Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Four: Rome by Christian Cameron Page B

bowed. ‘I will escort the demoiselles into the church,’ he said. ‘If you and Giannis wish to see to your sartorial splendours.’
    All three veiled women were laughing as hard as women in veils could laugh with dignity as Di Brescia led them away across the square. Irene began to put on a show of offended modesty – she was, after all, an actress, thought Swan. Andromache and Violetta began to match her, and men in the market began to dress hurriedly, and to apologise under their breath. And curse.
    The Englishman and the Greek went up an alley and found the shop – really a house with a table outside – where Swan had purchased his first suit. The old man laughed and took his hand.
    ‘By Saint Christopher, my boy – you are still alive! I must say I’m surprised.’
    Swan opened the pilgrim’s scrip he’d carried through the whole walk and produced the suit of scarlet and the matching cloak. ‘Too small for me,’ he said ruefully.
    The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes – your shoulders are much bigger. And you are an inch taller. Well – I must say that you are the first customer to return this suit standing up,’ he said. ‘Look at this slash!’ he complained.
    After some haggling and much poking through neatly piled clothes, Swan emerged with two good suits of brown wool; doublet, hose and gown all matching – almost clerical in their plainness, but the cloth was good and the stitching perfect.
    ‘A gentleman from the far north,’ the old man said, shaking his head. ‘Here one day, caught by footpads and killed. A pilgrim from Danemark.’
    Swan also picked up a pair of silk hose, only slightly worn at the knees, and a not-quite-matching doublet in superb blue velvet with embroidery. It was the finest doublet he’d ever owned, and the knife-cut in the back went between the embroidered panels neatly and had been cunningly repaired. The bloodstain on the inside hadn’t reached the velvet.
    ‘I could have the lining unpicked and resewn if you’d rather,’ said the old man.
    Giannis just rolled his eyes. He had a good leather jerkin, carefully tooled and sporting fine buttons like acorns, and he was uninterested in any colour beyond black.
    The old man smiled. ‘Soldiers,’ he said. ‘Either they are popinjays, or they are not.’
    The two young men dickered for what seemed an appropriate length of time and walked off, carrying their purchases. They retrieved their party from the Chapel of St Maurice. Then they walked down the perfumers’ street, and Swan gave way to impulse and purchased something exotic for Violetta, who smelled it and glowed at him. In the street of glovers he bought gloves – plain chamois, from Austria, for fighting, and another pair for her.
    The three men spent money at a remarkable rate, in fact, and drew a small crowd of beggars and worse. In the street of swordsmiths, while Swan ordered Di Brachio’s war sword dismounted and a new blade added, the commotion around the Greeks became bad enough that four men in city colours came with truncheons and began beating the beggars away.
    The smith’s apprentice shook his head. ‘Everyone knows the old Pope is dying,’ he said. ‘The nothings are getting ready to riot.’
    Swan collected a pair of training swords – light arming swords with no edges – and emptied his purse on the counter.
    They crossed the forum carefully. Because Swan was watching the beggars, he caught sight of the red and yellow of the Orsini well to the north, and Di Brescia led them south, down the ancient steps and across the palazzo.
    ‘Surely they are not after us,’ Giannis said.
    Swan wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something bad – his most Italianate habit. ‘We spent too much money and made too much noise,’ he said.
    South of the forum, they seemed to be alone. They approached a tavern owner – winter was off season for pilgrims – rented his courtyard and two tables, and sat comfortably, with jugs of hot wine, in the