Swan nodded.
‘The Genoese are sending a famous man – Francesco Drappierro – to be their ambassador in Constantinople. You understand that Genoa openly supported the Emperor in the last days of Constantinople – yes?’
‘Yes. And paid for it – they lost Pera across the straits and most of their city privileges. I saw that with my own eyes.’ Swan nodded.
‘Just so. Now Genoa is desperate. Loss of the alum mines in Phokaia would devastate the Genoese cloth trade – loss of their sugar plantations would cripple their banking, and loss of Lesvos and Chios – which belong to the Gattelussi – would end Genoa as an overseas empire, topple the balance of power in Italy, and incidentally rob Christendom of the second-most powerful military fleet in the Inner Sea.’ The cardinal steepled his fingers. ‘Some of us suspect that the collapse of Genoa would mean that France would invade. You understand?’
‘More importantly, the fleet most likely to help the Pope,’ Swan noted.
‘I am pleased that you have become so very … accurate in your views on Church politics,’ Bessarion said. ‘So Genoa is sending a very wealthy man – one who was friends with the Sultan’s father – to attempt to bring the Sultan to a more friendly state of mind. Genoa is fully aware that there is a traitor. Drappierro will be fully briefed. You will go with him and serve where you see fit – with the knights, or with Drappierro’s embassy. The Turks hate the knights – but respect them. They despise the Genoese, but use them.’ Bessarion spread his hands. ‘This is a very ticklish matter. I meant to send Di Brachio. Can you help me catch a traitor?’
Swan nodded. ‘I can try. I imagine his weak point would be in passing communications to his Turkish friends.’
Bessarion shrugged. ‘It could be someone right here in Rome,’ he said. ‘Ah – here is a list of my plantations on Lesvos – please collect the rents if you have a chance.’
Swan wished that he had a five-fold wax tablet book. ‘I’m to go with the knights, fight for them if I must, watch for a traitor, buy antiquities for sale, and, if possible, collect your rents from Lesvos. Anything else?’
Bessarion laughed. ‘I have some shirts that need washing,’ he said. He raised his hand and blessed Swan, who knelt and kissed his episcopal ring. ‘I also have some letters for you to deliver. Come and collect them this evening. Now go and see Di Brachio.’
Di Brachio was conscious, and had Master Claudio with him.
‘Ah – you will all be my testimonials when I apply for a professorship at Padua,’ the doctor said. ‘Let me look at that eye – don’t go getting killed before I’m done with you. This is a salve – try it on the abrasion. The abrasion, fool.’ Claudio put salve on Swan’s cheek with his thumb.
Di Brachio’s skin was waxy and his face was pale so that his unshaven cheek seemed to be bruised. He coughed too much. Each cough clearly pained him.
‘Fever?’ asked Swan, whispering, which was pointless, because the close room was absolutely silent.
The doctor shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the blade cut his guts. If it did?’ He shrugged. The shrug was a death sentence.
‘I can hear every word,’ Di Brachio muttered. ‘By the crucified Christ – talk to me, Englishman. I’m so bored I might die.’
Swan pushed into the room and leaned over the bed.
‘Jesus, you look like hell,’ Di Brachio said. ‘Don’t tell me that Violetta did that to you.’
‘An Orsini bastard with a chair,’ Swan said.
‘And you killed him?’ Di Brachio asked softly.
‘No,’ said Swan.
‘What? Are you getting soft?’ Di Brachio murmured. ‘Listen, the doctor tells me you are taking the mission to Chios.’
Swan paused. ‘To Rhodos and Cos,’ he said.
‘He didn’t tell you more than that?’ Di Brachio said. ‘Did you make him angry?’
‘Not particularly,’ Swan said. He was shocked by how bad his friend looked. ‘I’m going to be made a Donat of the order.’
Di Brachio raised his hand, where a red stone burned like an eye in a small gold ring. He muttered something, and Swan leaned close.
‘He’s tired. You need to let him sleep,’ the doctor said.
‘I am a Donat of the order,’ Di Brachio said. ‘I was going to go … on crusade. For my … sins.’
‘I’ll do enough for both of us,’ Swan said, trying to keep the conversation light.
‘I thought you were supposed to keep me from getting killed – eh, English?’ Di Brachio made a clawing motion with his hand. ‘Heh – stay safe, boy.’
Swan kissed the Venetian on the cheek. ‘Live!’ he said.
‘Heh – I plan to. Hell is waiting for me,’ Di Brachio said. ‘I just keep asking myself …’
‘What?’ Swan asked.
‘How I let that cocksucker get his blade under my guard,’ Di Brachio said.
Swan changed into his new velvet doublet and silk hose and walked to the Priory of Rome with a dozen of Bessarion’s swordsmen as his retinue. The Frenchman was one of them, looking a little less polished.
The prior was a young man – as young as Swan himself. He kissed the Pope’s order reverently, and read through Swan’s genealogy, nodding. ‘Your grandfather was the King of England?’ he asked. He was obviously impressed, and trying to hide it.
Swan bowed. ‘No, my lord. My great-grandfather. My grandfather was the Duke of Lancaster.’
The prior nodded. ‘You are the child of two generations of bastardy,’ he said.
Swan thought of a number of replies, and swallowed them. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said.
‘But the Pope’s grant only deals with one of them,’ said the prior. His eyes burned with fanaticism and suppressed jealousy. ‘Only the most holy, most pious men are fit to lead our great crusade,’ he said.
Swan wondered whether the prior was quite sane. But years of dealing with his mother’s customers had left him some resources, and he bowed, and said in his most respectful voice, ‘I believe that His Holiness has made his desires plain enough, but I would be delighted to serve your lordship by going back to His Holiness and explaining your position.’
The prior reread the Pope’s document and frowned. ‘I suppose …’ he said.
Swan took his oaths from an older knight, and the man – clad in a black gown with the eight-pointed star and wearing a black knitted cap so old that the black was fading to grey-blue – had iron-hard hands and a steady grip on Swan’s shoulder, and Swan liked him immediately. He took Swan into the chapel of the priory, made him kneel, and left him there for an hour.
Swan knelt. He assumed it was a test.
The elderly knight came back and lit candles – seven candles. For each one he prayed a string of prayers, and then he came and knelt by Swan.
‘I make all the rich bastards kneel, to make sure they have an inkling of what this is about,’ he said. ‘See the candles? My friends. All killed facing the foe.’
‘The Turks?’ Swan whispered.
The old man shook his head. ‘Jean-Baptiste died fighting. The rest – plague, leprosy, the cough, the black fever – it’s the hospital that kills us. No armour against disease.’
Swan crossed himself. ‘I see,’ he said carefully.
The old knight helped him to his feet, and he could scarcely walk. ‘You are going to a galley, I gather,’ he said.
‘Yes, my lord.’