Siege

Chapter 4

FEBRUARY 1449: GENOA

La Fortuna arrived in Genoa in the evening, gliding across the smooth waters of the bay and tying up at one of the Giustiniani family piers. Beyond the pier, the city rose before Longo, densely packed buildings huddled beneath the steep hills that encircled the city. The tops of the hills were lightly dusted with snow, glowing crimson in the evening light. Longo left his men to unload the ship while he, Tristo and William walked through the city's narrow, winding streets and to the nearby Giustiniani palace. In the courtyard of the palazzo, the steward of the house greeted Longo with a mixture of joy and surprise.

'Welcome home, Master Longo — praise God that you are alive! We had feared the worst after your long absence. Will you be staying the night? May I bring you food, wine?'

'No, Jacomo, thank you,' Longo said. 'Bring me a horse, and two more for Tristo and William. We will be riding on to the villa immediately.'

'To the villa!' Jacomo's eyebrows rose in alarm. 'Shall I send a messenger ahead of you so that all will be ready when you arrive?'

'That will not be necessary. I expect we will ride faster than any messenger.' Jacomo wrung his hands. He was obviously anxious to warn the villa chamberlain, Nicolo, of Longo's arrival. Longo wondered what Nicolo was up to. Making trouble as usual, no doubt.

The villa lay just three miles outside the city, set in the foothills overlooking Genoa and surrounded by fields and vineyards. They reached Longo's lands shortly after nightfall and tied their horses off in the vineyards behind the villa. The vines, to Longo's satisfaction, had thrived while he was away, but they occupied only a small portion of his mind now. 'Quiet,' Longo warned Tristo and William. 'Let us see what my good chamberlain Nicolo has been up to in my absence. Tristo, I give you leave to stay in your cottage tonight. I will see you on the morrow.' Tristo moved away quietly towards his cottage, while Longo and William proceeded on foot towards the villa.

The villa was well lit, and as they approached, Longo and William could hear laughter and music. They saw no one as they crept through the vineyard, save for one drunken reveller stumbling off into the vines to urinate and singing loudly: Give me a girl to call my own, Yes give me a girl I pray. Give me a wench to ply my bone, For which I'll gladly pay!

The villa was surrounded by a wall some six feet high. Longo mounted it and pulled William up after him. From there, they could see the run of the gardens: fountains, carefully tended paths, hedges and people everywhere. Longo's servants were stumbling about the grounds, singing bawdy songs and entertaining a host of overly made-up, buxom women in garish clothes — many of them whores, no doubt. Here and there men were slinking off into the hedges, pulling women after them. The festivities extended to the villa proper, where Longo's personal musicians had been recruited to provide music and were busy churning out local folk tunes on their viols, lutes and recorders.

Longo and William dropped to the ground, and Longo led the way through the drunken revellers. At the steps of the villa, one of the musicians recognized Longo and, turning palest white, dropped his instrument and hurried off into the darkness. One by one, the other musicians also stopped playing, and as the music faded, all eyes turned to Longo. Gasps filled the silence. One of the more drunk men bent over and vomited. A portly man carrying a bottle of wine exited the villa singing and, upon seeing Longo, froze. 'Merda!'

'Good-evening, Anselmo. I see you are having quite a celebration.'

'Yes, My Lord,' Anselmo mumbled. 'It is Candlemas, My Lord. And, and…' A flash of inspiration came into the drunken man's eye. 'And, we were drinking to your safe return!'

'Of course. Where is Nicolo?'

Anselmo swallowed hard. 'I believe he's in your bedroom, My Lord.'

Longo nodded. 'Anselmo, clean this mess up. William, stay here and keep an eye on him and the others. Don't let them drink any more wine. Feel free to carve up any man who disobeys you.' William drew his dagger and leered wickedly at Anselmo. Longo strode into the villa entrance hall, up the curving marble staircase and into his bedroom. He found Nicolo in bed, naked, with two equally naked, voluptuous young women feeding him grapes.

'Who dares disturb me!' Nicolo roared as he sat up. Then, upon seeing Longo, he swallowed a grape whole and choked on it. The women took one glance at Longo's glowering face and sword and hurried from the room. Longo remained silent while Nicolo struggled with the grape, his face turning first red, then faintly purple. Finally, the chamberlain coughed out the grape and immediately burst into speech, forcing words out between giant, heaving breaths. 'So good to see you, My Lord…' Gasp. 'Had feared you dead…' Gasp. 'Apologize for the mess…' Gasp. 'Such an unexpected pleasure…'

'I see you have been taking good care of my home,' Longo interrupted. 'Tell me, was the wine good this year?' He picked up one of a score of empty bottles at the foot of the bed and sniffed at the dregs. 'Surely you must be thoroughly familiar with last year's vintage. Did the nebbiolo take?'

