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

from Madame Lucrescia’s?’ Cyriaco smiled. ‘And you stole the head of St George? You speak Turkish? My young Englishman, if you do not want to be thought of as a member of the noble confraternity of spies, you had best cover your tracks more effectively.’ He leaned down. ‘It takes one to know one. I won’t tell.’
    Servants flung doors open, and the two men walked into the second-floor receiving room, hung with magnificent tapestries depicting classical scenes – Diana hunted in a diaphanous garment very like Violetta’s, and Aphrodite rose from some waves and did little to cover herself. The niches and shelves of Cyriaco’s house held a superb collection of marbles, busts and whole statues, and Swan would willingly have spent his hour there simply gawping.
    ‘The products of twenty years of refined looting,’ Cyriaco said. He bowed. ‘Francesco has all my best pieces.’
    Swan was still reeling at the notion that Cyriaco knew that Violetta was a whore from Rome. The man seemed not to care. Swan tried to determine whether the rich Genoese knew, as well.
    Drappierro took his offered hand with two fingers, and just touched it. ‘Your servant,’ he said, without turning his head or looking Swan in the eye. ‘What do you have that’s new, Cyriaco?’
    The Anconan shook his head. ‘No time to play collector, my friend. Fra Tommaso wants your goods at the ship tonight, and he intends to sail—’
    ‘He can sail when I tell him to sail,’ Drappierro said. It was said with such a flat certainty of authority that Swan was tempted to stand straighter. ‘I have gifts for Mehmet – not the sort of shit the Pope sent him, either.’ Drappierro turned his back to Swan. ‘Now, show me what’s new.’
    Cyriaco smiled an ingratiating smile, but his voice went up half an octave. ‘Fra Tommaso has men-at-arms for Monemvasia and for Kos, my friend. He will not welcome your gifts, and he’s had his yards crossed for a week. He plans to sail in the morning.’
    ‘More soldiers – provocations like that are bad for business.’ Drappierro pointed at Swan. ‘Will he report everything I say to the knights?’
    Cyriaco’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He is a young volunteer, and a friend of friends of mine.’
    ‘Very well, Cyriaco. I’ve met him, I’m suitably impressed, and I have some issues to discuss with you. Send him home. I’ll find him something to make him some money when the time comes.’ Drappierro’s hand made a finger-flicking motion – a rude gesture of dismissal.
    Cyriaco looked at Swan and he let out a sigh. ‘Francesco, your manners used to be a great deal better,’ he said.
    The Genoese shrugged. ‘I was poorer then,’ he said. His eyes met Swan’s for the first time. ‘I’m not at my best when I travel,’ he added.
    Swan bowed.
    As he let himself out, he heard the Genoese say, ‘Really, Cyriaco. Another penniless waif?’
    Swan got very little sleep.
    At the door, in the cold, Violetta kissed him for the hundredth time. ‘You can’t take Antoine,’ she said. ‘I’m not a cook.’
    He laughed. ‘You can eat gold. I left you all mine. I’ll be back in a few months.’
    She kissed him again. ‘You are the best husband I’ve ever had,’ she said.
    They laughed together, and she squeezed her body against his, and he considered missing his ship.
    Later, he watched Ancona roll down over the horizon from the stern of the galley, while Fra Tommaso shouted at his timoneer and the new crew tangled their oars. When Ancona was gone, he walked forward, down the ladder, and entered the galley’s only cabin, which was as spartan as you would expect on a warship whose captain was sworn to poverty.
    ‘And who might you be?’ a man asked in Genoan Italian. The accent reminded Swan of Father Ridolpho. Rome seemed very far away.
    ‘I’m Thomas Swan,’ he said. He bowed as the ship rolled in the swell of the Adriatic. ‘Cyriaco introduced us last night.’
    ‘Did he?’ the man drawled. He