Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Three

by Christian Cameron

  Tom Swan and the Head of St George

  Volume Nine

  Christian Cameron

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Tom Swan and the Head of St George: Volume Nine

  Also by Christian Cameron

  Copyright

  Tom Swan and the Head of St George

  Volume Nine

  Swan’s new company of lances had been on the road together almost two weeks. For seventy men who hadn’t met before they had melded together as well as could have been expected. The Greeks had their own campfires. Malatesta’s men stayed separate from Ser Columbino’s. The men-at-arms tried to act like the aristocrats that many of them were not. The column had too many soldiers and not enough servants – no one liked putting up tents in a driving rain, and no one liked currying wet horses.

  In two weeks, Swan had learned an enormous amount about military leadership. Mostly what he’d learned was that just getting seventy men and a hundred animals across the Po delta – without any fighting at all – was quite an accomplishment.

  And he learned about paying. Having such a long tail cost money.

  In addition to his own soldiers, Swan had been burdened with a child and his household. Sigismondo Malatesta, the Lord of Rimini, had sent his son with Swan, to be escorted safely to Venice. And the young lord required constant care and feeding, entertainment, instruction, encouragement and careful examination. The boy could lie smoothly and would lie to get anything he wanted. He would wander off at the drop of a pin to look at something that interested him. The inconvenience of the column meant nothing to him.

  On the second day, he turned his horse out of the column and managed to escape detection until he was some distance away, chasing a stray dog. When Swan caught him – himself – he held the boy, now covered in mud and utterly delighted by his exploit, at arm’s length.

  ‘You have delayed the entire column for an hour,’ Swan said evenly. Three years of working for the Church in Rome had, in fact, prepared him perfectly for a wilful six-year-old boy.

  The boy shrugged. ‘So?’ he asked. ‘You are all my servants.’

  Swan sighed and returned the boy to his governess – his other problem.

  Signora Sophia had returned to gowns and veils by the second day. It was not for nothing that the men-at-arms called her ‘Demoiselle Fredda’, the cold girl. She did not flirt – indeed, unless forced by duty, she did not even speak to Swan. But even through thick spring wools and layers of veils, she was a woman – and probably an attractive one.

  She had joined them in disguise – as a boy. And Swan had a notion that the disguise had been effected to escape the Wolf of Rimini – her employer.

  But even if he had disliked Signora Sophia – and he was very far from disliking her – he would not have returned her to the Wolf. He would not have handed an Orsini bravo with his hands red with Collona blood over to the Wolf of Rimini, the most dangerous man he’d ever met. He pretended – to Petr, and to himself – that the governess’s presence was part of a larger plan.

  In fact, he rode north with no better plan than to put as much distance between himself and Rimini as he possibly could. They rode from Rimini to Ravenna, and then inland from Ravenna to Ferrara, because spring floods had made the Po delta uncrossable and they needed the Ferrara bridges. By the time Swan had his column clear of Ferrara, he had become quite smooth at using his passports, finding inns with yards big enough for all his wagons and animals, and housing his soldiers and their women.

  He vowed he would never speak ill of an aristocrat again. Travelling with a train was work. Organising a river crossing was work, and arranging passports at the hazy boundaries of touchy Italian city-states was a difficult art.

  The next state north of Ferrara was Venice – an empire overseas, and more recently a powerful state on mainland Italy. Her Terra Firma now included Brescia and Verona and other cities not on Swan’s route. Swan was determined to make up for lost time, and he turned east to Chioggia.

  Chioggia. A small town that was at once a fortress, an outpost of Venice, a fishing port and a centre of the salt trade. Sitting at the end of a mile-long causeway from Terra Firma, impregnable amid her marshes and canals and lagoons, Chioggia was the southern gateway to the Venetian lagoon, by sea or by land.

  Swan sent Petr ahead with his new page, the slightly less hunched Clemente, who now drew a bow with Petr every day at complines and matins. The boy grew stronger and a little straighter, and he was the best servant Swan had ever had. He was perfectly willing to do all the small servile tasks that Petr disdained. In two weeks, Swan was used to the boy, and so was Petr. But the boy was more Petr’s than Swan’s.

