Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Five: Rhodes by Christian Cameron

our chats,’ the Greek said. ‘I sent a letter,’ he whispered. ‘I never got a reply.’
    Swan nodded. ‘All I want is for you to continue writing letters,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a cup of wine?’ he added, motioning to where a small taverna was just opening, the owner blinking in the new sunlight.
    The Greek man’s smile tightened.
    Inside his own head, Swan kicked himself. ‘Ah – of course. Perhaps we might meet …’ Swan struggled for some way they might appear together in public – a Greek and a Frank.
    ‘Cyriaco sometimes liked to visit the old ruins,’ the Greek said. ‘I can hire donkeys and horses – if you have time. Perhaps tomorrow?’
    Swan bowed. ‘I would like that of all things,’ he said. ‘Might we visit the temples near Kalloni?’
    The Greek sniffed slightly, as if detecting a foul smell. ‘That is … very far. The baths at Thermi? A quick trip.’
    Swan sighed. ‘Of course.’
    They parted with every evidence of goodwill.
    The next few hours taught Swan that spying – the gathering of information – was the very dullest of occupations. Had there been anyone to train him … But there was not, and Swan criss-crossed the town, seeking excuses to talk to people who would never, ordinarily, talk to foreigners. He had the advantage of a list of people who had, at least, been willing to do such a thing in the past – but the list of people didn’t include any methods of making the first contact, and he had to learn every element from first principles.
    By mid-afternoon, when the church bells rang for nones, he was tired, hungry and irritable.
    And then he realised that he was due in two hours at the castle, and he hurried to his inn.
    ‘There’s a package on the bed for you,’ Fra Tommaso said. ‘And a note from a Greek silversmith, and another from a man who rents horses. What a busy, busy boy you are.’
    The package on the bed was a magnificent piece of linen with woven-in stripes of deep Tyrian red-purple, the very colour most prized by the emperors at Constantinople. It had a stripe along each selvedge. The whole was sewn in a tube. There were, included in the package, a pair of pins – really, brooches – that were in the form of lions. They were made of solid gold, and worth … Swan guessed they were worth twenty ducats a piece. There was also a belt of tiny gold links, and a pair of sandals in red leather with gold buckles. And a very short cloak – a wonderful, soft wool, dark blue, but with a Tyrian red hem that matched the rest.
    Swan played with the fabric, trying to imagine how to put it on.
    Then he went to the baths. This time, he moved more quickly, avoided boys with trays of wine, and was neat, clean, and presentable an hour before he was due at the castle. He walked down the beach, where two work parties – oarsmen and sailors who had earned Fra Tommaso’s wrath – were scraping the hulls and applying clean, new pitch.
    The Lord of Eressos was watching. With him were a dozen mounted stradiotes and two heavy wagons. Swan walked carefully across the sand and paused, a little unsure of himself. As a volunteer of the order, did he outrank a local lord? Or rather, would he annoy the knights?
    He was saved from his social predicament by the Lord of Eressos bowing from the saddle. ‘Ah! The English prince.’
    Swan returned the bow with interest. ‘My lord,’ he said.
    ‘Happy Saint George’s Day, Your Grace’ the man said. He smiled. ‘For you heretics!’
    The Lord of Eressos was not as old as he had appeared the day before. Rare among Greeks, he had blond hair – ruddy blond, with a snub nose and freckles. With time to examine him, Swan noted that he had Genoese gloves tucked in his belt, and wore Italianate hose and boots, very different from what his retainers wore. And a fine sword that looked – to Swan’s professional eye – like a German sword with some age to it.
    All this in an instant. Swan nodded. ‘I shall sail back in ten days and wish