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Authors: Alan Gordon

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BOOK: A Death in the Venetian Quarter
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He shook his head. “You won't get through that way tonight. They're not letting any civilians out. You had better stay with me. Depending on events, I might be able to slip you out tomorrow.”
I agreed, reluctantly. I was worried about being caught on the wrong side of a siege. The wrong side being defined as whichever side my wife wasn't on.
Tantalo's tent was near the Doge's pavilion.
“Did Dandolo actually come ashore?” I asked.
“He was the first one to leap from the ship,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “Blind or not, ninety or not, he led his men.”
“Greed and folly make leaders and followers,” I said as we entered the tent.
“Any luck on that murder you're looking into?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Thanks for telling me about Nobody.”
“Actually, since our little songfest, I picked up a bit of information,” he said.
“What?”
“Unfortunately, I came in at the tail end of a conversation, but I overheard one of the Doge's advisors referring to the Venetian quarter, and the Doge said, ‘Don't worry, the Silk Man will take care of it.'”
.“The Silk Man? And that was all?”
“I'm afraid so,” he said. “And I was wondering if it was your dead man. They wouldn't know about that here.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Well, it's something, at least. Thanks.”
“Better get some sleep while you can,” he said. “Things will be a bit busy tomorrow.”
I stretched out on the ground, my lute beside me.
“Do you really think that you can topple the Emperor by yourself?” he asked.
“Not by myself,” I said. “But I have an idea and some interesting allies.”
“I hope it's enough,” he said. He started putting on his armor as I drifted off.
 
I snapped awake shortly before dawn as trumpets blared around me. Tantalo was already at the opening of the tent, sword in hand.
“They're attacking from the tower!” he cried. “Get out!”
I grabbed my lute and ran with him, then pulled up short.
The reinforced squadrons poured from the tower and charged the camp, while archers launched arrows from the top. But the Crusaders were prepared and were already counterattacking from both the north and the south.
Which left me in a bit of a quandary, since I was cut off from escape on all sides. There was nowhere to go but back toward the Golden Horn, and I had no idea how bad it was between here and there. But with arrows and stones landing perilously close, I saw no reason to tarry.
“I'm off,” I said. “Take care of yourself.”
“And you. Nice work at the tenso, by the way. I wanted to tell you that.”
He put on his helmet and charged into battle.
The Varangian sortie had limited effect on the invaders and proved disastrous to the defenses of the tower. The axe-bearers had charged too far out and could not retreat safely. Troops under the colors of Amiens managed to fight their way between them and the tower, cutting them off.
Some of the Varangians tried to hack their way back but were cut down. The rest realized their situation and decided to make for the Golden Horn, while the Crusaders came at them from every angle.
In other words, the battle was heading right toward me. So much for sitting and watching from a safe distance.
I had hoped that there would be boats waiting to rescue the troops, but the city had been taken by surprise by the sortie from the tower. The first stones from the seawalls began crashing down indiscriminately in the center of the battle. Several longboats were beginning to pull away from the Pisan wharf, but I didn't think there would be enough time for me to wait for them. It was a five-hundred-yard swim, one I could make under normal circumstances, but arrows were raining from all directions.
Then a crossbow bolt struck just by my foot, and I panicked. I looked north and saw nothing but Crusaders. South of me, the great chain was swaying gently across the mouth of the harbor. The section nearest me was about ten feet up, except for where a large boulder jutted out of the ground.
Well, I've walked across ropes that were a fraction of the width of those huge iron lengths. I ran to the boulder, gathered myself, and leapt high, getting one hand on the lower part of a link. I pulled myself up until I could get my other hand on the top and swung my body onto the chain.
A number of Varangians saw me and tried to duplicate the feat, but their armor weighed them down. Those that reached the chain couldn't
climb on top and resorted to pulling themselves hand-over-hand across the harbor. Several of the longboats peeled away from the wharf and made for them. Meanwhile, the Crusader archers and crossbowmen started directing their missiles at us.