'Yes, My Lord, most magnificently. You must have a taste.' Nicolo looked about him for a full bottle, but finding none, continued, 'The harvest was excellent. I doubled the size of the herd and have acquired an adjoining vineyard from… my good God!' Nicolo was cut short in his account by the distant, wailing scream of a woman who was either terribly frightened or extremely happy. The scream rose to an unbelievably high pitch and then stopped abruptly.

'You were saying?' Longo prompted.

'Yes, a vineyard,' Nicolo mumbled. 'It was from a merchant. Ridolfi was the name.'

'Was it?'

'Yes. But you have said nothing of these, uh, these festivities. You are not angry with me, My Lord?'

'Why would I be angry with you, Nicolo?' Longo asked. He tossed the bottle he held aside, and Nicolo jumped as it shattered on the floor. 'You seem to have everything well in hand. Now come, you must show me the grounds. I am particularly interested to see the fields. I noticed they have not yet been ploughed. We shall see to that tomorrow.' The scream Longo and Nicolo had heard had come from Tristo's cottage, where his wife, Maria, was both terribly frightened and extremely happy. Tristo had crept silently to the door of the tiny, one-room dwelling, and pausing there, he was not surprised to hear two voices inside instead of one. A man was saying soft and low, 'Magnificent, beautiful. I shall buy you ten more,' while a woman answered with delighted laughter. Tristo screwed his face up into an expression of righteous indignation. He tested the latch, and finding the door unlocked, allowed it to swing open. On the table before him lay a partially eaten feast: a roasted pheasant, various cheeses and three bottles of wine. A fire was crackling in the hearth. And there on the bed lay his wife, partially dressed in a frilly, silken dress, and laying in flagrante delicto with a half-naked man that Tristo had never seen before. It was upon seeing Tristo looming in the doorway, his face a mask of outrage and anger, that Maria had begun to scream. Taking her outburst as a sign of unparalleled delight, the strange man, his back to Tristo, increased his efforts with renewed vigour.

Maria was still screaming when Tristo grabbed the man by the nape, lifted him clear off the bed, and sent him flying out the open door. At once, the scream ceased. 'Thank God you're here,' Maria cried to Tristo. 'That vile man was having his way with me!'

The man rose as quickly as he could with his breeches still around his ankles, and hobbled to the door, outraged. 'Having my way with you! What are you talking about, Maria? Who is this man?' Tristo slammed the door shut in the man's face, bringing an abrupt end to his tirade.

'Having his way with you, eh? Who was he?' Tristo sat down at the table and helped himself to a glass of wine. The look of outrage had vanished from his face, replaced by a cheerful smile. He paused to take in the lacy dress his wife was wearing. 'Nice dress.'

'You like it?' Maria smiled and adjusted her dishevelled clothes. She was a big-boned, well-endowed woman, pretty rather than beautiful, with long black hair and a mischievous smile. 'He was nobody. Just some merchant from town. You can hardly expect me to defend myself when you're away, Tristo. Especially for two years! And you could at least have the courtesy to knock. Christ, you scared the liver out of me. I thought you were a ghost, standing there in the doorway looking like Lucifer himself.'

'Well, I'm alive and well,' Tristo said, finishing the wine and moving on to the half-eaten pheasant. 'Now come here and give your husband a kiss.' Maria rose and kissed Tristo full on the lips, while he gave her a sharp slap on the bottom. 'That's for infidelity, you naughty wench,' he said. 'There'll be none of that now that I'm home.' Maria returned the blow, slapping Tristo hard across the face. 'Well what was that for, woman?'

'That was for infidelity, and for daring to strike your wife,' Maria replied tartly.

Tristo jumped from his chair and gave Maria another slap on the bottom. 'Then that,' he said, 'is for not knowing your place, woman.'

She slapped him back. 'And that is for daring to strike a lady.'

'A lady?' Tristo roared, chasing Maria around the table, one hand swinging for her bottom. He caught her, and after a brief tussle, the slapping became hugging, then kissing, and then they were on the bed, holding each other tight.

