The Sheen on the Silk Read online

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  Giuliano found Naples a frightening and disturbingly beautiful place, full of unexpected impressions. The city had a vitality that excited him, as if the people tasted both the joy and the tragedy of life with a wholehearted intensity greater than that of others.

  It had been founded by the Greeks, hence its name—Neapolis, New City—and the narrow streets followed a pattern like a grid, which the Greeks had formed. Many of them were well over a thousand years old, steep and shadowed by high houses. Giuliano listened to the laughter and the quarrels, the haggling over olives and fruit and fish, the splashing of fountains and the rattle of wheels. He smelled cooking and clogged drains, the perfume of bright trailing vines and flowers, and human and animal waste. He watched women scrubbing laundry by the fountains, gossiping with one another, laughing, scolding their children. Their loyalty was to life, not to any king, Italian or French.

  The sun was bright and hotter than he was accustomed to. He was familiar with light on water, but the burning blue of the Bay of Naples, stretching to the horizon, had a brilliance to it that dazzled his eyes, yet he was drawn again and again to stand and stare at it.

  But always intruding into his mind was the ominous presence of Mount Vesuvius looming behind the city to the south, now and then sending a breath of smoke up gently into the glittering peace of the sky. Looking at it, Giuliano could see so easily how it could drive people mad with the hunger for life, the craving that would make you seize everything, gorging on every taste, in case tomorrow was too late.

  He was in a deeply contemplative mood when finally he approached the palace and was invited into the presence of the Frenchman who ruled as king. Giuliano knew of his considerable military successes, particularly in the war with Genoa, barely over, and his victories in the East that had made him king of Albania as well as of the Two Sicilies. He expected a warrior, a man a little drunk with the triumph of his own violence. And he thought all Franks were unsophisticated compared with any Latin, never mind a Venetian who had so much of the delicate subtlety of Byzantium as well as his native love of beauty.

  Giuliano found a large, barrel-chested man in his late forties, olive-skinned, dark-eyed, his powerful face dominated by an enormous nose. His dress was quite modest; nothing marked him out from those around him except the restless energy of his manner and the confidence that burned through even in the moments when he stood in repose.

  When he was commanded to speak, Giuliano introduced himself as a sailor familiar with most of the ports of the eastern Mediterranean and currently an emissary of the doge of Venice.

  Charles welcomed him and invited him to sit at the table, which was richly set with food and drink. It seemed like an order, so Giuliano obeyed. But instead of eating, Charles paced back and forth in vigorous strides, firing questions at him.

  “Dandolo, you said?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “A great name! A great name indeed. And you know the East? Cyprus? Rhodes? Crete? Acre? Do you know Acre?”

  Giuliano briefly described these places to him.

  Charles surely knew them already. Presumably he was comparing one account with another. Only occasionally did he pick up a leg of roast fowl and a piece of bread or fruit and bite into it, and he took little wine. Now and again he gave orders, and there seemed to be scribes taking them down in notes all over the place, as if he required three copies of everything. Giuliano was impressed that he seemed able to think of so many things at once.

  His grasp of politics in Europe was encyclopedic, and he knew much of North Africa and the Holy Land and beyond, as far as the Mongol Empire. Giuliano found himself dazzled and had to struggle to keep up, quickly coming to the decision that to admit his limitations would be not only more courteous, but wiser in the presence of one who would take only moments to realize the relative ignorance of somebody who was younger and less experienced.

  Should he ask about ships for a coming crusade? It was what Tiepolo had sent him for.

  “It would need a great fleet,” Giuliano observed.

  Charles laughed, a rich sound of amusement. “Always the Venetian. Of course it will. Much money and many pilgrims. Are you going to offer me a bargain?”

  Giuliano leaned back a little and smiled. “We could bargain. Much timber would be needed, far more than usual. All our shipyards would be engaged, possibly day and night.”

  “In a holy cause,” Charles pointed out.

  “Conquest or profit?” Giuliano asked.

  Charles roared with laughter and slapped him on the shoulder, a blow that jarred his teeth. “I could like you, Dandolo,” he said heartily. “We’ll talk numbers, and money, in a little while. Have another glass of wine.”

  Three hours later Giuliano left with his mind whirling, walking back through the halls hardly less ornate than the Doge’s Palace in Venice, although the courtiers were less sophisticated, even coarse in their habits by comparison.

  Some said Charles was stern but fair, others that he taxed his subjects into penury, almost to starvation, and that he had neither love for nor interest in the people of Italy.

  Yet for ambition’s sake, he chose to have his court so often here in Naples, passionately, intensely, almost madly alive and placed like a jewel on the side of a sleeping dragon whose smoke even now scarred the horizon. Charles too was a force of nature that might destroy those who took him too lightly.

  Guiliano must learn a great deal more, study, listen, watch, and take intense care as to exactly what he reported back to the doge. He went down the steps into the blinding sunlight, and the heat from the stones embraced him.

  When Charles moved his court from Naples south to Messina on the island of Sicily, Giuliano followed after him a week later. As in Naples, he watched and listened. The talk was of the reconquest of Outremer, as the old kingdom of Christian Palestine was known.

