The man who was presented – yet another Isaac – might have been Balthazar’s second son. He was the right age, and had something of Solomon’s eager friendliness. He also appeared simultaneously too friendly and ill at ease. Idris in particular seemed to excite him, and he flattered the young Turk unmercifully.
At last, Swan managed to withdraw with many protestations of future visits. They walked out the main gate, escorted by two local men, who bowed low as they passed. The janissary saluted.
Idris laughed. ‘Franks are famous for their bigotry,’ he said. ‘And you seem to be friends with everyone.’
Swan shrugged. ‘I make a habit of pulling thorns from the paws of every lion I meet,’ he said.
‘My father likes you,’ Idris said. ‘He’s going to invite you to go hunting with him.’
‘Should I?’ Swan asked.
Idris thought for a moment. ‘It would help me,’ he said.
‘Will your father give me a safe conduct in my own name?’ Swan asked. It was a little too bold, but he wasn’t sure how often he’d have access to the young Turk.
Idris smiled. ‘So – that’s what you want. Why? These old books?’
‘What would you do, to have unlimited access to Persian manuscripts?’ Swan asked.
Idris smiled. ‘You are too intelligent, and I suspect you are using me. But you saved my life – you are entitled to a little use.’ He inclined his head – very like his father – and his bearing reminded Swan that he was not always as clever as he thought he was. ‘I will ask on your behalf.’ He looked at Swan. ‘Listen – promise me something.’
Swan laughed. ‘Yes?’
‘Promise me you aren’t after this thing. This head that all the Christians want. The Sultan spoke of it today. My father has men all over the city looking for it.’
Swan looked confused, or at least, he hoped he did. ‘Head?’ he asked.
‘Christians worship the parts of dead men,’ Idris insisted. ‘In their churches. Feet. Toenails. Arm bones. This is the head of the great warrior.’
‘Maurice?’ Swan asked. He was sweating now. It wasn’t really very funny.
‘Saint George.’ Idris’s brown eyes bored into his. ‘Promise me you are not trying to steal it.’
‘Because you Turks stole it first?’ Swan asked. Sometimes, according to his uncles, it was best to attack.
Idris met his eye – and laughed.
Almost a week passed in which they weren’t allowed out of the Venetian quarter. No reason was given, and the janissaries were polite but absolutely adamant. Swan walked to the market every day, and purchased anything that caught his fancy and that he could afford. He received notes and invites from Aaron’s brother and from Balthazar’s business associates. He had to decline them – he wrote careful notes in stilted Hebrew accompanied by other notes in Italian, trying to make clear that his refusal was not his own choice.
The bishop, who had never deigned to notice him, turned after one of the messengers had gone away, and said, ‘How is it that you have friends in Constantinople? Infidel friends?’
Swan bowed. ‘Your Grace must know by now that I took young Idris prisoner in the fight on the boat,’ he said politely.
‘I know nothing of the kind. But I forbid you to have any further communication with him.’ The bishop looked at him. ‘His father is the most terrible of men – an enemy of God. The Greeks call him the son of Satan.’
Swan was about to remonstrate, but Alessandro, who was forced to spend most of his time attending the bishop, made the motion of a blade crossing his throat, which Swan took to mean he should shut his mouth.
The bishop moved on, as if, having given instructions to a servant, he had no further need to communicate. Which, as Swan considered it, was probably how the bishop viewed him.
Cesare sat back and dealt another hand of piquet. ‘If only . . .’ he said. ‘God forgive me for what I’m going to say, but if only he was an aristocrat, and not a jumped-up little Romagnol peasant.’
Swan had to laugh. ‘This from you?’
Cesare spat. ‘Bah,’ he said. ‘Now that I see you are the lost Prince of England, I no longer believe that you are a true man like me, anyway.’
Then he grinned. ‘You are the bastard of a great man. I am the bastard of some roadside tryst.’
‘I’m a better swordsman, too,’ Swan said, and Cesare aimed a swipe at him that almost connected. The four of them – Alessandro, Swan, Giannis and Cesare – fenced with sword and buckler every day. Cesare was growing better by leaps and bounds, closing the gap between his ability and Swan’s even as Swan closed in on Giannis and Giannis drew fractionally closer to the gifted Alessandro.
There was little else to do. Sometimes they fenced for three hours, drank wine and ate good bread in olive oil, and fenced again. The janissaries came and watched. And wagered.
One day Alessandro paused, buckler high, and said – quietly – ‘Can your Jews cash Bessarion’s bill? We’re running low on money.’
‘Not all Jews are moneylenders,’ Swan said. He shrugged. ‘But let me ask.’
He sent Simon a note.
The next day, Simon sent back that he would be happy to change the note for cash. And the janissaries bowed, their high hats nodding on their heads. ‘You are free to visit anywhere inside the confines of the city walls,’ said Murad, the corporal.
The bishop sent word that none of them was to leave the inn.
Alessandro waved him out. ‘I’ll explain,’ he said.
‘Tell him I’m on an errand for the cardinal,’ Swan said. ‘Listen – tell me the address and I’ll take a look at the cardinal’s house.’
Alessandro wrote it down for him.
He went to the Jewish quarter first.
Isaac met him inside the gate, and walked with him to the house of Simon. ‘Your embassy is very carefully watched,’ he said. ‘You know the Sultan is contemplating war with Venice? And the Pope?’
Swan started.
Isaac went on, ‘You Franks are the most arrogant creatures on earth. Do you think that the Sultan is fooled by Venice? He plans to take all Greece – indeed, Omar Reis, who I understand you have met, is even now raising the troops to take the Duchy of Athens and the rest of the Morea.’
Swan stopped in the narrow alley. ‘I know you mean well,’ he said, although he wasn’t sure of that at all. ‘But I am the lowest member of the embassage, and I have no idea what you are talking about. I am a mere soldier.’
Isaac frowned. ‘I am informed that you are, in fact, an agent of Cardinal Bessarion.’ He met Swan’s eye. ‘Are you here for the head of Saint George?’ he asked.
Swan felt as if he had no ground beneath his feet. He couldn’t decide how to answer this accusation. He wasn’t sure why it would be a bad thing to admit to such a status.
‘Messire, I am a poor man who performed an act of friendship for Rabbi Aaron, because he has been kind to me. He is my Hebrew teacher in Venice.’ He paused and looked at Isaac to see how this speech was going down.
‘You are the friend of young Idris, the Wolf of Thrace’s youngest son. You are, I understand, an English prince come to threaten a crusade against Islam.’ Isaac all but snarled.
Swan laughed. ‘I am no prince of England,’ he said.
Isaac smiled for the first time. It was a very small smile, but it changed his demeanour and made him seem very much less threatening. ‘For such a young man of no apparent power, you have quite a few rumours surrounding you,’ he said. ‘But Balthazar said I should help you. At the same time, there’s so much happening here that I’m not at all sure that I
It was obvious he had something more to say, but they had arrived at Simon’s house. Isaac bowed. ‘I will attempt to see you again. Let me say, Englishman – if you need to reach me, ask any beggar to get a message to King David.’
He nodded and walked off down the alley.
