Venetians

by Lodovico Pizzati

  “It’s worth it, no doubt about it.” Polo concluded. “The only issue is the logistics. If we fill the boat with slaves, we may never make it to market as they can rebel and easily over power us…”

  “Why don’t we bring more Longobard mercenaries with us?” Marcello asked.

  “We could…” Polo answered, “…but then the ships will be very crowded and we need room for food and water on board to feed seventy or eighty people? For a trip that can take weeks? We need to think this through very well, and we do not have much time…”

  “And the problem is multiplied by eight, since we have built four more ships during the winter…” Primo added.

  “Would a ship even move with so many people on board?” Marcello asked again.

  “That’s it, Marcello! That’s it!” Polo just had an idea.

  “What? I don’t see it…”

  “We will use the slaves to move the ship!”

  “Uh?”

  “Instead of keeping the slaves down below we will keep them shackled on deck, each chained to an oar. This way we will row when there is no wind, and we will get to market even faster!”

  “We won’t have as many slaves on deck, but they will all be busy and under constant supervision!” Primo went along with the idea. “Sabino, how many slaves can we hold on deck?”

  “Depends on how many oars you can fit on each side…” Sabino answered. “It’s a question for you, Primo!”

  “We need space to maneuver… to play it safe I would say only ten oars on each side. That’s twenty slaves per ship…”

  “And we have eight ships,” Sabino continued, “that’s one hundred and sixty slaves! That’s a lot! Is there a market for so many slaves? And are there that many prisoners in Patavium?”

  “Wait!” Marcello realized. “If we keep the slaves on deck, that means that we can still store all the salt we want down below!”

  “Yes, we can do it all!” Polo exulted. “We don’t have time to waste. Marcello, you are in charge of gathering all the salt. We have to load eight ships. That’s a lot of salt! We might even want to offer to transport some of Adria’s salt, even if they are under Ravenna…”

  “I am on it, there is enough salt in the lagoon, we can do that.” Marcello answered.

  “Primo,” Polo continued. “We can tell Claudio to be in charge of adjusting the ships. We need to add oars, tholes, and shackles and chains for the slaves…”

  “Yes, and this time Claudio has to come with us.” Primo answered. “Someone has to convince Paulina to let him come. And by the way, he is the best sailor of us all… He grew up on boats…”

  “Primo,” Polo added. “You go to Patavium and purchase the slaves. We also have to figure out how many boats we need to carry them from Patavium to the lagoon. We might have to do more than one trip…”

  “For sure,” Primo replied. “We cannot bring one hundred and sixty prisoners all at once. We do not have enough boats. We need to make multiple trips.”

  “And as soon as a ship is ready we shall send it off and have the crew wait in Istria… I will sail to Istria and prepare water and food supplies for everyone…” Polo decided. “Great, let’s go!”

  “Hold on, Polo!” Marcello slowed him down. “We first have to stay here for the ceremony! Don’t forget, we have to make you Duke and make the Patriarch happy! Then we go!”

  They all laughed at the fact that they were so caught up planning for the upcoming spring trip, that they forgot where they were and what they were there for.

  On the other side of the hall, Tribune Stefanos was talking to the Patriarch.

  “Great, now that we have determined how the Arengo will be conducted, Patriarch Cristoforo, haven’t you wondered why I was so eager to accept your idea of electing a local duke?”

  “Oh, there are additional motives? I did not see any, but I am curious to find out!” The Patriarch replied.

  “You see, I am a career military man, and being stationed in this forgotten part of the Empire is not really good for me. In a few words, I don’t like it here.”

  “Sure.” The Patriarch was understanding. “When we had Opterg it was causing more tensions with the Longobards, but now that we have adjusted and accepted being just lagoon people, things have normalized with the Longobards who don’t care for us… so there is less of a need of a military defense…”

  “With a local political leader,” Tribune Stefanos continued, “who then perhaps can be backed by a local magister militum, I don’t need to be permanently stationed here. I can spend more time in Ravenna, or even travel to Constantinople and elsewhere in the Empire where there is need for military support and there are opportunities of quick career advancements.”