  “Just the beginning,” one sailor said cheerfully, drinking down half a pint of wine and water with gusto. “More than time we took the war back to the Muslims. They’re all over the place, and spreading.”

  “Time we got our own back,” another said savagely. He was a big man with a red beard. “Fifteen years ago they killed a hundred and fifty Teutonic knights at Durbe. Then all the people in Osel apostatized and slaughtered every Christian in their territory.”

  “At least they stopped the Mongols going into Egypt,” Giuliano volunteered, interested to see their answer to that. “Better the Muslims fight them than we have to.”

  “Let the Mongols soften them up for us,” the first man rejoined. “Then we’ll finish them. I’m not choosy who’s on my side.” He guffawed with laughter.

  “Clearly,” a small man with a pointed beard put in.

  The red-haired man slammed his tankard on the tabletop. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” he challenged, his face flushing with anger.

  “It is supposed to mean that if you had ever seen an army of Mongol horsemen, you’d be damn glad to have the Muslims between you and them,” the other rejoined.

  “And the Byzantines?” Giuliano asked, hoping to provoke an informative reply.

  The small man shrugged. “Between us and Islam?”

  “Why not?” Giuliano urged. “Isn’t it better they fight Islam than we have to?”

  The man with the red beard shifted in his seat. “King Charles will take them when we pass that way, just like before. Plenty of treasure there for the picking.”

  “We can’t do that,” Giuliano told him. “They’ve agreed to union with Rome, which makes them fellow believers in the one faith with us. Taking them by force would be a sin unpardonable by the pope.”

  Redbeard grinned. “The king’ll take care of that, never you worry. He’s writing to Rome even now, asking the pope to excommunicate the emperor, which will take all protection from him. Then we can do as we like.”

  Giuliano sat stunned, the room melting into a blur of sound, senseless around him.

  Two days l
ater, Giuliano set out for Constantinople. The voyage east was calm and swifter than he had expected, lasting only eighteen days. Like most other ships, theirs hugged the shore all the way, often unloading cargo and taking on more. It was to be a profitable journey in money as well as information.

  However, as they sailed up the Sea of Marmara in the early May morning, the mares-tail clouds high and fragile, the wind painting brushstrokes on the sea, he admitted to himself that no matter how long it took, or however he steeled himself, he would never be ready to see the homeland of the mother who had given him birth and yet loved him so little that she had been willing to abandon him.

  He had looked at women with their children passing him in the street. They might be tired, worried, heartbroken for a hundred reasons, but they never took their eyes from their children. Every step was watched. A hand was ever ready to support or to chastise, but it was always there.

  They might scold the child, slap it in temper, but let anyone else threaten it and they would learn what anger really was.

  At midday he stood on the deck of the ship, heart pounding as they slid across the smooth, shining water of the Bosphorus and the great city grew closer and more detailed. His sailor’s eye was drawn to the lighthouse. It was magnificent, visible to approaching mariners at night from miles away.

  The harbor was crowded, scores of fishing boats and ferries and cargo carriers scudding about the huge hulls of the triremes hailing from the Atlantic to the Black Sea. And across that narrow channel of water, Europe met Asia. This was the crossroads of the world.

  “Captain?”

  There was no more time for self-indulgence. He must turn his attention to making harbor, seeing the ship safely anchored and the cargo unloaded before turning over command to his first officer. They had already agreed that the ship would return for him at the beginning of July.

  It was the following day before he stepped ashore with his chest packed—a few clothes and books, sufficient to last him for nearly two months. The doge had given him a generous allowance.

  It was an alien feeling to stand on the cobbles of the street. Half Byzantine, he should have embraced this as a homecoming, yet all he felt was rejection. He came as a spy.

  He turned and looked back at the harbor teeming with ships. He might know the men on some of them, even have sailed with them, faced the same storms and hardships, the same excitement. The light on the water had the same strange, luminous quality that it had in Venice, the sky, the familiar softness.

  He spent three nights in lodgings and the intervening days walking around the city, gaining a feel for its nature, its customs, its geography, even the food, the jokes, and the taste of the air.

  He sat in a restaurant having an excellent meal of savory goat meat with garlic and vegetables, then a glass of wine that he thought not nearly as good as Venetian. He watched the people in the street, overhearing snatches of conversation, much of which he did not understand. He studied faces and listened to the tones of voice. The Greek he spoke, and of course the Genoese he heard disturbingly often. He understood snatches from the Arabs and Persians whose dress was so easy to distinguish. The Albanians, Bulgars, and high-cheeked Mongols were alien, and he was reminded with a tingle of discomfort just how far east he was and how close to the lands of the Great Khan or the Muslims the red-bearded man had spoken of in Messina.

  He would find a Venetian family down by the shore of the Golden Horn. He wondered idly where his mother had lived. She had been born during the exile, perhaps in Nicea or farther north? Then he was furious with himself for allowing in the pain that always came with thoughts of her. He couldn’t stop himself.

  He closed his eyes hard against the sunlight and the busyness of the street, but nothing shut out the inner vision of his father, gray-haired, his face lined with sorrow, the locket open in his hand showing the tiny painting of a young woman with dark eyes and laughing face. How could she laugh and leave them? Giuliano had never once heard him speak ill of her. He had died still loving her.

