Di Brachio threw his sword – hard, and overarm, so that it made a torchlit pinwheel and slammed into the farther man’s neck. It wasn’t spectacular – the sword didn’t hit point first – but it had enough power and weight to make a great wound, and the fellow went sprawling on the planks, screaming, both arms reaching for the back of his head.
Swan cursed his tight scarlet hose and ran after the closer man, who was scrawny, short and partially bald. He ran with a limp, and Swan caught him in ten steps. The man turned – and fell to his knees.
‘Spare me, master!’ he said. His eyes gleamed dully, like old metal.
Behind Swan, the man who’d taken the sword in the back of his head screamed as his questing fingers discovered that there was a big piece of his skull missing and he was a dead man, and then his screams stopped abruptly as Di Brachio finished him.
‘I could serve you – I’d be a slave. Oh, God, messire, please …’
Swan thought a thousand things in a second – how he’d spared the young Turk, and how this man had intended to kill and then rob Di Brachio. What Christ intended. What he would think of himself tomorrow. Whether Violetta was yet available. The eyes that watched him were bereft of anything like innocence.
He ran the man through, and kicked him off his point. He felt neither joy nor horror. Killing street trash was no longer incident. It was a professional decision, and he left the corpse and ran back to Di Brachio, but the Venetian hadn’t taken a bad wound, merely a hard cut to the side below his dagger hand.
‘You are a fool,’ Swan said fondly.
‘Am I?’ Di Brachio said. ‘Sweet Christ, that hurts.’ He shrugged. ‘But I no longer feel like killing an innocent girl. That part is all better.’ He turned. ‘Did yours get away?’
‘No,’ Swan said.
They sat in the main room of Madame Lucrescia’s and debated how long Pope Nicholas would live and who might be Pope after him. Accudi thought that Bessarion would be Pope, and Di Brescia laughed him to scorn. Swan tried to listen while scanning the room for Violetta, but she was gone – riding another customer, no doubt. He found himself angry. It made no sense to be so angry – he’d made his choice and chased after Di Brachio – but there it was. He couldn’t listen to Di Brescia’s mock insults, or to Accudi’s ribald comments.
Like Di Brachio before him, he rose to leave.
‘You came back!’ Madame Lucrescia said, placing a hand on his chest. ‘I sent her to her room. She was going to make a scene.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you in love with your Venetian?’
Swan laughed. ‘Not that way,’ he said. He smiled, though.
She nodded. ‘I thought not. But – never mind. I will send a slave for Violetta, and you may resume your evening, although if these two gentlemen do not stop fighting …’ She swept past Swan to where Di Brescia was sitting on top of his much less martial peer.
‘Messires!’ she shouted.
Di Brescia raised his head. ‘Ah, che cosare! Let me write you a poem right after I shove this ink-stained cretin’s words down his throat.’
‘Help me, Englishman!’ shouted Accudi.
Swan couldn’t tell whether they were in play or in earnest – they’d drunk enough wine to float a Genoese galley. But he helped two brawny servants to separate them, and as he rose from kneeling on the floor he heard a most unfortunate sound from his hose, and Violette giggled.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘If I am to be your Queen of Love, you are not allowed to run away.’
He looked down into her remarkable eyes – slightly mismatched, large, liquid, of an indefinable colour between blue and purple.
‘And you might wish to place your back to the wall. Or just follow me to my room.’ She dropped her lashes.
His questing hand found that there was a rip in his hose as broad as four fingers. Someone’s knife or sword-point had scored. His arse was showing.
He smiled at her, and glanced at Di Brachio, who looked as if he was going to sleep. Only after a moment’s attention did Swan realise that the Venetian was bleeding heavily – that there was blood on his chair and on the floor. His head was lolling.
Violette was not the kind of girl who fainted. Instead, she waved to a slave. ‘Receiving room,’ she said. ‘No, kitchen. Get a doctor.’
Swan took a ducat from his purse. ‘Go to the Bishop of Ostia’s palazzo,’ he said, ‘and ask for Master Claudio. Run. All the way,’ He helped another slave hoist the wounded man, and Di Brachio let out an uncharacteristic groan. Swan ran with him all the way to the kitchen, where plainly clad women cleared the great work table by throwing everything – including a half-butchered lamb – on the floor.
Swan was covered in Di Brachio’s blood – his hands were sticky with it. But he got his friend on to the table, half-rolled him over, and used his dagger to cut the Venetian’s doublet off his body, an act for which he suspected Di Brachio wouldn’t thank him.
It was more than a gash. The blow had penetrated the skin, not between the ribs, as Swan had imagined, but below the ribs. The skin sagged open in a way Swan found a little obscene. It wasn’t like any other wound he’d ever seen, and it began to dawn on him that Di Brachio might really be badly hurt.
Violetta was not as shocked. ‘Hot water,’ she said, clapping her hands. Then she pulled her light linen chiton over her head. She twirled it once – and handed it to one of the kitchen women before taking a sponge full of warm water from the head cook.
‘It’s boiled,’ said the cook. ‘Looks bad,’ she added with apparent indifference to the wounded man and the naked woman.
Swan watched Violetta take the hot sponge to Di Brachio and conquered his own fear. He had to climb on to the table, but he took various rags handed to him by the kitchen staff and began to probe the wound. Violetta opened it with her fingers and looked at it carefully even as it filled with blood.
‘It’s not a death wound,’ she said. She was kneeling on the table, her thighs and lower legs already red. ‘No bubbles – not into the lung and whatever else is there. Unless he bleeds out. Stupid fuck. What did he do – run out and attack an army?’
Swan managed a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. He remembered Master Claudio’s instructions, and he pressed the edges of the wound together and pushed down as hard as he thought he should. The rags began to turn red.
It occurred to Swan that all this had happened before – that the kitchen staff at Madame Lucrescia’s was highly skilled in dealing with sword wounds. He smiled across Di Brachio’s insensate body at Violetta. ‘You are beautiful, even covered in blood.’
‘It’s my fault,’ she said, and shrugged, and her breasts moved. Swan seldom got to watch naked women in good light. It had an artistic quality …
The cook began to use a small portion of the work surface to make mulled wine. It all had the air of comedy – the kitchen staff, now cleaning the floor; the naked beauty, the man, possibly dying. Swan bit his lip, trying to keep the edges of the wound steady. ‘Has someone sent for a doctor?’ he asked.
Violetta nodded. ‘Yes. Let me take some of that. Christ, that’s a lot of blood.’
‘How is it that you are so good at blood?’ Swan asked.
‘My mother was an army girl,’ Violetta said. She shrugged. ‘She followed armies until she got the cough and died. She protected me like a wolf – kept the men off me. I did laundry and sewed wounds to pay my way, but when she died’ – Violetta smiled at Swan, and the smile was as hard as steel and as comforting – ‘I sold – what I had. Eh?’