Chapter 15
The Black Sea
The Eastern Fleet sailed out of Trebizond, into the Black Sea. Admiral Lemnossa set an atypical course, bearing away from the coast they normally hugged, taking advantage of a stiff south-easterly breeze to bell their sails and carry them away from the sight of land. Land had watchers and in the open ocean they only had to scan the horison to know if they were being pursued. On the southern coast of the Black Sea that meant a long way offshore as the steep coastline gave more than the normal eight miles of vision to the horizon.
They had not been at sea for four hours when it became obvious that at least one vessel was trying to stay in visual range. A lateen-masted fishing boat heading down the same course seemed unlikely in the extreme. Lemnossa ordered two of the light galliots to drop back. Running as the fishing boat was before the wind, it had limited options in using the wind to outrun the galliots under oars.
“So what do we do if we catch him, Admiral? Sink the testa di cazzo?” asked the young captain. This was his first command, and he was ready to dash in where even angels—or great galleys arrayed for war—would go in cautiously.
“It’s tempting. We’ll shift course a few more points to windward
when you engage. If he tries to fight—that’s their look-out. If they try to run, catch them, and bring them along. If they come to meet you, it might be that they have that young woman with a baby on board that you thought you’d left behind.”
The light galliot’s captain grinned. “Then I’ll just have to sink them. My other girlfriend is waiting in Negroponte.”
“Probably with the same little present for you. Go and deal with them.”
They did. And the fishing boat had tried to run.
A little later the galliot, running with the wind so that the tired rowers could rest, and now accompanied a lateen rigged fishing boat, rejoined the fleet.
“They tried to pretend they were just fishermen. But those two never caught a fish in their lives,” said the young captain, pointing to two angry-looking prisoners trussed up in enough rope to anchor a round-ship in a gale. “I spotted their nice soft hands—and the real fishermen were terrified of them, you could see. So I gave the nod to some of my boys, and as we questioned them, Julio and Rupe hit them over the back of the head with marlin-spikes. They had all sorts of nasty toys hidden on them. Knives and potions. When we’d dealt with them the fishermen tried to tell us they’d been forced into this. But they had a fair amount of silver on them for that story. So, do we feed them all to the fishes?”
“I reckon keelhaul them,” said his mate. “Baitini bastards. They’re good at sneaking around and killing people. Let’s see how good they are at bleeding and breathing water.”
“I have always wondered,” said one of the lieutenants, as the admiral looked on thoughtfully, “how an assassin without hands manages?”
“Wouldn’t do much good,” said the captain. “This lot kills their own. Got no loyalty.” He spat overboard. “Worth as much as that spittle to each other.”
The admiral looked at the two trussed prisoners. Looked at their eyes. “Take that one away.” When they’d hauled the smaller of two away, he cut the gag off the remaining man. Who swore at him out of gratitude.
Admiral Lemnossa raised an eyebrow. “I’m a sailor. I’ve been at sea for more than forty years. Is that the best you can do? Try a little harder, man,” he said testily.
The assassin had expected torture or death. He was braced for that. Not for disdain.
“You will all die for this,” he said, sullenly.
The admiral yawned. “By whose hand? You are at sea, and if we tossed you all overboard no-one would ever know how your fish-eaten corpse met its end.”
“The masters know…”
“They know you set off to sea. No more. The sea kills more men than your kind ever have, or ever will. So what do I do with you?”
“Kill us. Torture us. It’s what you plan to do. We will have our reward in paradise!”
“Then it would be in our best interests to keep you alive and unable to receive it. Or if you die to make sure that you die defiled,” said the admiral, who had manipulated angry and drunken sailors to his will before. “Or I could let you go…if you convinced me that your retribution was sure.”
“The fleet that comes is greater than yours. Forty great galleys!”
“Impossible. And how could one such as you know?”
Bit by bit, with a combination of apparent boredom and the mention of unclean animals, Lemnossa found out just what the rank and file of the Baitini knew…or thought they knew.
He then repeated the process with the other fellow, who was less pliable, but Lemnossa had the bait of what he had extracted from his fellow Baitini. He had, of course, no intention of killing either of them. They were too valuable for that. He knew, now, that the fleet from the Dnieper was at least in part, at sea. He doubted it was the size these men believed, or that it was coming to liberate—from their point of view—the caliphate from the Ilkhan’s persecution.
