Or he might have a party of Turks – or even a dozen mercenaries, to take Swan alive, and hand him to Omar Reis, if he lived.
I don’t have to do this, Swan thought.
So he went. He was in armour, with his sword at his side. His buckler was lost.
There was no janissary at the gate. Instead, there was Isaac.
‘How did you escape?’ Isaac asked as soon as Swan appeared.
‘I have some tricks,’ Swan said wearily. ‘I shot Omar Reis.’
‘You killed Omar Reis’s horse,’ Isaac said.
Swan laughed. Perhaps it was the fatigue, or the heat, or the wine, but he laughed and laughed, and he couldn’t stop, like a small child. Isaac shook his head.
‘The Turks will be here in a few minutes, to demand you be handed over,’ he said. He pointed across the square, where Yellow Face was obvious by an ancient archway. ‘I have to know. How – how exactly – did you get out of Bessarion’s house? I had watchers, and you eluded them.’
Swan rubbed his beard. ‘Trade secret, which I will sell you. Can you delay the Turks by an hour?’
Isaac gestured at himself with both hands. ‘I? A mere Jew?’ He shrugged.
Swan waited.
Isaac rocked his head back and forth. ‘Ah. Perhaps I could at that.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I think they want you to get away. I think they have decided to use you as an . . . incident. If they catch you – that might be inconvenient for them as well.’ He handed Swan a heavy packet. ‘My letters for Venice. And my cousin Simon’s, as well. He did not, as it turned out, sell you to the Turks.’ The Jewish merchant nodded. ‘There is a letter in that packet addressed to you. Lord Idris brought it to my brother. In person.’
‘Good Christ,’ Swan said.
‘Omar Reis will want you dead, even if his master Mehmet has decided to let you go,’ Isaac said. ‘Nonetheless, I can purchase you an hour of time.’
Swan reached into the leather bag he wore at his shoulder, and took out his tablet of paper, and tore off his map of the sewers and conduits. He handed it to Simon with a bow – he didn’t have the power in his muscles for a flourish. ‘They don’t all link up,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought they would. But you can pass from one to another without being noticed, if your hunters don’t know where to look.’
Isaac was looking at the map. ‘These aren’t streets—’ he said slowly.
‘Sewers. The ancient cisterns. That’s my map.’ Swan leaned back against the gate to the Venetian quarter.
Isaac laughed. ‘You know the sewers?’ he asked. He shook his head. ‘Hug my cousin Balthazar for me. Pass that packet on, and he will see you rewarded, I promise. You have been . . . most entertaining, Messire Swan.’
Swan embraced the man, who seemed surprised to be embraced – but they kissed each other’s cheeks, and Isaac chuckled. ‘Go with God, Frank,’ he said.
‘Thanks!’ Swan said, and ran back through the gate.
‘Wait!’ Isaac called. ‘Where did Bessarion’s library go? And what if I find you more books?’
Swan waved.
They boarded Nike in minutes – the men in their armour, the embassy boarding with greatly reduced baggage. Bags went straight to the hold under the rowers’ feet, and Swan took a moment to grab an old, open-faced bascinet from the Venetian guardhouse and put it on his head.
Alessandro came and stood by him at the edge of the command deck. ‘Where – exactly – are we picking up this boat?’ he asked.
Swan pointed a mile down the European shore of the Horn. ‘Right at the point.’
Ser Marco grunted. ‘Where the currents are the worst. Nonetheless – any Venetian knows those waters. That is where Dandalo stormed the city.’
Claudio, the surgeon, was already at work on the Spaniard before they were under way. And north of them, three Turkish galleys left their docks and started down the Horn towards them in the failing light.
Alessandro turned and spoke to Ser Marco. ‘Omar Reis will stop at nothing to get us,’ he said.
Ser Marco fingered his beard and looked at the sky and the sea. He spat over the side. ‘A Turkish ship? Catch me?’ He smiled. ‘We’ll see.’
And then the bow was clear of the Venetian quay, and they were in the current, moving south, and east.
‘I wish . . .’ Swan said, and Alessandro looked at him.
‘You wish?’ he asked.
‘I wish I’d thought to send a decoy,’ Swan said. ‘Another ship, waiting on the south side of the city. In the old imperial docks.’
Alessandro laughed. ‘That will have to wait until next time,’ he said.
Swan looked at the Turkish squadron coming down the current behind them. ‘I don’t plan to come back,’ he said. ‘Ever.’
Of course, in the same breath he said that, he thought of the letter from Idris. And possibly, Khatun Bengül.
He sighed.
The mile passed very quickly.
He was in the bow, watching. From a little less than half a mile, he could see the water gate. Closer in, he could see fishing boats along the point, and at a quarter of a mile, he could see that there was activity near the gate.
There were too many boats, too close to the gate.
He wondered if they were there ahead of him.
How could they be?
Even Isaac hadn’t had time to sell him yet.
At two hundred yards, he saw that all the boats he was looking at were far too big.
At a hundred yards, he saw the tiny cockleshell which was their rowing boat. It was emerging from the gate – a tiny, low thing, with too much aboard. Nikephorus was lying atop the canvas sheet, and the rest of them – including Peter – were slipping into the water. The waves tossed the little boat dreadfully.
Swan ran aft along the companionway that passed between the rowers amidships.
‘That’s my boat!’ he said to Ser Marco.
‘That little thing?’ Ser Marco grunted. His eyes flicked up to the darkening sky. ‘We’ll tow her under if we throw her a line at this speed.’ Louder, he said to his timoneer, ‘Back your oars!’ He leaned over to the helmsman. ‘Lay me alongside that little boat. Don’t swamp it.’
The Venetian’s seamanship was incredible. The helmsman turned the ship – a minute turn, but one that allowed the hull to pass directly alongside the little rowing boat that bobbed in the current. It passed under the oars. A sailor at the first oar-port passed a rope to Nikephorus, who took it awkwardly – but he caught it. The oars remained stationary in the water, holding the Venetian galley in place, even as the current moved both boats together, out to sea.
Behind them, the three Turkish ships began to gain on them.
The acrobats clearly had had a plan of their own, because Irene appeared from the water with a coil of rope around her waist, and climbed over the ram – glitteringly naked, to the rapt admiration of the Arsenali. As soon as she belayed her rope, her comrades followed her – Andromache, followed by Constantios’s heavily muscled form, followed by Peter, who all but bounced up the side, and last of all, Apollinaris. By then, Swan was in the bows, giving each a hand as they came over the box that housed the marines in combat.
Alessandro gallantly threw oarsmen’s cloaks over the women. The oarsmen themselves applauded.
Amidships, a pair of sailors manhandled Nikephorus aboard.
Astern in the setting sun, the Turkish galleys were almost in bowshot.
Swan got Apollinaris up the side, and then turned and ran aft again. Nikephorus was aboard, and dry.
He had a bag in his hand.
Behind him the sailors were pitching bags from the small boat up on to the deck of the galley.
The first Turkish arrows began to fall, and Ser Marco turned to Swan. ‘What’s in the boat? The truth, now.’
Another bag came up the side.