The Ambassador’s face grew very solemn. ‘A tragedy. You spend decades carefully gathering together a life – two strong sons, a beautiful daughter, a healthy wife full with another child. You think you have made something worthwhile. Then God sends a storm to remind you how fleeting life can be. It was my fault. We were sailing to take up my new post as chancellor in Candia. Every day I ask, why did I not drown with them?’
‘Mine was a human storm,’ said Sphrantzes, thinking of his own dead children. ‘I understand that particular pain.’
Leaning across from his mount, the Ambassador touched the other man’s shoulder. ‘I know you do, George. You alone among this party understand. I am very glad you came along.’
It sounded to him as if the Ambassador was implying personal misgivings about Anna Notaras. Sphrantzes decided to probe. ‘Do you feel, perhaps, a more jaundiced eye is required in Wallachia?’
The Ambassador gave a bitter laugh. ‘A day in Wallachia and even the brightest young eye becomes jaundiced. My path has crossed this voivode twice before. Any negotiation with him will be far from typical, so Venice has not sent a typical embassy. I predict that most of the constructive discussion will fall upon our shoulders, but the Basilissa has certain attributes that might also strengthen our case.’
Sphrantzes read the sly curling at the corner of the Ambassador’s mouth and glanced towards the woman riding ahead of them. She was a beauty of sorts, he supposed, although he would say she was more handsome than delicate. He had been reminded of her father in the impenetrable gaze of her eyes. It was that unyielding regard - as direct as any man’s - and the tall, proud posture of her back and shoulders which Sphrantzes could imagine stirring a voivode’s basest hunger. A challenge, an alluring quarry to be tamed.
Moving away from the coast, the land began to rumple and rise. Climbing, there was a sense of width - of the scroll of the land unfurling itself. Ahead rose the distant mountain of Monte Nevoso, clothed in green sweeps of pasture on its upper heights. Among its lower slopes lay the manor of Sneberk.
The sky was bright and flecked with a fleece of cloud as the column of riders passed a meadow studded by dozens of beehives. Local villagers had set them there among the grasses so the bees might pasture the whole summer long. Each hive was made of thin strips of deal carefully joined into a hollow cone by sprigs of willow and open at the base.
It was the Venetian quartermaster who drew Sphrantzes’s attention to the hives. Most of the others passed the meadow without a glance but Barbo had reined up and was striding away through the tall grasses. Riding near the tail of the column, Sphrantzes watched him go and began to salivate at the thought of a little sweetness with his meal that night. He felt less enthusiasm once he had seen Barbo harvest it. The quartermaster had taken with him one of the company’s heavy cooking pots. He set it down, seized the nearest hive and crashed it repeatedly against the edge of the pot until the bees, wax and honey all came down in a horrid confusion and were mashed together.
***
By the time the manor of Sneberk appeared on its rise, the sun was going down. A soft golden light suffused the calm heavens and warmed the soil of nearby tilled fields to rich brown. The air was full of the contented chirp of insects and a river glimmered and bent itself languidly through the trees.
Sneberk itself was a tall, white-washed house of four stories, surrounded by five squat towers and a thick curtain wall. The horsemen moved through the haze of silvery grey and blue, watching the golden flecks of the cresset fires blazing into life on either side of the manor’s tall oak gates. A mile out, the Captain had his men ride smartly with their lances prominent. The order came not from fear of attack, but a sharp instinct for business. One never knew when the next customer might be watching. The owner of Sneberk, Cardinal Ludovico Trevisan, had himself been a fine condotierro in his day.
As they trotted over the drawbridge of the fortified manor and came clattering into the yard, a cool-eyed steward emerged to calculate how much of a dent these new mouths would make in the kitchen stores. A groom called for extra hands to help stable the mounts and from an open window somewhere above a single blasphemy cracked the evening air like a whip.
The company divided in two. The Captain escorted the pairs of ladies and elder gentlemen into the main house, while Nikolaos and the soldiers remained in the yard until a servant was free to show them where to bed down and, perhaps, offer a hot supper.
