Chapter 225: Boccia
Under Nathia’s gaze, Caesar’s finger paused slightly on a name but did not press down.
“If possible,” he said, “sister, please arrange it for me. Before making the final decision, I want to talk with this lady.”
These three noble ladies who had already arrived on Cyprus differed in status, but their purposes were quite consistent. For this reason, apart from welcoming them publicly and exchanging greetings at the banquet, Caesar had not contacted them privately.
However, Nathia had still heard some things about these noble ladies from others’ mouths, among which there must be distortions and exaggerations, but there must also be truthful parts.
Among these three candidates, the Princess of the Byzantine Empire and the Pope of Rome’s child were of course not very satisfactory; the former was vicious, the latter arrogant.
But as for that niece of the Doge of Venice, apart from the difference in status—this noble lady seemed not suitable to be a wife for a man, especially since this man was a Crusader knight who might have to be away fighting frequently and for long periods with their king in the future.
She hesitated, unsure whether she should tell her brother these not-so-good rumors.
The niece of the Doge of Venice was named Boccia. Her reputation was not very good. Although she came from the prominent Dandolo family, her uncle was the Governor of Venice, and her grandfather was the most powerful and influential member of Venice’s Council of Ten, but because Enrico Dandolo doted on this granddaughter excessively—since childhood, she had not been a gentle lady, but instead often mixed with boys, running with them on Venice’s narrow streets, rowing boats, swimming in the canals, and playing mock war games at the docks.
If these were just the willfulness and impulsiveness of a child, then when she grew older, she still did not want to stay in the room, but often appeared publicly at the exchange, market, and council—places that should only be for men—which was truly astonishing, not to mention that a few years ago, she had dressed as a man to infiltrate the University of Bologna and the church.
Infiltrating the university could still be explained as perhaps having a lover in the midst of a passionate romance. But the church—women could of course go to church, during Mass or confession, but Boccia went to the church where her brothers were holding the Choosing ceremony, nearly ruining her brother and several cousins. If not for Dandolo using a merchant ship full of goods to appease those parents’ anger, she might have been tied to the stake and burned as a witch.
And this time she was sent to Cyprus, not what every Venetian expected; apart from her uncle（she was the female most closely related to him by blood other than his wife and daughter）, it was more her grandfather Dandolo’s wish.
In most people’s eyes, Dandolo was a senile fool, but they could not oppose Dandolo’s alliance with the Governor, so on Boccia, there appeared two strange emotional attachments—they both hoped this marriage would succeed and hoped it would not.
But it was not surprising. The Venetians had lost all their privileges in the Byzantine Empire. That is to say, the Venetians’ original trade routes, outposts, warehouses, and connections had all turned to nothing, filling the Venetians with hatred for the Byzantine Empire, especially after Manuel I gave what originally belonged to them to the Genoese and Pisans.
They urgently wanted to find a foothold and a new commercial center; Cyprus was their last retreat, and this marriage had to be promoted, but in this process, they still could not control their greed and selfishness.
Nathia had often thought lately of a story Caesar once told her in his leisure time.
A scorpion wanted to cross a pond, but it could not swim, so it asked a frog to carry it across.
The frog said, your tail has a poisonous sting. If I carry you on my back and you sting me, what should I do?
The scorpion said, if so, I would also sink into the water; it would harm you and not benefit me, so I would not do it.
The frog listened and agreed to its request, but when they reached the middle of the pond, the scorpion still stung the frog. As the frog sank into the water in agony, it cried out: Do you not know that this will also bring disaster upon you?
The scorpion said: I know, but I cannot control my nature.
And the stupid things the Venetians had done before were driven by their nature.
Caesar wanted to meet this wife candidate recommended by the Venetians, precisely to see if this lady was also a “Venetian.”
——————
The Governor’s Palace was vast, with over a hundred rooms; arranging three noble ladies and ensuring they would not “encounter” each other unless intentional was not difficult.
The place where the niece of the Doge of Venice, Boccia, lived was the southern square tower of the Governor’s Palace, also known as the Rose Court; as the name implied, this small building was almost completely submerged in white, pink, and deep red roses. Although roses were not as fragrant or large-flowered as rose flowers, when gathered in thousands, they were still breathtakingly beautiful.
