The Year of Our Lord Twelve Hundred and Sixty Two started out as a good one for yours truly, Nicolo Zuliani. Everything I touched turned to gold. It culminated with a colleganza I set up at the beginning of the year. That’s a sort of short-term, high-risk, high-return business venture that appeals to us Venetians. At the time, I was essentially potless, after spending all my previous trading profits. So I was ready to take the risk–with other people’s money–on a big gamble. My reputation was good, even if some thought I was a chancer. To many, that was a good thing to be. So, I soon convinced a bunch of silversmiths who traded along the Merceria that I had already leased a 250 ton galley, with which I would transport cotton from Syria for the South German cloth trade. I even offered to show them over the ship in question–the Provvidenza. All they needed to do was supply the funds for the cotton, and I would guarantee them a nice little profit for their investment. I didn’t mention the little difficulties of high seas, savage rocky shores, and pirates. Well, you don’t want to put off investors when you’ve tapped into their greed, do you? They were on the hook, so I just needed to reel them in. Once I had secured the funds from them for the cotton, all I had to do was find the wherewithal to lease the Provvidenza.
Naturally, I had lied to them. I didn’t have any share in the ship when I showed it to them. But I had watched the routines of the captain and his crew for four days, until I was certain they all went for lunch around the middle of the day. A lunch sufficiently liquid to ensure they did not return for at least three hours. I even greased the way, as it were, by slipping one of the crew a few coins by way of thanking him for showing me privately over the ship the previous day. You have to speculate to accumulate, and if things turned out the way I hoped, those few coins would be all I would put into the trading enterprise.
The gaggle of silversmiths arrived at the quay close by San Zaccaria Church promptly at noon as requested. I could see them already sniffing profit in the air. Unless it was the smell of the load of fish that was being unshipped next to the Provvidenza that teased their nostrils. Whatever it was, I greeted them like some Eastern potentate, eager to show off his magnificent palace.
‘Greetings, Master Saraceni, Master Luprio…’ I shook each man’s hand in turn, careful to recall their names properly. I wanted them to feel like we were a bunch of intimate friends embarking on some adventure together. Confidence is what it’s all about, after all. The problem was the little, squinty-eyed man who always seemed to bring up the rear. Why could I never remember his name? I squeezed his hand, and stared back genially at his wall-eyed, suspicious stare as I racked my brain. Then of a sudden it came, like a cold shower sweeping across the piazza. ‘And last but not least, welcome Master Sebenico.’
He merely grunted, and slid his cold palm out of mine, which had begun to sweat. I knew I would have to watch Maestro Sebenico. From his name, I would guess he was descended from some Dalmatian pirate, and was probably as slippery as an eel. For now, I addressed the assembled throng, extolling the virtues of the galley on whose deck we stood.
‘Look at the suppleness of those sheets.’ I waved my hand up to the sails, and the spider’s web of ropes that ran up to the mast. I wasn’t sure which were sheets, but I did recall some of the spiel of the sailor whose lunch I had funded. I employed it as best I could. ‘And those cleats are the sturdiest I have ever seen.’ Fortunately, my attentive audience were sufficiently overawed not to question my nautical know-how, and contented themselves with looking sage, and nodding their heads. Even Master Sebenico seemed not to wish to betray his ignorance. Maybe he thought his pirate ancestors would turn in their watery graves if he did. ‘Let’s go for’ard, and examine the hold.’
And before you ask, yes, I did go in the right direction.
That had all been days ago, and as soon as I had got their money in the bag, I had worked on the Widow Vercelli, and Old Man di Betto to supply the funding for the galley. The widow was easily flattered by my flirtatious approaches, though she was old enough to be my granny, and ugly enough to be my pet dog. But a kiss on the hand and she was a cert. As was Pietro di Betto. The old man yearned for the good old days, when he had sailed in trading galleys himself. But now he was too sick to travel, and a little addled in the mind. In truth, I almost didn’t take his money, out of sympathy for his affliction. But he insisted, didn’t he? And I could not refuse him this last little pleasure in his life, could I? Besides, I wasn’t cheating him, or any of them, out of their money. All being well, we would all profit from the enterprise. It’s just that I was skating on thin ice, as it was usual for the merchant to put up one third of the funds. I was risking none. The trouble was, even after the widow and the simpleton coughed up, I was still short by a few thousand. So I decided to confide in Caterina.