Cardinal Trevisan, on hearing whom his visitors were, had agreed to an audience with Anna in his cabinet. She found him sat on an old church pew, a pair of spectacles on his nose and a proud, dark air about him. The tonsured head was crowned by a laurel-wreath of silver hair but the thick brows were all still black. Hard-favoured, his swarthy, weather-beaten face and penetrating eyes had looked upon death often enough through twenty-years of fighting the Vatican’s wars.
Bessarion once told Anna that Trevisan was called Lucullus behind his back by the other cardinals due to his infamous love of luxury. Laying his book somewhat peevishly aside as his guest entered, Trevisan looked Anna up and down over the rim of his glasses and patted the pew beside him in invitation.
‘So, you are Bessarion’s girl,’ he said in such a manner that his meaning could be taken in several possible directions. Anna decided to be generous in her own interpretation, despite what she had been told of Cardinal Trevisan’s appetites.
‘Not his natural daughter, Your Eminence.’ She met his informality with a deliberate propriety, and, gathering up her skirts, sat down with her hip tight against the far end of the pew. ‘Although it would be fair to say that the cardinal bishop has generously treated me like kin since my own father’s death.’
Trevisan languidly crossed his legs. Even at a distance he smelled quite strongly of wine. His voice came in a deep baritone purr. ‘Yes. Turks. My condolences, Madonna. Perhaps your surrogate father has told you about my own run-in with that pestilent breed.’
‘He has, Your Eminence,’ said Anna. ‘Everyone remembers how you saved Lesbos from the Turkish fleet.’
‘Hmm, funny the ways in which God moves,’ he said. ‘I suspect Pope Callixtus sent me to Lesbos to get me out of his way. Perhaps he even hoped it would be the death of me. Instead, the Lord saw fit to crown me with victory and it was Callixtus they buried before I returned. Some wine, Madonna? There is a jug on the side over there, why not help yourself.’
‘Thank you, Your Eminence, but no.’
‘Madonna, you are rather stiff, if I may say so. Are you afraid of me? Don’t be, my child. I won’t bite.’ He laughed, but it did nothing to relax her.
He stood up and removed his spectacles as he moved to the wine jug. While he had been sitting, the meagreness of his height had not been so obvious, but now she saw how stocky his legs were in proportion to his upper frame. He filled a cup and raised it towards her. ‘Are you sure you won’t partake?’
‘Quite sure,’ she replied.
‘Hmm,’ he purred as he came back to the pew. ‘Is that Bessarion’s influence? I thought Greek women were all supposed to be debauched Bacchantes.’ He laughed again. ‘Either way, here you are, my honoured guest. A toast to many more dead Turks.’ He raised the cup to the air, then drank. A trickle of the liquid spilled from the corner of his mouth and stained the velvet of his gown.
He sat down, a little closer along the pew to her than before. ‘So, Madonna Notaras, you know something of my victories. Did you know that as well as a cardinal I am also a Venetian?’
Anna certainly did. She also knew he was infamously enigmatic. A foot in the camps of both Doge and Pope, and yet any duty he felt to either appeared weaker than the duty to himself. When Pope Pius had asked Trevisan to speak at the war council of Mantua, he had risen and advised against the Vatican’s proposed crusade. Three years later and still no one knew why. It was for this reason Anna was treading so carefully. One got in a room with Trevisan and anything could happen. She said, ‘Ambassador Sagundino was extolling the d
epth of your service to the republic during our ride here today.’
Trevisan appeared to consider that for a moment. ‘And here you are, undertaking your own service to Venice. Tell me child, how much have they told you about where you are travelling to and whom you shall meet there?’
‘Precious little,’ she admitted.
‘Hmm, one might take that to be either the mark of bravery or rash foolishness.’
‘Or desperation,’ said Anna. ‘It was made plain to me that the republic is a firm believer in quid pro quo. This embassy was the necessary quo.’
Trevisan gave a slow nod. ‘All the same, Madonna, ignorance is rarely an advantage for one’s emissaries. Fortunately, Ambassador Sagundino is equipped with the wherewithal to set things right. I shall instruct him to further your enlightenment on Wallachia.’