To the Baitini, Mongol oppression seemed to constitute not letting them kill anyone who offended them. Even worse, the fact that the Mongols were in a position to do this to the sect which had controlled much of the land that the Ilkhan conquered. The admiral found himself in sympathy with the Mongols, and wondering just why they’d left the Baitini in existence for so long. Lemnossa was sure of one thing—that fleet was going, not the lands of Ilkhan, but to Constantinople and points west. And it was set on stopping his fleet re-enforcing the ships and crews of the Venetian Republic
That was something Venice needed to know. But of course he had to get there first. The assassins could be fed some misleading information too, and let loose. They were spear-carriers, not big fish. Nasty spear-carriers that he’d prefer to hang out of hand, but still. He had near on seventy leagues of possible trouble before they reached the Bosphorus; he could not keep these two aboard, and they would serve a better purpose being turned loose than serving as fish-food. While fast ships raced from Crete to Venice with the new wine in a mere twenty-two days averaging six leagues in a day, his laden round ships and their escorts would be hard pressed do much more half that.
Normally, they’d wait out any bad weather, and would stay in sight of land. Now…that wasn’t an option.
* * *
That night, around midnight, the taller Baitini captive heard his tiny cabin door being quietly opened. There were two men with a shuttered lantern. He was still very thoroughly tied up and his captors had had scant regard for his physical needs—food, drink or relieving himself. He had not been gagged again, but he expected the worst. He was prepared for it now.
“Shh. We’ve come to rescue you,” whispered one of the men who came in, in the bastard Greek of the southern Black Sea coast.
“Cut me free,” he said, distrustful.
“We’ll cut your feet free. If we’re caught we need to claim we’re just taking you to the heads. Now, remember this. It’s Phillipo Pelluci and Julius Malacco, see. We let you go. You tell your people we let you go. If you’ll do that, we’ll get you onto a boat, and let you go free. Will you?”
His first inclination was to get these fools to cut him free and then to kill as many as he could. But his task had been to report back. “Where is my companion?”
“Fish food. He died when they put him to question. They’ll do you in the morning.”
“The admiral thinks he can fool your lot by going to Theodosia and then Constantinople, and not along the coast. He’s mad. The Genoese won’t help us,” whispered the second man. “Now we must go, quickly. Before the watchman comes back.”
“Only if he agrees,” said the other Greek-speaker.
It was written that the defenders of the faith could lie to unbelievers. So Malik nodded. “Yes. You will be spared. And given much gold.” They were driven by greed, these sons of Iblis.
They cut his feet free. One of them sneaked ahead and the other escorted him to the fishing boat, tied alongside.
It occured to him then that his sailing skills were non-existent. “You must come with me,” he said.
“No. If the ships get through, we get home. If not, your people spare our lives. That’s the bargain,” hissed his escort. “Or we take you back. And kill you right here if you try and scream. If they catch you out here they’ll kill you anyway.”
“I cannot sail.”
“The wind will take you to shore, even drifting. Go.” He was pushed to the rail, and the other sailor came and helped to lower him, hands still tied, down onto the bow.
One of them tossed a knife down to peg in the planking beyond. The other cut the boat loose. Malik wondered if he should shout now…it would serve them right. But he was free, and retribution would wait. Their plot would have worked. The fleet was not going to be watching Crimea across the ocean. He barely knew where Theodosia was, or the likewise accursed Genoese. Godless foreigners, just like the Venetians. But it was not where the fleet would be expected to go. They would have been waiting for them off Samsun. The Venetians setting their fleet departure forward had merely changed the timing not the plan. He made his way to the knife, and began work on cutting himself loose as the fleet, dark and silent on the water, grew more distant.
If he had been a sailor he’d have wondered why no-one on watch noticed him and gave the alarm. Or why the little fishing vessel had been moored so that he could be dumped aboard. But he was not. He was barely able to hoist a sail and head toward the distant shore. He was not there, three hours later, to see the admiral ordering all sail made. They weren’t heading out across the Black Sea for Crimea. They were, hopefully, going on a leg that would see them in sight of land somewhere near Sinope. From there their course would be a lot more predictable, but also hopefully the news would also be too late.
The admiral would prefer to avoid battle if he could. This was a commercial fleet, but, when need be, Venetian sailors could be relied on to fight. Most of them had shares in what cargo there was on board the vessels. He just hoped that the Baitini and their backers had no real grasp of the rivalry between Genoa and Venice. They’d be as likely to shut Theodosia up and range their cannon on Venetian vessels as to offer them shelter. At sea they’d avoid each other. Or accuse each other of outright piracy, of course.
