Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Two: Venice

Alessandro shook his head in mock wonderment. ‘You work miracles. Have you had any trouble from Foscari?’

‘None,’ Swan said. Then he shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ He told the story of Black Doublet.

‘That’s lucky,’ Alessandro said. Then he sighed. ‘Foscari can’t have me killed. But he can have you killed.’

‘One of my new friends says the Orsini are looking for me here,’ Swan said.

‘Christ crucified!’ Alessandro laughed. ‘You may be the only man in Venice for whom a trip to Constantinople is the safest option.’

Alessandro suggested a few options to him. One was to spend a little money among the streetwalkers and derelicts around his lodging. He put this plan into effect immediately, paying a few centimes to each of a dozen vagabonds, and paying Joanna half a ducat to collect their information at the inn door.

On Wednesday, he saw Black Doublet in the square of St Mark’s. But they were fifty paces apart, and he didn’t think the man was following him.

He went to his lesson with Rabbi Aaron, and then took a boat across to one of the small islands – mostly to see if anyone would follow him. No one did.

On Thursday, after mass, a boy approached Swan and handed him a note.

‘Have a sword,’ it said in Hebrew.

Swan smiled. He went to his room and picked up his sword, wrapped the sword belt around it as Alessandro had taught him, and walked to the door. He flourished the sword at his landlord.

‘Messire Niccolo – may I walk abroad like this?’ he said.

‘Why?’ Niccolo asked. ‘Arsenali will ask you.’

‘I’m going to pawn it,’ he said.

Messire Niccolo belched a great laugh. ‘You lie. But it is a good lie, and nothing the Arsenali can disprove. Go with God, my young friend. Don’t kill anyone I like.’

In fact, no one gave his sword a second glance.

At the gate of the ghetto, Solomon was ‘on duty’. He grinned when he saw Swan’s sword. ‘I have to take that from you,’ he said. ‘No Christian may walk armed here.’

Swan handed it over. Another young man came to the gate, and Solomon escorted Swan to his father’s gate.

‘My father has sent the servants away,’ he said. ‘Just in case. This is my birthday present.’

Swan went into the garden, where Solomon’s sisters watched from windows as the Englishman taught the Jew everything he knew about fighting with a sword in three hours.

Solomon was an excellent student. Immediately, Swan discovered that the other young man knew a great deal about boxing and wrestling.

‘The laws only require that we not carry weapons,’ Solomon said. ‘There is a book by a Jew of Warsaw on wrestling. I have read it. My grandfather was a famous wrestler and boxer.’ He made a head motion – something not Italian. ‘My father is more of a fighter than some of the men who work for him think.’

The sun began to run down the sky. Swan was learning – as all swordsmen learn – that teaching another man to fence is the very best way of learning yourself. Teaching Solomon, just for one afternoon, had caused him to question a hundred things Alessandro and Maestro Viladi had taught him. Solomon couldn’t stop asking why and Swan found he had almost no answers.

‘Now let me exchange a few cuts,’ Solomon begged when Sarah, his sister, brought them watered wine.

Swan shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. You have no control. No – stop – I have something just as good. Let me see your blade.’ He took the sword. It was the newest type – a strong, stout blade, but with the new hilt that Swan himself wanted, a backward-curving knuckle-bow to protect the hand from cuts, a finger ring so that the wielder could more accurately grip the sword for a thrust. The new hilts were all the rage in Venice.

He tried the edge on his thumb, especially up near the point.

‘Is it a good sword?’ Solomon asked.

Swan nodded. ‘Excellent. The latest-style hilt on a good German blade.’ He laid it on a blanket next to his own, which was an inch longer and had more of a taper to the blade, smaller finger rings, and no knuckle-bow. ‘Mine is Milanese, from about – eh – twenty years ago. A fine sword.’ He flexed it between his hands. ‘Heavy, but beautifully balanced for the weight. Yours is . . . lighter and quicker. When we come to fighting, I’ll show you how each has its advantages.’ He smiled, unrolled his cloak, and took out two bucklers – his own and Cesare’s. ‘Now we’ll have a little duel. But all you want to do is strike my buckler. This is how we practise in England,’ he said.

For as long as it took for the shadows to reach across the garden, they were at it, swash and buckle. The sisters applauded from the windows, and Solomon grew bolder. And at last, when Solomon tried a great leap forward, and Swan had to drop his sword to avoid spitting his student, there was the sound of one pair of hands applauding from the end of the garden.

Balthazar stood there dressed, not as a Jew, but as a gentleman, in a short cloak. And wearing a sword. He bowed, gloves on heart. ‘My thanks for sparing my son,’ he said.

That marked the end of the afternoon. Solomon embraced him. ‘I told Father you’d do it,’ he said. ‘That was . . . amazing. Promise me we’ll do it again?’

Swan smiled. ‘I wish all my friends were so easily satisfied.’

In the gateway, Balthazar held out a purse. ‘I hope that this is enough,’ he said.

Swan shook his head. ‘You must be . . . messire, I did that for friendship.’

The Jew looked as if he’d been struck. He stepped back.

Swan shook his head. ‘Damn it, I mean no offence!’

There was a long pause – too long. Then the other man stepped forward again. ‘My package is at your lodging,’ he said. ‘I hope that all goes well for you in Constantinople. Your Orsini problem is – hmmm. Very close to you.’ He bowed. ‘I am . . . honoured that you have chosen to befriend my son.’ He turned in a swirl of his cloak and vanished into the ghetto.

Swan walked carefully down to the wharf, but he didn’t see Black Doublet or anyone else he recognised. It was dark by the time his boat left him at the entrance to the canal nearest his lodging.

He knew the old whore who stood under the overhang of the last warehouse by the water. It was her turf – possibly her home. She had hennaed red hair and white face paint two days old, and was possibly as old as forty. He bowed.

She nodded. ‘There’s a man,’ she whispered.

His shoulders tensed, and ice ran down his back. Your Orsini are very close, Balthazar had said.

‘Ah, Madonna, not tonight,’ he said with a bow, and put a silver coin in her hand.

‘By the church,’ she said. ‘Joanna said to tell you.’

He walked on. He felt as if he was being watched – felt naked. And the darkness seemed to hide a legion of enemies.

At the next cross-alley, he turned and walked north, jumping over a dead dog and a steaming pile of fresh human excrement just dropped from a chamber pot. The alley was so narrow that his hips brushed buildings on both sides, and he was completely blind for seconds at a time. If they took him here . . .

He emerged in the tiny square behind the church – the nearest building had a triangular floor plan because of the limitations of the two alleys, merging, and the square itself was only six paces across – the width of the small church of St Peter, the neighbourhood shrine. He stayed in the shadows by the triangular building. He could hear voices.

Men on the edge of violence have a sound to them. The sound alerted him. He stood listening, indecisive. Make for the inn where he lodged? But if they were assassins, they might come in and kill him – and Niccolo and Joanna.

Here in the darkness, he had an element of surprise.

And a sword. And room to use it.

He drew his sword and laid the scabbard carefully on a garden wall where he could reclaim it if he lived. Then he moved cautiously. Because he’d gone out to give a fencing lesson, he had on light leather shoes, like dance shoes, and he blessed them. He was silent.

He moved to the corner.