Authors: Mark Tricarico
Being a Mamluk warrior slave was not like being a slave anywhere else. While they may have been purchased, their status was above an ordinary slave. In Egypt, Mamluks were considered to be true lords, with social status above even freeborn Muslims. They were looked upon as the true guardians of Islam, following the dictates of
Furusiyya
, a code that included horsemanship, archery, charging with the lance, and swordsmanship. But more than that, it was a code of values that taught courage and generosity, reflection, concentration, and morality. Qilij strove to embody the tenants of
Furusiyya
without peer. He saw no conflict between delivering food to a poor beggar or a death blow to an enemy. They each in turn served the same purpose—to exalt Allah.
Qilij was expert in all weapons, including the spear, lance, bow, saddle axe, war hammer, javelin, sword, mace, dagger, and saber. His skills had first been honed on the ground, then perfected when mounted. The concert of motion between stallion and warrior, the power contained and then unleashed as they raced across a plain was breathtaking.
Because of their status as non-Muslim slaves, they had no social ties, political affiliations, or any links to established power structures. The Mamluks were thus the greatest of military assets. Such petty loyalties held by non-Mamluk warriors for their tribal sheikhs, families, or nobles were beneath them. Only the sultan inspired their allegiance.
And the sultan was an ally to Venice. The Mamluks had inherited from the Fatimids and Ayyubids the role of middlemen between South and Southeast Asia and Europe in the spice trade and in the movement of other goods by land and sea through the Damascus and Red Sea routes. The Venetians, indefatigable opportunists that they were, insistently sought favorable privileges for their merchants, becoming the Mamluks’ main trading partner. It was an enterprise of contrasts—the intensely ideological Mamluks and the relentlessly pragmatic Venetians. One unwavering in belief, the other possessing a fluid morality, committed only to its own advancement. And yet, they needed one another—the Venetians needed the spice trade to survive and prosper, and the Mamluks needed the inflow of taxed gold to maintain their rule.
Commercial exchanges between the two allies were strong. A dazzling array of goods—textiles, spices, metals, medicines, precious stones, glass, and paper—traveled in both directions. Mamluk influences could be seen throughout the Republic, from Islamic-style bookbindings and intricately inlaid metalwork to the blue and white ceramics celebrating Venice’s twin blessings of sea and sky.
Yes, Venice was rich, and it did much to augment the coffers of the Mamluk Sultanate, but it had no soul, and it was the soul—of the Mamluk people, of Cairo—about which Qilij was very much concerned. But the Republic was dying, its greed devouring it from the inside out, and others were waiting to take its place. The Turkish horde, the Ottoman Empire, continued to advance, swallowing territory at an alarming rate. They were Muslim pretenders, as avaricious as the Venetians, but barbarically cruel, their lust for blood equal only to that for power. And despite the well-known desire of the Empire to wipe Venice from the map, the Republic groveled in their presence, ignoring unprovoked raids and persistent disregard for their territorial sovereignty because they relied on the Ottomans for wheat, silk, cotton and above all, calcified ashes for the glass industry.
And then there were the Portuguese. They had been waging war on Muslim shipping since conquering the Cape of Good Hope twelve years earlier. The Sultan had sent the Grand Prior of the Sinai Monastery to the Pope in 1504 demanding help against Portuguese attacks. And the Republic, acting so very
Venetian
, sent an envoy to Cairo, claiming they could not intervene directly, but encouraged the Sultan to contact Indian princes at Cochin and Cananor and entice them to not trade with the merchants from Lisbon. And for good measure, he suggested they approach the Sultans of Calicut and Cambay to convince them to fight the Portuguese.
Encourage!
Entice!
Convince!
They were words of cowardice. The Mamluks were land-minded horsemen, uncomfortable and in most cases ineffectual at sea, and the war against the Portuguese was a naval one. In their Latin
ally
they had one of the greatest naval empires the world had ever known. After being defeated again and again, they once more appealed to the Republic for help, and the Venetians complied—by pleading their case to the Pope. Qilij snorted in disgust.
They do not deserve to exist.
