Much Fall of Blood: Chapter Twenty Two

    Duke Enrico Dell’este stood and pored over the layer of maps that almost entirely covered the vast expanse of table that he had commandeered. So far the only final strategic decision that he had been able to reach was that he needed a bigger table.

    “As I said to Lodovico, it’s all very well,” he grumbled to Petro Dorma when the Doge came down to inquire how his planning was going, “to talk of strategies and of how we will deal with various obstacles. But you cannot plan in a void of information. We have so little knowledge of what is actually happening in Byzantium, let alone the Black Sea. We don’t know for sure quite what Genoa will bring to the conflict. We don’t know if the other states appealed to will contribute any forces at all.”

    “I have here a digest of some of the latest reports to come in from our various agents,” said Petro. “Some ships just got in, bearing word.”

    “I would appreciate it still more if they would bring that jackanapes of a grandson of mine back here. What have they to say?”

    “The most interesting one comes from Puglia, of all places. It would seem that Emperor Alexis is trying very hard to recruit some mercenary commanders. Fortunately for us, his reputation precedes him. His promises are worthless. And he has very little hard cash to offer.”

    “I can think of a few that it might be worth our while to pay to have go to his ‘rescue’,” said the old fox. “Most of the condottieri are not worth half the money they are paid. And what else, Doge Dorma? You have asked me to help with your strategy. I cannot do this without information. In northern Italy I have a fine network of spies and agents. I know who is buying supplies to outfit campaigns. I know who is moving where. But I really cannot afford to do the same for Byzantium and places further afield. My pouch is not as deep as that of Venice.”

    “And I wish that the Council of Ten would agree to let me spend quite as lavishly there, as you do here,” said Petro. “But for what it is worth, now that we know what we are looking for, we have confirmation from Odessa. Some of Jagiellon’s troops are building up in a camp outside the city. And although the agent I have there has not been able to leave the city, he has some rumors of a fleet. Several shipwrights have disappeared from the city, taken in the early morning by soldiers of the voivode. On the other hand we have no news from the Golden Horde, except via the same agent. They were due to hold their kurultai — that’s essentially a vast electoral meeting to choose a new khan — in a week’s time. The kurultai typically go on for a while, but even so, they must have a new khan soon. Other than that, Alexis prepares himself for conflict, but is trying to do so in secret. We have a great deal of detail about that, and about the defenses prepared for Constantinople.”

    “I truly hate trying to plan a campaign with such extended lines of supply and communication. By and large the fleets are going to have to operate completely independently. The Black Sea fleet is still sitting in Trebizond. We could have used their strength. I am not even sure just when they will be able to sail. I cannot get a straight answer from Admiral Douro.”

    Petro laughed. “Benito will get answers out of him, or if not from him then from the masters at the Arsenal, as I found last time. Benito was good at it.”

    “I am glad to hear that I am good at something, anyway,” said Benito Valdosta, from the doorway.

    “Benito!” bellowed Enrico Dell’este. “You hell-born boy! What has taken you so long, eh?”

    The gruff comment was completely at variance with his beam of pleasure. He had spent most of his life carefully distancing himself from his two grandsons, for their own safety. It was likely that Marco Valdosta would succeed him. The boy would do well, would be much beloved by the populace — the root of Dell’este power. But there was no doubt that the younger brother — as much a devil as the older one was a saint — filled a larger place in Enrico’s heart. True, given half an opportunity, Enrico would kill the man who had fathered the boy, for what he had done to his errant daughter. But that was not Benito’s fault. Enrico had moved far past any feelings of that kind. The boy had proved himself every inch a Dell’este!

    He wore the colors of the house of Dell’este on the tassels of his sword-scabbard, Enrico noted with pride. He hugged him, fiercely. “I ask again, what has kept you so long? Petro, let us have some good wine!”

    “Lodovico kept me. And some good wine. Quite a lot of good wine. If I have any more I will be awash, and I will want to see the town, instead of concentrating on these maps. Lodovico sent me here, eventually. I have yet to find my brother. Lodovico has gone in search of his daughter and son-in-law for me.”

    “As far as I know,” said Petro, “he is treating patients at the St. Raphaella chapel.”

    “I should have guessed,” said Benito. He pointed at the table. “I have been collecting maps myself. But you have a few more than I do.”

    “Still not enough, and not enough information either,” said Dell’este grumpily.

    “Well, I have some more. And I have taken some steps.” Benito bowed to the Doge. “Which I hope you’ll approve of. Time being of the essence, I did these on my own cognizance.”

    “Why am I suddenly afraid?” asked Petro Dorma with a small smile. “What have you done?”

    “You know the letter that I sent you about Iskander Beg? About reaching an agreement to reopen the Via Egnata to trade.”

    Enrico raised his eyebrows. “You did not tell me about that, Petro.”

    “It is a commercial possibility,” said the doge. “The problem lies with the Bulgars, if we wish to use that route to access the Black Sea. Otherwise, it is probably cheaper and easier to move cargoes by sea rather than overland to Constantinople.”