If this had been a typical fool's performance on a rope, I would have danced across, pausing for some casual acrobatics, amazing all with my poise and balance. But this was the performance of a man fleeing death, and I had no scruples about steadying myself with my hands as I clambered along. Some fifteen feet beneath me, the waves were beginning to swell. The longboats reached the chain behind me, and the luckier Varangians managed to drop into the boats. Others missed, and their armor dragged them under the waves and out of sight.
Then I heard a mighty roar from both shores and looked to see the cause.
The
Eagle,
three banks of oars on each side pulling mightily, was bearing down on the Golden Horn. The ship's prow was encased in iron plates, coming to a sharp edge that split the air before it. It was coming right at me.
I jettisoned whatever caution I had left and ran, crouching, the rest of the length of the chain. About thirty feet from the seawall, the chain rose toward its end, fixed in the wall by the Gate of Eugenios. Right as I reached that point, there was a screech from the pits of Hell as metal hit metal. The chain rocked wildly beneath me. I threw myself onto it, holding on for dear life.
The center could not hold. The links split with a thunderous snap, and the two broken ends fell away into the water. I rode my half, swinging toward the city on a crazy trapeze, until the weight of the links hitting the ground dragged it to a stop.
Behind me, longboats and a few pathetic galleys were scattered and broken like kindling, spilling soldiers and oarsmen into the water. The
oarsmen made it back to the wharves. The soldiers didn't.
The rest of the fleet followed the
Eagle
, nestling into the wharves on the opposite shore as if they were home.
I pulled myself up the remaining links until I reached the top of the seawall. A group of Varangians were watching the slaughter of their brethren with looks of horror. Cnut was one of them, and he was the first to look down and see me, exhausted and terrified, trying to get over the top of the wall. With one massive hand he grabbed the back of my tunic and hauled me up.
“Feste!” he exclaimed in astonishment.
“Thanks, friend Cnut,” I gasped. “Don't worry about my living off your squad this week. We're even.”
I looked back to see the Crusaders displaying their flags from the top of the Galata Tower.
They had taken the Golden Horn.
A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.
——PROVERBS 18:22
 
 
 
W
hen my first husband sailed off with most of the men of Orsino on the Third Crusade, we stood on the dock, weeping copiously, and waved our handkerchiefs until the vessel was a dot on the horizon and our arms were sore. Then I invited the rest of the wives back to the villa for a consolatory dinner. We ended up getting rip-roaring drunk in our efforts to assuage our sorrows and decided to repeat the affair monthly until the men returned. When our steward died and I took over managing the affairs of the town, these dinners became informal town councils, and I daresay that we women ran the place better than it had ever been run.
When my second husband rowed across the Golden Horn, I did not stand on the dock, waving my handkerchief. I was angry at him, even though I knew his motivations were of the highest and that I would have done the same. But, after a sleepless night alone in our bed, I once again sought the company of women. This time, however, we had no control of our situation. A pity. Once again, I think we would have done a better job of running things.
Wine still had its place, fortunately or unfortunately. Euphy had started drinking before sunrise, and by the time I arrived was well into her third or fourth high dudgeon of the morning.
“Turned and ran!” she cried, flinging a gold goblet at the assorted ladies. “That's the Alexios I married. A coward. A frightened deer, fleeing at the first sign of a lowered lance. He lost the city yesterday, ladies. We might as well start throwing ourselves off the walls, like the women of Troy, to avoid dishonor.” She pulled out a dagger from the folds of her robe and waved it around as the women ducked and scattered. “By the Holy Mother, I swear I will use this on the first Frenchman who dares to lay a lustful hand on me. They're all rapists. There's not a female, young or old, who they won't hesitate to violate, and all thanks to my husband, who can't even find safety in numbers. Where's my goblet?”
A maidservant dashed to retrieve it and handed it to the Empress, trembling all the while. Euphy filled it from a pitcher by her throne, sat down, and drank the wine in one gulp.
“I wouldn't have run,” she muttered. “I know the responsibilities of leadership, even if I'm merely a woman. I may not have been to the purple born, but by God I know how to wear the mantle better than anyone who has ever sat on this throne. Or on his!”
She refilled her cup and emptied it in seconds.
“Has he returned?” she cried.
“Yes, milady,” said a guard.
She heaved herself off the throne, jammed her crown crookedly on her head, and threw her cape haphazardly over her gown.
