The Towers of Samarcand

CHAPTER SEVEN

VENICE, SUMMER 1398

Pavlos Mamonas, Archon of Monemvasia, was in the Arsenale of Venice learning about the making of cannon with his son Damian. Or, to be more accurate, they were learning about the unmaking of cannon, for the examples they were looking at had all split asunder.

They were standing in a large courtyard, high-walled, that was attached to the gun foundry. Both men had disposed of their doublets and their linen camicie were open to the waist and dark at the armpits. The foundry had been hot. With them was the chief gunsmith, a man called Rudi, who’d come from Ragusa on the Dalmatian coast. He was the best gunsmith outside China and also one of the richest, his salary from the Serenissima augmented by Plethon’s bribes. He was explaining to Pavlos what had gone wrong.

‘It’s the size, master. No one has ever tried to make them this big before.’

Pavlos wiped his brow. ‘So what happens?’

Rudi pointed to a long hollow frame that was lying on its side, its wood charred by heat. Next to it stood two brass bells, both cracked, and behind them their own flasks, bell-shaped.

‘It happens in the flask. Bells, cannon — it’s the same. We put in the clay pattern, pack the sand around it, then take it out and pour in the molten bronze.’

Pavlos had seen the crucibles suspended on chains in the foundry. Their heat was still on him.

‘Once the brass has hardened,’ continued Rudi, ‘we break the mould and take out the barrel. But every time there are these air bubbles trapped in the metal. They make it weak.’

Pavlos looked at the man. He was dressed in a long leather apron and little else. He was as bald as a eunuch and had a face reddened by the furnace. Pavlos remembered his last visit to the Arsenale and the more complicated dress he’d been obliged to wear: the clothes of the plague doctor. For a moment he wondered whether the calm of the Doge had split like these cannon when he’d heard the news.

Mastic doesn’t, after all, cure the plague.

Pavlos turned to the cask. He’d taught himself about cannon. There was too much at stake not to. ‘Why not try steel then?’ he asked. ‘After all, it’s harder.’

The gunsmith shook his head. ‘Too brittle. Bronze has the malleability and is better with friction. The balls are iron now.’

‘What about the pattern then?’ asked Mamonas. ‘I’m told they use wax in Delhi, and chase it out with the hot bronze. Would that work?’

‘No I’ve tried that.’ The gunsmith looked back at the flask lying on its side. ‘The only thing to do is make the cannon walls thicker, so that the air bubbles matter less. It’s what we’re trying now.’

The Archon was worried. He’d promised the cannon in June and now it was August. And there was another problem.

‘We need more brass. We’re running out,’ said Rudi.

Pavlos’s head ached. He had no idea how to get brass. He glanced at his son. Damian was standing apart looking, with no interest at all, at a bell. Suddenly, Pavlos felt irritated. ‘Do you have any suggestions, Damian?’ he called.

His son turned and walked back to his father and the gunsmith. His limp seemed more pronounced than ever. Pavlos had heard that he’d come back to the fondaco at dawn. He could smell the wine still on his son’s breath.

Damian said, ‘What about iron hoops? Why not wrap them round the barrel? Wouldn’t that stop it?’

Rudi was shaking his head. ‘Wouldn’t work. If the crack’s on the inside of the barrel, the ball won’t come out properly.’

Damian turned away, already bored. He walked over to where their doublets were hanging from a stave and began to put his on. Clearly he felt that the interview was over. Pavlos Mamonas looked at his back and thought of the conversation with Zoe. He’d still not decided.

He walked over to his own doublet. He looked down at its rich, patterned broadcloth, too thick for August. He didn’t want to put it on. He turned to the gunsmith. ‘I don’t much care how you do it, but I must have cannon big enough to bring down Constantinople’s walls by the end of the year.’ He put an arm through a sleeve. ‘If you are unable to do it, then we’ll give the commission to the Hungarians. And you will have to answer to the Doge.’

*

Later that same day, the philosopher Plethon was half a mile away studying the workings of the Rialto. He was standing in a little square next to the rising bridge of that name. The square was bordered by cantilevered buildings — banks, insurance agencies and tax offices — above which rose the squat tower of the Church of San Giacomo with its useful clock. Plethon was looking at its face and wondering whether he had time for lunch before his meeting with the Doge.

