Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople

over his head. As he walked, he began to make a plan. After a while, he laughed aloud, because if he was planning, then his brain was working, and he didn’t think he was going to die, which was funny, because he was still alone and naked and cold.

But an hour later, he climbed through a set of obstructions into brighter light. He could see people – he’d been hearing them for half an hour. The sides of the cistern had long since collapsed, and become a public fountain, and on one side, a pair of small boys bathed while on the other, their mothers filled jars.

They were Greek women. He could hear them speaking Greek.

He moved carefully behind a pillar.

‘Despoina,’ he called out. ‘I need help, in the name of Christ.’

The two women drawing water startled like deer. They both looked around.

‘I’ve escaped from the Turk. I’m naked, and I need clothes. I promise I can pay. Please help me,’ he said in what he hoped was his most complacent and charming Greek.

The nearer of the two women made a motion with her hand to the other.

‘Show yourself, heretic,’ she said.

He called out, ‘I’m naked.’

‘All the better,’ she said, drawing a knife from her gown. ‘Let me see you,’ she ordered.

Swan emerged from the columns.

She laughed. ‘A Frank! Truly, you are not lying.’ She spat. ‘Why should I save you? You Franks are worse than the Turks.’

‘Money? Save me, and I will pay.’ Swan backed away.

She looked around. ‘Truly? You will pay? So will the Turks, I would guess. Eh?’ she asked, and waved the knife at him.

The other woman laughed. ‘He is young, and handsome.’ She made an obscene gesture. ‘And naked.’

Half an hour later, he was at the gates of the Venetian quarter, dressed as a Greek woman. Silently, head averted, he handed a folded note to the janissary, who passed it in to the Venetian guard.

Alessandro appeared. ‘I’ll answer for this woman,’ he said coolly.

The janissary saluted and smirked, and Swan followed his capitano.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Alessandro said.

‘I was set up. I survived.’ He shook his head. ‘I escaped.’

‘How do you come to be dressed . . . like a woman? Like a Greek woman?’ Alessandro asked.

‘It’s complicated,’ Swan said.

Alessandro stopped and shocked him by embracing him. ‘Well done,’ he said.

‘What – well done for not getting killed?’ Swan asked.

‘Given the way things are going, not getting killed gets a pass,’ Alessandro said.

After a lot of sleep, he sat with a cup of wine in Alessandro’s room. ‘This is how I see it,’ he said. ‘Omar Reis planned to use me. His sister planned to use me and sell me, but Omar Reis always intended to make an unpleasant incident of the whole thing. And kill me.’

Alessandro fingered his beard.

‘Had I been caught – red handed, so to speak—’

‘The Sultan might have refused the embassy, or merely used it as a pretext to keep us waiting.’ Alessandro shrugged. ‘As if he needs a pretext.’ The Venetian leaned forward. ‘I should send you across to Galata before the Turks send for you.’

Swan looked out into the sunlight. Warm and dry, with wine in him, the whole thing was beginning to seem more like an adventure. ‘I don’t think Omar Reis can admit I was in his house.’

‘He must know. He knows you weren’t here. His janissaries must tell him of every movement here.’

‘Yes – but can he admit that I penetrated his sanctum,’ Swan enjoyed his double entendre, ‘and lived to tell of it?’

Alessandro fingered his beard.

‘What if I never returned?’ Swan asked.

‘What?’ Alessandro said.

‘All the janissary knows is that you brought in a Greek whore.’ Swan finished his wine. ‘I think I’ve thought this through. Give me Peter and some money. I’m going to disappear. And I’m going to get the cardinal’s library out of his house, and maybe some other things.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I may even manage to get these things shipped over to Galata.’

Alessandro nodded. ‘You think you can use the sewers to get into his house.’

Swan was crestfallen that the Venetian saw so quickly through his plan. ‘Yes.’

Alessandro nodded. ‘This is an excellent plan,’ he said. ‘Let me give you a word of advice.’

Swan nodded.

‘Do not – I beg leave to repeat myself – do not seek to avenge yourself on Omar Reis.’ Alessandro rose and poured more wine. ‘We have our date. The Sultan will receive the papal ambassador in three days’ time. We are to leave the city immediately after.’ Alessandro handed him wine. ‘Whatever you do, you must be back in three days. And no revenge. Understood?’

Swan nodded. ‘Of course not. That would be stupid.’

An hour later, he had exchanged notes with Simon. Several hours later, a Greek wine merchant came into the Venetian quarter, and sold Candian wine to the Venetians by the hogshead from two wagons. A servant jumped down from the rear wagon and found Alessandro, and gave him a package.

Alessandro handed it over to Swan. It contained a set of directions and a full set of clothes – ragged, Greek clothes. Swan shook his head. ‘When do I get to dress well?’ he asked, and became a ragged Greek veteran, a penniless beggar. Peter became another such.

Alessandro shook his head. ‘Your whole plan depends on this Jew.’

‘Yes and no,’ Swan said. ‘I have something for him, as well.’ Then he and Peter went into the shadow of the gate.

Together, they waited their moment, and while the Greek wine merchant’s wagons stopped by the janissary, they slipped out.

The two of them moved carefully. Peter was too tall to avoid notice, but Swan needed him.

He almost laughed aloud when a pair of Greeks stopped and gave them alms.

‘At least you fought,’ said the elder. He clasped Peter’s hand.

‘He’s lost his voice,’ Swan said. ‘We fought, and we’ll keep fighting.’

The two men looked both pleased – and guilty. They handed over more coins and walked away quickly.

Peter shook his head. ‘They’re afraid,’ he said, in French.

Swan followed the route as laid down by Simon. He assumed that Simon was having them watched, checking to see that they were alone. He hoped so.

After walking over half the city, they came down Third Hill on a steep street. As they descended, a heavy grain wagon pulled across the narrow street. A pair of men jumped down.

They had crossbows.

‘Get on,’ said the one who looked as if someone had burned his face off.

The second man stood well clear of them. A small boy in the back of the wagon lifted the edge of a tarpaulin and they slipped in under the load of hay. It was stifling hot, and Swan immediately had to sneeze.

‘I don’t like this,’ said Peter.

The wagon rattled and clanked over the streets. It had no suspension, and Swan’s head cracked against the bottom several times before he found a better way to lie. He sneezed and sneezed, and one of the guards ordered him to be quiet.

Peter put a linen coif – none too clean – over his mouth. ‘We’re passing a guard post,’ he hissed.

Swan managed to keep his sneezes to himself for a hundred long heartbeats, and then the wagon was moving again.

Moments later, the top was stripped back, and Simon was standing with six armed men.

‘What have you done?’ he asked. But he seemed more amused than anything. ‘You promised me a secret and a profit in your note,’ he said.