  Patriarch Cristoforo and Saverio looked at each other, not saying another word, but obviously pleased that their plan was parallel to the Tribune’s needs, even though their objectives might have been different.

  Everything was ready for the election and the ceremony, but outside the main town hall the festivities appeared to have already begun. People brought food, and there was plenty of wine being sold already at lunchtime. Aside from the very few elders, like Saverio, the Patriarch and Father Leontio, the crowd was composed predominantly of twenty-year-olds: the generation that was too young for combat during the Opterg’s massacre of almost a decade before. And now there was also a new generation of young Venetians running around the main square. They were the children from different villages now meeting for the first time. Aurelia’s children, Clelia and Manlio, were playing with their cousins Licia and Fausto, while Livia was still nursing baby sister, Tiberia. Orso was in the middle playing with his half-siblings as well, having made already close friendship, while their mothers observed from a distance at opposite ends of the square.

  The ceremony began and all grown men from every village entered the main hall. The Patriarch gave a long sermon, introducing Polo as the Duke to be elected as representative of all people from the Venetian lagoon.

  “…and everyone who is in favor of electing Polo Licio Anafesto as their Duke, raise your right hand and salute your very first representative!”

  “Ave!” Everyone shouted.

  Once everyone had cheered, Patriarch Cristoforo called Polo to the front of the hall. The Patriarch brought forward a particular head attire, customary for Byzantine nobility, but that presented its own peculiarities. It was a prolonged beret made of fine silk dyed Armenian Red. At the base, it has a golden band adorned with pearls and precious stones. As the Patriarch placed this Dogal symbol on Polo’s head, he formally addressed the hall:

  “By placing this skiadion, I introduce to you Paulus Litius Anafesto, Dux Venetorum!”

  “Thank you all,” Polo began to address the hall. “I am very humbled by this honorary title. It means a lot to me because it comes from your hearts, and it is not being imposed on you. We have come a long way since we first lost Opterg. We have slowly recovered, but rest assured that this spring will bring a remarkable amount of wealth to our villages. We have big plans for our trading voyage, and by the end of summer, we will have an even bigger celebration! Thank you!”

  Polo was about to leave when the Patriarch called him back.

  “Polo, wait! As the first Duke of Venetia, we do not want to burden you with too many responsibilities. For instance, Tribune Stefanos will continue providing the military defense, but… our Tribune also has important matters to pursue and we might need to have our local forces, and we do not want to burden you with it all, Polo. Whom do you nominate as your magister militum?”

  This was an unexpected question for Polo. He thought this festivity was just an excuse to bring everyone together and have an occasion to sell off all leftover winter food supplies. It was unexpected for Tribune Stefanos as well. This had not been discussed before, and Tribune Stefanos was the magister militum stationed in Heraclia. The
Patriarch knew that this festive occasion was the best chance to deepen an official autonomous authority for the lagoon. If every villager heard the name of an enforcer nominated by the Duke they had just elected, they would look directly to this person rather than to Tribune Stefanos. Polo had to think quickly. He definitely could not burden his own brother with such a costly task. Primo would never forgive him. On the other hand, he needed someone whom he could trust.

  “Of course this will be simply my right hand man, and in no way to supersede Tribune Stefanos’ authority… I nominate Marcello as my magister militum!”

  The crowd cheered once again, and before the Patriarch had a chance to take this opportunity to introduce any other surprises, Polo continued:

  “…and now, this election is not official until we all toast with some fine Ateste wine! The first round is on your very own duke!”

  The men all roared with glee and rushed out to empty the wine.