The square was unpleasantly hot and filled with overdressed people and Plethon silently blessed the ancient connection of philosophy with toga. The air smelt badly of the fish market next door and Venice in the heat: a mix of rank canal and ranker humanity. At least the mastic had improved people’s breath. The noise was appalling. Seagulls, calling above, mimicked the calls of commerce. Plethon wondered why money always had to raise its voice to be heard.

His eyes travelled from the clock face to those of a stout banker and his wife, awash with discomfort in the crowd. They were clearly a couple of some standing. She wore a high-collared cioppa of figured silk, decorated with the pomegranate motif. Her head was veiled and her long hair gathered in a knot beneath with a ribboned tail running down her back like a dog’s lead. Her husband was top-heavy in black doublet and hose, the doublet slashed to reveal enough colour to please the dyers’ guild but not so much to challenge the sumptuary laws. They were middle-aged and there was a fat son in tow.

Plethon watched the couple approach a table with weights and measures and coin on its surface. A blackboard was propped beside it with the exchange rates for the florin, gazzetta, marengo and other currencies chalked up. Next to it were other boards showing commodity prices, and Plethon saw the man stoop to the line showing Malvasia wine and take note. Then the man moved to another board on which were written the prices for metals. He spent some time looking at the price of bronze. He shook his head. Plethon walked over to them.

The man’s wife saw him first and her face coloured with alarm. Conversation with a toga’d stranger might not be helpful in their rise through society’s ranks, were Venice’s ruling caste ever to be opened to new families again. She tugged at her husband’s sleeve.

The philosopher stopped in front of them and bowed. Straightening, he threw a fold of toga over his shoulder. He smiled. ‘Georgius Gemistus at your service,’ he said.

The couple blinked at him. Plethon was known but Georgius Gemistus unheard of. ‘Tommasi Giacomo at yours,’ said the man uneasily, bowing. ‘My wife, Dominia.’

Plethon turned and bowed again. ‘Forgive me. I saw you interrogate the blackboard and note down the price of Malvasia. I myself have a commission to buy the wine in bulk and thought, perhaps, you might know how I can make the transaction?’

Giacomo thawed slightly. ‘I am factor to the family that makes it,’ he said. ‘Their fondaco is nearby. We can talk there.’

Plethon shook his head. ‘Sadly, I am to meet elsewhere. But, tell me, would that be the Mamonas family of Monemvasia?’

Giacomo smiled. He was nearly as proud of his position as his wife and he hoped they were being overheard. His wife raised a warning finger to the boy who’d begun to whine. ‘The same. And you are from?’

‘Mistra and Chios. I have houses in both,’ said Plethon, without a blush.

Giacono had interlocked his fingers and begun to rub his palms against each other. ‘Would your transaction be in cash or in kind, sir?’

Chios might mean mastic and the market was short of mastic.

‘In kind. But not mastic. I have copper. And tin from Cornwall. Some of it mixed. The best.’

Bronze.

The factor lowered his voice and glanced around. He drew Plethon to one side. ‘What makes you think my master has need of such metals?’

There was the sound of a slap and the boy began to cry. The factor ignored it. Plethon frowned.

‘But’, went on the factor hurriedly, his voice low, ‘it is possible that the Arsenale …’

Plethon nodded. ‘Is your master in Venice?’

The factor looked uncomfortable. He’d had strict instructions to say nothing of his master’s movements, not even that he was in the city. But this Greek had bronze. He looked around him and lowered his voice still further. ‘It is possible that he might be in Venice. And he might be able to talk for the Serenissima on the subject of … metals. He acts for them in other areas.’

‘I would want an exclusive. The status of sole provider for three months. It would be reflected in the price.’

For someone revolted by trade, Plethon had mastered its language surprisingly well. He sounded convincing. The fat man nodded and glanced back at the blackboard. The price was its highest yet. He pressed his hands together. ‘I will do what I can. You would meet with him?’

Plethon shook his head. ‘No, it is better that this transaction is done through intermediaries. The quantities are considerable.’

