Mehmet was succeeded by his son, Bejazit II, who immediately reined in Mehmet II’s expansionist military policy and instituted a more strict observance of Islamic law. Bejazit ordered many of his father’s imagistic treasures, including his portrait by Bellini, to be removed from the Topkapi Palace and sold off in the bazaar. Resident Venetian merchants were quick to snap up these bargains, whereupon they were shipped back to Europe – which accounts for Bellini’s portrait of one of the greatest Ottoman sultans being now on display in London rather than Istanbul.
Meanwhile the Ottomans continued to advance. In the very year that Mehmet signed the peace treaty with Venice, the Ottoman army simply occupied all the major Ionian islands except Corfu. This left the Turks in virtual control of the entrance to the Adriatic. Yet the true purpose behind this move remained unforeseen. Early in 1480 Turkish troops landed unopposed in the heel of Italy, laying waste to the countryside of Apulia and seizing the city of Otranto in the kingdom of Naples. Amidst scenes of mayhem the citizens of Otranto were either slaughtered or shipped back across the Adriatic into slavery. Spectacular acts of savagery included the building of a pyramid of skulls in the main square, and a public spectacle in which the Bishop of Otranto and the local commander were sawn in half.
During the quarter-century since the Peace of Lodi, Venice had remained for the most part unpopular throughout Italy, with its fellow states jealous of its power and perceived riches. Besides occupying the largest territory in northern Italy, it also had a trading empire in the eastern Mediterranean, commercial links across the Alps, galley trading routes to the North Sea, and its explorer Alvise Cadamosto had recently discovered the Cape Verde Islands and sailed as far round West Africa as the River Gambia. Even in the face of a Turkish invasion of the Italian mainland, initially it was only hatred of Venice that united the states of Italy. The ludicrous extent of this anti-Venetian sentiment can be seen from the response of King Ferrante I of Naples to the invasion of Otranto, which was in fact part of his territory. Upon hearing of the invasion, he immediately claimed that this was an aggressive act against Naples by Venice, whose recent peace talks with the Turks had in reality been nothing more than an act of treachery against his kingdom.
The Ottoman occupation of Otranto was nothing less than a beachhead for a more serious march on Rome, where the sultan intended to declare himself emperor, and then set about reconquering the entire European region that had once constituted the western half of the Roman Empire. Pope Sixtus IV himself surmised this, but he was hardly in a position to inspire Italy to attempt another holy-league crusade. Since his accession to the papal throne nine years previously he had ceaselessly intrigued with various Italian states in the furtherance of nepotistic ambitions for his nephews. Just two years previously there had been a plot to assassinate Lorenzo de’ Medici, the ruler of Florence; in the aftermath of the plot’s failure, Sixtus IV’s leading role in the affair had become evident to all. Few Italian rulers now trusted him, and he knew that democratic Venice would certainly not break the peace treaty that it had signed with the Ottomans just a year before. With good reason, Sixtus IV knew himself to be perilously exposed if Mehmet II decided on a rapid march to Rome, and even made arrangements for the papal court to withdraw from the city.
Fortunately, Sixtus was spared by the death of Mehmet, and by his successor Sultan Bejazit Il’s decision against continuing a policy of rapid and reckless expansion, preferring instead a period of consolidation and coexistence (especially with Venice). The majority of the Turkish garrison was withdrawn from Otranto, and the Neapolitan army soon retook the city. For the time being, it appeared that the Italian mainland was safe.
* At this time a ‘lance’ in fact consisted of three or more men: the mam cavallo on his charger, along with his mounted attendant and his page or servant, who rode behind on a packhorse or donkey carrying their equipment.
* The city was now officially known by the Turks as Kostantimyye, but was still for the most part widely called Constantinople (in Greek Constantinopolis). Its present name of Istanbul derives from the Greek eis stin poli (meaning ‘to the city’), which was used well before the fall of Constantinople, and was in fact a current Greek term for an urban centre throughout the Aegean region, onginatmg as a reply to the greeting ‘Where are you going?’ The name Istanbul gradually grew in popular usage during the centuries of Ottoman rule, but was not officially designated as the name of the city until after the founding of the present Turkish Republic in 1923.