‘That would be very kind, Your Eminence,’ said Anna. ‘Is there something in particular you feel I should be made aware of?’
The cardinal edged a little closer along the pew. ‘Hmm, are you familiar with the writings of Herodotus?’
‘I have read some,’ she said. ‘Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these messengers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. Was that it? Which of those should I expect to hinder the swift completion of my round?’
‘All four I should imagine, but no, I had another passage in mind. One that deals specifically with the region you are travelling to. Before the light of Christ penetrated those dark mountains, the people there worshiped a god named Zalmoxis. Herodotus says that every five years the locals sent a messenger to Zalmoxis by the grizzliest of means. Essentially a mob would fling their chosen man upon a row of spears. They thought that when he died, impaled, he had in fact crossed over to Zalmoxis with their message. Madonna, I can see that I have lost you.’
‘I’m not certain you ever had me,’ said Anna. ‘That is, I’m not sure how or why we have suddenly begun to speak of ancient human sacrifice.’
The cardinal’s lips curled upward. ‘Because, Madonna, if the reports out of Wallachia these past years can be believed, the horrific practice of impalement has returned to the land of Zalmoxis just as you come bearing a message.’
There were men, Anna knew, who liked to shock ladies with the horrors of the world. There were also ladies who would obligingly swoon or simper at such blood curdling tales. Perhaps there were even ladies who enjoyed the strong male arm snaking around them afterwards, coiling them into an embrace with calm platitudes and hollow chivalry. Anna thought it might be unkind to assume Trevisan guilty of such unchaste motives but she was certainly not the type to go jelly-kneed at the merest mention of savagery. She had been through the crucible of Constantinople’s fall. The ore of her courage had been smelted for fifty-two days in the siege’s hellfire to leave nothing but the hardest of mettle. An ancient fright story, a few bodies on spikes, she was not going to be swayed from her goal by that.
Instead, Anna answered the cardinal’s leer with a demure laugh. ‘Surely the scourge of Turkish pirates, the hero of Lesbos, is not so easily spooked?’
‘As I said before, brave or rashly foolish, I am yet to conclude.’ Trevisan got up to fetch more wine. ‘Do you recall what else I said earlier - about Pope Calixtus and my own mission east?’
‘Yes, I was listening,’ said Anna. ‘He hoped to get you out of the way or even...’ Her voice trailed off.
The cardinal turned with his refilled glass. ‘Hmm, an epiphany, perhaps, for this frail, wandering magi? A long and arduous journey to a strange and dangerous land. If it were I who had been dispatched in this manner, guarded by a handful of sheep-thieves, well I might begin to wonder if those responsible were over worried about my safe return. Now then, comely Caspar, beautiful Balthazar, maidenly Melchior, I see you have no purse of gold, no kisses of frankincense, no rub of myrrh to lay upon me. Go then, rest, and tomorrow continue to follow that star but now perhaps you shall be warier of Herod.’
Trevisan waited by the wine stand as Anna stood up, her mind whirling. She bobbed her head and mumbled, ‘Thank you, Your Eminence.’
As she reached the door he called after her, ‘Be so kind as to send that shepherd Sagundino in to see me now.’
Next morning, Anna found the Ambassador hunched over a table in the manor’s library. A long shaft of morning light came through the tall windows and spilled across the parchment map he had unrolled.
‘His Eminence suggested that you should be taught a little about our destination,’ he said. ‘If I have been remiss in my briefing then you may consider me suitably chastised.’
Anna came to stand beside him and cast her eyes across the map. She could see the Morea at the bottom and the rough triangle of Greece expanding up into the Balkans. She could see Constantinople, the Bosporus and the Euxine disappearing off the eastern side of the map which did not quite extend west enough to show Venice.
The Ambassador pointed to an almost rectangular shaped region. ‘So, here we find Wallachia. Bounded to the south by the Danube and by the mountain wall of the Carpathians to the north. These should be a double blessing - the highlands are rich in iron, gold and silver and the river brings a heavy flow of taxable merchant traffic. Added to this the farmland between is good and the timber of the forests is plentiful. It should be a rich and happy place.’