* * *
Two days later, the early morning was broken with a yell from a topmast lookout. “Sail! Sail ho! Northeast.”
The captain himself went up the ratlines to the basket. He came down, looking thoughtful. Admiral Lemnossa was waiting. “It’s Genoese vessels, Admiral. Seven of them. Round ships. They seem to be bearing down on us.”
“Can we outrun them?”
“Probably. It’d bring us back toward the coast. But seven vessels…they’re no threat to us, M’Lord.”
“Except to carry word of us, no.” He sighed. “Let’s hold our course.”
“We can always sink the bastards.”
“Tempting though it might be, it’d cost us too. And they might not be that easy. Those ships of theirs are big,” the admiral admitted grudgingly. The Genoese had pursued size over numbers in the last few years. The bigger vessels were harder to maneuver, but they carried more men. That counted for a great deal, in boarding actions.
So they held their course…but on the convoy, men began readying their gear for conflict. There were two men up in the mainmast basket on the flagship, watching. One came hurrying down the ratlines. “They’ve got the Venetian Lion flying along with their red cross. And a white flag.”
“Parley.” The admiral pulled a face. He knew Genoese pride ran as deep as Venetian, and they were good seamen too, although you’d be hard-pressed to find a Venetian who would admit it. If they were heading for a parley with Venetian vessels, then they were heading away from worse.
* * *
And that turned out to be the case, when the senior Genoese commander, Captain Di Tharra, came aboard. The vessels were showing signs of conflict too, so Admiral Lemnossa was not surprised to hear that they’d been attacked.
“Mostly galleys, M’Lord. From the north somewhere, by the look and garb of the crews. Maybe forty of them. We were lucky we hit bad weather. They’re not sailors. But there are plenty of them. Like lice.”
He took a deep breath. “We lost five ships, M’Lord Lemnossa. We came to ask…to beg to sail in the convoy with your vessels. We were attacked sailing west…we fled southeast under cover of darkness. We were making for Trebizond to petition the Venetian Podesta…but you’re already at sea. Safety in numbers. M’lord. We beg you out of Christian charity to permit us to sail with your company.”He looked as if he were swallowing something unpleasant. “We could pay.”
“No, we will not ask a fee. Not this time.” Lemnossa knew if word of that got back to Venice, they’d be wanting to know why he hadn’t skinned the bastardos, but it fitted. It fitted too well with what the Baitini had said. And the Genoans too were at sea early. Theodosia was the leading slave-port of Europe. The seasons for human traffic were different…but they also carried cargos that came from further afield, across the scattered khanates and fiefdoms of central Asia, silks and treasures from as far as fabled China. Instinct said that next time it might be his fleet, and that it might be that all the ships they had were not sufficient.
“We plan to make port at Sinope,” Lemnossa said.
The Genoan scowled. That city had been a Genoan trading post until recently. Unfortunately, the Genoese had fallen out with the bey of Sinope and his master the sultan of Rum. The parting had involved some burning of fortifications and a partial destruction of the quays and the town. The Genoese flag would be greeted with cannon-fire these days.
The admiral took a deep breath. He was an old man, and there was much in the way of punishment that the Venetian senate could mete out to him. On the other hand less than they could do to a young and ambitious captain. And Lemnossa could see the scars of combat on the Genoese vessels. They’d lost comrades, been lucky, and come crawling to an old enemy. “You can sail under our flag,” he said gruffly, wondering why he did this.
By the look on the face of the Genoese captain he did too. But the admiral had a fleet full of refugees, and still had a Baitini prisoner below decks. “We may need extra strength. There has been some hint of trouble. We’ll reprovision, water the vessels and sail. The merchants and the whores are going to be very unhappy with us, Captain. A good part of the fleet will stay at outside the port. Unsettled times. We can part company once we’re in Byzantine waters.”
“Thank you, m’lord. We’ve…we’ve got a fair number of wounded aboard. And some damage.” The captain swallowed. “We could pass some of your ships through Byzantium under our flag. It’d would save you a great deal in tariffs.”
“That way our respective masters who are far away and safe might just be more understanding,” said the admiral. “Is there any other help we can render?—seeing as we’re both probably going to have to explain our actions. Me to the Senate, and you to your duke.”
