Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Five: Rhodes Read Online Free PDF Page A

said.
    ‘Clearly the effendi learned some essential matters,’ the African said. ‘I am called Salim, here. Out there,’ he said, waving, ‘I am Mohamed.’
    Swan nodded. ‘Call me Tommaso,’ he said. ‘Now show me where they were found.’
    ‘I can do better, if you pay me,’ the African said. ‘I can show you what the two fools didn’t know – how to reach the ancient city under the sewers.’
    ‘Are you a prisoner of war?’ Swan asked.
    Salim nodded.
    Together, they climbed an old house – really a tower, and probably more than a thousand years old. The inside was occupied by beggars who lived in the basement, and all the floors had fallen in and been salvaged for furniture, for room dividers, and even as firewood.
    ‘Can’t we go in by the door?’ Swan asked while climbing the sun-heated stone of the outer wall.
    ‘No,’ said the slave. He offered no further information.
    Swan wondered whether he was being precipitate in trusting the man, and touched the needle-sharp rondel dagger at his waist. Just in case. They got over the old roof trees and then descended on ropes obviously there for the purpose.
    There were other people living in the ruin, and the whole of the old tower was a chimney, so that they climbed down through a variety of cooking smells – onions, some meat, cardamom – all delicious.
    Salim seemed to know the occupants, and he and Swan passed among them with only some murmurs. They went down into the old tower’s basement, and then along a short stone-lined corridor that stank of urine, and into an obvious cesspit.
    ‘Jesus!’ Swan spat.
    Salim made a face. ‘Must you swear, Christian?’ he asked.
    Swan would have laughed, but the stench made him retch.
    The slave raised the hem of his kaftan and Swan pulled his gown tight against his body, and the two men edged along the least polluted wall and into another stinking corridor on the far side.
    ‘Did I fail to mention that the entry route is used as a set of privies?’ Salim asked with a wicked smile.
    Swan grunted. ‘Did I fail to mention that I have a dagger and you do not?’ he asked idly, in Arabic. ‘Even a scratch would be septic, in this.’
    ‘Uhhnn.’ Salim nodded, not displeased.
    While Swan contemplated the Arabic sense of humour, they passed six cesspits, each more odiferous and disgusting than the last, until they emerged into a dark chamber that stank only of cat piss. Swan lit an oil lamp, which guttered, as if the fumes ate the air. But the slave knew where there were lanterns and torches hidden in the rocks, and they made their way along an odd path – almost like a street, except that Swan could tell he was looking at shorings and foundations – heavy stone with an outward slope.
    He stepped on something that bit at his foot. Examination under torchlight revealed a bronze arrowhead – light, and with a trilobite head. Swan had seen them before – at Marathon.
    ‘Persian!’ he said.
    The black man shrugged. ‘If you say, Effendi. You are not expecting treasure, I hope.’
    Swan smiled. ‘If there was a treasure …’ he said.
    Salim raised a black eyebrow. ‘Yes?’ he asked, pausing. The torchlight rendered his face demonic.
    ‘You wouldn’t take me here at all,’ Swan said.
    Salim laughed. ‘Sometimes there are coins. Arrowheads, such as the one you found. It was a great battle, the one the ancient men fought here before the Prophet, may his name be blessed, came to teach men the way of justice.’
    ‘How much farther does this go?’ Swan asked.
    ‘All the way to the—’ Salim seemed to catch himself. ‘Not much farther. Sometimes we find different tunnels—old streets. The old slaves say there is a tunnel cut in the rock—all the way under the walls to the south.’ He shrugged. ‘I have never seen it,’ he said.
    Swan was increasingly conscious of being under the earth with a man as big as he was and every bit as dangerous. At the same time, he recognized the stone in the