Burdens of the Dead Read online

  Marco saw that stability, that—call it what it was, maturity, and he was even more determined to get there himself. Finally it had driven him to the point where he had steeled himself to ask Francisco about it during their next language session. The fiction that Francisco was not a chirurgeon, or at least as skilled in medicine as most of the learned Dottores at the Accademia, had not lasted very long. His skill was undoubtedly in field medicine and plainly learned, by the examples he gave, in the tail of an army, if not in its van. But that was hardly a bad thing. Marco would take practical medicine over bookish speculation without a second thought.

  Besides, the books all too often contradicted each other.

  For a while now Francisco had been coming to the Casa Montescue, rather than Marco going to his shabby rooms. It was less restrictive for both of them, and Marco was less likely to get irritated by the Council of Ten’s watchers. It was bad enough having the Lion as part of himself, knowing far too much of what he was thinking, without having to bear the constant observation of others, who were all to mortal and would not know what he was thinking and would speculate and speculate without actually asking him.

  “Francisco,” he said, a bit hesitantly.

  The soldier-doctor-teacher stopped drinking beer and looked enquiringly at Marco, who had been attempting to read a simple Arabic passage aloud. Marco blushed. “The fertility of men…and women…How does it work? How can you…aid it?”

  Francisco took his time in answering. And when he did it was with a wry smile. “My experience has tended to be with people who wanted the pleasure, not the results, M’lord. There has been some writing on the subject, but I think most of it is worth less than the paper it is written on.” He put his beer down, and gave Marco a direct gaze. “Look…it’s typical for a man who wants an heir to blame his wife. But, well, you can’t grow crops if the seed isn’t good.” He looked Marco up and down. “But most of the lords I’ve heard of having this sort of trouble tended to be elderly and on the corpulent side, and fall into bed blind drunk, and then wonder why nothing happens or why the baby looks like their groom. You’re not a heavy drinker. What sort of exercise do you do, M’lord? I mean something that makes your heart race, and your chest heave, and your breathing rapid, not a stroll to the plaza.”

  The idea was rather odd to Marco. Military men trained at the arts of war. Other working people did what they had to do, be it pole a barge or carry bales. But that was really not something the masters or the mistresses of the Casa Vecchi did. One walked sometimes. Those that had estates outside the lagoon would go riding or hunting there. Some would go and fence in a salle. But none of these had really appealed to Marco. “I can’t really think of anything. I walk a little.” The only other exercise he could think of doing wasn’t having the desired result.

  Francisco nodded, as if he had expected something of the sort. Venice was not the sort of city that leant itself to vigorous exercise. “Well, maybe you should consider doing something. You’re starting a little pot-belly, M’lord. A really brisk walk or something at least a few times a week. I like to ride or run, myself. I go across to Chioggia twice a week. More often would be better, but that is all that is practical right now.”

  The agents of the Council of Ten had actually told Marco about Francisco’s “excursions,” finding them worrying and strange. It was nice to have that mystery cleared up, although Marco doubted the Council of Ten would grasp the idea very easily. Now that he thought about it, he remembered Kat had telling him that Francesca used to walk briskly for exercise every day. He’d thought it odd then. Maybe it wasn’t so odd, after all.

  “The body is all part of one machine, M’lord. Making one aspect stronger may stir the juices in another.”

  “Running?” Marco asked. “Really?”

  “It’s useful. If I’d been faster at it once…well, that was long ago. As a boy I was entered into foot races by my father. He bet on me, so he made me practice, and I discovered that I liked the exercise.” He shrugged. “Otherwise beer makes me fat. So that’s one idea. Perhaps both of you should get exercise, and sun, and air that does not stink of canal-water. It cannot hurt, and it might help. And the reality is, there are those women who do not have children. No matter how often they try, or with how many men. You might have to accept that, M’lord.”

  Well, that was disappointing. He’d hoped for a potion, or…well, something. Still. It was practical and easy, and as the man said, it would do no harm, this exercise.