'Welcome home, Tristo,' Maria said, laughing. 'Oh, how I missed you.' True to his word, Longo saw to the ploughing of his fields the next morning. He sat in the shade of an olive tree, taking a breakfast of bread and cheese while he watched Nicolo struggle to pull a plough through the cold, hard ground. Longo had strapped Nicolo to the harness himself, and although the chamberlain had been wrestling for nearly half an hour, he had moved no more than a few feet. When he had finished his breakfast, Longo went down to where Nicolo was straining at the harness. The sun had risen and, although the air still retained the chill of winter, Nicolo was dripping in sweat. He sank to his knees in exhaustion as Longo approached.

'Nicolo, you have only ploughed six feet,' Longo said with mock severity. He poked at the dirt with his foot. 'And poorly turned at that. You will be out ploughing every day until summer at this rate.'

Nicolo looked up in alarm. 'Please, My Lord, no more ploughing, I beg you. I will do anything you ask.'

'Very well.' The punishment had been mostly for the benefit of the other servants. Nicolo was valuable enough that Longo would put up with his occasional transgressions. Longo pulled his chamberlain to his feet and helped him from the harness. 'You may start by running to the villa. I am going to take a tour of the vineyards, and when I return, I want horses saddled for myself, Tristo and three men. I must go to a council meeting in Genoa, and I will spend tonight in town. Please send a man to the palazzo to make the necessary arrangements.'

'Yes, My Lord. Immediately, My Lord,' Nicolo said, hurrying away despite his weariness.

'And have somebody look at your back, Nicolo,' Longo called after him. 'I'm sure the harness has left its mark.'

'Of course. Thank you for your consideration, My Lord.' Nicolo jogged on up the hill towards the villa, paused to catch his breath at the olive tree where Longo had breakfasted, and then lumbered over the hill and out of view.

When Longo arrived at the villa, he found Nicolo holding the bridle of his horse. Tristo and three armed men stood ready to escort Longo to the city, and with them was William, who rushed forward as soon as he caught sight of Longo. 'Longo,' he cried. 'May I ride with you to the city? I will be no trouble.'

'We are not in the East any longer, William. You must address me as "My Lord",' Longo admonished, although he accompanied his words with a smile. William had spoken in English, and none except for Longo and Tristo had understood. 'You may not accompany me this time,' Longo continued. 'You do not know our ways, and I do not want you getting into trouble. Once you know something of Italian, then you may enter Genoa. Not before.'

'But I will be no trouble,' William protested.

'I am sure,' Longo said, swinging himself into the saddle. 'But you must stay nevertheless. Nicolo,' he said, switching to Italian, 'find something to occupy William. Teach him some Italian.'

Longo spurred away. He and his men rode at a trot through vineyards and fields, down through the tall eastern gate of Genoa — the Porta Soprana — and into the city. As they wound through the narrow streets, the buildings close on either side, Longo caught sight of William running after them, attempting unsuccessfully to stay out of sight. Longo shook his head. The boy would have to learn discipline if he wished to stay in Longo's household.

By the time he arrived at the Ducal Palace, Longo had put William out of his mind. The palace was a tall building, with white marble columns fronting the street and a tall tower rising above the whole. Longo dismounted, handed his reins to Tristo, and entered. The palace was the centre of power in Genoa. The city was ruled exclusively by a few great merchant families: the Grimaldi, Cassello, Boccanegra, Spinola, Adorno, Fregoso, Doria, Fieschi and Giustiniani. They met in council once a month, presided over by the Doge, who they elected for life.

Longo entered the council hall — a long, high-ceilinged room dominated by a massive oval table. He took his place as head of the Giustiniani family, and waited while the table slowly filled. The Doge, Ludovico Fregoso, entered last, a tall, long-nosed man with the pleasant, unexceptional features of his family. He called the council to order, and the talk turned immediately to questions of trade — the anticipated arrival of several caravans from the East, the persistent rumours of a sea passage to the Indies, and the advisability of financing exploration of the passage. From trade, the talk turned to politics: Genoa's great rival, Venice, was expanding its lands in the eastern Mediterranean. Longo sat quietly until the discussion turned to Pera — the Genoese trading colony just across the Golden Horn from Constantinople.

'Signor Giustiniani,' Fregoso addressed him. 'You have recently returned from Constantinople. What news do you bring?'

