Past the Ionian Isles, when the three Venetian ships appeared on the horizon—each flying the red-gold pennant of San Marco, the sails swollen with wind, the oars rising and falling like swan’s wings—Gontran put the question to the crew.
“Fight or run?”
Contrary to expectations, the crew quickly decided that, since Trebizond and Kitezh were seeking allies, it was best to pursue diplomacy with these Venetian pirates who called themselves merchants.
“Even if they arrest us?” Gontran asked.
“Even if they arrest us,” the crew said.
“Much as I hate to admit,” Diaresso added, “there is little reason to fight. We must submit—for the better or the worse.”
“It’s probably going to be for the worse,” Gontran said. “There’s no way they’ve forgotten the siege. They must have lost nearly their entire investment back in Trebizond.”
For the first time since the voyage had begun, Diaresso laughed. “Yes, I heard that only a handful of their vessels escaped the burning of the city. Perhaps at most one or two dozen, out of the five score which they deployed to enslave Tarabizun. What fools these Venetians are—like fish out of water, like big fish leaving their little lagoon.”
“Last I heard, they were making the emperor melt down all the gold tiles on the rooftops of Konstantinopolis’s churches to pay for it.”
“Thus should be the fate of all the golden idols in that teeming hive of idolaters,” Diaresso said. “Turn their pretty statues into plowshares that the hungry might be fed.”
“Does that include turning me into a plowshare, too?” Talia’s blue eyes blazed.
Diaresso turned to her. “I would have said so earlier, Artifice of the Artificer. I would have considered you an idol, a clever contraption, not a being of mind and soul. But you have proven yourself one worthier by far than most men, if not all. Even now, I wonder—could you bring all these haughty Venetians to an early grave at sea?”
“We’re trying to make friends with them, remember?” Gontran said.
“Of course,” Diaresso said. “We make friends with one enemy to bring another to annihilation. But this Artifice, she is our secret weapon, is she not? Who could stop her when she whirls about like a darwaysh of steel, but a Zhayedan?”
When the Paralos was surrounded, and the Venetians yelled for the ship to stop—speaking their nasally dialect, like Italian if you pinched your nose—Gontran and his crew acceded to their demands. Oars were stowed, sails were reefed, and guns were hidden belowdecks. Talia lurked there in the darkness, her eyes shining like blue candle flames, her engine gently pounding in her brazen chest.
“I am Capitano Giustiniani Loredan,” said a man attired in black standing with arms akimbo aboard the lead Venetian ship. (Gontran understood him—with some difficulty—thanks to speaking French, Greek, and Mediterranean pidgin.) “Who might you be, signore, and what might be your purpose to entering the Golfo di Venezia?”
“We’re on a diplomatic mission to the Serenissima,” Gontran said.
“To treat? On behalf of whom? I do not recognize your flag, signore.”
“The Republic of Trebizond,” Gontran said. “In alliance with the—”
“Trebisonda?” Loredan sputtered, looking to his men. “Seize these scoundrels at once!”
“Hold on a minute, let me explain!” Gontran shouted.
Grappling hooks clanked onto the Paralos’s deck from all directions, and the three Venetian ships pulled themselves close enough for their crews to leap aboard. Gontran and everyone else stood and raised their hands above their heads. Before they knew it, their swords were torn from their scabbards and flung to the deck. Their wrists were roped behind their backs—and then, soon, chained, for Venetians never left port without piles of iron manacles in the bellies of their galleys. Even the smallest one-masted pinnace was always ready to take on slaves.
Gontran rolled his eyes. After all, you never know when you’ll stumble upon a bunch of people who are just aching to be enslaved.
“In the name of the Signoria,” Loredan said, climbing aboard, “I hereby take possession of this most piratical vessel, by the Grace of Holy God.”
The entire Paralos crew looked at Gontran as if this was his fault, but Diaresso and Ra’isa seemed especially furious. Gontran himself blamed Herakleia.
Just surrender to our sworn enemies without a fight, he thought. What could go wrong?
