Sforza was different. His men fought because the rewards were great, and worth the risk of dying for. With Carlo Sforza to lead them, they believed they’d get the rewards. His precise memory was one of the reasons they did. The other was his readiness to use overwhelming force. The Old Fox had the tactical edge on him. He also had the tactical edge on any of the commanders Carlo had met, but he lacked the brutal application of calculated force. When the time came, Carlo would exploit that. But Benito…
Benito would have been surprised to know just how much detail about his exploits had made its way to his father. It was especially the story of his conduct in the raid on the Casa Dandelo, when he had used the desperation of the slaves to apply overwhelming force on a superiorly armed and positioned foe; that kept coming back to Carlo’s mind.
That was the way Sforza would have done it himself. And that…that made him a little afraid.
Chapter 5
Venice
Marco Valdosta sometimes wished for his old life back. When he had been Marco Felluci, with just enough money to put food on the table and a dream girl to see. The world had been a simpler place, then. He had been able to learn more about healing, work with sick children and ask for little else except the dream girl. Life was much more complicated since he had taken up the mantle of the lion.
True, the dream girl was now his wife, and that had its blessings. True, old Lodovico no longer wanted him dead, and that too was a good thing. Of course a lot of other people had taken over that desire, some of whom were a lot richer and more powerful than Lodovico. But they didn’t pursue the matter quite so relentlessly; and, besides, he had much better defenses.
There were so many conflicting demands on his time now. As the ward of the Doge Petro Dorma, as the grandson of Duke Enrico Dell’este, as a person to whom the Strega turned, as a player in various power blocks and merchant houses of Venice, there was less time for medicine than he liked.
He peered down at the book, devouring the words hungrily. The Quia Primos set out the concept of precisely calculating the dosage of medication for treatment in fractions and ratios. It was an area that most practitioners of medicine had a hazy grasp of, at best. Here was a precise mathematical way of doing what had been trial and error…not that Marco minded the trial part. It was the error that he hated.
Old Alberto cleared his throat. “A message for you, Milord.”
The message from Itzaak, begging him to come to the Campo Ghetto just when he’d finally been getting into Alkindus’ treatise, was not particularly welcome. Still, the elderly goldsmith was a good man, well thought of among the Strega. Not one to call him unnecessarily. He’d better go.
Marco and Katerina remained in the Casa Montescue even though he could have easily set up an establishment of his own now. He made his way from his study down to the water door. To be honest he hoped to avoid running into his father-in-law. Not that he didn’t like old Lodovico, but he’d inevitably ask when he’d be getting a grandson.
And that just didn’t seem to be happening, despite plenty of effort by Marco and his wife. The fact that she still wasn’t pregnant was worrying Marco. It was not good either for their relationship or for the future of Venice.
The Lion of St. Mark needed someone that was of the blood of the four first families—the longi of the Casa Vecchi longi. Back then they’d been anything but noble, but only the families Lacosto, Terrio, Montescue and Valdosta could take up the mantle and become one with the great ancient power that defended Venice. The Lacosto had gone first, taken in one of the plagues that swept Venice periodically. Not even the Lion could prevent plague, it seemed. And the Terrio had followed, more recently, cut down by the same—which made Marco wonder, now and again, if this had been “just” a plague, or the meddling of something else, something working so subtly that not even the Lion had noticed. Of the Montescues, only old Lodovico and Katerina survived. And of the Valdosta blood—not name—there was only him left. But the truth was, that was not what weighed with him, although he knew it should. It was that Kat wanted a baby…and to please her, so did he. He liked babies anyway; he’d be happy surrounded by a veritable swarm of them.
Marco was getting to the point of considering the various magical and medical interventions. Only…he was well enough versed in both to know that that area was full of quackery and fakery. He’d also postponed asking advice of the part of him he shared, willingly, with the Lion. The matter was…personal. Difficult even to talk about to himself, let alone something that was all of Venice and her marshes. It would feel like he was telling all of them.
He didn’t manage to avoid Lodovico, but the old man was deep in conversation with his friend Admiral Duoro. They were sharing wine in a little reception-room off the hall that led to the water-door, so he nodded respectfully at both of them, and tried not to make it appear that he wanted to hurry past them.
He must have succeeded a little too well. His grandfather-in-law smiled and gestured to him. “Ah Marco. Come and join us. We were just discussing Alexis of Constantinople’s likely reactions to the demands we made for reparations for his ships and their part in the siege of Corfu.”
Marco shook his head. “The politics of Venice at home are too rich for my blood, Lodovico, let alone the politics of Byzantium.”
“They’re one and the same, Marco,” said Lodovico, but he must have realized that the only reason Marco was down here was because he had somewhere to go. “Trade is our lifeblood. So where are you off to, young man? More sick canal brats?”
“Not this time, milord. A call to see an old friend. A goldsmith.” Marco knew Lodovico would know exactly of whom he spoke, but he didn’t want to spell it out to Admiral Douro. The man was undoubtedly one of the masked council of ten that effectively ran Venice.
Admiral Douro snorted into his wine. “Going to see old Itzaak, are you? Prod him a bit for information from those Strega connections of his about what is happening in Constantinople and Outremer.”
