Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome by Christian Cameron

beautiful, was nowhere near as good as the one Peter had retrieved for him from a stricken field in France. And an Anconan armourer altered a new Milanese breastplate to fit him, and he sold the same man his old breast and back.
    Christmas was one of the happiest of Swan’s life. He and Violetta served a feast to their host and hostess and Fra Tommaso, the knight of the order, cooked by Antoine. Wine flowed, sweets were eaten, and they all went to mass and then came back to eat more – even the old knight. He leaned across after his sixth or seventh cup of wine and shook his head.
    ‘We have another in the cabin,’ he said. ‘A pompous bastard from Genoa. But we’ll get some chess in, nonetheless. Your wife is a beauty. You’re a fool to go to sea, lad. The sea is for bachelors. And monks.’
    The next day they all danced in one of the palazzos even though it was as cold as the barns of Umbria. Dancing had become the household entertainment – Violetta loved to dance and some evenings they had hired musicians to play for them at home.
    In the palazzo, men who’d heard that Swan was shipping for Rhodos asked him to carry letters. One man, older than the rest, stopped by Swan and waited until his circle had cleared. All the younger Anconans bowed to him. Eventually his host introduced him.
    ‘Cyriaco,’ he said. ‘One of our little town’s most famous men. He shares your love of Greece – eh, Cyriaco?’
    Swan clasped hands with the older man, who leaned heavily on a stick. ‘I am told that you helped to save the head of St George,’ Cyriaco said.
    Swan bowed.
    ‘How were you able to move about in Constantinople?’ Cyriaco asked. ‘Humour an old man – I know the city.’
    Swan gave in all too easily to any opportunity to brag. ‘I got to know the cisterns and sewers,’ he said with a grin. ‘And I speak some Turkish.’
    ‘Do you really?’ the older man asked. ‘How amazing. Now go and dance with your naiad, young man. She is remarkable. Where did you find her?’ Cyriaco bowed. ‘Come and see me before you leave. I have letters for Rhodos. And Chios,’ he added, with a certain air.
    Four days after Christmas, the sun rose and shone all day. A boy came in the evening and knocked at the door.
    ‘Ser Tommaso says we sail in the morning,’ said the boy.
    A few moments later he received another small boy, who announced that Maestro Cyriaco invited him to drink a cup of wine.
    Swan threw on a robe – he had become accustomed to the ease with which the uniform of the order could be used for every social occasion – kissed Violetta, and went to the door.
    ‘I had other notions of your last night on shore,’ she said.
    ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Wait up.’
    He walked through Ancona to Cyriaco’s house. He was rich, and lived well. There was a train of servants and animals in the big, marble-paved courtyard. But the great man himself came down to greet Swan, and escorted him, hand on arm, up his broad staircase. ‘I wanted a word in private,’ he said. ‘I am an old friend of your cardinal, Bessarion. He opened many doors for me in the East.’ He paused on the marble steps. ‘You are English – do you know why Ancona is important?’ he asked.
    Swan nodded. ‘It is one of the few ports on the east coast of Italy open to Genoese shipping,’ he said.
    Maestro Cyriaco nodded. ‘I am about to introduce you to an old friend – Francesco Drappierro. One of the richest men in Europe. You two will be shipmates.’
    ‘A thousand thanks, Maestro,’ Swan said, bowing.
    Cyriaco handed Swan a small book. ‘This is a list of some of my friends,’ he said. ‘I’m too old to go back – too broken hearted that Constantinople is lost. Too happy in Ancona. But you – you will continue some of my work, eh? I’ve listed what I paid them in the margins.’
    Swan drew away, suddenly suspicious. ‘Maestro, this is … spying. I am merely a volunteer with the crusade—’
    ‘Living with a runaway whore