The mission had been an act of desperation. But the workers had voted in favor of it, as had the Paralos crew.
In minutes, Loredan had ordered some of his crew members to take over the Paralos and sail her back to a place called Rivoalto, meaning “Highstream”—presumably Venice. In the Venetians’ investigations belowdecks, they announced that they had found reams of Seran silk, sacks of Indian spice, wood boxes of Arabic sukkar, in addition to a gorgeous, life-sized statue of a woman cast in bronze, this last more expertly crafted than anything made by the ancient Greek sculptor they called “Fidia.”
“To touch her skin, uncle,” said a handsome blond youth clad in a black doublet and tights, speaking to Loredan. “You would swear she was flesh and blood, like Galatea come to life. Her skin seems warm to the touch. It even seems to quiver…one can almost feel blood pulsing inside.”
Gontran sighed with relief. Talia had shut down. She, too, had submitted to the Venetians—at least for now.
Maybe nobody told her they’re slave traders, he thought, recalling her searing hatred of such people.
“Kill slave owners,” Talia had once said to him, the flames in her blue eyes burning. “Kill landlords. Kill gangsters. Kill merchants.” She had paused, and the bronze segments of her eyes had focused on him. “Present company excepted.”
Trebizond’s red flag was lowered; a standard of Saint Mark was raised in its place—to cheers from the Venetian crew. Most of these returned to their ships, including Loredan. Gontran attempted once more to speak with him; in response, Loredan drew a whip from his belt and cracked it across the deck. The sound was shockingly loud, and turned every head.
“I warn you but once,” Loredan said. “Do as you are told, and keep your mouths shut. Now you are slaves, and you belong to me—all of you.”
Gontran lowered his head, and glanced at Ra’isa and the other amazons. As Zhayedan they could have broken free and destroyed the Venetians, but they avoided his gaze.
Biding their time, Gontran thought. Maybe it’ll be easier to retake the Paralos once most of the Venetians are aboard their own ships. We decided not to divide our crew back in the Marmara, but the Venetians are greedier and take more risks.
“This has been a most profitable venture.” Loredan patted the shoulder of the young, handsome, and pompous-looking Venetian who was dressed in gleaming black velvet. “A bevy of slaves, not to mention a finely built dromon from the Empire of Greece—all this has fallen right into our lap, by the grace of God, who, in His wisdom and glory, has seen fit to grant us this boon. You will sail them back to the Dogado, Annibale, and I will return to the Liona to escort you. The Vendramina and the Panthea will remain on patrol here in the Canale d’Otranto until our return.”
“Molto bene, uncle.” Annibale bowed.
“Such slaves as these must work in le saline of Comacchio,” Loredan added, half to himself, as he looked at his prisoners. “We shall even find work for those three cripples. But they are all too dangerous to make use of as galley slaves, for ships and seas are their environment naturale. You must be cautious, Annibale. I would not want to lose you, especially to such scum as these banditti. We are so close!” He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his hands together. Then he looked at Annibale. “Oh, we are so close to attaining our own estates in terra firma, I can almost taste them on my tongue. Soon I shall have titles, lands, peasants, and slaves, all of which you shall inherit—these shall all be the subjects of your future kingdom. The Loredan family shall be as firm and secure as the rock of Gibraltar, as constant as the northern star. We shall be rich, safe, comfortable. We shall want for nothing, and we shall fear less. Every problem shall be solved, and we shall be at peace forever. One day soon, all Venetians shall address you as ‘Vostra Serenità.’”
“I understand, uncle.”
“Now take heed, young one,” Loredan warned. “For this is your first command. ‘Spare the whip and spoil the slave.’ These slaves are not your friends. They are foes only. To treat them with kindness invites their contempt. And do not forget to keep them in chains. Do not unchain them for any reason. They are insatiate as cormorants, only they pretend to be loyal and honorable—until they see their chance. Then they will tear out your throat before you can say ‘Ave Maria.’ I have seen it happen too many times.”