After a particularly exhausting night of pleasure, she seemed pensive, almost impatient with my attempts at light-heartedness. Normally Caterina Dolfin looked flushed and healthy after a tumble in my bed, but this morning she was pale and wan–sickly even. I tried to laugh it off.
‘What’s the matter? Can’t you take the pace any more? Maybe you should ease up on the wine, my dear Caterina.’
She always tried to match me goblet for goblet, but I was too practised at drinking to be beaten by a mere woman. Even if that woman was Caterina Dolfin, scion of one of the case vecchie–the aristocracy of Venice. If her father had known she was romping with a mere Zuliani, a merchant and a penniless one at that, he would have had me whipped out of La Serenissima at best. At worst, murdered in a dark alley and my body dumped in the lagoon. Still, I could not resist the excitement and allure of our assignations. Caterina Dolfin was a beauty, dark-haired and brown-eyed, with a rare figure that shone through the heavy folds of her richly embroidered bliaut over-gown. So, once again I had lured her secretly into my bed, and come the morning, I was caressing her voluptuous naked breasts, as I taunted her about her drinking. But this particular dawn she appeared to have something else on her mind, and she responded distractedly.
‘Oh, leave over, Nicolo.’
This made me suddenly wary. She only used my full given name, instead of calling me Nick, when she was annoyed. I tried on my simpering look as she carried on.
‘You should buy something more palatable than that cheap Rhenish you are so fond of when I dine with you. Maybe that’s what disagreed with me. Unless it was the fish. God knows what they feed on in the lagoon.’
I guffawed. ‘I don’t need to be God to know what is washed from the Serene Republic’s sewers and on to the feeding grounds where the lazier fishermen ply their trade.’
Caterina’s eyes narrowed, and she held a petite hand to her mouth at the thought. She began to look even greener than before, her eyes almost pleading. I wondered again if she was expecting me to propose marriage, and I almost did at that point. But though I longed for Caterina, I thought of my own parents’ stormy marriage. So I just couldn’t bring myself to encompass such a commitment right then, and the moment was lost. Instead, I sounded her out on my small embarrassment with colleganza funds. She snorted in disdain.
‘If you think I can lay my hands on any of my father’s money, you must be mad. He didn’t get rich by ignoring the pennies.’ She rolled over on to her stomach, presenting her arched back and rounded, bare buttocks to my adoring gaze. ‘You should try Pasquale, he’s mad enough to risk money on you.’
I tore my eyes from her divine arse. ‘Pasquale? Fish-face Valier?’
In truth, I had not considered Valier–he of the bulging eyes, and receding chin–but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. Pasquale liked to mix with the same drinking crowd I did. And although you couldn’t say we were friends, we had exchanged a few drolleries over some good wine. Moreover, like Caterina, he was also of the case vecchie, which meant he was loaded. And gullible enough to be taken in by my flattery. I would woo him like I had the Widow Vercelli. Just as long as he didn’t hope to end up in my bed like the widow had. Hoped that is–m
y bed I reserve solely for the beautiful Cat. With that thought bringing me back to the present, I ran my fingers down her sensuously curved spine, and over her remarkable arse. And then further on.
If I had been able to foresee the future, I would not have left the question of marriage so unfinished. But then, I had no idea that time was running out for me. That I would only see her one more time, as murder came between us. Back then, I had reckoned there was all the time in the world to settle down. And for the time being, I was content to enjoy myself like any man should. I didn’t really want to admit to myself that I was avoiding marriage because I feared ruining it all like my father had done. That was a thought I could not entertain, even while sober.
‘Did you hear that there is talk of an election? And Doge Renier Zeno still firmly ensconced with no intention of resigning.’