Under the blood-red glow of the sunset, on a stone chair almost completely hidden by roses sat a young woman dressed magnificently; a thick book lay on her knee, but it was not scripture. Judging by the cover, it should be a love poetry collection. She read while softly reciting the poems.
“I like you, but you do not like me.
I like you, but your heart is hard as rock,
Ah, beloved,
If you are a stone, then I am the tragic Sisyphus.”（Note 1: See author’s notes）
This scene was undoubtedly quite beautiful, but Caesar, pushing through the branches to enter, only felt a sense of incongruity.
This incongruity also came from Boccia’s attire today.
At the welcoming banquet, Boccia still showed some Venetian traces on her.
But today they were all gone. Her attire was just like that of a proper Byzantine Empire woman: wearing a heavy coronet studded with jewels; under the coronet was a white linen headscarf draped to the shoulders, wrapping her hair completely without exposing a strand, with the hanging part covering her chest.
She not only wore a loose robe with no curves visible at all, but over the robe was a sleeveless coat with heavy embroidery, and over the coat a deep red velvet cloak, fastened with a large gold brooch.
When seated properly, Caesar could not see her shoes. But when she stood to curtsy, Caesar discovered she had changed her previous platform shoes for leather sandals.
“Please sit, Madam Boccia.”
Caesar sat on another stone bench facing her. When Boccia stood to curtsy to him, she forgot the book, and it fell straight from her knee to the ground.
Caesar picked it up; it was no different from the poetry collections he usually saw—a handwritten manuscript with gold-edged cover and vibrant illustrations, every page exquisite as a painting, with cut ribbons used as bookmarks.
The ribbon slipped from the pages; as Caesar reinserted the bookmark, he casually asked, “Which page were you at?”
He did not hear Boccia’s reply and was feeling puzzled when Boccia answered: “Page fifty-two.”
Caesar turned to page fifty-two; as he inserted the ribbon, his hand paused.
For a moment, he thought it was an illusion—what he saw was indeed not elegant poetry but one of the law books that, at this time or centuries later, could still make countless scholars scratch their heads and suffer headaches—the Justinian Code《.
But what he had just heard Boccia recite was indeed a love poem.
Was this some special hobby and technique? He looked up at Boccia. Boccia gripped her hands tightly, knuckles white, appearing very nervous but with some determination; she sat motionless on the stone bench like a prisoner about to be judged. “Yes, this is exactly the book I’m reading, but I had to disguise it. Because they think a woman should not learn these things that only men should master.”
While saying this, she stared tightly at Caesar. When one wants to know someone’s true inner thoughts, this method is undoubtedly very effective; few can control their expression in such a short time, and their true inner self will pour out uncontrollably in that instant.
Fortunately, what she saw was only doubt, with little mockery or disgust.
This was what was often seen in the eyes of men who previously knew she wanted to study law.
“I think… you… your sister arranged this meeting; does this mean you have finally chosen the Venetians as your allies?”
Though usually bold, here Boccia deliberately avoided the word marriage—when Caesar requested to meet her, she did not think he was a lustful villain wanting to take advantage of her; if so, it could only mean that while choosing allies, he also attached sufficient importance to the other party in the marriage—her as wife.
If he belittled and despised women like other men, he would not need to care what kind of person Boccia was; once the marriage contract was signed and the ceremony completed, and she bore him a few children, this woman would have fulfilled all her obligations, and Caesar could cast her aside.
But he was still willing to meet her and talk with her; did this prove that the rumors of his respect, understanding, and support for women were not baseless?
Though some would mock him for lacking firm character, being overly sentimental, more suited to being a “darling” lost in gentle pleasures.
But for Boccia, this was an opportunity.
“Do you see this clothing on me?”
Caesar nodded.
“This is not what I want.” Boccia pressed her chest, striving to keep her tone steady and voice clear.
“You may know that the Venetian Republic’s situation is very bad now, but even at this time, they have not stopped vying for power.”
“I know.”
“Not only in Venice, but here too, they go back on their word and chase profits. They are a group of shortsighted villains.”
As Boccia said this, a flush rose on her face, not from shyness but from indignation and disappointment toward those Venetians; she had learned that when the Venetians thought victory was assured, they intended to reduce her dowry—in fact, it could not be called her dowry, but rather the price the Venetians must pay in this transaction.