“You need not tell me, uncle.”
“Fine, fine, you think this advice unnecessary, you think these words but the ramblings of an over-cautious old man. Very well, but I speak from experience, and you ought to listen, young buck.”
“I always have, uncle.”
“Once we reach the Dogado, follow my lead in the Liona. I will guide you through the porti that lie ‘twixt the isles of the lagoon. It is much too perilous for a young pup such as yourself to navigate those dangerous shoals, currents, and sandbanks for the first time. Verily, like a second Charybdis, they will swallow you up!”
Annibale bowed. He seemed to be waiting for his uncle to leave.
“Very well,” Loredan said. “I will depart, and leave you to it. For now, you are Capitano of your first nave—and a most magnificent one, at that.” He eyed the Paralos for a moment. “We must learn from its clever construction and design, but we must also reconsecrate it, and have a priest scatter holy water upon its benighted beams, for it reeks of the stench of the Saraceni. There are too many upon this ship…they must be converted to the One True Faith. The Moors are not to be trusted. The hellspawn Normans in Sicily use them in their armies to defy the Holy Father in Rome, for those diavoli care not if they are excommunicated or under papal interdict, living as they already do in open sin—”
“Uncle, we lose precious time,” Annibale said.
“Yes, yes, of course. Well, on that note, arrivederci, my dear boy. Farewell, Capitano Loredan, and buona fortuna. I shall miss you. You must take care of yourself.” Loredan kissed Annibale’s cheeks, shook his hands with both of his own, hugged him tightly, watched him for a moment, then returned to the Liona.
Jesus, his uncle really loves him, Gontran thought. He almost empathized with Loredan due to his own loss of Joseph.
Only five men from the Venetian armada remained aboard the Paralos. One—who was dressed in filthy rags, his legs chained together, and who had hair so blond it was almost white, with crystal blue eyes, puffy cheeks, and a sharp nose—pounded the drums. The other four men consisted of Annibale and his friends, who looked and dressed just like him, though they were more muscular, their hands thick and calloused. They watched the Trapezuntines and Kitezhi row the ship northward after the Liona, the slaves’ chains rattling with their movements. Each of these four men kept his right hand on either his whip or his sword at all times, their bodies tense.
Born rich, Gontran thought. Working out here so they can get even richer—
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Gontran! shouted Ra’isa’s voice, echoing in his mind. Can you hear me?
He was so surprised to hear an alien voice in his consciousness (other than the game voice) that he forgot to help Diaresso—sitting beside him—row the oar. For this, Diaresso scowled at him, though he was too afraid to even mutter his usual imprecations, aware of how the Venetians watched him even more closely than they did the other slaves.
Gontran! came Ra’isa’s voice again.
I can hear you, Gontran thought.
You cannot answer, Ra’isa thought. I cannot hear you. But you must hear me. It is because you do not have farr. It is alright. We will free crew tonight when the pork-eaters are tired and asleep.
Gontran glanced at Ra’isa and nodded only slightly. She was staring at him, even as they both rowed.
Never look to me again! said her voice in his mind. Uncircumcised dogs will see!
Sorry, Gontran thought, forgetting that she couldn’t hear.
We amazons will fight the Veneti. You must light Talia’s fires. Maybe we need her help. But I think not. For they are weak, like all men.
Gontran rolled his eyes. Ra’isa was beautiful, but a little strong for his tastes.
“Cane.” Annibale pointed at Gontran with his whip.
Gontran looked at him, raised his eyebrows, and pointed to himself.
“Come here, cane.”
Gontran stood and lifted his hands so that another Venetian could unlock him from his bench, though his wrists were still chained together. He approached Annibale and forced himself to kneel.
“You were capitano of this barque, were you not?” Annibale said.
Gontran nodded. “I was.”
Annibale slammed Gontran’s face with the butt of his whip so hard that white light flashed everywhere in his vision. The game voice told him that he had lost five health. He cried out and clutched his cheek, his chains ringing.
