A Death in the Venetian Quarter

by Alan Gordon

  “The carpenter was right,” I said. “If it’s a merchant, it’s probably about money. So, there must be at least one other involved. Ruzzini is the logical choice. He’s the top silk man there.” I stopped, thinking. “The Silk Man. Could he be the Crusader contact?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “What do we do about this?”

  “If it involves a threat to the Emperor’s silk monopoly, I can bring it to the authorities. I should probably talk to Niketas first. It will finally give him a reason to flex his muscles as Logothete.”

  I flopped onto the bed and hugged her.

  “My dear, you are worth more than your weight in gold,” I said, and I patted her belly. “And you will be appreciating in value soon, if I am any judge of pregnancy.”

  “It’s good to be appreciated,” she said, snuggling against me.

  SIXTEEN

  Let me tell you here of an outstanding deed of valour.

  ——GEOFFROY DE VILLEHARDOUIN, THE CONQUEST OF CONSTANTINOPLE

  Niketas Choniates agreed to meet at his office in the Senate before dawn. As I walked down the Mese, there was a glow to my left that had nothing to do with the approaching sunrise. There were bonfires atop each of the guard towers along the seawall, and the flames were strong enough to cast my shadow all the way to the Augustaion. In between the towers, I could see the Varangians patrolling the walls.

  A stray unit of the Vigla passed me on their way back to their bastion, a few of them waving as they saw me. Niketas had his servant waiting for me at the Senate doors, and I was ushered quickly inside.

  There was another man seated in his office, one I had never met, but who eyed me with a glance that seemed to gather every detail at once. Niketas motioned me to a chair.

  “This is Demetrios Gabras,” said Niketas. “He is the Keeper of the Imperial Silk. After I got your note, I invited him to join us.”

  “An honor, milord,” I said. “Feste the Fool at your service.”

  “I’ve seen you,” said Demetrios.

  “Have you ever seen this before?” I said, placing the wicker box on Niketas’s desk.

  Gabras opened the box, looked inside, and frowned. He removed the cocoon and placed it on a white linen square, then took a small, sharp knife and carefully slit it open without damaging its occupant.

  The silkworm writhed on the cloth, exposed to the world too soon. Gabras turned it over with the tip of his knife and examined it, then picked out a strand of the cocoon and rolled it delicately between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Where did you get this?” he demanded curtly.

  “Oh, stop being a bore and put the knife away,” said Niketas. “Feste is here to help.”

  Gabras sheathed his knife.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I am upset by this. It was not unknown for my predecessors to lose their heads when outsiders got hold of the Imperial worms.”

  “Someone saved you the trouble,” I said. “I took this off the body of a Venetian silk merchant named Ranieri.”

  “Ah, the decapitated fellow in the cistern,” said Niketas. “I had a feeling that you had something to do with that, Feste.”

  “I was there, but I didn’t take his head off,” I said. “Ranieri decided to save his skin by giving up the conspiracy. My guess is that a fellow conspirator removed him before he would talk. Probably the same one who killed Bastiani.”

  “He was involved as well?” marveled Niketas.

  “I believe so, though we’ll never know for certain.”

  “Who did Ranieri get this from?” asked Gabras, holding up the cocoon.

  I described the rabbit, and he nodded quickly.

  “I know him,” he said. “I must report this to the Eparch. He’ll have him taken into custody. But the Venetians—”

  “Are mine,” said Niketas. He snapped his fingers, and his servant came in. “Rouse those useless fellows who pass for guards and have them meet us in front of the building in five minutes.”

  The servant ran out.

  “Are they any good?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Niketas. “They have only had to perform on state occasions. But they march well and dress superbly.”

  “I’ll take this,” said Gabras, pocketing the cocoon and the dying worm. He held out his hand, which I took, wishing that he had wiped it first after handling that disgusting little grub. “Thank you, Fool. You will be rewarded.”