  They went back to Marco’s attempts at reading, and, when that was done, Marco asked about something else that had been troubling him. He knew, by now, that Francisco had been a slave of the Barbary pirates for a time, and that was where he had acquired his linguistic skills and some of his medical knowledge. It was an area from which black Lotos was still smuggled into the lands to the north. And not two days ago he’d been called to help with a woman deep in the hallucinations the drug could cause.

  “Black lotos…did you ever have to treat anyone with addiction to it?”

  “No. I have seen a few, over in Icosium,” said Francisco. “Until I started teaching I spent my time with mercenary companies, M’lord. There are drunks, in mercenary companies, but not many with such expensive tastes. That’s for the nobility. And a mercenary company doesn’t keep such men, anyway. Drink is one thing, but black lotos? Makes a man useless for fighting. I know of no drug that would stop men craving drink, and I doubt if there is one that’ll stop them craving lotos. Only desiring to do so more than desiring the drug can do that. And that, m’lord, is a truly powerful desire.” He rubbed his nose. “Mind you, we did have a bombardier once. The drink was the death of him in the end…but the condottiere needed him in the siege. He was a genius with cannon and a fool with burned-wine. We kept him going by giving him just enough. While he was in that state you’d hardly know he was enslaved to the stuff…except he’d do anything to get more.”

  Marco sighed. “I was hoping there’d be something in the Arabic medicine books.”

  “There is no easy way out of it, M’lord,” said Francisco sympathetically. Clearly he wondered why Marco was asking—and clearly, he was not going to ask.

  “I’ve heard the ink cap—you know, the mushroom, can make a man dislike alcohol, or rather alcohol dislike the man.” Marco offered that in hopes that it might trigger a similar memory.

  Francisco chuckled a little. “Ah. Tippler’s bane. Makes them feel as if they had the hangover to end all hangovers. But I’ve no knowledge of it working on anything else.” He shook his head. “And it doesn’t stop a man wanting to drink, just stops him from keeping it down. When it comes to a man’s addictions, m’lord, whether it be drink or gold, there is never an easy answer.”

  * * *

  Maria watched how tenderly Kat held Alessia. The tentativeness had gone now, and there was…almost a hunger in the way she looked at the child. She didn’t want to ask—but really, she didn’t need to. She’d seen the same hunger in other would-be mothers coming to worship at the shrine of the mother. The difficult part would be talking about it. Not that Kat wouldn’t want to talk; Maria knew that, she could feel it—perhaps yet another gift of the Mother, that she could tell these things now. Just…the problem was, how to start.

  At least she could be sure Katerina would give Alessia real love, not in the Casa Vecchi style of handing the child over to a nurse to care for. So when she went to the Underworld, as she must, her baby would not just be in good hands, but in the best. A little of her ever-present anxiety eased. Kat would be as much a mother to Alessia as if Maria herself was there. Kat would keep her safe.

  Besides, no one could ever imagine Marco Valdosta mistreating a child; the very opposite, in fact. To judge by their first few days in Venice, Alessia was going to be a thoroughly spoiled little girl, pampered by everyone from Milord Lodovico to the lowest chambermaid. Marco was already talking about hiring some extra servants. Some people of real quality, he’d said. Well, she’d have to
meet them first. If there was time…She knew Aidoneus would find her anywhere. There was no point in running away. Anyway, that was her bargain, and she’d stand by it.

  Marco came in, fresh from his language lesson with what Maria guessed to be an ex-soldier, who was apparently teaching him to read Arabic script. The idea of learning to read not only another language, but other letters made Maria’s head hurt. Her grasp of the ordinary alphabet, which started late, had been hard enough, although it had grown easier with practice, to the point where it was no longer an effort to read Kat’s letters, even it was still a labor replying to them. His arrival did put the damper on speaking to Kat about fertility…and the mother-goddess. Men were entirely too sensitive about these things. Or squeamish. Besides, he might take it all too personally. Most men would be inclined to blame their wives; Marco would be inclined to blame himself.

  “Francisco has persuaded me I have to do more exercise,” said Marco cheerfully, picking up Alessia. “I am getting fat.”

