by R P Nathan
“Oh that’s good,” I said and then, not smoothly, but if I hadn’t done it then I’d have lost my nerve, “By the way, I got you a present.” I pulled out a small wrapped parcel from my anorak pocket.
“You’re kidding me.” She looked genuinely touched. She carefully peeled the paper from it, leaving the tan leather of Polidoro’s journal in the palms of her hands.
“It’s by a guy called Girolamo Polidoro,” I said excitedly as she started to turn the pages.
“I know him. He was at Famagusta with Bragadino and after of course—”
“Well then you know all about it!” I looked at Patrick delighted. “It’s his account of the siege. I figured you might like it.”
“Like it?” She clasped it to her breast. “I love it. It’s the most amazing present.” She gave me a kiss and a hug.
“It’s four hundred years old you know,” said Patrick trying to be helpful. “And it was really expensive.”
Her eyes flicked up in surprise. “How expensive?”
Patrick looked at me suddenly apologetic.
“Well… it was a hundred quid,” I said eventually, reluctantly. “But—”
“Oh, John. I can’t accept it.” She was already handing it back to me.
“But I bought it for you.”
“It wouldn’t be right. You keep it and I’ll borrow it sometime.”
It didn’t mean anything I told myself as I put the book back in my pocket. It didn’t mean it wasn’t going to happen.
“So you’re interested in the siege of Famagusta?” she said.
“Yeah it’s fascinating,” said Patrick chirpily, trying to make amends. “Though we haven’t got to the end of the journal yet.”
“So you don’t actually know what happened to Bragadino?” Sarah looked flabbergasted.
“Well we know the Turks won the siege,” I said hurriedly. “We just haven’t read the last bit…”
“But that’s why the story’s so famous. Come on. Let me show you.”
◆◆◆
D.O.P
M. ANTONII BRAGADENI DUM PRO FIDE ET PATRIA
BELLO CYPRIO SALAMINAE CONTRA TURCAS CONSTANTER
FORTITERQ. CURAM, PRINICIPEM SUSTINERET LONGA
OBSIDIONE VICTI A PERFIDIA HOSTIS MANU IPSO VIVO AC
INTREPIDE SUFFERENTE DETRACTA
PELLIS
We were in the church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo. Before us and rising some thirty feet above the ground was a memorial in white marble. On the lower part and ten feet wide was the inscription in granite flanked on either side by columns and two heraldic shields each topped by a knight’s helmet and a winged lion. Above this on a dark plinth, shaped like a vase and about a foot across, was a marble bust of a bearded figure. Higher still was a monochrome fresco which was difficult to make out sandwiched as it was between two tall windows streaming bright white light into the church.
“It’s a great honour for Bragadino’s memorial to be here at all,” she said. “This is where most of the great doges have their tombs. It shows how highly he was regarded and also perhaps a bit of guilt that Venice didn’t do more to help him.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I said. “What happened?”
“Well, after the city surrendered, the Turkish general – the Pasha – said he wanted to meet with Bragadino in person to congratulate him on his defence of the city. So Bragadino rode out with a company of three hundred men to the Pasha’s camp and he was received with great courtesy.”
“OK…” I said nervously. “So far so good.”
“Yeah. But then the Pasha suddenly went off on one, accusing Bragadino of killing prisoners.”
I thought of the journal entry we had read.
“He gave an order and Bragadino’s close companions were murdered in front of him and then his unarmed men were massacred in the courtyard.”
Patrick visibly blanched. Sarah looked delighted.
“Bragadino was made to kneel down in front of the Pasha who cut off his nose and ears and threw him in a dungeon.”
I made a face. “No wonder Maya was so squeamish about this.”
“They left him in the dungeon for a week until his wounds had become infected and then they made him walk back to Famagusta carrying heavy sacks of rocks. They made him kiss the ground by the Pasha’s feet. Then they took him to the harbour and hoisted him up the mast of one of the ships, to see whether he could see the Venetian fleet coming to save him. Which obviously it wasn’t. And then finally they dragged him to the main square, tied him to a pillar in the boiling hot sun, and flayed him alive.”
“Oh my God…”
“When Bragadino was finally dead, they took his skin and stuffed it with straw. Then they dressed it in his purple ceremonial robes and put it on the back of a cow and paraded it round town. Later they sailed it round the Mediterranean on one of the Pasha’s ships, ending up in Constantinople where it was presented to the Sultan.”
I blinked at her and then looked across at Patrick but he was gazing up at the memorial. I cleared my throat. And asked the question I really didn’t want to ask. “What happened to Polidoro? Please don’t let it be something horrible.”
She gave me a kind smile. “Actually he was one of the luckier ones. Well kind of… Polidoro was one of the few people to get out of Famagusta alive. And he did make it back to Venice.”
“So he survived?” I was ecstatic; although that turned almost immediately to foolishness. “I suppose he had to have really otherwise we’d never have his journal…”
She laughed. “I suppose so. Anyway he made it safely back to Venice. But, years later, Bragadino’s brother and sons approached him and asked him to recover the skin. They persuaded him to go to Constantinople and steal it from under the Turks’ noses. Which he did, and the skin was returned to Venice where it was placed in an urn. Polidoro, though, got caught by the Turks and only escaped years later.”