  Niketas put on his official robe and walked with me to the steps. A sleepy and sullen group of guards had assembled, awaiting his orders. He looked over them benignly.

  “Good morning,” he chirped. “This is one of those rare occasions where you might actually have to earn your pay. We are going to conduct a little surprise inspection of the silk embolum in the Venetian quarter. No rough stuff, but if they resist, use all available force.”

  “A favor,” I muttered.

  “What is it?” he asked, turning to me.

  “Give me a head start, maybe five minutes.”

  He grimaced. “I don’t think that these fellows could keep up with you at this time of the morning. Go ahead.”

  Behind me, dawn began to break over Anatolia. I ran toward the Venetian quarter, passed the gate, and charged the embolum, my knife drawn.

  Ruzzini was seated alone, his hands clasped before him on the table, his head bowed in prayer. He looked up when I crashed through the doorway, but made no attempt to grab a weapon.

  “Good morning, Fool,” he said quietly. “Have you come to sing to me again?”

  “I think it’s your turn to do the singing,” I said. “It’s over, Ruzzini. If you want any help from me, you had better start talking.”

  “Talking? About what?” he asked. “And why do I need help, and why should I believe that you can provide it?”

  I went around the table, grabbed him by the front of his tunic, and threw him down on the floor. He lay there, momentarily stunned, and I straddled him and put my knife to his throat.

  “In just a few minutes, this warehouse will be searched,” I said. “They will find silkworms and mulberry trees smuggled from Zeuxippos, and caches of weapons. You will be taken into custody, probably tortured, certainly put to death.”

  “Death?” he said. “Not for smuggling.”

  “There are two men dead, thanks to you. I overheard your conversation with Ranieri. I know you were in the conspiracy with him and Bastiani. Ranieri killed Bastiani, and you killed him.”

  “I killed no one,” he gasped. “And neither did Ranieri. We were together the night Bastiani died. There were several witnesses present.”

  “All Venetians, I suppose.”

  “Venetians and a captain and several officers of the Vigla,” he said. “We were discussing the brawling that’s being going on with the Pisans. Ranieri was as surprised by Bastiani’s death as anyone. It served us no use.”

  “Why not?”

  “Bastiani had the contacts to get the purple dye,” he said. “The silk was important, but that was the other piece of the puzzle. His death set us back months.”

  “But you panicked and killed Ranieri,” I said.

  He said nothing.

  “I can arrange it for you to live,” I said. “I have that power. Ranieri wanted you to kill me, but you killed him instead.”

  “No,” he whispered. “It was Viadro.”

  “What?”

  “You know so much, let me prove it to you,” he said. “Let me up.”

  I stood, keeping my knife handy, and pulled him to his feet. He took a key from the desk and unlocked the padlock on Bastiani’s storeroom, then pushed the door open.

  “Look,” he said.

  I pushed him ahead of me, suspecting a trap. But there was no one in the room. The crates lay shattered, the precious bales of silk tossed about. The weapons were gone.

  “Where is he?” I shouted.

  At that moment, Niketas entered the embolum, followed by his guards.

  “Search the storerooms,�
� he commanded. “Arrest the Venetian.”

  “Logothete, this is a violation of several treaties,” smirked Ruzzini.

  “I suppose it is,” said Niketas calmly. “So is the invasion. I’ll accept the morality of my position for the moment.”

  “Where’s Viadro?” I asked.

  Ruzzini shrugged.

  “He never took me that far into his confidence,” he said grimly.

  “Smart lad under the circumstances.”

  Two guards led him away, while the rest commandeered some wagons and began loading them with crates of silk, trees, and small wicker boxes.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Niketas as we walked outside. “Let me wish you a proper good morning—”

  He stopped as we heard several crashes in the distance. Distant shouts passed along the wall from watchtower to watchtower. When they came closer, we were able to make them out.

  “The fleet’s coming across!” came the word from the seawall.

  “The army attacks!” came the word from Blachernae.

  Niketas looked at me.