Twenty Two
P
aolo heard the commotion from the alley—yells, crashing furniture.
What had his father done?
This was no verbal diversion. He had meant to do this all along.
Merda!
He should have known. His father would go to prison, or worse. Paolo never should have agreed to this. He hesitated, caught between two minds. He couldn’t go back he knew, but how could he simply ignore what was happening? The crazy old man. In one way or another he knew he was witnessing the end of his father’s life. He shook his head angrily, banishing the emotion he knew he couldn’t afford, and grimly made his way down the alley.
Emerging back out along the canal several houses down, Paolo peered around the corner. He could still hear the clamor, though fainter now. Two men, laborers from the look of them, were rushing to the sounds to see what was happening. He cursed again, imagining the scene at his father’s house, three huge guards and one shriveled old man. Fairly even odds knowing Tomaso. His father could indeed think like a fox. He recalled the look in Tomaso’s eyes; they had suddenly come into focus, as though all his remaining energy was being gathered, directed toward this final task. Paolo knew he couldn’t mourn now. He needed to think. He had lived a solitary existence since the break from his family. He had always been on his own, but not until now did he truly feel alone.
Grey clouds, piled one on top of another, rolled across the sky. Paolo was exhausted. Despite all that happened already, it was still early in the day. A chill wind whistled down the narrow canal, churning up small whitecaps on the water. The air was fragrant with the smell of rain. Paolo scanned the expanse of his childhood home, the wind raising gooseflesh on his arms. He imagined the dull, icy sheet of the lagoon beyond. He headed back the way they had come—just an hour ago but already a different life.
He hadn’t been back to Murano in years and was surprised that when he had first returned his memory of the place was perfectly intact, despite his efforts to forget it. The puzzle of streets and alleys, the crevices and corners; he could see them clearly in his mind. He followed that map now, twisting and turning along a chaotic route, hoping to lose any pursuers although he suspected he had none. He emerged at the water’s edge. The wind had whipped up the waters of the lagoon to an angry chop. The clouds looked darker now, lower and denser as though their blackness were weighing them down, pulling them into the sea. The surrounding islands of the lagoon were retreating into the gloom. Venice seemed to stand alone, looming on the near horizon, a floating den of lions. Paolo, standing at Murano’s edge, realized he had nowhere to go.
***
THE TRIP BACK
across the lagoon was agony, Paolo’s mind twisting and tumbling like a fever dream as he imagined what his father was enduring, what he
would
endure in prison. Paolo had panicked when the reality of his escape had taken told. Standing at the water’s edge, his adrenaline finally ebbing, he had imagined the whole of Murano on his heels, hidden eyes at his back only to disappear when he turned, hundreds of tongues exposing his flight to the council.
He hired a man to take him back. It was madness to return to Venice after what he had just done, but where was he to go? It began to rain. He sat in the skiff, crouched like an animal, ready to spring at the first sign of discovery—to where he did not know; death beneath the slate surface of the lagoon perhaps. Did it matter? He was an enemy of the State now. He pulled his coat tighter, the wind seeming to absorb the energy of the churning water and hurl it at the skiff.
He looked closely at the man piloting the small boat. Could he sense Paolo’s fear? His face bore the grooves of wind and water, deep lines dividing his features like a butcher might a side of pork. He took no notice of the weather—nor of his passenger— Paolo was relieved to note. His fear had been irrational he knew. No one yet knew of his arrest. The council would not have made the matter public until he was safely in custody to be displayed, a symbol of The Ten’s omnipotence. So he had some time, but precious little of it.
He had to think. He could not return to his home. While they still believed he was safely in custody, that belief would not last until sunset. They would go to his home. They would go to Francesco. For all his bluster about the serpent-tongued bureaucracy of the Republic, the fat merchant would fold like a blanket when threatened with the dissolution of his business. His affection, such as it was, would extend only as far as was beneficial to him. No, he had to go elsewhere. He needed a place to hide, to think. In his current state, he could see no more than a few steps forward, if even that. He was in no condition to plan.