“But he did escape?”
“As far as we know. And that,” she said pointing to the top of the monument, “is the urn up there. And we know it’s real because they opened it in the 1960s and lo and behold there was human skin inside.”
We peered up at it, a dark stone mass under the bust. And then, a little higher, squinting against the strong sunlight, we finally made out the detail of the fresco: a man being held against a column by turbanned figures whilst another ripped the skin from him.
“So there we go,” she said shrugging. “That’s everything I know about Bragadino and Polidoro. How far does he describe it in your journal? Up to getting the skin back? Or just the time in Cyprus?”
“Well, like I said, I haven’t actually got that far yet. But I’ll let you know.”
“How come you can even read it? I didn’t think you two spoke Italian?”
“Can you?” I said affronted at her assumption, however accurate.
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “I did it for A Level. It sort of went with History of Art. Plus I had a dreamy Italian teacher…”
“You know there’s a pattern there, right? But no, we don’t speak Italian. We’ve got a translation. In a notebook written by a guy called Henry Shaeffer. He died in the First World War.”
“Oh, how sad.”
“I know. It’s his diary as well.” I took the books back out of my pocket again and handed the black one to her.
She flicked through the pages. “I love old books,” she mused. She handed it back to me but then, almost absent-mindedly, she took Polidoro’s journal from me again, turning it over in her hands, caressing the pages. “It does look fascinating,” she said a touch wistfully.
“Oh it is! Especially the stuff about the buried treasure.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“No really. According to Polidoro a golden cross was hidden before the siege started. He said it had been brought from Nicosia and was originally from Constantinople. Bragadino buried it so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of the Turks. Does that sound ridiculous?”
�
�Completely ridiculous.” She put her head to one side. “But… treasure was buried at times of war. And Nicosia was one of the richest cities in Christendom, so it’s possible that something like this could have existed. And if it was from Constantinople then it could have been part of the loot from the Fourth Crusade… Sounds possible. Sounds interesting. Does the journal say where the treasure is?”
“Yes, but it’s in code.”
“More and more fascinating.” She opened the journal and inspected the final few pages. “And has the code been broken?”
“We think Shaeffer came close but died before he could complete the work.”
“But I’m going to break it,” said Patrick.
“Modest as always, cousin dear.”
He shrugged. “Well I am.”
She grinned. “Well I’ve got to admit I’m intrigued.”
I watched her happily, her eyes shining as she carefully closed the journal. She looked up and saw me watching her. She sighed and reluctantly handed the book back to me once more.
“Please, keep it.”
She smiled at me sadly. “I can’t.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to head off now. I told Maya I’d be back by three.”
“D’you think...” I said closing my eyes for an instant, certain she was going to say no. “I mean is it OK if we meet up later on? This evening I mean...”
She looked surprised. “Of course it is. I’d assumed we were all going to be meeting up tonight anyway.”
“Oh. Excellent.” I grinned in a rush of happy relief. “That’s great. Well, shall we come over to your hotel at seven o’clock then?”
“Perfect. Here’s where we’re staying.” She scribbled an address onto my guidebook. “And I’m sure Maya will be really happy to see both of you. Especially you,” she said, looking directly at Patrick.
He blushed and she walked away waving and laughing.
Chapter 10
We headed straight back to our hotel too keyed up to be interested in any more sightseeing at the moment.
“You see,” I said. “They were expecting to go out with us this evening. Us. Sarah and me. You and Maya. I told you she liked you.”
And Sarah liked me. What do you think? she had said. What did I think? What I thought – what I knew – was that she was as smitten by me as I was with her.
Back in the room I picked out a fancy sounding restaurant from my guidebook and went down to the payphone in the square to book a table for the four of us. The waiter spoke English so the task was easily done and I went back upstairs feeling very pleased with myself. I could do this type of stuff just as well as Julius.
“Listen to this,” said Patrick. He was lying on his bed with Shaeffer’s diary open in front of him.
25 January 1915
Colonel Roberts informed me that we will be returning to Rome tomorrow. My joy is unbridled. It is thought that Italy will now enter the war though it may be as late as April or May as any attack will be across mountain passes towards their ultimate prize of Trieste. And I have been told I will be rejoining the Royal Naval Division and thus be reunited with Rupert and the others.
My darling Anna, I can’t tell you what high spirits we are all in today. Colonel Roberts is practically hopping up and down with pleasure, whilst even the normally staid Captain Hargreaves is walking around with a smile on his face by which you’d think he had just found a diamond in his boot. It is with a light heart that I write this entry: almost my last from this dismal place.
I will be putting my journal aside now for a few days so let me just say that the translation of Polidoro’s writings is now complete, albeit a touch weak in places, in others overblown, yet hopefully you will forgive me that. And I am sure you will be able to help me with the questions I have of the text: Why is the closing section of a more formal nature than what has gone before? Why does Polidoro give no detail of when or why Bragadino entrusted the location of the treasure to him? And why if he knew where it was, did he not simply disclose it to the Council of Ten in Venice on his return?
