The Lion of St. Mark
1
The Relief Fleet
1452
The sudden plunge into the cold gray sea had filled the youth with such terror he thought his heart would burst from his heaving chest.
Now, minutes later, he furiously worked his arms and legs as he struggled to ride up and over another mountainous wave. As he crested, needles of spray ripped from the sea by the howling wind stung his beardless face. Bone-penetrating cold was already sapping his strength--he had been in the frigid water for too long. As he struggled to ponder his fate, the cruel specter of death seeped into his thoughts, pushing any remaining hope of rescue from his mind.
Could it be? he thought. Have they really left me behind? Surely, someone must have seen me; heard my cries for help. He yearned for his two older brothers, Giovanni and Pietro, out there somewhere in the dark, beyond his reach. But too much time had passed since the lone flickering yellow lantern on the stern of the last ship had faded into the misty blackness. As the ships had passed him, one after another, no one on board could hear his pitiful cries for help as he desperately splashed his arms in the water, shouting vainly against the raging storm. Young Marco Soranzo was alone.
How wild the sea is, he thought, as another relentless wave crashed into his face, burning his nose and throat with its briny taste. Back in Venice, where the shimmering waters of the Grand Canal gently kissed the verystones of his family's stately palazzo, he had never imagined the sea could be so violent. Again, he strained his burning eyes to see a ship's lantern through the mist. He tried with all his might to will one to appear but none did. Marco no longer suffered from the seasickness that had driven him to disobey orders and sneak up onto the slippery deck, where the monstrous wave had surprised him as he was vomiting over the rail. Now, as he fought to stay afloat, his stomach was filled with the nausea of fear.
He had become no more than a piece of debris, gripped by the sea in all her power. He struggled to slowly turn in place as he surveyed his watery domain. Towering waves rolled by in the darkness, silhouetted against the misty sky, like grim executioners searching for their next victim. He thought about what it would be like to drown. He shuddered as he thought about being engulfed in a cold, black, silent coffin of water, with his heart still beating, while his mind struggled to deny the inevitability of his fate.
But where will I go when I am dead? Is the church right about salvation? Is there really life beyond death? Or is it a cruel fairy tale? What if there is nothing?
Suddenly, another wall of water crashed over him, this time driving him under with its terrible force. He instinctively fought his way back to the frothy surface as he coughed salt water from his lungs, gasping for a life-sustaining breath of air. He had reached the limit of his human endurance. He could not take any more pounding.
"I will choose my own time!" he vainly screamed at the relentless sea.
Finally, with his eyes and lungs burning and his heart broken, too cold to go on treading water, his exhausted body surrendered to the irresistible force of nature, dooming his still defiant mind, imprisoned within. As he recalled a few words of a simple prayer his mother had taught him, he slowly filled his lungs with one last deep draught of moist air. Then, with the roaring storm as his only requiem, in the final conscious act of his short life, young Marco Soranzo kicked his feet high above the waves and dove down into the dark, peaceful, eternal deep
Twice, they had searched the ship but they could find no trace of him. Coarse sailors and hardened marines vainly shouted Marco's name as though they were calling a lost dog. They stared into the familiar face of each shipmate they encountered, eerily illuminated by the dim lamplight. Some prayed aloud for Marco to appear while they silently cursed the bad luck that would surely befall the ship if he did not. Everyone knew it was a bad omen to lose a man overboard.
Thirty-one-year-old Antonio Ziani, captain of the ship's company of marines, was more concerned than anyone about the missing man. Marco Soranzo was one of his men--and just fifteen years old, with his whole life ahead of him. He had warned the seasick lad, several times, to remain below deck, sheltered from seas that were so heavy, even the surefooted sailors were forced to tether themselves to the rigging and railings whenever they were topside. One marine said he had seen the boy vomiting again, facedown in the bilge. Deathly ill, he had probably staggered up on deck for some fresh air to ease his misery and had lost his balance. The cause did not matter--he was lost at sea and nothing could bring him back now.
"We cannot take time to go back and search for young Soranzo," shouted Vice-Captain of the Gulf Gabriele Trevisan, above the roar of the storm. "Even if we could, we would never find him in this accursed weather. He is surely drowned by now."
