried off after him.
Trying to remain as quiet as possible, they rounded the bole of the tree to see that de Teba was already disappearing through a thick carpet of white and purple flowers dominated by drooping ancient trees. Hurrying to catch up, the two men found themselves at the bank of a narrow stream running deeper than usual with meltwater from the early spring. The babbling and stuttering of the water masked the sound of their movements and the low undergrowth hid any potential footprints as they reached the water and caught up with the Spaniard, who had slowed for them now that he was out of sight of the church.
They could hear challenging voices back at the ruins, along with a shout of consternation and then a flurry of argument, one familiar, commanding voice clearly irritated. There was still almost an hour of daylight, and it would not take long for the men to find the stream and figure out to where their prey had disappeared.
De Teba was already moving at speed by the edge of the stream, along the mud and grass, ducked to remain low and out of sight of the hunters. The friends ran on after him, turning first right and then left, following the stream bed and the trees and plants that cut a green line through the dry brown landscape. The hill with the fortress ruins atop slid by on their left and soon they were rounding it as the Spaniard climbed the far bank at last and scurried off along a narrow tributary towards the shattered remains of an aqueduct bridge which rose like grey fangs from the brown brush. De Teba waited for the others to join him and spoke in low tones.
‘They will probably search south towards Mitropoli, or follow the river north as far as Psalida before they realise we’ve slipped away. Around a mile and a half this way is the village of Plouti. The smith there owes me a favour, so I can stay for the night and then move on in the morning. Now you’ve helped them find me, Agioi Deka’s unsafe anyway.’
‘Can we move back to Heraklion from there?’ Skiouros enquired.
De Teba shot him a surprised expression. ‘I was thinking of moving on to Zaros, rather than walking north and putting my head between the lion’s jaws while you tickle its privates. What you decide is your own affair.’
‘Where’s better for you to hide than right under their noses?’
He was rewarded with a scathing look. ‘Just about anywhere, I’d say.’
Skiouros sighed. ‘Then what’s your plan, Diego? To keep flitting from hideout to hideout until eventually something goes wrong and you land up in the duke’s jail?’
‘More or less. You have a better idea?’
‘Yes. Come to Heraklion with us. We’ll slip in quietly and stay low and out of sight. You can help me with my little problem and in return I’ll see to it that you leave Crete for somewhere safer.’
The Spaniard’s eyebrow arched. ‘You have a ship?’
‘Our friends do. A Turkish galley bound for Istanbul.’
‘Into the hands of the Turk? You think that’s safer than here?’
‘Are the Turks actively hunting you?’
De Teba tapped his lip thoughtfully. ‘Point conceded. Can your Turkish friends help keep us hidden in Heraklion? I’m somewhat well-known, remember, and every man in red and gold there will be on the lookout for me.’
Skiouros grinned. ‘We’ll be fine. I have some experience of remaining out of sight of the authorities. You’re in good hands.’
The Spaniard nodded slowly and heaved in a breath. ‘Alright, then. My friend in Plouti will be able to give us supplies and help us on our way. He might even spare a pack donkey. We’ll use the back roads up through Gergeri and cross the Rouvas pass. No one will be watching the mountain roads.’ He cast a resigned look at Skiouros. ‘Am I going to regret this?’
‘Probably,’ smiled Parmenio flippantly.
Chapter three – Of relics old and new
Heraklion, April 23rd
SKIOUROS leaned over the low balustrade that ran along the flat roof of the decorative new Venetian building. Beside him, Parmenio huffed angrily.
‘What now?’
For the best part of a month the pair of them, along with Diego, had languished in a dingy, small room of a tavern in the city’s back st
reets, planning this day from every angle they could think of. They had made it back over the mountains to Heraklion with relative ease, moving slowly so as to attract no unwanted attention, and had timed their re-entry to the capital city to fall upon market day when the guards would be over-busy, harassed and at their least observant. Once they had slipped unnoticed back into Heraklion, they had hurried through rarely visited alleyways to a bar of which Skiouros knew, where he felt certain they would be safe from the authorities.
Zion’s Gate was a tavern, coffee house and social meeting place for the Jews of the city and as such was shunned by the Catholic authorities, considered unimportant and unpleasantly heretical. If the inquisition gained a hold here, the place would become unsafe, but for now it was one of few places in the city the Duke of Candia’s guard would not suspect.
It was clean and well-looked after, and the interior was well-appointed, though with only small, slit-like windows, maintaining a bland, poor exterior for the comfort of the Christian authorities. And it had served them well as a base, keeping de Teba out of sight.
For over a week, the three of them had drawn maps of the church of Agios Titos in Heraklion, along with its square and surrounding buildings. Skiouros and Parmenio had made repeated visits and forays to check every detail, prompted by the questions of Don Diego, who was forced to remain in the safety of the Zion’s Gate, well looked after by the local Jews who also held no love for the crazed Cavaliere de Rizzi, who yet maintained his fevered hunt for an errant guard.
Slowly, over the week, they had built up a collection of hand-drawn maps, carefully tweaked time and again, and covered in notes. The chosen date had been the child of both planning and fortune. By chance they had received a message from Dragi that the other two Turkish vessels would put into port some time within the week, and consequently Kemal Reis had decided they would set sail on April 24th, barring unforeseen circumstances. The three conspirators had already decided that it would be prudent to leave their larceny until the last possible opportunity, in order to be away from the island before the inevitable backlash over the disappearance of a relic. And the realisation that the preceding day – April 23rd – was the holy day of Saint George, venerated by both Catholics and Orthodox, and patron saint of Crete, had confirmed their decision. The day would be chaotic and the clergy would already be busier than at almost any other time of the year. This had to be their day. Of course, Skiouros knew of the additional complication this decision brought upon them, but exchanging one new complication for the solution to numerous others was worthwhile, especially with Diego now involved. By necessity, though, he kept that complication to himself.
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