Pasquale Valier was outraged that any such idea should be contemplated. He drank deep of the good Gascon wine I had supplied him with, spending some more of my precious few coins in a desperate attempt to raise the few thousand I still needed for my colleganza. His fishy eyes bulged even further at the thought of tradition being so usurped. These old families hung on desperately to the ways that had served them well. Myself, I thought the ducal election was rigged from the start in favour of the old families. Since when had a Zuliani had a chance to get voted in? Still, I needed to keep Valier sweet, if I was to tap into his money supply.
‘Outrageous,’ I murmured.
I had been more than a little surprised that he had accepted my invitation so easily. My lodgings were not the most salubrious of accommodation, being close to canal level, and consequently damp and rather smelly. Maybe it was the fact that they backed on to the fabulous Ca’ da Mosta, and that I used the palace to describe how to reach my own more humble abode. The Ca’ looked out majestically on to the Grand Canal. My quarters squinted blearily on to no more than a dingy alley of mud that you wouldn’t dignify with the word canal. I prayed the interior would convey more a sense of modest simplicity to Valier than the reality. That of shabby poverty.
I had no need to worry. Once in his cups, Valier was blithely ignorant of the damp walls, and down-at-heel furniture. All I had to do was to keep refilling his tankard. And listen to him banging on about politics, which interested me little except when it affected business. Since last year, when the Greeks had retaken Constantinople, Venice’s influence in that region had been blighted by our old enemy, Genoa. The doge’s old title of Lord of a Quarter and Half a Quarter of the Roman Empire had suddenly become increasingly hollow-sounding. It had been won sixty years ago, when Doge Dandolo–the old, blind wheeler-dealer himself–had conned the leaders of the Fourth Crusade into conquering Constantinople instead of aiming straight for Outremer. They had owed the Republic a lot of money, and could do little else, mind you. With a puppet installed on the throne in Byzantium, Dandolo had picked up vast chunks of the newly made Latin Empire, and that lordly title. But now it was gone again, and apparently some blamed the present doge for the inconvenience. Including the erstwhile governor of Constantinople, Domenico Lazzari. Valier continued to blether on about it.
‘A properly elected doge is for life, or until he decides to step down himself. How can anyone suggest he should be forced out?’ He poured another potful of good Gascon red down his throat, and clutched my shoulder. ‘What do you think, Nicolo, old chap? You’re an honest fellow. What do you think we should do?’
Sweating a little at the thought he might run through my slender supply of wine before I had parted him from his money, I stared sombrely into his bleary eyes. I found myself using his own drawly accent back at him.
‘It’s an outrage, Pasquale, old chum. That’s what it is. It makes a fellow want to make his money and run before the whole fabric of society falls apart.’
He nodded eagerly, then a puzzled look slowly crept over his blotchy face.
‘Make his money…and run?’
I could see on his drink-sodden face the sly look of one who had been hooked. I fed him the line before reeling him in.
‘It so happens I have a proposition to put to you. It can’t fail…’
Later that night, a strange thing happened. I had just got rid of Pasquale Valier by the street door, when I heard a furtive tapping from the other side of the house. It took a moment for me to realize there was someone at the water door. I too had imbibed a fair amount of the good Gascon, though surreptitiously I had cut it with cheap Rhenish to make it go further. Even so, I was a little unsteady on my feet, and nearly fell in the muddy canal when I opened the door a splinter to see who was calling so late at night. I had half a thought it was sweet Cat come to romp the night away. My heart yearned for that, but my thick head and tired mind almost prayed it was not.
As I reeled on the step down into the turbid waters at my door, a firm, but slender hand took my arm. Whoever it was steadied me, almost at the expense of his own stability, as he was standing in a small boat that rocked under him. But he righted himself and me, and gave a low bow. It was difficult to see his face, as he was muffled in a hooded cloak, that was draped across most of his features. All I saw was a pair of brown eyes staring at me with creases at their corners that betokened a smile beneath the folds of the drapery.
‘What do you want, good sir?’
I spoke a little merrily, my tone of voice still in Valier mode, plummy and drawled.
