Rogue Sword (16 page)

Emperor Andronicus was bargaining too, but more frantically. His bad faith and the corruption which had gutted his treasury found their punishment as he tried to negotiate the withdrawal of the Catalans. They insisted that all prisoners be set free without ransom, that their arrears of pay be made up in honest currency, and that the ships captured with de Entenza be given back. Certain of their power, they added a demand that he pay them for all booty they would be unable to carry away! The Emperor groaned. Peacock-feather fans cooled the royal brow as he sipped a restoring beaker of lemonade. Could Genoa, the century-old ally of his dynasty, offer any hope?

Genoese traffic was indeed moving through the Boca Daner. So was that of other nations. The military republic of the Catalans was shrewder than to antagonize foreign powers by attempting an impossible blockade of Constantinople. Rather, they--Muntaner especially--wished to attract ships to their own port. And ships came, drawn like flies to the wealth now stuffed in Gallipoli. Many men aboard those vessels stayed, not only adventurers to join the army but merchants to establish factories. These were chiefly Catalans; but Castilian, Frenchman, Venetian, German, Jew, Moor and Turk also saw their opportunity. As had been foreseen, a number of Greeks even dared return, to form an oppressed class of servitors. Life flowed anew in Gallipoli, a hectic, lawless, many-colored life in which Lucas and Violante often sought amusement. This trade created a need for his skills, both with languages and with accounts. The grandeur of the Company was founded on the unspectacular organizing toil of men like Muntaner and himself.

Thus the summer wore away.

In September, a new full-scale expedition was mounted. Greedy for gold, fanatic in their faith, the Catalans still kept one desire that overpowered all others, to get revenge for Roger di Flor. It had pleased them greatly to hear that the Alans had quit the ill-paid, incompetently led Imperial service and had begun plundering on their own account. But the Company did not therefore forget that George, the Alan chief, had wielded the knife which struck down the Caesar. Now word came that his tribe, nine thousand horse and foot with their families in tow, were trekking northward to serve the King of Bulgaria. If they could not be overtaken, they would soon pass out of reach.

The Catalans moved all their own women and children and treasures back to Gallipoli, which was more defensible by a small garrison than Rhedestos. That garrison was assigned almost at spearpoint, so reluctant were they to stay. Muntaner, their commander, insisted on a third share of booty for them, and said it was little enough compensation. Nonetheless, the night after the army marched forth, a part of his men decided to follow. Muntaner avoided mutiny only by giving them leave to go, on condition they pay half their gains to the seven knights who remained with him. Besides these, who stayed chiefly from personal loyalty, Gallipoli was now in the care of a hundred and thirty-two foot, some being seamen and some Almugavares.

“And so I remained,” he wrote, “badly provided with men and well provided with women, for, altogether, there remained with me over two thousand women, one with another.”

That news was quick to reach Constantinople.

Lucas entered his house. Two doormen bowed to the tiles. Two footmen removed his flame-colored cloak and bonnet. “Do the master and his lady wish to dine at the usual hour?” asked the major-domo, as if his salvation depended on the answer.

“No,” said Lucas. “I’ve had a hard day’s work. The devil with eating in state.”

“But Despotes, my noble lady said--”

“I’ll change my noble lady’s mind. Prepare food, but I may want it brought to the boudoir. Fetch a flagon of red Cyprian wine, with two goblets. Jump! I’m thirsty, I tell you!” Lucas made a pretense of drawing his sword. The major-domo turned white and scuttled backward. Lucas was instantly sorry. He didn’t want to abuse his Greeks. A man often forgot how a rough jest affected those who had lived through horror.

Well, there were other things to think about. He strode over Persian carpets to a marble staircase, and thence along a second-floor hallway whose windows overlooked a garden of nearly Arabian intricacy. The sky was purple overhead, the first stars twinkling forth in the east. A slave went by, lighting bracketed lamps. Too big a house, he thought for the hundredth time; too silent; we creep about in all this stolen wealth like mice. But if she wants to dwell thus, let her.

It was easier to give way to Violante than to suffer curses and blows and glassware thrown at his head--though surrender often left her cold toward him. But then he would grow angry in his turn, and suddenly she offered him a purring, teasing, endlessly inventive body. He could seldom predict her; sometimes her darker moods frightened him. Her lighter ones, though--He increased his pace.

