Swan shrugged. ‘Yes and no. For those of us with muscles to show …’ He left the rest of the comment unspoken. Zambale looked the part of Hector and had no shortage of musculature on display, and women of all ages watched him as they might watch a favourite pony every time he moved.

Zambale nodded. He paused, as if confused, and then said, hurriedly, ‘Would you take me as a volunteer? On your galley?’

Swan frowned. ‘Surely you have duties here?’

Zambale shrugged. ‘No. That is, yes, but I … Dorino is not going to do anything. I want to do something.’

Swan had a certain sympathy for Dorino’s point of view, the more he considered it. The Turks seemed remarkably benevolent – united, just and strong, they contrasted with the Christian states and their petty princes and Church feuds. Simultaneously, he identified with the crusaders and the Knights of St John – England, good King Richard and the evil Saracens were all part of his childhood.

And it was good to do something.

‘I’m sure we can find you a place,’ he said.

‘I want to see a real fight,’ Zambale insisted.

‘You could have my place,’ Swan said. It didn’t sound as light hearted as he’d meant it. Swan had found that there were some limits on courage. He’d begun to fear that some day he might just run out.

Swan danced seven times. He was in demand – as Theodora’s first partner, as an Englishman, and as a novelty. He danced with Caterina, to Prince Dorino’s delight, and he danced with Isabella, with her brother on her other side, a Bereguardo Novo that seemed to go on for ever and in which he was frustratingly close to the princess and never close enough.

Later, wine was served from the magnificent ancient krater that sat in the foyer on a plinth, and Swan hurried to drink twice-watered wine from Candia – and to be the first to bring a small cup to the princess, who took it without comment, a slightly bored flick of her eyes his only reward. He wondered what he had done wrong.

And then Caterina clapped her hands – very like Violetta for a moment – and called all the women her own age together, matrons and unmarried girls too. Swan turned and caught Theodora’s eye on him. Nor did her eyes leave his, once they’d met. So he winked.

She smiled.

She took a step towards him, and he towards her, almost as if they were dancing.

Caterina beckoned to her, and she walked – gracefully – across the marble floor and took her friend’s hand.

‘She’s been married,’ Zambale said. ‘Looks like that, and the Emperor’s daughter – there’s talk she’s to be given to the Grand Turk as a bribe. Or married to the Prince of Persia. Uzun Hasan. You know the White Sheep?’

Swan had never heard of Uzun Hasan, or the White Sheep Turkomans. Zambale was happy to inform him. Swan spent the brief political lesson with his eyes on the most beautiful thing in the room.

And when the women had discussed the possibilities of the last dance, it was decided that they would perform a Verzeppe, a fast, violent dance like a skirmish where three men danced with two women.

He found that his group of three men was himself, Zambale and Prince Dorino, the latter with his cloak cast aside. They danced with Caterina and Theodora. There were four more sets, and all the tables had to be cleared. And the dance was so new that they walked through it four times, with a level of informality that seemed at odds with earlier parts of the fete. But a great deal of wine had been drunk – and faces were flushed. Two men had attacked each other with their fists and been removed; several couples were sufficiently engaged in amorous behaviour that the bishop had taken his entourage and left.

Swan had never been to such a fine party.

The dance itself was like a fight. It was fast – it required coordination, and the fastest element required one of the men to weave his way through the ladies as they turned – this could be balletic or ballistic, depending on the man’s agility and skill. But the opportunities for eye contact and interaction were endless – each man had a moment with the two women in every figure.

Every time his hand met Theodora’s, he felt a pressure from her fingers. And her eyes lingered on his, so that, in the last figure, the prince leaned over to him and said, ‘I’ve always thought that a man who could communicate with a woman by means of his eyes was a man who could govern other men.’

Swan bowed as he passed. ‘That is a fine compliment,’ he said.

‘A lifetime of listening to them, and you become quite expert, my boy,’ Prince Dorino commented, before they were swept apart.

And there was a moment when all five sets were moving together. They’d danced it twice – now even the slowest participants knew the dance – and finally every foot was moving on the tempo; the saltarellos looked as if they’d been performed by professionals, and the men all managed their turns together, and clapped – and Swan was, for a moment, in the heart of the music – turning, weaving, touching hands, and back – turn – a glance from Theodora, and he was so deep in the dance that he had no feeling that he was dancing, but rather, flying. It had happened to him before, fencing, but never in the dance, and he ended it flushed, and full of excitement.

Theodora came and for a heartbeat leaned against him. She smelled … like heaven. A heaven that included young women and jasmine. ‘Don’t disappoint me,’ she said, and pressed something soft into his hand, and walked with dignity to where the prince was congratulating his daughter.

Swan picked up someone else’s cup of wine and drank a draught, and then walked into the first corridor and found a servant, who pointed him to the jakes – up a set of stairs, and past a couple moaning against a pillar. And then through perfumed near-darkness, where sounds of kissing seemed to resonate on every side – it was like having to run a gauntlet of lust.

But Swan smiled the smile of a lover close to his desire. By the light of a resin-scented torch, he opened the cloth in his hand. He looked at it carefully, then folded it away – used the jakes for their natural purpose, and then went back to the torch and looked again.

At some point, the lines came clear. They’d been written in a pretty sepia on linen, and the tiny, perfectly rendered picture of the krater on its plinth told him everything, once he recognised it.

He ran Aphrodite’s gauntlet again, and returned to the hall in time to hear ten local Greek men sing a near-perfect polyphony. He applauded as wildly as every other person, and then they were going to the dressing rooms, where half-naked men fought for possession of enough space to pull on their hose and lace their hose to their doublets. Most of them were dressed magnificently, and Swan was very pleased that the Greek dress had been the theme – his clerical brown would never have won the hand of the fair lady, he suspected.

The Lord of Eressos was dressed long before Swan, and waved at him. ‘I will join you tomorrow,’ he said. There was something in his smile that suggested that he – like Swan – had another errand.

Swan contrived to be among the last men to change, and then he wandered to the table, which still groaned under pitchers of wine, and poured himself a little.

‘You don’t seem to be in a hurry to leave,’ Prince Dorino said, his high voice slurred. ‘Never leave.’ He put a heavy hand on Swan’s shoulder. ‘Dance until you die, boy. There’s nothing after this but darkness.’

Swan didn’t have a ready answer.

‘Go on, boy,’ the prince said. ‘Not every night is magical. Fortuna is a fickle bitch.’

Swan put the cup down, and bowed. And then walked through the archway.

He made it through all the turnings – there were six. Outside the door that had been marked, there was a servant sitting in a chair – but even after a magical night of moonlight and dancing, Swan’s brain worked, and he noted that the servant was reading a book in Italian – had curling black hair, and slim feet.