'The news is not good,' Longo began. 'King Ladislas of Poland was killed at the Battle of Kossova, and John Hunyadi's army was destroyed. The Greeks do not have enough men to fight the sultan's armies. If the Turks attack, then I fear Constantinople will fall unless the Greeks have outside aid.'

The table was quiet. Finally, Niccolo Grimaldi, a soft-spoken, elderly man known for his shrewd business dealings, broke the silence. 'If Constantinople falls, then Pera will be lost. Our trade with the East would be ruined.'

'We would be left with nothing, easy pickings for the Venetians,' agreed Umberto Spinola.

'What course of action do you suggest, Signor Giustiniani?' Fregoso asked.

'We have two choices. We can send an ambassador to the sultan and arrange a treaty guaranteeing the sanctity of Pera. Murad may be an infidel, but he is a man of his word. However, he is said to be in poor health, and I know little of his son, the heir. Moreover, it pains me to go begging to the Turks. Instead, I propose that we arrange a treaty with the Greek emperor. In return for trading concessions, we should begin sending ships and men to Constantinople to fortify the city. I believe that a strong sign of Western support is the only thing that can deter the Turks. Whatever we do, we must act quickly. Only Murad's goodwill has preserved peace thus far. I fear it will not last for long.'

Longo sat back. Spinola, an extremely religious man who could not abide the Turks, responded first. 'I agree with Signor Giustiniani,' he said. 'We must enter no negotiations with the heathen sultan.'

'Fine words,' Giovanni Adorno retorted. He was a plump man, whose merry face and twinkling eyes belied a ruthless intelligence. 'But your religion, Signor Spinola, has not stopped your agents from signing contracts with Turkish warlords or purchasing millions of soldi worth of spices from Muslim traders.'

'You question my faith, Signor?' Spinola bristled.

'Not at all,' Adorno soothed. 'I merely wish to point out that even the most righteous among us have made deals with the heathens. Indeed, our livelihoods depend on it.'

'There are other concerns,' Longo pointed out. 'A deal with the sultan will create anger in Constantinople. We cannot risk losing our docks and warehouses there.'

'Exactly,' Spinola agreed. 'That is why we must aid Constantinople.'

'Forgive me for asking,' Grimaldi said. 'But what would this cost? Financing troops at such a distance is no small matter. I do not wish to bankrupt our city to fight a war that has not yet begun.' Several men nodded or thumped the table in agreement. 'And what if we support Constantinople, and the city falls regardless?' Grimaldi continued. 'We will lose everything.'

'A small sacrifice to defend our faith,' Spinola insisted. 'Or have we all forgotten that we are Christians, that we have a duty to our Lord?'

'I am sure none of us has forgotten, Signor, but we also have a duty to our city and our people,' Fregoso said. 'I propose that we make contact with the sultan…'

'But Signor!' Longo interrupted. 'We cannot abandon Constantinople.'

'We will not,' Fregoso assured him. 'We will seek to learn the sultan's mind, but will enter into no official agreement. Meanwhile, the Emperor Constantine will be given assurances of aid, to be delivered when and if an attack occurs.' In short, Fregoso was proposing that they do nothing. 'All in favour?' the Doge asked. A chorus of ayes settled the matter. Only Longo and Spinola had abstained. 'Very well,' Fregoso concluded, 'the matter is settled and this meeting is at an end.'

Longo rose and marched from the palace without a word to the others. The decision had not surprised him, but he was upset nonetheless. He sent Tristo and his men on ahead to the palazzo. Longo followed on foot, striding ahead as if to outpace his disappointment. William stood in a shadowy alleyway and watched as Longo exited the Ducal Palace and headed on foot towards the centre of town. He followed at a distance. A dense crowd filled the narrow street, circulating between the shops that lined both sides of the road. Above, covered balconies projecting from the buildings nearly met overhead, leaving only a narrow gap for the pale January sunshine. William watched as a house servant came to the window of one of the balconies and dumped a chamber-pot into the street below. William jumped back, narrowly avoiding being doused with filth.

He turned to find Longo standing before him. William froze, his face flushing crimson. 'I didn't mean to disobey, sir,' he explained. 'But I wanted to see the city — it was dark when we arrived, and I didn't think it would do any harm…'

'I am not angry with you,' Longo said, cutting William short. 'I could use your company. We will stop by the market on the way to the palazzo. As long as you are out, I might as well buy you something to wear. Those rags barely cover you.'