A boy was on hand with the wine when he reached the bedroom door. They went through together. Violante was lying back among cushions on a couch, while one slave girl brushed her hair and two others trimmed her nails. The boy’s eyes popped, for she had just come from the bath and was not yet dressed. She paid him no more heed than any other domestic animal. A reddening went up her skin, however, as she saw Lucas. “You know I am not to be disturbed when preparing for dinner,” she said coldly.

“But you aren’t.” He began to unlace his doublet. “We’ll not trouble with dining like
richs homens
this evening.”

She sat up straight. “What do you mean, you son of a merchant?” The movement caught one girl by surprise, so that her manicure scissors scratched milady’s hand. Violante twisted about with an obscene oath, caught the girl’s hand, took the scissors and raised them to stab. Before they had pierced the slave’s skin--she was only about twelve years old--Lucas was across the room and had grabbed them. He threw them aside.

“Go,” he said. “All of you.” The attendants scampered out.

Violante damned him, struggling to rise. He held her down by one shoulder. “See here,” he declared, “we’ve had this trouble before. My patience is at an end. The servants are to be treated as human beings. D’you hear me?”

“You dung-clod--!”

“Be still! If you want to dine in the banquet hall, you’ll dine alone. God’s teeth, I’m tired and worried and I want to take my rest!” Violante broke free and rose, hissing in her fury. He put a foot behind her ankles and flipped her down on the couch again without effort. “Remember,” he said, “I’m quite able to kill you.”

It was spoken heedlessly, and at once he wished it unsaid. But before he could beg forgiveness, the tensed muscles seemed to melt. A smile as warm as any he had ever had from her quivered forth upon the full, softening lips. She sat up, but slowly and meaningfully, throwing back her loosened hair with a motion that lifted her breasts toward him.

“Your pardon,” she breathed. “I didn’t understand. I, too, was on edge. Of course we’ll do as you wish.” Confused, about himself as much as about her, and trying to cover the fact, he turned his back and poured out the wine.

“I simply want to drop stiff garments and courtly manners for once,” he explained: “have a long drink and be nothing except myself.”

“I hope you aren’t
too
weary,” she insinuated.

He slipped off his doublet and shoes. When he brought back the goblets, Violante had thrown a robe over her nakedness, but it was loosely sashed. She accepted a glass, regarded him above the edge, and lowered it untasted. She was not without perception.

“You are in a fret,” she said. “Sit down. Tell me. Has there been trouble with those Genoese?”

“More than trouble.” He let himself into a chair and drank deep of his own wine. Violante came around behind him and brushed his chestnut hair with her hands.

“I fear there’s going to be a hard battle,” he said. “Again? Are any left who dare stand against the Grand Company?”

“But the Company isn’t here.”

Her sleeking fingers paused, then resumed. “Tell me the whole story,” she said in a man’s brisk tone. “From the beginning. I knew En Ramon was treating with some insolent Genoese, but paid no heed.”

“That’s all I told you, for it seemed unimportant at first. Yesterday’s talking revealed what an ominous turn this is, but I stayed so late at the conference of our captains--I being the record keeper--that you were asleep when I returned. Today--”

Violante began massaging his neck. He took another large draught, leaned back a trifle more at ease, and said: “Now we’ve learned that full eighteen Genoese galleys under Ser Antonio Spinola reached Constantinople on a mission of state not long ago. Great ships, each holding over a hundred fighting men. Hearing that our force is not in Gallipoli, Spinola got splendid terms from the Emperor if he can take this city.

“So he came here in two ships and defied us.” Lucas grinned. Wine and the woman’s hands were soothing him, restoring his humor. “I must say his challenge was a resounding one. He commanded us and told us, in the name of the Commune of Genoa, to get out of their garden, meaning the Empire of Constantinople, which was the garden of the Commune of Genoa; otherwise if we did not get out, that he defied us in the name of the Commune of Genoa and of all the Genoese in the world. Our answer was a soft one, but he repeated his demand and we repeated our refusal, and so it went back and forth, with all the formalities, public letters being delivered of each challenge and each reply.

“Well, Spinola had our final word today. Old Muntaner told him--ah, you Hispanics!--we had come here in the name of God, and to exalt the Holy Catholic Faith; and required him in the name of the Holy Father, and in the names of the King of Aragon and the King of Sicily, to join us against that treacherous schismatic, the Emperor. If he would not help us, he must not hinder, or God would see that we were innocent of any bloodshed that might ensue, for we were only defending ourselves.”

