by R P Nathan
Around the fortress the country is all perfectly flat. Only on the northwest and the north does the ground rise into low hills. This area is called the Grottoes and it was assumed that the enemy would base itself here because of its extensive caves in which a large number of men could be safely lodged. But it would seem that the rocky ground does not suit the Turks’ fashion of camping and so instead they have spread their whole force on the south side of the city where it stretches for three miles from the city to the sea occupying the area known as the Gardens. This area used to be rich with orange, lemon and other fruit bearing trees, but we cut them down so that they might not profit the enemy. The Pasha himself, who is the leader of the Turkish forces on the island, still waits a league off in Pomo d’Adamo.
19 September 1570
The siege has begun. An advance guard of Turkish horse approached the gates and offered battle. General Astorre Baglione met them with cavalry and infantry at the Grottoes and battle ensued in which the Turks suffered heavy casualties. All is busyness. I will write more when I have time.
◆◆◆
Patrick got up to get some drinks. We were just pulling out of Bologna and I watched from the window as our smooth acceleration left the city centre behind and turned it to suburbs and then green-brown farmland quicker than I thought possible. I gazed out at the flashing wheat fields and felt my eyes grow heavy. I blinked them open again and turned and saw that Carlotta had put her papers down. Her pair of reading glasses, big and brown like her eyes, were pushed up into her hair.
“Tired?” she asked.
I smiled and nodded. “You look tired too.”
“Reading scientific papers is always tiring.” She smiled and picked up Polidoro’s journal. “May I?” She flicked through it. Fran looked round and her eyes flickered with momentary interest as she saw the book. She glanced up at me, looking me fully in the face for the first time. She watched me unblinking and unmoved by the smile I gave her, as though she were sizing me up or committing my face to memory, and then just as coolly, she looked away and started shuffling her cards again. Carlotta replaced the book before me. “Looks interesting. I didn’t think you spoke Italian.”
“We don’t.” I tapped Shaeffer’s diary. “We have a translation in here.”
“Very good.” She sighed and looked at her watch. I noticed she had a big gold wedding band on her finger. Maybe I’d be married to Sarah one day. Then I remembered what Julius had said. Maybe not.
“Another hour and a half to go,” she said. “You have been to Venice before?”
“No.”
“You will enjoy it. Make sure you look out of the window as we come into the city. It’s a good view.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Where are you staying?”
“We were going to just turn up and find a place.”
“That may work in Rome,” she said, “but not in Venice. Certainly not in August—” Her cousin whispered something in her ear. Carlotta smiled at the interruption. “A friend of my husband owns a hotel. If you are having difficulties, you could try it.” She wrote the details in black biro in her notepad, ripped out the page and gave it to me. “If you go there, tell the owner he owes me a telephone call.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” and then she pulled the glasses down from her forehead and started to read again.
Patrick returned presently with a couple of cans of lemon San Pellegrino. He sat back in his seat and took a long draught. But I just played with the ring pull on my can. I couldn’t get Sarah out of my head.
“You are OK with it aren’t you?” I asked him abruptly. “I mean with me and Sarah. If there is a me and Sarah.”
He looked at me and shrugged. “I guess so.”
It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement but maybe he was preoccupied with his own thoughts of Maya.
“Cool,” I said eventually, uncomfortably.
◆◆◆
1 October 1570
In the last week the Turks have built many siege towers around our walls and have begun to pound the city and harbour with heavy shot. The sound is deafening and unceasing. We are already exhausted yet are working continuously to ensure that our defences are full proof and all the people in the town, be they men, women or priests, assist in this regard. Thank God we have suffered only few casualties thus far as our walls are strong and have proved more than a match for even their biggest guns. And indeed today when the enemy moved its cannon round to fire upon the Limisso gate our batteries there returned fire and destroyed them.
3 October 1570
An explosion was heard today which shook all Famagusta. It came from the waters outside the harbour and at first we took this as a sign that the hoped for reinforcements from Venice had arrived. But as the day latened we realised this not to be the case and instead the defenders of the sea wall related that they had seen one of the Pasha’s galleys, which had been anchored with the rest of the Turkish fleet blockading the harbour, explode into pieces and set two others alight. In the explosion they had seen a great number of bodies thrown in the air and the boards and oars and stuff of the boat cast to the four winds. We rejoiced greatly at this calamity which had befallen the Turks though we did not understand at this time the cause of it for our guns could not reach them where they were moored.
6 October 1570
We have seen the bulk of the Turkish fleet sail away today leaving just seven galleys to blockade our port. Captain Bragadino fears this is an evil sign that our naval forces are delayed for otherwise the Turks would not feel so free to leave the approaches by sea so lightly guarded. However, we still have hope and pray daily that relief will come, for the Turks have fully surrounded the city and whilst they have yet not made any dent in our stone armour, the chance to turn them and drive them from their camps and from this island would be welcome indeed; and for this we need the fighting power that will be brought by Venice and her allies of Spain and Rome.