“And his council,” said the captain, sourly. “Well. They’ll be angry enough about the loss the ships and cargoes. My thanks, M’lord, we’ve got a chirurgeon, and work on the ships may have to wait until we have a safe port. We’ve done what we can, and just hope we have no more storms or encounters with these…pirates.”
The admiral noted the pause. “Ah, so you think not, then?”
“There were too many of them, and their vessels were too alike. In Crimea the Mongols pay tribute to the north. We’ve been trying to make a treaty with the voivode of Odessa to allow us to trade up the Dnieper…” He realized that he’d said too much and shut up.
“But no deal, eh?”
“No. Not even vessels into Odessa,” said Captain Di Tharra.
The admiral knew the Council of Ten in Venice were very pleased that they had a spy in the city of Odessa. It hadn’t seemed that valuable to Lemnossa before. Well, he’d been wrong. And he wondered if Venice heard from their man, and how?
* * *
The two fleets proceeded together. Two days later they sighted Cape Sinope—a truimph of good luck over navigation, the admiral knew, but he was willing to take the credit for it. It helped to have the sailors believe in his ability. The Genoese vessels had struck their colors and now flew the Winged Lion of Venice. The admiral didn’t ask how come they had such a flag. He had a Genoese red cross in his flag locker too.
Lemnossa had the remaining Baitini prisoner brought up to him. The man had apparently been very sea-sick. He still looked ghostly-pale. “Do you want to go ashore?” the admiral asked, as if the prisoner was one of his captains, and this was just a casual question.
The prisoner tried to gather spittle.
“Now, now. I made you a perfectly reasonable offer. We let your companion go when he accepted it. And, as we have not been attacked, he kept his side of the bargain. We did explain you would be…dealt with if he failed us. He must be fond of you.”
“You lie, unbeliever.”
The admiral shrugged. “We will let you go when we leave port. All you have to do is as your friend did: tell them we make sail for Theodosia, and then the shipyards in the Dnieper.” It was unlikely that this minor foot soldier would even know where those places were.
“Why are you telling me this?” demanded the Baitini, suspicious, his voice harsh.
The admiral raised his eyebrows. You really didn’t have to be very clever to take orders to murder. In fact, being clever was probably a disadvantage. “It should be very obvious even to you. We’re not. If you tell your people that, we let you go. And we will free the crew of the boat that carried you, if you keep your word.” The admiral knew just what value the Baitini would place on those fishermen’s lives. He gambled however that the Baitini would not know that he knew. “They helped you. It would be fair and honorable.”
The assassin took a second or two to grasp all this. “Very well. You will let them go?”
“What use are they to me? They will complain to the sultan if they get home, but I will be far away. I’m not coming back. This is my last convoy.”
“I will do this,” said the assassin with his best attempt at looking sincere.
The admiral wondered if he’d taken to religious murder because he was a failure at selling unsound horses. But he said nothing, and had him taken below.
“What was that about?” asked his captain, when the man was back in the tiny cabin they’d kept him in. It would take a while to clean it, after the Baitini had gone, they both knew.
“Well, he’ll run to his masters here in Sinope, and tell them what he knows—which is nothing more than they know—we’re here, we did not take a heading out across the Black Sea. At the very least, he’ll end up having his companion killed as a traitor. At best they won’t be expecting us to a dog-leg to sea—towards the north. When and if they work that out—they obviously have some way of communication with the pirates, they may conclude we really are heading for their lairs and boatyards. It’s an outside chance, and they may wish to send vessels back to defend them. Whatever. We lose nothing, and we sow a great deal of distrust about the value of their information. Eventually that’ll help us.”
“You should be directing the Council of Ten, M’lord.”
The admiral smiled. “If they don’t take my head, if we get back in one piece, I hope I’ll be allowed to join them one day. It might be less tricky than this. Anyway, how goes the re-watering?”
“Fast, M’lord. We’ll be ready to sail by tomorrow. The bey doesn’t like the way we’re doing things, though.”
“Then I shouldn’t be surprised if I am summonsed to an audience. Probably tomorrow. It would be today but I must be ignored for a suitable amount of time. And I expect some of the Baitini will try to kill me. So I would like you to know what I have planned.”
“We should be ready to sail tonight,” said the captain firmly.
The admiral smiled. “While I don’t believe you, let us do so. We can cope with less water for a day or two. I’m a little behind on confessions and penances, and I’d like the opportunity to sin a few more times before my final reckoning is made.”