The Walls of Byzantium (48 page)

Mamonas cursed silently. Despite the blockade, any further pirate raids on the south of the island had been expressly forbidden by the Sultan on pain of the bowstring. Meanwhile the Genoese were consolidating their hold. He would need time to think before his meeting with the Doge.

He stopped and turned to the factor. ‘Please go and thank Signor di Vetriano for his courtesy. My son and I will walk to the Arsenale.’

An hour later, the two men were walking across the Piazza San Marco. The square was full to bursting point and they were jostled as they walked. There were the booths of trade guilds collecting their dues, shipmasters recruiting crews and the perennial tourists, money changers, souvenir sellers and those of nobler rank, black-gowned and heavy with brocade. It was alive with dialect and the scents of several continents and it was, for Pavlos, close to paradise.

This was where the Mamonas family belonged. This was where an empire, built from alum and wine but now encompassing much, much more,
should
have its headquarters.

But what of my heir?

Pavlos glanced across at Damian, struggling to keep up, his head dipping with the drag of a foot.

They say Temur is lame
.

The Arsenale of Venice was, undoubtedly, one of the great wonders of the world. Surrounded by two miles of stout walls, it contained the secret of Venetian power and it was a secret jealously guarded. The walls were patrolled by crossbowmen and
today their red and white striped jerkins were spotless and their breastplates polished to a blinding sheen.

They, and the other sixteen thousand
arsenalotti
, were to receive their doge.

In fact he was already there. Standing in front of the ranks of his guard, the
excusati
, was the sixty-third of that office: Antonio Venier, His Most Serene Prince the Doge, Duke of Dalmatia and Istria and, to the eternal shame of every Byzantine, Lord of a Quarter and a Half-Quarter of the Roman Empire. He was a tall man of erect and patrician bearing who looked born to rule such an empire. A man of seventy-two years, with an enigmatic mouth, prominent nose, sallow skin and contempt in his eye. A man of implicit control whose only unruly feature was a beard of some bushiness.

A man unlikely to mire himself in the sweaty friction of trade.

And yet here he was, in his ermined cloak and long, Byzantine robes, grave and aquiline, the pragmatic master of a pragmatic empire. He bowed very slightly to the Mamonas couple; if he was pleased to have escaped the confines of his palace, they weren’t to know it.

Father and son had seen this man before and they’d been ignored. Now he opened his arms to them.

‘Welcome, Pavlos. And you, Damian. What a pleasure it is to welcome you back to Venice, which I hope, like me, you regard as home.’ He stepped forward and raised the older Mamonas to his feet by the elbow. ‘Come, no kneeling! We are a republic and all men are equal.’

Pavlos Mamonas rose. He remembered a room in the Doge’s palace where maps on the walls told of a trading power greater than any the world had yet seen. He remembered a Carpaccio
lion with its feet both on land and water signifying sovereignty over two empires. He remembered kneeling before a man who didn’t know his name.

‘We must talk as friends, Pavlos,’ the Doge continued in his
basso
voice, turning and leading them up the steps and into the building. ‘And we must talk where we shall not be overheard.’

They walked the length of a chequered hall and came to a vast door guarded by stone men with fish scales for armour and tridents for weapons. Opening it, the Doge brought them into a tall room, panelled with oak and red damask and lined with candle sconces and the portraits of former Doges. There was a row of high windows on one wall, all of which had been shuttered. Models of galleys and barges stood on plinths below the portraits and a scale model of the complex of boatyards, slipways and factories that made up the Arsenale occupied a wide table at one end. At the other end, a colossal fireplace burnt logs the size of trees. They were alone.

The Doge walked over to the model of the Arsenale and pretended to examine it.

‘
One makes his vessel new, and one recaulks

The ribs of that which many a voyage has made;

One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,

This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,

Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen …
’

His murmured words faded and he looked back at the Mamonases. He removed his cloak and set it down on a map chest. He beckoned to them.

‘Come over, please. Not to hear any more Dante, I promise. No, I want to show you a secret.’

The two men walked the length of the room. The model of the Arsenale was presented at thigh level and was a mass of shadow. The Doge went over to the wall and took a candle from its sconce.

‘This is our secret,’ he said softly, lifting the candle high above the buildings and cradles and canals. The Arsenale was a city within a city. ‘No one, not even the members of the Great Council, is permitted to know how this miracle of human ingenuity is arranged. That is why the windows are shuttered and will remain so.’

The Doge spoke in a whisper. He spread an arm above the scene like a man throwing seed. ‘Look at it. It is a revolution. At any one time there may be fifty galleys within its walls in different stages of production, from great galleys to
rembate
. We’re even building round ships for the Genoese now. See how we use these canals to bring the boats to the workers rather than the other way round? It’s a form of industry seen nowhere else in the world.’

He paused and looked across at the two Greeks. ‘They tell me that in ten years we will be building a ship a day. Imagine that … a ship built every day of the year!’

Pavlos thought of the antiquated boatyards north of Monemvasia. The fastest they’d ever built a ship in was five months.

‘And, of course,’ the Doge went on, ‘our method of building from the frame first means we use much less wood. That is good for the city’s purse and the poor trees of our Montello hills.’ He pointed at a building. ‘This is the largest rope factory in the world, this a
cannello
for lifting boats from the water and this’ – he looked up at them – ‘is where we make
cannon under the expert eye of gun casters from Budapest and Ragusa.’

