Venice
Benito Valdosta had no such advantages. All he had was a stack of maps, the foremost tactician of the age to stare at him from under beetling brows if he said anything stupid, and a small dribble of information.
“One positive thing to come out of Odessa being as tight as a duck’s vent is that some of Jagiellon’s channels have dried up too.”
“Don’t gamble on it,” said the Old Fox. “Remember Caesare. He has puppets and means denied to good men.”
“Even denied to us,” said Petro, with a quiet smile. “I believe Patriarch Michael and Eneko Lopez when they say traffic in that sort of thing is a peril to the soul, better done by those properly protected, and best avoided entirely. But it is my task as the Doge of the Republic to keep the body and soul together for as long as possible. A few eyes in the lands of our foes would help a great deal.”
“Part of the problem, besides the vulnerability of any such ventures to the spirit of the traveler,” said Marco Valdosta seriously, “is the sheer vastness of the world. There are lands beyond lands and people beyond people. And the power in the east has made anchoring to any fixed point there difficult and dangerous. It would be easier to find an individual drop of rain that fell into the ocean last week.”
“It’s sometimes easier to do things the hard way, in other words,” said Benito. “I just wish I wasn’t trying to juggle so many uncertainties and possible variables in my head. All I can be sure of is that we’ll be ready to sail in a month with less of a fleet than I would have liked, but better than we expected, once the vessels from the western convoy are included. The lists are up in San Marco, and they’re filling up fast. I would have thought Venice had had enough of war.”
“Ah, boy,” said Lodovico Montescue. “But they haven’t had enough of you.”
“That’ll change,” said Petro Dorma, smiling faintly.
“Just make sure they are all on a ship first,” said the Old Fox slyly, “before they find out quite what you plan for Constantinople.”
“It’s the part where the admirals discover that he has hijacked their fleet that I look forward to. Especially as I will not be there to listen to it,” said Petro Dorma. “Admiral Douro guesses, I think. But the others from Genoa do not know you yet.”
Lodovico cracked his old knuckles. “The joys that await them.”
“And me,” said Benito. “They look at me and say that I am still wet behind the ears. And the worst of it is that I know they are right in some ways.”
“It is a good thing,” said Enrico Dell’este, “That I am coming along to provide a certain gravitas. Not to mention grey hair.”
“You. But…Ferrara?”
He shrugged. “Is as secure as I can make it in terms of Italian principalities. I have two heirs. A great grandchild too. If Venice and the Doge stand, Petro here has given me his word that they will inherit my seat. I am old. Respected. I may not go to war again. I would have a part of this one. If this fails…I think the West may fail too. Even if that is not true, the relative peace we now enjoy will be over.”
“I think you are reluctant to let your grandson go off on his own,” said Lodovico. “Not that I would not like to watch, but he has proved that he is capable of looking after himself, and Venice too. As long as there are no dancers and public bridges.”
“It’s that part that I promised I would prevent,” said the Old Fox, cuffing is grandson’s head gently. “He is his mother’s son, sometimes.”
“I do trust that you are letting it leak out that we will overwinter on Corfu?” asked Benito, feeling more than a little uncomfortable.
“I have very carefully, in the strictest confidence, told a certain lady,” said Lodovico, grinning like someone only a third of his age.
“You need a minder too,” said the old Fox, shaking his head.
Chapter 15
The Black Sea
The Eastern Fleet sailed out of Trebizond, into the Black Sea. Admiral Lemnossa set an atypical course, bearing away from the coast they normally hugged, taking advantage of a stiff south-easterly breeze to bell their sails and carry them away from the sight of land. Land had watchers and in the open ocean they only had to scan the horison to know if they were being pursued. On the southern coast of the Black Sea that meant a long way offshore as the steep coastline gave more than the normal eight miles of vision to the horizon.
They had not been at sea for four hours when it became obvious that at least one vessel was trying to stay in visual range. A lateen-masted fishing boat heading down the same course seemed unlikely in the extreme. Lemnossa ordered two of the light galliots to drop back. Running as the fishing boat was before the wind, it had limited options in using the wind to outrun the galliots under oars.
“So what do we do if we catch him, Admiral? Sink the testa di cazzo?” asked the young captain. This was his first command, and he was ready to dash in where even angels—or great galleys arrayed for war—would go in cautiously.
“It’s tempting. We’ll shift course a few more points to windward
when you engage. If he tries to fight—that’s their look-out. If they try to run, catch them, and bring them along. If they come to meet you, it might be that they have that young woman with a baby on board that you thought you’d left behind.”
The light galliot’s captain grinned. “Then I’ll just have to sink them. My other girlfriend is waiting in Negroponte.”
“Probably with the same little present for you. Go and deal with them.”
They did. And the fishing boat had tried to run.
A little later the galliot, running with the wind so that the tired rowers could rest, and now accompanied a lateen rigged fishing boat, rejoined the fleet.