  They came trotting back down the causeway just as Swan’s column had halted. Men dismounted to have a piss or to drink water – or wine, as there was a dirty hovel selling good wine just by the toll for the road to Chioggia.

  Petr saluted. He had a straw hat on – they all did, men-at-arms and archers and servants, men and women. Two weeks had turned early spring into early summer, even though the mountains in the distance still had snow on them.

  ‘There’s a boat for us,’ Petr said. ‘Leaves for Venice when we’re aboard. The whole company.’ He grinned. ‘I think you’re going to like it – they speak of you as a hero.’

  ‘A hero?’ Swan asked.

  ‘You recovered the head of Saint George,’ Petr said. ‘Everyone knows who you are.’

  Swan rolled his eyes. ‘Perfect,’ he muttered.

  Nonetheless, his reception, first in Chioggia and then in Venice, was wonderful. Bessarion’s friends – and he had many friends in Venice – came out to greet them, and when they landed near the Arsenal off a state transport, there were a hundred Greeks to greet the stradiotes and twice that number of Venetians to greet Swan.

  Including his good friend and sometime officer Alessandro di Bracchio, sometimes known in Venice as Bembo.

  ‘That’s a fine company of lances,’ Di Bracchio said by way of greeting. He embraced Swan.

  ‘They’re not all mine,’ Swan said. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  Di Bracchio laughed. ‘Bessarion sent me to Ancona to tie up a loose end. And then he sent me here to pay your bills. How much are they costing us?’ he asked.

  Swan turned to rifle his bags for the condotta, but Alessandro laughed.

  ‘Don’t be a fool – I don’t care. Truly, His Eminence sent me with money. I go with the cardinal and the fleet. You go to Vienna.’ He put an arm around Swan. ‘Damn me – I remember when you were an English boy with a Greek sneer and shit-stained linen, and now you’re il capitano.’

  Behind Di Bracchio, the half-dozen stradiotes were being mobbed by their families. Di Bracchio’s servant was directing Petr.

  ‘I have lodgings for your entire company,’ Alessandro said. ‘Christ crucified, who is that?’ he asked, pointing at the young Malatesta.

  ‘Er,’ Swan said. ‘The Lord of Rimini’s son.’

  Di Bracchio gave him a look that suggested that someone had lost their wits and it wasn’t Alessandro di Bracchio.

  ‘He’s got to go to the Doge’s palace,’ Swan said.

  ‘Of course,’ Di Bracchio said.

  They were in the square of St Mark’s, with the magnificent bulk of the ancient cathedral towering over them.

  Di Bracchio performed various introductions – it was clear that he knew everyone. And the Doge – Franceso Foscari himself – emerged from his office and gave Swan a withered hand to clasp.

  Swan was quite moved. Foscari’s secretary – a friend of Bessarion’s – put a note
in the old Doge’s hand, and he smiled, his hands shaking slightly.

  ‘The Magnificent and Noble Tommaso Suane, saviour of the sacred relic and gentleman of the Noble Order of the Knights of Rhodes.’ He leaned forward and his eyes were still hard. ‘I remember you, boy. Something about a duel.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Perhaps—’

  Foscari laughed and gave Swan his ring to kiss. ‘Are you a friend of my son, Messire Swan?’ he asked. The secretary was making signs of negation – two members of the Council of Ten, who were present, were startled.

  ‘No, my lord Doge. I have not that honour.’ Swan knew the rumours – that Jacopo Foscari had conspired against Venice even while his father was Doge. But Jacopo and Alessandro were mortal foes, and there was no danger Swan would claim Jacopo’s friendship.

  The old man nodded, his head trembling slightly. ‘The better for you, eh?’ he said sadly. ‘My son needed some friends.’ He turned and went back into his offices.

  The Senate and the Council of Ten were prepared for the Malatesta heir, but not prepared for seventy foreign soldiers to be quartered around the Rialto. They made quite a stir, and their horses occupied every empty stall in the city. The Malatesta heir wasn’t to be kept in prison or in state – which should have been a relief to him. He was, instead, sent to the Palazzo of the Cornari south of the great square.