They walked through the maze of narrow streets and down to the market. It filled the Piazza San Giorgio, only a few blocks from the port, and overflowed into the surrounding streets. The periphery of the square was lined with booths selling a dazzling array of goods — oriental silks, Indian spices, exotic animals, swords, flowers. Milling between the booths was a thick crowd of people, cut occasionally by a noble on horseback. William stopped and gaped, dazzled by the brightly painted buildings that lined the square, the outlandishly dressed street performers and the sheer liveliness of it all. Longo waded into the crowd, and William hurried after him.

They stopped in front of a stall selling bolts of cloth and well-worked leather in long strips. Longo patted the leather appreciatively, then spoke briefly with the merchant, who offered two long lengths of the leather for Longo's closer inspection. Longo nodded his approval and then moved on to examine a bolt of white cotton.

'But I thought we were buying clothes,' William interrupted.

'These are your clothes: leather breeches and a cotton shirt. Tristo will show you how to sew them. Now come. You look half-starved. I will buy you something to eat. You have never had a fig, I'd wager.'

William had never tasted anything quite so wonderful as a fig. It was so sweet it hurt his mouth, but it also had an exotic, earthy flavour that undercut the sweetness. As he and Longo chewed, they wandered over to watch a fire-eater in one of the streets on the edge of the square. The fire-eater took a flaming sword and slowly inserted the blade — all two feet of it — into his mouth so that only the hilt protruded. When he withdrew the sword, the blade was still burning.

'How does he do that?' William wondered.

Longo reflected, chewing on a fig. 'Maybe he drinks something special to protect him. Or maybe it does burn him, but he has grown used to the pain.'

But William was no longer listening. All his attention was focused beyond the fire-eater, to where an Italian noble was approaching on horseback. He was a thin man, whose otherwise handsome face was marred by a perpetual sneer. William recognized that face; indeed, he would never forget it. It was the face of Carlo Grimaldi, the man who had betrayed William and his crewmates to the Turks.

William surged forward, stepping in front of Carlo's horse. 'It is you, you bastard!' he screamed. 'I am going to kill you!'

The horse reared, almost unseating Carlo. He recovered and stared contemptuously at William. 'You seem to have lost your wits, boy,' he said in accented English. 'I have never seen you before in my life. Now get out of my way.' He slashed his riding whip across William's face, drawing blood.

William drew his dagger and stood his ground. 'You are a murderer,' he spat. 'You stabbed my uncle in the back. You betrayed us to the Turks.'

'I do not take kindly to being insulted, especially by common English scum like you,' Carlo snarled and again sent his riding whip slashing towards William's face. William raised his dagger and sliced the whip neatly in two. 'I will have your head for that!' Carlo roared, drawing his sword.

Longo stepped between Carlo and William. 'I am Longo Giustiniani, and this boy is under my protection. If you have a quarrel with him, then you have a quarrel with me.'

Carlo went white at the mention of Longo's name. 'I did not know the boy was in your service, Signor Giustiniani. But he has insulted me and drawn on me. I demand justice.'

'If you want justice, then you will have to take it from me,' Longo said.

Carlo hesitated. His honour had been challenged, but clearly he did not wish to fight Longo. Finally he nodded. 'So be it. I shall send someone to arrange the details.'

'No,' William insisted. 'I will fight for myself.'

'Quiet, William,' Longo ordered. 'You do not know what you are doing.'

William ignored him. Carlo had killed his friends, and William had sworn to make him pay. He turned to Carlo and said in broken Italian, 'I you fight. I.'

Carlo smirked. 'I would as soon wipe my boots with him as fight this commoner,' he said. 'But the boy seems to need a lesson in manners. I will meet him tomorrow. My man will be at your house presently. Good-day, Signor Giustiniani.' Carlo's second, his portly brother Paolo, arrived at the palazzo no more than an hour later and met with Longo. They quickly agreed to terms: first light, the Piazza di Sarzano, to the death.

Longo found William and Tristo eating at a table in the courtyard, and he stopped to watch them. Tristo was tucking into a heaping plate of vermicelli covered in butter, while William held up a long thin noodle, eyeing it sceptically. 'Looks like a worm,' he noted. 'What do you call it again?'

'La pasta.'

'La pasta,' William repeated and ate the noodle, chewing carefully. 'Not bad.' He reached for a cup and sniffed at the contents.

'Il vino,' Tristo told him.

