But the artery was slipping. It felt like a snake, a hard worm under Swan’s finger, and he brought his thumb down alongside the finger.
‘One. Two,’ the doctor counted. ‘Three!’
He paused. There were a series of rapid motions – the Turkish ship was doing something, the sailors were moving, the doctor thrust the needle hard – hard enough to make the muscles stand out on his neck.
‘Five,’ he said. ‘Six. Seven. Second stitch. Third stitch.’ The man looked triumphant – like a man who had won a serious fight, or won a fortune on the turn of a card. He radiated joy.
He looked over at Swan. Took Peter’s third loop, and took a deep breath. ‘Let go,’ he said. ‘Slowly.’
Swan found it hard to let go. His thumb and forefinger were stuck together with blood and pain.
‘Swan!’ Alessandro shouted.
He got to his feet. His knees and stomach muscles didn’t want to hold him up.
The doctor raised his face. ‘It’s holding,’ he said. He was staring into the blood and flesh.
Swan stumbled.
The Turkish ship, oars folded in like a bird’s wings, lay alongside. A man in a magnificent turban with a jewel holding an ostrich plume was standing at the base of the aft mast, hands on hips. He roared something.
Alessandro turned to Swan. ‘Do you understand him?’
Swan leaned out on to the oar box, put his bloody hand to his mouth, and called ‘Shukraan!’ Thanks!
The man at the mast grinned. ‘May I come aboard, Frank?’ he called, in Arabic. From his accent, it wasn’t his first language.
‘May we speak Greek?’ Swan shouted back, and the Turkish officer waved. Without any further ceremony, he swung out on the spar of his lateen and landed accurately on the deck by Swan’s feet.
The Turk was taller than Swan by a head, with a magnificent beard as good as Rabbi Aaron’s, heavy chested, with a long, curved nose and heavy black brows. On the Turkish ship, a row of marines were pointing hand cannons over the rail, and two officers were screaming at each other.
Giannis snarled. ‘I know this one,’ he said.
The Turk inclined his head. He was more like a king than anyone that Swan had ever met – certainly far more like his idea of a king than Henry VI of England.
‘Omar Reis,’ spat Giannis. ‘Christ the Saviour.’
The Turk smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth. He wore a silk robe worth a thousand ducats and a gold-hilted sword worth as much again. The emerald in his turban was worth another thousand. At least. ‘The Greeks call me Omar Reis. I am Turahanoglu Omar Reis. You are in some small difficulty,’ he said. He was looking around.
Alessandro’s Greek wasn’t up to the exchange. Swan translated, and then said, ‘No difficulty, my lord. Just some pest control.’
Omar Reis smiled again. ‘Yes. I see that some of the rats had teeth.’
‘And blood. Quite a bit of blood. May we offer you a cup of fresh apple cider, my lord?’ Swan was quite sure there was cider somewhere in the bishop’s gear.
‘You are very kind,’ said the Turkish lord.
The wounded groaned, and the ships made all the small sounds of ships at sea, but otherwise there was complete silence on both ships. An oarsman went below for cider.
‘We have a safe conduct,’ Alessandro said. ‘And an ambassador from the Pope to the Sultan.’
Swan nodded and repeated Alessandro’s statement. ‘This is our captain, Alessandro of the illustrious family of the Bembii of Venice,’ he added.
The Turk inclined his head very slightly. Alessandro matched his inclination to the degree.
‘And you, Bloody Hand?’ asked the Turk. ‘I cannot place your accent.’
‘I’m an Englishman,’ Swan said. Some devil made him add, ‘My great-uncle is the King of England.’
Omar Reis had begun to step past him, but he paused. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘King Henry has no brothers.’
‘John of Gaunt was my grandfather,’ Swan said. This Turk seemed to know quite a bit about England.
The Turk scratched below his beard at the base of his neck. ‘I see,’ he said. He bowed his head – just a little. ‘How may we be of service?’
Alessandro was glaring at him, but he folded up the glare and put it away before the Turk could see it.
Giannis said – in French – ‘He’s looking us over to see if he wants to take us.’
Alessandro nodded.
On the Turkish galley, the slow-match for the hand cannons burned, and minute whorls of smoke rose from the marines’ hands and curled away into the sun.
Swan was working through the problem in his head. Fighting didn’t promote careful planning, but now that he was no longer holding a man who was bleeding to death or fighting for his life, certain thoughts started to percolate through his mind.
First, that Omar Reis had to have known that the other two galleys were there. After all, the third galley had emerged from behind an island. The two ‘Smyrna’ galleys had been out in the current – but they must have rowed hard to get there and hold their stations.
The captain would have known all this.
Swan made a devil’s-horn sign with his left hand and flashed it to Alessandro behind the Turk’s back.
Giannis grabbed his hand. In French, he said, ‘He’s the most powerful Turk on the Greek mainland. His father is Turahan Bey and he’s the Lord of Thrace.’
Swan was watching the young man he’d taken prisoner. Peter was standing by him, and the young man’s eyes were glued on the Turkish lord, who looked around, never quite seeing the prisoner.
Alessandro bowed. A servant presented a tray with a silver goblet full of cider. The Turk took it. He looked at Alessandro.
‘We must share, my lord, if you want me to try it first,’ Alessandro said, and Swan translated.
The Turk handed him the cup.
Alessandro drank and handed it back to him with a bow.
The Turk drained it. ‘Let me see this safe conduct,’ he said.
Swan, watching him like a hawk, saw his glance pass over the prisoner – pause, and move on.
It was like watching a boy trying not to look at a girl with bare legs or nice breasts.
Alessandro was looking at him. In Latin, he said, ‘All three galleys serve Dido of Carthage.’ He smiled.
The Turk turned to look at him.
‘The boy with Peter must be his son,’ Swan went on in Latin. ‘Look at him.’
Alessandro nodded. He gave that thin-lipped smile he adopted when he was going to do something nasty.
The bishop came on deck. He was a heavy man, and he made heavy work of crossing the deck from the coach. ‘Who is this infidel?’ he asked in Italian.
Omar Reis smiled. In Italian he said, ‘I might ask the same,’ and waved. ‘I will have to take this ship until all this is sorted out.’
Alessandro snapped his fingers and motioned to Peter. Peter put a dagger against the young man’s throat.
The bishop had a scroll in his hand, and Alessandro snatched it without a word of apology. ‘My lord, please allow me to offer our safe conduct, signed by the Sultan, Mehmet the Second of that glorious name, and issued to the Bishop of Ostia and his train, so long as they are transported by a Venetian ship. This is a Venetian ship. Venice is at peace with the Sultan, but if you attempt to impound us, I promise you three things; first, that you will die; second, that your son will die before your eyes; and third, that your ship will be as easily defeated as your two consorts have been. I’ll add a fourth, my lord – that Venice will go to war for us.’
Omar Reis didn’t show a shadow of fear. He smiled, and looked around. ‘Son? I have no son,’ he said. ‘Your threats are as empty as air. I have driven off your enemies. I am the Lord of Thrace – these waters are mine, under the Sultan, who’s slave I am. If you touch me, all of you will die, crucified after you have been degraded by my galley slaves. Ask your pet Greek what I do to my enemies.’ His smile deepened. ‘Come – you have made your threats, and I have made mine. I would like my food.’ He snapped his fingers, and an oarsman brought him the safe conduct. He read it as if they were of no further concern to him.