Read Online Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome by Christian Cameron - Free Book Online

winter sun. The landlord served them hare and a spicy sausage dish.
    Swan put two gold francs into the landlord’s hand. ‘I wish the courtyard to have no prying eyes. Yes?’
    The innkeeper leered. ‘None at all!’ he said.
    If he had a peephole, he was doomed to disappointment, unless he fancied watching three women and three men exchange the very rudiments of swordsmanship. If Swan had imagined that he would be the teacher, he quickly discovered that both Di Brescia and Giannis had as much – or more – to contribute. Giannis was soon the voice of instruction. He had experience training soldiers, and that experience was more valuable than Swan’s youthful passion or Di Brescia’s tempered training.
    The whole might have been riotous, or salacious – perhaps both together – except that the three women were so very serious.
    Irene was merely annoyed when a slap to her knuckles from Di Brescia’s sword drew blood. Violetta took a cut to her right calf that caused her to hobble in the cold air, and made her angry. Andromache avoided injury but was patently afraid of the weapons and yet as eager to learn.
    They played in the courtyard until the light left the sky, by which time all three women could adequately hold a sword, slap an attack away, and respond – too slowly – with a counter. The men finished with some bouts, and except for one heart-stopping moment when Di Brescia’s new right leg lunge almost resulted in Swan taking a blade through his eye, the fighting was pretty and safe.
    The women had all worn hose and heavy linen shirts under their kirtles and gowns. Now they made themselves respectable again, and the men gathered in a huddle and agreed that they should have dinner.
    ‘Can we dine with the ladies?’ Swan asked.
    Di Brescia vanished and returned smiling. ‘With money, all things are possible,’ he said.
    It was cold in the courtyard, and they moved into the tavern’s main room – low ceilinged, with rafters of ancient oak and hams and sausages everywhere, smelling of Eastern spices and male sweat. The ‘house’ had a pair of trulls, the lowest form of prostitutes except those who plied their trade against the churches – hard-faced young women from the country – and a pair of bruisers whose faces suggested they were from the same town. The only other people in the main room were some Florentines, a single French soldier and the fat innkeeper and his wife, both busy over-managing the handful of staff.
    ‘I’ve arranged dinner and some music,’ Di Brescia said.
    The food was excellent, utterly belying the appearance of the place – and explaining the wealthy Florentine party’s presence. While they ate, one of the bruisers produced a lute and began to play. Di Brescia arranged things with the innkeeper, who waited on them in person, and Di Brescia introduced each dish – the cappelletti alla cortigiana , the panunto con provatura fresca , the fine sweet Barolo wine after four bottles of Tuscan sunshine. He took charge of dinner as effectively as Giannis had taken charge of the swordplay.
    The bruiser played like Apollo come to earth, as the Greeks commented, and Violetta leaned against Swan. ‘It is like seeing gold appear from dung,’ she whispered.
    The three women had their veils off to eat, and the French soldier was moved to cross to their table. But after an exchange with Giannis, he shrugged agreeably – perhaps convinced that the ladies had defenders – and went back to his wine.
    After the table was cleared, the landlord brought them another pitcher of his heavy spiced wine, and Violetta clapped her hands together. ‘Let’s dance,’ she said.
    Everyone in the tavern agreed to that. Even as Di Brescia had taken charge of the dinner, so Violetta was instantly the mistress of the dance, and she included the trulls, the innkeeper’s wife …
    ‘Let’s do a bassadura. Let’s do Damnes. It’s new!’ she said. And proceeded to teach them the latest dance at the