William took a sip and grimaced. 'Haven't you got any beer?'

Tristo laughed. 'You'll learn to like it, boy. Believe me.' William took another sip and grimaced again.

'Don't go getting him drunk, Tristo. He'll need a clear head tomorrow,' Longo called as he approached. 'William, we have agreed to terms. The duel will be to the death.' Longo studied William's face for any sign of fear, but saw none. 'Have you ever fought with a short sword?' Longo asked him.

'Just daggers, mostly.'

'Take a hold of this, then,' Longo said. He handed William a short sword — a three-foot thin blade with shallow edges, a light sword more for stabbing than for cutting. William took it and slashed the air before him.

'It's so long. Why do they call it a short sword?'

'The sword is named by the length of its handle,' Longo told him.

'Well, so long as it's sharp.' William practised another attack, ducking low and raking his sword through the air, where his foe's knees would be. The boy used the sword like a huge dagger. He had no idea of formal sword fighting.

'I have seen Carlo fight,' Tristo said grimly. 'He's a deadly hand with a sword. I watched him make short work of the youngest Spinola brother some years ago.'

'He has a reputation,' Longo agreed with a nod. What's more, William had to be giving away at least sixty pounds to Carlo. 'If you wish, William, I can put you on a ship tonight. You would be in Chios in a few months' time. There would be no shame in it. Carlo is a nobleman, and he was wrong to accept a commoner's challenge.'

William ran his hand along his cheek, feeling the fresh cut that Grimaldi's whip had left. 'I will fight him. I am not afraid.'

'Very well,' Longo said. 'I suggest you get some sleep. I will see you in the morning.' Sunrise found Longo and William already at the Piazza di Sarzano, their horses tethered out of the chill wind, in the lee of the old city wall. They stood in the centre of the cobbled square, their breath steaming and their cloaks wrapped tightly about them. Behind them rose the Church of San Salvatore, its facade marked by four towering columns, numerous frescos and an odd stained-glass window shaped like an enormous hat.

The two Grimaldi brothers arrived on horseback and tethered their horses in the shelter of the wall. All four men met in the centre of the square. The air was thick with moisture off the nearby sea and the light was still dim. The city was quiet, still sleeping. They spoke softly, as if afraid to upset the calm.

'Choose your sword,' Longo said, handing Paolo the two blades. He hefted them, and finding them equal, handed one of them to Carlo, who took it and slashed at the air several times to judge the sword's balance. Carlo nodded his satisfaction. Longo handed the other sword to William. 'You each know the terms,' Longo said. 'To the death. No quarter will be sought or given.' William and Carlo each nodded. 'You may take your places, then.' Longo turned to William. 'Keep your guard up, and God save you.' Longo and Paolo stepped away to the edge of the square, while William and Carlo squared off some ten feet apart. William looked pitifully thin and young across from the much taller, stronger Carlo.

'Not much of a contest, I'm afraid,' Paolo said. Then, as if aware that his words might cause offence, he added in a conciliatory tone: 'Still, it should be over quickly. The boy won't suffer.' Longo ignored him.

'Are you ready for your lesson, cur?' Carlo spoke sharply in Italian.

'Go to hell, you son of a Turkish whore,' William spat back in English.

'Very well, then.' Carlo bowed and assumed his fighting stance, his body sideways, his right foot forward and pointed at William, and his sword held lightly, following the point of his foot. William dropped to a low crouch, his entire body facing Carlo, his sword held out sideways before him. The two combatants stood still, gauging one another.

Paolo chuckled. 'The boy looks something like a lobster, does he not?' he said. Longo watched on in silence, and Paolo added: 'I mean no offence, of course. I quite like lobsters. Delicious creatures.'

Suddenly, Carlo sprang forward, bounding towards William in a few short steps and lunging at the boy's chest. William anticipated the attack, and he spun out of the way long before Carlo reached him, slashing in vain at Carlo's heels and then skipping to safety. Carlo continued to press the attack, lunging repeatedly with wicked thrusts. Each time, William spun clear, moving in a large circle around the square. Their fighting styles could not have been more different: Carlo always attacking on a line, moving back and forward only, while William moved constantly sideways, spinning and ducking. William was quicker than Carlo, but he was having a difficult time attacking against the Italian's much longer reach.

Beside Longo, Paolo sensed that the fight would not go as easily as anticipated. 'The boy is a slippery devil,' he remarked. 'No doubt learned it picking pockets.'