10 October 1570
A captured Turk has told the story of the ship which exploded and the news he gave caused all men who heard it to weep openly and beat their breasts that God should allow such events to pass in Christian lands. For the galley was indeed one of the Pasha’s and a special one at that for it was intended for the Sultan himself in Constantinople and was laden with booty from Nicosia. But amongst the gold and silver was something more precious by far: Italian and Greek children, enslaved, and being taken to satisfy an ugly greed. They were the sweet flowers of Nicosia, held in chains for the whim of the stinking Turk prince.
Yet for all the weakness shown in the defence of Nicosia, these child captives displayed greater spirit. One of the girls slipped her chains and rather than allow herself and her friends be taken into a life of slavery, set fire to the powder magazine and blew the ship and herself and her companions and the accursed Turks on board into so many pieces.
And though we wept openly for their sad fate we rejoiced at their courage and the fact that their suffering was at an end and that they were already with God in heaven.
As for the Turk who had told us this tale, so aroused were the passions of the men who had captured him that after his story was finished, they cut out his tongue so that he could speak it no more, and then, after many taunts, killed him with swords.
“That’s enough for the moment,” said Patrick hurriedly.
I nodded feeling a little sick.
“Look out of the window now,” Carlotta said to us.
The train was swooping over the lagoon on the Ponte della Libertà from Mestre, and beside us on the road bridge a streak of traffic did the same. The water was wide and green. In the distance and growing steadily larger we could see the island of Venice, a smudge of brick red, but featureless at the moment. We were approaching from the north-west and out of the right hand window the concrete terminals of the modern harbour were the first thing to become distinct, container ships manoeuvring their way slowly around them, i
nto and out of port. And then beyond that, far beyond it on the horizon was the longer shape, low in the water, of the Lido.
On either side we could see the smaller islands, dotting the water: Tessera, Campalto, San Secondo, Tresse, San Giorgio in Alga, and on the left a larger mass on Venice’s shoulder: Murano. But still of Venice we could see nothing except the harbour and the Tronchetto car park hanging off it. These grew until they filled the view on the right hand side, whilst on the left there was just a glimpse of faded waterfront and some run down buildings, a dirty blur. And then we were alongside the Tronchetto itself and we caught a glimpse of the mass of cars and coaches and lorries queuing their way in, desperate for space, a mass of bustle without beauty. And then all too quickly the lagoon was behind us and we drew into the silent dark of Santa Lucia station.
“It wasn’t quite how I was expecting it,” said Patrick voicing my own disappointment.
Carlotta smiled. “You’ll see,” she said easing her way out into the aisle. “Enjoy your stay.”
The younger girl barely glanced at us as she trailed after her cousin. But then at the last minute, just as she was leaving the carriage, she looked back over her shoulder. “Arriverdeci,” she mouthed.
We retrieved our rucksacks, helped each other into them and stepped awkwardly from the train, walking down the platform and onto the concourse. Santa Lucia was a modern station, concrete, high clean lines but featureless and ugly to my eyes. Unwelcoming. On the walls were graffitied police posters warning of the explosive dangers of unattended packages along with the grainy mugshot of what seemed to be an active terrorist. The concourse was dirty and packed with people and we had to jostle our way through to the exit and when we got to it my cumbersome pack caught in the long bar handle on the door so I had to spend several frustrating minutes untangling myself.
It had been a long journey and we were tired and hungry and disillusioned plus we still needed to find somewhere to stay that night. We trudged wearily down the concrete steps outside, surveying the featureless grey concrete piazza opening out before us and the grey pigeons and the grey chewing gum blotches underfoot.
And then we came to a halt.
Our eyes had been drawn upwards and we suddenly understood what Carlotta had meant. For there in front of us, coursing through our vision was the Grand Canal, an artery of vivid aquamarine in the afternoon sun, a shimmering plasma bearing corpuscles of vaporetti, motoscafi and traghetti along its vital pulsing length. To our left was the Ponte degli Scalzi, effortlessly spanning the water in a single graceful arch of its stone back. Directly in front, across the canal, rose the immense weathered dome of San Simeone, the stuccoed buildings to either side warm pink and orange and brown. And behind it all, backdrop to our vision, a sky of the deepest blue reared up to infinity.
Chapter 6
It was almost six o’clock when we dragged ourselves away from the view over the canal and began to think about where to spend the night. We thought we may as well try the place Carlotta had recommended first. It was five minutes away in Campo San Geremia, a hotel called Casa Tron, a slightly faded two-star, but it seemed reasonable enough. However, the owner, who proudly announced that he was Signor Tron himself, shook his head when we asked for a room. Completely full, he said.
“But, you were recommended to us by a friend of yours.”
“What friend?”
“Carlotta Contarini. She said for you to call her,” I added desperately.
His eyes softened and his nose twitched. “Carlotta, Carlotta…”
“And there was another girl. Fran? Her cousin I think.”
“The Morosini girl?” I shrugged but he was talking to himself. “La futura,” he muttered respectfully; then he gestured to us to wait and he had another look through his reservations book. OK, he said. He could give us a room he had been holding for someone else. He shrugged at us: business is business, and Venice is Venice.