“I try to stay away from politics,” repeated Marco.
So much, thought Marco, for not telling him. The Council of Ten’s spies were probably aware of what he had for breakfast and which page of what book he was on. For his own safety and good, no doubt.
“I’m sure it will be about some medicine or a new instrument for surgery. I try to stay away from politics, as I said.”
“Ah, but will politics stay away from you?” asked the old admiral, straightening his stiff leg.
Somehow Marco doubted that it would, even though he wanted it to. He expected Itzaak to once again beg him to involve himself with the local Strega, which would be more politics. It was always politics. Plagues were simpler.
* * *
But when he got there, he found that the old goldsmith actually wanted to tell him about Constantinople. About gold coming from the territories allied to, or controlled by, Grand Duke Jagiellon, and the implications of treachery.
“I don’t want to involve you in this, Marco. But I do need the Council of Ten told, without letting them know it came from me. The Byzantine emperor is getting gold, a lot of gold, from the east…since Corfu. It can only come from the monster of Vilna.”
Marco knew a little of the old cabbalistic magician’s background, enough to know that he’d been born elsewhere. The Campo Ghetto was a place of refugees.
“In Jagiellon’s father’s time, Jagiellon led the mobs that came to rape and steal and kill Jews,” said Itzaak quietly. “It was politics, of course, but it was not necessary for him to do that in person. Orders were given and mobs went out. But it was his pleasure. And by all accounts he’s delved into darker things since then, Marco. He must be opposed; hopefully, stopped. If Alexis is getting gold from Jagiellon, he is, without a single doubt, getting other things, darker things. Gold from the monster of Vilna always comes with so many strings attached that the man who takes it will become a puppet, whether he knows it or not. The man who sold me this gold was running again, and told me that I should
run, too. But sooner or later we’ll run out of space to run. I have found friends, peace of mind, and a little security here. I am not minded to lose them.”
“I’ll pass it on,” said Marco. “But are you sure of this, Itzaak? The Council wants verifiable information, not just rumors.”
Itzaak’s long face grew longer. “Marco Valdosta, I give you my word, by the Temple of King David. My little talent never fails me. The gold the emperor Alexis is spending came from Lithuania. Recently.”
Marco sighed. “Your word is good enough for me, Itzaak, but if I go straight back with this, they will know that the information came from you, and there are those who don’t love the Streghira, or the Jews. You must realize I am watched. So at least I will buy a small gift for my Katerina. And then proceed to several other places, some of them where I will be quite alone. A few hours won’t make that much difference, and perhaps this will make them think my news came from further-roaming creatures than you.” The tritons, the merfolk, he thought. He would go and spend a solitary half hour in that water-chapel.
Itzaak shrugged. “Sometimes heartbeats do. But not this time, I think; I believe that you are right. And perhaps it would be best to—confuse the source. Now, I have some beautiful inlay work on these brooches here, Marco. Done in the Mussulman style, from Outremer. The craftsmanship is superb.”
Chapter 6
Trebizond
Trebizond was part of a small semi-autonomous state, the sultanate of Pontus, which in turn was a vassal of Ilkhan Hotai the Ineffable. To make matters more complicated the city had a Venetian quarter, which had its own Podesta and small garrison. Michael Magheretti had been delighted with his appointment to that post, three years back. Trebizond was vital to the interests of Venice, and time spent serving with distinction here would serve him well in his progression within the ranks of those who served the Republic.
He’d soon found that he was being tested by fire. There were far too many conflicting factions inside the Venetian quarter, let alone in the small city. And his authority was limited. The Doge had made it very plain that he was to sooth tensions, not exacerbate them as Commander Tomaselli had, in his short clumsy tenure as commander of the local garrison.
Michael sighed. “You wish me to settle a domestic dispute, Signor Gambi? That…”
“Please, Podesta. It is a small thing. But Nestor and I have been friends, business rivals yes, but friends for fifteen years. We’re the bedrock of this community. A few words from you and the matter could be resolved.”
“Tomorrow afternoon.” Surely compared to the usual vicious factions all hiring Baitini assassins, and the inscrutability of the Ilkhan’s emissaries, and the local Sultan’s various relatives and cronies, it would be solvable?
Gambi frowned. “Your Honor, this really is a minor matter—if it is dealt with tonight. By tomorrow the families may be hiring assassins.”
Something about the way he said it made the young Podesta aware that this was not quite the domestic spat he had thought it was. Maybe it was the reference to “assassins.” When families clashed in Trebizond, they usually employed bravos for the purpose. Thugs, certainly, even blades-for-hire, but not outright assassins.
Could Gambi be making a veiled reference to the Baitini? The sect was causing a lot of problems lately—even for the Ilkhan, whom they normally avoided antagonizing.
But there were factions there too. There were factions everywhere in Trebizond. Spies spying on spies, assassins plotting against assassins. Michael was sure that at least three different spies were listening in to this conversation.
He sighed again. “I’ll come and drink a glass of wine with you, signor.”
