Anarchy

by Stewart Binns

  Although the merriment was a long way off, I did not sleep well. My faced burned, and hot blood still coursed through my veins from the day’s battle. I had fought well. But more importantly, I had learned how to deal with fear and had memorized a little catechism that would serve me well.

  ‘Control fear before the fight; harness it during the fight and let it give you strength.’

  It was what my grandfather had always said. And he was right.

  The next day, the surviving civilian population of the city was led away in a long column. The wretched souls were escorted north for several miles, given carts of flour and a small herd of goats, then left to fend for themselves. It was a generous offering by the Doge, contrary to the usual practice of selling prisoners into slavery or worse.

  Two days later, despite my burns, I was able to ride and left Zadar with the rest of the army. It took a long time to obliterate the odour of the ruined city from my memory. The smell of charred timbers and burned flesh seemed to hang on me like a woollen cloak. I could taste the bitter tang of ash on my tongue, and every time I ruffled my clothes a pungent dust stung my eyes.

  I also evoked the memory of the sounds repeatedly. For many days afterwards, whenever I heard a horse neigh or someone shout loudly, the screams and cries of the dying of Zadar flooded into my head. It was difficult to sleep, and I had vivid dreams – especially one that repeated the moment when my foes were incinerated before my eyes on the ramparts of the city.

  Eadmer said that what I was experiencing was normal and that the dreams and memories would soon fade. But he stressed fade, rather than pass, and told me that he still had vivid recollections of the battles he had fought. As always, he was a great comfort to me.

  When we reached the ships at Senj, we made camp. It took several days to load the ships; most of the sappers were still at Zadar dismantling the catapults. The rain had relented and there was bright sunshine to illuminate the beautiful crescent-shaped harbour and the wooded hillsides above it. What a contrast it made to the scene we had left further down the coast. Both Senj and Zadar were small picturesque trading ports, of ancient pedigree. One remained so; the other was a vision from Hell.

  I was hoping to be summoned by the Doge and that he would have heard of our exploits in the battle. I was proud of our role in the attack and prayed that it would be another step towards the recognition I sought. I had not seen him after we scaled the walls of the city. I had been in the infirmary, and he had ridden on ahead to supervise the embarkation of the army at Senj before I rejoined the column.

  Sadly, the summons never came. When the stewards went to the Doge’s tent the next morning, he was lying cold in his bed. He had died in the night. He was fit and strong, so poison was suspected at first. But he had no enemies in Venice, and it was difficult to imagine how the defeated pirates could have got a deadly potion into his food or drink. The physicians said that almost all poisons would have woken him in pain, and that he had eaten several hours before retiring. The water and wine in his tent were checked and both were found to be untainted.

  The physicians decided that the Most Serene Prince, Ordelafo Faliero, the 34th Doge of Venice, had died from a sudden and severe apoplexy in the night. What a paradox it was: a soldier all his life and about to receive the accolade of having masterminded a famous victory for Venice, and he dies in his bed. On the other hand, he could have met a worse fate – perhaps as grisly as those who died in Zadar.

  There was a huge victory procession along the Canalazzo to welcome home the conquering fleet, but the city’s joy was tempered by the loss of the Doge, one of the city’s most respected leaders. The Grand Council decided on a clever reflection of the contrasting emotions: half the city’s flags were flown in celebration, and alternate flags were flown at half mast. Similarly, the crowds on the left bank of the Grand Canal were encouraged to cheer loudly, while those on the right were asked to bow their heads. It made for a very poignant homecoming.

  The four of us got very merry that night in one of the city’s many waterside hostelries and took full advantage of the affections offered by the young women of Venice, eager to reward the heroics of its warriors. My swollen and blistered face did not prove to be too much of an obstacle to at least one willing young lady, who thought my quaint English voice adequate compensation for a less than handsome countenance.