He took us up to the room, right at the top of the building. It could best be described as adequate: two beds, basic furniture, no TV, but a small balcony – which was lucky because the room was hot and airless. It wasn’t quite the pad we’d hoped for but we’d certainly stayed in worse. The price though made us wince: almost fifty pounds a night but as Signor Tron said again, not amazingly helpfully, Venice is Venice. We paid a night in advance and collapsed on our new beds.
We snoozed for a couple of hours until our hunger got us up and out again. We picked our way through Cannaregio and, halfway along the busy shop-lined Strada Nuova, we found a McDonalds. Having split from Julius it was almost inevitable that we would go there. Patrick had a Big Mac meal and I had some fries and a slice of pizza from the Spizzico counter.
It tasted fantastic.
Patrick had been in a quiet mood since we’d left the hotel but I assumed he was just thinking about Maya. I was happy to be free of Julius’s voice and sat there enjoying my simple edible pleasures in silence. I sucked on a huge cup of watery Coke wondering whether I should treat myself to another slice of pizza when Patrick suddenly asked, “What are we going to do later?”
“We could get a drink? There’s an Irish Pub—”
“No. Later. When the summer’s over.”
“I don’t get you. You know what we’re doing. We’re starting our PhDs.”
“Oh right.” He looked like it was news to him.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Aren’t you looking forward to it anymore?”
“I guess so.” But then he frowned. “Don’t you sometimes feel like this holiday’s the end of the safety net? School, degree: they’re all finished when we get back home. Then it’s like real life.”
“But we’ll still be students. It’s not like we’ll be working in an office or anything.”
“But maybe a PhD won’t be any better.”
“Of course it will.”
He nodded slowly and echoed me. “Of course it will.” And then, brightly now, “Yeah, it’ll be fine.” He scooped up the last of his fries and gulped down some Sprite.
I watched him uneasily. He’d been doing this a lot recently: quiet for long periods followed by bursts of chatter. Although, in a way, he’d always been a bit like that… And he was right: it was kind of scary that school and degree were all over; but doing research would be great.
He thumped down his empty cup. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take a look at Polidoro’s code. I bet you I’ll be able to crack it.”
I laughed, pleased to see him positive again.
“You’ll see,” he said seriously but then he grinned too.
We didn’t bother with a drink in the end and decided on an early night. The room was hot so we threw open the doors to the balcony. But the air outside was heavy and still. Patrick began looking at the code but started yawning almost immediately and, mumbling that he’d crack it in the morning, he placed the book carefully on the floor, curled up on top of his sheets and fell asleep.
I lay in my boxer shorts and read more of the translation until midnight and then switched my light off. I’d been tired anyway but I’d wanted to get really exhausted from reading so that I would go straight to sleep. But in the darkness I thought immediately of Sarah. “What do you think?” She was naked before me and I felt myself catch my breath; then shook my head. Now we were in Venice, my optimism was starting to subside. “What do you think?” I didn’t know what I bloody thought. She confused me. Julius confused me.
I tried to block her out but when I was at last having some success and was on the verge of dropping off I became aware of a mosquito flying round the room, the sound of it like a high pitched electric saw, distracting in the extreme, circling around me for hours it seemed.
Eventually though I slept, waking only once, in the middle of the night, when I sat up, my mouth and throat dry in the airless heat. Patrick was standing on the balcony in just his boxer shorts, a dark shape against the night. He stood there for some time, motionless, looking out, perhaps getting
a breath of air. He was still standing there when I lay down again and went back to sleep. But when I awoke in the morning he was lying back in the bed next to mine, snoring contentedly and I did not think to mention it.
Chapter 7
20 April 1571
My master Captain Bragadino spoke today to the men of Famagusta:
“Why, my brave comrades, have you come here from a far distant country, exposing yourselves to great danger in so long a voyage if not to earn the supreme honours of war? Now the chance which you have so eagerly desired is put before you. For this city is assailed and encompassed by foes of great repute, and the result of this siege is watched throughout the world. And my confidence in you, citizens and others who are enrolled among our troops is no less great. Your generous hearts will never allow that in the defence of what is your own – your wives, your children, your goods – that others should take the lead. Do not let the enemy’s numbers frighten you. They are certainly less than we hear by report, or than what is indicated by the pompous array of empty tents. Most of them, or at least the bravest of them, are exhausted by toil, or have returned home to enjoy the riches acquired in the siege of Nicosia. What happened in that city should wake in you vigilance rather than alarm, for we know that it was not the valour or industry of the enemy which gave them victory, but the negligence of the besieged, who appear to have thought that walls alone, not the stout hearts of men are the bulwarks of cities. But besides the confidence which rests on mere human resolve, we have a livelier hope of deliverance and victory, in that we are defending a just and pious cause against treacherous foes, to whom God’s providence has so far allowed some measure of success, so that with a change in the fortune of war their fall may be the greater. We then have every argument, human and divine, to persuade us to drive fear from our breasts and to hope for a good and prosperous issue to our efforts.”