Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome Read Online Free PDF

they rode for Rome, with two carts, all of the Greeks, two French merchants and a priest and six soldiers provided by Messire Bembo. Despite the season, they made good time, and passed the length of the Romagnol with no more trouble than they travelled the Veneto – although the tolls were higher and the local soldiers looked like criminals dressed in armour. They climbed into the hills, drank thin red wine that never seemed to warm them, and endured three straight nights in hostels built to accommodate pilgrims, where they endured fleas of a number and viciousness unlike anything they had encountered. The Greeks went and stayed in the stable, and Andromache reproved Swan.
    ‘You rescued us from the Turks so that we could be eaten by your ferocious heretic insects! Are you sure this isn’t hell? It’s cold, and the bugs …’ She shook her head.
    The third night, Di Brachio returned from a long ride ahead to report that all four inns were full to the rafters.
    Swan shrugged. ‘In England, sometimes a gentleman will rent a barn,’ he said.
    Di Brachio nodded. He was biting the leather of his riding glove, trying to get it off. ‘Yes, it is much the same with us,’ he said. He pointed his chin at the distant towers of a small castle. ‘Go ask them. Be English and noble – everyone here likes that.’
    Swan’s cloak and gloves were soaked through with icy rain, and he could see that Master Nikephorus’s lips were blue, so he cantered his rented horse across the fields to the castle, which, close up, proved to be very small. But they had a small stone barn, and the very cautious owner, who conducted his entire negotiation from behind a cocked crossbow, agreed to rent them the barn for five ducats – an outrageous price. But some hours later, when they sat in the firelit dark with good food – brought by the cautious lord’s servants – and good wine, the ducats seemed well spent.
    Di Brachio was in no hurry to make his blankets, and he and Swan sat up, listening to the others snore.
    Swan told his mentor the tale of the rabbi’s stiffness, and Di Brachio shrugged elaborately, palms up. ‘Listen – you stole the head of Saint George and twisted the Sultan’s tail,’ he said. ‘You think this will have no consequence? Are you an idiot? Jews were probably arrested – mayhap Solomon himself was arrested.’
    Swan froze.
    ‘Your friend Omar Reis will not lightly accept a defeat, Messire Swan. Men will die. Others will be tortured. The price of your little escapade …’ He shrugged. ‘Bessarion may be none too pleased with us.’
    Swan shook his head. ‘Why – damn it! I did everything he asked!’
    Di Brachio lay back in the straw. ‘Yes – well. Goodnight, English. And don’t forget the Orsini, tomorrow. They have long memories – eh? And long knives.’
    Swan was embarrassed to admit he’d forgotten all about them.
    There were no red and yellow Orsini liveries in evidence as they entered Rome, and they crossed the city – a city that seemed empty after the crowds of Venice. They rode across the forum and Swan watched footpads fade into the ruins like beetles at the first sign of the cook entering the kitchen. He fondled his sword and kept his eyes moving.
    But if other places seemed odd, Bessarion’s shabby palace was like home. The servants welcomed them, and the great man himself came down to the tiny yard to watch the unloading of the carts – to embrace each one of the Greek mimes, and to chatter with them in Greek. When he came to Di Brachio, he buried the Venetian in an enormous embrace, a bear hug.
    ‘You lived, young pup,’ he said with enormous affection, and Di Brachio returned the embrace.
    Swan stood with an armload of scrolls. Bessarion met his glance over Di Brachio’s shoulder and winked, and Swan felt something give way in his chest. He’d been holding his breath. Rabbi Aaron’s dismissal had hurt.
    He guided the cardinal through the scrolls he’d rescued, and he gave credit