‘But somehow it is not?’ said Anna.
The Ambassador ran his fingers to the north and south of Wallachia on the map. ‘Three things define Wallachia. The mountains, the river and its neighbours. The third of these has turned the blessing of the first two into a curse. Wallachia is squeezed between the Hungarians above the mountains and the Turks below the river. Two powers greedy for the minerals and trade and anxious to avoid the other gaining influence. Wallachia’s ruling house of Basarab split fifty years ago into two warring factions, the Danesti and the Draculesti. The Hungarians and Turks have backed one side or other to try and gain control. It has kept the kingdom in an almost permanent state of civil war. They go through rulers at a rapid clip, every five years on average, so Vlad is doing well to still be alive after six. He has managed that by ruthlessly killing off all the remaining Danesti.’
‘So the Draculesti were the Hungarian faction?’ said Anna.
The Ambassador gave a slightly pained smile. ‘Not exactly. The loyalties have shifted back and forth, sometimes the Hungarians backed the Danesti, sometimes the Draculesti and the same with the Turks.’
‘But this Vlad we are to meet, he was Hungary’s choice?’
‘Well, no. He was certainly not Hungary’s choice.’ The Ambassador threw up a hand to check the protest he could see forming on Anna’s lips. ‘But that is of no importance since we are not Hungarians and he hates the Turks with equal force. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’
‘We had better pray that is so,’ said Anna.
‘Pray. Yes, you should do that with him. That is another factor in our favour. He is of your church, as are much of the peasantry. By contrast, the merchants in Wallachia are mostly settlers from Saxony who hold to the Latin faith. It is yet another cause of internal division.’
Anna felt her stomach turn. ‘God preserve us, what sort of place are we venturing to?’
‘Wallachia is a troubled land with a harsh ruler who has many enemies. The Danesti are all dead, but pretenders remain. Vlad has a brother, Radu, living among the Turks who is reputed to be a favourite of the Sultan. For that reason, it is not the Hungarians who concern Vlad these days. His attention is to the south. The Turks are coming for him, he must know it and with no trust for Hungarians he must also see the need to find a new ally if Wallachia is to break its destructive cycle.’
6.
Carniola, May 1462
Summer drought had hardened the mud tracks into dusty brown scars through the birch forests of Carniola. The Captain’s route from Sneberk took them past an inn nestled in a hollow and conveniently set where the roads to Laibach and Gradec divided.
While Paolo Barbo, the company quartermaster, sought out fresh mounts and supplies, the Captain led the rest of the party inside. The innkeeper eagerly installed the large group in one of the private spaces set off from the common room. Eggs were seized and placed to roast in their shells among the smouldering logs of the hearth. A barrel of sardines was emptied and another of wine.
‘Alvise!’ the Captain called to the innkeeper. ‘Alvise, these are people of quality. Throw this swill away and get us some better stuff. You will shame all of Austria if they leave here thinking the local grapes are capable of no more.’
Alvise scampered off and returned with a different barrel. ‘Are you riding south, Captain? There’s trouble in Bosnia, you know.’
The Captain shook his head. ‘We’re heading east,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of egg.
‘Spandounes!’ a new voice boomed from the doorway. The body that followed it into the room was of Viking dimensions. Bedecked by a quartered surcoat and wolfish grin, the man approached their table. Half a cooked chicken dangled from one enormous paw and much of the rest was smeared about his beard. ‘I thought I spotted your quartermaster outside!’ He sat down without invitation and plucked up an egg from the dish. Fair in colouring, with a strong-boned face, there was an unsettling touch of the pawnbroker in the way he studied each of them in turn. ‘Well, have you dropped your manners on the road? Introduce me.’
‘This is Erasmus Lueger,’ said the Captain without enthusiasm. ‘The Governor of Trieste’s boy.’
Lueger, whom Anna judged to be in his early middle years, shook his head. ‘You’d make for an inadequate herald. I’m a knight of the Holy Roman Empire, same as you.’ He turned to Eudokia, ‘and you must be the lady he is escorting to Gradec.’
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