* Sic; this must have been dated by the artist, rather than his prestigious sultan, who would have used the Islamic calendar.
8
The Venetian Queen of Cyprus
DESPITE OTTOMAN ENCROACHMENT eastwards along the Anatolian coast towards Cilicia and Syria, the key to commerce between Europe and the eastern Mediterranean remained Cyprus. This strategically located island provided protection for shipping seeking access to the lucrative trade routes in spices and luxury goods that extended from China and India to Damascus, Beirut, up the Red Sea and across the Suez isthmus, and to Alexandria. Venice had long retained trading bases in the major ports of Cyprus, and several noble Venetian families even owned large estates on the island, though there still remained a rivalry with the Genoese, who also owned sizeable estates. Cyprus was ruled by the Frankish Lusignan dynasty, whose ancestor Guy de Lusignan had been sold the island by Richard I of England in 1192 and immediately declared himself king. Since then several powers, including the Genoese, the Venetians and the Mamelukes (rulers of Syria and Egypt), had sought at various times to assert a controlling influence over the island, but with little lasting success – though Cyprus did in fact remain a tributary state of the Mamelukes. Over the centuries the Lusignan kings of Cyprus had also briefly become king of Jerusalem and then, even more briefly, ruler of the Armenian kingdom of Cilicia, which occupied the north-eastern shore of the Mediterranean opposite Cyprus. As a result, the Lusignan kings of Cyprus continued to refer to themselves as the ‘King of Cyprus, Jerusalem and Armenia’ – despite the redundancy of the last two titles.
By the latter half of the fifteenth century the King of Cyprus (and of Jerusalem and Armenia) was the young James II, an illegitimate member of the Lusignan line who in 1460 had ousted the rightful heir, his sister Charlotte. Together with her husband, Louis of Savoy, she had fled to take refuge in the Genoese-held castle of Kyrenia, on the north coast, which was then subjected to a siege by James. However, after three years Charlotte and Louis had managed to escape, finally reaching Rome, where they had begun trying to recruit allies willing to invade the island and reinstate them on the throne. James II, or James the Bastard as he became widely known (both on factual and pejorative grounds), was in his early twenties and was hardly a popular monarch, on account of his wilfulness of character and his philandering amongst the wives and daughters of the island’s rich landowners. Yet this behaviour was grudgingly tolerated, largely because the landowners knew that without the Lusignan monarchy the island was liable to fall into the hands of an international power, which would quickly dispossess them of their large estates.
James II, for his part, was also well aware of the vulnerability of Cyprus to foreign invasion and decided to turn to Venice for support. The Republic had welcomed this opportunity to gain influence over the island, which they had long sought to absorb into their empire. An alliance was quickly agreed and reinforced by persuading the twenty-eight-year-old James to accept as his queen the fourteen-year-old Caterina, daughter of the noble Venetian Marco Cornaro.* The Cornaro family had long had close associations with Cyprus – Caterina’s uncle, Andrea Cornaro, being one of the island’s largest landowners, with extensive sugar-cane estates. At the same time, Caterina’s mother was of Greek descent, being the granddaughter of Emperor John Comnenos of Trebizond. Thus, as the Venetians were at pains to point out, Caterina was technically speaking of imperial blood, rather than merely royal blood.
Overjoyed by this diplomatic coup, the Venet
ians were determined to ensure that it was confirmed as soon as possible. As Caterina lived in Venice, the Signoria insisted that the union with James II should be sealed by an immediate marriage by proxy, which took place at Venice on 13 July 1468. The marriage may have been hurriedly arranged for purely political reasons, but its celebration showed no signs of haste or lack of feeling. This was to be one of those great state occasions at which Venice so excelled. Caterina was led in procession by forty wives of the city’s noblest families from the Palazzo Corner to the nearby landing stage. Here she embarked upon the magnificent Bucintoro and was accompanied down the Grand Canal by a flotilla of gondolas, whilst musicians serenaded her and heralds proclaimed the passage of the doge’s barge through the centre of the city to the watching crowds along the shore. On arrival at the Molo, Caterina was escorted to the Doge’s Palace to the cheers of the onlookers (who had witnessed nothing like this: republican Venice had never before staged a coronation, by proxy or otherwise). She was led up the steps to the Great Council Chamber where, before the gathered representatives of the Republic, the actual ceremony took place. Doge Cristoforo Moro presented a gold wedding ring to the Cypriot ambassador, Philip Mistachiel, who as representative of James II slid this onto Caterina’s finger in an act of symbolic marriage.