“They tried to pretend they were just fishermen. But those two never caught a fish in their lives,” said the young captain, pointing to two angry-looking prisoners trussed up in enough rope to anchor a round-ship in a gale. “I spotted their nice soft hands—and the real fishermen were terrified of them, you could see. So I gave the nod to some of my boys, and as we questioned them, Julio and Rupe hit them over the back of the head with marlin-spikes. They had all sorts of nasty toys hidden on them. Knives and potions. When we’d dealt with them the fishermen tried to tell us they’d been forced into this. But they had a fair amount of silver on them for that story. So, do we feed them all to the fishes?”
“I reckon keelhaul them,” said his mate. “Baitini bastards. They’re good at sneaking around and killing people. Let’s see how good they are at bleeding and breathing water.”
“I have always wondered,” said one of the lieutenants, as the admiral looked on thoughtfully, “how an assassin without hands manages?”
“Wouldn’t do much good,” said the captain. “This lot kills their own. Got no loyalty.” He spat overboard. “Worth as much as that spittle to each other.”
The admiral looked at the two trussed prisoners. Looked at their eyes. “Take that one away.” When they’d hauled the smaller of two away, he cut the gag off the remaining man. Who swore at him out of gratitude.
Admiral Lemnossa raised an eyebrow. “I’m a sailor. I’ve been at sea for more than forty years. Is that the best you can do? Try a little harder, man,” he said testily.
The assassin had expected torture or death. He was braced for that. Not for disdain.
“You will all die for this,” he said, sullenly.
The admiral yawned. “By whose hand? You are at sea, and if we tossed you all overboard no-one would ever know how your fish-eaten corpse met its end.”
“The masters know…”
“They know you set off to sea. No more. The sea kills more men than your kind ever have, or ever will. So what do I do with you?”
“Kill us. Torture us. It’s what you plan to do. We will have our reward in paradise!”
“Then it would be in our best interests to keep you alive and unable to receive it. Or if you die to make sure that you die defiled,” said the admir
al, who had manipulated angry and drunken sailors to his will before. “Or I could let you go…if you convinced me that your retribution was sure.”
“The fleet that comes is greater than yours. Forty great galleys!”
“Impossible. And how could one such as you know?”
Bit by bit, with a combination of apparent boredom and the mention of unclean animals, Lemnossa found out just what the rank and file of the Baitini knew…or thought they knew.
He then repeated the process with the other fellow, who was less pliable, but Lemnossa had the bait of what he had extracted from his fellow Baitini. He had, of course, no intention of killing either of them. They were too valuable for that. He knew, now, that the fleet from the Dnieper was at least in part, at sea. He doubted it was the size these men believed, or that it was coming to liberate—from their point of view—the caliphate from the Ilkhan’s persecution.
To the Baitini, Mongol oppression seemed to constitute not letting them kill anyone who offended them. Even worse, the fact that the Mongols were in a position to do this to the sect which had controlled much of the land that the Ilkhan conquered. The admiral found himself in sympathy with the Mongols, and wondering just why they’d left the Baitini in existence for so long. Lemnossa was sure of one thing—that fleet was going, not the lands of Ilkhan, but to Constantinople and points west. And it was set on stopping his fleet re-enforcing the ships and crews of the Venetian Republic
That was something Venice needed to know. But of course he had to get there first. The assassins could be fed some misleading information too, and let loose. They were spear-carriers, not big fish. Nasty spear-carriers that he’d prefer to hang out of hand, but still. He had near on seventy leagues of possible trouble before they reached the Bosphorus; he could not keep these two aboard, and they would serve a better purpose being turned loose than serving as fish-food. While fast ships raced from Crete to Venice with the new wine in a mere twenty-two days averaging six leagues in a day, his laden round ships and their escorts would be hard pressed do much more half that.
Normally, they’d wait out any bad weather, and would stay in sight of land. Now…that wasn’t an option.
* * *
That night, around midnight, the taller Baitini captive heard his tiny cabin door being quietly opened. There were two men with a shuttered lantern. He was still very thoroughly tied up and his captors had had scant regard for his physical needs—food, drink or relieving himself. He had not been gagged again, but he expected the worst. He was prepared for it now.
“Shh. We’ve come to rescue you,” whispered one of the men who came in, in the bastard Greek of the southern Black Sea coast.
“Cut me free,” he said, distrustful.
“We’ll cut your feet free. If we’re caught we need to claim we’re just taking you to the heads. Now, remember this. It’s Phillipo Pelluci and Julius Malacco, see. We let you go. You tell your people we let you go. If you’ll do that, we’ll get you onto a boat, and let you go free. Will you?”
His first inclination was to get these fools to cut him free and then to kill as many as he could. But his task had been to report back. “Where is my companion?”
“Fish food. He died when they put him to question. They’ll do you in the morning.”
“The admiral thinks he can fool your lot by going to Theodosia and then Constantinople, and not along the coast. He’s mad. The Genoese won’t help us,” whispered the second man. “Now we must go, quickly. Before the watchman comes back.”
“Only if he agrees,” said the other Greek-speaker.
It was written that the defenders of the faith could lie to unbelievers. So Malik nodded. “Yes. You will be spared. And given much gold.” They were driven by greed, these sons of Iblis.
They cut his feet free. One of them sneaked ahead and the other escorted him to the fishing boat, tied alongside.