So they walked the short distance to Villa Gambi. They were not unaccompanied, naturally; one never went anywhere here without guards. The villa was a handsome building—with suitable features for defense, as was the custom in the city. The Podesta had been there before. Gambi was one of Trebizond’s leading lights, and his support was valuable.
A window in an even more imposing pile across the narrow street flew open. “Testa di cazzo!” shouted the old man in a shrill cracked voice. “You try to turn even the Podesta against me?”
“Please, Nestor, it’s not like that. Can we not at least talk, old friend?”
“I am not your old friend,” said the elderly merchant, grumpily. “But if you will come to my house, we will talk. The Podesta can decide who is right. But you leave those thugs of yours outside.”
Gambi seemed determined to make the peace between the two houses. “Please, Podesta. You will be quite safe with Nestor. I’ll leave my men out here too.”
The heavy door was unbarred, and they went in, just the two of them. The doorman handed them over to a young woman. To his surprise Michael saw that it was Nestor Paravatta’s bastard daughter, that Gambi’s son—also here, far from Venice, from the wrong side of the blanket—was said to have insulted. She was the cause of the feud in the first place, but she didn’t seem very upset about it all.
This smelled. Michael turned to Juliano Gambi, to ask what was going on—to be given a warning shake of the head. They walked on down the Turkey-carpeted flags and to a small room. Nestor was sitting there, showing no signs of his earlier outrage. The door swung shut with a dull clank. It was, Michael had noticed in passing, very thick.
Gambi pulled another, inner door, with layers of fleeces nailed to it, closed behind him. He exhaled in obvious relief. “Sorry about our charade, Your Honor. They’re watching us a bit too closely for comfort right now. But Nestor’s inner room is about as secure as we can be.”
“So… there is no feud?” asked Michael warily. “No insults between the youngsters?”
“Oh, many. They have a wonderful time at it,” said Gambi. “And they’ll have a nice noisy reconciliation, and maybe one or two more spats, when we’ve done. No, the matter is that three carracks bound for Constantinople were attacked by pirates off the coast near Ordu.”
There were always a few astute merchants sending the goods of early caravans back before the holds of the fleet were full. There were good profits to be snatched. “I can see this could be a financial disaster, but well, was it a matter of faking a family feud to tell me? I mean piracy is a problem, and them daring to attack three ships…”
“Bless you, Podesta, they carried no part of our cargo. Well, I have a small share in a colleganza on one vessel, but not much. But it’s the effort that they went to stop the news of the attack that is of concern to us. There were only two survivors out of all three ships, and they were attacked by Baitini, here, within the walls, rather than let the men report it. It is not the piracy but the sheer number of attackers, and how they tried to make sure that there were no survivors that is worrying—and then the fact that the Baitini must have been actively waiting for anyone that escaped that would make it as far as this. This says the pirates are trying to keep their very existence quiet, planning something they don’t want us to know about. And there is only one possible thing that it could be. They want the fleet.”
That idea was enough to silence Michael. A large part of the wealth of Venice—and the survival of Trebizond itself—rested in the holds of the Eastern Fleet and the storehouses of Trebizond, waiting to load.
“Are you sure?”
Nestor shrugged. “Why would Baitini ambush the survivors—two common sailors—otherwise? And they killed the gate guards the crewmen spoke to, one of whom must have been the informant. One of the sailors got away, and found his way to the chapel of the Hypatian siblings. He told their seniors his story. The Baitini attempted to silence them too. But for a missed knife-stroke and a lot of luck we would have known nothing. And they were willing to murder all the Hypatians to silence that one man.”
“That could cause a riot!” The siblings were not universally popular, but they had a strong following among the poor and the women. “How did they survive?” he asked in a kind of horrified fascination. The Baitini did not often fail, and t
he Hypatians were so helpless-seeming.
“The Baitini were caught trying to poison the water cistern.” The older man allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction. “The abbot sent to me that they had unfortunate accidents and fell from the roof. I did not enquire further. The siblings draw their members from all walks of life and are not all the gentle soft targets they appear. The Baitini were taken by surprise. And the siblings got word to us, and we, to you. So, Podesta, what do you plan to do?”
Michael wished he knew. The caravans from the east came in day after day, laden with the rich goods Europe craved. There were fortunes to be made…but plainly the pirate fleet thought itself able to capture the fleet. Since the Baitini were involved Michael would not rule out sabotage, infiltration and even suicidal murder for them to gain their ends. They—or at least the rank and file—were encouraged to believe in an afterlife in paradise guaranteed if they died fulfilling their appointed tasks. Oddly, the leaders of the sect did not feel this applied to them, thought Michael dryly. “What would you advise, signors?”
The two looked at each other. Eventually, Nestor said carefully: “Milord, keeping a fleet at sea for a long time is no easy thing. The time and day of the Eastern Fleet’s departure is well known to all. They will not remain waiting offshore for another two months. This was a feeler, to blood their men, and to try our strength…and to stop vessels running across to Odessa and Theodosia”
“But do they need to? I mean the Baitini do not push against the Ilkhan. Surely if they’re involved it means the Ilkhan are too? There are other ports and places”
Burdens of the Dead Page 4