  The following weeks passed slowly. It was a time for reflection. It was hard to deal with the disappointment after Zadar. We had fought well and survived, but my hoped-for reward in recognition from the Doge and the possibility of a knight’s pennon seemed doomed by his sudden death.

  I had a decision to make. Should I move on to the Holy Land and seek a new adventure, or stay in Venice to consolidate what we had achieved as marines?

  Fulham Palace, 30 November 1186

  Dear Thibaud,

  I pray that life is comfortable for you. There are some ecclesiastical issues that I would welcome your advice on, but I will write separately about them.

  The fascinating story of Harold of Hereford continues below. It is a sad story, in part, my friend. When the old knight recounted some of the details, his eyes were filled with tears. He was telling a story from almost sixty years earlier, but it was obvious it was as fresh in his memory as the events of yesterday.

  When he had finished the last instalment, he told me he needed to take a break for a few days. I didn’t see him again for almost a week. It was a fortunate coincidence because my scribes were in much need of rest and refreshment before I could continue my account. I find I must remind them daily that it is a privilege to be made privy to the details of such a remarkable life.

  Winter now has London in its icy grip. There are no boats on the Thames, but there is much traffic. I went to St Paul’s today by carriage and we were able to travel the whole way on the frozen waters. The boatmen tell me that the ice is a foot thick at London Bridge.

  I had another fall yesterday. I couldn’t get up. It took three of them to get me into a chair. Ah well, so be it; it is the will of God.

  Yours in God,

  Gilbert

  7. La Serenissima

  The new Doge was appointed in February 1118, after what was said to be a very fractious meeting of the Grand Council. The Old Families were split and so a compromise candidate emerged who was from a wealthy new mercantile family but with a strong military background, in the tradition of Ordelafo Faliero. My ears pricked up when I heard the news.

  Domenico Michele was installed as the 35th Doge in a dazzling ceremony in March of 1118. The spring tides were in full bore and the Canalazzo’s waters lapped halfway up the steps of the great palaces along its banks as the bucentaur, the Doge’s beautiful state galley, was rowed past the cheering crowds. He sat on the throne in the stern, and the prow bore a figurehead representing Justice with sword and scales.

  As the bucentaur passed each of the city’s quarters and districts, the State Herald announced to the crowd, ‘This is your Doge, if it please you!’ This was to remind the people that their new Doge was chosen on merit by his peers, not as a ruler by birthright. It was a way of ruling a domain not unlike Ancient Greece and Rome, a system that I have always thought had many merits – especially given what happened to me later in my life.

  Barely a week later, when I was beginning to think it was time for me to try to get an appointment with Michele, I was summoned to see Raphael of Pesaro.

  ‘Well, it seems that your courage at Zadar has reached the ear of the new Doge. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you, Magister. You have been good to me and my men. I will always be grateful for that.’

  ‘You have served Venice
well. I hope that Domenico Michele has something interesting for you. He’s a good man and a good soldier.’

  I walked a lot taller and felt much more assured when Eadmer and I strode into the Great Council Chamber of the Doge’s palace for the second time. The generous bonus we had earned by the victory had allowed us to commission our own armour and weapons and buy the sort of fine-quality clothes worn by the elegant young men of Venice. My beard was fuller, and the Mediterranean sun had turned my skin the colour of almonds and put pale streaks in my dark-brown hair. My face was fully healed and my beard had filled out into a thick auburn sward. I began to think that I was passably handsome.

  Domenico Michele was not as tall as his predecessor, nor as heavily set. He was a much younger man, his hair and beard still black with not a hint of grey, and he had the air of a man who inspired confidence in those around him. His court seemed more relaxed than that of the previous Doge. There were laughter and broad smiles, whereas Faliero’s court was more like an austere military high command.

  For this audience, the Chamberlain did not need to prompt the Doge with my name.

  ‘Harold of Hereford, you are welcome. I have been reading the account of the taking of Zadar. You fought with great courage.’

