Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Six: Chios Read Free Page B

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