“I will go to him,” she announced grandly. “Attend me.”
She lurched out of the room, guards and maids scrambling into place behind her. I didn't join them. My charge was Evdokia, who even as Euphy left was tying on her own cloak, watching her mother disdainfully.
“Look at that,” she muttered to me. “She didn't even fix her makeup and hair before going to see Father. It's one thing to inspire a man to
go to war; it's quite another to scare him into doing it.”
“Helen of Troy in reverse,” I said. “Men will fight their way out of a besieged city to escape her.”
She clapped her hands to her mouth to stifle a shriek of laughter.
“Let us go on our errands, Fool,” she said, still gasping.
Her wagons were waiting. I noticed that there was less bread than on previous expeditions. To be expected, I suppose, but the appearance of generosity was maintained.
“I've never seen my mother so out of control,” she said as we drove down the Mese. “She's becoming quite useless. It wouldn't surprise me if Father has her locked up for the duration of the battle, just to buy him some peace and quiet.”
“There's plenty of peace and quiet when one flees danger,” I commented.
“He didn't exactly endear himself to the city, did he?” she mused. “Now he's in seclusion, Mother's going mad, and my sisters are in a crying competition. Oh, well, I guess it's up to me to rescue the family reputation.”
We came to a square, and were quickly surrounded by citizens. To my surprise, she stood in the chariot and addressed them.
“My good people,” she began. “These are times of danger. I want you to know that no matter what happens, I shall not flinch at performing my duties.”
“Is that what you call your father's conduct? Flinching?” shouted a man from the back of the crowd. There were angry murmurs of assent.
“My father will do as he sees fit,” she replied calmly. “But remember that I have the blood of emperors running through my veins from both sides of my family. I vow before all of you that I will not be moved from this city, and that when the last man is gone, I will be at the walls myself, defending our empire or dying in the attempt.”
There actually was some cheering at this. She waved to the wagons containing the food, and the guards began throwing loaves to the masses.
“I think that went rather well,” she said smugly as we left.
“Indeed, milady,” I replied. “I wish you luck defending the walls.”
“It won't come to that,” she laughed. “But it sounded awfully brave, didn't it?”
 
She repeated the distributions as well as the speech at a few more locations, then we stopped at the Chalke Prison. The Varangians there were openly grumbling about being held back from battle to maintain guard duty. I wondered if they would let the prisoners out to fight if things got that desperate. And I wondered which side the prisoners would take if that happened.
Once again, I lent the plucking of my lutestrings to the amorous whisperings of Evdokia and Alexios Doukas. He nodded his head approvingly several times, no doubt finding the defeat of his imprisoner to be good news.
When we left, Evdokia released me for the remainder of the day. I started walking up the Mese toward home, but as I passed the Moslem quarter, I heard the shouts of men in the distance and the mangonels on the seawalls launching their stones.
I hurried to the walls, but there were soldiers blocking the approach. I was by the shop of my friend, the spice merchant, so I ducked in.
“What's going on?” I asked him.
“I don't have a good view from my roof,” he said. “Someone said they're fighting by the Galata Tower.”
“Dear God,” I whispered.
Feste had said that he would cut north and go around to one of the gates on the other side of the city. I calculated how long it would take for him to reach the next crossing after the stone bridge. He was quick, especially over short distances, but his leg still troubled him
under the best of circumstances. I knew I couldn't expect him for several hours, at least.
And these were not the best of circumstances.
I walked out of the shop. My eyes blurred, and I realized that I was crying. I fell to my knees, reached inside my tunic to grasp the silver cross that had once belonged to my mother, and prayed.
Around me, others were also falling prostrate. It was the call to prayer again for the Moslems. I stayed down, wrapping my cloak around my motley and hugging myself like a little girl afraid of an oncoming storm. As I did, I heard a familiar tinkling of bells.
It was the Emperor's flutist again, not far ahead of me. How nice, I thought. We're both praying for our men. Only hers was safe inside Blachernae, and mine was somewhere outside the walls.
