Free Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Five: Rhodes by Christian Cameron Page A

the sand, and the two knights went up the hill. The older knight paused and waved. ‘Coming, young scapegrace?’
    Swan followed the knights. The line took for ever to move – it started at the edge of the beach, and wound between the lower gates of the fortress and then up to a point that vanished in the dusk on the side of the hill.
    The tavernas along the waterfront served wine to the oarsmen in the line – heavy ceramic beakers full of strong red wine that was delicious after salt air. Swan was on his second cup as he passed through the gate.
    The soldier there wore a fine, velvet-covered brigandine and had a heavy war bow in his hand. He smiled constantly, but his eyes moved everywhere.
    ‘You’re English, I think,’ Swan said.
    The man smiled. ‘My da was English,’ he said. ‘I’m Greek.’
    ‘Seems a long way from London,’ Swan said.
    The archer shrugged. ‘My pater was from Cumbria. He came out here after Agincourt.’ His eyes went over Swan’s shoulder, and then flicked back.
    Fra Tommaso nodded. ‘The Gattelusi hire a great many English,’ he said. ‘They always have.’
    ‘Englishmen make fine pirates,’ Fra Domenico said. He stooped to scratch a stray cat. Mytilini was full of them.
    The line moved on – past the guardpost, and up into the rocks. Swan breathed deeply, just to enjoy the smell. And examined the stonework of the redoubt above him. In the last light of the sun, he could see round stones the size of wagon wheels set into the fabric of the fortification. He tried to imagine why anyone would shape round stones to fit into a fort wall.
    He thought – all too often – of the fight in the dark. Of the torches of the Turks revealing the fallen column that half-blocked the passageway.
    Three slow steps forward later, and despite his heartbeat soaring and his breath coming hard, he had it, and he said ‘εύρηκα!’
    The two knights and his servant all turned on him as if he were a madman.
    ‘They’re columns! Ancient columns from temples!’ he shouted excitedly. He was all but bouncing on his toes. ‘Those round stones are column drums – ancient ones!’
    ‘You speak Greek?’ asked a man at his elbow. The man was still smiling, despite half an hour on the hill carrying Swan’s portmanteau.
    ‘A little, brother,’ Swan said. ‘Those are columns, yes?’
    ‘From the pagan times,’ agreed the Greek. ‘Over by Kalloni, there are temples.’
    ‘Like the Parthenon?’ Swan asked.
    The Greek shrugged.
    Swan waved at a middle-aged woman with a tray full of wine cups. ‘Ο άνθρωπος έχει μια δίψα για το κρασί! This man has a thirst for wine.’
    The Greek nodded. ‘Very kind,’ he said in a voice that suggested – politely – that men did not carry heavy leather trunks purely from public spiritedness.
    Swan paid the woman and tried a flirtatious smile. She responded with a look that suggested that a life of serving wine to fishermen and pirates had given her some fairly effective armour.
    Swan put his smile away for easier prey. And inched up the hillside.
    ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
    The timoneer, who was next in line behind Swan, grinned. ‘Ancient tradition here. When a galley comes in, we go to the shrine and take mass.’
    ‘How ancient?’ Swan asked.
    He went up three steps. The steps were very old – smooth as glass.
    The line moved again. Now he could see there was a heavy wood and iron door – right in the hillside. A party of men came out of it and squeezed down the steps, all smiles – and headed towards the beach and the tavernas.
    Fra Tommaso nodded. ‘They think that taking mass protects them against the sins they have yet to commit,’ he said. But he watched his oarsmen with the fondness of a parent for his children. ‘Speaking of sin, Master Swan – we are invited to the palace. Tonight, we are to be received, and tomorrow, there is some sort of fete in our honour.’
    ‘We will stay?’ Swan asked, hope