  He nodded at the Chamberlain, who began to read from a page of a bound vellum book.

  ‘“The English knight, Harold of Hereford, acquitted himself with great distinction on the walls of Zadar. He led his squad in a perilous assault on a scaling ladder, before despatching several of the enemy in single combat on the city ramparts to secure a vital piece of ground.”’

  As I bowed to the Doge, Eadmer smiled at me and nodded his approval, and applause broke out in the chamber. It was a moment to cherish.

  The Chamberlain then raised his hand and addressed the assembled audience.

  ‘Harold of Hereford, Knight of England, you are to be installed as a Knight of the Serene Republic of Venice. Please kneel.’

  The Doge stood, his ermine cape gleaming in the rays of the sun that were streaming through the windows of the Great Council Chamber. He drew his sword to place it against my cheek.

  ‘Stand as a Cavaliero of Venice, Harold of Hereford.’

  The Doge then gestured to one of his stewards, who stepped forward with a scarlet cushion from which he took a small circular medal embossed with the winged lion of the city. It shone with the buttery glimmer of gold as he tied it around my neck with a crimson ribbon.

  ‘You have been awarded the Order of San Marco for your gallantry at Zadar. The Order is restricted to forty living knights and you will join four other men who, following their bravery in Dalmatia, have also entered the Order today.’

  ‘I am deeply humbled, Most Serene Prince. And proud to have served Venice and its Doge.’

  ‘Ordelafo Faliero thought very highly of you, as does the whole city.’

  The Doge turned to his steward.

  ‘A chair for the Cavaliero.’

  He beckoned me to sit.

  ‘I have a commission for you. Raphael, Master of the Arsenale, has told me about your family’s pedigree and of your desire to go to the Holy Land.’

  ‘I am proud of my lineage, Serenity. The Holy Land and the Great Crusade are an important part of my background. I was there as a child, but was too young to remember. One day soon, I want to go back.’

  ‘Then you shall. My sister, the Lady Livia Michele, is betrothed to Roger of Salerno, Regent of Antioch. I have asked Raphael of Pesaro to take a sabbatical as Master of the Arsenale to command a squadron of marines to escort Lady Livia to Antioch. He has chosen you as his third-in-command.’

  ‘That is a great honour, Serenity. I am indebted to you and to Raphael of Pesaro.’

  ‘You have deserved the commission. Bring Lady Livia there safely. You sail in a week. Go well, Cavaliero.’

  I bowed and backed away, hardly able to contain my excitement. Then, as Eadmer and I left the Great Council Chamber, gliding towards us, accompanied by several ladies-in-waiting and two Republican Guards, materialized a vision more beautiful than Venice itself: La Serenissima’s most serene being.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  Eadmer did not answer; he was too busy observing the apparition walking away from us.

  Tied at the waist by a dark-blue tasselled cord, she wore a figure-fitting pale-blue kirtle of fine silk covered by a flowing mantle of cobalt-blue velvet that trailed at least a yard behind her. A wimple of fine white silk, which perfectly framed the symmetry of her face, covered her hair. Her lips glowed deep red with the ruby wax favoured by Arab women, and her pale-grey eyes contrasted sharply with her flawless ochre skin. She did not smile. She did not need to; her face was the essence of her city’s legendary name – serenity.

  ‘She nodded at me!’ I whispered to Eadmer.

  ‘She did not.’

  ‘I’m telling you –’

  ‘Wishful thinking, Hal.’

  ‘We’ll see …’

  I was certain that the girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, saw my Order of San Marco around my neck and acknowledged me with the slightest nod of her head. I was also certain that she was the Lady Livia, the treasure we were to deliver to Roger of Salerno.

  My heart raced – I felt like a young boy casting his eyes on his first true love.

