The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

My young companion coughed nervously, and hesitated. It was the day after the banquet, and I wanted to review my impressions of the three traders. I didn’t really expect much from Philip, but it was useful for my own thoughts to talk them over with him. If I got bored, I could always ask him to read the opening of the Adventures of Clitophon and Leucippe . I would enjoy his embarrassment at least. I was therefore pleasantly surprised when he began an accurate analysis of each man’s motives.

‘I have heard it said that the Genoan’s masters are worried about the lack of progress on negotiating a new set of concessions with Trebizond. Messer Finati is no doubt under pressure to conclude an agreement before the Venetians or the Florentines step in. He could very well be so worried that he resorted to such wild tactics as the letter suggests.’

‘Hmm.’

What Philip said could well be the truth. Finati could have gone too far in his anxiety.

‘But what of Ricci, the Venetian, then? Is he too under orders to come to a quick resolution?’

‘I haven’t heard anything about that, sir. But I do know the Florentine trader is ready to pick up the pieces if it comes to a fight between the other two.’

Where was my young monk getting all this information from? When I enquired, it turned out that he simply listened to the gossip when he was shopping for food. We kept a simple house in the lower part of Trebizond, and Philip both shopped and cooked for both of us. We did not indulge in feasts such as Panaretos did, and therefore had less flesh on our bones than he. The young monk elucidated further.

‘There is a square to the east of the town walls where many old men gather, and they speculate on what is happening at the Emperor’s court, and with the rival traders. I can take you there, if you wish.’

‘Why, do you think me already an old man, who will fit in well with the others?’

I could almost hear the blush creeping over Philip’s face.

‘I didn’t mean that exactly, master. I just thought…’

I laughed at his embarrassment, while thinking it was so easy to tease him that it was hardly any fun.

‘It’s a good idea, Philip. We can go there today, and you can leave me with my fellow old fogies, whilst you go shopping.’

So it was that I found myself in the shade of an oleander in the Meidan, a flat area outside the walls, where at special times festivals were held. But it was also useful for markets, and was laid out with storehouses and stalls providing all sorts of fresh produce. I could smell the mingled aromas of herbs, spices, and cooking meats. In the distance, I could hear a curious set of sounds that mingled horses’ hooves with men’s cries and the cracking of hammers on something wooden. I leaned across to a man who sat to my left, proffering my best guess at what was going on.

‘Tell me, what is that game being played?’

The voice that replied was cracked and old, but still retained much of the man’s vigour from another time.

‘It is called tzykanion , and originates in Persia, they say. Some call it pulu . The players on horseback have to drive the ball with those long mallets from one end of the pitch to the other.’ He snorted. ‘Like all games, it is pointless.’

I nodded my head in agreement, though I could hazard a guess that cavalry warriors would find it useful training for real battles. I didn’t say so, though, for I wanted my companion to respond to my next question.

‘Games for boys, played by men who should be more concerned with making money.’

I could tell the old man was nodding his head. So I had got him right, and he was a former local trader with opinions to air. I stared in his direction in a way that suggested I was deeply impressed by him and his opinions. He was not to know I could not see a thing.

‘And who is making the most money in Trebizond now? Apart from the Emperor, of course.’

A dry rattle emanated from his throat, which I took for a laugh.

‘Well, the Genoans are always the most avaricious, but the Emperor is trying to rein them in. Recently, I think the favoured ones have become the Venetians. Though there is not much to choose between any of them. They do say there are four kinds of people in the west. First, there are the Genoans, who keep the Sabbath…’ He paused for effect. ‘And everything else they can lay their hands on. Then, there are the Venetians, who pray on their knees… and on their neighbours. Thirdly, there are the Florentines who never know what they want, but are willing to fight for it anyway.’

Another death rattle suggested he liked his own joke. And knowing he had not finished, I gave him the lead-in to the punch line.

‘You said there were four kinds of traders.’

‘Ah, yes. Lastly, there are the English, who consider themselves self-made men, thus relieving the Almighty of a terrible responsibility.’

I laughed politely, and refrained from telling him I was, at least in part, English. I continued to draw him out about the trade delegations in Trebizond.

‘So tell me… Who do you think has most to lose, if the Emperor changes his mind about allocating trade concessions?’

Another voice broke into our conversation. It was another old man, who must have been sitting at the further side of my joke teller. His was a fruitier voice with a more solemn tone than the first man’s.

‘It’s no good asking him that, friend. George has lost his marbles, and couldn’t tell a Genoan from an Englishman, if they were pissing on him.’

I heard George mumbling a protest, and spitting on the ground. At least, I assumed it was on the packed earth of the square and not in the face of his detractor. I moved my unseeing gaze to the new man.

‘And how would you know the difference, sir?’

The man laughed. ‘I know it well enough to make you out for an Englishman. Though your clothes suggest a more exotic origin. The other end of the Silk Road, perhaps?’

He was obviously a very observant person, and his identifying me as an Englishman brought a fit of coughing from my first conversationalist, whose joke had been at the expense of my fellow men.

‘Damn it, you might have warned me, Theodore.’

So, my new acquaintance had a name as splendid as his cultured tones. I acknowledged his observations.

‘I have recently come from that part of the world, it is true. But you are only partly right about my Englishness. My grandmother was Welsh.’

This splitting of hairs, important only to the inhabitants of Britain, silenced both old men for a while. Then Theodore answered my original question for me.

‘As for who will suffer most from a reversal of trading rights, then it has to be said it would be the Genoans. But it is not the Emperor who will bother himself with such tedious business, but his courtiers and advisors.’

‘Men such as Johannes Panaretos?’

I threw the name into the conversation, hoping to see what it would bring out. And I was not disappointed. The harsh laughter of the first man broke in.

‘Panaretos will advise the Emperor to do whatever he has been bribed to say. And he will choose to do it in the afternoon, when the court is in a state of torpor brought on by slave girls, hashish and opium. If he has time, that is, from stuffing his mouth with the richest food that Circassian beauty of his can provide.’

A sound of admonition came from Theodore, advising his friend to keep his voice down. I guessed it was not wise to jest out loud concerning the behaviour of the Emperor and Autocrat of the Entire East. There could be spies everywhere. I did have another question for my new-found friends, though.

‘Is bribery the only way of bringing court officials to a particular point of view?’