Burdens of the Dead

by Mercedes Lackey

  Only they were on the wrong side of the chain. Lemnossa sucked breath through his teeth. There had to be a way of salvaging as much as possible from this wreck. “I think,” he said slowly, “we’ll need some leads-men on the bow. We need to move these vessels deeper into the Golden Horn. Then they can’t bring cannon bear on us from both sides, and, if we fire back, we won’t hit the Venetian quarter.” He looked at his companion. “Or the Genoese. It is closer to the chain, anyway.”

  “The Genoese are in big trouble,” volunteered the messenger with some satisfaction. “They tried to protest about the control of their gate. Alexis had five of their leading merchants crucified.”

  Captain di Tharra of Genoa stood up. “I thought it might just be pique, that we’d sailed in company and could not be turned against each other. But it goes deeper than that, Mlord. I’ll move our vessels with yours, although we lack the sweeps to move them easily.”

  “We’ll see to taking lines across. Your round ships are good for defense, with those castles of theirs. We’ll get ourselves into as good a negotiating position as possible. Make co-operation contingent on access to our people.” He grimaced. “It’s likely that Alexis plans a wholesale looting of both Venetian and Genoese storehouses and assets, given his actions here. If we negotiate wisely we can let him believe we plan to replenish those. He’s mad enough to think he can get away with robbing us there too. If we play it right, we can do the opposite. It’ll not help our crews and our investors, but my Senate and your duke should be grateful. And we’d be no worse off for doing it.”

  “You’re a master strategist, Admiral,” said the senior captain respectfully.

  “I wish I was. We would not be here if that was the case. Now let us use the night-hours.”

  * * *

  The morning found the fleet lying at anchor nearly a mile further up the great Golden Horn, anchored bow and stern to offer their narrowest, strongest profile to the seawall and effectively out of range of the cannon on Galatea. The Byzantines could hardly have been unaware of it, but had taken no action. The day was well advanced before a Byzantine fusta came out to the fleet.

  It was a very different officer aboard her. He saluted respectfully and delivered his message. “My Lord Admiral. My commander, the Megadoux Laskaris wishes to know why you have assumed formations as if for war. You are to proceed to the usual wharves given to the Venetian trade offload, or we will be obliged to take action against you.”

  Lemnossa laughed softly. “Oh no, young man. I’m not one to stick his head twice into the same noose. Yes, we’re trapped in your harbor.—but that does mean that those masts over there, which are your fleet, are trapped in here with us. And no other vessels to trade or aid are able to come in. The Sea of Marmara coast has currents bad enough to make it a risky landing place, and risk is expense. Now, let us negotiate in good faith. I am reluctant—but willing—to agree to a slightly elevated duty to the value of some small part of our cargo, as the expense of putting down the uprising in Opiskon must be considerable and would endanger us too. There are merchants in Constantinople hungry for our goods. Your Emperor can extract some tariffs from them.”

  The officer swallowed. “Ah. Let me carry word of this to my seniors. How did you know about Opiskon?”

  The admiral shrugged. It did no harm to sew a bit of disinformation, and perhaps a lieutenant would learn that good manners had value. “Shall we say that I was informed. You think just who I have seen since we entered the Golden Horn.” He waved a hand about. “A naval encounter here in such closed quarters would be messy. Merely a hand-to-hand melee. We’re carrying extra crew as we’ve had pirate trouble. We sank quite a number of their vessels.”

  * * *

  Before the trouble started, Antimo Bartelozzi had moved himself quietly out of the Venetian quarter, into the rundown trading district that had once been granted to the duchy of Amalfi, and was now more or less the whores’ quarter. In a city with such a heavy dependence on mercenaries and the emperor’s two remaining tagmata, it was going to remain the part of town with the freest access. Yes, he might be mistaken for a pimp, but it was better than what he saw coming to the foreign trading quarters. He’d be leaving shortly. He’d hoped to buy a passage on a vessel of the Venetian Eastern Fleet, but if his information was correct, they’d be lucky to sail out of the Golden Horn, let alone be allowed contact with the Venetian quarter.