  My next encounter with Lady Livia was when she boarded the Candiano, our galley for the crossing to the coast of the Holy Land at Seleucia Pieria at the mouth of River Orontes, south-west of Antioch. It would be a difficult journey of many days, along the east coast of the Adriatic and the entire length of the south coast of Anatolia. At least the menace of the Paganian pirates had been eradicated in Dalmatia. However, the Anatolian coast was also perilous. Although nominally under Byzantine control, its rule was fragile, with many hostile Seljuk Turks operating in the hinterland and many buccaneers hiding in its remote coves and inlets. Anchoring close to the shore for water and supplies, or when in need of shelter, would require vigilance.

  A small private cabin had been built behind the helm on the galley’s quarterdeck to allow Lady Livia some privacy. It had its own commode, as well as bunks for her and her two ladies-in-waiting.

  The presence of ladies on board meant that pissing over the rail was banned for the duration of the voyage, and everyone but the ladies had to use the communal privy at the bow. The arrangements were a source of great mirth among the ship’s company. Forward latrines were always called ‘the heads’ in naval parlance – because of their position on the ship – and it did not take long for the ladies’ commode to be christened ‘the arses’!

  Lady Livia came on board with all the ceremony appropriate for a woman who was about to be the instrument of an alliance between the Republic of Venice and the Christian Princes of the Holy Land. Besides her ladies-in-waiting and Republican Guards, she was accompanied by two members of Venice’s Grand Council, who each had their own entourage.

  Raphael of Pesaro made the introductions.

  ‘My Lady, Rufio of Ferrara is my second-in-command.’

  Rufio bowed as Lady Livia smiled sweetly at him. Now that I had time to study her more closely, she was even more stunning than before. She had dispensed with her wimple but had covered her head with the hood of a flawless black sable cloak, the most beautiful fur robe I had ever seen. Although it was almost Easter, it was a wise choice for the turbulent weather of the Adriatic.

  At the edge of her hood, I could see chestnut ringlets cascading over her cheeks and the satin shimmer of her powdered features. I was close enough to smell her perfume, the beguiling scent of attar of rose, which drifted on the breeze in glaring contrast to the earthy smell of ship’s timbers and flax rope – and the even more spicy odour of its crew.r />
  ‘My third-in-command is Harold of Hereford, now a Knight of Venice.’

  I smiled and bowed deeply, but I could still see that she noticed the medal around my throat.

  ‘I see that my brother, the Doge, has awarded you the Order of San Marco in recognition of your courage at Zadar.’

  ‘Indeed, my Lady. I am honoured.’

  ‘I hear that English knights follow a strict code of chivalry.’

  ‘They do, my Lady. I also adhere to the Mos Militum, an old code from ancient Rome, not unlike the Futuwwa of the Knights of Islam.’

  ‘Do you know much about Islam?’

  ‘A little, my Lady. As a young man, my father was betrothed to a Muslim girl who died in tragic circumstances. Later, he and my mother went to the Holy Land on the Great Crusade.’

  ‘I would like to hear more. Perhaps we can talk on the voyage.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure, my Lady.’

  I could sense the eyes of every man on board boring into me in jealous fury. For my part, I could barely contain myself and for the next few days could think of nothing else except her smile. Every time she appeared on deck, my eyes followed her like a hawk spying its prey.

  ‘Hal, you could go to Hell, for thinking those kinds of thoughts.’

  ‘Eadmer, you are blunt as always. But how do you know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Because I’m thinking exactly the same.’

  The fourth evening of the voyage was warm and tranquil; summer was on its way and I was thinking about England and its sweet meadows. Soon, they would be bursting into life with all their lush colours and raucous birdsong. I was also thinking of my mother; I could see her with her dividers and rule, marking up a beam for the carpenters, or drawing a sketch of a huge arch. I missed her: her humour, sometimes crude, sometimes very ingenious; her deep well of knowledge; and her constant thirst for new ideas and information. I prayed she was well. She was now in her fifty-ninth year. Although I did not like to dwell on it, and despite being fit and sprightly, she was an old woman and I had left her to fend for herself.