Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Two: Venice by Christian Cameron Page B

Italians.
    Simon came, and Swan introduced himself and his two companions. He handed over the letter.
    Simon bowed. ‘You will pardon me,’ he said. ‘With the siege, it is more than a year since I have heard from my brother.’ Swan saw him palm the inner note expertly and he relaxed. Simon left them for a few minutes, and they made stilted conversation and admired the calligraphy on scrolls around the walls, all of which Idris proclaimed to be Persian.
    ‘Except this one,’ he said, puzzling over one particularly odd scroll. The letters were both large and violent – square, almost. And yet oddly beautiful.
    ‘Chinese,’ said Simon, coming back into the room. ‘I thank you very much, Messer, for your kindness to an old Jew. May I be of service?’
    Swan bowed. ‘I am interested in purchasing old manuscripts – old Greek manuscripts. I collect them,’ he said. ‘Your brother suggested you might help me.’ In Hebrew, he said, ‘Do you know the house in the note?’
    Simon nodded. ‘I have sent a message,’ he said. ‘I expect he will come and fetch his package in person.’
    ‘I have it on me,’ Swan said. In Italian, he went on, ‘My poor Hebrew doesn’t go as far – could you direct me . . . to the . . .?’
    Simon smiled. He waved a hand, and one of the servants led him to the neatest and sweetest-smelling jakes he’d ever seen. There was a basin of water and a basket of towels. Swan opened the basket of towels and put Balthazar’s package inside.
    Then he racked his brain for the Hebrew word for ‘towel’.
    Nothing came to mind. When Simon looked at him, he gave the man a small nod and mimed washing his hands.
    Not even a blink of recognition.
    He wasn’t going to discuss any more business with Idris present. So they spoke at random of a dozen things, asked after the family, and the business, as if he were truly an old family friend. He heard a stir in the doorway, and then there were bows.
    The man who was presented – yet another Isaac – might have been Balthazar’s second son. He was the right age, and had something of Solomon’s eager friendliness. He also appeared simultaneously too friendly and ill at ease. Idris in particular seemed to excite him, and he flattered the young Turk unmercifully.
    At last, Swan managed to withdraw with many protestations of future visits. They walked out the main gate, escorted by two local men, who bowed low as they passed. The janissary saluted.
    Idris laughed. ‘Franks are famous for their bigotry,’ he said. ‘And you seem to be friends with everyone.’
    Swan shrugged. ‘I make a habit of pulling thorns from the paws of every lion I meet,’ he said.
    ‘My father likes you,’ Idris said. ‘He’s going to invite you to go hunting with him.’
    ‘Should I?’ Swan asked.
    Idris thought for a moment. ‘It would help me,’ he said.
    ‘Will your father give me a safe conduct in my own name?’ Swan asked. It was a little too bold, but he wasn’t sure how often he’d have access to the young Turk.
    Idris smiled. ‘So – that’s what you want. Why? These old books?’
    ‘What would you do, to have unlimited access to Persian manuscripts?’ Swan asked.
    Idris smiled. ‘You are too intelligent, and I suspect you are using me. But you saved my life – you are entitled to a little use.’ He inclined his head – very like his father – and his bearing reminded Swan that he was not always as clever as he thought he was. ‘I will ask on your behalf.’ He looked at Swan. ‘Listen – promise me something.’
    Swan laughed. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Promise me you aren’t after this thing. This head that all the Christians want. The Sultan spoke of it today. My father has men all over the city looking for it.’
    Swan looked confused, or at least, he hoped he did. ‘Head?’ he asked.
    ‘Christians worship the parts of dead men,’ Idris insisted. ‘In their churches. Feet. Toenails. Arm bones. This is the head of the great