Free Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Two: Venice by Christian Cameron Page A

tablets.
    In the market, Swan found tables of curios – dozens of classical seals and coins, as well as several small statues, rings, heads of gods, a bronze spearhead, a butt spike. He bought several of the seals, and the spearhead and butt spike.
    Alessandro shook his head. ‘What will you do with this junk?’
    Swan handed over a silver coin with the owl of Athena on one side and a magnificent head of the goddess on the other. Alessandro pursed his lips in appreciation. ‘That is pretty,’ he admitted.
    ‘Worth money in Rome?’ Swan asked.
    Alessandro shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’
    Giannis looked at the coin. ‘You’ll find mountains of this old rubbish in Constantinople,’ he said.
    ‘How will we ship the cardinal’s things back to Rome?’ Swan asked.
    Alessandro stroked his beard. ‘Christ on the cross, I had forgotten. The bishop has me dancing attendance every day – I think he imagines I actually work for him.’
    Swan nodded. ‘Each port we’ve visited, they are expecting a Venetian squadron bringing soldiers.’
    Alessandro shrugged. ‘I heard of it in Venice. Genoa is losing a great many towns. They’ll need garrisons.’
    ‘Galata, too?’ asked Swan.
    ‘I see where you are going. I’ll ask around.’ Alessandro nodded. ‘You think the troopships will go home empty?’
    ‘Even if there’s cargo, chances are we can get some space,’ Swan said.
    If Swan thought that Ser Marco was cautious before Naxos, he redoubled that caution after they sailed for the Golden Horn. Twice they made long legs out to sea to avoid Turkish ships along the coast.
    But off Samothrace, they ran into thick morning mist, and when the hot sun burned it off, they were hull up and in clear sight of a pair of galleys.
    ‘Arms!’ ordered the captain, and he put the ship about. ‘Nothing to worry about yet, friends. We are at peace.’
    Peace or not, the ship’s archers were in the bow and stern in a hundred heartbeats, and the men-at-arms had their armour on deck in the grilling sun.
    The Turkish galleys paced them. By the time Swan was armed, there was a galley on either side, a few hundred paces away, matching them oar for oar. The Englishman walked to the side, trying his arm harnesses, feeling his stomach press against his ribs.
    Peter was leaning nonchalantly against the ship’s side, bending one of the archer’s bows. His own was strung, and he had twenty arrows stuck point up through his belt. He grinned at his master.
    ‘Look at this bow,’ he said. ‘It’s Turkish!’
    The Italian archer nodded. ‘Horn, and sinew,’ he said.
    ‘As heavy as my bow,’ Peter said. ‘I would like very much to try it, when we are ashore.’
    ‘Perhaps we could have a little contest,’ said the Italian. ‘If we aren’t taken and enslaved in the next five minutes, of course.’ Swan admired the archer’s sangfroid – the Italians had various words for it, and Swan’s favourite was sprezzatura : effortless performance, whether of bravery or of swordsmanship of just the recitation of poetry. He smiled at the man, who nodded coolly. Then he smiled. ‘Best get your breastplate on.’
    The ship’s trumpeter sounded a long note, and the drummer beat ‘To Arms’. Swan saw Alessandro beckoning. ‘He wants us all in the stern,’ Alessandro said.
    Ser Marco had his eyes on the island to port. ‘I am gong to bear up and leave the island on our port side,’ he said. ‘It’s good sailing anyway, but it will force them to commit. If they want to continue flanking us, that bastard there will have to row across the wind.’ The farther Turk had a striped sail as big as a ship.
    He gave the order, the timoneer repeated his orders, and the Venetian galley spun in the water and went due east.
    The captain watched the Turks for a minute. ‘Very well. They’re coming for us,’ he said.
    Swan didn’t see whatever it was that gave the captain this information, but his stomach flipped over again.
    Alessandro nodded.