Stewart Binns - Anarchy

The Doge sat on a gilded throne in the middle of the long rear wall of the chamber, from where he could see the Canalazzo crammed full of the trading galleys that brought Venice its vast wealth and power. Beyond it was the open sea, the lifeblood of the city. The Council members sat and stood around him, listening to the pleadings of the wronged, the disgruntled and the distraught. Everyone wanted justice – or perhaps his or her version of it – while many wanted loans or bills paid, and some wanted revenge.

A pair of Republican Guards dressed in dark-blue tunics flanked him. Tall and standing rigidly to attention, they wore highly polished swords on their belts and carried long pikes, at least the length of two men, at the top of which were tied the Doge’s pennons in red and gold. Their conical helmets were topped by plumes of feathers, which added considerably to their already prodigious height.

The Doge himself wore the famous Corno Ducale, a circular crown made of cloth of gold decorated with precious gems, which sat over the Camauro, a fine linen Phrygian cap with a horn-like peak, a classical symbol of liberty. He had a pure white ermine cape over his shoulders and robes of imperial purple, trimmed at the hems with elaborate gold embroidery. His sword was even shinier than those of his guards. It had intricate scrolls chased on to its blade, and gleaming rubies and emeralds decorated the cross-guard and pommel of its hilt. I was very envious and wondered if it had ever been wielded in earnest.

Although he was sitting, it was obvious that here was a man of significant dimensions. His long dark beard, streaked with grey, resembled the mane of the winged lion embroidered on to the tapestry above his head. He had a hawk-like nose and piercing amber eyes, as intelligent as any I had seen, which were sharply focused on us as we approached him.

His chamberlain leaned towards him and read my name from the appointments’ list. The Doge raised his hand slightly from the arm of his throne. Silence reigned immediately, allowing him to speak to me in a deep but soft voice.

‘You are younger than I thought you would be.’

He had the grandest of titles: Serenissimo Principe. But it was one that seemed to match his power and presence.

‘Most Serene Prince, I am tender in my years, but I have learned much in your service, for which I am humbly grateful.’

‘I have read the account of your courage against the Paganian pirates and how you managed to survive. You did well.’

‘Thank you, Serenity. But my sergeant here, Eadmer, was the prop I leaned on.’

Eadmer looked down at his feet and shuffled a little, embarrassed by the praise.

‘You chose him well. He will be granted five pieces of silver, and two pieces each for your men.’

‘Serenity, that is very generous.’

Eadmer shifted again, but this time with a smile on his face, followed by a deep bow to the Doge.

‘And how may I reward you, Harold of Hereford?’

‘My service to you and to Venice is sufficient recompense for me, Most Serene Prince.’

The Doge smiled benignly.

‘The answer of a worthy knight. I would expect nothing less from a man of your pedigree.’

‘Serenity, I am not of the nobility. My grandfather was born to be an English thegn, a minor lord of a small village, but was banished and became an outlaw. My father earned his knighthood as a warrior.’

‘You make my point for me, young knight. Your pedigree speaks for itself. Venice is a republic, built by warriors and merchants; like your family, we are all self-made men.’

It was my turn to smile and look down a little self-consciously. My instincts had told me that it would be worth meeting Ordelafo Faliero. Now I knew my intuition had been right.

‘I believe your grandfather was called Hereward Great Axe, when he served with the Guiscard family in Sicily.’

‘Indeed, Serenity. He is known as Hereward of Bourne in England and led the English revolt against the Normans after the Conquest. My father was Sweyn of Bourne, who fought with Edgar the Atheling and the English contingent in the Great Crusade.’

‘It is a fine lineage. You should be very proud.’

The Doge then reached out towards his steward. The man handed him a rolled and sealed parchment.

‘I would like to offer you a commission as a captain in my service. I am mounting a campaign against the Hungarians, who continue to be a nuisance on the Dalmatian coast. Will you accept?’

‘Most Serene Prince, I will, without hesitation.’

‘Good. Report for duty in two days. We depart on the neap tide.’

When I later told Raphael of Pesaro about the commission from the Doge, I reminded him of his words of caution.

‘I thought you said the Doge was a difficult man?’

‘Wait until you fail him, or raise his ire.’

We were soon on the Dalmatian coast, anchored in the sheltered port of Senj, a city under Venetian control for many years, situated about a hundred miles north of Zadar. The Doge had brought over fifty war galleys, all with a full complement of Venetian marines, reinforced by a large contingent of Swiss archers and infantry. He had sent a baggage train overland from Venice, including sappers and catapult and ballista engineers, supported by all the skills and resources necessary to sustain a significant army in the field for an extended period.

After leaving a small force to guard the ships at anchor, he armed his oarsmen to act as an infantry reserve and we began our march to the stronghold of Zadar. With 1,500 regular marines and almost 3,000 auxiliary infantry, we were a significant army. The Doge meant to put an end to Hungarian interference in the Adriatic and to King Stephen’s support for the Paganian pirates, once and for all.

As we progressed down the coast, I began to understand why the Doge had developed his reputation for military prowess and firm discipline – and also his notoriety for possessing a fiery and irascible temperament.

‘Stay in line!’

‘Your men are too slow, get them moving!’

‘Tell that sergeant he and his men are to report to me at dusk to learn how to march in step!’

These were just some of the more moderate orders he would bellow as he rode along the ranks on his huge black Norman destrier.

I was assigned to Ordelafo’s general staff, as a junior officer, and soon learned to keep my head down and speak only when spoken to – usually in the peremptory style of, ‘Englishman!’ I would be expected to be at his side in moments.

We had been assigned small but fleet-footed Arabian horses and spent most of our time scouting and carrying messages. Our new weapons and armour had been allocated by the quartermaster of the Arsenale. We carried circular shields of crimson, with Venice’s winged lion in the centre, and the standard marine’s weaponry: lance, sword and bow. In addition, as Englishmen fond of the short seax, I had bought us short daggers from a Venetian merchant. He called them a ‘pugio’ and told me they were what Roman soldiers would have used as a side-arm. They were shorter and thinner than our beloved seax, but they sufficed and gave us the comfort of having a weapon of last resort in our belts.

We wore leather tunics, which we covered with chain-mail corselets and conical helmets. There were plumes of ostrich feathers for knights and officers, which the Doge had brought from Egypt in vast quantities. I had lost my fine leather boots in the pirate attack, but had found a Venetian cordwainer to make new pairs for me and my companions. It did not take the Doge long to change my name from ‘Englishman’ to ‘Grosso Stivali’ – Veneto for ‘Big Boots’. I heard it more times than I care to count.