As full darkness began to fall, the little boat began to run into the port of Chios with a handful of other boats. Giorgios leaned out and called to one of them.
‘Eh, Dmitry! Is that all you’ve got?’
The local man held up a great red snapper, almost three feet long, and Giorgios slapped his thigh and men cheered. This was done under the gonnes of the Turkish flagship, and Swan felt that they had to look – at least to the Turks – like local chain men. He watched the magnificent gilded stern of the Turkish flagship carefully, and was sure – chillingly sure – that he could see Omar Reis, thumbs hooked in his sash, on the command deck.
And the flagship was not the last obstacle. Despite a day’s careful work, there were still half a dozen more Turkish ships between them and the town, and it became clear that the fishing smack would have to pass right among them.
The owner came forward, hat in hand. He bowed to the Lord of Eressos, and to Swan.
‘I will run straight in, if the excellencies order me,’ he said.
Zambale nodded.
Swan sensed the man had more to say. He returned the man’s bow. ‘Do you have an alternative?’
The owner made a particularly Greek motion with his hand. ‘The prince has paid handsomely for this trip – my wife will not be poor whether I return or not.’ He scratched his white hair. And grinned. ‘But I confess that I would prefer to share the money with her rather than leaving her to enjoy widowhood without my nagging. So – if the excellencies will permit it – I would like to go straight to the Turks here and offer to sell our catch.’
Zambale blinked. ‘Sounds risky,’ he said. He grinned. ‘What a story to tell!’
In Greek, Swan said, ‘I think Despotes Dimitrios is telling us that it is less risky.’
The fisherman scratched his head again. And nodded. ‘It might help if we all muttered a prayer,’ he said.
They pulled alongside a Turkish galley in the very last light. They were challenged before they were within a boat’s length, but there were dozens of Greek slaves aboard, anxious to translate for their new masters, and in moments, fish were going up the side.
Swan himself was putting fish in sacks – already cleaned. He stank of fish guts. He heard a shout, and an angry exchange, and turned to find a pair of barefoot janissaries standing amid the dead fish. Without further ado, they began ramming pikes into the piles of fish.
‘They’re spoiling my catch, the pagan fucks!’ roared the owner. His genuine outrage carried conviction, but didn’t stop the janissaries, and even as he went on, another pair of Turks dropped into the fishing boat and grabbed Zambale. They pinned his arms and stripped him before he could react.
In Greek, a voice shouted, ‘Tell the fisherman to shut up or I’ll have his son gutted.’
Swan looked up. There was a scimitar at his own throat, and in a moment men had his arms and there was no chance to resist.
Swan tried not to panic. If the Turks found Zambale’s sword, or his own …
It was dark, and he thanked God. The Turkish captain leaned out over the side and roared. ‘We will pay for his entire cargo. Tell him. Also tell him that if we find gunpowder in his boat, we’ll crucify every man aboard. Eh?’ Reis laughed. But when the original two janissaries were satisfied, the nearer snapped his fingers and the two by the stern let Zambale go. One Turk even patted him on the head. The two men who had Swan smiled, and one gave him a slight inclination of the head, as if to say ‘no hard feelings’.
A purse of silver coins was thrown into the boat.
The tallest janissary shook his head. In Turkish, he said, ‘No wonder the Sultan is always victorious,’ he said. ‘These Greeks would sell their own brothers to us.’ He laughed and climbed the side of his galley, and the Turkish deck crew poled them off.
Swan wanted to throw up – or sit down and hang his head – but instead, he joined the crew in waving at the Turks, poling off, and getting the lateen set.
In an hour, they were alongside the great pier of Chios, standing on the wharves, stinking of fish.
Zambale grinned. He seemed to know his way around. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to the Mahona.’
‘The who?’ Swan asked.
‘The council of merchants that rules the island.’ Zambale was impatient.
Swan was not. He walked up the street to the main square, with Zambale protesting, and knocked at the oaken gates of the island’s Latin bishop.
‘This is a waste of time,’ Zambale grumbled.
Swan stank of fish and his clothes were ruined, but he whispered a short message to a servant and the man bowed. The bishop – a tall, heavy man with fierce brown eyes, more like a soldier than priest – greeted them in Genoese Italian. Swan took a minute to explain their errand.
The bishop nodded. He listened intently, and didn’t interrupt. When Swan was done, he folded his hands. ‘We must go to the Mahona,’ he said.
Zambale’s face showed his thoughts.
The bishop raised an eyebrow. ‘I will see that the garrison and other parts of my flock know that rescue is at hand,’ he said. ‘I am glad you approached me, young man. Do you wish to bathe? You both reek.’
Swan bowed. ‘We should make haste,’ he said.
The bishop made a face. ‘They won’t be kind,’ he said.
Swan laughed. ‘What can they do to us?’ he asked.
Before the church struck the hour, they were before the Mahona.
Chios was not held as a feudal fief, like Lesvos. It was, instead, the ‘property’ of a Genoese consortium that included the Bank of St George and a dozen other concerns, including the great landowners of the island. Swan knew a little about their politics from Cardinal Bessarion, and enough about the two islands to know that the lords of Lesvos had proved as adept at making money and far better at defence than the merchants of Chios.
‘Speak, young man,’ said a black-clad Genoese. He wore a chain of office and spoke with more icy disdain than Prince Dorino had ever evinced. He held a pomander ball very close to his nose.
Swan bowed. It is very difficult for a young man to appear to best advantage in hose stained with fish guts and a Greek peasant’s tunic with the sweat of several men on it, but Swan managed a fine bow despite all.
‘My lords, I am here on behalf of the Knights of the Order of St John and the Allies.’ He paused, hoping he’d startled them.
‘It’s a Turkish trick. They are impostors,’ said an older voice – querulous and high pitched. ‘And they smell,’ he added, as if that was all the argument necessary.
Swan removed the donat’s ring from his finger and handed it to the President of the Council – at the same time realising that the ring would have been his death sentence had the janissaries looked him over carefully.
It was examined – handed from one to another.
The Lord of Eressos lost patience. ‘We’re not trying to sell you bad wool, you ungrateful usurers!’ he snapped.
Just for a moment, Swan admired the other young man’s genuine contempt.
Every black-capped head came up together, and forty old men glared at Hector Zambale.
‘We are not used to being addressed in such a way,’ snapped the president.
‘It will seem as mild as a whore’s kiss when you pull an oar for the Sultan,’ Zambale shot back. ‘I am the Lord of Eressos of Lesvos, as at least one of you bastards knows perfectly well.’ He stared at one of the younger black-caps, who wilted.
Swan’s estimation of Zambale’s skills went up another notch.
The president turned to the younger man. ‘Is this true?’ he asked.
The man bowed his head. ‘Yes, messire.’
The president shook his head. And looked at Swan. ‘We have been summoned to surrender the island by no less a pirate then Omar Reis, who raped his way across Thrace last year.’