When all went smoothly, their merchant nature was thoroughly exposed like that scorpion. Though knowing they should not, they still wanted to take the chance to lower Boccia’s dowry—of course, for them, it was reducing costs.
But as soon as the Pope of Rome’s niece arrived, they panicked.
Venice’s political and religious status was quite special.
As is well known, the Venetians’ ancestors were citizens of the Eastern Roman Empire; they originally lived on the fertile and safe plain of Veneto, but when the barbarians came, they were driven by the Ostrogoths to the harsh, barren lands—no, not lands, but scattered islands, swamps, and lagoons in the Venetian region.
Though they claimed to be remnants of Byzantium, they were actually just pitiful people driven from their original territory, struggling to survive. They escaped plunder from the Ostrogothic Kingdom and later the Frankish Kingdom twice; they survived in Venice only because the area was too wretched, not worth the kings and lords’ effort to conquer.
But such a situation could not continue forever. After all, the Venetians could not live solely by fishing; their main economic source was trade. Thus, after the eighth century, though nominally still part of the Byzantine Empire, they had in fact become an autonomous region; they maintained friendly lord-vassal relations with the Byzantine Empire on one side while converting to the Roman Church and becoming Christians on the other—this was not fence-sitting, but two-faced.
Now, having lost the Byzantine Empire’s tolerance, their stance began to waver.
And in the Venetian council, there were originally two factions: one pro-French, one pro-Roman.
“So is your uncle pro-French or pro-Roman?”
“My uncle is pro-Roman; he always considers himself heir to Rome and often holds Orthodox Church ceremonies at home, but my grandfather Dandolo is pro-Byzantine; those who negotiated with you before were my uncle’s people,” Boccia said pointedly. “Even after being expelled and harmed by the emperor, they still harbor illusions about him.
Though they would not betray the Venetians to side with the emperor, they would certainly hope this place is ruled by an Eastern Roman. If you were willing to change allegiance, convert to the Orthodox Church, and rule Cyprus as the autocratic monarch of the Byzantine Empire rather than as a Crusader knight ruling this island, they would be overjoyed.
But clearly, you are not; you allow the three great Knights to station on Cyprus.
Though you did not directly grant them land but leased it, for them, this is betrayal. They think you not only betrayed your first wife, the Byzantine princess Anna, but also the emperor of Constantinople.
They may think themselves more qualified to rule here, so they did such stupid things.
Of course, part of the reason is me—they hope to replace with someone who might bring more dowry, perhaps not just thirty ships. Do you want that?”
“What kind of wife do they want to replace me with?”
“The kind conforming to doctrine and traditional ideas: very gentle, infinitely tender, would not even look at those love poetry collections; what she holds would be only scripture and needlework; she would stay in the room, occasionally looking at the view outside the window, bearing children for you, managing the household without complaint.”
“And you? Can you not?”
“I cannot. I have thought about it—you have a quite good reputation among the noble ladies; it is said you always kept yourself pure in the castle, never privately meeting maidservants or farm women, nor visiting brothels for pleasure, nor doing those disgusting things that shame God.
You are completely different from the men I have seen, heard of, or met before. My several cousins went to brothels with their uncles and elder cousins as early as age fourteen; they view women as goods. If this good suddenly spoke or walked on its own legs, they would be shocked, thinking it possessed by the devil.
For example, me; I was never a well-behaved girl.
But if you ask my sin…” Boccia smiled: “Probably that I did things only men can do—they do not like me this way and wishfully think you do not either.
So they dressed me like this on purpose, to make me deceive you with my appearance and demeanor, leading to an irrational judgment or soothing your previously angered heart.”
“They think I would like… this kind of woman?”
“This is because of your first wife, the Byzantine princess Anna; what you did for her has even reached distant England.
They of course think you would like a woman like Anna; she gave you all of Cyprus, so they unthinkingly assume she must be a gentle, obedient woman who lives for her husband—they plucked my eyebrows,” she pointed to her brow bone; indeed, Caesar remembered her original eyebrows were not like this; though also thin and long, she definitely had eyebrows then.
“My eyebrows were originally thick and black like a man’s. But they said this is a symbol of lewdness and baseness; I have plucked them very thin, but they still thought they should be completely removed, making my forehead round and large like a goose egg, to be considered attractive.