“Why are you laughing?” asked Violante, startled.

“I could never explain to a Catalan,” said Lucas. “Spinola is now bound back,” he continued after a while. “He vowed to return with his full complement. They can get here well before Rocafort learns of our plight and sends help.”

Her grasp tightened on him. “The more glory for us!”

As if that arrogance were a magic formula, Lucas felt the wine take hold of him. His forebodings vanished. There were still a few days before anything happened. By all the demons of Tartary, he wouldn’t waste them in fear! The Grand Company was invincible! He emptied his glass, set it on the floor, and reached around to pull Violante down on his lap.

“Lucas! What are you doing?”

“Haven’t you noticed?”

She frowned and resisted him. Her fond mood of a few minutes past was gone, overwhelmed by an ardor for war. “Not yet,” she muttered. “I want you to tell me about our battle plans, and--”

He slipped a hand inside her robe. “Later. After the more important matters are off my mind.”

“How dare you say such a thing?” He saw her temper kindling and said:

“I dare say much. For instance, a sonnet in the Italian form.”

“What?” Completely taken aback, she stopped resisting him.

“For you, my lady. A poor tribute, but the best I could.”

“Me? But . . . but no one ever--” Her blush could have been a maiden’s. “Oh, Lucas!”

“In other times I played the troubadour,
Or thought I did, like any lovesick youth,
And for my lady’s sake let fancy soar
On flashing-feathered wings above dull truth.
By foam-born Venus foamily I swore
That in my love of her was naught uncouth,
But ’twas her heart and soul I did adore,

Those beauties which we know defy time’s tooth.

“The devil now may have such dreary bliss!
Your mortal self is what has made me blest.
Your shining eyes, deep riches of your hair,
The springtime drunkenness within your kiss,
The lovely upward surging of your breast,
Soft skin, round hip, slim leg--these things are fair.”

“Oh, my darling! You . . . you’ll have me weeping for joy--How can I please you? What would you have me do? Anything you desire!”

The Catalan version made the eighth language in which he had rendered his poem. All translations had been equally successful.

On a Saturday, about the hour of vespers, Lucas looked down at the Genoese fleet. He whistled. “Twenty-five of them, Micer! The Emperor must have added seven of his own to Spinola’s command.”

“Seven or seven hundred, it’s as nothing in the sight of God,” said En Ramon Muntaner. But he squinted toward them with a soldier’s eye, observing and calculating.

At this point, the seaward walls of Gallipoli rose above rugged slopes. Some distance off, the Catalans had followed their custom of erecting a barbacana, a lower wall, to serve as first line of defense and help cover any retreat. This was a wooden stockade, but strong and well designed, its top breast-high above a scaffolding where the defenders would stand. Beyond, the earth rolled on down to the beaches. The strait lay like burnished steel against brown Asiatic hills. The galleys came rowing to their selected anchorage: long, full-bellied craft, high in bow and stern, sails furled but pennons vivid at the mastheads. Their decks swarmed with men.

“Might we send out fireships?” wondered an esquire.

“My goose is talking,” snorted Lucas. “What wind have we? Let’s pray they don’t come in and burn our ships at dock.”

“If they wish to do so, why, that’s where we’ll fight them,” said Muntaner. “But they’d scarcely be such fools. Our catapults and ballistae cover the harbor.” He slapped his hard horseman’s thigh. “Come, we’ve work to do.”

The Genoese promptly began assembling ladders and siege engines for an assault. All that night they could be heard at work. Lanthorns hung in the rigging made their ships a faerie spectacle, firefly hosts on blackly glimmering waters, but Lucas was too busy to grow homesick for the festivals of Cambaluc. He must follow the governor from point to point, readying all defenses.

Casks of wine and bowls of bread were set out in the streets, and whoever wished could eat from them, for the garrison could not spare men to keep a mess. Not only must extra weapons be stocked where they would be needed; physicians must also be put in readiness to aid the wounded, so these could return to battle at once. The Genoese habit was to shoot ceaselessly with the crossbow, so every Catalan was ordered to wear a good cuirass. It was not proof against a quarrel fired close by, but would protect from bolts nearly spent. Of armor the city had no lack.