Although Caterina was now formally married, and thus officially ‘Queen of Cyprus’, the Venetian authorities were so overwhelmed by what was taking place that they took the unprecedented step of bestowing upon her the unique honour of a purely Venetian title concocted for the occasion, that of ‘Daughter of San Marco’. (According to a contemporary anecdote this prompted the Bishop of Turin to point out that, according to the Bible, St Mark had not taken a wife and that, had he done so, fathering a daughter aged fourteen at his great age would indeed have been a miraculous feat, even if one quite worthy of a saint.)
Marriage by proxy was not uncommon at the time, especially between members of powerful families, and was in many ways analogous to an engagement – though such was its binding power that to break off such a ‘marriage’ could cause sufficient offence to provoke a declaration of war. Consequently it was not unusual that Caterina continued living in Venice for the next four years, whilst her husband remained in Cyprus.
As was the custom for a daughter of one of the most prestigious Venetian noble familes (who had already provided one doge, and would go on to provide three more), Caterina had lived a privileged and highly protected life. From birth, she would seldom have left the confines of the Palazzo Corner, and would have been heavily chaperoned whenever she did so.
Caterinas seclusion throughout her childhood precluded the possibility of any private tutor and any real education. Thus, apart from learning the graces and manners of aristocratic family life, she would have acquired few other skills: there was no possibility of instruction in dancing, or the playing of a musical instrument, or even instruction in a language (although she may well have acquired some Greek from her mother). Despite this, according to her biographer, Leto Severis: ‘While still a child, Caterina gave signs of a dynamic character, a well-balanced mind and great intelligence.’ Although it is difficult to assess the precise meaning of such qualities, given the historical context, there can be no doubt that she did stand out as in some way exceptional – for she was only the third daughter of the family. At the age of ten she was escorted to the strictly closed convent of St Ursula, at nearby Padua on the mainland, where she was boarded with the nuns, who would have given her a rudimentary religious-based instruction. But most importantly, they would belatedly have taught her to read and write.
When Caterina Cornaro emerged at the age of fourteen for the great public procession in the Bucintoro down the Grand Canal for her proxy marriage at the Doge’s Palace, she would have been stepping onto the stage of a public world she could only have known about from tales and gossip – a world she had barely seen, let alone experienced in any social sense. Even her clothes would have been a novelty: at home and in the convent, like girls of all classes, she would have been plainly dressed, whereas for such a ceremony she would have been decked out in all the finery her family (and the Republic) could provide. A drawing of this event, done many years later by the artist G.L. Gatteri, who would certainly have been cognisant with the customary adornment for such an occasion, depicts the bride in a sumptuous full-length wedding dress whose resplendent train is supported by two pageboys. Although she would undoubtedly have been rehearsed for this event, all are said to have marvelled at Caterina’s poise and beauty. The Cypriot ambassador, acting as proxy for James II, wrote back to his king, ‘Her beautiful wide dark eyes shone like stars, her long blond, abundant hair seemed to be made of gold, and her handsome features and noble stature easily betrayed her noble origins’
Back in Cyprus, James the Bastard showed no great enthusiasm for having his bride brought home to him. Months passed, and then years, and still he despatched no bridal flotilla; meanwhile the Venetian authorities bided their time patiently. The prize was too great to lose. However, James was in fact still engaged in widespread diplomatic activity, in the hope of attracting a more powerful ally, or combination of allies, to ensure his continued rule. Envoys with inviting offers had been despatched to all available sources: these included the Emir of Karamania (which occupied the Anatolian coast north of Cyprus), and later Mehmet II when his Ottoman army had overthrown the emir. Other offers had been sent to the Mameluke Sultan of Egypt, to the Genoese and to King Ferrante I of Naples (who had replied suggesting a proxy marriage to one of his illegitimate daughters, who was nonetheless a princess of the royal house of Naples).