The tower of St. Mark’s Basilica loomed before him, the Torre dell’Orologio fixing this moment in Paolo’s mind. The great clock showed all twenty-four hours of the day, the signs of the zodiac and, in its center, the phases of the moon and sun. Would he forever remember this as the instant of his family’s destruction? Now arrived, Paolo realized he did not even know what he would do once the skiff was moored.
The rain came in sheets now, Venice disappearing as though in a charlatan’s trick. At this the skiff pilot finally took notice, his placid features stirring. He moved with decisive, economical motion, the fluid gestures matching that of the skiff’s lazy tumble over the chop of the lagoon. Paolo sat immobile, his clothing soaked through. The drops were heavy, seemed angry, seeking someone to punish. Paolo shook his head, a mirthless chuckle. Even the rain was against him. Despite the rising gale, he wished to be back out in the lagoon. But he was here. And Venice had him now.
***
THE CIRCUITOUS ALLEYS
and twisting
calli
he had come to love for their charming eccentricity as though Venice were a riddle come to life held a sinister quality now. The Chinese believed demons could only travel in straight lines. Venice, in this new light, suggested the contrary. The corners and crevices bathed in shadow that once held the promise of discovery now only contained the threat of capture. The city had become his enemy. Paolo navigated the maze of streets, his head lowered, melting into the shadows he now feared. The cobbles were slick with rain. He stepped quickly, carefully, not wanting to slip and draw attention to himself.
He was thankful for the weather. The sellers had packed up their stalls, knowing what few sales they would have would not make up for the misery of sitting out in the storm. Paolo didn’t see a soul for a quarter of an hour, and took advantage by huddling beneath a stone balcony to get out of the rain. He was careful not to sit, not to hang his head to match the despair he felt lest he be rousted as a beggar. The rain harder now, water cascaded over the edge of the balcony in a shimmering curtain. Paolo peered out at the distorted city through the water. Across the street, one of the hundreds of stone lion medallions spread throughout the city stared serenely back at him through the wall of water. The symbol of Venice, its steady gaze fronted unfurled wings,
in moleca
, as a crab spreads its pincers, a not so subtle reminder that La Serenissima
had very sharp claws.
***
HE HAD DECIDED
on a course of action, loathe as he was to take it. He had slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, forced himself to think clearly despite the chaos around him. He put his father out of his mind, as difficult as that was. Whatever had transpired at the workshop, there was nothing to be done. If he were to help his father now, he had to remain free. The pursuit would begin very soon he knew. He thought back to his last conversation with the moneylender. Despite all that had happened—the horror of Ciro’s murder, the travesty of Venetian justice, emotion had no place in what Paolo was to do next. If he had any hope of clearing his name, of surviving, he would have to calculate without passion, be as cold as the depths of the lagoon.
He thought of Bercu, the wisdom of his words. Paolo believed he was an honorable man. Despite the fact that recent events had shaken Paolo’s faith in all he believed, doubting virtually every instinct he had ever trusted, he still believed in the moneylender. And if that too proved to be as illusory as everything else, so be it. If and when he was faced with the total destruction of his beliefs, he would gladly succumb to whatever fate awaited. Should that happen, there would be nothing left to live for.
He would go to Bercu, and although he didn’t wish to involve the moneylender further, he had no place else to go. He wouldn’t stay long he decided, only ask for his advice. As a Jew, his position in Venice was tenuous enough, existing only at the pleasure of the aristocracy and the church, a fragile state which could change like the weather. Paolo did not wish to add his troubles to such a burden.
Back into the rain, Paolo felt the fog and wet swallow him, embracing him in anonymity. Although he felt hidden by the elements, his eyes relentlessly scanned the streets. Because no one was about, he was both invisible and conspicuous. He traveled the path to the Jewish quarter. He had become as familiar with the various routes to the moneylender’s pawnshop as he had from his home to the Arsenale. What would he say when he arrived? Would Bercu turn him away? A man in his position did not need this type of attention. Paolo grunted. He was arguing with himself, had already forgotten his rule. No emotion. No passion. Only reason.