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

as snow in London at Christmas.

Ser Marcos turned to port, hoping to confuse the pursuing Turk by turning towards his consort, but the captain of the enemy ship read his intention and turned inside the nimble Venetian, ranging alongside, and the grapples flew as the enemy ram touched them – the Venetian rowers pulled in their heavy oars and reached for weapons. Venetian oarsmen were among the most feared fighting men in the Inner Sea.

The Turkish borders came in a rush, with screams to Allah. They had round shields and scimitars – many had long spears, and a few had European-looking long swords. The whole swarm came for the Venetian command deck – forty or fifty men.

Swan found himself between Ser Marco and Alessandro. He got his rotella up as the first scimitar came at him, and then . . .

It all happened . . .

So fast . . .

That . . .

There was a sort of hideous pause as his partisan went, untouched, into a gap between a Turk’s shield and his sword, right into the bridge of his nose, killing him instantly . . .

There was another moment – one Swan remembered for many nights – when his partisan got stuck in a screaming ghazi and the man went down into the oar benches and then – powerless, as he tried to free his weapon – he saw the scimitar that would kill him, coming for his neck. His shield was on the wrong side, and the weapon floated, undefended, into the gap and slammed full force into the place where his neck muscles meshed with his shoulder muscles.

His armour held. It hurt, but the edge didn’t bite, and he let go of the partisan and reached for his sword. Drawing it seemed to take for ever.

And then the pressure on him eased. He had been fighting multiple opponents for as long as . . . as there had been time. Beards, teeth, screaming.

Suddenly just one man, covering the retreat of his fellows. A big, brave man, his sword everywhere.

Alessandro caught the fellow’s scimitar in a rising, false-edge parry, and Swan was there, following the rising sword into the created opening. His blow wasn’t strong, but strong enough. The Turk dropped his weapon, one finger severed from his hand.

Then he managed to block two killing blows with his round shield alone. Blood was gushing from his severed finger. He sprayed it at Alessandro and punched with his shield.

Swan got a foot behind the Turk’s front foot and slammed him to the deck.

He knelt on the man’s chest and put his sword across the man’s throat.

The man was beaten. He was down. The sound of fighting was dying away.

The Turk was smiling.

Swan had time to think – Damn, this bastard is brave.

I could capture him.

That’s foolish. I could just . . .

I could capture him.

And then he couldn’t kill the man. An Arabic word came to him. Did Turks even speak Arabic?

‘Stop!’ he said.

The Turk looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and said something rapidly in Arabic.

Swan had to shrug. ‘Just stop,’ he said, in English, of all things.

Alessandro helped him up. The oarsmen were killing the wounded and throwing the last Turks over the side. The third Turkish galley was standing off. Even as he looked, the archers aboard the third galley lofted a flight of arrows – into the second Turk.

‘We don’t generally take prisoners,’ Alessandro said.

Swan looked at the Turk. The man looked exactly as Swan himself had felt at Castillon in the shattering moments after the end of fighting.

‘He’s—’ Swan looked at the Italian, too wiped by the fighting to come up with the words.

‘I agree. Ser Marco?’

The capitano looked at their prisoner. ‘He’s someone important. He fought gallantly, I’ll give the bastard that. But the Arsenali will kill him.’

Events proved him wrong. The third Turkish galley had an enormous red flag amidships, and it drove the second galley off quite convincingly.

‘Ottoman galley,’ said Ser Marco. His voice sounded thick – his slight lisp was very pronounced. He watched the enemy ship. He spoke again after minutes had passed and they hadn’t been attacked. ‘Those are Smyrna galleys. There’s a hundred flavours of Turks – and Syrians, and worse.’ He shrugged. ‘By God’s nose, they may even be renegade Greeks.’ He spat over the side. ‘The new galley is Ottoman. He may recognise our flag. He may even —’

Swan pointed. ‘You’re bleeding, messire the capitano.’

Ser Marco looked down, saw the blood running like a fresh spring stream over the cuisse on his hip, and fell flat to the deck.

They had to cut the straps on his leg armour – hours of work for an armourer to replace – to get at the wound. His blood was spurting away, his boots were soaked, and Alessandro whipped a sharp knife out of Swan’s hand and slit the man’s hose.

The wound was just below the groin. Alessandro looked at Swan, who shrugged. He tried putting pressure directly on the wound and the blood spurted past his fingers. He tried to put pressure above it – the man’s muscles were as hard as rock, and he could slow the flow but not stop it.

Cesare, wearing a corselet and an open-faced bassinet, leaned over, pulled off his helmet, and spat. ‘The bishop has a doctor,’ he said.

Swan knelt there, feeling like a fool, his hand pressed into another man’s groin. The blood seeped past his forefinger slowly. He pressed as hard as he could – Alessandro pushed back from the other side of Ser Marco’s hip. He wanted his helmet off. He wanted all his armour off, and he wanted to know what was happening. The mate was down – dead, Swan assumed – and Alessandro was issuing orders as if born to it, which indeed he was.

The silence from the oarsmen was ominous.

The bishop’s doctor was sent for. The bishop and all his suite had spent the battle in the captain’s coach in the stern. Swan thought the worse of them for it – Cesare, for example, had blood on his sword and four long cuts on his forearm, like the claw marks of some great beast.

Ser Marco’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Make sail!’ he said, and raised an arm.

Swan refused to be distracted, and kept the pressure on.

Alessandro slapped Cesare on the hip. ‘Take over,’ he said.

Cesare knelt in a clatter of metal. ‘So much blood,’ he said. His face was pale. ‘Such a fight.’

Swan just wanted his helmet off. There was shouting behind him. The only man he could see through the forest of legs on the quarterdeck was the Italian archer, who had just wiped his forehead and put a fresh arrow on his string.

The doctor burrowed through the crowd, his black clothes flapping like a raven’s wings. His face was as pale as milk, and he was obviously terrified. But he knelt, ran his hand down the capitano’s thigh, and nodded.

He was a small man, and his hands shook. ‘Give me room,’ he said acerbically. He looked at Swan. ‘Do you know any anatomy?’ he asked.

Swan couldn’t shrug, owing to his kneeling posture and his armour. ‘Yes. No.’

‘You found the artery.’ The doctor nodded. ‘I need a sharp knife, some vinegar, a needle, and thread.’ He looked at Swan. ‘Don’t let go, young man. Your captain’s life depends on it.’

Alessandro leaned in. ‘I need him. If they come at us . . . they’re coming alongside. Thomas—’

The doctor shook his head rapidly and looked even more like a bird. ‘If he lets go of the artery, Ser Marco dies.’

Alessandro sighed. ‘If they board us—’ he said. His eyes met the Englishman’s.

If they board us, let the capitano die and come and fight.