Another attack by Carlo, and this time William only narrowly avoided the blow, the sword ripping through the fabric of his shirt. Encouraged, Carlo pressed his attack, trying to close with William. William was on his heels now, no longer circling. He backed away, twisting from side to side and barely avoiding a handful of thrusts. His shirt showed several new tears, and now blood was trickling down his side. Still, William danced backwards, and Carlo pressed on, lunging again and again, his sword passing within inches of William's twisting body.

A final lunge, and this time William was a step slow. He twisted into the blow, and the sword skewered his left side, just beneath the ribs. William stumbled, but before Carlo could withdraw his sword for another blow, William rose and drove his sword up through Carlo's throat and out the back of his head. Carlo fell instantly, a pool of blood spreading out around his dead body. William staggered backwards, Carlo's sword still lodged in his side. He looked down at the sword for a moment, then collapsed to his knees.

'William!' Longo rushed to the boy's side. To his surprise, the wound did not look to be a mortal one. It bled little, and the sword seemed to have passed through cleanly, damaging neither the lungs nor the intestines. 'You were lucky, boy,' Longo told him. 'But this sword will have to come out now. Brace yourself.'

'It wasn't luck, My Lord,' William replied, gasping as Longo withdrew the sword. 'I couldn't get close enough unless I took a blow. The pig-faced bastard had damned long arms.'

Longo laid William down, and then poured a flask of brandy into the wound. He tore two lengths of cloth from William's new shirt, wadded the first into a ball, and pressed it against the wound. 'Hold that,' he ordered. Longo pressed the other strip against the wound in William's back. He then took a long strip of linen that he had brought with him and wrapped it tightly around William's mid-section several times, covering the wound.

'That should hold you for now, but we had best get you inside,' Longo said. 'The cold won't do you any good, and neither will the Grimaldi men. The duel was honourably fought, but they'll be in a foul mood when they arrive. Paolo,' he called to the heavy-set young man, who was kneeling in shock over his brother's body. 'I trust this puts a satisfactory end to this disagreement? There will be no acts of vengeance?' Paolo gazed at him dumbly. 'Very well then,' Longo continued, 'I suggest you send for some of your men as soon as you can. The dogs will be at the body soon enough if you wait.'

They left the stupefied Paolo still kneeling beside Carlo. Longo helped William into the saddle, then mounted behind him. They rode back to the Palazzo dei Giustiniani, the bells of San Salvatore ringing out behind them to welcome the new day. The next morning it was clear from the sickening smell of the bandages that William's wound was festering, and later that day the boy contracted a raging fever that left him incoherent, talking to those around him as if he were at home in England with his mother. A doctor was summoned, and he bled William to reduce his bad humours and relieve the fever. Still, the boy continued to burn, and none of the doctor's efforts succeeded in relieving the delirium. Two days passed with no sign of improvement, after which the doctor offered only the direst of forecasts: even if he survived, the doctor assured them, the boy would be an idiot, all his wits burned away by the fever.

Longo could not bear to watch William wasting away. Leaving Tristo with orders to alert him of any change in the boy's condition, he returned to his villa and busied himself with the tending of his vines. The very night of his return there was a frost, and Longo and his serfs spent a busy night lighting pots filled with pitch all along the rows of vines, fighting to keep the killing chill from the young leaves. The next morning, as Longo walked his vineyards to inspect the damage, he was surprised to see Tristo on horseback, galloping down from the villa to meet him.

As Tristo came closer, Longo could see that the huge man was struggling to stay upright in the saddle, and that he favoured his right arm, keeping it pinned to his side. What in God's name had happened to him?

'My Lord,' Tristo said with a wince as he reined in his horse and slid from the saddle. 'I bring news from town.' Tristo's right arm was in a sling, and blood showed through a heavy bandage wrapped around his head.

'What has happened?' Longo asked.

'There was a fight with some of the Grimaldi men. I only happened across it at the last, and I set about trying to separate the men. I had my arm broken by the mace of one of our own men — the cursed idiot — and got a nasty gash on my head for my troubles. Still, the rest had it much worse. Gucio and Piero are killed. Four others are laid up with various injuries. One Grimaldi man is dead, and the rest are pretty badly off.'

