‘Cardinal Bessarion’s library,’ Swan said.
Ser Marco nodded. ‘Give way, all!’ he roared, and the great oars bit the water. He looked aft, where the Turkish galleys were flying at them. ‘I love books,’ he said. His eyes met Swan’s. ‘But I love my oarsmen more.’
At their feet, the small boat – still attached to the galley by two ropes – seemed to skip along with the Venetian ship. The sailor who had been aboard throwing sacks leaped clear, and caught himself on one of the oar-ports – got a foot inboard, and then swung up and over the gunwale, as agile as an African monkey.
More than half of the cardinal’s collection was still in the boat.
Plato.
Aristotle.
Menander.
Epictetus and Aeschylus. A play by a Greek named Phrynichus, who had witnessed the fall of Miletus. A hundred poems by Sappho. The sayings of Heraklitus. A work on mathematics by Pythagoras.
Even as Swan watched, the Venetian ship gathered speed – and the two ropes towing the small boat began to skew her course.
He was still considering making the jump when Alessandro’s strong right arm pinned him to the gunwale. ‘No you don’t, you fool!’ Alessandro shouted.
Swan squirmed.
The bow of the little boat buried itself in a wave.
Almost instantly, the boat filled – just as a sailor cut the tow. The rowing boat tipped once, took another wave directly under Swan’s eyes – and sank.
The sacks – leather sacks, carefully tied – floated for a few moments. Long enough for Peter to seize a marine’s partisan, lean far out over the stern, and catch one. It hung from the point of the spear for a long moment, and the spear caught the last of the sun – and then Peter whipped the spear up over his head with all his strength, and the bag, flung as if by a trebuchet, passed over the stern and landed in the middle of the ship.
And before the Turkish galleys passed them, the rest of the bags sank into the waters of the Bosporus.
Swan watched them all sink. He stood there, at the stern rail, as the Turkish arrows fell around him, until Alessandro came and pulled him away. ‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘You did well. The cardinal never expected us to save his library. The actors are more important.’
‘They are?’
‘Some day perhaps the cardinal will tell us why.’ Alessandro shrugged. ‘Or perhaps they are people, and the scrolls are just the words of dead men.’
Swan met his eyes. ‘You don’t really believe that.’
Alessandro shrugged. ‘I stand with Ser Marco. I wouldn’t give the life of one Arsenali for a lost book by that faker, Aristotle. Or Plato the hypocrite.’ He shrugged.
Swan was watching the Turks. ‘They’re losing the race,’ he said.
Alessandro smiled. ‘There’s no ship on these waters as fast as a Venetian galley,’ he said.
Half an hour later, Swan collapsed to the deck and slept.
He woke in the night with the sort of headache he associated with drunkenness, and drank some water. Ser Marco was still with the helmsman. They were racing along, their big sail set and drawing.
Swan was diffident. He’d learned that the Venetian captain didn’t like to be interrupted on the command deck, even though it was the best place to stand on the ship, so he leaned over the rail forward of the helmsman’s station and watched the vaguely phosphorescent water race by.
‘Too tired to sleep?’ Ser Marco asked.
‘Yes, messire. Tired and thirsty. A little ill.’ Swan shrugged.
Ser Marco’s remaining teeth glittered in the moonlight when he smiled. He was missing all four in the centre, and it made him look sinister. ‘Overexertion, young man. I gather I owe you my life?’
Swan smiled. ‘Messire Claudio did the surgery. I merely pinned down a blood vessel.’
Ser Marco nodded. ‘I am grateful – but many men have saved my life over the years.’ He looked away.
Swan decided a change of topic was in order. ‘Where are we?’ he asked. When Ser Marco paused, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I know you don’t like to be bothered on the deck.’
Ser Marco grinned his demonic grin, and beckoned. ‘Come, young master. Join me on the sacred wooden boards of the command platform.’
The helmsman gave him a distracted nod. The man’s head was clearly somewhere else.
Ser Marco waved. ‘See the lights?’
Swan was about to protest that he didn’t see anything but a handful of stars, and then he saw them – a cluster of pinpricks, more yellow than white, and what had to be a fire.
‘I see them.’ He leaned out over the water, as if being a few handspans closer would make a difference.
‘That’s the isle of Marmora. They trade in marble. It has several good ports.’ Ser Marco motioned again. ‘Lean well out and look carefully astern.’
Swan suited his actions to the capitano’s words. He watched for a long time, and saw nothing but the faintest glow far astern.
He didn’t want to give up – the capitano was a man who loved to present a puzzle, as Swan knew from months of serving under him, and the young were expected to provide answers. Then he looked at the sea. Much, much closer than the dark horizon.
There were ships only a few hundred paces astern. They could only really be seen by the bow waves they cast.
‘Blessed Saint George,’ Swan said as he straightened up.
‘And Saint Mark,’ said Ser Marcos, tugging his beard.
‘I thought . . . I thought we were faster?’ Swan said carefully.
Ser Marco nodded. ‘I thought so, too. I’ve seen the flash of oars. I think they are rowing at night to increase their speed. Their rowers will be exhausted in the morning. They’ll have to try for us early – at dawn. Or even before.’ He shook his head. ‘They must be very desperate. Or someone hates us very much.’
Swan winced.
‘Best get some sleep. When they prepare to lay us aboard, I’ll call. You may trust my word on that.’ Ser Marco touched his shoulder.
Swan shook his head. He had the uneasy feeling that all of this was his fault.
He lay down and slept.
Morning. He woke muddle headed, and at first he couldn’t imagine where he was. His back hurt, and he lay on his side on the wooden deck with nothing under him but his rolled cloak and his right arm, which was half asleep.
He thought of Khatun Bengül.
He started to smile, and he realised that the ship’s drummer was just preparing to play the alarm. Men were already arming – half the Arsenali were shrugging into armour, those who had it. The rest guzzled water or wine. The marines were all looking to their arrows.
He raised his head off the deck, and thoughts of love were banished. A hundred paces astern, he could see the long, low shape of Omar Reis’s ship, and another hundred paces astern of her, two more Turkish galleys.
‘Good Christ,’ he said to Peter, who handed him a cup of wine.
Peter nodded. ‘I very much like your Turkish bow,’ he said. ‘I think you may want it.’
It lay atop his armour, with a quiver full of arrows.
The drum began to beat ‘To Arms’.
The tales of Tom Swan will be continued – if enough readers want them – in Tom Swan and the Conqueror’s Ring – in which Tom, against his better judgement, will return to Constantinople to find the lost ring of Alexander – and to buy a whole city for the Pope. And perhaps end a war. Or maybe just start one.
Also by Christian Cameron
Also by Christian Cameron and available as Orion ebooks:
The Tyrant Series
War, death and glory are in abundance in this action-packed series of betrayal and revenge set around, and beyond, the reign of Alexander the Great.