Venetian diplomats had soon overheard rumours of these negotiations, reports of which were duly carried back to the Council of Ten, which remained wary, but nonetheless recognised them for what they were – the frantic and feeble attempts of a weak ruler to play any potential conquerors off against each other. Eventually the Senate conveyed to James II an official letter, whose contents demonstrated just how far their diplomatic expertise had advanced since the inept blunders of its early forays into Europe just over a century previously.
The letter opened by assuring the king how pleased and honoured the Republic was to be so closely linked with his royal highness and his island kingdom. This link was made all the more precise by the fact that it had been celebrated in such a solemn marriage ceremony, in the presence of representatives of all the noble families of Venice. In consequence, the Republic regarded this as so much more than the union between a single Venetian family (be it ever so noble) and the royal house of Lusignan – it was a union that involved the entire aristocracy of Venice. Indeed, to emphasise this point Caterina herself had been elevated to the unique rank of ‘Daughter of San Marco’, thus becoming a child of the city itself.
However, the Senate wished to inform his majesty that rumours had been reaching Venice that he might be contemplating a marriage contract with some other princess. In all likelihood this was the usual sort of idle gossip that frequently circulated amongst the courts of Italy. Yet should such a contract be signed, it would not only be taken as a gross insult to Caterina and all the noble families who had partaken in her marriage ceremony, but would also be seen as an aggressive act against the Republic itself. Such empty gossip should not be allowed to persist, and in order to preserve the honour and dignity of his majesty and his bride Caterina, as well as all others concerned, it was behoven upon the king to despatch with the utmost haste a flotilla of his ships to Venice to collect his bride and take her to her rightful home in Cyprus.
By now the people of Cyprus were becoming increasingly fearful of the political situation in the eastern Mediterranean. As well as advancing east along the southern Anatolian coastline, the Turkish army had completed the conquest of Greece by overrunning the Peloponnese, causing the indigenous Greek population of Cyprus to feel increasingly encircled by the menacing Ottoman presence. In consequence, they were keen for their foreign rulers and landlords to take action
. Threatened by the withdrawal of Venetian support, James had no alternative but to send at once for his queen, and Caterina once more emerged from her family palace to be transported on the Bucintoro in a grand procession down the Grand Canal to the awaiting flotilla of four Venetian war galleys and three lesser galleys from the Cypriot navy. The doge conducted a formal farewell ceremony at the Molo, and contemporary sources describe the onlookers as being awed by Caterina’s appearance. During her four years of seclusion the fourteen-year-old girl had grown into a mature eighteen-year-old woman of apparently striking attractiveness. Such fulsome descriptions of her beauty have a note of sycophancy, to say nothing of the authors being carried away by the grandeur of the spectacle and the importance it held for Venice.
The portraits painted of Caterina at this time have been lost. However, the finest portrait we have of the young Caterina was painted some thirty years after her death by Titian, who almost certainly drew on at least one contemporary portrait and possibly some lost drawings made from life. The image he conveys of her is striking indeed, a portrayal of character worthy of his imaginative genius. What we see is the portrait of a young, powerfully built woman, her robust proportions cunningly softened by her sidelong stance. She is dressed in a ruby-red velveteen gown, worn beneath a sumptuously embroidered over-garment whose long, open front collar consists of two twin lines of pearls on gold. On her head she wears a golden coronet studded with jewels and tipped with pearls, her hair modestly drawn back under a diaphanous veil, apart from the formal ringlets of red hair that hang over her forehead from beneath her coronet. Yet none of this magnificence is allowed to distract from the exceptional clarity of her features and overall expression. Caterina was not beautiful; her features appear unblemished, yet distinctly plain. But it is her sideways glance, gazing directly out of the picture, that is most revealing. Her expression is wary, uncertain almost, yet somehow manages to convey an inner strength that sits well with her powerful build. Mutely she is expressing the apprehensive feelings that must have been experienced by so many brides of the time, and of years to come. She is at once demure and determined. Here is a brave young woman of sufficient character not to be cowed by the absolutely unknown future that awaits her. And what a future this would prove to be.
Venetians Page 17