As commander of the five Venetian ships, plowing their way through the Aegean Sea to the Venetian port city and naval base at Negropont, Trevisan was under strict orders to make all haste. That is why they were running with full sails--a dangerous maneuver in such a storm.
The light from the three-foot-tall iron sea lamp, swinging on the mast, made the saltwater droplets in Antonio's beard sparkle like stars in the night sky.
"I know, Gabriele," he replied, stoically, through the roaring wind and sheets of stinging spray that swept the deck.
At times like this he regretted the lonely responsibility of command. He had never liked visiting the families of men lost in battle or drowned at sea. This time, however, the task would be even more distasteful. Sailing in the ship astern of his were Captain Giovanni Soranzo and Lieutenant Pietro Soranzo. Antonio could only imagine their bitter reaction when they learned that Marco had perished. Worse, how would they react when they realized that they had sailed past the very spot where Marco had probably been swimming for his life, leaving him to drown? He wondered how he would react if he were told his own younger brother, Giorgio, had been lost at sea right under his nose?
The big merchant ship lazily strained at her anchor chain; barely rolling in the shimmering gray water. It feels good to be dry for the first time in days, thought Antonio, as he ran his fingers through his beard. Like many Venetians, his light brown hair and fair skin contrasted markedly with that of southern Italians from Rome and Naples.
He was a patrician, a nobile--a member of the ruling class of the Serene Republic of Venice--La Serenissima. Like his father, and all his fathers before him, Antonio's pride in his family's heritage was matched only by his devotion to the Republic. Every thought and action was driven by values purposefully and carefully instilled in him by his forebears. He was bound by honor, law, and custom to serve in any capacity the Republic deemed fit. If he refused, he could be fined, have his property confiscated, or even suffer imprisonment.
More than any other country in the world, Venice had fused rank and privilege with responsibility. The day he had first heard about the mission to go to Constantinople's defense he had volunteered for the dangerous undertaking. Only a coward, he reasoned, would wait to be ordered to go. Of the seven hundred Venetians on board the five ships, more than one hundred were nobili.
The voyage from Venice had been miserable in the rough, raw November weather. As he gazed across the tranquil harbor in the dim twilight, he fixed his steel-gray eyes upon Negropont's massive crenellated city walls. He welcomed the steady deck under his feet, afforded by the sheltered anchorage and the passing of the storm, as he studied the battlements. He wondered how Constantinople's compared to them.
Nagging thoughts of young Soranzo haunted him. He had not caused his loss, but the sense of responsibility he felt, as the boy's commanding officer, weighed heavily on him. Marco had not died a glorious death in battle--the ideal of every Venetian who went to war. Instead, his life had been wasted. Soon Antonio would have to face Marco's older brothers and tell them the tragic news. Most men would accept the boy's fate as the fortunes of war, but his gut told him that they would not. Captain Giovanni Soranzo was proud, uncompromising, and vindictive--the very qualities that, in war, made him such a formidable foe. Pietro, his other brother, he imagined would also be made of the same tough stock.
The House of Ziani and the House of Soranzo had been enemies ever since their grandfathers' joint business venture had collapsed into mutual recriminations more than forty years before. Then they had chosen not to resolve their differences in the courts. That only would have resulted in unacceptable compromise. Instead, they each sought to prevail in their rivalry by investing, trading, and manipulating as each battled to dominate and ultimately ruin the other. The fathers passed this legacy on to their sons.
The fleet had reached Negropont; on the island of Euboea, in under three weeks--faster than expected. Located between Athens and Constantinople, it would be their only stop on the voyage. Tomorrow, after reprovisioningwith food and fresh water, they would quickly depart on the final leg of their journey with the morning tide. Vice Captain Trevisan was not even going to take time to repair the damage caused by the storm.
As daylight faded, Antonio gazed across the harbor at the four other ships riding on their anchor chains with their crimson and gold flags hanging limply from the masts, like shrouds in the still evening air. He looked down at his feet and thought about the series of events that had placed him, at that moment, on the little square of wooden deck so far away from the comforts of the Ca' Ziani, his family's palazzo back in Venice.
