Chapter 6: The Venetian Fleet
Constantinople
June 24th 1203
As the three men dismounted in the sizzling mid-afternoon summer sun, Arnau kept himself as inconspicuously at the rear as possible, letting Ramon and the preceptor talk up ahead. More than a month had passed since their audience with the emperor, and the enforced stay in the city was beginning to nag at him, the proximity to the rigid yet secretive Bochard throughout the time doing nothing to make life easier.
He had expected to be gone by now, one way or the other. Bochard had sent his missive to the grand master at Acre more or less immediately following their audience. Even if the message had been sent by rider, it would be expected back by now. Having been sent by ship, it was, by Arnau’s estimation, almost a month overdue. The preceptor had brushed aside his concerns, as well as those of the emperor and his courtiers, over the delay. Yes, he’d admitted, there was the possibility that the ship had been destroyed in a storm, or had fallen foul of pirates or some such. Much more likely, though, the grand master had not yet returned from Antioch and the letter has been forwarded to him there. Who knew how long a reply might take to reach the imperial capital in current circumstances?
The emperor was less than happy with Bochard’s calm disregard. Meanwhile reports streamed into Constantinople placing the Venetian fleet and its Crusader cargo ever closer to the heart of Byzantium. Theodoros Laskaris had taken the precaution of recalling all the roving and border military units to the city that could be spared against the possibility of violence, yet his outlook remained bleak.
Arnau had spent the first few days thereafter exploring the city, but had become aware of a strained and faintly angry atmosphere whenever they moved through public places. The Order may have condemned the Crusaders for what they had done, but clearly all the average citizen of Byzantium saw in them was a soldier of that same Roman Church which had sacked an imperial city and threatened the emperor. By the second week, whenever they left the Blachernae’s safety, they were escorted by the powerful Waring Guard.
Despite the growing unease over the lack of a reply and the gentle background hum of discontent in the city, Arnau had managed to explore some of the city’s more interesting locations, taking an interest in the strange, heretical Greek churches, familiarising himself with the regions of the city and walking almost the entire circuit of the walls, barring those within the Great Palace grounds. As well as the powerful Marmara Sea walls, and the slightly less imposing defences along the Golden Horn inlet, he’d walked back and forth along the four-mile stretch of the impressive land walls, appreciating the large areas of cultivated land within the circuit in the more southerly area. With three levels of wall defences, strengthened with towers and a moat, the entire circuit looked pretty impregnable to Arnau. With Ramon’s permission, he had taken Sebastian with him, who was not only able to explain and translate where Arnau could not, but who it seemed had visited the city numerous times in his boyhood and could also help navigate. It seemed to Arnau that the longer the young squire spent in the city, the more he was reverting to his origins and the less tied he seemed to the Order. It was nothing tangible that he could speak of to the others, mind, but rather something he saw in Sebastian’s manner. Not that he could blame the lad. These were, after all, his people.
In the main, Bochard seemed content to let the other two wander. He had retreated into a strange cocoon within days of their arrival, only seemingly playing the role of ambassador when he was specifically sent for by the emperor or one of the Laskaris brothers. The rest of the time he spent going through the imperial libraries, reading voraciously, studying, in prayer, locked in his room or in the company of priests. This latter seemed oddly out of character for a man so avidly set against the Greek Church, yet when queried he claimed to be engaging them in theological debate, stating the superiority of Rome. Whatever he was up to, Bochard spent a lot of time in his room, which Hugues kept locked against any visitors. Those packs the preceptor had brought with him were in there, and Arnau could swear he’d heard the chink and shush of many coins when they were first brought in, which added to the mystery of their master in ways Arnau couldn’t fathom. Consequently, Arnau and Ramon were largely at leisure. They had located a small enclave of Pisans in the city, close to the Golden Horn harbours, and had become friendly with a Pisan priest who welcomed them to his services, allowing them to attend to their monastic duty without difficulty and in the company of fellow Christians of the Western Church.