A light veil of sweat now covered the man’s face. He could no more conceal his excitement than his wife could prevent the child from now giving voice.

*

Twenty minutes later, Plethon was humming as he crossed the Piazza San Marco on his way to meet the Doge. If anything, the day was even hotter and the crowds had abandoned the square to the pigeons, men in black clinging to its shadowed sides like bats. The philosopher was too absorbed in thought even to shake his customary fist at the bronze horses of the cathedral.

He was wondering whether the ruse would really work. He’d used some of the considerable funds that Luke was amassing in Chios to bribe miners of copper and tin. He’d asked them to create a flawed alloy, one that a colluding gunsmith could make use of. The idea of the exclusive had come to him at the Rialto.

Three more months of delay. It all helps.

Plethon was humming so hard that he didn’t hear the request from the two excusati guarding the entrance to the Doge’s palace. He found himself facing a cross of tasselled halberds. ‘Ah yes. Georgius Gemistus Plethon. I am expected.’

The halberds rose and he entered a large courtyard with an imposing staircase that led up to a loggia. Men in long scarlet robes were walking down it — men of the Grand Council. With them, and in deep conversation, were a covey of cardinals. Red and purple, a pope’s ransom in dye flowed towards him down the marble steps. Two cardinals known to Plethon stopped to talk. Their news from the meeting was not encouraging.

Not long after, Plethon was standing in the Scudo Room where the coat of arms of Antonio Venier, Doge of Venice hung. Unlike Pavlos Mamonas, he’d only met this man before within the confines of his palace. He bowed.

Venier said, ‘You will have been trampled by prelates on your way up. And the cardinals are not light.’

Plethon liked Venier for his ruthless pragmatism. There was never any skirmish to their conversation. ‘Weighted with disappointment it seemed, magnificence,’ he replied.

The Doge went over to an open window and looked down into the courtyard. The buzz of conversation below rose as a faint music. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Still …’ He turned and looked at Plethon. There was silence between the two men, broken only by the tide of Plethon’s breathing. The steps had been many and steep. ‘They want me to stop building things for the Turks.’

‘And the Grand Council?’

‘To build faster, of course. They worry about our alum not getting past Constantinople because of the blockade. And they worry about Genoa.’

‘Genoa?’

The Doge turned back to the window. In its frame, he looked like the study of a man bent under the burden of age and cynicism. A little wind ruffled his unruly beard and he put his hand to it. ‘They worry that if we don’t help the Turk, Genoa will, and all the gains of the last many years will be wasted. Genoa controls the alum from Chios, as you know.’

Plethon asked: ‘May I sit?’

Since he’d been doge, this question had seldom been put to Venier but he covered his surprise well. Plethon was already seated at the long table when he came over to join him. ‘Wine? We have it from Monemvasia. Iced.’

Plethon shook his head. The Venetians were said to strengthen their wine in negotiations and he was tired from the heat. He asked: ‘You’ve heard of the French writer Gautier de Coincy? The one who wrote of the Virgin’s miracles?’

The Doge was pouring himself wine and nodding. He hadn’t heard of the writer.

‘Then you will know that there is one in which she rescues a man who makes a bargain with Mephistopheles. The Devil makes him rich and powerful and comes to collect his debt: the man’s soul.’ He paused. ‘The Virgin intercedes.’

The Doge saw where this was leading. He said: ‘You speak of Venice and the Turk. There is a difference.’

Plethon waited.

‘The difference here is that the debt is the other way round. We’ve sold to them and not vice versa.’

‘It is immaterial,’ said Plethon. ‘You’ve made a pact with that which will destroy you. Eventually.’

The Doge sipped his wine and winced as ice touched a hole in his teeth. ‘We disagree. The Turk will need trade to pay for his empire. We will provide it.’

Both men looked at each other for a while. Both were as clever as their beards were long. There was mutual respect. ‘Anyway,’ said the Doge, ‘the Serenissima has been excommunicated before. I’ll have friends below. We can toast together.’

Plethon smiled again. He rose from the table and walked to stand beneath the Venier coat of arms. ‘You would give the Turk the Middle Sea for fifty years of gain. No more dreams of Mare Nostrum. What will future Veniers make of you?’