The news was not surprising — duels started more feuds than they ended — but it was not welcome either. The Grimaldi were a powerful family, and Longo did not fancy having them as an enemy. Much less did he fancy watching his back each time he rode through the streets of Genoa, or sending his servants to market with armed escort. He would have to act fast. Now that men on both sides had lost friends, the matter needed only a small push — the death of another noble from one of the two families — to evolve into a blood feud.

'Who started the fight?' Longo asked.

'Our men had been to the dock, and most likely to the tavern as well. On returning, they met six Grimaldi men in the street. Probably they were waiting for our men. Insults were exchanged, a Grimaldi man drew, and that was that. From what our men tell me, the Grimaldi men seem bent on revenge for what William did to Carlo. They seem to think the boy is some kind of assassin.'

'And what of William?' Longo asked.

'The same. Only he stopped talking last night. Hasn't said a word since. Loretta, the midwife, says that is a good sign. She says the fever will break now.'

'And what does the doctor say?'

'The doctor says that this is the beginning of the end. The no-good bastard seems to think that William is as good as dead.'

'Then we shall have to hope that the midwife is in the right,' Longo said. 'You will stay here at the villa until you are healed. Have Maria look after you. I will return to Genoa to see to William and take care of this Grimaldi mess.' Shortly after Longo's arrival, William's fever finally broke, and the boy woke from his long delirium with his senses intact. Longo watched him consume enough pasta to feed ten men, and then left for the Grimaldi palazzo to make his peace.

Despite the hostility between the families, Longo was greeted politely and presented immediately to Niccolo Grimaldi — the father of the recently deceased Carlo and the head of the family. The elder Grimaldi was a small man. Despite his sixty years, his lean, tan face was hardly wrinkled, though his hair was a wild mix of grey and black, like the ash from recently burned wood. He was seated on a balcony overlooking the courtyard, drinking a thick black liquid that Longo recognized as coffee, an eastern delicacy. Grimaldi motioned for Longo to sit. Once the formalities were ended, Grimaldi moved right to the point.

'You have come to make peace between our families,' he said. 'I am an old man. I treasure peace, but it is hard-bought after so much blood.'

'Surely more blood is not the answer,' Longo replied. 'I am a warrior, Signor Grimaldi. I have fought more battles than most men have seen years. I do not fear bloodshed, but I have no quarrel with your family, nor with you. Your son was killed fairly, honourably. Let that be an end to it.'

Grimaldi nodded and took a long sip of coffee before he spoke again. 'No doubt you are right. Still, I have lost a son, Signor Giustiniani. Nothing can replace him. Nothing can repay that loss. But perhaps if I were to find a new son, then I could forgive. By joining our families, we might end this bloodshed. You are not married, I recollect?' Longo nodded. 'Very well, shall I introduce my daughter, Julia?'

'I would be delighted,' Longo replied. Julia was ushered in and introduced, a shy girl of twelve. It was clear that she had been preparing for this meeting from the moment Longo entered the courtyard, for she was dressed in her very best — a flowing gown of white silk embroidered with interlacing red roses — and her hair was braided with ribbons and twisted into an intricate knot atop her head. She was thin and still flat-chested, but she had delicate features and looked likely to grow into a beautiful woman. She curtsied, blushed demurely as Longo complimented her fine dress, and was dismissed.

'She is fertile, no doubt, like her mother,' Grimaldi said. 'And a beauty as well, yes?'

'Indeed, signor,' Longo replied.

'Good. Then you do not object to marrying her?'

Longo paused. As his chamberlain Nicolo often reminded him, none of Longo's properties would be secure until he produced an heir. Julia was young, fertile and certainly attractive enough. A female touch would be welcome in his household, not to mention in his bed. Most importantly, the marriage would transform the budding feud into an alliance with a powerful family. Longo's feelings were beside the point. It was his duty to marry Julia Grimaldi. 'You honour me, Signor Grimaldi,' Longo said at last. 'I would be overjoyed to marry your daughter.'

'Very well,' Grimaldi said, rising. 'Let me embrace you as my new son. But I am not one of these Turks, you understand, to send my daughter away so young. I trust you will not object to a delay in the marriage until she is more of a woman?'

'I am very much of your mind on the matter, signor. I would be happy to wait.'

'Then it is settled,' Grimaldi said, returning to his coffee. 'We shall work out the details in time. I thank you for your visit, Signor Giustiniani.'

'And I for you kindness, Signor Grimaldi,' Longo replied. He bowed and left.

So I am to be married, he reflected as a servant led him back to his horse. Nicolo, at the very least, would be overjoyed.