“What did you think of the closing passage?” Patrick asked me.
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.” I too was lying on my bed by now. A fly landed on the bedspread and I shooed it away. Tried not to think about it. “Throw it over.” He gently tossed me the notebook and I flicked to the end of the translation. “It is more formal. But then maybe that’s just down to the way Shaeffer interpreted it…”
I have set down this journal for the glory of Venice and the love of God so that one day, even if I do not survive, the wonderful creation which is the Most Holy Cross of St Peter and St Paul will be recovered by the great and noble Venetian Empire, which was one quarter and one half quarter protector of Byzantium, and that it may be returned to Venice as its final resting place. And to that end I commit to these final pages the cipher which I have devised so that only the eyes of the worthy will be able to read and understand it and that this great treasure might be kept from the enemy. For, though I did not see the place of hiding of this treasure, my master Marc’Antonio Bragadino (may his soul be in heaven with the saints this day) passed word to me of its location. Therefore I say, read this cipher, you sons of Venice so that the cross of the true Apostles may be returned to Venice where it rightfully belongs. I now lay out the directions below and maintain all I have written in this journal to be true, by this humble servant to the honour of God and the Glory of Venice, Girolamus Polidorus.
“Shaeffer was right. It sounds completely different to the rest…” I turned the notebook over and returned to the section of diary that Patrick had been reading. “Oh!”
Although I have finished the translation, to my disappointment I have not yet managed to break the coded passage at the end.
“Yes!” Patrick punched the air. “He didn’t crack it!”
He was delighted but I was more distracted by the fly which had landed on the ceiling now, and was crawling around above us. I hated insects. I passed the notebook back to him.
“Listen to this,” he said.
I will set down my trials so far when I have more time. As with all such puzzles, I feel frustration but this will only drive me further to unravel the secrets of those letters. And I know that eventually I will succeed.
Knowing that I would be leaving the next day, I returned to the bookshop to tell the shopkeeper of my progress before setting off for Rome. He seemed eager to hear of it – it being another dreary day and this the only source to enliven it for him no doubt. He asked me to write to him if I should get any further with it. I told him that although I had not cracked it yet, it is only a matter of time as all codes are there to be broken. He pressed his hand into mine and shook it with a vigour which I would have thought beyond one so old. I smiled at him then walked to the door. I felt uneasy, I cannot say why, and as I tarried in the doorway, I felt certain that the bookseller was staring at me intently; but when I looked round he had gone.
10 February 1915
My darling Anna
This is my first journal entry for two weeks. The work has been busier since the return to Rome and we are seeking to order the papers built up in Venice over the last six months.
Polidoro’s journal is translated as I said in my last entry and I have made further attempts at breaking the code in which is written the assumed directions to the treasure. But still with no luck. I am certain of a few things, however: it is not a Caesar shift or a monoalphabetic substitution cipher. I therefore must surmise that it is some type of polyalphabetic substitution cipher. Although very simple to construct – even a child could do it with ease – this would have been an extremely powerful cipher in Polidoro’s time. None of the contemporary intelligence services, not even the Ten themselves, would have had the skills to break it.
“Ha, ha,” said Patrick rubbing his hands. “If it wasn’t polyalphabetic it wouldn’t be a challenge. Who are the Ten by the way?”
“No idea. And why are you looking so happy? Doesn
’t he say the code’s unbreakable?”
Patrick’s eyes glinted. “Was unbreakable.”
I was in the Forum, looking for inspiration amongst the ruins when I came to this conclusion that the code had to be polyalphabetic. And I own I felt a surge of energy at the revelation. For though such a code is devilishly difficult to break it is not impossible. Charles Babbage had indicated the way forward using a form of modified frequency analysis. I remembered seeing a paper he had written on the subject and decided to head back to the embassy and look it up without delay.
“That’s fine,” I said hurriedly. “I don’t want to know what modified frequency analysis is. Just tell me how close did he get to cracking it?”
“Well…” he said sounding a bit hurt, scanning through the pages. “Quite close he says though I’m not sure whether to believe him. He says he cracked it but he doesn’t actually give the keyword or translate the code. He says he’s done it by use of a crib.” He eyed my blank look with impatience. And honestly I was more distracted with the relief that came from the fly becoming airborne once more and heading out of the window.
“A crib is a short word which somehow you know in the coded text. It can give you a way in to the whole code. The British used it in the Second World War to help crack the Enigma code, because we knew that messages being sent to submarines would often start with the German word for weather: wetter.”
“So what’s the crib here?”
“Well that’s the thing. He doesn’t say. He just alludes to it…” He snapped the diary shut. “It doesn’t matter. I can use Babbage’s approach. It’s much more certain to get results.”
I’d completely lost the thread of Patrick’s chatter by this time but he seemed happy enough as he lay there on his bed. But then suddenly he sat bolt upright. “And in fact it doesn’t matter what the code says.”
“Why?”
“Because I know where the treasure is.”
“Sure: it’s in Cyprus buried in a hole in a beach somewhere—”
“No. It’s not in Cyprus. It’s in Venice.” His voice became an urgent whisper. “It’s in Bragadino’s urn. In San Giovanni e Paolo.”