The Doge shrugged. ‘We Venetians live on water, Plethon. What could be more unstable than that? We move with the tide.’

Plethon looked up at the shield for a long time before speaking again. He did not turn round. ‘I have two strategies for stopping the Turk from taking all of Christendom. The first is to bring Tamerlane to fight Bayezid.’

Venier shook his head. ‘He won’t come,’ he said. ‘We have agents in the court in Samarcand. He’s more interested in China.’ He reached for his wine. ‘They tell me he is obsessed with reuniting the four Khanates under one Mongol rule. He’s done three: Chagatai, Persia and the Golden Horde. Now he’s just got the empire won by Kublai Khan to conquer: China. Anyway, Tamerlane might not beat him. Bayezid’s never lost a battle.’ He smiled. ‘What is your second?’

‘To forge a union of the Churches which will enable the Pope to send another crusade before the Turk is too strong and it’s too late.’

‘But we are blessed with two Popes. Which is it to be, Rome’s or Avignon’s?’

‘They can be reunited.’

The Doge looked sceptical. ‘How?’

‘Incentive,’ said the philosopher. ‘I want to talk to men who see advantage in a single Curia. The Medici, for instance. I would like you to arrange a meeting.’

The Doge frowned. ‘The Catholic Church has been in schism for decades and many reputations have been lost in the attempt to reconcile it. Why will the Medici want to risk theirs?’

‘Because they’ve already started. They are grooming Baldassare Cossa for the task. Why else have they bought him his cardinal’s hat? They want the banking of a single Curia. Think of the revenues from all those sees.’

‘But what about the two Popes?’

‘Ah,’ replied Plethon, leaning forward and dropping his voice to the conspiratorial. ‘For them I have the ultimate incentive.’

‘Which is more money? Plethon, something has been puzzling me. Where is all this money coming from? We have the Empress’s jewels here in pawn.’

Plethon nodded. ‘We have new money.’

‘You’ve found your treasure?’

Plethon blinked. Was there anything this man didn’t know? ‘Possibly. But if I had, it would provide a different kind of incentive, one much more persuasive than money,’ he said. ‘No, this money comes from Chios.’

‘From Chios?’ Venier paused. ‘Now, here is irony. Chios is Suleyman’s bait to get us to build cannon for him and it’s also the source of your bribes to prevent it. The island is busy.’ He paused. ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler for you just to give Chios to us?’

Plethon shook his head. ‘We do not abandon our friends so easily.’ He looked hard at the other man. ‘Anyway, now you know that mastic doesn’t cure the plague, why is it still important? Is it just to deny Genoa?’

The Doge shook his head. ‘No, pleasant though it is to deny anything to Genoa. We want Chios because, with it and the trade from Trebizond, we’d have the monopoly for alum. We could price as we wish.’

Plethon considered this. At Christmas, Benedo Barbi had told him that the thriving market for alum and mastic, as well as the Medici loan, had built new villages to strengthen the island’s defence. He’d heard that the last Turkish assault had been disastrous.

He said: ‘You know, of course, that Bayezid has forbidden further attacks on Chios? After the failure of the last one, I doubt Suleyman will have the nerve to try again. I suspect that is why you allow me to go on bribing your man from Ragusa.’

The Doge looked up. ‘You are a cynic, Plethon. But you may judge for yourself how hard I might find it to continue blocking the cannon if Chios once more came into play. The signori of Venice are much taken with the prospect of the alum monopoly.’ He paused. ‘There is also the question of which Mamonas to deal with. The father is understandably cautious, given the Sultan’s injunction. The daughter, who is Suleyman’s lover, is more reckless.’

Plethon looked down at his hands. He was suddenly very tired. He began the business of gathering the folds of his toga. He looked up. There was a smile hidden somewhere deep within the bush of beard across from him. The Doge leant forward.

‘Don’t worry, Plethon,’ he said, sotto voce, ‘I’ll let you go on bribing my gunsmith a little while longer. We Venetians are, after all, Christians.’ He paused. ‘And I’ll see what can be done about a meeting with de’ Medici.’