The Sacred Scroll (14 page)

The city looked as if it were on permanent holiday. Gold and silver were everywhere in evidence, from the threads of the women’s dresses to the decoration of the staffs even men of quite modest rank carried. The colours of the garments worn, and of the awnings over shops and restaurants and even the studios of the craftsmen, were yellow and green and purple, and the city appeared to be in the grip of a great energy – everywhere, people were engaged in their activities, from doing business to having fun, with an intensity which staggered the more restrained Venetians.

Money passed freely from hand to hand, and if there were poor districts in the vastness of this capital of the East, they were well hidden. The streets were clean, and no unpleasant smells hid in them. Huge statues of bronze and marble graced the broad squares, figures of the saints and Our Lady, huge ornate crosses, as well as groups depicting heroes of Ancient Greece – discus throwers and wrestlers, runners and javelin-throwers, as well as a
mighty Herakles, and a Bellerophon riding Pegasus. Four magnificent horses dominated the entrance of the hippodrome, where crowds thronged at the thrice-weekly race meetings.

The worst you could say was that the scent of perfume sometimes hung too heavily in the air, and the interior of the churches was equally heavy with incense. In the city centre, two mighty buildings presided over the glittering press of people and buildings: the white wedding-cake of the Boucoleon and the brooding, vast basilica of Hagia Sofia, to the north of which stood the more discreet city mosque.

The immense and overwhelmingly ornate Palace of Boucoleon was a place designed to strike awe into the heart of the proudest foreign visitor, with its doors of pure cedar and its locks and bolts and fittings – even the humblest gutter – all of gold or silver. But Dandolo’s sharp eyes noticed cracks in the plasterwork here and there, or dust swept into a corner and not cleared; and if that was the case here, in the city’s golden heart, what else lay hidden which did not chime with the gaudy confidence the city exuded? Every place had its Achilles’ heel, just as every person did. Dandolo would make it his business to find it out. But he also saw that, as things stood, Constantinople was, from the point of view of a potential enemy like Venice, all but impregnable.

As a first step, he decided to cultivate the legation’s host, the silk merchant Tonso Contarini, who was living in his country palace just outside the Theodosian Walls, on his estate to the west of the city, while the Venetian legation occupied his town house, but he spent most of
his time at his offices, above which he maintained an opulent apartment.

Contarini, originally from Pisa, had lived so long in the Great City that his Greek and Arabic were now better than his Italian, which had a slightly old-fashioned edge. His slang was twenty or thirty years out of date.

He was about the same age as Dandolo but his dyed hair, makeup, and well-toned body belied his years, and his tanned hands and neck were bedecked with gold and turquoise necklaces and rings. Most of the remaining Italian expatriates had not gone so far in adopting Greek excess, but Contarini had lived here longer than any of them, and they viewed him as the father of the community. He had an open face which it was hard to imagine could possibly belong to the shrewd business mind that dwelt behind it. His pale-blue eyes seemed the very emblems of frank honesty.

He accepted Dandolo’s discreet overtures of friendship with an apparently open heart, and before long the two gave the impression of being inseparable companions, Contarini even offering his compatriot the run of his House of Women – another Greek custom he had adopted, which had in turn been adopted from Muslim friends and colleagues within the city.

Meanwhile, the Venetian and Greek diplomats remained cloistered in conference and deadlock. The Italians didn’t appear to have noticed, or, if they had, paid any attention to, the shipbuilding work going on in the long, broad inlet of the Golden Horn. Dandolo had not wasted time in organizing, from among his own men, five agents to roam the city and ferret out whatever information they
thought might be useful – from trade to internal politics to armaments. Five men in such a gigantic place was a tall order, and Dandolo, disguised, had secretly gone to the Horn himself, to make an estimate of the Greek naval force. He counted a hundred and fifty war-galleys in good fighting order, and many more which, by contrast, left a lot to be desired in their state of repair.

He would discuss the matter with Doge Vitale.

Contarini knew everyone, and arranged a dinner party in Dandolo’s honour, though nominally it was given for the doge. There were two hundred guests, mostly Greeks, but also Muslim business associates and the most important members of the legation, mingling with Greek generals, admirals and civil servants from the office of the Grand Vizier. In such a dazzling array of people, only the emperor himself was missing – but he was away on a hunting party in the country north of Galata, and it was, after all, an informal occasion.