    “You should occasionally see things in other terms besides commerce,” said Enrico dryly. “If it is possible to cross the Lord of the Mountains’ lands with a decently large land army…”

    “It will not work,” interrupted Benito. “Iskander Beg is not going to allow foreign soldiers to use his land as an access route. For starters, it would probably break his hold on the mountain tribes. For a second, he has to live with two nations that are hostile to us on his borders. We do not intend to try and hold Constantinople. At least, I hope not. Iskander Beg would be left with a furious neighbor. He can hold the Byzantines, or Hungary. But if they both attacked him, which they would if they saw him in close military alliance with us, the Illyrians would at best be severely punished.”

    “True enough,” admitted the Old Fox. “But we could at least use the Illyrians to gather some decent intelligence.”

    “Well,” said Benito, “I hope that I have done that and a little more. There are commercial possibilities too. I gather you had a message delivered from Jerusalem by magical means.”

    “Yes,” said Petro. “The more conventional paper confirmation arrived by fast galleass a few days ago. It filled in some of the detail that was missing from the magical communication. Our friend, Prince Manfred of Brittany, has been a busy man.”

    “Not as busy as he’s going to be,” said Benito. “I have sent him and the remaining Knights of the Holy Trinity across the Balkans, to escort a party of Mongols and the Ilkhan envoy to the Golden Horde. Apparently, he is in rather a unique position to negotiate with them, and the Ilkhan Mongols can hopefully shift the election of a new khan for the Golden Horde in our favor.”

    Petro pulled a wry face. “It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. They’ve had their electoral meeting.”

    “I knew it was too good an idea to work,” said Benito irritably. “Well, at least Manfred is in a good position to negotiate with whoever they have elected kahn. He may still save us some fighting. And at least he is safe as a diplomatic envoy among them.”

    “Like the fleet sitting at Trebizond, I wish we could get hold of him to tell him what was happening,” said Petro.

    “Ah. The fleet has already left Trebizond,” said Benito. “Apparently the Mongols tried to negotiate a passage with the Venetian vessels. But they had already sailed. I heard that from Eberhart.”

    “That’s very early. Something must have been worrying them. They can hardly have full holds yet,” said Petro.

    “Those two factors considerably alter our strategies,” said Enrico. “I presume you’ve arranged for information to flow back with your devious Illyrian friend. Can he be trusted, by the way?. Never mind, that’s a stupid question. You would hardly have sent Manfred of Brittany off with the Illyrians otherwise.”

    “Yes to both questions. Iskander Beg is both a devious and dangerous man. He’s also an extremely honorable one, in my judgment. The greatest danger that we could suffer is that someone could kill him. He makes a wonderful thorn in the side of Emeric of Hungary.” Benito smiled. “He admits, by the way, that he left Emeric alive after the Corfu campaign, because he would sooner have an enemy he knows is an incompetent idiot, than have to deal with the successor who might be more able.”

    The Old Fox raised his eyebrows. “A sensible man, if not one of nature’s optimists.”

    Benito shrugged. “There is little enough about his land to encourage optimism. It’s hard and poor, most of it. And the tribesmen thrive on raids and feuds that go on for generations. But he is a thinker, and a clever and learned man, despite where he lives, and his rustic people. He has studied your campaigns, by the way, grandfather. I think if he had more resources, and possibly more people, Byzantium and Hungary would have to watch that they were not consumed by him. I would rather have him as a friend than an enemy. Venice might be wise to let him profit a little from the overland trade, even if it costs us some short-term profit. But, if Manfred can reach some accommodation with the Golden Horde, that would open up a route to the lower Danube.” He smiled at Petro’s expression. “Yes, I thought that would appeal.”

    “Petro, you look like a fox dreaming of unguarded hen roosts,” said the man who was called the Old Fox himself.

    “He’s probably,” said Benito speculatively, “dreaming of the possibility that Alexis will successfully bottle up the sea route to the Black Sea ports. That would exclude the Genoese, and any other traders, and give Venice a large advantage, if not a virtual monopoly. Even for a year or two, that could make an almost obscene amount of money.”

    Petro eyed him suspiciously. “If you should ever consider entering the services of another state, Benito, I will have a hard time persuading the Council of Ten that you are not a practitioner of black magic and an enemy of the Venetian Republic, and a suitable target for our assassins. And that,” he said to Enrico, “is by way of a joke, my friend. So you can take that expression off your face. Venice loves him far too much. He’s just too astute for his own good.”

    “I took business-cunning lessons from the best,” said Benito, grinning at the former head of the trading house of Dorma. “So how is my old enemy Admiral Douro slowing things down this time? I must get across to the Arsenal later. I have some friends to chase along.”

    “I’ll walk with you,” said Enrico Dell’este. “We can take a canal-boat. It will be better if you surprise them, the way you surprised me.”

    A little later they were out of the Doge’s palace, and away from the easy listening of spies. Benito turned to his grandfather. “Your man Antimo Bartelozzi, grandfather. Would there be any possibility of sending him to Constantinople? On a certain commission for me… well, for Venice. I’ll have to talk to Petro about money.”

    His grandfather looked at him strangely. And shook his head. “You can’t send a man to a place where he already is, Benito.”

    “I should have guessed.”

    The Old Fox clapped his favorite grandson on the shoulder. “And I should have guessed you’d ask. Petro knows, but not whom.”