  Venice was the only place Swan had ever been where the great and near-great walked instead of riding horses. Swan suspected the walk from St Mark’s to the Cornari palazzo was the longest walk young Malatesta had ever taken, and before they were two-thirds of the way, his governess – again dressed as a man – scooped him up and carried him.

  Alessandro smiled. ‘You must introduce me to that very handsome young man,’ he said.

  ‘Woman,’ Swan said.

  Alessandro started, looked again, and smiled. ‘Very handsome nonetheless.’

  ‘Florentine and Venetian, I gather,’ Swan said.

  ‘A superb combination, if she doesn’t begin to hit herself,’ Di Bracchio said.

  But his fascination with the governess had no opportunity to grow. At the Cornari palazzo they were met by tight-lipped family members who clearly disapproved of Di Bracchio, of Swan, and of the rest of them too.

  Swan was no a fool, and made Matteo Corner sign for the boy with a family seal.

  They were alone in Corner’s office, by the loggia at the end of the portega da bassa, the lower great hall. The older man – resplendent in a long, black velvet robe – put glasses on his nose, read Swan’s paper carefully – Swan had drafted it himself and spent an evening at Chioggia writing it out – and signed while Swan admired a superb cameo – Roman – set with a magnificent emerald. It was erotic and very exact.

  ‘You had no trouble with the boy?’ Corner asked.

  Swan bowed. ‘None, most gracious lord.’ Venice was supposedly a democracy, and thus Venetians were far more susceptible to flattery then actual aristocrats.

  Corner sniffed. ‘Humph,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed rude,’ he went on. ‘I can’t abide that Di Bracchio – you know, the Bembo by-blow.’

  Alessandro was still standing in the yard. Swan bowed again.

  ‘I can’t be responsible for all those domestics,’ Corner went on. ‘I have my own house staff.’

  Swan’s heart gave a sudden thud.

  ‘I believe that the signora has family in Venice,’ he said.

  Corner looked at him. He pushed his spectacles back on his nose. Somehow the gesture was threatening.

  Swan shrugged.

  ‘You will take them with you,’ Corner said.

  Swan shook his head. ‘No, my lord.’

  Corner was stopped short, and Swan wondered when he had last been told ‘no’ by a member of the lower orders.

  Swan nodded politely. ‘I am taking a company of lances to fight the Turks – at the behest of Cardinal Bessarion. I cannot take responsibility for any staff that the Lord of Rimini chose to send.’

  Corner sniffed pettishly. ‘They aren’t even included on his passport!’ he said. ‘How did you manage to bring them to Venice?’

  Swan decided that silence was the best answer. In fact, no one had ever asked before.

  ‘Bah,’ said Corner. ‘Very well. You may go.’

  The palazzo – magnificent from the outside – was ill furnished and cold. Swan wondered whether the Cornari wereall misers.

  When they were outside, Swan turned and shook his head at Di Bracchio. ‘I pity them all.’

  ‘As do I,’ Di Bracchio said. ‘He’s one of the meanest bastards in this city. And the Senate hate him. I wonder how he landed such a valuable hostage?’

  Di Bracchio had placed him in his usual inn – a fine place that could get inundated at high water, but the prices were tolerable, for Venice. There were six inns on a tiny square, and Swan had to house twenty gentlemen and as many squires, six crossbowmen and six pages, as well as his own archer and his servant. Or Petr’s servant. He filled Messire Niccolo’s house to overflowing, and with spring just arriving in the Veneto, the man was happy to have the business and the prices were tolerable. Swan was delighted that the Greeks could go to their families by the Arsenal.

  Swan had a small stack of scrolls and letters to deliver, and he split them with Alessandro. One went to the Doge’s secretary, and one to Dandalo Primo. One went to a Florentine banker, and two to churchmen – one to an abbess in the lagoon, involving a boat ride that cost five ducats and took half a day, and another to the Bishop of Treviso. His errands – widely spaced and involving numerous boat rides – demonstrated to him very quickly that he was being followed. He became careful.