  The celebration continued deep into the night. Everyone became drunk and loud. It was almost midnight, and children were still running around in the square. Aurelia had already had a long talk with her cousin Paulina. They had a lot to catch up on. She also greeted Livia, the wife of her brother-in-law Primo. Even though they never had a chance to live in the same town, they always enjoyed each other’s company on the few occasions they did meet. She did not cross paths with Marcia. They both cautiously avoided each other, although their children played together all evening. Aurelia was observing Marcia, and she resented Polo every time she was reminded of Marcia, but now that she saw her, she did not feel bitterness toward Marcia, but just more anger toward Polo. It was true that Marcia was a rival girl from a rival village, but the winter after the Opterg massacre, when Polo had to run away to Constantinople, Marcia and Aurelia had grown close. Both girls had lost their respective fathers in the same massacre. Both were left without providers during a cold, harsh winter. The families of these rival towns had to band together to survive. Both had to mourn together parallel losses. Marcia was particularly close to Aurelia when she was struggling through her first pregnancy. As Aurelia observed Marcia across the crowd, her face illuminated by the yellow light of the bonfire, she saw her childhood friend. An eternal rival, but a sincere friend in time of need.

  Orso was exhausted. He still wanted to play, but he finally collapsed and was now trying to take a nap right there on the ground. Marcia went to pick him up to take him to bed. Aurelia was already holding Manlio in her arms, as he fell asleep a few minute earlier, while the tired Clelia was holding on to her skirt. As Marcia walked toward the docks, Aurelia decided to finally meet her.

  “Hi Marcia…”

  “Hello Aurelia…”

  “We have not seen each other in a long time…”

  They both smiled awkwardly, not really knowing where this conversation would take them, but to their surprise, they felt more cordial than they had expected their eventual encounter would be.

  “Look Marcia, I was looking at you all afternoon and evening, and now that I see you again, I just want to let you know that somehow I do not feel resentment toward you. I just want you to know that…”

  Marcia could not hold back her tears. She always presented a strong façade, and used irony and smiles to shield herself from her true emotions within. But her situation was very hard. She was an unwed mother during a period when such things were not customary. Because she was living in Rivo Alto, a cove hidden from the rest of the world, next to her brother Claudio and her brother-in-law Primo, she had the support necessary to raise her child with relative normalcy. There were three mothers, Marcia, Paulina and Livia, raising together their children in the common courtyard, with Claudio and Primo as constant male figures, and Polo coming and going. She had made the mistake of taking Aurelia’s husband, and she was persevering in that mistake by still loving him. But the guilt she felt was toward Aurelia, and now she was right in front of her. She took one hand off from holding Orso and she wiped her tears, not knowing whether to thank Aurelia for the warm words, or to apologize for the awkward situation she had created for her all these years. As Marcia was in search of words, Aurelia continued:

  “Marcia, where are you and Orso sleeping tonight?”

  “On the ship we came with, together with everyone else from Olivolo and Rivo Alto…”

  “Look, Marcia, I don’t want Clelia’s and Manlio’s brother to sleep on a boat while they sleep in a well-made bed…”

  Marcia looked at Aurelia surprised, and Aurelia continued:

  “Look, Orso and Manlio are so small that we can put them facing opposite ends of the same bed, and their feet would barely touch! …Come!”

  Aurelia turned toward her house and then looked at Marcia inviting her over. Marcia followed her in.

  In the Longobard capital of Papia, another mother was nursing her baby. It was the beautiful and young Giselberga, Grimwald’s widow. She was nursing her baby son, by default the new King of Italy. His father Grimwald had only met him once, when he returned at the end of the previous summer to witness the baby’s baptism. Giselberga, like her deposed brothers, was a devout Catholic, and had insisted on her husband’s presence during their son’s baptism. Grimwald did return that summer. He barely knew his young bride Giselberga, as he met her and married her while storming through the capital, Papia. Then he was busy devastating Opterg and destroying the Avars. He felt he owed her his presence, and took the time to go back and meet his son, before returning to Patavium for some unfinished business. Grimwald could have never expected that his life, the life of the strongest Longobard warrior of all times, would be taken, not in war, in a glorious death, but by the hands of a charlatan medicine man on top of a modest table with no family by his side.

