‘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?’
Bessarion sighed. ‘It could come sooner,’ he said. ‘The knights sail in all weathers.’ He looked at the two young men. ‘It is said in the College of Cardinals that Mehmet II plans to destroy all the learning of the ancient world and replace it with the Koran. That he means to conquer the whole world.’
It occurred to Swan that this was not the place for him to declare his almost absolute admiration for the Turks — their manliness, their horses, their swords and their war machines and their poetry. But the picture of Mehmet II destroying manuscripts seemed a little extreme. ‘The Grand Turk reveres learning,’ he said.
Bessarion’s baleful glare fell on him squarely. Swan liked his employer, and he’d heard many foolish things about Christians while he was with Turks. He nodded. ‘But of course, he is the merest infidel,’ he added piously.
Bessarion’s basilisk stare faded into a pleasant smile. ‘Excellent. Get some rest — well-earned rest — from your Herculean labours. There is a new steward about the place — Father Ridolpho. A protege of the Cardinal of Avignon.’ His eyes crossed Di Brachio’s, and some message passed. ‘He is very’ — here the cardinal gave the slightest sniff, as if he detected an unpleasant odour — ‘very careful with money.’ He scribbled a note and handed it to Di Brachio.
‘Do not, I beg you, bait our employer,’ Di Brachio said. ‘You and I know that Mehmet has every intention of conquering the world. This Bessarion needs to know. You and I know that Mehmet the Second, may his name be blessed, is a far, far more moral ruler than most of the perverted creatures who inhabit the College of Cardinals. We do not say this out loud. Mm?’
Swan nodded in humility. ‘I’ll watch my tongue next time,’ he said.
Di Brachio laughed. ‘No, you won’t. But never mind. I have a note in my hand that authorises the steward to pay us. I can see, with nothing more than a glance about this palazzo, that the good cardinal is in funds — look, those silver ewers were in pawn when we were here before. Eh? So we’ll be paid.’
He suited action to word, walking down to the offices on the first floor, where Swan had rarely been. A dozen clerks, some in holy orders and some just ink-stained young men, sat at desks like oar benches, writing furiously. The steward of the household was a middle-aged priest, tall, with chiselled features and a strong build, and he took the note from the cardinal and nodded.
‘Ah — you are the famous young Messer Swan,’ he said in Genoese Italian. He frowned. ‘I understand that after your last escapade, half my clerks were lamed by the Orsini, who chased them through the streets every day for a month.’
Swan tried to look apologetic.
The priest bit his thumbnail. ‘Household servants are paid on Thursday next.’ He made a note and smiled at Di Brachio. ‘Please return then,’ he said. He countersigned a ledger in red ink, and turned to the tall desk that dominated the room. He sat on a high stool and resumed writing.
Swan looked at Di Brachio, who had turned bright red. The Venetian cleared his throat.
‘You expected something more?’ asked the priest.