  He knew that the fleet had come in, and at first light had quietly made his way up the third hill to a building with a suitable flat roof. He’d secured the use of it some four months before, and had done considerable mapping from up there. And from here he could see that the Venetians—and by the shape of the vessels—some Genoese ships, had not played the game according to the plans of the Byzantines.

  That was good, but he would still make his way overland to a small port further west. Possibly Aenus—a small place far enough away to avoid any shred of suspicion or close examination of the baggage of maps and information he had to transport. He wanted to look at its defenses anyway, although a land-battle across Byzantium was probably a less-than-wise strategy as a way to capture Constantinople.

  He went back down the narrow stairs to gather more word from the streets. They got it wrong, as often as not. But put together with the diverse facts at his disposal Antimo could make an educated guess.

  He was unaware that he was being watched. That should have been of concern to him. But then Hekate had means denied to Alexius’s spy-catchers. She had understood how he knew she was watching him at their first encounter, and taken steps to counter his powers. She was, after all, a goddess.

  * * *

  It took three days to hammer out a deal, and a great deal of shuttling to-and-fro. But Alexius got less than he’d hoped for, and Admiral Lemnossa got exactly what he hadn’t wanted, but had expected: more refugees. And the relief of putting Constantinople behind him.

  It did nothing for the fury of the ship’s crews though. Every man on every vessel had lost money. They’d inevitably clubbed together with their friends and relations to buy a share in one of the colleganzas. Inevitably too, they’d dreamed of the best possible profit—most of which had just disappeared into Alexius’s coffers. And now all they wanted was some of that loss back out of his hide. That played along with the worry and anger of the refugees, who were mostly only going as far as Negroponte, as the next safe Venetian outpost. When the admiral considered how overloaded the ships were with humans and stock from Constantinople, he was glad to be offloading some of this lot there.

  The lightening of his vessels could not come soon enough.

  PART III

  November, 1540 A.D.

  Chapter 20

  Venice

  Benito had long since decided that he could deal with almost anything better than goodbyes. This one was far worse than any other. Yet there was no way he could leave without saying goodbye to Maria and Alessia. Life was too short and fragile and precious for that. He knew that the task ahead was fraught and that Maria would be going to Aidoneus’ shadowy kingdom soon. It was almost enough to make him put his daughter on the ship with him. But at least there was Marco here in Venice, and Katerina as well. Marco and the spirit of the lion of St. Mark. And although there were differences between the brothers, there was no-one Benito knew he could trust more, and a child would not be safe on the ship. Not where he was going. And she would be even less safe alone in Corfu. The time was coming.

  The fleet was almost ready. The fast galleys that had sailed out of the gates of Hercules had returned and were in the final stages of refitting. Word was in from Genoa that their vessels were ready to sail within three weeks for the meeting at Corfu, along with the Aragonese. Little did they know that they would not be overwintering there. A winter expedition was madness…but such was the reputation that sailed with the fleets, that there was no shortage of madmen willing to gamble on the weather. The first relief had come to Corfu in winter despite the weather.

&nb
sp; Benito had no intention of gambling. He had instead the intent of gathering some aid. Reluctant aid, maybe. But aid anyway. He went in search of Marco. He expected to find him in the Church of St. Raphaella, which was fine as it was where they needed to go. Instead he ran into him, smiling, on the stairs leading up to the Doge’s palace. “The fleet’s been sighted. The fleet from the Black Sea. Maybe there will be no need of all this.”

  Marco always hoped to avoid war. Well, the part of Marco that was Marco-the-healer did. The part that was Marco-the-lion did not. Benito had decided, when he was still a boy, that if a fight was inevitable anyway, you might as well get over and done with, on your own terms. He doubted if the fleet’s return meant anything good. But there was no sense in dampening Marco’s hopes. He’d bet the news from the fleet would do that anyway.