Also present, Dandolo had noticed, was a handful of massive men from the far north, almost all of them red- or fair-haired. They wore their hair long and braided, and each man also wore a large, looping moustache, some also braided. Their earrings and pendants were of agate or amethyst with complex geometrical designs, and their bronze bracelets were carved with hunting scenes – wolves, bears, deer or boar baited by dogs, while the hunters stood nearby in thickets, ready with bows and short stabbing spears. Many of them wore slim gold or silver headbands. Their dress, despite the mild weather, was leather or fur jerkins and leather trousers tucked into soft boots. They kept themselves to themselves. Most of
them were already drunk, though the food had not yet been served.

‘Who are they?’ Dandolo asked his host.

Contarini cast an eye over them. ‘Ah. They are the chiefs of the emperor’s Varangian Guard.’

‘Unusual men.’

‘Yes. All from the far north. England and Scandinavia – places so cold and barren you need to be tough just to be born in them, let alone survive there.’

‘What are they doing here?’

‘Oh, they’ve been guarding the emperors here for generations. Some of this lot were born here, though you wouldn’t think it to look at them. They keep themselves to themselves and they have their own women. Newcomers flow in from the north, and every so often a shipload or two of new countrywomen of theirs, just to keep the bloodline fresh, is imported. They bring them down the River Dnieper in Rus, to the Black Sea, and then sail south to here.’

‘What brought them here?’

‘The usual. Business. Well, that’s why they came here in the first place, though the first Englishmen turned up about a hundred years ago, I’m told, after the North French invaded and took over their country. They couldn’t stand being ruled over by a bunch of Normans, so they emigrated to their friends in Scandinavia at first. Then they followed the long trade routes south from there, and those that didn’t find roots along the way, ended up in the Greek Empire.’

‘Do any of them speak Italian?’

‘No, but their officers speak Greek.’

A thought crossed Dandolo’s mind. ‘I’d like to meet them,’ he said.

‘You won’t find them easy,’ said Contarini, looking at his guest carefully.

‘Nevertheless …’

‘Don’t try to suborn even one of them,’ continued Contarini, with a lightness of tone which belied his insight. Dandolo stiffened inwardly. He’d thought he had Contarini on a string. He’d been wrong.

‘What do you mean?’ he said, laughing, and drinking his wine. ‘I’m just curious.’

‘They’re employed because of their loyalty. It’s unquestioning. And it’s directed towards the emperor. Only him.’

‘And if the emperor dies?’

‘Then they switch to the next emperor.’ Contarini spread his hands, and relaxed slightly. ‘It doesn’t matter if the new one’s a usurper. It doesn’t matter if the new emperor has murdered the last one to get where he is. If he’s successful, he gets the loyalty of the Varangians.’

‘Sounds like a weakness,’ said Dandolo. ‘Being able to switch your loyalty on and off, like that.’

‘Like the worst kind of woman,’ replied Contarini, with a laugh. ‘But seriously, their job is to protect the office of the emperor, not just any individual who holds it: so their allegiance is to the throne, if you like, rather than whoever happens to be occupying it at any one time.’ Contarini looked across at the knot of five Vikings, who stood in a bunch, detached from the gaudy and gossamer throng around them. Their noses seemed to pinch at the scent of rose petals, wine, spices and perfume that hung like an all but palpable veil over the vaulted, golden-walled hall in
which the party was being thrown. ‘There’s one, anyway,’ he continued, ‘who speaks good Greek and, now I come to think of it, even some Italian. He has an Italian mistress, a Pisan, a countrywoman of mine, here in the city. The other Varangians frown on that, but they’re generally an easygoing lot, among themselves. And to outsiders, well, they’re like hunting-dogs. Fierce, but, once you’ve got their trust, devoted to you. The problem is winning that trust in the first place.’

Dandolo followed his companion’s gaze. ‘Introduce me,’ he said.

