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

to bathe in the Thames in February when the ice is running , he thought.
    Domenico looked at Tommaso. Then, as if they had but one mind, the two knights turned and looked at Swan.
    Swan quailed and wondered which of his sins had been discovered. The illicit cargo of mastic?
    ‘He wants you to try something insanely brave,’ Fra Tommaso said. He shrugged. Swan didn’t like the look Fra Tommaso gave his fellow knight. It held … reproof.
    Fra Domenico’s eyes sparkled like his ring. ‘It is not so insane,’ he said. ‘I want you to cross the island, get a fishing boat from Kalloni and land on Chios. You’ll have to swim to get into the city. With a message.’ He grinned. ‘Twice, if my little plan works out.’
    Swan sighed. He heard a voice say ‘I’ll do it!’ with reckless enthusiasm.
    It took a moment to realise that the voice had been his own.
    Fra Tommaso pursed his lips. ‘The Turks may sail away tomorrow …’
    ‘In which case, we will not risk Master Swan,’ Domenico said. ‘But they have stolen a march on us, and a dozen galleys can hold us pinned to this beach, and the Pasha knows that as well as you and I.’
    ‘How will a message help Chios? If the truth is that we are blockaded here?’ Swan managed.
    Domenico smiled. ‘Truth? Who said anything about the truth?’ He looked at his left hand, and put his right on his sword hilt. ‘ Quid est veritas ? Pilate was right.’
    ‘He wants you to tell Chios that the Genoese Grand Fleet is at sea,’ Tommaso said. He glared at Fra Diablo. ‘You sail perilously close to blasphemy.’ To Swan he said, ‘Do not take any foolish risks. Don’t get captured.’
    ‘Better yet, get captured and tell the Turks,’ Domenico said. He shrugged. ‘I am what I am.’
    Bathed and dressed, Swan drank three cups of watered wine and walked down into the town. Many shops were closed, and the market was shuttered, but the silversmith was sitting in the spring sun with a wine cup between his hands.
    Swan sat down. ‘My apologies, Kyrie. My day has been rather spoiled by the advent of the Turks.’
    The silversmith laughed. ‘In this, Frank, you are forgiven. I saw you working on the beach – indeed, you helped haul one of my brother-in-law’s boats up.’ He looked out to sea. ‘My brother-in-law has another boat around the headland at Thermi.’
    Swan leaned forward. ‘What I need is a guide …’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry? Why does it matter that your brother-in-law has another boat?’
    The silversmith smiled. ‘Before dawn, my brother-in-law was among the Turks, selling sardines and lobster.’ His eyebrows shot up and a frown flickered – a complex Mediterranean facial expression the registered mock surprise that such a thing could even happen.
    Swan nodded. ‘Ahh,’ he said.
    ‘Maestro Cyriaco paid me silver for such news,’ the silversmith said.
    Swan nodded. ‘I can only make you promises. I brought no silver.’
    The smith frowned. He looked away, as if Swan had embarrassed him.
    Swan leaned forward. ‘I will pay. In a matter of hours.’
    The silversmith was obviously offended.
    ‘I recognise that you do this mostly out of a desire to be a patriot,’ Swan said. He phrased it as carefully as he could, watching the man’s face.
    Immediately. the other man smiled. ‘I do not like to talk about money,’ he said. ‘I do this for the love of my island and hatred of the Turk – understand?’
    ‘Of course,’ Swan said.
    The silversmith handed over two sheets of good Egyptian paper. ‘Ship names and crews. A few officers’ names, and some important personages aboard. He sold to six ships and ended aboard Omar Reis Pasha’s flagship. He will sell more tonight. And the Turks will summon the town to surrender, and the island. What do you think?’ the man asked suddenly.
    At the mention of Omar Reis, Swan stiffened. He felt his heartbeat increase. He looked out to sea with studied calm and scratched the base of his chin. ‘Dorino will never