Two years earlier the Byzantine emperor, John VIII, had died before he could convince his people that Constantinople, virtually all that remained of his Byzantine Empire, could not survive without support from the West. The West's resolve to honor an agreement it had solemnly made to help defend the city, in return for accepting Roman Church doctrine, died with him. His son, Emperor Constantine XI, was unable to improve the situation. Constantinople was now more vulnerable than she had been at any time since 1204. Then, crusaders on the way to the Holy Land, led by the blind doge of Venice, wily, old Enrico Dandolo, had sacked the city in a shameless display of greed that would forever stain the Republic's honor. But now, thought Antonio, Venice would redeem her honor and atone for her past sins by helping to defend the city.
As damaging as John's death had been to the Byzantine cause, a second death was far worse. The Ottoman Turkish sultan, Murad II, had died just after John VIII. With him died any hope of peace between the Byzantines and the Turks. His son, Muhammed II, had sworn to take the city. Just twenty-one, he was known to his subjects as Hunkar--"Drinker of Blood." On his accession, he immediately built a massive fortress, called "Cut-Throat Castle," on the western shore of the Bosphorus, just north of Constantinople.
Its powerful guns allowed him to stop and tax all shipping into and from the Black Sea--a major source of commercial traffic for the West. Venetian merchants with considerable trading interests there were outraged at his piracy.
Antonio had been present in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the Great Council Chamber, when news exploded into the room that the sultan had seized a Venetian ship that had tried to run his gauntlet without paying the tax. The sultan had beheaded the crew and impaled the brash captain alive on a wooden stake as a warning to others not to evade the toll. Antonio knew and admired the late Captain Rizzo and was sickened and enraged, as many Venetians were, at the sultan's wanton barbarity.
A motion to abandon the Byzantine capital to her fate was quickly defeatedin the Pregadi, Venice's senate, by a vote of seventy-four to seven. Instead, Venice would send help. Wise men said Venice had more to lose by walking away from her responsibilities than by defending her trading interests. They reasoned that if the sultan perceived any weakness in the hearts of the Venetians, it would only be a matter of time until the Republic's own Greek possessions would fall to the Turks and their valuable monopoly on trade to the spice-rich East would be irreparably damaged. Now the time had come to pay for the privilege of being born a Venetian noble. Antonio would fight for his country and his fortune.
Vice-Captain Trevisan's orders were to help the city's defenders, without antagonizing the sultan further. It seemed to Antonio that these instructions conflicted. There were about seven hundred sailors and marines on board the five vessels, carrying a precious cargo of arms, armor, and money to fund bravery or bribery as the situation called for. Including those already in the city, there would be about a thousand Venetian defenders altogether, once their small fleet arrived. The sultan would quickly understand the Republic's intentions. How could one thousand armed Venetians not antagonize the sultan? He had just impaled one Venetian alive just for evading his damned toll!
Trevisan emerged from the doorway under the fighting castle at the stern.
"I have sent word to all the officers to come aboard for a council of war. Before they arrive there is something I want to discuss with you."
He looked hard into Antonio's eyes. "It was my fault, not yours, that young Soranzo was drowned. I made the decision to not turn back and search for him. Leave it to me to break the news to the boy's brothers."
"I appreciate your intentions, Gabriele, but I still feel partly responsible. I failed to ensure that he remained safely below deck where he belonged."
"Why let this unfortunate event cause trouble between you and Captain Soranzo? Marco was the only one who disregarded your orders and went up on deck." Trevisan smiled ironically. "Many of us will die before this is all over. In the end, the loss of one marine, though it seems important now, will not matter. And if the Soranzos both survive, time will lessen their grief as it does for all those who experience such a loss."
"Time does repair one's grief, but they will be at the peak of their anguish at the very time that we all must think of nothing but accomplishing our mission. The tragic news may divert their attention from what is most important."
"I know there has been bad blood between your families in the past, butnow we must think of nothing but saving Constantinople. To this end, I have no doubt that they will do their duty as you will do yours."
Trevisan placed his hand firmly on Antonio's shoulder.
"I am fortunate to have such an honorable man to command my marines."
"To deserve that honor you speak of, I must do my duty and be the one to inform them, as distasteful as it will be."
"Very well, then. As you wish, I will leave it to you."
He had served with Vice-Captain Trevisan two years before, when they were sent to destroy a nest of Albanian pirates, near Corfu, but it was his position as a fellow patrician that enabled him to speak frankly to his superior, now, about their mission.