  And Benito was not disappointed; a wise man had once told him, “a pessimist is never unpleasantly surprised,” and when it came to war, he supposed he must be a pessimist. He was allowed—a rare and doubtful privilege—to sit quietly behind a screen in a discrete private salon in the Doge’s palace while the admiral of the Eastern Fleet reported to the Council of Ten.

  “Monsignors, Doge Petro,” said the admiral. “We have two thirds-empty holds, and we have several vessels barely fit to sail. We abandoned two at the little Arsenal in Corfu—although we have brought home a few prizes from the attack we suffered. They’re not worth much, though. There’s trouble brewing, big trouble, with the eastern trade. Emperor Alexis demanded a high toll for our passage. Half our cargo, and the vessels were less than full anyway.”

  “That’s a direct contravention of the treaty of Tarsas,” said one of the Council members. They were masked, as usual. But Benito had a good idea who it was by the voice and intonation.

  “The Venetian ambassador, Signor Porchelli, made representation to the emperor. He was lucky to get away with his life, Monsignors. The emperor has gone completely mad, we think. He said he did not care. We could pay and go or stay and be sunk. He said that he has no need to fear Venice any more. Constantinople is restive and afraid. They prepare for war. The Venetian quarter is sealed off. Our people there fear a massacre.”

  “They surely would not dare.”

  The Eastern Fleet admiral shook his head. “I think the Byzantine generals are reluctant, Monsignors, but Alexis’s mercenaries…they see the prospect of rich loot. We paid and brought many of the women and children with us. Also some of the reserves of goods and gold our traders there held for their houses.”

  Benito knew what that meant: very, very scared merchants. Without much gold, or stock, their ability to trade would be severely curtailed, and for a Venetian merchant house, death was almost preferable.

  “The fleet is early, and you left Trebizond early. Without full holds, to judge by your statements.” That was Petro. Benito knew the voice too well to be mistaken.

  “Yes Monsignors. We had little choice. The Venetian podesta there made the decision, and it was a wise one, as events proved.”

  Peering from behind the screen in the dimly-lit room—the Council preferred it so to preserve their anonymity, which kept them from undue influence and of course, assassination—Benito could see the admiral of the Eastern Fleet tugging his beard nervously. The council did not like rash admirals. They liked over-cautious ones even less. Lemnossa was a wily old bird by all reports, but the Council could be judgmental and vindictive. And the Venetian Republic had lost money.

  “We have had trouble in Trebizond, Monsignors. The Baitini have moved against the local satrap. So far the Ilkhan has done nothing.”

  “Baitini?”

  “A sect of the worshippers of Mahomet, considered by many of their co-religionists to be heretical. A dangerous sect the Ilkhan all but crushed nearly a century ago. They were the last major force to stand against the Mongol in Damascus and their other secretive great fortress, Alamut. They ruled by fear and assassination, rather than by overt power. They were the power behind the throne. They believe they have a special relationship with God.”

  “Don’t all sects?” said someone.

  “These are very fanatical, Monsignors. They were suppressed, but lately the Venetian merchants in Trebizond say that they have become more open in their extortion and murder. The city is in ferment. The Venetian quarter is an armed camp. Trade is severely curtailed, with caravans from Hind reported as going to other ports. A small fleet left early, as some do every year. They never returned.”

  “What?”

  “It appears they were attacked by another fleet, Monsignors. A fleet of galleys coming from Odessa, judging by sail-setting and their garb. Two sailors survived, clinging to some flotsam, and made their way overland, back to Trebizond. One of them was murdered, in the streets of Trebizond. The Baitini are working in concert with these raiders. They tried to kill both of the sailors, and it is only by the grace of God that one escaped the murderers to tell us his story. But even given that the man who survived was traumatized and just a common sailor, we knew that the size of the rover-fleet was substantial.”

  “It appears that the duke of Genoa will have his pirate problem.”

