Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron
Authors: Christian Cameron
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Tom Swan – Part Three: Constantinople
Swan had the worst headache of his life. In fact, he found it hard to think, difficult to concentrate, almost impossible to understand what the people around him were saying.
After a long time, he decided that he couldn’t understand them because he didn’t know the language they were speaking.
After more time, he decided that they were speaking Turkish. But that made no sense, as they often used words he knew.
How did I get here? he wondered. He was lying on a divan or a couch of some sort, at the edge of a bare-earth courtyard – like the receiving entrance of a great house. He lay there, watching, while a train of donkeys arrived with baskets of fruit, and then he went to sleep.
Once awake, he realised that he was lying in the servant’s yard of a house. A house in Constantinople.
What happened?
He couldn’t seem to remember. He had gone riding with Idris. Met the man’s sister.
After that – nothing.
Damn.
He went to sleep again.
He woke again, and it was dark. Oil lamps lit a bare room, painted white, with the edges of the walls decorated in bright stucco. There were a dozen people eating on cushions at a low central table.
‘He’s awake!’ said a child’s voice.
He looked at the foot of his couch, and saw a small black boy. He smiled – he couldn’t help himself, the boy was so small and imp-like. The boy smiled back.
A tall African man rose from the table. He approached, and knelt by Swan’s low bed. ‘Can you understand me?’ he asked, in slow Italian.
Swan nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
The African smiled, and the smile lit his face like an internal lamp. ‘Good! I feared that I hit you too hard.’
Swan remembered the man – something about a message.
‘Where am I?’ he asked.
The African smiled. ‘Nowhere you need to remember,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’
Swan swung his feet to the floor, sat up, and groaned as the blood hit his head. ‘Argh,’ he moaned.
The African snapped his fingers and a veiled woman brought him a tall pottery cup.
‘Drink this,’ he said.
Swan drank.
The drink had the same bitter salty taste as the stuff they’d drunk during the hawking – suddenly he remembered it all. Hawking, Khatun Bengül, the note.
He met the African’s eyes, just as he realised who the man was.
As the drink hit him.
‘Sweet dreams, Englishman,’ said the African. ‘We will not meet again.’
When he came to, he was hot – boiling hot. His skin seemed to give off steam. He had oil on his skin – he could feel it. He smelled odd.
His head was exceptionally clear. There was pain, in his left temple, but mostly this wonderful clarity. The room he was in was dark, perfumed, and a single lamp glowed on a table. It lit magnificent wall hangings full of patterns in which his eyes lost themselves, and a silver lamp that hung, unlit, a ball of reflected sparkles, and in his clarity of sight, those reflections spoke to him of the infinity of spheres that Aristotle said made up the universe.
A shadowy figure passed through a curtain at the darker end of the room and vanished. He heard a murmur of sound. Turkish, certainly.
A new, taller figure entered through the curtain. Walked to the edge of the bed, and sat gracefully beside him.
Her hand touched his shoulder, and ran down his side, to his thigh, and down his thigh between his legs.
‘Hmm,’ Auntie said. She stood and wriggled, and then she was naked, except for a chain around her waist and bangles at one wrist and one ankle. ‘I wish we had a language in common, Englishman,’ she said in Arabic. Her left hand ran expertly up between his legs.
She laughed. ‘Never mind,’ she said and knelt on the bed. She leaned over and her breasts touched his chest. Her perfumed hair fell all around him.
He moaned.
She laughed, and kissed him. A little too hard, and a little too fast. It was as if he was delicate.
Somewhere close, a woman shouted. Another screamed.
Auntie
Swan had the worst headache of his life. In fact, he found it hard to think, difficult to concentrate, almost impossible to understand what the people around him were saying.
After a long time, he decided that he couldn’t understand them because he didn’t know the language they were speaking.
After more time, he decided that they were speaking Turkish. But that made no sense, as they often used words he knew.
How did I get here? he wondered. He was lying on a divan or a couch of some sort, at the edge of a bare-earth courtyard – like the receiving entrance of a great house. He lay there, watching, while a train of donkeys arrived with baskets of fruit, and then he went to sleep.
Once awake, he realised that he was lying in the servant’s yard of a house. A house in Constantinople.
What happened?
He couldn’t seem to remember. He had gone riding with Idris. Met the man’s sister.
After that – nothing.
Damn.
He went to sleep again.
He woke again, and it was dark. Oil lamps lit a bare room, painted white, with the edges of the walls decorated in bright stucco. There were a dozen people eating on cushions at a low central table.
‘He’s awake!’ said a child’s voice.
He looked at the foot of his couch, and saw a small black boy. He smiled – he couldn’t help himself, the boy was so small and imp-like. The boy smiled back.
A tall African man rose from the table. He approached, and knelt by Swan’s low bed. ‘Can you understand me?’ he asked, in slow Italian.
Swan nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
The African smiled, and the smile lit his face like an internal lamp. ‘Good! I feared that I hit you too hard.’
Swan remembered the man – something about a message.
‘Where am I?’ he asked.
The African smiled. ‘Nowhere you need to remember,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’
Swan swung his feet to the floor, sat up, and groaned as the blood hit his head. ‘Argh,’ he moaned.
The African snapped his fingers and a veiled woman brought him a tall pottery cup.
‘Drink this,’ he said.
Swan drank.
The drink had the same bitter salty taste as the stuff they’d drunk during the hawking – suddenly he remembered it all. Hawking, Khatun Bengül, the note.
He met the African’s eyes, just as he realised who the man was.
As the drink hit him.
‘Sweet dreams, Englishman,’ said the African. ‘We will not meet again.’
When he came to, he was hot – boiling hot. His skin seemed to give off steam. He had oil on his skin – he could feel it. He smelled odd.
His head was exceptionally clear. There was pain, in his left temple, but mostly this wonderful clarity. The room he was in was dark, perfumed, and a single lamp glowed on a table. It lit magnificent wall hangings full of patterns in which his eyes lost themselves, and a silver lamp that hung, unlit, a ball of reflected sparkles, and in his clarity of sight, those reflections spoke to him of the infinity of spheres that Aristotle said made up the universe.
A shadowy figure passed through a curtain at the darker end of the room and vanished. He heard a murmur of sound. Turkish, certainly.
A new, taller figure entered through the curtain. Walked to the edge of the bed, and sat gracefully beside him.
Her hand touched his shoulder, and ran down his side, to his thigh, and down his thigh between his legs.
‘Hmm,’ Auntie said. She stood and wriggled, and then she was naked, except for a chain around her waist and bangles at one wrist and one ankle. ‘I wish we had a language in common, Englishman,’ she said in Arabic. Her left hand ran expertly up between his legs.
She laughed. ‘Never mind,’ she said and knelt on the bed. She leaned over and her breasts touched his chest. Her perfumed hair fell all around him.
He moaned.
She laughed, and kissed him. A little too hard, and a little too fast. It was as if he was delicate.
Somewhere close, a woman shouted. Another screamed.
Auntie
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