Chapter 228: Dandolo
When a pigeon with a brass letter tube tied to one leg, along with a rose-colored ribbon, landed in a mansion at the easternmost end of Crete, someone immediately let out a joyful shout.
Although they had not yet seen the contents of the letter, these ribbons were rose-colored, not white, nor black, and according to the agreement, this indicated that they had achieved victory in the contest for this marriage.
Yes, they, the Dandolo family, not Manuel I of the Byzantine Empire, nor the Holy Father of the Roman Church, and certainly not the Venetians, or rather, not all of the Venetians.
The nimblest and quickest-reacting young man among them immediately leaped up, grabbed the pigeon, deftly removed the ribbon and letter tube from its leg, and hurried toward the inner courtyard of the mansion.
This mansion was built entirely in the style of Ancient Rome’s “domus” (courtyard-style residence), featuring an entrance, skylight, bedroom, dining room, corridor, main hall, and more, with the colonnaded inner courtyard undoubtedly occupying the largest area, surrounded by the master’s library, private dining room, study, and other more private rooms.
In the inner courtyard, roses, rose, viburnum, marigold, morning glory, and hyacinths with fragrant scents and vibrant colors were visible everywhere… some had passed their flowering season, while others were in full bloom.
In the center of the courtyard stood a three-tiered fountain, atop which was a gilded bronze statue as tall as an arm, none other than the beautiful princess Europa.
She was the daughter of the Phoenician king, loved by Zeus, and while Europa was resting alone in the courtyard, the king of the gods approached her disguised as a pure white bull.
Europa thought he was just an ordinary bull, so she climbed onto the bull’s back, and the bull immediately galloped off all the way to Crete, where he and Europa became a couple.
Passing by this fountain, the young man could not help but slow his steps.
The statue of the goddess did not have the soft features usually favored by people, reminding him of his sister Boccia, whom their grandfather had forcefully placed as a candidate.
Venice had plenty of gentle-tempered, beautiful noble ladies, and considering Cyprus’s future importance to Venice, no one did not want to obtain this precious golden apple.
Speaking of Boccia, even her brothers would find it hard to approve of her as a suitable wife without pangs of conscience; Boccia was too rough and too unrestrained, she was beautiful, but her beauty was too intense and direct, not conforming to current standards of feminine beauty.
Back in Venice, someone had maliciously disparaged that with Boccia’s looks and figure, she would surely be extremely popular in the city as a prostitute, but as a wife, her husband might as well find a man for company—at least a man would not be as outrageous as Boccia.
At that time, he had dueled with those people over their outrageous words, but even he had not expected his sister Boccia to snatch this marriage from two opponents of such prominent status.
Thinking of this, he could not help but feel immensely proud, even involuntarily letting out a sharp whistle toward the statue of the Europa goddess, who was gazing down at the water’s surface.
This whistle naturally did not elicit any reaction from the brass-gilded statue, but it startled a flock of small birds that had been drinking and bathing at the fountain’s edge; they flapped their wings and flew up into the air or onto branches, their commotion alerting the cats dozing in the courtyard sunlight with half-closed eyes—they either stretched their necks to look up or scanned left and right, but the hot weather sapped their interest in hunting.
Soon, they lazily returned to their original positions and postures. Enjoying the sunlight in the courtyard with these cats was also an old man nearing seventy, none other than Enrico of the Dandolo family, the most powerful member of the Council of Ten.
When this reckless young man was still fifty feet away from him, the apparently dozing old man suddenly raised one hand, and the young man instantly dropped his smile and steps, cautiously approaching his grandfather and kneeling beside his couch to kiss his hand.
Men of the same age as Enrico had long since had loose skin and cold blood, but the hand the young man lifted was still as strong and hot as that of a man in his forties or fifties.
He gripped the young man’s hand in return, then opened his eyes; the young man looked at him with filial devotion and involuntarily trembled—he tried hard not to show any unusual expression, but Enrico had already noticed—as with many others, the man feared his eyes.
To date, only his granddaughter Boccia had been able to look them in the face.
The old man smiled faintly; his eyes were different from ordinary people’s—irises are usually black, gold, blue, green, or the most common, brown. Enrico’s irises, however, were gray-white, making the black pupil in the center appear exceptionally small and terrifying, like a bottomless cave that lured people in, impossible to escape.
But before 1171, Enrico’s eyes had not been like this; back then, they were the most ordinary brown. That year, Manuel I of Constantinople suddenly launched a plundering and expulsion of the Venetians, confiscating all their property and driving them out of Constantinople and even the entire Byzantine Empire.
At the time, Enrico was Venice’s ambassador stationed in Constantinople. Upon learning of this, he went to argue with Manuel I in a fury.
Manuel I’s response was simple: he took Enrico’s eyes, as he had done with his previous enemies, and expelled him from Constantinople. From the time Enrico was driven out of Constantinople until the other Venetians found him, there was a three-month gap.
What happened to Enrico during those three months, no one knows; he never speaks of it.
Only once, at a Council of Ten meeting, to refute others’ slanders—they doubted he had truly suffered the emperor’s persecution—did he say that during those three months, he had received the protection of the saint he had hoped for, which kept him from getting lost in the wilderness or being devoured by beasts.
