Swords From the West

by Harold Lamb

  This done, he pulled the shivering hunchback into the stone passageway, closed the heavy portal and whispered:

  "Now, good Bembo, you are verily a lost fool if you lead us not into a safe hiding place where we may hear what is said in the council. You say that you know the intestines of this place of masks-"

  Michael's words received sudden point by the sound of footsteps returning toward the passage. Bembo fled with a crab-like motion down the narrow hall and slipped aside into the shadows of another passage opening into it, and Michael ran after him silently.

  Taking the Breton's hand in his, the jester led his new friend through the darkness down a winding flight of steps until the dampness indicated to Michael that they were under the canal.

  Here they were in a confined space where the air, however, was not stale and two gleams of light pierced the gloom from one wall. Michael was somewhat taken aback to hear voices echoing clearly in the stone chamber, although they were plainly the only occupants.

  "'Tis the whispering gallery," explained Bembo so softly that the words were barely discernible, "that gives upon the council chamber. My lord Contarini was wont at times to spy here upon the testimony of prisoners before the judges. Speak not, for the gallery runs overhead to an opening behind the councilors."

  As the Council of Ten ruled political Venice, stamping out conspiracies and punishing any man it listed mercilessly and secretly, the Consoli di Mercanti ruled commercial Venice with an iron hand.

  The prosperity of the Signory was linked indissolubly with the expansion of its trade, the crushing of its rivals, and the mastery of new routes into the East, such as gave to Venice the monopoly of the great salt industry. The methods of the council were secretive and cruel, but Venetian judges winked at this, so long as the trade routes were held, concessions secured, and enemies weakened.

  Of these enemies Genoa was then the most pressing. A few years before, the army and fleet of Genoa had almost crushed the city of the lagoons-Venice being freed only by the dogged courage of Pisani and the intrepidity of Carlo Zeno. Since then Genoa had used every means to extend its trade to the eastward, away from the immediate power of the Venetian galleys.

  Both cities had vied in making agreements with the on-sweeping Osmanli Empire which was even then extending from Anatolia into the mainland of Europe. But behind the armies of Bayezid were the spices, silks, and jewels of India, Persia, and China-veritable Golcondas to the trading cities which paid fat tribute for the privilege of plying the Black Sea and tapping the Damascus and Aleppo caravan routes.

  So much Michael Bearn knew.

  Standing close to the wall of the whispering chamber, he found that the two holes fitted his eyes and that he could see a long table covered with papers and globe-maps behind which sat a dozen masked men and before which stood the carefully groomed form of Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo.

  The council was in secret session. A masked attendant clad in the manner of those who had ushered Bembo and Michael to the place stood by the closed door. Michael, studying the forms of the men behind the long table, singled out one in the center as Contarini and at the first words knew that he was right.

  The voices rang clearly in his ear, conducted by a cleverly contrived gallery that ran from the shadows over the table to the wall above Michael's head.

  "Signor," began the man in the center of the councilors. "You were summoned to speak the truth. Do not fail."

  Clavijo glanced at the speaker swiftly, and measured the ring of masked faces. His brow was moist and his plump cheeks were flushed.

  "This evening-" he responded.

  "This evening," Contarini took him up, "you babbled much nonsense and some news. Signor, we are concerned now with the trade of Venice. Frequently we have heard of a Tatar or Cathayan potentate beyond the Sarai Sea. We wish to learn if it was his court you visited."

  At this Clavijo nodded understandingly. He looked serious, now that he had weighed the mood of these men.

  "Aye, signor. Last night, I was about to remark, I spoke mainly of fabulous gems and garments and such like, for the pleasuring of the ladies. But now I place the poor fruits of my journey at your service. Question me, therefore, at your will."

  "Exactly where lies this city?"

  "As you have said, beyond the Sarai Sea, a journey of a week by horse, until you come to the foot of the Ectag* Mountains, called by the natives the Golden Mountains. The way lies over the desert floor and is perilous indeed."

  "So, one may go by sea to Trebizond, where we have a bailio and thence-" Contarini consulted a map-"by caravan across the land of the tribes. Karabak, it is written here?"