"Gabriele, I have never visited Constantinople and seen its defenses, but you have. Do you think we can successfully defend the city?"
Trevisan squinted as though in pain, momentarily revealing his stony teeth through his thick beard, and then slowly shook his head.
"I fear it will be most difficult. If the city had not fallen once before, I would say her defenses were virtually impregnable. Except for Venice itself, they are the strongest on earth. The city is completely surrounded by thirteen miles of thick masonry walls. Imagine a great triangle. On the north face along the Golden Horn, a branch of the Bosphorus by which name the city's main harbor is known, a wall stretches for three and a half miles. The horn itself is protected by a massive iron-chain boom that, when raised to the surface of the water, blocks entry by enemy vessels.
"The second face, to the southeast along the Sea of Marmara, stretches for five and a half miles. Unmarked shoals and rocks make it nearly impossible to land there. The point of land that juts out between these two faces has currents so strong that, in my opinion, no ship can remain there long enough to even launch a small boat.
"The third face runs southwest on the landward side. The dry moat and triple walls that protect it are the largest in all of Christendom and stretch almost four miles from the Golden Horn all the way to the Sea of Marmara. The moat is sixty feet across and no less than fifteen feet in depth. Behind it is a stone breastwork ten feet high. Behind the breastwork is the outer wall, twenty-five feet high and ten feet thick with too many towers to count. The inner wall is forty feet in height and fifteen feet thick, with over a hundred towers, most exceeding sixty feet in height."
Antonio listened intently, encouraged, as he imagined the massive defenses. Trevisan knew the city well as a port of call in times of peace and from information provided to him by the government.
"Where will you post the marines? Will we fight on land or on our ships?"
"Our orders are to fight on our ships, unless the danger on the walls exceeds the danger posed to us in the Golden Horn. Then I am to place you and the marines under the emperor's command to defend the walls."
Antonio had no more questions. He looked into Trevisan's face. His expression was firm, quietly confident. Antonio knew his company of four hundred marines could defend little more than a few hundred yards of the walls. How many Greeks from the city, he wondered, would fight beside them to defend their homes and families--and how many Turks would be outside the walls trying to smash their way in?
The Soranzos climbed aboard, brazen and loud, talking like proud men who had faced death and lived to tell about it. They were trading tales with some of the other officers who had arrived before them about stormy voyages past. They both looked imposing, strong, and determined. Captain Giovanni Soranzo was renowned in Venice as an expert swordsman. His large forehead made his dominating icy-blue eyes seem smaller, but their menacing gaze disarmed nearly everyone who felt their power.
Though Soranzo's family was the principal shareholder of one of the Republic's oldest banks, the captain left the oversight of his business to his uncles and cousins. He preferred the navy. Antonio briefly studied Pietro, who had chosen to emulate his brother, choosing martial exploits over mere business transactions. That is the difference between us, he thought. I count my winnings in ducats and they count theirs in blood.
Antonio purposefully crossed the deck to where the officers mingled. The conversation abruptly stopped. Captain Soranzo turned to acknowledge him with a faint smile just visible through the beard that covered his brown weather-beaten, face.
"Ah, Captain Ziani, did my brother, Marco, perform well on his first voyage?"
"Captain Soranzo, Lieutenant Soranzo, I must speak to both of you privately."
Their smiles disappeared as the two brothers glanced at each other, unable to hide their concern at Antonio's serious tone. As they strode together across the deck to the other side of the ship, Antonio felt as if he was walking between two powder kegs with a flaming torch in his hand. This is going to be hard, he thought, best to tell them directly. As they stopped alongthe rail, he turned around to face them. A mild breeze rustled their beards and disheveled their hair. He felt a strange vibration in his head as he began.
"I regret to tell you that Marco was lost at sea."
He paused to give them a chance to absorb the hard news.
Captain Soranzo's face was transformed into an agonized mask of pain. He squarely faced Antonio, stepping in front of Pietro, preempting his brother's response, and grasped Antonio roughly by the shoulders. "Tell me what happened."
Antonio related the few stark details and explained that because of their orders they had not turned back to search for Marco or signaled the other ships.
