Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron Page A

a little less than half a mile, he could see the water gate. Closer in, he could see fishing boats along the point, and at a quarter of a mile, he could see that there was activity near the gate.
    There were too many boats, too close to the gate.
    He wondered if they were there ahead of him.
    How could they be?
    Even Isaac hadn’t had time to sell him yet.
    At two hundred yards, he saw that all the boats he was looking at were far too big.
    At a hundred yards, he saw the tiny cockleshell which was their rowing boat. It was emerging from the gate – a tiny, low thing, with too much aboard. Nikephorus was lying atop the canvas sheet, and the rest of them – including Peter – were slipping into the water. The waves tossed the little boat dreadfully.
    Swan ran aft along the companionway that passed between the rowers amidships.
    ‘That’s my boat!’ he said to Ser Marco.
    ‘That little thing?’ Ser Marco grunted. His eyes flicked up to the darkening sky. ‘We’ll tow her under if we throw her a line at this speed.’ Louder, he said to his timoneer, ‘Back your oars!’ He leaned over to the helmsman. ‘Lay me alongside that little boat. Don’t swamp it.’
    The Venetian’s seamanship was incredible. The helmsman turned the ship – a minute turn, but one that allowed the hull to pass directly alongside the little rowing boat that bobbed in the current. It passed under the oars. A sailor at the first oar-port passed a rope to Nikephorus, who took it awkwardly – but he caught it. The oars remained stationary in the water, holding the Venetian galley in place, even as the current moved both boats together, out to sea.
    Behind them, the three Turkish ships began to gain on them.
    The acrobats clearly had had a plan of their own, because Irene appeared from the water with a coil of rope around her waist, and climbed over the ram – glitteringly naked, to the rapt admiration of the Arsenali. As soon as she belayed her rope, her comrades followed her – Andromache, followed by Constantios’s heavily muscled form, followed by Peter, who all but bounced up the side, and last of all, Apollinaris. By then, Swan was in the bows, giving each a hand as they came over the box that housed the marines in combat.
    Alessandro gallantly threw oarsmen’s cloaks over the women. The oarsmen themselves applauded.
    Amidships, a pair of sailors manhandled Nikephorus aboard.
    Astern in the setting sun, the Turkish galleys were almost in bowshot.
    Swan got Apollinaris up the side, and then turned and ran aft again. Nikephorus was aboard, and dry.
    He had a bag in his hand.
    Behind him the sailors were pitching bags from the small boat up on to the deck of the galley.
    The first Turkish arrows began to fall, and Ser Marco turned to Swan. ‘What’s in the boat? The truth, now.’
    Another bag came up the side.
    ‘Cardinal Bessarion’s library,’ Swan said.
    Ser Marco nodded. ‘Give way, all!’ he roared, and the great oars bit the water. He looked aft, where the Turkish galleys were flying at them. ‘I love books,’ he said. His eyes met Swan’s. ‘But I love my oarsmen more.’
    At their feet, the small boat – still attached to the galley by two ropes – seemed to skip along with the Venetian ship. The sailor who had been aboard throwing sacks leaped clear, and caught himself on one of the oar-ports – got a foot inboard, and then swung up and over the gunwale, as agile as an African monkey.
    More than half of the cardinal’s collection was still in the boat.
    Plato.
    Aristotle.
    Menander.
    Epictetus and Aeschylus. A play by a Greek named Phrynichus, who had witnessed the fall of Miletus. A hundred poems by Sappho. The sayings of Heraklitus. A work on mathematics by Pythagoras.
    Even as Swan watched, the Venetian ship gathered speed – and the two ropes towing the small boat began to skew her course.
    He was still considering making the jump when Alessandro’s strong right arm pinned him to the gunwale. ‘No you