  “Yes, Monsignors. I had not got there yet, but seven vessels of the State of Genoa—well, we met them several day’s sail from the port of Sinope. They signaled us, and as we outnumbered them and outgunned them, we allowed a small boat to come across to us. They sought to join our fleet, seeking protection as fellow Christians from the pirate fleet that had barred their way. They had been driven out of Theodosia, and lost five vessels, and suffered considerable loss of life. We—out of Christian charity and to swell our numbers—allowed them to join our fleet. We encountered their attackers in some force a day out of Herculea. We were prepared and ready for the conflict, and they were…shall we say, unskilled, Monsignors. Bloodthirsty but unskilled. There were only some thirty galleys, and so with our allies we outnumbered them, and they were tricked into allowing us to fire broadsides at them. Their ships are merely equipped with bow and stern chasers, and they’re poor gunners. The long and the short it is we beat them off with some loss of life and damage on our part, but not a vessel lost. We sank seven of them, and captured four, although we scuttled one as she was in no state to be sailed at any speed.”

  He paused and took a long drink from the goblet of wine that was given to him. “We had no trouble from there to until we entered the Bosphorus, although vessels were sighted. We were a goodly company. And we were glad of it, Monsignors. It’s time the pirates and Byzantines were taught to respect the ships of Venice.”

  “And, by the sounds of it, of Genoa.”

  The fleet admiral laughed. “You should have heard the Genoese senior captain’s reaction when the emperor demanded half of the Genoese vessels’ cargo too. They’re used to Byzantines trying to play them off against us, not being treated like us. Alexis would have it that if they’d sail with our fleet, they could be taxed with us. I hear he was uninterested in their suggestion that he deploy his navy—not that it’s up to much—against the pirates in the Black sea. They’re too organized, Monsignor, just to be a rabble fleet. We need to take steps to see to our trade.”

  “We plan to, Admiral. We plan to return to Constantinople long before spring with a sharp rebuke for a little emperor for breaching the terms of our treaty. It’s a pity that the rebellion in Opiskon appears to have fizzled out.”

  Peering around the screen again Benito saw the Eastern Fleet admiral nod approvingly. “Not a moment too soon, Monsignors. You’ll find our crews keen enough to join the expedition. Emperor Alexis hurt our pride, and worse, our profits. Many’s the colleganza that’ll be cursing him tonight. Give the men a week ashore…”

  That was what Benito needed to hear: The admiral’s assessment of the response of the men. Benito realized he should have guessed how far astray Emperor Alexius would let his greed lead him. It was not just the wealthy of Venice who traded Outremer. Even the lowliest seaman had a small share in a colleganza�
��a trading collective. A canny man could make himself a good profit—five times his investment—if he chose his goods and traders well. Those ordinary seamen would have lost money. Their retirement money for the older men, their weddings for the younger. The populi minuta would be angry and ready to put to sea again, despite the fact that it would be cold and wet at this season. He made a mental note to see what he could do to improve conditions on board. Half-frozen rowers on the galleys would not help their need for speed at all. Petro would complain about the money for oilskins and woolen hats, but not too much. Swords, powder and ball, arrows…no one quibbled about the need for those. But Benito had already heard Admiral Douro in the Arsenal, who skimped nothing for his own comfort, attempting to cut corners on the well-being of his crews. That would not stand, not on Benito’s watch.

  The interview with the admiral of the Eastern Fleet continued for some time, refining details and clearing up points. Benito listened. And began to calculate on how many ships Venice could put at sea. He was pretty sure the lists in the Piazza San Marco would filling up within the next few days. Men would be signing up to join Venice on a punitive expedition to Constantinople. Benito had his name at the head of those lists. That would be popular. He also—and this would be a lot less popular—did not want to cripple and loot Constantinople. By the sounds of it they might need a bulwark against the east if these Baitini succeeded in their plans to subvert the Ilkhan’s empire from within. That sort of thinking was not likely to appeal to men who had just lost the little they had.

  Later he set off in search of Marco. One look at his brother’s face told him that the admiral of the Eastern Fleet’s news was being carried along by hundreds of lesser channels. He also had that impatient, almost fevered Marcus-the-healer look. So the ships had brought more than just bad news.