“You will address all Venetian men as ‘signore’ or 'maestro' at all times,” Annibale said. “Capitano Cane.”
“Sì, signore,” Gontran stammered, gaining XP for his linguistic abilities. “Mi dispiace, signore.”
Annibale stared at him with frightening green eyes, took a deep breath, then pointed to the basilik, which the amazons had left behind the bowsprit. “This is a new Roman weapon, cane, is it not?”
Gontran hesitated. It was bad enough for the Romans to have basiliks. For the Venetians to have them—
Annibale struck Gontran with the whip again, this time on the other side of his face. He lost another five health, leaving him at 80/100, since he had yet to recover from the Marmara battle. The three Venetian companions laughed.
“Sì, signore,” Gontran said, doing his best to control his growing hatred for this man.
“You will demonstrate the method of its operation, Capitano Cane.”
Standing and bowing, Gontran approached the basilik and armed it, explaining how to do so as he worked, always finishing his sentences with the word “signore.” He was tempted to tell Annibale that it was best to stand right in front of the basilik when it was fired, but he suspected that the Venetian was too sharp for this obvious trick.
“Point this ‘basilisco’ of yours away from the Liona,” Annibale said. “Then ignite.”
Gontran bowed. “It’s going to be pretty loud, signore. I suggest covering your ears, signore.”
“Fear not, Capitano Cane, for we are men, and neither the fires of Etna—nor the thunderings of Zeus about the peak of Olympus—will frighten those such as us. Besides, will it not be beautiful, to behold such weapons as these? With this iron and fire, we shall subdue the world.”
“Alright, don’t say I didn’t warn you, signore.”
Annibale raised his whip. “Do not command me, cane, neither grow familiar, even in jest.”
Gontran bowed. “Mi dispiace, signore.”
“Proceed.”
Gontran bowed again, then turned the basilik, ignited the fuse, ducked to the side, and plugged his ears with his fingers. Annibale looked down at him with contempt. Suddenly the basilik blasted the air, wreathing the deck in acrid smoke and sending a black ball into the sea. In response, the four Venetians threw themselves to the deck. The drummer stopped drumming and cowered, then prayed to God, muttering in Slavic-accented Greek that the basilik was of the devil’s making, for it reeked of unholy brimstone.
Annibale climbed to his feet. Feigning nonchalance, he gently applauded Gontran. “Well done, Capitano Cane. Now quick, return to your station, this vessel cannot row itself! And look, your friend, there, the Moro, he would appear to miss you. How longingly does he cast those rolling white eyes of his upon you, like two full moons in blackest night.”
As Annibale and his three companions tittered, Gontran went back to his bench and sat beside Diaresso, who had never stopped glaring at him. Soon Gontran was locked to his bench and rowing again. Before long, his muscles were on fire, his bones ached, and he groaned in agony. The rest of the Paralos’s crew was doing the same.
We have to get out of here.
The oars splashed, the men groaned, and the ship creaked as the sails were unfurled and the wind spilled inside, the prow slicing the waves. Evening could not come soon enough. Gontran never forgot the position of the sun, always telling himself that he only needed to keep rowing a little longer, and then everything would be alright. He told himself that Ra’isa would free the crew. She would take care of everything.
So stupid it seems desperate, he thought. ‘Forge an alliance with the Venetians,’ the workers’ councils said. ‘It’ll be no problem,’ they said. No, guys, it’s a problem. The Venetians know which side their bread’s buttered on. We should just head home after we escape, maybe ally with other cities in the area, who knows.
Yet with each pull of the oar, Gontran felt himself growing angrier. It would be nice to throw these Venetian bastards into the sea and burn their city to the ground.
Smash their dikes and flood their precious lagoon so that no one can build anything there ever again.
Venice, he recalled, was a beautiful city in the old world—perhaps the most beautiful. Bello, bello, bellissima! But he had never thought about the labor that had gone into all those duomos and campaniles, the black gothic arches and white marble façades decked with statues of saints and angels. And he wasn't even talking about the laborers and architects that had built those places. He was talking about the slaves who had earned the money necessary to build them.