I waited while the prayers continued around me, not wanting to disrespect the locals by rising in the middle. I watched the flutist some more. Praying next to her was a man who seemed to be a sailor by his dress. He was a swarthy, bearded fellow, with a livid scar slicing through the beard on the left side of his jaw. He wore gold hoops in both ears and a green, embroidered sash over his blouse. His left hand was missing two fingers. I noticed that in particular as he used it to slide a note over to the flutist just as the prayers ended.
She took it without glancing at him, secreted it under her cloak, and quickly walked away.
Well, I knew where she was going. I followed him until he disappeared inside a boarding house that I knew catered to sailors on short duration. I didn't see if he met with anyone, so I decided to move on. Probably a tryst, something to keep her occupied when the Emperor didn't require her services.
I wanted to see what was happening across the Golden Horn. Our own roof was just a bit low for me. I remembered the Monastery of the Pammakaristos at the top of the Fifth Hill. It should afford even
a short person like me adequate viewing of the opposite shore. Maybe I would even be able to glimpse a certain motley mixed in with the armor.
When I reached the top, I found a large crowd staring silently across the waters. I angled my way through to a good vantage point. To my shock, all I could see was the Venetian fleet clustered against the Galatan wharves.
“When did this happen?” I asked a monk who was standing nearby.
“Within the past hour,” he replied. “It's God's punishment.”
“But what happened to the troops at the tower?”
“Dead, captured, or scattered,” he said. “They were surrounded and cut off. I haven't seen many come back.”
He's a survivor, I thought. That's what he kept telling me. I won't worry about anything. Nothing's accomplished by worrying. I'll just wait. And not worry.
“Right,” I muttered, trying not to burst into tears again.
I turned away and found myself looking right into the face of Bastiani's lady. She had been watching me the entire time.
“Milady,” I said, bowing briefly.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “You're not following me. You were here before me.”
“My husband is somewhere over there,” I said briefly. “I don't know whether he's alive or dead right now.”
Something in her face softened. For the first time, she seemed to live.
“Is he a soldier?” she asked softly.
“No, lady. He's a fool, like myself.” I hesitated for a moment, then took a chance. “Milady, he was at the funeral service for Bastiani. He had been playing at the embolum and went to the church after. He is the one who saw you place your handkerchief in Bastiani's hand. It was
no witchcraft on my part, and I am truly sorry for the fright I caused you.”
She perused my face. I had no idea what kind of picture I made. I'm sure the tears had streaked my whiteface and left it a shambles.
“Do you love your husband?” she asked abruptly.
“More than life,” I replied.
“Do you have children?”
I patted my belly in response. She bowed her head.
“You are fortunate,” she said. “I hope for your sake that he is alive.”
“Thank you, lady.”
“Why did you seek me out the other day?” she asked.
“We are looking into the death of Bastiani,” I said.
“Why you?”
“We are fools,” I said. “Sometimes fools can find out things that others cannot.”
“For example?”
“For example, we found you,” I said. “Will you speak with me?”
She looked out across the seawalls. Already, the Venetians were beginning to unload the machines of war from their ships.
“We seem to have plenty of time on our hands,” she said dryly. “Why not? Come to my house.”
It did cross my mind as I accompanied her that I could have been walking into a trap. For all we knew, she was Bastiani's killer. But my instincts spake otherwise. She was in deep mourning for him, and that was not the demeanor of any killer I had ever seen. There was no need for her to maintain that as a sham for the casual observer. Few knew that Bastiani even had a lover, and none knew her name. In fact, I still didn't know her name.
Of course, she could have been mad. It wouldn't hurt to be careful. I casually made sure the daggers I kept in my sleeve and collar were
loose enough to get in a hurry. I missed having my sword, but it was too conspicuous to wear in the city streets. Fortunately, a large part of my tutelage under Feste was mastering the art of throwing objects of varying shapes and sizes.
She led me back to her home, past the deaf gardener, who was quite surprised to see us together. When she opened the door, mice scampered out from the front hall.
The furniture was covered with cloths, while the floors were covered with dust and dried leaves. I followed her to the rear of the house. The kitchen was the first room that showed any sign of use. She threw a log onto the embers that still glowed in the fireplace, and blew on it until it caught.
BOOK: A Death in the Venetian Quarter
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