Free The Pirate's Revenge by Kelly Gardiner Page A

trained spy goat.’
    Miller snorted and gave Carlo a gentle shove. ‘Come on, lad. You lead the way.’
    The Old City rose up before us, solid as a mountain, and buttressed against attack by massive stone walls that soared above the plateau. I had only ever seen it once before, at night, but in the sunrise it glowed cream and yellow, and the enormous walls seemed to beckon us closer.
    We were not the only people on the road thatmorning. Ahead of us, and behind, small groups of men were stomping towards the city. Some of them brandished swords; others had brought their scythes from the fields. As we grew near, our groups merged into one long stream of people, all moving in the same direction.
    â€˜This will be a great day in history,’ said Carlo.
    â€˜Remember what I told you,’ Jem warned him. ‘No nonsense from you. We’re only here to take you home. Then we set sail, back to Sicily. Corfu will be ready for the evening breeze, and the Mermaid has to beat her out of the bay. You hold us up for more than a minute, and I’ll have your guts for garters.’
    â€˜I remember,’ said Carlo, unconvincingly. ‘Look at all the peasants. They have risen.’
    â€˜Just like the storming of the Bastille, eh?’ Miller joked.
    The main gate, as big and ornate as a palace, stood wide open. People thronged across the bridge into the Old City, and spread out through the streets. Carlo led us away from the main avenue, down twisting lanes built to protect the city from Arabs and pirates.
    â€˜We will go around the back streets,’ he said.
    â€˜That is very wise, or we will never get through the crowds,’ Francesco replied.
    â€˜They’re up to something,’ Miller whispered in my ear.
    â€˜Don’t be such a nanny,’ I said.
    The lanes were too narrow even for a cart, arched and hemmed by towering golden houses. Alleys turned and buckled, then petered out into pavedsquares of shaded quiet. On a bench, an old woman sat smiling, sewing, while her grandchildren threw plums at each other. Their squeals echoed along the lanes and reached into the courtyards.
    But as we walked, the mood in the streets changed. Knots of men stood on corners talking fast and low. They looked around urgently, as if sniffing the air. From the lanes and alleys came shouted cries and answers, pounding feet, and the slamming of wooden shutters. Dust rose in low swirls as hundreds of feet kicked and tripped and scurried. Here, a child fell. There, an old man leaned against a wall and put one hand to his chest. Between them, down the middle of the crowded lane, rushed gangs of young men, all shouting and leaping high with the thrill of the moment.
    No matter which way we walked, the crowd carried us along in its flood tide, coursing and welling through the narrow streets. It felt dangerous. I wished, in a way, that I could hold on to someone’s hand, for fear of being washed away or lost in the throng. But holding hands is not a very pirate thing to do. Instead, I stuck close to Jem, so tall his head could be spotted above any crowd.
    The undertow of hostility grew stronger. Carlo pointed out the Carmelite church, home of the sumptuous tapestries the French were so eager to sell. An enormous mass of people had gathered outside, and the crowd stretched along the street as far as we could see.
    â€˜Gosh, we seem to have ended up near the church, after all,’ Carlo exclaimed.
    â€˜What a strange coincidence,’ said Francesco.
    â€˜You wouldn’t credit it, eh?’ said Miller, the sarcasm thick in his throat. ‘Even though Carlo tried so hard to lead us to his home, we somehow ended up right here in the main street in the middle of a riot.’
    â€˜I’m amazed, myself,’ said Jem. ‘I’m amazed …’ his voice lifted, ‘that I ever let you people lead me anywhere!’
    But the crowd was pressing behind us, so there was nothing to do but