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

virgins don’t?’
    ‘My mother was a whore,’ Swan said. His whole face hurt. His side hurt. But this was … interesting.
    She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘It just doesn’t matter. Unless you let it matter. I could be a good wife. Did you just say your mother was a whore?’
    ‘She runs a tavern in London. Like that woman tonight, except there is no landlord. Just her brothers, who are a pair of …’ He couldn’t think of words to do justice to his uncles. ‘Bruisers. Thugs. Killers. But they were always good to me.’
    They lay in silence.
    ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘I’m not – exactly – the marrying type.’
    She laughed. ‘Well, neither am I. But I decided I’d ask you, as you are the only man I know that I like. Well – I like Giannis, now. Di Brescia – he wanted to peel my clothes off even while he teaches me to hold a sword.’
    Swan licked the inside of the big bruise on his cheek. ‘So did I,’ he said.
    ‘You’re not a hundred years old,’ she said. ‘Your body’s as good as mine.’
    Later, he said, ‘Damn it, maybe I should marry you.’
    Swan was summoned by the cardinal, and was left in no doubt of his failings. It was early, but he was already shaved, dressed and ready.
    Swan looked at his empty bed, considered his past and future, and made his decision. He picked up the bag of his treasures – the small items he’d purchased on his own account in Greece – and took them with him to the cardinal.
    Bessarion sat across his desk and steepled his fingers. ‘You threatened my steward, you created a riot in the forum where my name was mentioned, and you brought a notorious courtesan into my house. And no doubt fornicated with her.’ He sounded weary. ‘You look like an animal,’ he added.
    Swan was past anger. He’d been awakened early by Violetta – after almost no sleep – and his face was as big as a melon. His right eye was barely able to open and he looked like a puffy-faced Turk. She had dressed quickly, with almost no talk, and she hadn’t kissed him.
    He’d taken her out through the kitchen, of course. Except that the kitchen at dawn is a much busier place than the kitchen at the dark of the moon.
    ‘I feel that you are out of place in my household,’ Bessarion said.
    Swan thought furiously – much as he’d thought when Violetta proposed marriage. It wasn’t what you said – it was how you said it. Adults had been shouting at him for his various misdemeanours for most of his life. Reacting to the injustice of the situation was almost never the best tactic. He controlled his breathing.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.
    ‘No, you are not,’ Bessarion said. He raised his eyes, and they had a little sparkle to them. ‘She is quite remarkably beautiful,’ he said. He almost sounded wistful. ‘Listen, boy. I owe you a great deal. But this is an awful time for the Curia. The loss of Constantinople …’ He shrugged. ‘For me, it is liking losing my right hand. But even for the Latin curates, it is as if God has turned his back on us.’ He looked off into space beyond Swan’s head. ‘Perhaps he has, and this is the end of the Church. Di Brachio says that the Turk plans to conquer Italy.’
    Swan met his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He thinks he is Alexander born again.’
    Bessarion smiled. ‘What a heretical notion for an Islamic man to hold,’ he said. ‘I wonder how I can use it against him?’ He looked at the ceiling. ‘Listen, boy. There is a galley at Ancona that is readying for sea – bound for Cos and Rhodos. You need to leave this town, and I am flush with money – I can afford to send you to buy books.’ He leaned back. ‘Mind you, I suspect that you, too, are flush with money. Mm?’
    ‘I made some money in Constantinople, Eminence,’ Swan replied.
    ‘The missing stones on the head, perhaps? Never mind. I’m giving the head to the Serenissima in return for their support for a crusade. They can replace the stones.’ Bessarion