The man refrained from speaking, but his eyes sparkled even more. He drew a long bundle from under the cloak, and with difficulty, as though it was too weighty for him, held it out to me in both hands. Noticing in passing that the hands were gloved, I took the burden from him. In truth, the parcel was heavy, but not so heavy that a fully-grown man could not have handled it. I assumed the deliverer of my gift was perhaps elderly or ill as to find it so difficult to lift. I thanked him for his services, but still got no reply. He simply nodded his head, and turned away, lifting his punt pole into place. I watched for a while until the mysterious figure disappeared into the mists, then hefted his gift in my hand. It had a weightiness to it that promised value, and I eagerly unwrapped the cloth that bound it up.
What was first revealed at one end was a thick, plain disc of steel, and below it a lime wood handle wrapped about with wire. It was a sword, and an old one at that. The cross had been fashioned to look like dogs’ heads, but the blade itself was encased in a plain wooden sheath. From its length, I guessed the blade to be around thirty inches long. I pulled the blade a little way out the sheath to reveal a small shield stamped on the lower end. It bore the name ‘de la Pomeroy’ etched in silver, but it meant nothing to me. As the last of the binding slid off, a piece of parchment fell to the floor. I stooped to pick it up. The writing was in a neat hand.
‘My bold entrepreneur–I don’t want your venture to fall at the first hurdle. Take this old weapon, and sell it for whatever you can get. My family had it from some Crusader called Ranulf de Cerne, who passed through many years ago. It was left in payment of a debt. But take care, the sword comes with a legend–things happen to its owner, it seems. So sell it swiftly, and return safely.’
The message was finished off with no signature, but a strange scrawl that I could not at first decipher. Then I turned the parchment sideways, and the scrawl resolved itself into a neat little feline shape with a curly tail. It had to be a message from my own Cat–Caterina Dolfin–I was convinced of it. So much so, that I even fancied I heard her laughter carrying over the waters of the canal outside my door. I slid the blade from its sheath, and looked on the inscription for the first time. All talk of honour and soul did not concern me, however. What I was convinced of, was that I would not sell this sword for anything. Especially as I had already got the funds I needed for my colleganza from Pasquale Valier.
One month later, I was standing on the quayside of the Giudecca Canal with the sword at my waist, money in my purse, and a bushy, red beard on my chin. It had grown while I was roughing it on the journey to and from
Syria, and now I fancied it added to my appeal with the women. With my fine head of red hair, tanned features and green eyes, I knew I couldn’t fail. The Provvidenza lay proudly at its moorings before me, a little more battered, its mainsail somewhat more ragged. But nothing that some money and the tough, thick pitch of the ship-builders in the Arsenal complex couldn’t cure. I had already sold the cotton on to a fair-haired German trader called Bradason, and all I needed to do was pay my investors their margin. Which would leave a tidy sum for me. I was longing to see Cat, but decided I should replace my stained and tattered clothes first. Like Provvidenza, I needed a good overhaul, and it would do no harm to take my costs out of the colleganza’s profits. They were big enough to absorb it.
I found a good tailor in the Merceria, and bought an undertunic of red, and a sclavine of blue. Finally I belted the sword round my waist. Caterina Dolfin would not be able to resist me, and I swaggered off along the Spaderia–suitably enough the street of sword-makers–then made for the Rialto crossing. Passing the Rio dei Bareteri, I noticed a workshop with headgear displayed, and was taken by a sugar-loaf cap in green that I reckoned would sit well on my flowing red locks. I bought it, and turning the brim up, I set it at a jaunty angle on my head. Palazzo Dolfin was on the other side of the Grand Canal, and I made for the bridge of boats called the Quartarolo that spanned it at the Rialto. Before I could reach it and pay the toll, however, I was stopped by a braying cry.
‘Zuliani! Is that you? I was told you were back.’
I groaned. It was Pasquale Valier, and he would be wanting the return on his investment. I had hoped it would hang at my waist just a little longer, before I had to disburse it. It felt good to have a heavy purse, even if most of the money belonged to others. I need not have worried, though. Valier seemed more concerned about having a good time than getting his dues.
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