This morning, Bochard had been closeted away in the library once more when a servant arrived, announcing that the preceptor’s visit to the church of the Holy Apostles had been approved. Ramon thanked the man and took the news to Bochard, who seemed most satisfied. Arnau had been surprised when Ramon asked the preceptor if they might join him.
Bochard’s face had twisted through various expressions at the request. Arnau was convinced that the man had been trying very hard to find a good reason to refuse the request, but in the end had sullenly acceded. As he went to gather his things and the squires hurried off to prepare the horses, Arnau had tapped Ramon on the shoulder.
‘Why are you so interested in this church?’
Ramon had given him a sly smile. ‘Because the preceptor is. He’s up to something – we both know that – and I’d like to find out what it is.’
Arnau had nodded, remembering what he was sure were sizeable bags of coin, and wondering what in Heaven’s name Bochard could be spending it on in the city.
And so here they were, three men dismounting alongside the servant who had been sent for them, outside the largest church in the city – indeed, the largest Arnau had ever seen. Some twenty paces away, their escort of half a dozen Warings sat astride their mounts and waited. Arnau remembered the preceptor’s hungry gaze as they had passed this place on their first day, and the recollection set him to wondering, like Ramon, what lurked in Bochard’s mind. That same look had fallen across the preceptor’s face again now as they moved towards one of the lesser entrances to the building.
A giant white stone edifice, the church of the Holy Apostles was of a cruciform plan very familiar in Western churches, though its lofty height was most impressive. It seemed to be surmounted by domes with many small windows rising in tiers to one central grand cupola bearing a cross in gold taller than even the tallest of men.
Ramon started to ask Bochard who they were to meet, but the preceptor silenced him with a wave of his hand as he had done several times since they had left the palace. Had he been any ordinary knight of the Order and not a preceptor with great authority, Arnau would have long since pulled Bochard up on his arrogance and lack of manners. Bound by his vow of obedience, though, he simply glowered at the man and nodded his agreement as Ramon glanced over at him.
They left the horses with the servant and crossed to the door, where a man in a belted blue tunic over some sort of white trousers and a long shoulder cloak of russet velvet waited patiently for them.
‘Good day,’ he said in a serious, yet quiet and lilting tone. ‘I am Nikolaos, a lampadarios of the Church. The protopresbyter has assigned me to show you around. I have to say that you are honoured. Few followers of the Greek rite are permitted to see what you have been granted, let alone heathen Romans. Follow me.’
Arnau and Ramon shared an intrigued look and then followed Bochard, who was thanking the man as he walked, his intent gaze locked always upon the church. They entered the building and began a tour of the interior, which Arnau drank in at every turn, each new sight a mind-boggling one. He was becoming used to the Byzantine habit of covering every inner surface of a church with images in gold lines and figures of bright colour, and had visited several beautiful churches in the city, but the sheer scale of this incredible basilica made it all the more impressive. Oddly, Bochard was focused on their guide more now than on what they were seeing. He listened intently and politely, as did the other two knights, while the lampadarios led them through the ch
urch, pointing out everything of interest as they passed.
The church was apparently not the original one on the site, which had been constructed by the great Constantine, but was still ancient, dating to the Emperor Justinian some six and a half centuries ago. Many facts, figures and dates and much of the tour went entirely over Arnau’s head as he ogled the magnificence of it all, though his ears pricked up as they moved away from the church itself, unlocking a door and passing into an area that was not open to the public. Here he listened with interest and peered at everything as they were shown the imperial mausolea – the tombs of numerous emperors, including Constantine himself. Ramon was as impressed as he, judging by the expression on his face, yet Bochard still seemed to be waiting, nodding at the information, wanting to move on.
It was when they were shown to the treasury that the preceptor suddenly began to pay a great deal more attention. Arnau found himself frowning at Bochard’s sudden enthusiasm as they were shown into some sort of crypt with numerous ornate altars, each bearing some ancient relic or treasure.
