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

Swan nodded. ‘That only proves the coward part,’ he said. ‘The liar, the fool and the poltroon are yet unproven. The cuckold—’

‘Thomas!’ Alessandro said.

Swan realised that he had enjoyed himself. He bowed. ‘At your service, gentlemen,’ he said.

He backed away, and walked to the boat.

One of the youths threw a clod of mud. It missed, and Swan smiled. ‘Boys,’ he said.

Alessandro shrugged. ‘We lived,’ he said. ‘They’re about a year younger than you.’

‘Care to tell me what that was about?’ Swan asked.

Alessandro looked at him for a long minute. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I think I should teach you to fence.’

The duel made him a three-day-wonder at the tavern. People knew about it before he got back. Joanna, the tavern slut, threw him admiring glances, and young men swaggered more when they were close to him.

Cesare sat with him drinking wine, a few nights later. ‘You’ll get yourself killed,’ he said.

Swan made a face. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

Cesare laughed, and so did Giannis. ‘You are young, and think you will live for ever,’ Giannis said.

‘Yes,’ admitted Swan.

Cesare leaned forward. ‘You weren’t like this in France,’ he said.

Swan sat back. ‘It is hard to explain,’ he said. ‘I see the fear in their eyes – and it makes me . . . an animal.’

Giannis nodded. ‘I know it,’ he said.

‘And they were all rich boys. I grew up hating rich boys. When I was a royal page —’ He paused.

Cesare shrugged. ‘Tell us how you became a royal page.’

Swan held out his cup. ‘If this avatar of Aphrodite come to earth will refill my wine cup, I will tell everything.’

‘How’s your money holding out?’ asked Cesare in Latin.

‘Well enough. Why?’ Swan answered.

‘We’re here at least two more weeks. And I’d like to play cards.’ Cesare smiled at the serving girl, whose pockmarked face was not quite that of an avatar of Aphrodite. But she smiled well enough, and poured them wine from a pitcher.

‘Here?’ asked Swan. Giannis had taught him to play piquet, but he’d never yet played for money.

‘No!’ Cesare said. ‘Tell your story.’

Swan rocked his head back and forth. There, for good or ill, were his friends. He was tired of trying to be mysterious. ‘My mother owned – owns – a tavern in London.’ He shrugged. ‘Shall I tell you the truth?’ Neither of them looked appalled – indeed, Giannis looked . . . relieved. As if low birth made him more of a man, and not less. ‘I think she was a whore.’

Giannis looked shocked.

Cesare laughed. ‘Mine too!’ he said.

‘What a terrible thing to say of your mother!’ Giannis said.

Swan laughed. ‘No, no. Listen. When she was young, my mother had me. My father . . . is someone very important. I think he bought her the inn. I think she surprised everyone by running it well.’

‘Any other family?’ Cesare asked. ‘Some thieves? A Pope?’

‘My uncles,’ Swan said. ‘Both archers. Mother got them posts in the king’s bodyguard. They retired to the inn and drank and kept order.’ He smiled. ‘Jack and Dick. They taught me . . . everything.’

‘Interesting,’ Cesare said. ‘How did you get to be a royal page?’

Swan drank more wine. ‘Every year or so, my father would remember I existed. He’d buy me something, or send me something – a tutor, an invitation to a school. I . . . got in some trouble, when I was fourteen.’ He shrugged. ‘But I was, at least technically, a clerk, and so I couldn’t be tried.’

Cesare shook his head. ‘You killed someone.’

Swan nodded.

Cesare shook his head. ‘Why do I like you? You are a murderous barbarian.’

‘He was trying to rob me. And maybe more. His hands . . . anyway, I took his knife as my Uncle Jack taught me, and used it.’ For a moment he was there, with blood all over him and the other man lying under him gurgling. He shivered. ‘Anyway, my father collected me from my mother and I lived in one of his palaces for a year, and had tutors. It was—’ He couldn’t decide what word to use.

‘Not what you were used to?’ Cesare asked.

‘Exactly,’ Swan said, and drank more wine. ‘Sometimes they treated me like a servant, and sometimes as if I was a lord. Nothing belonged to me. Except the tutors, and their learning.’ He shrugged again. ‘I’m not telling this well.’ He looked into his empty wine cup. ‘So he sent me to court. It wasn’t bad – it was like the tavern, except everyone was richer. I didn’t have nice clothes. I got tired of being treated like a servant.’ He left a lot out, and skipped to, ‘and then I ran away back to the tavern.’

Cesare nodded. ‘It’s us against them,’ he said. ‘Even when they treat us decently, we’re never allies.’

‘You like Alessandro,’ Swan said.

Cesare shrugged. ‘He’s a rebel, too,’ he said. ‘He . . . isn’t one of them. Let’s play cards.’

They took a boat to another tavern, where the tables were larger. Cesare paid a small fee, and was provided with a pitcher of dark red wine, and a table and two decks of the new block-printed cards.

An hour later, Swan raised his hands. ‘I surrender,’ he said. There were six men playing, and he tossed in his cards at the end of the last piquet.

‘You weren’t doubled,’ said Cesare.

‘I’m losing a ducat every game and sometimes two,’ Swan said.

‘Don’t be a Jew,’ Cesare said.

‘Do Jews play cards badly, or do they just want new clothes? Jews aren’t so bad, when you get to know Italians.’ The hit went home, and he grinned. ‘Either way, I’m out.’ Swan counted his tally on the abacus. ‘Thirteen ducats. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ He clambered over the bench.

‘Jews are cheap,’ Cesare said.

‘Not in my experience,’ Swan said. ‘They’re thrifty and exacting and good at maths. But not cheap. Now, excuse me, gentlemen.’

‘It’s fun!’ Cesare called. ‘Sit and drink, at least!’

Swan went back to his inn, lit a candle and did some Arabic.

Rabbi Aaron seemed to know everyone in Venice. Perhaps more importantly, he seemed to know everyone in Constantinople. He began to draw little charts for Swan – this street had the goldsmiths, this street had moneylenders. ‘The Genoese used to hold Galata,’ he said. ‘But they tried to help save the empire and they lost everything.’ He drew a small map in the corner of a text. ‘Galata is a city of its own, across the Horn from Constantinople. My brother Simon has a house there.’

Gradually Swan began to understand the layout of the Holy City, girded with ancient walls, with suburbs across the Hellespont. Galata was a walled city unto itself, now held by Venice. Aaron wrote him letters – to Simon, to a dozen other men and one woman. He hid them in his secret pocket.

Rabbi Aaron fingered his long, elegant beard. ‘My brother used to travel four times a year – bringing jewels, taking wools.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re old. You are a good listener, young man. I understand you are a ruffian.’

Swan’s head come up at that. He’d been copying Hebrew nouns. ‘What? Oh, yes. I’m a hardened killer.’

‘You . . . engaged – with the youngest Foscari.’ Rabbi Aaron smiled. It was a hard smile, and just for a moment, Swan wondered what it was like to be a Jew – to never fully speak your mind to a Christian. Yet in that half-smile, Swan read a very definite dislike of Foscari.

‘There was a duel, yes.’ Swan smiled.

‘Beware. He is unhappy. And very rich, and you can buy a man’s death in Venice for about the price of a hat.’ Rabbi Aaron’s eyes met his. ‘A good hat.’

Swan found it difficult to hold the rabbi’s eye. The man – his goodness rolled off him – seemed to look directly into his soul. ‘I understand from a friend,’ the rabbi said gently, ‘that there are men from Rome looking for you, as well.’

‘Rome?’ Venice had so captivated Swan that he’d forgotten Rome.