by R P Nathan
At the back of Norwich was a full list of the Doges of Venice with their dates:
I scanned down the list till I got to the time of the siege: Alvise Mocenigo, 1570-1577. From my as yet highly unsystematic reading of the journal, I remembered that Polidoro had referred to him as the new Doge. It was at least consistent.
I went back to the shelves and pulled down Volume III of Hill’s History of Cyprus. His account of the sieges and the Turkish conquest occupied some one hundred pages in total. I skimmed much of this concentrating on the period between the fall of Nicosia and start of the siege of Famagusta. There was again no mention of the cross. But Hill quoted one source, Paruta, as saying that before the final assault on Famagusta the commander of the Turkish forces, Mustafa Pasha had encouraged his troops by promising them:
...the highest honours and prizes for valour: he pictured to them the booty and the spoils, reminded them of the whole regiments enriched by the sack of Nicosia and prayed and implored them to bring no shame on troops so lately victorious, to feel no fear before the arms of men to whom they had always been a terror. He reminded them of their successes at Nicosia and showed them that with equal ease, though with richer fruit, they could achieve another glorious victory, and end the war.
...with richer fruit... Did that mean that Mustafa knew of the existence of the Cross of St Peter and Paul? Of its removal from Nicosia and journey to Famagusta? I’d read that when Famagusta was finally taken and despite Bragadino’s gory end, Mustafa sent his Janissaries quickly into the city to regain order and looting was limited compared with Nicosia. Could he have done this because he was specifically looking for the cross? Could it really have been a treasure of such colossal beauty that he would have concentrated his attention on it in this fashion? And could this explain why he had flown into a rage with Bragadino and had him attacked? The books were not clear on why this had occurred but had offered three suggestions: that it was because Bragadino had executed Turkish prisoners; because he was not deferential enough before the Pasha; or simply because the Pasha was mad. But if mad, why restrict the pillage of the city? And it was surely commonplace in those brutal times for prisoners to be murdered. So what could it have been that made him so angry? Was it that when honeyed persuasion had failed to elicit from Bragadino the hiding place of the Most Holy Cross of St Peter and St Paul, Mustafa had thought to torture it out of him? But Bragadino kept his secret to the grave and Mustafa left the island empty-handed.
My head was spinning. Too much speculation. Far too much. Back to fact. What did Hill say about Polidoro?
Bragadino’s skin and the heads of the other victims were presented to the Sultan, who placed them in the Bagno. Calepio, who was confined in that prison on the charge of being a papal spy, tried, when he regained his freedom, to steal the skin, but was unsuccessful. In 1580, however, a certain Jerome Polidoro, of Verona, at the instance of the Bragadino family, abstracted it from the Arsenal, and conveyed it to the Venetian Bailie, and it was brought to Venice by James Soranzo, ambassador to the Porte, in 1581. At first placed in a pilaster of the Church of San Gregorio, where the Bragadino family were buried, it was on 3 May 1596 deposited in an urn in the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo.
And in a footnote:
Polidoro, who was frightfully tortured when his theft was discovered and brought home to him, was after some years ransomed by the martyr’s brother, Antony, and on 18 Feb. 1588 was granted by the Senate a pension of five ducats a month.
Hill did not refer to Polidoro being a survivor of the siege as Norwich did. However, the dates did at least now coincide and the story was again plausible. Polidoro could have been present at Famagusta. He perhaps returned home to Venice with the other survivors in 1572. Then some time between 1572 and 1580 he set off again to the East to recover his master’s skin. In 1580 it was returned to Venice though Polidoro himself was captured and tortured and did not make it back until 1588. He was granted a pension and returned to eke out his final days in Verona perhaps, the place of his birth.
When then did he write the account in the journal? Between 1572 and 1580 or after 1588? Either was possible.
I needed be more precise. His journal was written during 1570 and 1571. When was it printed?