"I do not fault Vice-Captain Trevisan for pressing on, refusing to go back and search for Marco. I would have done the same," Soranzo hissed through his clenched teeth, his angry face flushed scarlet. "But I demand to know the reason why a boy of fifteen was allowed to go up on deck alone in such a dangerous storm? All alone!"
As Pietro appeared from behind his older brother and stepped toward Antonio, the captain's arm shot out to restrain him, palm outstretched.
"You were his commanding officer. You were responsible for him. I hold you accountable for Marco's death! When this business in Constantinople is finished, by God, I will deal with you!"
Soranzo's eyes burned into Antonio's like hot coals, glowing with hatred, with greater intensity than he had ever seen before--even in the eyes of an enemy, an instant before he had mercilessly cut short his life.
"We all mourn his death, Captain. Though he was young, he had earned the respect of his comrades. But I gave strict orders for no one to go up on deck, for any reason. He disobeyed them."
"Captain Ziani, before a battle, as a Venetian officer, I presume you order your men to fight with courage. If one man turns coward and tries to run, do you simply let him go? Or do you take charge of his actions and prevent his flight, forcing him to obey your orders, as any competent officer would?"
The words bit deeply into Antonio's pride. He was becoming angrier as he held his ground, defiantly returning Soranzo's piercing stare.
"Captain Soranzo, if one of your sailors, while he is ashore in a foreign port, takes another man's woman and sleeps with her and her man comes home and discovers them, killing your man for the insult--are you at fault? Did that sailor not make his own decision to tempt fate and accept a dangerous situation for himself? Are you at fault for not following him to that house and pulling him from that bed to save his life?"
As Antonio waited for Soranzo to answer his questions, the captainwrapped his powerful arm around Pietro's broad shoulders, and together they turned and slowly walked away, supporting each other in their shock and grief. Antonio stood against the rail, alone. The captain's bitter words had turned Antonio's remorse into anger. The encounter had been far worse than he had anticipated.
Vice-Captain Trevisan motioned for the officers to assemble. He had sent the entire ship's crew ashore on their last night in Negropont. This would ensure that nothing said in the council of war would be heard by them--giving rise to dangerous rumors. As Antonio looked at his comrades, he could see that most of them were younger men. Old men would not undertake such a venture, he thought cynically. They have too much to lose. Most of the men in this group had volunteered to go to Constantinople to cover themselves in glory by saving the city from the infidel Turks. He smiled as he thought: old men invented the concept of glory to entice young men to sacrifice their lives to finish the wars they started.
Vice-Captain Trevisan took his time. Not until he had looked into each man's face did he begin to speak, slowly and deliberately.
"This is the first chance we have had to meet together since we sailed from Venice. It is time for me to tell you more about our mission and to give you your orders.
"Tomorrow morning we will sail with the tide and make straight for Constantinople. I do not know whether hostilities have yet begun. If they have not, there should be nothing to oppose our entry into the harbor, but be on guard for Turkish warships, just the same. We will fight only if they attack us first but I do not expect that will happen. Once we arrive, we will unload our cargo and then join the emperor's fleet anchored in the harbor. Our mission will be to prevent any Turkish ships from entering the Golden Horn and attacking the seawalls. If there is no attack we will send as many men as we can to fight on the land walls but we will not risk our ships under any circumstances." He paused to search the many anxious faces. "Now, you must all look to your men. We will be forced to spend many days on board our ships and we must maintain our fighting spirit and readiness. I hold you each responsible for the fitness of the men under your command."
The words stung Antonio, though he knew they were not directed at him. Surely, upon hearing them, he thought, the Soranzos will have their accusing eyes riveted on me. A quick glance told him he was right.
Captain Soranzo now spoke. "Who will command the marines we send ashore to fight on the land walls?"
"Captain Ziani. He is the most senior marine captain and, I might add, the most experienced. We have fought together before. I have complete faith in his leadership."
"And if the sailors fight on the walls?"
"I will lead them personally and you, Captain Soranzo, as the senior ship's captain, will take command of our ships in my absence."
Some of the officers began to talk among themselves, envious of the posts assigned to Ziani and Soranzo, but most were relieved to hear they would most likely remain on board their ships with their crews, avoiding an unfamiliar land battle. A Venetian preferred fighting with his feet on a wooden deck rather than on a stone wall.