‘The shroud is not kept here?’ he asked their guide, who frowned in surprise at this foreigner’s knowledge.
‘The shroud of the saviour? No, sir knight. It is kept in the church of Maria Thotokos of Blachernae.’
Bochard nodded thoughtfully. ‘And the spear?’
Again, the lampadarios frowned. ‘No. At the Mangana monastery. We have here, though, some of the most important relics in the city, not least the body of the blessed Saint Constantine himself in his mausoleum above.’
Bochard nodded again, eyes raking the holy treasures around him. That twitch of the eyelid had returned, Arnau noted with surprise. The young Templar stared in awe at the collection, which near rivalled what he had seen at the Templar fortress in Acre. That memory settled upon him like a blanket of snow, and with it came a deep suspicion. Bochard had known that these great relics resided in this church from the start. That was why he had been so interested in the place upon his arrival. And the shroud and spear? Surely not the shroud and spear?
He glanced sharply at Ramon, who had apparently come to the same conclusion and nodded his acknowledgement behind the preceptor’s back. The visitors looked and listened as the attendant showed them some of the more important artefacts in the collection, each of which would alone be of such power that anywhere else a grand sanctuary would have been commissioned just to house them.
Bochard began to ask searching questions about the relics, many of which the man answered easily, while Arnau and Ramon continued to share unspoken worries. They were just contemplating leaving when a distant noise suddenly intruded on the conversation. Both men stopped and looked back towards the stairs. Bochard and the lampadarios also turned, their dialogue trailing off.
Shouting…
Alarmed shouting, from the church above.
Consternation falling across the Greek’s face, he finished his tour early, ushering the three Templars back towards the stairs. ‘Please. We must leave. I should attend the protopresbyter and learn what has happened.’
The three men hurried up the stairs as the man locked heavy reinforced doors behind them at both the bottom and the top of the flight. As they emerged into the church once more, they encountered chaos incarnate. Citizens were kneeling in prayer, beseeching God to preserve them in wailing voices, and more folk were flooding through the door all the time. Despite the buzz of worried voices, there was no clear indication of what had happened.
Nikolaos excused himself and left them standing in a corner as he hurried off to speak to a priest.
‘What’s happened?’ Ramon wondered out loud.
‘Whatever it is,’ Arnau noted, ‘it happened outside, since everyone’s coming in to pray.’
Nodding his agreement, Bochard gestured to them and the three men hurried to the door, pushing their way through the crowd and out into the open. The Waring Guard were still there with the servant and the three Templars’ horses. Hurrying over to them, Bochard waved at one of the giant bearded bodyguards.
‘What has happened?’
The big man leaned forward in his saddle, the blade of the axe on his back catching the bright sunlight for a moment. ‘The Venetian fleet is here.’
Ramon turned a worried look on Arnau, while addressing Bochard. ‘We should not have tarried so long, Master. It is too late for any message from the grand master to help the emperor now.’
The preceptor glared angrily at him. ‘Do not presume to tell me what to do, Brother. I am here on the Order’s business at the direct instruction of the grand master. Everything I do has purpose in God’s plan. You should have more faith, and considerably more humility.’
Ramon bridled and Arnau stepped close to him, lending him unspoken support, yet the Iberian knight held his tongue, eyes dangerous.
‘You will obey the Rule of our order, de Juelle,’ the preceptor went on, eyelid jumping madly, ‘and submit to my command, or you will be sent back to Acre in disgrace to be stripped of your mantle and punished in any way the grand master sees fit. I argued against bringing two provincial unknowns from the barbaric land of the Moor, yet the grand master saddled me with you and I am performing my duties to my master with absolute obedience. I expect nothing less from those beneath me. Do you have anything to say, either of you?’
Arnau could feel Ramon almost bursting with the need to argue, yet to his credit he continued to hold his tongue and lowered his gaze.