  "Aye, my lord. Marvelous it is to know that in that land there is a pillar of everlasting fire, rising from the ground with a blue flame-"

  "Naphtha!" broke in a councilor. "Near to Batum. No miracle about that."

  Michael studied the eyes of the questioners, greatly interested, much to Bembo's surprise.

  "Not in the least," assented Clavijo gravely. "Yet there also I beheld the holy mountain of Ararat where first the blessed ark came to land after the Flood. And beyond there, my lords-beyond there lie the fields of solid salt, at the foot of the Sarai Sea, which signifies in Cathayan-Sea of Salt."

  The councilors looked up at this, for the monopoly of the salt trade was one of the greatest avenues of profit to Venice.

  "That is good!" Contarini made a note and Clavijo smiled. "Now, what of your statement that this Cham of Cathay is aged beyond human years and a magician?"

  "My lord, does he not dwell in this paradise of Cathay, and was not the holy garden of Eden also a paradise? Have we not the testimony of the Bible itself that therein is no such thing as human age? Was not the holy garden itself in the paradise of Asia?"

  "How do you know the Grand Cham is a magician?"

  Clavijo smiled, shrugged and hesitated, but one of the councilors spoke up.

  "The good Fra Odoric of Pordenone himself visited these regions con pelegrino-as a pilgrim. Did he not see great piles of human skulls raised to the sky and the horns of beasts stuck upright upon mountaintops? Also divers wonders such as a city upon the sand which vanished as he walked toward it? Aye, and he mentioned that the sand spoke with a human voice."

  Hereupon Clavijo drew a long breath of satisfaction and twiddled his curled beard.

  "As I myself have said," he reminded Contarini, who alone among the councilors seemed to weigh his testimony doubtfully. The punishment by the Maritime Council of one who gave false testimony before it was no light thing.

  "These miracles have my eyes beheld. Lo, I sat upon such a pile of human skulls, reaching a thousand lance-lengths toward the sky-the bones of those who aforetime sought the earthly paradise and failed."

  "The Grand Cham must be a potent monarch," mused Contarini. "Aye, I mind me Fra Odoric spoke of a great khan of Tatary who was the most merciless warrior upon the face of the earth-"

  Michael strained his ears to catch the rest of the sentence, but Contarini had bent over a globe-map and was silent.

  "'Khan' signifies 'Cham' in the pagan tongue," put in Clavijo, who seemed to he better pleased with the way things were going now.

  Maps were produced and it was found that Ptolemy had outlined a kingdom beyond the Sarai Sea, under the star Taurus, and named it Chin, or Chinae.

  "Which is verily the Chitae of Fra Odoric and my Cathay," pointed out the Spaniard. Sweeping his hand across the table in an eloquent gesture, he raised his voice.

  "Here lies the power and magic of the East, signori. Alone, my comrades dead, I crawled from the brazen walls to bear this message to you. Others, like the good fra, have heard of the Grand Cham-or seen the city at a distance. But I-I have walked under the gold trees and heard the song of the slaves of a hundred races laboring in the mines in the bowels of the earth. I have looked upon the riches of pearls, emeralds, topazes set into the walls of houses. Beside the city of the Grand Cham Constantinople is a rook's nest and Venice-pardon, but
Venice is no more than a village."

  Perceiving that his voice fell into ready ears, he folded his arms, his uneasiness vanished.

  "I have spoken of jewels. My lords, upon the person of the Grand Cham and his radiant women there are solid plaques of emeralds and rubies, greater than those that you have brought in your galleys from Persia. And these jewels the Cathayans value not, save as handsome ornaments."

  "What do the Cathayan folk value-in trade?"

  "Perchance weapons, rare steel, cunning inventions such as the sand clock and musical organs."

  Bembo, who was still shivering from apprehension, now noticed that Michael's shoulders were quivering as if the Breton were stricken with the ague and that his hand was pressed against his mouth.

  Within the council hall Contarini rose as if satisfied.