  The third night in Venice, with all his master’s errands complete, he gathered all his new men for a dinner in the Cordwainers’ Hall, which was one street north of Messire Niccolo’s establishment. In the Venetian way, Messire Niccolo, who had never worked on a shoe in his life, was a member of the leatherworkers’ powerful guild and had the use of the Cordwainers’ Hall for large events. His kitchens abutted the back of the hall, and fifty men and women could be seated and warm despite the near-constant rain and the dripping eaves.

  He invited the Greeks and their wives, and all his men and their ladies, temporary or more permanent, and Bessarion’s money covered a rich meal of six courses and a great deal of good red wine. He hired a trio of musicians who had a loose association with the guild, and a Greek acrobat came and performed. He also invited a number of the Malatesta men-at-arms. He was surprised to find them still in the city, and when he encountered Di Vecchio in the streets around St Mark’s Square the man seemed embarrassed. But Swan gave him a cup of wine and invited him, and was a little hurt when the old knight chose not to come.

  The dinner was a fair success, although not all the Italians approved of the Chioggian squid in its own ink, and the Greek lamb was too highly flavoured for some, but all of them admired the truly excellent Lombard stew with pork and almond milk. The food was good and plentiful, and the customers were not gourmands but soldiers. There was meat, there was bread, there was wine. When the last honeyed almond had been consumed after the repast, the boards were cleared away so that there could be dancing. A number of local girls were induced to dance, and Swan danced a saltarello and a bassadanza with Giovanna from Niccolo’s inn. Alessandro danced with all the Venetian girls and with some of the pages as well.

  Ser Columbino danced with a Venetian girl from one of the inns and Constantine Graitzas danced with his wife. And both agreed it was a fine evening.

  When they were done, Swan rose and motioned for silence, and the hall became quiet. Borrowed servants moved about pouring wine.

  ‘It has been my pleasure to provide all of you with a good dinner and a memorable evening,’ Swan said. He looked at Alessandro, who shrugged, as if to say You wanted to give a speech? Go ahead.

  ‘In a few days we will ride north for Vienna,’ Swan went on. ‘Even now, a pair of messengers are on their way, f
inding us lodging and checking that the passes are open. So we will march in no more than a week.’ He looked around. ‘Once we deliver the Pope’s messages to the Emperor, it is very likely that we will go east, to Buda.’

  All of the Greeks nodded. None of the Italians seemed to know what Swan was saying.

  ‘Buda,’ Swan went on, ‘is as far from Vienna as Vienna is from Venice.’ He waited for silence. ‘To the best of our current information, Buda is where the King of Hungary is forming his army to face the Turks.’ He looked around. All of the soldiers were paying close attention, and the women were looking at each other – he could almost read their thoughts. Far, and dangerous. More dangerous for the pregnant or the old.

  ‘Even at Buda we will only be three-quarters of the way to Belgrade, the city we think the Turk intends to capture. I estimate it will take thirty to forty days simply to get there.’ He did not add that the Doge’s secretary had news – reliable espionage – that the Grand Turk had summoned his armies for the Siege of Belgrade. Achaea and the Morea would be spared another summer. Mehmet II had publicly sworn to celebrate Ramadan in Buda after taking Belgrade.

  ‘You will need to pack as lightly as you can. All of us will need to give every care to our horses – horses first, and baggage horses as much as warhorses. We will have to be able to march quickly – and to run, if we must.’ He paused. ‘The money should be good,’ he said with a smile. ‘When we defeat the Turks, we’ll pillage their camp.’

  Ser Zane – the Stone Barn, as his troops called him – laughed scornfully. ‘Beat the Turks?’ he asked. ‘When has a Christian army beaten the Turks? And who marches with us? The Duke of Urbino? The Duke of Milan? Or is it just us to face a hundred thousand ghazis?’

  Swan nodded. ‘I have seen the Turks beaten,’ he said. And he shrugged, because he had seen them beaten more by luck than by strategy. ‘And we will serve alongside the famous Hunyadi, the captain of the King of Hungary.’

  Ser Columbino nodded. ‘My father knew him when he served Sforza,’ he said. ‘He is a great captain.’