They peered down at a part of the model constructed of newer wood. It was a long building and had tall chimneys at one end.

‘Here we are making bombards and culverins and ribaudekins and
pots-defer
.’ He stroked the roof of the building with his fingers. ‘And of course cannon to go on ships.’ He looked up at the two Greeks. ‘And now, it seems, we are persuaded to make cannon big enough to bring down the walls of Constantinople. There is no one else the Sultan can go to for these cannon. But of course you know this.’

Hat in hand, Pavlos Mamonas suddenly felt at a disadvantage. He left the model and walked over to the largest of the model ships, a gorgeous thing of swirling gold, canopied stern and long banks of oars poised like spiders’ legs. He turned to the Doge, pointing at the model. ‘Every year, Your Serenity throws a ring into the sea from this floating palace. The Romans called the sea
Mare Nostrum
, and it was truly theirs. But it’s not your sea yet and nor will it be unless the Sultan allows it.’

The Doge smiled. He walked over to the model of his barge, the
bucintoro
, and stooped to look carefully along the lines of miniature oarsmen. ‘There are no slaves in Venice,’ he said calmly. ‘Every man in the galley is a volunteer. We part the sea because we want to and it is our strength.’

‘And yet the Rialto parades slaves daily. It seems you exercise your tyranny by proxy.’

‘Ah,’ said the Doge looking up. His smile was glacial. ‘Now that’s a good word. Most apt.’ He placed the candle on the plinth beside the barge. ‘Signor Mamonas, we are a merchant nation and cannot afford to take sides. We are unique among
nations: half eastern, half western; half land, half sea; poised precariously between Christendom and the lands of the Prophet and trading indiscriminately with both. We are a place of silk and velvet and soft fumigations and we are a place of hard porphyry and marble.’

His look was now sharp, the smile gone. ‘Above all, signore, we are pragmatic. We are like a hunting dog. We point to best advantage. Now, which of these sultans are we to deal with? The one ruling, or his heir?’

Pavlos Mamonas stood very still. The room was not cold but the skin beneath his doublet was pricked as if the lightest current of air had crept through the shutters. It was fear of course. He heard Damian shuffle behind him.

‘My son finds standing difficult,’ he said. ‘Will Your Serenity permit him to find a seat outside?’

‘Father—’

The Doge raised a hand. ‘I would insist,’ he said.

Damian stayed where he was. He looked from one to other of the older men.

‘Leave, Damian,’ said his father quietly.

The note of the heavy door shutting stayed with them for some time and, after it had subsided, there was no sound in the room except the crackle of the fire. Antonio Venier gestured towards it. ‘Shall we warm ourselves?’

Two chairs, not three, had been placed on either side of the fireplace. They were high-backed and padded with embroidered velvet. With a screen, it might have been a confessional.

Both men sat.

‘So which sultan is your master, signore?’ asked the Doge. ‘Is it Bayezid or Suleyman?’

Pavlos Mamonas suddenly wanted wine. His mouth was dry
and he needed something to do with his hands. He hoped they weren’t trembling.

He said, ‘The Sultan’s heir, Prince Suleyman, has been tasked by his father with the capture of Constantinople. There is division within the Sultan’s court as to where to go next for conquest. He leads the faction that would go west.’

The Doge nodded slowly, his old eyes alert above steepled fingers. ‘We know this. The philosopher Plethon has been in Venice for some time now. He argues that Venice is committing suicide by building ships and cannon for such a prince.’

Pavlos Mamonas sighed. He’d hoped that Plethon had left the city by now.

The Doge continued: ‘His case is strengthened with the offer of gold.’

‘Gold?’ asked Mamonas. ‘The Empire has no gold.’

‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. A young Greek has sent us a galley filled with mastic. Do you know the price mastic is fetching on the Rialto these days? It’s extraordinary.’

Pavlos shook his head slowly, his mind working.

A young Greek
.

‘But what is more extraordinary is that this Greek has instructed that the entire profit from the mastic go to Plethon to use in the service of the Empire. So I now have a counteroffer for my cannon.’ The Doge furrowed his brow. ‘Difficult.’

Pavlos Mamonas asked, ‘Am I permitted to know the name of this generous Greek?’

‘His name is Luke Magoris. He is from your city of Monemvasia. You may know him.’

‘And he is here in Venice?’

‘Alas no. He was captured by pirates and taken to Prince Suleyman’s camp at Constantinople. We don’t know why.’

Where Zoe is
.

Pavlos Mamonas took a deep, but silent, breath. The feeling of unease that had entered him since leaving his factory on Murano had suddenly strengthened.

But the Doge hadn’t finished. ‘Then there’s this crusade,’ he said. ‘They say that Burgundy has emptied his considerable coffers to put a vast force into the field. An unbeatable force.’ He paused. ‘Again, difficult.’

Pavlos Mamonas was only half listening now. Part of his mind was considering what he’d just discovered about Luke Magoris and the implications of telling Suleyman that he’d not get his cannon. Of Suleyman telling Bayezid. He felt ill.

But, he thought, I am here. If the Doge’s mind is made up, why is he talking to me?

He decided to be direct. ‘What do you want?’ he asked quietly.