  "Messer Clavijo," he said gravely, "if your tale had proved a lie you would have had a taste of the iron beds of San Giorgio Maggiore. But we are well content with the news you bring, and it is now fitting that we announce to you the result of our deliberations before your examination. This morning I had speech with a French mariner of the name of Bearn who warned me that the Turkish power threatens the safety of the great city of Constantinople and Venice. That is idle talk and the council is concerned only with trade, not politics. Yet this foe of the Turks confessed that somewhere beyond the Sarai Sea is a khan of Tatary who must be a potent monarch."

  He paused and Bembo saw again that Michael grimaced strangely.

  "The council has planned an expedition into the terra incognita," went on Contarini. "A jealous merchant will be sent with proper escort. By fair means or foul-mark me-he must win us wealth from the Cham. Our galleys will bear the voyagers safely through the Turkish pirates. You will be the leader of the expedition."

  Clavijo was a graven figure of amazement.

  „IZ„

  "Verily. Venice will honor fittingly the discoverer of the new trade route-when you return. But return successful, for we have no clemency for one who fails."

  A flush mounted to the Spaniard's brow which had become moist again.

  "I? My lord, the way is perilous. Scarce I es-"

  "By your own words you would fain visit again this city that is an earthly paradise. You know the way. Have no fear that you will not be rewarded."

  Clavijo started to speak again, hesitated, and bowed low. Then he jumped and swore roundly. A roaring, mighty laugh broke the silence of the council chamber. Yet none of the councilors had uttered a sound and certainly Clavijo and the attendant had not presumed to laugh.

  Contarini it was who broke the spell of stupefaction by starting up and looking angrily at the wall behind which, in the whispering gallery, Michael Bearn was doubled up with mirth, laughing until he coughed.

  The sound, magnified by the hidden gallery, had burst upon the councilors like a thunderclap and not a few crossed themselves in awe.

  "By the blessed Saint Lawrence and his gridiron!" Bembo pulled at his companion in a frenzy of alarm. "Are you mad? They will be here in a minute with drawn swords. Come, or you will end your laugh in a dungeon-"

  Fairly skipping with anxiety, he guided the still chuckling Michael up the steps, and listened a moment alertly. Michael seemed indifferent to the peril that was real enough to Bembo.

  Hearing the sound of pikes striking the floor in the direction of the council chamber, Bembo turned the other way at the head of the stairs. He knew that there was a warder at the postern door by which they had entered.

  So, instead of retracing his steps, he ran up another flight of stairs, slowing down as he emerged with Michael into a tapestried hall where several attendants without masks lounged.

  "The council has broken up," Bembo announced when the servants glanced at him inquiringly. At the foot of the stair behind them Michael could see Contarini pass hastily toward the listening chamber with a group of halberdiers.

  Following Bembo's lead he walked quietly toward the entrance at the end of the hall that was the main gate of the council house. The hunch back had reasoned quickly that the guards at the door, not having seen him enter, would take him and the Breton for Contarini's followers. Likewise, he knew that the aroused councilors would not be aware of the identity of the men who had been in the listening chamber.

  So, playing both ends against the middle, he went to the gate, nodded to the pikeman on guard, and emerged under the stars. As they did so they heard a distant shout from below and saw the servitors run to the head of the stairs up which they had come.

  "They will bar the gate," whispered Bembo. "But, praise be to Saint Mark, we are outside the bars."

  Michael noted with disgust that they were again on a landing with the canal in front of them. While they waited anxiously for a gondola to pass, a flurried councilor rushed through the door, glanced hastily at Bembo, and, recognizing him, glared at the dark canal.

  "Did you see a man flee here hence, Bembo?" he questioned.

  "Not yet, my lord," replied the hunchback truthfully. "But, if it please you, I will watch to observe when a man leaves the building."

  When the councilor had re-entered the hall, the great door was closed and barred. The two could hear the sounds of a hurried search within. They hailed the first empty craft that came abreast of the landing, and when they were fairly out of sight along the canal Bembo, who was curious by nature, turned to his new friend.

  "What made you laugh, signor?"

  Michael smiled reminiscently. "A splendid jest, my Bembo."

