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Swan found that he was … himself. Except that his hands were shaking so hard that he could not hold the railing for the stairs.

‘Take him back into the air,’ Tommaso said.

Swan closed his eyes and swallowed bile. ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘I’ll go down.’

He made a foot reach down, and then another, and then another. It seemed like a hundred steps down into the earth, and he could feel the weight of the tons of rock over his head, a palpable force pressing down on him. He was sweating as if he were fighting in armour.

But he made it to the sandy floor of the cave. And the cave wasn’t dark at all. It was lit by a hundred candles, and the smell of incense drowned the smell of blood that stuck in his nose the way dog shit can stick to your throat.

The priest was Greek. But for once, that didn’t seem to matter. He smiled, said a few words, and gave the two knights communion. They knelt to take it and muttered Latin invocations.

Despite his spinning head – as much to control it as anything – Swan took the bread and murmured, ‘πατήρ μου δίδωσιν ὑμῖν τὸν ἄρτον ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ.’

The priest raised a clerical eyebrow. And gave the host to Peter.

A hundred heartbeats later, he was out under the stars with the two knights. He took in great gasps if air as if he’d been unable to breathe.

‘You’ll want to bathe before we go to the palace,’ Fra Domenico said, more kindly than Swan had ever seen him. The man’s ring glittered with an inner light as he gestured. ‘There’s a bath just there, where the street rises in front of the gates. Hurry.’

Swan was beginning to get his bearings. ‘How ancient was that … chapel?’

Tommaso shrugged. ‘From pagan times, no doubt – but no less holy for that.’

Fra Domenico shook his head. ‘No – our young hero is smitten by the ancient world. Aren’t you, lad? Nymphs and satyrs and priestesses.’

‘I should like to see the temples at Kalloni.’ For the first time in two weeks, he thought of Cardinal Bessarion. ‘And my master, Cardinal Bessarion, had a mission for me – at Kalloni.’

‘Go and bathe,’ Fra Tommaso said, a little impatiently. ‘We’ll clean our throats with some good red wine. I want to render unto Caesar, and visit my friends here.’

The baths were packed with sailors and oarsmen, but Swan’s status as a Donat and his fame from the fight under the walls won him a spot in the bath almost immediately. Men moved aside – men bowed.

There is something very odd about accepting praise, or even courtesy, while naked. Swan felt shy – he certainly didn’t enjoy the attention as he might have on another occasion.

He didn’t pay enough heed to the men ahead of him, and hopped down into the first bath.

And shrieked.

All around him, oarsmen and sailors cursed – and laughed.

‘First time, my lord?’ asked an oarsman with the body of Herakles. The man had more muscles on his abdomen than Swan would have thought possible. The water was so hot that Swan was afraid that his testicles might burn off.

‘Yes,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘Lower yourself,’ said another man. ‘Slowly. Don’t fight it. Relaxes the muscles.’

They all looked like Herakles. And they were all grinning.

‘Cup of wine or two, hot bath, a girl on your lap, and the world is a fine place,’ agreed the deep-voiced figure of Poseidon just by him.

It was dark, and hot – but the water was so hot that it steadied him, and he didn’t have to be afraid. And he was … touched by the respect of the oarsmen. When he got out, another man led him to the cold water, and he swam a little.

A small boy offered him a cup of wine from a tray.

The sailor put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not unless you want to buy the boy, too, mate,’ he said. And grinned. ‘Custom of the house.’

Swan smiled at the boy and shook his head – and made his way to the dry room where he had shed his clothes. He felt so very clean that the clothes he’d been wearing now seemed filthy. He opened his portmanteau and dressed in his second best – brown cloth – too warm for spring in Greece but clean and neat. He paid an old woman a few bronze sequins to do his hair and he sat on the porch of the bath with a cup of wine while the two knights talked to the Greek priest from the cave in the outdoor wine shop under the eaves.

‘A person might think you were a pretty girl and not a knight of Christ at all,’ Fra Tommaso said. ‘Although, I confess that, having met your wife, her standards might have – hmm – rubbed off?’ He laughed.

‘His wife?’ Fra Domenico asked.

‘A very beautiful woman,’ Fra Tommaso said.

Fra Domenico smiled – a private smile, as if something he’d understood had been confirmed. ‘Have you any children, my son?’ he asked.

‘Perhaps we will, with God’s help,’ Swan said, and just for a moment, he saw her naked in his mind’s eye.

‘Children are the greatest blessing of marriage,’ Fra Domenico said.

I’m receiving marriage counselling from the most notorious pirate in the Inner Sea, thought Swan. He paid a small tip to the old Greek woman, who smiled toothlessly and patted him.

‘Adonis is prepared to grace us with his company,’ Fra Tommaso said.

Peter nodded from the porch of the baths. ‘I’ll just be making my way down to the waterfront,’ he said. ‘If you happen to kill anyone, be sure and take their purses – eh, my lord?’

Swan took this as a cue and delved into his own purse for a handful of ducats.

‘Any left for your own girl?’ Peter asked quietly.

Swan shrugged. He felt clean. He was almost out of money and, as usual, ready to face the world one desperate crisis at a time.

The palace of the Gattelusi appeared small enough from the outside. Located securely on the highest point of the acropolis inside the fortress, it was itself a citadel, with its own walls and its own chapel. The interior of the great fortress was not flat – rather, it rose constantly from the three successive gates, past the church, to the citadel. In the gatehouse and again on the walls of the citadel, the arms of the Gattelusi were carved into the stone – over and over – alongside the great double-headed eagle of the Paleologi. To the left and right, on one of the great towers of the citadel, there were – Swan stopped walking and fell behind Fra Tommaso – warriors. And men fighting animals.

Fra Domenico turned. ‘Master Swan!’ he called out.

Swan heard him, in a distant way. He was transfixed.

Fra Domenico walked back down the hill. And looked up. The last rays of the spring sun put a ruddy light over the high tower and placed the figures in high relief.

‘Gladiators, Fra Domenico!’ Swan said in wonder. ‘Roman gladiators on Lesvos.’

The knight put a hand on Swan’s shoulder. ‘Come on, my young classicist. Let us meet the owners. Perhaps they’ll give you one.’ He smiled at the older knight. ‘We are leading this young man into temptation!’ He waved at the palace. ‘In there is one of the finest collections of antiquities you will ever see.’

The last rays of the sun made the diamond on his finger glow like something magical.

The palace of the Gattelusi was as opulent as any palace in Rome – decorated in the most modern classical style, with the signal difference that many of the statues were not copies, but the real thing. A magnificent figure of a nude woman stood in the entry hall – modestly covering herself, eyes cast down, she arrested the viewer instantly. Behind her was a painted frieze in the classical style – paint on stucco – depicting dancing nymphs and satyrs. On the plinth to the left of the statue stood a single immense urn – a krater in ancient Greek red-figure ware, with a scene of Penelope weaving at her loom in the foreground, Odysseus leaning on his spear. Lest there be any doubt, their names were written in the ancient letters.