Surely he would have been asked to submit his journal to the Signoria and more particularly the Council of Ten on his return so that they could glean what they could about the Turks from his account. So perhaps this book formed part of the Venetian State Archive. Perhaps the Ten were also interested in recovering this fabulous treasure. Perhaps this was their prime concern. But then why the code? If Polidoro knew where the treasure was why did he not just tell the Council of Ten where it was hidden? If he was a loyal subject of Venice as he described himself surely it would be his duty to do such a thing.
I opened Polidoro’s account towards the back and looked again at the coded pages, staring at them, my eyes seeing patterns in the letters where there was none, V E L G A S A G A I I...
I backtracked and looked at the conclusion of the journal proper, translating the final paragraph of the main text:
I have recorded this journal for the glory of Venice and the love of God so that even if I do not survive the Most Holy Cross of St Peter and St Paul will be returned to the great and noble Venetian Empire, which was three-eighth’s protector of Byzantium. Therefore I write these last pages as a code which I have devised so that only the worthy will be able to understand it and that this great treasure might be kept from unbelievers. Although I did not see the exact hiding place of the treasure, my master Marcantonio Bragadino (may the saints look after him in heaven) told me of its location. Therefore I say, read this code, you sons of Venice and then the cross of the true apostles can be returned to Venice where it will stay for all eternity. I set out the directions below and declare that everything I have written in this journal is true, and dedicated to God and Venice, Girolamus Polidorus.
So although Polidoro did not see where the treasure was hidden Bragadino told him where it was. Why? If he had wanted the servants to know the exact location surely he would have told them at the start. Why only tell them later? And when? Before he went to see the Pasha because he thought he might not return? But he surely suspected no foul play or he would not have gone at all. So when? And why tell Polidoro? If he had wanted to tell someone else surely he would have told another noble not his servant who could have gossiped about it to anyone.
I stood up and stretched and walked to the window, exercising my eyes, looking into the distance. It didn’t make sense. The Council of Ten would have taken Polidoro’s account. If he had told them he knew where the treasure was then why would anything be in code? They would have asked him for the location. First nicely. Then with any of the considerable means of persuasion at their disposal. The Ten were relentless in their pursuit of Venice’s interests and quite frequently brutal as well.
I had in my mind a quote about them. My hand hovered in front of the book shelves and then I found it: Plumb’s classic account of the Renaissance.
The glass manufacture of Murano, based on secrets learned in the East, was guarded by the Council of Ten: for any workman with the knowledge of its manufacture to leave Venice was an act of treason. The Council hunted him down and killed him.
Relentless.
Along with the monopoly in glass went another – the making of mosaic: this art, derived from Byzantium, was practised only in Venice. Venetian jewellers had no rivals in the late Middle Ages, and emperors and kings sent there for their crosses and sceptres … As the wealth and prosperity of Europe lifted, so the riches of Venice soared. On the threshold of the Renaissance, Venice possessed an unrivalled trade, and a stable and immensely powerful government firmly in the hand of its patricians. It was a city of hatchet-faced merchants. Jacopo Loredan entered in his great ledger: ‘The Doge Foscari: my debtor for the death of my father and uncle.’ After Foscari had been harried to death and his son killed, Loredan wrote on the opposite page, �
�Paid.’
I slipped the book back on its shelf and breathed deeply. The Ten would not have let this rest. That much was clear. So Polidoro must have convinced them that he did not know where the treasure was hidden. And as far as the account in his journal was concerned, he didn’t. But it would have given the Ten enough to confirm what they must have already known from Bragadino’s dispatches that the cross had been hidden; and enough for them to leave Polidoro alone.
But Polidoro did know where the treasure was. Perhaps he had always known; perhaps he worked it out later. Either way he knew. And at some point he decided to go and get it. Surely this would have coincided with his trip to recover Bragadino’s skin from Constantinople, 1579 say. But things went wrong and he was captured and when he returned to Venice eight years later he did not bring the cross back with him.