"Who will be in overall command of the city's defenses?" asked another.
"I do not know," replied Trevisan. "There are men from all over Christendom on the walls. Companies of Papal, Genoese, Cretan, and even a few disaffected Turks have joined the Greeks. However, I expect that the emperor will claim that honor for himself."
At the mere mention of the hated Genoese, the men grumbled discontentedly. Trevisan angrily raised his voice to quell the disturbance.
"In the coming battle, there will be no Greek, no Roman, no Genoese ... and no Venetian. There will only be Christians--and Turks. There will be no more talk of factions. We will only defeat the infidels if we fight as one. What can we accomplish if we fight as Contarini, Morosini, Soranzo, Ziani, and Trevisan, with no faith in each other?" The point was forcefully made. They would have to put their prejudices and jealousies aside, no matter how strongly felt, to survive.
"Any more questions?" spit Trevisan, in a tone intended to discourage them.
"Yes," said Pietro Soranzo as every head turned in his direction. "Why must I serve with Captain Ziani and not with my brother? I want to fight under his command."
The deck was awash in shocked silence. Pietro's place was with the rest of the marines under Antonio's command and everyone knew it--including him. Trevisan, attempting to repair the breach of discipline, cast an angry glance at Pietro's older brother who, upon seeing it, was forced to speak.
"Pietro, your place is with the marines. If they fight on the land walls, you will serve under Captain Ziani," said the elder Soranzo, his voice dripping with disdain.
Pietro dropped his head. He realized his rashness. He had embarrassed himself and his brother, though he cared little that he had insulted Ziani.
Antonio could forgive the youth's indiscretion. He could forgive himbecause of the profound grief he knew he must be suffering over the loss of his brother. But he regarded Pietro's public display of contempt for him as a warning sign--he would have to keep his eye on this young man.
Hearing no more questions, Vice-Captain Trevisan dismissed the officers who somberly returned to their ships. Later, just before retiring to his cabin, Antonio saw Trevisan, alone, pacing on the deck near the stern and joined him.
"Gabriele, why not let Lieutenant Soranzo fight under the command of his older brother as he has requested? He is young and must learn how to act like a patrician."
"I will not! I will not tolerate or reward his impertinence," he said, holding up his hand to prevent any objection.
"Very well, Gabriele," he replied.
"Why do you defend the boy's foolish behavior?"
"I do not know. Perhaps it is because I cannot stop thinking about how I would have felt if it had been my brother who had drowned."
"How is Giorgio now? He must have been gravely ill to miss this."
"Yes. The fever came on so suddenly we thought we were going to lose him at first. And then, his poor health was hardly helped by his disappointment at being left behind. But by the time we return to Venice, I expect he will be fully recovered."
Antonio and Giorgio had always been closer than any brothers they knew. When they were young, Antonio used to defend his little brother when they played soldier with the other boys and things got rough. When they reached adolescence, Giorgio grew to surpass him in size and strength. Then, he was Antonio's protector--some would have said enforcer. He recalled when Giorgio bravely fought off three boys while he nursed a bloody head that one of the boys had split open with his wooden sword.
Not as clever as Antonio, Giorgio made up for it with his robust sense of humor and worldly ways. He was a natural leader. Men followed him because they liked and trusted him. He would always courageously place himself in front, at the point of greatest danger. Three times he had served the Republic in war with distinction. With his neatly trimmed black beard, dark mysterious eyes, and aquiline nose, he had a magnetic effect on everyone who met him--he was imposing to men and irresistible to women.
Over the next two days, the five Venetian ships crossed the Aegean and sailed up the Dardanelles into the Sea of Marmara. They proceeded north, through the night. By daybreak the crews could see the massivegolden dome of the Hagia Sophia--the Church of Holy Wisdom--rising out of the morning mists. Soon the vast expanse of the city sprawled for miles along the western coast. As the small fleet drew even with the city, near the headland, they could clearly make out the massive seawalls. All along the battlements, brilliantly colored flags of a dozen nations seemed to salute the Venetians, as they fluttered out of the soft haze that was slowly burning away in the warm December sun.