And when people saw his eyes suddenly turn from brown to gray-white, thinking he could no longer see, he said he had not lost his sight; on the contrary, his vision was better than ever, even able to see things a hundred miles away like a falcon.
On this point, his supporters believed it was the reward from God and the saints for the heavy price he had paid for Venice. His opponents thought it was just Enrico talking nonsense—after all, in Venice, a disabled person could hardly become an official trusted by the people.
He said this only because he did not want to lose the power in his hands.
Subsequent events seemed to prove that Enrico was not speaking empty words; not long after returning to Venice, he defeated several assassins who had infiltrated his room to kill him.
And in later parades, he even walked at the very front of everyone, viewing plays, discussing business, or going to assemblies to debate others, just like a normal person.
It was just that when he turned his head or fixed his eyes on his opponents, those gray-white eyes did exert great pressure on them.
Enrico never shied away from talking about the horrific tortures he suffered in Constantinople; occasionally he would call himself “the blind man,” which to others seemed more like a jest and sarcasm.
Upon seeing the ribbon, Enrico knew Boccia had succeeded. He held the ribbon between his fingers, then opened the wax-sealed letter tube and drew out a slip of paper, which bore the agreed-upon code indicating that everything was progressing very smoothly.
“Tell them all to get moving,” Enrico instructed his grandson. “We must hurry to Cyprus.”
Although he had already seen the rose-colored ribbon, Enrico’s order still thrilled the young man; he jumped up from the ground and ran out of the courtyard to relay the good news to his companions.
Enrico’s expression, however, was very calm; when he had recommended Boccia back then, everyone opposed it, including the Dandolo family—they said Boccia was not the kind of woman men would like—but he recalled the intelligence he had read, all bought at great expense.
More than a year earlier, when he heard that Manuel I of Constantinople planned to marry his “illegitimate daughter” Princess Anna to a Crusader knight, he began gathering information about this person from all sides, even uncovering things others did not know, such as the Isaac slave merchant whom even Amalric I, Patriarch Heraclius, and now Baldwin IV had failed to find.
Of course, this was also thanks to the Venetians originally being the largest slave merchants in the Mediterranean, though he had not found any traces of Caesar—possibly because he had always been moving around regions like Syria.
But though he had learned of this man’s whereabouts, he had not been able to catch him. He seemed to have stopped appearing in public years ago. Some said he was dead, others that he had gone into hiding in a village, or returned to Francia or elsewhere, no longer doing this hell-bound trade in the Holy Land…
He had hesitated over whether to pass this information to Grand Prince Alexios—Alexios had built this force on Cyprus that even the emperor had failed to discover, and Enrico and his Dandolo family deserved much credit—but in the end, he had remained silent.
Truth be told, whatever Grand Prince Alexios did was beneficial to Venice.
And after piecing together the main contents of this intelligence, he could see that the various virtues of this blue-eyed young man were not others’ hype or exaggeration—though his benevolence and tolerance sometimes drew mockery and insults from those with ulterior motives, how could Enrico, who had experienced ups and downs in Venice and Constantinople over decades of storms, be swayed by such idle talk?
Some say love and sneezes are equally hard to hide. But in fact, a person’s true nature is the hardest to conceal. This young man had been through so much that even Enrico was astonished by his experiences, yet he had never changed—he had not become proud, arrogant, greedy, nor flustered and at a loss over the sudden title and wealth.
If not for the intelligence clearly stating this child’s age, Enrico would have suspected he was facing a seasoned adult who had endured countless hardships, not an innocent youth.
However, having such a complete soul meant he would not be easily shaken or changed by the outside world.
Enrico believed that even if Boccia revealed her uniqueness to him, even if Caesar did not accept it or felt repulsed, he would not harm Boccia with words or actions like those Venetians.
But now, the outcome was even better than they had expected.
Before their ships set sail, several more carrier pigeons landed one after another in the courtyard, bringing intelligence that detailed for Enrico what had happened on Cyprus before.
Enrico read it with a laugh; clearly, without Caesar’s permission and approval, Boccia would never have dared to do this, and fortunately he had given her sufficient authority beforehand—now they had joined forces to drive these ill-intentioned suitors out of Cyprus.
Such an alliance was far more reliable than ones based on so-called love or desire.
——————
“What are these Venetians doing?”
Geoffrey sighed.
Not long ago, they had learned that Caesar had driven out three waves of suitors—envoys and candidates alike—and the Roman Church group might not count as driven out; they could not wait to leave Cyprus, perhaps having heard some terrifying rumors…
At that time, Geoffrey had still been planning to write to relatives in Francia to select a suitable person, but not even a week later, the Venetians had come again. And this time, they outdid the previous envoy group—though only three ships arrived, they were all warships.
The Venetian navy had earned recognition after two trials by the Fatimid Dynasty of Egypt and the Byzantine Empire of Asia Minor—besides the ships, because their galleys had no slaves, meaning from sailors to oarsmen, all were free Venetians.
This meant that while Saracen or Byzantine ships might carry only a hundred warriors, Venetian ships had two to three times that number.