  He lurched to his feet. The wine would choke him now. He left it and strode out into the street. This was an alien city, full of people he would never be foolish enough to trust. Know your enemy, learn from them, understand them, but never, ever be seduced by their art, their skill, or their beauty; just judge whose side they would be on when it mattered.

  The Venetian Quarter was just a few streets, and they made no great show of their origins. No one had forgotten whose fleet had brought the invaders who had burned the city and stolen the holy relics.

  He found a family with the old, proud name of Mocenigo and immediately liked the man, Andrea. He had an ascetic face, bordering on plain until he smiled; then he was almost beautiful. And it was not until he moved that Giuliano noticed he had a slight limp. His wife, Teresa, was shy but offered to make Giuliano welcome, and his five children seemed happily unaware that he was a stranger. They asked him numerous questions as to where he was from and why he was here, until their parents told them that interest was friendly, but to be inquisitive was rude. They apologized and stood in a row, eyes downcast.

  “You have not been the least bit rude,” Giuliano said quickly in Italian. “One day, when we have time, I will tell you about some of the other places I have been to, and what they were like. And if you will, you can tell me about Constantinople. This is the first time I have been here.”

  That settled the issue immediately; this was the house in which he would lodge. He accepted with pleasure.

  “I am Venetian,” Mocenigo explained with a smile. “But I have chosen to make my life here because my wife is Byzantine, and I find a certain freedom of the mind in the Orthodox faith.” His tone was half-apologetic because he assumed Giuliano would be of the Roman Church, but his eyes were unflinching. He would not choose an argument, but if one arose, he would be ready to defend his belief.

  Giuliano held out his hand. “Then perhaps I shall learn something deeper of Byzantium than the merchants will tell me.”

  Mocenigo clasped it, and the bargain was made. The financial agreement was far outweighed in importance by the promise of the future.

  It was natural that they should ask Giuliano his business, and he was prepared with an answer.

  “My family have been merchants for a long time,” he said easily. That, at least, was true, if he intended the term to include all those descended from the great doge Enrico Dandolo. “I’ve come to see more directly what is bought and sold here, and what more we could do to increase our trade. There must be needs unmet, new opportunities.” He wanted the freedom to ask as many questions as possible without raising suspicion. “The new union with the Church of Rome should make many things simpler.”

  Mocenigo shrugged and pulled his face into an expression of doubt. “The paper is signed, but that’s a long way from a reality yet.”

  Giuliano managed to look slightly surprised. “You think the agreement may not be kept? Surely Byzantium wants peace? Constantinople in particular cannot afford war again, and if they are not of one faith with Rome, war is what it will be, in fact, even if they don’t call it that.”

  “Probably.” Mocenigo’s voice was soft and sad. “Most sane people don’t want war, but wars still happen. The only way you change people’s religion is by convincing them of something better, not by threatening to destroy them if they refuse.”

  Giuliano stared at him. “Is that how they see it?”

  “Don’t you?” Mocenigo countered.

  Giuliano realized that Mocenigo identified with Constantinople, not with Rome. “Do you think other Venetians here feel the same?” he asked. Then instantly he wondered if it was too soon to have been so blunt.

  Mocenigo shook his head. “I can’t answer for others. None of us knows yet what obedience to Rome will mean, apart from months of delay before we get answers to appeals, and money paid out of the country in tithes, instead of it staying here, where we desperately need it. Will our churches still be cared for, mended,
filled with beauty? Will our priests still be paid well, and left their consciences and their dignity?”

  “Well, there cannot be a crusade before ’78 or ’79 at the soonest,” Giuliano reasoned aloud. “By then we may have reached a more sensible understanding, earned a little latitude, perhaps.”

  Mocenigo smiled—a sudden radiance in his face. “I love a man with hope,” he said, shaking his head. “But find out all you can about trade, by all means. There’s profit to be made, even in a short time. See what others think. Many believe the Holy Virgin will protect us.”

  Giuliano thanked him and let the subject fall for the time being. But the easy way in which Mocenigo, a Venetian, had said “us” when referring to Constantinople remained in his mind. It suggested a sense of belonging that he could neither dismiss nor forget.

  In the following days, he explored the shops along Mese Street and the spice market with its rich, aromatic perfumes and bright colors. He talked to the Venetians in the quarter, listened to the jokes and the arguments. At home in Venice most quarrels were about trade; here they were about religion, faith versus pragmatism, conciliation versus loyalty. Sometimes he joined in, more with questions than opinions.

  It was not until his third week that he went farther up the hills and into the old back streets, where he found the dark stains of fire on the stones and every now and then rubble and weeds where there had been people’s homes at the turn of the century; and for the first time in his life, he was ashamed of being Venetian.

  One house in particular caught his attention as he stood in a brief shower of rain, the water running down his face and plastering his hair to his head. He stared at the faded paint of a mural showing a woman with a child in her arms. His mother would not have been born when the city was broken and burned, but she might have looked like that, young and slender, in a Byzantine tunic, with a child close to her, proud, gentle, smiling out at the world.