Just find me one Western city that wasn’t built by slaves, he thought. I’m begging you.
Gontran wanted to talk with Diaresso beside him—shoot the shit like in the old days, which were only a few hours in the past—but the man from Tomboutou was even more sullen than usual. Rowing these oars was unpleasant, but the Paralos crew was paid a wage, with an equal share in whatever spoils they took (whether via trade or piracy) as well as a vote in the ship’s assembly. Anyone aboard could be elected katapan; a majority could vote Gontran out of office at any time. And so, wanting to save their strength, the Paralos crew only rowed when they were becalmed or during combat; oared ships were faster and more maneuverable than sailboats. But now the crew was enslaved, and their new maestri wanted to get home, which meant that the crew rowed continuously for hours, lowering their stamina to dangerous levels. If the crew slackened out of step with the beating drum, whips cracked behind them; if they needed to piss or shit, there was no time to be unchained and escorted to the side—they went where they sat.
Disgusting.
Thanks to this lack of sanitation, disease was guaranteed to wipe out the crew sooner or later. Doctor Ubayd was rowing along with the rest of the crew—would the Venetians even respect a Saracen as a doctor? And how could the man even help, under these conditions?
But if a bunch of people died on the voyage, it was no big deal. The Venetians could always find more slaves, and it was probably better to get rid of your old stock and replenish it with fresh blood. Fresh, vigorous, ignorant, perfect. The instant any slave aboard showed the slightest sign of sickness, the maestri would toss them over the side. It was safe, convenient, efficient. The weak needed to make way for the strong; blood lubricated the Venetian economy.
Gontran was worried, in particular, about his disabled comrades Dmitri Anatolyevich, Ibn Ismail, and Athanasios. Each had lost a limb during the Marmara battle. The Venetians were tolerating their presence for now, but Ibn Ismail, in particular—with his one arm—was having a hard time keeping up with rowing, while Dmitri Anatolyevich and Athanasios, with one leg each, had trouble balancing as they sat on the benches. How long until the Venetians just dumped these men over the side?
Gontran gritted his teeth with rage, focusing on the Venetians because he wanted to think about anything other than how he had ended up in this situation. Yet accusations crept back into his mind.
You agreed to do this. Those cultists, those idealists told you to play nice with the Venetians. Nobody forced you. You knew it was suicide, but you went with it anyway.
He soon found that the only escape was to row so hard that he lost himself in the agony of slave labor. This made all thought impossible. What was thought, after all, except another way for the world to wound you? It was bad enough to be a slave, and even worse for your own mind to remind you of that fact.
As Gontran worked harder, Diaresso rasped that he was a fool and a bootlicker for putting in more than the minimum their owners required.
“Just trying to make the best of a bad situation,” Gontran whispered, speaking so quietly that he could barely hear himself.
The whip came hard and fast, and like a lightning bolt it knocked Gontran to the deck beneath the bench, where the slaves’ piss and shit was already gathering. A pig in filth, he rolled in it for the instant it took him to climb back to his oar, so shocked he felt numb. He had lost another five health.
Now all he could do was row. Those slaves nearest to him, Diaresso included, either wrinkled their noses in disgust at the reek rising from his body, or they glanced at him with pity. Soon enough, Gontran could not help pitying himself.
The lowest I’ve ever been, he thought. The worst day of my life. Worse than being a peasant on Chlotar’s plantation. They never whipped anyone there. You did your job and you went home, that was it. Half the time you worked your own land for your own family. But here…
He looked to his crew laboring in the afternoon light. Each sweaty face wore its own unique expression of misery. Whenever the black-clad Venetians walked past, everyone looked down or away. To meet their eyes—as blue-green as the drowning sea—invited death.