  “I’d like to talk,” he said. “But the time for talking is over. Go, Fool. Take your wife to safety. I must rejoin the Senate.”

  He left me standing there.

  Viadro was out there, I thought. He was leading a heavily armed band of Venetians. Where was he going?

  Then I remembered the encounter he had with Plossus, down by the Petrion Gate.

  I assumed the other fools had sprung into action the moment the alarm had sounded, which meant that Aglaia and Rico were on their way to Blachernae and Plossus off to alert Father Esaias. I had no troops to marshal and couldn’t go running to any soldiers without something solid to tell them. I had no choice. I had to check it out for myself.

  It took me less then ten minutes to run the distance to that part of the seawall. Stones went whizzing overhead in both directions, crashing into ships and buildings. People fled the houses near the walls. I cut through them as well as I could. At one point, a stone hit just behind me, smashing into a fish seller’s stall and sending his wares flying.

  I ran to one of the towers by the gate. Its entrance was guarded by a Varangian, who was watching the stones fly above us.

  “What’s going on?” I shouted in Danish.

  He stared at me.

  “They’re attacking, Fool!” he said. “Get out, if you value your hide.”

  I moved on to the next tower and accosted its guard.

  “What’s happening?” I shouted in Danish.

  He stared at me.

  “What is the situation?” I said, this time in English.

  Still no response.

  “Your mother is a whore,” I said in Venetian. His eyes widened, and he started to raise his axe. I kicked his legs out from under him and rammed my knife into his throat.

  I slipped through the entrance to the tower. Two Varangians lay dead on the floor. Real Varangians this time. They must have been taken by surprise and the Venetian stationed at the tower base in their stead.

  The fighting had been fierce inside. The Venetians had the advantage in numbers but inferior armor. Body after body littered the steps, and the blood made it slippery underfoot. I sheathed my knife and pried a crossbow from a Venetian hand, arming it with a bolt from his quiver. I still felt inadequate in my motley. I took another crossbow and worked my way carefully up the steps, holding them both before me.

  With every turn came more carnage. I was halfway up the tower before I found a living soul. It was Cnut, his axe bloody, four men dead around him. A bolt protruded from the barrel-shaped armor around his torso.

  “Feste?” he whispered.

  “How many are left?” I asked, feeling the pulse in his neck. It was weak.

  “I don’t know,” he said, trying to rise. He winced and sunk back down. “We were watching the fleet. We didn’t expect to be attacked from within.”

  “You did well,” I said in Danish. “You honor your ancestors.”

  “I failed to hold the tower,” he said. “I can never look my comrades in the eye again.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “Rest, Cnut. I’ll be back.”

  I left him and continued upward. The fighting had been fiercest at the top of the tower. When I reached it, crossbows at the ready, only one man still stood. He was tying something to the edge facing the Golden Horn.

  “Signor Viadro,” I said.

  He turned slowly, and smiled when he saw me.

  “Hello, Fool,” he said. “Isn’t this a glorious sight? Come and look.”

  I pointed a crossbow at him, and he moved away from the tower’s edge. Beyond him, a large flag caught the breeze and fluttered merrily. It was the winged lion of Saint Mark, the same silk flag that had been on the wall of the embolum.

  “A flag?” I asked. “Is that all this was supposed to be?”

  “A flag and a tower,” he said. “A tower on the seawall where the shore is narrow. We were to accomplish that one simple task, and we did. You came too late, Fool. Look beyond the flag.”

  I did. One of the giant merchantmen was heading straight at us, the extended bowsprit projecting far beyond the bow, reinforced by planks and ropes into a flying bridge, covered with soldiers, three abreast. It rose and fell with each pull of the oarsmen but was high enough that the end of the bridge was level with the top of the tower.

  “We take this tower,” said Viadro dreamily. “And use it to take the next. And the one after that, then a gate between them, which we will open, and so we shall take the city. No army has ever conquered Byzantium from without. Until now.”

  “You’re the Silk Man,” I said.