Applying cosmetics is not something a proper woman should do. But they wanted me pale-faced and red-lipped, so they starved me for several meals; my current pallor is not my original skin color but from hunger nearly making me unable to stand. And my lips—they said to bite them tightly and release at the moment of seeing you, for a natural, healthy red. But I think they are blue now.”
Caesar could not say if it was amusing or pitiable. He looked at her lip color; it indeed reminded him of beggars starved for a long time. He thought and pulled from his pocket a transparent thing; it felt like stone, but Boccia thought he would not do something so childish and mean; she took it and put it in her mouth, surprised to find it was sugar.
With calorie intake, she finally felt much better.
So she continued, “May I remove the headscarf?”
“If you wish, of course.”
Boccia immediately raised her hand, briskly pulling off the headscarf, removing the hairpin fixing the coronet, and lifting the heavy thing from her head. Once removed, her shoulders relaxed, and her spine straightened.
“Now I am much more comfortable; I almost thought I was Atlas carrying the Earth.”
This metaphor made Caesar laugh involuntarily; indeed, few women at this time exposed their hair. Simply draping a headscarf would be one thing, but as a noble lady, she must wear a coronet studded with jewels.
Though the base of such coronet was wool felt, it inevitably had heavy embroidery and dazzling jewels; it was clearly very valuable and extremely, extremely heavy. He suspected its weight was about the same as his helmet, but knights wore helmets only on the battlefield, while these noble ladies had to bear those things constantly.
And the hennin favored by Frankish noblewomen, made tall, pointed, long, sometimes with double horns or spirals, with fine gauze hanging from the tip—these hats were of course beautiful, with a unique charm. But beyond the weight, their odd shapes greatly hindered movement—taller women, once wearing them, had to bow when entering small doors, and when curtsying to each other, had to be careful not to lean forward too much, lest the hats collide.
With Caesar’s permission, Boccia grew bolder; she even undid the brooch and threw the heavy cloak on the stone bench, breathing freely. “Pity this cannot be removed.” She pointed to her chest, tightly covered by a collared coat like a shield, showing only part of her neck.
“In Venice, I never wore such clothes; I do not know if you have seen here—I mean on ordinary women…”
“You mean those clothes with a larger neckline?”
“Yes, the kind exposing part of the chest,” Boccia said. “Venetian noble ladies have started favoring this style. When they enter church, even two priests will stand by reminding them to pull up shawls or headscarves to cover their chests.”
“I have seen.” Caesar said calmly. In fact, contrary to common impression, women of this era, though greatly constrained, had clothing evolving from unisex, heavy stiffness to light, fitted, with chests gradually exposed; but to Caesar, it was not excessive—women now only pulled necklines to show the collarbone, which inevitably drew gazes, making some distracted. Among them were knights and priests, so the Church angrily demanded they cover up.
But this was not the women’s fault.
“If you marry me, you can dress as you like.” Caesar thought and cautiously added, “Just no streaking.”
Boccia took a moment to understand streaking. Then she burst into uncontrollable laughter, wiped tears from her eyes, and asked: “Then can I not do needlework?”
“I think I can at least afford to hire some tailors and maidservants.”
“Can I ride horses?”
“Yes, a Crusader knight’s wife should be skilled in horsemanship.”
“Can I learn to use sword, bow and crossbow, even fight like a man?”
“This is exactly what I need you to do.” Caesar did not need a battle-wife, but when she managed the castle for him, she needed at least some understanding of how knights fought to make timely, effective judgments.
“Then can I continue studying? I mean law, history, mathematics, not damned love poetry collections.”
“Of course. If you need a teacher, I can help find one.”
“Then what do I have to give?”
“Loyalty, and equal love.” Caesar said seriously, though he knew his future marriages would mostly be political, he never intended to give up finding a like-minded partner.
If Anna had not met that misfortune, he would have let her live freely and happily by his side; perhaps in long companionship, they could evolve from initial mutual affection and respect into a not-passionate but sufficiently deep love.
But Anna’s unfortunate death brought it all to an abrupt end.
He sealed the gifts meant for her, keeping them in a secret place. Now he prepared gifts for his second wife and hoped she would accept them gladly.
Boccia’s eyes lit up. “Can you swear?”
As Caesar raised his hand, Boccia grasped it. “I believe you,” she laughed. “So I should do something to make you believe me too.”