That was almost seventeen years after the siege of Famagusta. He would have been perhaps mid-forties then or maybe even older. He would have been too old and too scarred to contemplate another trip and, besides, the Ten would surely have been watching him. So instead he set the location of the Treasure down in code. Perhaps as a letter which he sent to his brother or to a close friend. The Ten intercepted the letter and in time this also became part of the archive; in time the two got incorporated into the same book, with a linking piece the Ten themselves wrote.
Backtrack. Perhaps Polidoro wrote the coded letter in 1579 just before his trip to Constantinople, in case he did not return. Yes, more likely; but it would be impossible to know for certain without first breaking the code.
But it was starting to make sense now. Why didn’t the Ten torture Polidoro when they discovered the letter? Because he would have been rotting in a Turkish jail. And by the time he returned to Venice he was a hero and they would have missed their chance. Perhaps in any case they never believed that a servant could really hold the key to a treasure so profound.
So, the journal and the coded letter were written by Polidoro but not at the same time. The Ten got hold of them both but never cracked the code. Therefore the treasure could still be there.
I blew out my cheeks and tried to keep calm. The librarian looked over sternly.
I walked back to my corner. Could the treasure be there? Who knew about it? Who was present at the burial? Seven servants and six nobles. In addition to Polidoro and his then master Francesco Bugon:
By the torchlight we could see eleven riders: five nobles – Captain General Marc’Antonio Bragadino, Lorenzo Tiepolo, Captain of Paphos, Astorre Baglione, General of the Militia, Count Sigismondo da Casoldo, and Captain Bernadino da Gubio – and their five squires, including my great friend Giuseppe, and finally Alvise who was the head servant of Captain Bragadino’s household.
The only servant who saw the cross being buried was the head servant mentioned, Alvise. And he had been killed that same day. As had Bugon and Sigismondo. Bragadino had of course been killed by Mustafa Pasha. So that left Tiepolo, Baglione and da Gubio.
I looked again at Hill. Astorre Baglione had been one of Bragadino’s party when meeting Mustafa. He had been killed there and then by the Pasha’s guards. Tiepolo had been left in charge of Famagusta in Bragadino’s absence. When the Pasha’s troops entered the city they caught him and hanged him. That left da Gubio. Captain Bernadino da Gubio. What had happened to him, I wondered.
Hill did not mention him but in the footnotes other sources were referred to: Calepio and Paruta again; and Gatto. Any of these might contain information on da Gubio. There were also references to Excerpta Cypria. I had seen this on the shelves and got it down. It was an old cloth bound book rather larger than A4, the cover battered and the titles in faded gold leaf. But inside on the first page the printing was clear: Excerpta Cypria: Materials for a History of Cyprus by Claude Deval Cobham. It was a selection of sources that Cobham had translated from the original and there were entries for both Paruta and Calepio.
Paruta’s was the official account of the siege of both Nicosia and Famagusta and formed part of the Venetian archive. Calepio, a monk who had been an eyewitness to the siege at Nicosia had been enslaved afterwards and had put together a description of the siege of Famagusta from the accounts he had heard from other prisoners in Constantinople. I knew that what I must do to ensure the veracity of the Polidoro journal would be to first translate it fully and then compare the details he gave with those in Calepio and Paruta and any other contemporary sources I could find.
I glanced at my watch. Ten o’clock. I would meet up with Robert and his Italian in two hours. Until then I would make a proper start on the translation. But before I could begin, something caught my eye in the account by Calepio. A list of the Christian commanders who died in Famagosta and amongst them, near the bottom of the page, was Captain Bernadino da Gubio.
So he had died too.
All those who had seen the burial of the treasure had perished.
So if by some chance Girolamo Polidoro had come to know of the cross’s exact location, he would have been the only one alive enough to have done anything about it.
Chapter 20
“Julius, this is Giovanni from Rome. Julius is one of our curators of Renaissance art here at the Gallery. Giovanni is an expert in the history of Italian printing and processes.”
“Giovanni Galbaio at your disposal,” he said. His English had an American twang. “How is it I have not met you on my previous visits here?”