  As he had listened to Clavijo's tale at the fete he had been struck by grave doubts as to its truth. The flowery descriptions of the Spaniard did not conform to Michael's knowledge of the Salt Sea and its tribes.

  Furthermore, the man's face was vaguely familiar. Michael had a keen memory, but he could not place the man at first. Not until the testimony had been given before the council and Clavijo had been plainly disturbed did Michael remember him.

  Then he recalled another frightened man. The scene on the shore at Nicopolis flashed before him, and he visioned a tall, stalwart camp-follower of the Christian army driving a loaded cart headlong through the fugitives.

  Clavijo had been that man. And the year of the battle of Nicopolis had been the year that Clavijo claimed to have been at the court of the Grand Cham of Tatary. Michael knew then what he suspected before, that the Spaniard had not been in the East. His tale had been a lie.

  It was the decision of the council in taking Clavijo at his word that had struck Michael's grim sense of humor. It was, as he told Bembo, a rare jest.

  Chapter VI

  The Venture

  Safe, for the nonce, in an odorous tavern hight the Sign of the Sturgeon, on the docks of Rialto, Michael reflected the next day on what he had learned and fell to questioning Bembo, for there was much that puzzled him.

  Bembo wondered somewhat, as he squatted on the table where their breakfast platter still lay, how Michael could obtain the money to pay for their quarters because it was becoming apparent to him that they did not have a silver soldi between them. When he mentioned respectfully that the landlord was chalking up their score behind the door and was growling for payment on account, Michael assured him that something would turn up to yield them gold.

  Skeptical, but willing to believe in the good fortune of his new mas- ter-Bembo had attached himself to the Breton-the hunchback answered the questions.

  "My lord Contarini must have money," he asserted, following the trend of his own thoughts. "His large establishments have impoverished him sorely and he is deep in debt to Rudolfo, the leader of his soldiers, who has waged Contarini's battles on the mainland. Methinks my lord cannot pay-"

  "And so has caught at the chance of riches wrung from Cathay," mused Michael. Egged on by his spendthrift mistress and his creditors, Contarini was planning to use his post as head of the Maritime Council to his own advantage.

  This was more than probable because, while Contarini had aided Clavijo in spreading th
e tidings of a mythical kingdom beyond the Sarai Sea, he had been careful to have the council hear in secret the Spaniard's testimony as to the possible spoil to be gleaned from the Cathayans. So Contarini must believe the tale of Clavijo.

  The Spaniard himself was merely posing as a voyager-an honorable figure in that age-and thriving on the gifts and hospitality of the Venetians. What of Rudolfo?

  The condottiere had sought at all costs to keep Michael from hearing the tale of Clavijo. Why? Rudolf o must know of the coming venture into the East if he was in Contarini's confidence. He knew, too, that Michael had been on the border of the terra incognita.

  What did Rudolfo fear that the Breton would disclose? Rudolfo's cowardice at the field of Nicopolis?

  Michael shrugged, and dismissed the problem. It did not matter, he thought-and wrongly.

  What interested him was Clavijo's magnificent lie. Michael knew that there was truth in the well from which the self-styled voyager had drawn his tales. Fra Odoric had spoken truly of a powerful khan of Tatary.

  But would the khan of Tatary, of whom Michael had heard in the camp of Bayezid, prove to be actually the Cham of Cathay? Michael would have given much to know. For this khan was the one man Bayezid respected on the face of the earth.

  "If I could know," he began, and looked at Bembo. "Fool o' mine, and withal, wise man, we must have more news. Go you to the plaza of the city and learn what you may of preparations being made for a ship to the East.

  "Look you, wise fool," the Breton continued thoughtfully. "Is it not true that the natures of men will seek their proper end? Give a thief rope and he will halter himself; a miser will bleed others till there remains no blood in his own veins; a boaster will trip o'er his own tongue. I, being a wayfarer voyaging on behalf of five dead men, will see-the day of judgment, Bembo."

  "And a fool, master?"

  "Will be happy, God knows."

  Now in saying this, Michael Bearn voiced the destiny that was to shape his own life and the fate of several others in one of the strangest adventures that was ever recorded in the annals of Venice.