He gave a kick to the surface.

The Turkish flagship was on fire.

Swan laughed.

Swan swam into the town on the exuberance of success, and climbed the central pier unaided and undetected. The whole harbour was lit by the inferno of the galley burning in the middle of the channel, and by the time Swan was standing on the pier, two dozen alert deck crews had cut their cables and were rowing – weakly, because most of their oarsmen were ashore – rowing for safety. A galley is fifty metres of light, dry wood coated in pitch and fused in oiled linen and hemp and tarred rope – a firebomb waiting for a light – and no Turkish captain could afford a spark.

The Chians, quite naturally, thought it was an attack and sounded the alarm. Every soldier in the town went to the walls, seaside and landside. From the pier, Swan could see the Genoese and Portuguese gunners in the seaward bastions, their matches lit, watching the desperate movements of the Turkish crews. In the Turkish camp off to the north, the janissaries stood to arms and the drums beat.

A second Turkish galley caught fire.

The crew, less brave than the crew of the flagship, jumped for the safety of the water. The ship drifted on the current, and more and more galleys cut their cables or dropped their anchor chains.

Undermanned galleys began to drift within extreme range of the town’s guns. Unordered, the Portuguese master gunner ordered the seaward bastion to open fire.

Unnoticed, the author of the night’s excitement dragged himself under a fishing boat pulled well above the tideline on the town’s inner beach.

Despite the roar of the cannon and the flickering light, he was asleep before the third Turkish galley caught.

In the morning, a professional observer could make out four Turkish galleys burned to the waterline and then turned turtle, their buoyant timbers keeping the wrecks afloat, drifting with the obscene wetness of dead jellyfish. Two more had been captured when they drifted ashore, and another destroyed by gunfire.

Swan stood on the beach, drinking it all in, and then walked – naked – up into the town. He went to the house of the Latin bishop, and demanded clothing as a member of the order, and was clothed. Swan played the injured hero to perfection, and had the sympathy, first, of the bishop’s valet, and then of his housekeeper, and by the time he’d shared a plate of veal with the prelate, he had the bishop’s complete sympathy as well.

‘You are the young man who accused the president of the council of impiety,’ the bishop said, with a certain amusement. ‘I remember you.’

Swan bowed where he sat. ‘Yes, my lord.’

The bishop – a Genoese – sat back and played with his cup. ‘The president sees his duty differently than you or I,’ he said.

A young Greek appeared at the doorway to the room – once a woman’s solar, Swan thought – and when the bishop looked at him, he indicated a small piece of paper or parchment between his fingers.

‘Excuse me,’ the bishop said, with a civil inclination of his head. He accepted the message and read it. And smiled.

‘The Turkish fleet is reported to be abandoning their camp – their rowers are going aboard and they are burning all the supplies they moved ashore. Come, Master Swan.’

Swan followed the bishop – a big man who nonetheless appeared capable of rapid movement and decisive action. The diocesan palace was not a grand affair, but it did sport a fine old tower, and they ran up six flights of steps to the top.

From the top, they could see the straits full of Turkish shipping, and the far coast of Asia. To the south, at the base of the mountain, the Turkish camp looked like a nest of woodlice kicked by a child, and to the north, they could see the vanguard of the Turkish fleet already forming up. On the beaches south of the town, dozens of Turkish ships were landing stern first and taking aboard their full crews of oarsmen.

Almost at their feet, in the town’s main square, the president of the Mahona and a dozen Mahonesi were arguing with an armoured man, who was waving a sword like an actor in a St George play.

‘Young man, I do believe that God has answered our prayers.’ The bishop nodded and then grinned like a much younger and less dignified man.

Swan’s joy was tinged with anxiety for the young Lord of Eressos. ‘My particular friend Zambale …’

The bishop shook his head. ‘Why hold him, when the Turks are leaving? He was only taken up at the behest of that detestable apostate Drappierro.’ He shrugged. ‘There is half the Mahona. Let us go and address them.’

The bishop paused in his own yard only long enough for servants to drape the correct robe and place the correct mitre on his head – which they did as he walked through them. Swan received a scarlet surcoat – close inspection showed the white cross to have been hastily added to a churchman’s garment, but Swan was transformed from looking like an armed servant to a soldier-prince of the Church.

The bishop gathered a dozen retainers – men-at-arms and priests – and swept out of his gates into the square.

In the square, a crowd had gathered. There were twenty fully armoured men on horseback, and the captain of the town continued to argue with the Mahonesi, the face inside his armet red with exertion – and wrath.

But the appearance of the bishop – brilliant in his Easter robes, with a retinue behind him – silenced the square. The captain, a mercenary, knelt before the bishop and kissed his ring.

The president of the Mahona fiddled with his black cap nervously.

Then his eyes flickered over Swan and froze.

Swan offered him the smile that the lion has for the gazelle.

‘In the aftermath of such a brilliant stroke, surely we should be thanking God,’ said the bishop.

The captain bowed. ‘What we should be doing is attacking their rearguard and stinging the bastards so that they think twice about coming back.’ He looked at the president. ‘What we are doing is – nothing.’

‘More violence may only force the Turk into greater efforts!’ the president said. But he was looking at Swan, and sweating.

Swan didn’t push past the bishop. Life at his father’s episcopal court – and at Hampton and with Bessarion – had taught him a great deal about patience. And revenge.

Instead of acting prematurely, he watched the bishop. The man was almost a head taller than the president, and looked more like a man-at-arms than some of the men-at-arms. He spread his arms and gave an invocation, and then all the people in the square knelt and said three prayers.

And then the bishop glanced at Swan.

Swan stepped forward past the bishop, and placed himself in front of the president.

‘You have misplayed your hand, you know,’ Swan said pleasantly. ‘The Turks are beaten and they will run. They know the Allied fleet is on the way.’

‘There is no Allied fleet!’ the terrified man hissed.

Swan, who knew perfectly well that there was no Allied fleet, kept his composure. ‘You can’t imagine that the Turks are running from nothing?’ He smiled. ‘I call on you to release this sortie, to wreak the havoc on the infidel that is your duty – your duty!’ Swan bowed. ‘And please, release my friend the Lord of Eressos immediately.’ Swan leaned over and spoke very quietly. ‘I have your correspondence with Drappierro.’

Swan had also learned, in gutters and palaces, that sometimes a really big lie is better than any amount of truth.

The president turned a chalky white.

He stepped back as if struck – and raised a hand. But he was not utterly without cunning. ‘You will ride with the sortie, sir?' he said, his voice already rich with unction. ‘A man as full of knightly virtue as you!’

Swan laughed. He had laughed more in the last six hours …

‘I will ride with the sortie, unarmoured. I will go unto the battle front like Uriah, but I will not be touched.’ He grinned like a maniac at the president of the Mahona. And held up his left hand, where a brilliantly carved diamond glittered. ‘Because I am invincible,’ he said.