  “I am,” he said. “The only one in all the Venetian quarter capable of this. The others were too cautious, too greedy. Too old.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me at the cistern?” I asked.

  “Ranieri wanted me to kill you,” he said. “I knew that wouldn’t prevent your colleagues from finding out about his petty smuggling. I went along with him to see if he would be loyal enough to Venice to keep my identity secret. But he was more interested in protecting his business. I knew he would give me up. So, I killed him.” He held up an axe. “These work quite well, once you have a little practice with them.”

  “And Bastiani?” I said. “Why did you kill him? How did you kill him, for that matter?”

  He frowned. “I didn’t kill him. I still have no idea how it happened. I was wondering if you could explain it to me.”

  I motioned with my crossbow.

  “Drop the axe,” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, smiling again.

  There was a roar from behind me. I whirled, trying to bring the crossbow into line. Cnut charged past me, his axe high over his head. Viadro started to bring his up, but the Dane had the momentum. He brought his weapon down in a fearsome blow and split the Venetian from his head down to the middle of his chest.

  Cnut wrenched his axe free, then stared out at the approaching ship.

  “Come on, lad,” I said, pulling at his arm.

  “Get help,” he said. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” I urged him. “You can’t take them on by yourself.”

  “This is what we do,” he said calmly. “Will you fight by my side?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Then you’re of no use here. Leave. Pass me those crossbows if you aren’t planning on using them further.”

  I handed them to him. He raised one, timed the rising and falling of the bowsprit, and calmly picked off the knight at its tip.

  “Go, Feste,” he said. “Give my love to your wife.”

  It may have been the reminder that I had promised her I would try and live through this that sent me flying down the steps. It may have been the absolute futility of trying to hold the tower with only a wounded Varangian and a fool. Or maybe it was the arrival of the first bolt shot from the oncoming ship that did it.


  I burst out of the tower calling for help, but the other towers were already engaged, the guards launching every conceivable missile at the Venetians. The ones on the ground were busy carrying more stones to the mangonels on the walls. Every officer I could find shook me off and continued barking orders at his own men. Then I heard shouts in a different language. The end of the bowsprit was lashed to the top of the tower, and the Venetians were swarming across the narrow flying bridge and into the heart of the Byzantine defenses.

  Well, the defenders could see the situation for themselves now. No reason for me to hang around anymore. I ran from the walls as fast as I possibly could.

  I turned when I reached the Mese and jumped onto a rain barrel and then onto a nearby roof. From there, I watched throughout the day as the battle raged across the seawall. One tower after another fell to the Venetian assault, just as Viadro had predicted. The Petrion Gate was taken and opened, and the invaders fanned out through the neighborhood, occupying the recently abandoned buildings. The bulk of the Greek forces were at the land walls, I found out later, dealing with the Crusader army, leaving mostly Varangians, Pisans, and Genoese to combat the Venetians here. The appearance of the invaders actually inside the city took much of the fight out of the defenders. So disheartened were they that by noon the fight was taking on the appearance of a rout. The Venetians occupied fully a quarter of the seawall by the Golden Horn, and Blachernae would soon be within their reach.

  Then, without warning or explanation, they withdrew. I watched, astonished, as one by one the hard-won positions were abandoned and the Venetians streamed through the Petrion Gate back to their ships. Cheers erupted from the remaining defenders and the few citizens foolhardy enough to stay and watch.

  But the fleet struck one more devastating blow as they fell back. Flames suddenly shot from the buildings nearest the gate. The same winds that had propelled the fleet across the Golden Horn whipped the flames across the city like a rider urging on his horse on the home stretch, and the same men who had been holding back the invaders with steel fled before this new onslaught.

  The Fifth Hill caught the brunt of the fire at first. I jumped down from my observation point and grabbed a wheelbarrow. Together with a Varangian who had come on the scene, I manhandled the rain barrel onto the wheelbarrow, then we trundled it up the Mese toward the flames.