  “You are not!” said Kat, flying to his defense. “You were too thin before.”

  Privately, Maria agreed with both of them. Marco had been too thin, back in the old bad days, but now…the good life was perhaps a bit too good. He was getting soft.

  Not like Benito. Benito was and would always be a restless soul, who found it difficult to sit still and who enjoyed fencing with his arms-master, or chasing game on foot in the rugged folds around Pantocrator when he could get away from his desk. And he’d throw himself into doing anything physical. Marco wasn’t like that, which probably made him more peaceful to sleep next to, but also was likely to turn him into one of those round little scholars with white hands like a woman.

  Marco wagged his head at his wife. “No, I think he is right. And I’ve made up my mind I have to do something. For…reasons. Anyway, my problem is just what to do. Even taking a walk is impossible. People want to talk to me. The agents of the Council of Ten surround me. We both know I am a disaster at poling a boat. Dancing…no. And I really do not enjoy fencing. What do you suggest?”

  “We could go over to the old villa on the mainland and you could ride. We could both ride, together.” Kat actually sounded as if, now that idea had been broached, she thought she might enjoy that.

  “Isn’t that the horse getting the exercise?” asked Marco with a smile.

  “No,” said Benito from the doorway. “Trust me on this one, brother. I would rather spend all day climbing ratlines, than spend an hour in the saddle. Or in my case, on and off the saddle. Perdition! A horse is a thing created by the devil, I swear.”

  “Benito! Have you finished with the admiral?” said Maria, running to him.

  Benito grinned evilly, hugging her. “I think I have nearly finished him off, yes. So I decided to spend some time with my wife and baby, while I still could. If I can ever get either of them away from my brother and his wife.”

  Chapter 19

  Constantinople

  The narrow waters of the Bosphorus had seemed like a refuge. The admiral of Eastern Fleet had relaxed when they had entered them, with the wooded bluffs seeming like shields.

  Now, with the sunset red-hazed by the smoke hanging in the still sky above Constantinople’s walls, Lemnossa realised that it was no sanctuary. The great chain was being raised—you could hear the huge windlasses creak and rattle in the Megalos pyrgos in the Galata citidel even from here, a good mile away. It was, in these almost windstill evening conditions, too late to flee. They were trapped in the Golden Horn anchorage. It did not look good.

  Normally the little oared lighters and schifos pulled out from the shore like flies as the fleet sailed in, toward the wharves below the Venetian quarter. Not this time. All that approached was a solitary Byzantine Empire fusta, which rowed to the admiral’s flagship. The officer who climbed up onto the Great Galley plainly had no love for Venice or the Venetians. His bow was a bob, so perfunctory as to border on an insult, and he certainly was not going to salute the admiral. “You are to provide us with your manifests. Charges to the value of half your cargo will be levied before your vessels are allowed to proceed.”

  Admiral Lemnossa sighed. “What’s your name, son?”

  “It’s of no concern to you. And I am no son of yours, old man. Those are orders from the emperor Alexis himself.”

  “They’re also a direct breach of the Treaty of Tarsus that your emperor is signatory to. So, if they’re his orders you’d better bring us proof of it, signed and with the Byzantine Imperial seal, or when the Venetian fleet arrives your emperor is likely to offer fulsome apologies, offers of restitution and your head on a platter. And if you didn’t know that you’d have been happy to give me your name and style,” said the admiral, calmly.

  The calmness jarred the young officer briefly, but his bombast and arrogance re-asserted themselves. “The emperor repudiates the terms of Tarsus. You have until sundown tomorrow to comply, or the cannon on the wall will be brought to bear on your vessels.”

  * * *

  Under the circumstances Lemnossa decided that they would be wisest to lie off, rather than come in to the quays. They were still under the guns of the city and of Galatea—just off the Venetian quarter, and the little quays in the bay they would normally have made for. A little later a small boat came over from the Genovese Fleet. Lemnossa took a look at the Genovese Captain Di Tharra, and held up a hand. “Wine first.” The captain’s face was the color of the purple-red of the wine from the vineyards of Masceron.