“Commitments of work,” I said determined not to catch Robert’s eye. I handed Galbaio my card and he returned the compliment. We sat down around a small table in one of the meeting rooms. A platter of sandwiches and some soft drinks had been laid out for us there and we helped ourselves.
“Ah I do enjoy these visits,” said Galbaio. “If for no other reason than for your sandwiches. Far more civilised than a full and sleep-inducing Roman lunch.” He was a tall man in his late thirties, brown eyes, his hair well coiffured and slightly bouffant, dark but with a distinctive white streak flowing through the right side. “Robert has been telling me you are working on a Masaccio problem at the moment, Julius. I have studied the Brancacci frescoes in detail if I can be of any assistance.”
“That is very kind.”
“Don’t mention it.” He picked up a sandwich and started eating and I wondered whether now really was the right time for this, but then just shrugged and carried on regardless.
“Actually there might be something you can help me with.”
“But of course.”
Robert glared at me but I ignored him and pulled out the journal from my satchel. The Italian wiped his hands on a serviette and took it from me.
“What do you make of it?”
Galbaio turned it over in his hands. “Unremarkable calfskin cover; certainly a replacement.” He opened it and looked closely at the paper. “Aah,” he said in a long drawn out breath. “It is old. You can tell from the feel of the rag paper, the colour of it, the smell of it...”
“How old?”
Galbaio shrugged. “At least three hundred, possibly four. What is it?” he asked taking a loupe from his pocket to inspect the fibres in the paper more closely.
“It’s an account of the siege of Famagusta by one Girolamo Polidoro. Are you OK?”
Galbaio had started coughing and almost dropped the book. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he spluttered. “Fine, really.” But he took the glass of water Robert offered him.
“My apologies,” he said eventually. “Your sandwiches have at last disagreed with me.” He gave me a wan smile and then looked back to the journal, reading the opening page. “Polidoro,” he said softly. “Girolamo Polidoro.”
“So,” I said wishing to get back to the point. “You think this might potentially be an old book? It could date from the end of the sixteenth century, say?”
“It is... possible. It is certainly possible. I could not tell for sure though without looking more closely at the structure of the paper, running some tests... But it is certainly possible.” He f
ixed me with a stare. “Can I ask you how the Gallery came by this book?”
“Oh it’s not the Gallery’s. It’s mine.” I put out my hand and Galbaio passed the book back to me with, I thought, a certain reluctance.
“And where did you get it?” asked Robert no doubt feeling left out.
“I picked it up in Venice a few years ago.”
“In Venice you say?” Giovanni looked at me curiously. “Not Rome?”
“It may have been originally purchased in Rome. But I acquired it in Venice. Why?”
“Oh... no reason.” He waved a hand.
“And what do you think of it?”
“It is most interesting, of course. The siege of Famagusta is a fascinating story and always has its collectors. Indeed, if you are thinking of selling I would be glad to make you an offer.”
“No. Thank you.”
“Perhaps I could then at least take the book away and run those tests on it to determine whether it is indeed genuine.” He extended a hand to me.
“No, that’s fine Giovanni. Perhaps we’ll do them some other time.” I replaced the book in my bag. “I was just interested, that’s all.”
He blinked at me. “Of course.”
“Do you collect books as well then Giovanni?” asked Robert.
“Yes. Occasionally.” For a moment he gazed still at my bag, but then he looked over at Robert, forcing a smile. “My family used to run a book store in Rome for many years and in Venice before that; but sadly it went bust. So I became an expert instead.”
Robert continued to laugh long after we had stopped. “Talking with Giovanni today has been very interesting, Julius,” he said sycophantically. “He is definitely interested in assisting should we go ahead with the printing exhibition later this year.” He gave me a sudden sly smile. “Julius, I see that you still haven’t got yourself a cleaning lady?”
I frowned. Looking down at myself I realised that in my haste to get dressed that morning I’d put on a crumpled shirt from the previous day. I flushed in embarrassment and forced myself to laugh with him. “No not yet. Though I am still looking.”