Chios

He took the time to say a prayer. And to look at the ring, and the temple.

The Turkish fleet – at least, the half still in the Asiatic Straits off Chios – was far more bunched up than it had been – less confident, Swan suspected.

He came up with them as darkness was falling. His hands shook so badly he could scarcely keep the tiller against the wind, but he held his course, and near full dark, he brought his small boat through the picket ships without raising so much as a shout – in fact, he was ready with a fine story of escape from Christian dogs, but no one called out to him.

He came alongside the flagship, and was finally challenged.

‘Take me to Messire Drappierro,’ he said in brash Turkish. He sounded terrified inside his own head. His heart hammered as if Princess Theodora had just dropped her gown.

He thought of … nothing. He forced a smile, and went over the side, of his own free will, aboard the Turkish flagship, with his Turkish clothes worn incorrectly, and his turban tied in a way no true son of the faith – or daughter – would ever tie such a thing.

A pair of janissaries grabbed him and threw him to the deck, and in a blinding flash of terror, he saw a terrible flaw in his plan.

What if Drappierro isn’t aboard?

But he had to try. ‘Messire Drappierro!’ he wailed.

They stripped him. It was not done gently, and a pair of officers came to watch.

‘A Christian spy!' was the shout.

‘Search his boat!’ another called.

‘Master Drappierro!’ Swan wailed in real terror. The part of his brain that never turned off noted that he was being methodically beaten while stretched across the galley’s supply of gunpowder – the barrels were Italian.

He was kicked twice – in the stomach and again in the privates. He writhed in agony, naked, on the deck.

‘He’s mine,’ Drappierro said. ‘Dear boy – couldn’t you just have come to the town like a civilised person?’

Swan almost wet himself in relief. He couldn’t control his muscles. He was in the grip of a terror so absolute – it is one thing to contemplate capture by a cruel enemy, and another to endure it. In the light of the handful of torches and lanterns, the Turks looked demonic.

‘What do you mean, he is yours?’ one of the Turkish officers asked.

Drappierro waved arrogantly. ‘One of my men. Understand, fool of a Turk? My men. Working for me.’

‘I will search his boat anyway,’ the Turk spat.

‘Suit yourself,’ Drappierro said. ‘I am surrounded by men who prefer violence to thought. Master Swan, I do not think you will live long, lying naked on the deck of this ship. Have you got it?’

Swan pointed mutely at the Turkish officer. He found it hard to speak. Just as he began to recover his wits, he saw Auntie’s shadowy steward watching him.

But that was terror turning to … hope.

The African turned and vanished into the aft cabin.

Drappierro was arguing with the Turkish officer. ‘You took a ring from the prisoner?’ he asked.

The Turk glared at him. ‘Perhaps! What is it to you, sir?’

‘It is mine. The prisoner merely carried it to prove himself from me.’ Drappierro held out his hand.

The Turkish officer drew himself up. Swan had seen the same gesture from an archer in Southwark who couldn’t pay his bill. ‘What does it look like?’ he asked.

Drappierro spat. ‘I can have you bastinadoed, you fool! I am the Sultan’s friend.’ He held out his hand. ‘It has a crystal or a diamond in the bezel and the ring is gold. The head is of Herakles …’

The Turk had the ring on his finger, and he gave himself away looking at it. The crystal winked in the torchlight. The Turk cursed, and flung the thing into Drappierro’s greedy hand. The Genoese man took it.

The other Turk – just clambering back over the galley’s low side – watched with something like amusement. ‘It is your ring?’ he asked in low, grave tones.

‘Yes, yes,’ Drappierro said with evident delight.

The Turk bowed and caught his brother officer by his flowing sleeve and dragged him aft towards the main-deck tent, telling him to stop making trouble in careful Turkish.

The oar decks were empty. Swan had hoped to hide in them, but that had all failed now – he hadn’t expected the guards to be so alert, and now he was in the most desperate position possible.

Drappierro knelt by his side. ‘How did you get here? You are long ahead of time!’ He sneered. ‘So eager for my service?’

Swan wanted to retch. ‘The … order … broke out of Mytilini.’ He coughed. ‘I stole a boat.’

Drappierro scratched his beard. But he wasn’t really looking at Swan. He was trying to see his ring in the poor light. ‘This feels more like crystal than diamond,’ he said. ‘Oh, but I can feel the age of it.’ He smiled. ‘It really is a pity you have so many enemies, young man.’ He stood, and as he stood, a pair of Africans took Swan’s arms.

Swan had expected this betrayal. In fact, he’d pla

‘Omar Reis will never even know you were here,’ Drappierro said. ‘Your friend – his sister – has made a fine offer for you. She gave me her word that you will not die.’ Drappierro laughed. ‘We are all men of the world, eh, Swan? If you ever manage to escape, come and see me.’

The Africans had dragged Swan to his feet, but they were not unkind, and Swan settled and they gave him a little space. He used it to bow low.

‘We are, indeed, all men of the world,’ he answered. ‘Think of me,’ he managed.

Drappierro’s head shot round, because Swan’s tone had been too bland by half.

But the Africans were taking him down the main deck. He left Messire Drappierro trying to look more closely at his ring, even as a dozen janissaries came down the deck from the command tent.

Just over his shoulder, he could hear the voice he dreaded most of all – that of Omar Reis himself.

‘Messire Drappierro,’ the Turkish general said in his near-perfect Italian.

And then Swan found himself face to face with Maral Khatun. Auntie.

She was thirty-five – five feet of muscle and silk and black hair. In the dark, she was merely a shape and a set of shawls, but he still knew her – by scent, and by the deference of all the men around him suddenly.

He made himself bow.

She chuckled. In Arabic, she said, ‘Well, he doesn’t lack for ma

‘I do not know, mistress.’ The African bowed. ‘Hamza Beg is … debating, with your brother.’

‘Find out, there’s a dear.’ She looked at Swan. ‘You speak a little Arabic, I think.’

There were men aboard who knew he spoke Turkish, so he bowed again. ‘And Turkish, my lady.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, you are revenged on a poor woman, are you not? So you understood every word, you scamp?’ She seemed neither spiteful nor a

‘I know we were interrupted,’ Swan said. It was a line he’d practised for this moment. All his dice were thrown.

She stepped back, and her laugh pealed across the deck. ‘You are bold.’ She leaned forward. ‘You know I have purchased thee?’

He nodded.

More shouting from aft.

‘There is talk of taking the Englishman from thee, mistress,’ Mustafa said.

‘Let us be away to our own ship,’ Auntie said. ‘Immediately. I command it. Englishman, what have you done?’

Swan bowed his head. ‘As I serve God, lady, I have done nothing but carry a message from this man Drappierro to the Lord of the Knights of Wrath and then I have brought the lord’s answer to Drappierro.’

She smiled as they settled in a small boat. Her Africans began to pull them away from the side. There was more shouting aboard the flagship, but no heads appeared at the side. Swan could hear Omar Reis and another, deeper voice.