  The captain tossed it off in a masterful fashion, and did look a fraction the better for it. He was plainly near incandescent, still.

  “The testa di cazzo wants half our cargo. Half! He said as we sailed in here with Venetians, we could be treated like them.” He looked enquiringly at his host. “I assume…?”

  “Yes,” said Lemnossa.

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Di Tharra.

  Lemnossa ground his teeth. “Pay, I expect. I do not expect my crews or my officers are going to be very happy to do so. But we’re not in the best of positions to refuse. We’ll need guarantees, though.” He jerked a thumb at the walls of Constantinople. “Alexis must need the money desperately or he’d have tried sinking the fleet anyway. We’re trapped and while we could inflict quite some damage it’s obvious we’re not equipped for war but for trade. That won’t be the same next time we come to Constantinople. He must know these vessels will be turned against him, and that this must mean war.”

  The captain nodded. “The duke of Genoa is going to be, shall we say, spitting hellfire. We negotiated a trade-treaty with the emperor Alexis only last year!”

  “He may have acquired other allies since then,” said Admiral Lemnossa, thinking that the pieces fitted all too obviously and well. He just had to hope the Ilkhan Mongols were not part of the scheme.

  The Genoese captain snorted. “Alexis? They must have a rare taste for incompetence and treachery.”

  Lemnossa nodded. “They will pay him back in kind, at least with the treachery, of course. But Alexis has never been able to see that far into the future. Today is far enough for him.”

  “Which brings us to what we do tomorrow, M’Lord. We cannot stand off against the fortress on our own. And if we do somehow break through the chain, we still have the Hellespont.”

  “So we will pay up. Alexis is correct on this one. More and we might have baulked and taken our chances. We can try to negotiate. of course.”

  They sat and talked, trying to find an alternative and not succeeding. Night fell and a seaman came to interrupt them. “Admiral, there is a man to see you. He’s just come from the Venetian quarter with a message from the ambassador, he says.”

  Admiral Lemnossa looked at his Genoese guest. Shrugged. They were in trouble together. “Bring him up.”

  “I could leave, M’lord.”

  “I’d probably just have to get someone to row me over to your vessel to tell you about it.”

  The man who came up was a fair
ly hard looking fellow, who walked like a sailor, not like the messenger of an ambassador. He handed over a sealed parchment. “Had to come down the wall on a rope, M’lord. Signor Porchelli is bit old for it.”

  “Can we take a few hundred men back that way and go and hang the emperor in his own throne-room?” asked the Genoese captain.

  The messenger did not take it as a jest. “No, M’lord. We had to bribe the guards on the wall to let me get up there. There are some schifos tied alongside the quays and I took a small one, muffled the oars, and rowed out here. The Venetian quarter is sealed off. Guards on the outside, barricades in the streets. We’re expecting trouble. It’s been building up for a while. The emperor blamed it on the demoi—the street-gangs. The blues, the reds and greens…but it’s more than that. We were told the guards were for our safety, but they don’t stop them. It’s us they’re guarding, stopping people defending themselves and stopping us escaping, or at least escaping with any of our goods.”

  “Do you mind if I read this, Captain?” asked Lemnossa, cracking the seal.

  “Of course not, Admiral.”

  Lemnossa reflected that a few cannonballs and pirates, and the emperor Alexis had done more for Venetian-Genovese relations than a hundred years of diplomacy had. The letter was brief and to the point: the Venetian merchants in the city had suffered depredations and violence, and if reliable informants were to be believed, crippling taxation was about to be enforced on them. As the Venetian quarter was Venetian territory, that was not something that it had been subject to before: a fact that embittered a series of emperors. The ambassador had approached the emperor on hearing that the fleet was in the Bosphorus, as to opening the wall-gates to allow normal trade. He had been lucky to escape with his life. The fleet must proceed without delay to Venice and lay these matters before the Senate and the Doge. The city lacked as adequate a defense as it might have, as there was a revolt underway in the Opiskon theme, the region that faced onto the Hellespont. Once the ships had passed Constantinople, they were unlikely to be interfered with.