Constantinople

Alessandro allowed the slightest smile to cross his face. And gave his own minute nod.

So Alessandro had pulled strings to get Venice to send a representative, which made it almost impossible that they would all be murdered.

The bishop bowed – it was the closest thing to a social concession Swan had seen the man make. He spoke very quietly to the interpreter, who himself bowed.

He spoke in Turkish for what seemed to Swan to be a very long time.

He became aware that Omar Reis was watching him. The man had a slight smile on his face.

Swan smiled back. It wasn’t the wisest choice, but Swan couldn’t stop the smile.

It became a grin.

Omar Reis’s smile faltered.

The introductory oration ran to its final stanzas – in Persian.

‘That’s my bit,’ said Cesare.

At the poety, Mehmet sat forward.

The bishop, who had been toying with his magnificent crystal crozier, suddenly looked up.

Mehmet smiled. He leaned over and whispered something to the Florentine, who nodded and walked across the hall to the embassy, even as the chamberlain answered the embassy and the translator began to say:

‘The Sultan is delighted to accept the plaudits of his cousin, the Pope . . .’

The Turkish answer ground on – a little more pointed than the papal oration, in that it suggested that Christians had always been the aggressors and Islam, and Allah’s servant Mehmet and his father Murad, were but i

The Florentine stopped and bowed. ‘The Sultan wishes to know who among the embassy composed the poem at the end?’

Before he could be stopped, Cesare bowed. ‘I had that honour.’

‘You write in Persian?’ asked the Florentine.

‘I write in Latin. I found a translator.’ He bowed.

The Florentine returned his bow.

The Pope’s gift was a bridle – a magnificent piece of horse tack, decorated in gold, with medallions of the finest Italian work, buckles in blued steel and gold, dyed a deep red.

The Sultan looked at it, smiled, leaned over to Omar Reis and made some remark which caused all the men around him to laugh.

Their interpreters paled. The nearer said, ‘The sultan says the Pope takes me for a horse.’

The bishop went forward with the second gift, a cabinet such as Italian noblemen used to display their jewels and their antiquities – a magnificent piece of vulgarity, with a hundred drawers of exotic woods and mirrored backs, gold and silver wire inlay, marble terraces . . .

Like a palace, reproduced as a piece of furniture.

The Sultan didn’t even look at it, or the bishop. He had started to chat with the men closest to him. The bishop stood by the Pope’s great gift and time ticked by – literally, as there was a German clock in the centre of the cabinet. It was wound, and set, the machine ticking away.

Swan found it fascinating. A machine. A machine that could measure time.

Eventually the Sultan was interested, too, and when one of his confidants stopped talking, he rose suddenly, walked down from the dais, and stood by the cabinet. With the help of the Venetian factor, he opened the clock and looked at the mechanism. Then he shrugged, and said something in Turkish to Omar Reis, who gri

The interpreter closest to Swan gulped audibly. ‘He says, first he takes me for a horse, and now, for a woman.’

Omar Reis passed within a few feet of Swan. He turned to grin his feral grin, and his nose wrinkled slightly.

Swan saw him pause in his progress across the floor.

He looked back – not a long look, but a mere flick of the eyes.

Swan would have sworn that the Wolf of Thrace’s eyes glowed. Swan had never had such a look of poisonous hatred directed at him in all his life.

Uh-oh.

Cesare, behind him, said, ‘Boy? What have you done?’

Alessandro looked at him.

I smell of Khatun Bengül’s perfume. Swan’s vision tu

I’m an idiot.

Mehmet spoke quietly, his words clear in the silent hall.

The bishop bowed and extended a hand with the Pope’s letter.

The chamberlain took it. Without any grand display, he managed to give the impression that he was handling a small sack of human excrement. He deposited the letter with a lower functionary, who scurried away.

Mehmet nodded.

‘The Sultan would like to grant you a boon in return for your magnificent presents,’ said the interpreter. ‘He says that he has a surfeit of Christian slaves – so many that their value is plummeting throughout his empire. He is about to launch a great military campaign to crush rebels against his rule – and he says this will only result in still more Christian slaves.’

The bishop narrowed his eyes.

Most of the embassy were holding their breath.

‘The Sultan has arranged for some slaves to be waiting for you outside. In recognition of the Pope’s magnificent presents, he is willing to allow you to free five.’

Every Turk in the hall laughed.

The laughter was spontaneous and unforced, and even the Venetian and the Florentine felt it.

Mehmet smiled benevolently at them.

Omar Reis looked at Swan.

It took an effort of will for Swan to keep his hand off his sword-hilt.

The Turks left the hall faster than they had entered. The sipahis remained, standing nonchalantly around the perimeter, yet unmoving as carved stone.

Alessandro looked around. ‘Whatever is waiting for us outside, it will be humiliating and cruel. And outside the gates may be worse. Your Excellency, I propose that you choose the first five slaves we see – so that we may lose no time. Harden your heart and let us move.’

The bishop nodded.

‘Let me also recommend that all three of you gentlemen strip your robes and hand them to our sailors.’ He nodded to the bishop. ‘Your Excellency, I can protect you better if you are not a slow, stiff, obvious target.’

The elder of the two interpreters said, ‘You are making a mistake. If the Turks can pretend they didn’t recognise him—’

Alessandro shrugged. ‘I know that argument. I have my own.’ They had arrived at the great entrance doors. ‘Ready, Excellency?’

The bishop was so pale he might have been a corpse. ‘Do you really think that . . .’

Alessandro nodded. ‘Yes. We will be attacked. Probably by an angry, anti-Christian mob, in the street.’

The bishop’s hands trembled. ‘God’s will be done,’ he said.

The doors opened.

The great courtyard of the palace was full – full to bursting. Swan thought at first glance that there must be two thousand men and women there. Maybe twice as many.

They were, for the most part, naked, or wore a single garment. Old and young, they shared deeply lined, exhausted faces and scars. They had been deprived even of hope. They stood, abject. Families huddled together, or perhaps they were just loose associations of men and women formed in bondage.

A voice from one of the palace towers called out in Greek. ‘Christians! Your bishop will now select five of you to be freed. Present yourselves to him!’

Alessandro eyed the crowd.

Swan said, ‘We’ll never get through.’

Alessandro smiled. ‘Oh yes we will.’ He looked around one more time. The great gates on the far side of the courtyard were opening.

He looked tired, and his mouth was set very hard.

The slaves began to shuffle towards them. The press was instantly very thick, and Swan stumbled back.

‘Tell them they are all free, and should go through the gate.’ Alessandro spoke quietly, and every word sounded as if it was forced out of him.

‘There will be a stampede!’ Swan said.

‘Yes,’ Alessandro said. ‘Do it.’

The bishop was hanging on Alessandro’s arm. The Venetian marines were stringing their bows.