‘It is Aeolian,’ said a woman’s voice, quite near at hand.

Swan realized that he was standing with his mouth half-open, gaping like a fish. He was at the base of the steps. A woman clad in a chiton, with the peplos folded down for modesty, stepped out from behind the pillar. She had skin the colour of newly finished oak, and black hair that fell in ten thousand curls, and the most astonishing green eyes flecked in gold, like emeralds set in rings. She looked so very like an ancient statue sprung to life that Swan lost his ability to speak for a moment. Then he bowed, as deeply as if to a cardinal. When he raised his head, she was gone.

Swan stood like a statue himself for a moment, and then raced up the steps after the sound of the knights.

At the top of the great steps, an arch twenty feet tall opened into a great hall. The hall itself spoke with many voices – there were heads of animals, including a pair of lions; there were weapons, from a magnificent bronze sword whose green patina was glossy with preservation to a new steel arming sword with an elaborate hilt in the latest style – armour hung on the walls, and from the rafters high above, and spears were crossed all the way down one side. But the tapestries all had classical subjects – Swan didn’t think he had ever been in a hall so lacking in Christian decoration.

There were long tables down the centre of the hall, with a mixture of benches and tables. A pair of musicians in typical Italian court clothes played pavanes and German dances that Violetta would have recognised and Swan did not, but the sound of the lutes made him smile. At a table, six women – each prettier than the next – wove garlands of flowers from baskets of cut blossoms. At the end of the hall, Prince Dorino sat in state, with a pair of knights and a tall, elderly man in plain black clothes.

The Bulgarians escorted them the length of the hall and bowed. Swan bowed. The two hospitaller knights merely inclined their heads.

‘Prince Dorino,’ Fra Domenico said in greeting.

‘My dearest pirate,’ returned the prince in his rich and dulcet voice. The prince extended a hand. ‘This is my admiral, Lord Zacharie. And the captain of my little army – the lord of Eressos. Who is your young man?’

‘An English volunteer, Prince. Master Tommaso Suani, of London. The grandson of the great English Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt.’ Fra Domenico smiled.

‘An English prince? As a volunteer? That seems promising, to me. Will your cousins bring us a crusade to rescue us from the Turk?’ Prince Dorino seemed to find the whole idea comic.

Fra Tommaso put a hand on his sword-hilt. ‘Is it nothing to you that a Turkish fleet is at sea?’

‘Ah – my old friend Ser Tommaso. Are you indignant? Listen, my friend. The Turks will come for my paradise soon enough. Why borrow the trouble?’ Dorino laughed. The men around him did not. They remained almost immobile.

The prince looked at Swan. ‘Speak,’ he commanded. ‘Where is your crusade?’

Swan stood straighter. ‘My lord, I am all there is likely to be from England. Englishmen don’t like to go abroad unless they are paid.’

The Lord of Eressos smiled.

‘Your Italian is impeccable, for an Englishman,’ the prince conceded. ‘Are these seven ships all you have?’ he snapped.

Fra Domenico bowed. ‘They are, my lord.’

The man in black clothes smoothed his moustache and glanced at the Lord of Eressos.

Prince Dorino sat back. ‘We have another dozen galleys,’ he said.

‘Where are they?’ demanded Fra Tommaso.

There was a silken rustle near at hand, and Swan turned his head to see the classical Greek maiden, now dressed as a modern Genoese maiden, come in, her silk skirts stiff with embroidery.

She raised her eyes – and her glance caught Swan’s.

In a fight – a real fight – there is a moment in a hard attack, or a heavy parry, where the blades meet edge to edge. And the two sharp edges bite into one another. The two lock – steel cutting steel. Just for a moment.

She moved on down the hall and Swan’s heart raced.

Prince Dorino laughed. ‘Master Suani! You are blushing. Has my cousin moved you more than my lamp?’ He laughed his high-pitched laugh. And turned, his expression changing as quickly as his head moved, to frown at Fra Tommaso. ‘My ships are safe in the Bay of Kalloni – where yours would be safer, as well. You know that I had the whole squadron of Genoa in my harbour? Yes? And the cowards turned their back on the foe and ran. All the way to Genoa, I have little doubt.’

Fra Tommaso pursed his lips. ‘With a dozen ships we might have enough power to take the Turkish vanguard, if we could separate them from their fleet.’

Prince Dorino made a motion of dismissal with his hand. ‘Out of the question. I will not risk my fleet in some desperate measure against the Turks. I am negotiating with them even now. And – incidentally – the Genoese captain who was with you has just slipped his moorings and is headed back to sea. To Genoa, I’m sure.’

Fra Tommaso set his mouth and didn’t utter a curse. Fra Domenico shrugged. ‘No great loss. In a galley fight, one only wants ships that have the stomach to stay until the end.’

Prince Dorino made a moue. ‘Have you suggested to these other gentlemen that the surest way to slow the Turk is to attack his shipping?’ He smiled, his lips thin as sword-edges. ‘Of course you have. You are a pirate for God, yes?’ He laughed.

Fra Tommaso’s face was red. ‘We are accomplishing nothing here,’ he said. ‘We should go.’

Prince Dorino nodded. ‘I will not loan you my fleet to make war on the Turks and bring the fighting to my own shores,’ he said. ‘I will allow you to take on water and food in my ports. The Bay of Kalloni is virtually impregnable, and from there you can cover the whole north coast of Chios.’

‘I need no lessons in strategy from you, my lord,’ Fra Tommaso said.

Prince Dorino sat back again. ‘Do you not? Very well.’

Fra Domenico glared at his partner and bowed – again – to the prince. ‘May we have two days to rest our rowers and dry our hulls, my lord?’

‘How graciously asked,’ Dorino said. ‘Of course. And tomorrow, we have a small festivity to celebrate the end of Lent. We will have a play – an ancient Greek play. And music and dancing.’

‘None of those vanities will appeal to us,’ said Fra Tommaso.

Swan’s heart fell.

‘Perhaps this fine young English prince will come and represent you,’ Prince Dorino said. ‘I fancy him. I suspect he’d make a fine ancient Greek warrior – Achilles, perhaps, or Aeneas.’

Swan smiled and bowed. ‘I would be delighted, my prince,’ he said. ‘But Aeneas, surely, was a Trojan?’

‘So you are literate, young man? Come, then, and leave your nursemaids to their wine and their priests. My young cousin will speak briefly to you on the matter of dress. We all dress as Greeks. It is my will.’ He waved dismissively.

The Lord of Eressos followed them down the hall and bowed deeply to the beautiful ancient Greek maiden. ‘Princess, this is the noble Lord Tommaso Suani of England.’ He bowed and indicated Swan.

Swan bowed – again.

Fra Tommaso laughed, but kept quiet otherwise.

The other women gathered around Swan, as if examining him for flaws. Each of them dropped a curtsy to the knights.

‘I’m sure there’s a chiton to fit him. Something with a stripe in red,’ said one girl.

The princess inclined her head graciously. ‘Ancient Greek clothes are not difficult to make fit, Master Swan,’ she said in an accent as foreign as it was glorious. Swan felt as if someone had put a hand on his heart and given a gentle squeeze. She smiled, and again, just for a moment, her eyes brushed past his. ‘As he is a prince, perhaps he can wear a stripe of purple. Is this allowed by your king?’

Swan thought for a moment, looking for an answer that would show a ready wit and a willingness to fall at her feet. But he had to settle for the truth. ‘No, Your Grace,’ he said.