With sails unfurled and their huge battle flags, each with its golden Lion of St. Mark, gazing defiantly across the Bosphorus, the fleet sailed around the headland and made for the Golden Horn. Soon they could hear thousands of people cheering them on from the city walls. Loud reports boomed and puffs of white smoke rose above the walls as the city fired a three-gun salute in their honor. For the first time in days, the Venetians could smell humankind above the salty sea air. The city's tiled rooftops seemed to rise up to greet them, uplifted by her citizens' restored spirits. They could hear bells ringing from a hundred churches celebrating their arrival. They were proud to be Venetians.
Every man was on deck enjoying a brief respite before the work of docking and unloading the ship would begin. As they stood at attention, broad grins painting their faces, bright eyes gleaming with anticipation, they knew they had brought the only means of survival to the city's defenders.
After an hour, they approached the great rusted iron-chain boom, draped with seaweed, which stretched almost a thousand yards across the entrance to the harbor. One end was anchored deep in the wall of nearby Pera, a Genoese trading town just across the Golden Horn. The other end was connected to a winch device within Constantinople's walls to enable the defenders to raise and lower it. A cannon barked the signal to lower the chain. Within minutes, it was submerged. The ships safely crossed over it and entered the refuge of the Golden Horn. A dozen piers of all sizes dotted the southern shoreline. The Venetians made for the longest and in another half hour they were docked. It was just before noon when they began unloading their precious cargo of food and arms.
As Antonio debarked from his ship, confidently striding down the gangway onto the broad stone pier, he was mobbed by jubilant dockworkers, soldiers, and assorted well-wishers who pounded him on the back, hugged, and kissed him. Young girls sobbed tears of joy as they strewed crimson and white rose petals at his feet. Despite the press of the crowd, heassembled his men to be sure they were all present and accounted for. Marines from the other four ships soon joined his company, forming ranks, nearly four hundred strong. The crowd's wild cheers fed their hungry pride.
Presently, a well-dressed, officious-looking man of fifty pushed his way through the mob and held out his hand to Antonio. Despite the cool air, he was sweating like a galley slave; his red face seemed to be bursting through his chestnut beard.
"I am Bailo Girolamo Minotto. How many are you?" he asked with great urgency, barely controlling his excitement. Minotto was the Venetian official who headed the Republic's colony of traders in the city and had come to greet his countrymen.
"I am Captain Antonio Ziani. We are seven hundred, counting the sailors."
"That will help, that will help ... ," he muttered as his voice dissolved.
"We have brought with us six thousand bladed weapons, twenty thousand crossbow bolts, four hundred suits of armor, and a hundred barrels of black powder," he added proudly. "We have also brought you much grain and salted fish."
"It is brave men that we need most, Captain. What good are all these weapons if there is no one to wield them? When do the rest of the ships arrive?"
Antonio looked at him incredulously.
"There are no other ships--but there is talk that another fleet will be dispatched in the weeks to come. Has there been any sign of the Turks?"
"No, not yet, but the prices of luxuries are falling and staples are rising. That means the Turks will be here soon and will blockade the city, laying siege to it." Seeming to have lost interest, Minotto suddenly turned to his left, ignoring him completely.
He followed Minotto's gaze to see a tall handsome man cloaked in a long purple robe walking in the midst of a large richly dressed retinue. It was the emperor, accompanied by the patriarch and the rest of his court. Spotting Minotto, he walked directly to where he and Antonio were standing and looked impatiently at the bailo, waiting for him to make introductions.
"Your Majesty, allow me to introduce, eh, I am sorry, Captain ..."
"I am Captain Antonio Ziani, commander of Venetian marines, Your Majesty" he said as he bowed respectfully.
"Thank you for your faithfulness to our cause, Captain Ziani."
"Your Majesty, your presence here honors us all. We offer our service to you in the name of St. Mark and Venice."
"This is a great day for Christendom! May God bless your arms and may you slay many a Turkish infidel," said the emperor. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he politely took his leave and continued along the pier, greeting every new arrival he could--even common sailors and soldiers.
He watched the emperor move with ease among the crowd, graciously welcoming the Venetians while all the time honoring his own citizens, never once betraying that he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was the picture of grace, majestic in his motions, every inch an emperor. An extraordinary man, thought Antonio. But could he provide the military leadership to save the city and his throne?
THE LION OF ST. MARK. Copyright © 2005 by Thomas Quinn. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.