Spring was dragging its feet towards summer. The Venetian legation had left three weeks earlier, with the faint makings of a truce in their hands, to return to Chios. Dandolo had warned Vitale of the incidence of plague in the fleet, and that it had been contained; but no more news had come from the island. Dandolo and his own men had stayed behind, to tie up loose ends, as he’d explained to Contarini, pretty sure that thus the news would reach Greek ears, but they themselves were due to leave the following week. The matter had become urgent.

‘I’m not happy,’ said Leporo. ‘We should have left by now.’

‘I know,’ replied Dandolo. ‘But it won’t be long.’

‘I don’t see why we couldn’t have left with the rest of the legation. It’s time we quitted this, this – Babylon.’ He looked around, into the shadows, fearful of hidden listeners.

Dandolo looked at him. ‘Unlike you to be so – how shall I say? – spiritual. I take it you refer to the Whore of Babylon when you liken this city to a den of vice?’ Dandolo shook his head. ‘This city is not a beautiful woman who entrances you, takes everything from you, and leaves you with nothing.’

‘My duties may include temporal ones,’ replied the Cistercian, ‘but first and foremost I am a man of God. This
city is nothing more than a cesspit. And it is exactly like a faithless whore.’

‘A very profitable one.’

Leporo shook his head impatiently. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘You mean,’ replied Dandolo evenly, ‘that it is less like a faithless and abandoned woman, than a place of danger for us.’

‘You place too much trust in Contarini.’

‘I place no trust in him at all,’ snapped Dandolo sharply. ‘But as long as I can use his friendship, I will.’

The Greek fleet had sailed only a matter of days after the departure of the legation. Its destination was secret, but it wouldn’t have taken a Pythagoras to work out where it was bound. Only diplomatic immunity – or the need to ensure that Venice got a report of the rout of the Venetians at Chios – had, Dandolo felt certain, spared Dandolo’s party from arrest. The Greeks would send him home as the bearer of bad news. They, no doubt, thought that their victory at Chios would be decisive. They were just as good mariners as the Venetians, and their fleet was bigger by thirty galleys.

His time had served him well, thought Dandolo. His men had gathered much useful information, and he would leave a network of contacts in the Italian community, men suborned by a mixture of money and the gentlest of hints concerning what might happen to their friends and families back home if they did not comply. Vitale already had some of the information, but not all. Dandolo didn’t want the doge to return to Venice with too many bargaining chips in his hand.

Dandolo had always been certain that the Greeks had no intention of holding to any truce, but would make all haste to send their fleet to Chios and drive the Venetians back westwards with their tails between their legs. Their navy was strong. On the other hand, their army was underfunded and undermanned. The Greeks felt themselves to be so strong that they could afford to neglect their defences. Another few years of that, he reflected, and Constantinople would be an apple ripe for the plucking.

Dandolo had never had any intention of rejoining the Venetian force at Chios, and agreed with Vitale that he should make his own way back to Venice, as soon as he had wound up his operations in the Great City. The plan was that Vitale would follow with the expeditionary force at the end of the summer, if the truce looked anything like holding.

But then news reached Dandolo which worried him greatly.

‘Somehow,’ Leporo reported to him one fine morning, ‘Emperor Manuel’s got wind of the fact that we’ve brought back some kind of powerful magic totem.’

Dandolo clasped the sleeve where he carried the scroll with him at all times now. That, the Greeks would never have. Though he didn’t yet know how to harness its power, he sensed it, instinctively and without question. It was his, but it possessed him as much as he owned it. He would die before he would be parted from it. It was almost, he felt, as if it had chosen him.

He shook himself. Superstition, he reflected, was cunning, baffling and powerful. If any magic that existed in
the tablet, surely it lay in a man’s ability to interpret and act on the information in the mysterious writing on it.

The tablet was valuable, of that he had no doubt, the more so since the Templars had tried to cheat him of it so violently, so desperately. He pressed it to his side with his arm, feeling its unnatural cold even through the heavy brocade of his gown.

The cold burned him.

But a nagging doubt ran through him. No sensible man would deny the force of the supernatural, after all – and the rational man would say that the supernatural was simply that which has not yet been discovered. Whoever had made the ‘scroll’ – and he didn’t believe that guff about the Devil – had been, surely, a rational being, aware of what he was doing.