Di Brachio was in no hurry to make his blankets, and he and Swan sat up, listening to the others snore.
Swan told his mentor the tale of the rabbi’s stiffness, and Di Brachio shrugged elaborately, palms up. ‘Listen – you stole the head of Saint George and twisted the Sultan’s tail,’ he said. ‘You think this will have no consequence? Are you an idiot? Jews were probably arrested – mayhap Solomon himself was arrested.’
Swan froze.
‘Your friend Omar Reis will not lightly accept a defeat, Messire Swan. Men will die. Others will be tortured. The price of your little escapade …’ He shrugged. ‘Bessarion may be none too pleased with us.’
Swan shook his head. ‘Why – damn it! I did everything he asked!’
Di Brachio lay back in the straw. ‘Yes – well. Goodnight, English. And don’t forget the Orsini, tomorrow. They have long memories – eh? And long knives.’
Swan was embarrassed to admit he’d forgotten all about them.
There were no red and yellow Orsini liveries in evidence as they entered Rome, and they crossed the city – a city that seemed empty after the crowds of Venice. They rode across the forum and Swan watched footpads fade into the ruins like beetles at the first sign of the cook entering the kitchen. He fondled his sword and kept his eyes moving.
But if other places seemed odd, Bessarion’s shabby palace was like home. The servants welcomed them, and the great man himself came down to the tiny yard to watch the unloading of the carts – to embrace each one of the Greek mimes, and to chatter with them in Greek. When he came to Di Brachio, he buried the Venetian in an enormous embrace, a bear hug.
‘You lived, young pup,’ he said with enormous affection, and Di Brachio returned the embrace.
Swan stood with an armload of scrolls. Bessarion met his glance over Di Brachio’s shoulder and winked, and Swan felt something give way in his chest. He’d been holding his breath. Rabbi Aaron’s dismissal had hurt.
He guided the cardinal through the scrolls he’d rescued, and he gave credit in double handfuls to the others – to Giannis, to Peter, to the archers on the ship. Di Brachio shrugged and disclaimed all responsibility.
‘The English did it all,’ he said. ‘None of the rest of us could even leave the quarter. He and his man did the work.’
Bessarion blessed every one of them in the yard, even though they all had to move carefully because the pair of two-wheeled carts filled the whole space. He helped carry scrolls up into his library, where he saw to their installation in his own network of pigeonholes.
‘This one for the Pope,’ he said. ‘This one – the Cicero – for my friend Aneas Piccolomini. A great man in the Church. And a great lover of Cicero.’
He flirted with Irene and Andromache, chatted amicably with Giannis, and repeatedly wrung Nikephorus’s hands, but when he’d seen his fellow Greeks situated in comfortable rooms, he finally took Swan and Di Brachio to his inner sanctum and closed the door.
‘Well,’ he said. He sat back on an old leather chair from the last century and put his booted feet up on his great work table. ‘The bishop has sung your praises and Master Swan’s to the Pope and to the College of Cardinals. But I can’t help but think that the head of Saint George might have been …’ He shrugged. ‘Better left at the bottom of the sewers, perhaps?’ He looked at Di Brachio. ‘Ten Jews have been executed – crucified. And forty Greeks. Mehmed II has forbidden the Pisans or the Florentines to maintain posts in the city, and he’s made other threats.’
Di Brachio shrugged. ‘We didn’t steal the head, Excellency. Your servants did that.’ He glanced at Swan. ‘Servants you didn’t see fit to mention to us.’
Bessarion shrugged. ‘I can’t …’ he began. Then he shrugged. ‘Gentlemen, I owe you some apology, and yet, I cannot let you – even you, Alessandro – know all my little secrets.’ He glowered at Swan. ‘And you, my lying Englishman. I gather that it is to you I owe the head’s recovery – and the chaos in Christian affairs in Constantinople!’
But his tone was more jesting than solemn or admonitory, and Swan failed to hide his grin of triumph.
‘There are interests in this town that received a sharp rap on the knuckles owing to your actions. But – you were there and I was not, and on balance, you have saved some wonderful books, and brought back some people I value strongly – the insides of Master Nikephorus’s head hold more books than my library, if I can find a scribe to write for him – and the head will buy me a great deal of influence somewhere.’
‘You won’t keep it?’ asked Swan, suddenly and unaccountably devastated.
Di Brachio nodded to his master. ‘Eminence, you really must see this thing to believe it.’
Bessarion raised an eyebrow. ‘Gentlemen, I am a Greek, and a man of God. I have every faith that the head of Saint George is a wonderful relic.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Anything you’d care to report to me?’ he asked.
Di Brachio looked out of the small window by his shoulder at the wintry remnants of a Roman garden. ‘We touched at Monemvasia while English here was wounded,’ he said. ‘The Hospitaller officer there wants the Pope to take the town, or the even the Venetians.’ Di Brachio produced the letter.
‘We were paid three hundred ducats to carry this message,’ Swan added. ‘I had to leave my man there. I’d like … to go back. And retrieve him. If time allows.’
Bessarion leaned back and stared at his star-studded ceiling while he played with his beard. ‘Monemvasia. The property of the Despot, I think. Demetrios.’ He shook his head. ‘There are rumours that Demetrios is threatening to turn to al-Islam.’ He sat up. ‘The Turks are readying a fleet for Lesvos and Chios.’
‘A priest in Monemvasia said to me that the monasteries on Lesvos and Chios might have old books,’ Swan said.
Bessarion nodded. ‘Very likely. People on the islands are very rich, and well educated. The Genoese took Lesvos in – bah, I can’t remember. A hundred years before I was born, or more. Chios the same.’ He put his chin in his hand. ‘If Genoa puts a fleet to sea to save Chios …’
Di Brachio smiled bitterly. ‘Then Venice will help Turkey. They are like bad brothers – you know.’
Bessarion nodded. ‘We Christians are our own enemies. Orthodox against Catholic – Genoese against Venetian, French against English.’
Swan laughed. ‘With due respect, Eminence, the Turks are no lovers of the Mamluks, nor the Mamelukes of the Turks, nor the various mainland Turks of each other. I heard much about this in Constantinople.’
Bessarion nodded. ‘Perhaps this is just the Tower of Babel playing out among men,’ he agreed. ‘In the meantime, I’d like to see the islands saved. I have had it in my mind to send one or both of you to the Knights Hospitaller. But only if the Pope is willing to take action.’
‘Can the islands be held against the Turks?’ Swan asked.
Bessarion watched the rain for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Which is why you must buy every manuscript there that you can find.’ He nodded to Di Brachio. ‘You have had a hard journey and you will want to rest. But if the Pope will send a deputation to the knights – will you go?’
Di Brachio smiled. ‘I’d be delighted.’ His grin grew lopsided. ‘My father will be delighted, as well. What an odd occurrence.’ He leaned forward, rose to his feet. ‘Not until spring, I assume?’