What if we never escape? Gontran thought. What if it’s like this for the rest of our lives? No—of course we’ll escape. Ra'isa and Talia will break us free. The Venetians don’t know who they’re dealing with. But what about all the other slaves who are out there right now, the ones who have been laboring for years without any hope of escape? Where are you even supposed to go? Trebizond’s the only place that’s anti-slavery, and it’s practically on the other side of the world. It’s half-mythical, it might as well be on another planet, most people don’t even believe something like that can exist. They believe slavery only ends in the afterlife. Think about those people, then think about the millions of slaves who labored for their entire lives for centuries before now, all the ones who never got away.
The whip cracked in the air behind him. Gontran tensed up, rowing more furiously, his jaws grinding together hard enough to break his teeth. Annibale Loredan strode past in his haughty way, his hands held behind his straight back, a carefree smile on his handsome face, his long blond hair gleaming in the sea breeze. A perfect body, a life of no worries, never a meal missed, his belly full of good things, everything always taken care of. If he gambled away one mansion, don’t worry, his relatives had a hundred more, and they were always happy to help out.
As soon as Annibale turned away, Gontran glared at him so hard it was a wonder he didn’t burn holes in the man’s back.
Yes, many slaves never escaped. But some did. And some even killed their masters, not caring that there was nowhere to go. Not caring that they were doomed.
The four Venetians kept the Paralos crew rowing until it was too dark to see. Clouds had gathered, the night was black, and their escort, the Liona, was only a candle flame flickering in the void. Sternward, the Venetians had ordered the amazons to set up a red tent, one tied to the wales. They called this tent the tenda di comando. Now they were lounging underneath the tent on blankets, heating themselves before the fire whirling in a bronze brazier, ordering the amazons about, and feeling them up. These warriors they had taken as personal servants. The amazons were still chained, but Annibale had torn off Ra’isa’s green hijab and thrown it over the side, as well as the headscarves belonging to Zainab and Zulaika al-Jariya, muttering that no Saraceni could taint ships which belonged to good Christians. This shocked Gontran—how could Annibale do this to them? Yet the temptation to see Ra’isa without her hijab was too great. Gontran stared at her gleaming brown hair for a moment in disbelief, then averted his eyes. It was wrong. Losing your hijab was like being stripped naked. Now he felt sorry for her—angry for her—but also angry at himself. It was a break from this endless misery to look, even for an instant, at one so beautiful. How could he have never noticed? And yet it was wrong to delight in the sight of her, since she must have been ashamed.
Gontran went back and forth like this for several minutes. His emotions were all over the place. But sadly for Ra’isa, she had more to worry about than emotions. Losing her hijab was only the beginning of her troubles. Annibale would order her to pour more black Trapezuntine wine into his cup; then, as she did this, he would stare down her shirt with wide eyes and raised eyebrows to amuse his three companions. (Gontran had learned that their names were Marco Morosini, Agustin Ludovici, and Giovanni Battista.) Then Annibale would down the wine in one gulp and order her to pour more, and stare at her chest again as she bent over for him.
Why does she tolerate this? Gontran thought. What’s she waiting for?
She could have knocked them all to the deck too quickly to see. Walking through a city crowded with men leering at her, telling her to smile, catcalling her, Ra’isa could have killed them all with her hands and feet alone. But here on the Paralos she hesitated.
Why?
Gontran was so weary that he was leaning on Diaresso, who was himself leaning on the wale and too tired to shove him off. Caked in dried sweat and god knew what else, his back throbbing from Annibale’s lashing, his muscles torn and aching, Gontran had never thought such misery possible, nor had he known that he could row so hard for so long, the drum always pounding behind him, the maestri’s whips splitting the air.
“Is it not good?” Annibale said to his three friends. “Good to get a good rhythm going?”
On top of all this, the temperature was dropping, and people were shivering. What did the Venetians care? Wrapped in warm thick blankets and coats lined with wolf pelts before brazier flames that lapped at the night, they were too busy drinking, joking, laughing, reciting poetry, singing.
They win, we lose.
Gontran wanted to keep awake to see Ra’isa and the amazons take revenge, but he was so tired that his eyes closed by themselves and refused to open.