It occured to him then that his sailing skills were non-existent. “You must come with me,” he said.
“No. If the ships get through, we get home. If not, your people spare our lives. That’s the bargain,” hissed his escort. “Or we take you back. And kill you right here if you try and scream. If they catch you out here they’ll kill you anyway.”
“I cannot sail.”
“The wind will take you to shore, even drifting. Go.” He was pushed to the rail, and the other sailor came and helped to lower him, hands still tied, down onto the bow.
One of them tossed a knife down to peg in the planking beyond. The other cut the boat loose. Malik wondered if he should shout now…it would serve them right. But he was free, and retribution would wait. Their plot would have worked. The fleet was not going to be watching Crimea across the ocean. He barely knew where Theodosia was, or the likewise accursed Genoese. Godless foreigners, just like the Venetians. But it was not where the fleet would be expected to go. They would have been waiting for them off Samsun. The Venetians setting their fleet departure forward had merely changed the timing not the plan. He made his way to the knife, and began work on cutting himself loose as the fleet, dark and silent on the water, grew more distant.
If he had been a sailor he’d have wondered why no-one on watch noticed him and gave the alarm. Or why the little fishing vessel had been moored so that he could be dumped aboard. But he was not. He was barely able to hoist a sail and head toward the distant shore. He was not there, three hours later, to see the admiral ordering all sail made. They weren’t heading out across the Black Sea for Crimea. They were, hopefully, going on a leg that would see them in sight of land somewhere near Sinope. From there their course would be a lot more predictable, but also hopefully the news would also be too late.
The admiral would prefer to avoid battle if he could. This was a commercial fleet, but, when need be, Venetian sailors could be relied on to fight. Most of them had shares in what cargo there was on board the vessels. He just hoped that the Baitini and their backers had no real grasp of the rivalry between Genoa and Venice. They’d be as likely to shut Theodosia up and range their cannon on Venetian vessels as to offer them shelter. At sea they’d avoid each other. Or accuse each other of outright piracy, of course.
* * *
Two days later, the early morning was broken with a yell from a topmast lookout. “Sail! Sail ho! Northeast.”
The captain himself went up the ratlines to the basket. He came down, looking thoughtful. Admiral Lemnossa was waiting. “It’s Genoese vessels, Admiral. Seven of them. Round ships. They seem to be bearing down on us.”
“Can we outrun them?”
“Probably. It’d bring us back toward the coast. But seven vessels…they’re no threat to us, M’Lord.”
“Except to carry word of us, no.” He sighed. “Let’s hold our course.”
“We can always sink the bastards.”
“Tempting though it might be, it’d cost us too. And they might not be that easy. Those ships of theirs are big,” the admiral admitted grudgingly. The Genoese had pursued size over numbers in the last few years. The bigger vessels were harder to maneuver, but they carried more men. That counted for a great deal, in boarding actions.
So they held their course…but on the convoy, men began readying their gear for conflict. There were two men up in the mainmast basket on the flagship, watching. One came hurrying down the ratlines. “They’ve got the Venetian Lion flying along with their red cross. And a white flag.”
“Parley.” The admiral pulled a face. He knew Genoese pride ran as deep as Venetian, and they were good seamen too, although you’d be hard-pressed to find a Venetian who would admit it. If they were heading for a parley with Venetian vessels, then they were heading away from worse.
* * *
And that turned out to be the case, when the senior Genoese commander, Captain Di Tharra, came aboard. The vessels were showing signs of conflict too, so Admiral Lemnossa was not surprised to hear that they’d been attacked.
“Mostly galleys, M’Lord. From the north somewhere, by th
e look and garb of the crews. Maybe forty of them. We were lucky we hit bad weather. They’re not sailors. But there are plenty of them. Like lice.”
He took a deep breath. “We lost five ships, M’Lord Lemnossa. We came to ask…to beg to sail in the convoy with your vessels. We were attacked sailing west…we fled southeast under cover of darkness. We were making for Trebizond to petition the Venetian Podesta…but you’re already at sea. Safety in numbers. M’lord. We beg you out of Christian charity to permit us to sail with your company.”He looked as if he were swallowing something unpleasant. “We could pay.”
“No, we will not ask a fee. Not this time.” Lemnossa knew if word of that got back to Venice, they’d be wanting to know why he hadn’t skinned the bastardos, but it fitted. It fitted too well with what the Baitini had said. And the Genoans too were at sea early. Theodosia was the leading slave-port of Europe. The seasons for human traffic were different…but they also carried cargos that came from further afield, across the scattered khanates and fiefdoms of central Asia, silks and treasures from as far as fabled China. Instinct said that next time it might be his fleet, and that it might be that all the ships they had were not sufficient.
“We plan to make port at Sinope,” Lemnossa said.
The Genoan scowled. That city had been a Genoan trading post until recently. Unfortunately, the Genoese had fallen out with the bey of Sinope and his master the sultan of Rum. The parting had involved some burning of fortifications and a partial destruction of the quays and the town. The Genoese flag would be greeted with cannon-fire these days.
Burdens of the Dead Page 9
