The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Venice, 1262

I stare across over the moonlit water at the two little humps of islands that house the churches of S Cristoforo and S Michele. These are my primary targets, where I can rest and plan my escape properly. The tide is low in the lagoon, but it will soon come rushing back-I will have to hurry. I slide down on to the muddy, weed-skirted margins, and squelch my way out to the water’s edge, where I begin wading. Halfway across, I turn for one more look at La Serenissima. Venice is now no more than a long, low line of dark buildings stretching far to my left and right. I wonder if this will be my last view of my home. I refuse to contemplate the thought for too long, not least because leaving Venice for good also means leaving sweet and sexy Caterina. And that I do not want.

The sword is strapped across my back, safe in its sheath from the depredations of the salt water. I prod ahead of myself with a long staff, feeling my way through the mud. Eventually, waist-deep in water, I can’t see where I am putting my feet. Only the staff tells me if the next step is safe or not, that I am not stepping into a hole, or into soft, clinging mud. I am sweating despite the cold water, and suddenly the sword slips, lodging awkwardly under my left arm. I stumble, and panic for a moment, recalling this very thing happening in a dream. I lose my grip on the staff, and plunge into an abyss. The cold, muddy waters of the lagoon close over my mouth, choking me. I go down under the surface, the mud churning up as I thrash around. I can taste the fetid water as it invades my mouth-the cloying taste of rotting flesh and cemetery earth. I try to call out for Caterina but the mud in my mouth prevents me from doing so, muffling my cries for help. Then my blindly groping hand finds the staff again. It has jammed upright, and I manage to right myself.

I pause for a while to regain my breath, spitting out salt water and stinking filth. It has been a close call. The softest mud patches can suck a fully-grown man down and down until he simply disappears off the face of God’s Earth. Angry at the sword for once again putting me in mortal danger, I rip the binding free that holds it to my body, and feel its considerable weight in the grip of my right hand. This goddamn sword has been the source of all my troubles, including an accusation of murder. Now is the time to be rid of it, and then maybe my luck will change for the better. I steady myself, and yank on the hilt. The sword comes out slickly smooth from its sheath, and I heft it in the night air. The moon reflects coldly on its polished surface, only slightly scarred by my own misuse at the very tip. The light causes the inscription to seem to sparkle mockingly in my eyes. I don’t need to read it-the legend is as firmly engraved on my heart as it is on that perfect blade.

‘ Qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore. ’

I growl at such a pious sentiment. What harm does a little lying do to the soul? And as for honour-give me profit any day. I swing the blade in a glittering arc, and stand for a moment with the sword held up to the moon by my outstretched arm. If I swing it once more and let go, it will sail away to disappear for good in the mud of the lagoon. Out of harm’s way. Thinking back to how the sword came into my possession, I nevertheless begin the arching swing…

The Year of Our Lord Twelve Hundred and Sixty Two started out as a good one for yours truly, Nicolo Zuliani. Everything I touched turned to gold. It culminated with a colleganza I set up at the beginning of the year. That’s a sort of short-term, high-risk, high-return business venture that appeals to us Venetians. At the time, I was essentially potless, after spending all my previous trading profits. So I was ready to take the risk-with other people’s money-on a big gamble. My reputation was good, even if some thought I was a chancer. To many, that was a good thing to be. So, I soon convinced a bunch of silversmiths who traded along the Merceria that I had already leased a 250 ton galley, with which I would transport cotton from Syria for the South German cloth trade. I even offered to show them over the ship in question-the Provvidenza . All they needed to do was supply the funds for the cotton, and I would guarantee them a nice little profit for their investment. I didn’t mention the little difficulties of high seas, savage rocky shores, and pirates. Well, you don’t want to put off investors when you’ve tapped into their greed, do you? They were on the hook, so I just needed to reel them in. Once I had secured the funds from them for the cotton, all I had to do was find the wherewithal to lease the Provvidenza .

Naturally, I had lied to them. I didn’t have any share in the ship when I showed it to them. But I had watched the routines of the captain and his crew for four days, until I was certain they all went for lunch around the middle of the day. A lunch sufficiently liquid to ensure they did not return for at least three hours. I even greased the way, as it were, by slipping one of the crew a few coins by way of thanking him for showing me privately over the ship the previous day. You have to speculate to accumulate, and if things turned out the way I hoped, those few coins would be all I would put into the trading enterprise.

The gaggle of silversmiths arrived at the quay close by San Zaccaria Church promptly at noon as requested. I could see them already sniffing profit in the air. Unless it was the smell of the load of fish that was being unshipped next to the Provvidenza that teased their nostrils. Whatever it was, I greeted them like some Eastern potentate, eager to show off his magnificent palace.

‘Greetings, Master Saraceni, Master Luprio…’ I shook each man’s hand in turn, careful to recall their names properly. I wanted them to feel like we were a bunch of intimate friends embarking on some adventure together. Confidence is what it’s all about, after all. The problem was the little, squinty-eyed man who always seemed to bring up the rear. Why could I never remember his name? I squeezed his hand, and stared back genially at his wall-eyed, suspicious stare as I racked my brain. Then of a sudden it came, like a cold shower sweeping across the piazza. ‘And last but not least, welcome Master Sebenico.’

He merely grunted, and slid his cold palm out of mine, which had begun to sweat. I knew I would have to watch Maestro Sebenico. From his name, I would guess he was descended from some Dalmatian pirate, and was probably as slippery as an eel. For now, I addressed the assembled throng, extolling the virtues of the galley on whose deck we stood.

‘Look at the suppleness of those sheets.’ I waved my hand up to the sails, and the spider’s web of ropes that ran up to the mast. I wasn’t sure which were sheets, but I did recall some of the spiel of the sailor whose lunch I had funded. I employed it as best I could. ‘And those cleats are the sturdiest I have ever seen.’ Fortunately, my attentive audience were sufficiently overawed not to question my nautical know-how, and contented themselves with looking sage, and nodding their heads. Even Master Sebenico seemed not to wish to betray his ignorance. Maybe he thought his pirate ancestors would turn in their watery graves if he did. ‘Let’s go for’ard, and examine the hold.’

And before you ask, yes, I did go in the right direction.

That had all been days ago, and as soon as I had got their money in the bag, I had worked on the Widow Vercelli, and Old Man di Betto to supply the funding for the galley. The widow was easily flattered by my flirtatious approaches, though she was old enough to be my granny, and ugly enough to be my pet dog. But a kiss on the hand and she was a cert. As was Pietro di Betto. The old man yearned for the good old days, when he had sailed in trading galleys himself. But now he was too sick to travel, and a little addled in the mind. In truth, I almost didn’t take his money, out of sympathy for his affliction. But he insisted, didn’t he? And I could not refuse him this last little pleasure in his life, could I? Besides, I wasn’t cheating him, or any of them, out of their money. All being well, we would all profit from the enterprise. It’s just that I was skating on thin ice, as it was usual for the merchant to put up one third of the funds. I was risking none. The trouble was, even after the widow and the simpleton coughed up, I was still short by a few thousand. So I decided to confide in Caterina.