  The peace and quiet that Giselberga was enjoying, while basking in the sunshine coming in through an open window, was interrupted by one of her maids who came in with an abrupt announcement:

  “Queen Giselberga! Queen Giselberga!”

  “Yes? What is the matter?” Giselberga replied.

  “Your brother Perctarit is back! He is back from exile!”

  “Where is he? When is he arriving to Papia?”

  “He is here already! He is inside the palace!”

  Giselberga immediately arose. She was afraid. She always had a great and close relationship with both of her brothers. Perctarit and Godepert might have been fighting over the throne, but they both loved their younger sister dearly. She was always close to Perctarit, but this was about politics. The same way Grimwald had no hesitation in killing off Godepert to gain the throne, she was afraid that Perctarit would do the same to her baby boy, the de facto King of Italy.

  The door opened and Perctarit advanced followed by none other than the Bishop of Midland, the same bishop that had baptized her baby son just a couple of seasons before. Giselberga clenched her baby son tighter as she took a couple of steps back.

  “Hello my dear sister! It’s been a long time!” Perctarit said.

  “Perctarit, don’t do it! He is an innocent baby… Bishop, you tell him too, this is not the Christian way…”

  “My dear Giselberga… what are you thinking?” Perctarit reassured. “You know I would never hurt you or anything that you love dearest!”

  Giselberga did not feel any more secure. She was still backing away, trying to shield her baby with her arms.

  “Please brother, I beg you… don’t hurt my baby…”

  “Giselberga… I mean no harm to your baby… In fact, my actions will save him! Have you ever heard the Longobards having a baby king?”

  “No… not to my knowledge! I guess my son is the first one!”

  “No, he is not the first one! But none have ever lasted that long! And not just babies, even young kings that were little older than boys have been killed and deposed…”

  Perctarit managed to come closer and put his hand over Gi
selberga’s shoulder.

  “Giselberga… Longobards do not respect a blood descendance. Every time a king dies, there has been a fight among dukes. When one prevails over the others, then he becomes the new king. Otherwise they keep on squabbling…”

  “So what you are saying is that if it isn’t you it will be some other duke coming to slaughter my son?”

  “That is exactly what I am saying,” Perctarit confirmed. “Grimwald died last fall, and no one makes a move during the winter. I rushed down as soon as the news reached me in Frankia, where I was in exile. I assure you that some duke, I don’t know which, would smell the vacuum of power and come over, kill my baby nephew and take over the throne!”

  Giselberga’s attitude now changed. While before she was backing away from Perctarit, now she instinctively felt she needed her brother’s protection. Hearing his voice brought back childhood memories. She did not fear him anymore, and she moved closer to him, allowing him to hug her.

  “Now this is what is going to happen,” Perctarit continued. “Your baby is going to abdicate to his uncle. That would be me. And the Bishop of Midland is here to witness the abdication and make my coronation official… Does that suit you?”

  Giselberga nodded, not sure what was the right thing to do. She was still just a teenager, and after her parents died, her two brothers were the only family she could look up to. Now there was only Perctarit, and also she had no clue about how to handle a kingdom. Perctarit was right. She and her son would have been executed by the first duke coming to Papia.

  “Giselberga… I will keep you safe and I will provide for the well-being of you and my baby nephew. Now let me conclude this formality with the Bishop…”

  Perctarit kissed Giselberga on the forehead, and let her go to the other room and put her baby in bed for an afternoon nap. Then Perctarit turned to the Bishop of Midland and said:

  “Bishop, let’s immediately write a letter to Pope Vitaliano… It has to say that the Longobard throne is back in Catholic hands… The Arian threat has been expunged… Well, you know what to write, right Bishop?”