‘Good. A respectful silence. Maintain that attitude and we shall remain cordial and without recrimination.’ Bochard straightened. ‘I am satisfied with this visit. I shall return to the palace. Will you join me, or are you bound for your pet Pisan church?’
Arnau simply couldn’t hold it in, and burst out with exasperation. ‘How can we simply wait in the palace, Master? The Crusaders mean to usurp the emperor with an exile and suppress the Byzantine Church.’
Bochard fixed him with a look of genuine bafflement. ‘What care we the name of the man who rules Byzantium, so long as he defies the Turk? And if the place comes under the rule of Rome, all the better for us. See sense, Vallbona.’
Before Arnau could say anything more, Ramon tugged his arm. ‘We will away to the Pisan enclave by your leave, Master?’
Bochard nodded dismissively. Still ignoring them, the preceptor mounted and gestured to the Warings, the majority of whom turned and rode off west with him, heading back towards the Blachernae. Two Waring guardsmen remained to escort the remaining knights. As soon as Bochard was out of earshot, the older knight addressed them.
‘Where are the Venetians?’
A big man with a braided beard and a white milky eye gestured off down the hill to the south. ‘Off the coast, at half a mile, by all accounts.’
‘Let’s go.’
Ramon began to ride his horse at a brisk trot in that direction and Arnau followed quickly, the two huge guards hurrying along behind.
‘What are we doing? I thought we were going to the Pisans?’
‘That was for the preceptor’s benefit,’ Ramon grunted. ‘I suspect he might have argued if we went to see what was happening. But we are in a city under threat of violence and that threat just sailed into sight. I for one want to see it.’
Arnau nodded, entirely in agreement and a little thrilled in the privacy of his heart at this defiance of Bochard. As they rode down the wide thoroughfare, Ramon gestured to one of their accompanying Warings. ‘Will it be possible for us to mount the walls for a better view?’
Milky-eye shrugged. ‘The defences are closed to the public, but the Guard can go anywhere. What is your purpose?’
‘If the Crusaders are here, then I want to see what we are dealing with should I end up facing them, which is becoming an ever-increasing likelihood the longer we stay.’
The Waring nodded. ‘The Crusaders will remain on the far shore and parlay. They may sack distant outposts of the empire, but even Venice would not be foolish enough to threaten Constantinopolis.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ argued Ramon. ‘Will you get us onto the walls?’
The big northerner nodded. ‘But do not get in the way of the garrison. We will accompany you.’
The ride was swift, just a mile down a gentle slope, and before long they could see the powerful sea walls rising up ahead, a strong gate piercing them, leading to a major harbour. As with any grand and unexpected terrible event, while some of the populace had been gripped by panic and ran for the security of a church to pray for their city, others had been overcome by curiosity. Lacking the companionship of Waring guardsmen, and with the walls closed to them, they were flooding out through the gate and trying to find somewhere to view the great Venetian fleet.
As the four men closed on the walls, the Warings guided them off to the left. There a small guard post cordoned off a wide stairway that led up to the wall top, and as they reached the place amid the shouting from a hundred citizens in the nearby gateway, the Warings spoke to an officer in an antiquated cuirass and a skirt of green leather strops. Moments later someone was taking their horses and the two Warings were beckoning as they climbed the stairs.
Arnau was once more impressed at the strength of the walls as he climbed. He had seen the entire city’s circuit from below, barring the palace area, but this was the first time he’d had the opportunity to get such a close look. Still, despite everything, he only took in passing details of the ancient and powerful walls, his attention more riveted on what he was going to see at the stair top. The Warings stepped aside as Ramon and Arnau emerged onto the walkway and hurried across to the parapet, peering out at the wide blue Marmara Sea.
For a moment Arnau blinked, wondering what to make of it, for he had expected a fleet of vessels half a mile off, out to sea, perhaps anchored, yet all he could see initially was clear blue sea. Then he realised that the guards were all peering off left, eastwards, along the wall towards the end of the promontory where the Great Palace stood above the mouth of the Bosphorus channel.
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