Read Online Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron - Free Book Online
Authors: Christian Cameron
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said.
Cesare shook his head. ‘They look like Greeks.’
‘They are Greeks,’ Alessandro said. ‘The Turks have raised the city against us.’
‘But they’re Christians!’ said one of the Venetians.
Swan looked at the bishop. ‘We represent the Pope,’ he said bitterly. ‘Most of the Greeks hate the Pope worse than the Sultan.’ He glared at Alessandro. ‘You can’t pin that one on me. That crowd was fanned to flames before . . .’
Alessandro smiled his hard, killing smile. ‘I agree. There is plenty of blame to go around.’ He bit his lip. ‘How far to the first cistern?’
Swan shrugged. ‘A mile, at least. There’s an aqueduct above the Plataea, so there must be an entrance there.’
Giannis was talking quickly to one of the freed slaves, a woman of forty. He was begging her to precede them and proclaim to the crowd that the bishop had saved her. He promised her a place aboard their ship.
She stared at him, blank eyed.
When they rose to their feet, she just sat, head down.
So they went towards the crowd with only eight slave children as their protection.
The crowd was led by priests – at least a dozen of them. Giannis went forward to negotiate, and was hit with a paving stone. Luckily, the stone hit the peak of his helmet, but the message was clear, and his shouts in Greek were ignored.
‘The Turks have set this up beautifully,’ Alessandro said. ‘We will be murdered by a Greek crowd. Or we kill our way through a Greek crowd. Either way, the Sultan wins.’
The bishop emerged from his escort. He wasn’t a tall man, just middle height, with mouse-brown hair and a weak chin. But he took his bishop’s crozier back from a terrified sailor. His hands shook. But he set his face.
‘I forbid you to kill them,’ he said.
‘Excellency,’ said Alessandro. He bowed his head.
The bishop threw his outer robe around his shoulders and put his mitre on his head, and began to walk towards the crowd.
A young man threw a paving stone too big for him. It didn’t come close to the bishop, but it started a horde of small boys throwing clods of earth. The bishop kept walking across the rubble.
In some ways, it was the bravest thing Swan had ever seen. Nothing in the bishop’s previous behaviour had led him to expect this – but in his heart, he was impressed.
He thought of profit, and loss, and all the effort he’d put into his plan, and he shook his head once, and said, ‘Fuck,’ very clearly, in English.
Then he put the small girl down, and took his helmet, a fine Milanese armet, out from under his arm. His arm was cramping. He opened the visor, dropped the falling buff, and peeled back the hinged cheek plates.
Inside lay the fantastical jewelled reliquary of the head of St George. He held it high above his head, and followed the bishop.
The head, and the children, got them through the crowd alive, unharmed and unblooded.
One of the priests offered to guide them, and the party began to work their way south and east through the suburbs – mostly abandoned, with groups of occupied houses like tiny villages set among the crumbling ruins of others abandoned a few months, a few years or a few centuries before.
As soon as they entered the narrow streets, they lost sight of the mounted Turks, and everything else except the sun in the sky overhead.
They moved as fast as the bishop and the children would allow them to move. The men took turns carrying the children, and no one – not even Alessandro – proposed that the children be left.
Up Fifth Hill, and down again, with a quick glimpse of the Golden Horn off to the east, shining in the sun. Across at Galata, three low vessels were laid out on the quays, ready for sea.
Alessandro pointed to them. ‘That’s our ride home, my friends,’ he said, and the men responded with another burst of speed.
Down Fifth Hill on the eastern flank, into the dense slum at its base and up along the ridge that held both Fifth and Fourth Hill, headed
Cesare shook his head. ‘They look like Greeks.’
‘They are Greeks,’ Alessandro said. ‘The Turks have raised the city against us.’
‘But they’re Christians!’ said one of the Venetians.
Swan looked at the bishop. ‘We represent the Pope,’ he said bitterly. ‘Most of the Greeks hate the Pope worse than the Sultan.’ He glared at Alessandro. ‘You can’t pin that one on me. That crowd was fanned to flames before . . .’
Alessandro smiled his hard, killing smile. ‘I agree. There is plenty of blame to go around.’ He bit his lip. ‘How far to the first cistern?’
Swan shrugged. ‘A mile, at least. There’s an aqueduct above the Plataea, so there must be an entrance there.’
Giannis was talking quickly to one of the freed slaves, a woman of forty. He was begging her to precede them and proclaim to the crowd that the bishop had saved her. He promised her a place aboard their ship.
She stared at him, blank eyed.
When they rose to their feet, she just sat, head down.
So they went towards the crowd with only eight slave children as their protection.
The crowd was led by priests – at least a dozen of them. Giannis went forward to negotiate, and was hit with a paving stone. Luckily, the stone hit the peak of his helmet, but the message was clear, and his shouts in Greek were ignored.
‘The Turks have set this up beautifully,’ Alessandro said. ‘We will be murdered by a Greek crowd. Or we kill our way through a Greek crowd. Either way, the Sultan wins.’
The bishop emerged from his escort. He wasn’t a tall man, just middle height, with mouse-brown hair and a weak chin. But he took his bishop’s crozier back from a terrified sailor. His hands shook. But he set his face.
‘I forbid you to kill them,’ he said.
‘Excellency,’ said Alessandro. He bowed his head.
The bishop threw his outer robe around his shoulders and put his mitre on his head, and began to walk towards the crowd.
A young man threw a paving stone too big for him. It didn’t come close to the bishop, but it started a horde of small boys throwing clods of earth. The bishop kept walking across the rubble.
In some ways, it was the bravest thing Swan had ever seen. Nothing in the bishop’s previous behaviour had led him to expect this – but in his heart, he was impressed.
He thought of profit, and loss, and all the effort he’d put into his plan, and he shook his head once, and said, ‘Fuck,’ very clearly, in English.
Then he put the small girl down, and took his helmet, a fine Milanese armet, out from under his arm. His arm was cramping. He opened the visor, dropped the falling buff, and peeled back the hinged cheek plates.
Inside lay the fantastical jewelled reliquary of the head of St George. He held it high above his head, and followed the bishop.
The head, and the children, got them through the crowd alive, unharmed and unblooded.
One of the priests offered to guide them, and the party began to work their way south and east through the suburbs – mostly abandoned, with groups of occupied houses like tiny villages set among the crumbling ruins of others abandoned a few months, a few years or a few centuries before.
As soon as they entered the narrow streets, they lost sight of the mounted Turks, and everything else except the sun in the sky overhead.
They moved as fast as the bishop and the children would allow them to move. The men took turns carrying the children, and no one – not even Alessandro – proposed that the children be left.
Up Fifth Hill, and down again, with a quick glimpse of the Golden Horn off to the east, shining in the sun. Across at Galata, three low vessels were laid out on the quays, ready for sea.
Alessandro pointed to them. ‘That’s our ride home, my friends,’ he said, and the men responded with another burst of speed.
Down Fifth Hill on the eastern flank, into the dense slum at its base and up along the ridge that held both Fifth and Fourth Hill, headed
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