Chapter 231: Second Marriage
“This must surely be a great expenditure.” Caesar naturally extended his hand, letting Dandolo take his arm; this was just an instinctive show of respect and consideration.
Dandolo’s age. Even for someone from that other world, he was undoubtedly an elder, not to mention the rumors that he was not exactly a “healthy” man. But according to Boccia, his grandfather sometimes acted like a mischievous child—he would demand to be supported and guided one moment, then complain the next about finding hair or bugs in the thick soup.
He often called himself the “blind one,” yet he frequently cursed out the officials in council meetings for being so stupid it hurt to look at them—which meant his eyesight depended entirely on his mood.
And now Dandolo was in a very good mood. Of course, he had paid such a large dowry not without any return; he was no saint.
After dinner, he had a simple talk with Caesar about what the Venetians would gain from this marriage, or rather, what the Dandolo family would gain from it.
Without a doubt, Caesar was no less generous than the Byzantine Emperor in this regard. He promised twelve ports and trade privileges in important cities, just as the first emperor Alexios I Komnenos had promised, and the Venetians would likewise enjoy a ten percent tax exemption on Cyprus.
Similarly, in these cities, they could still own a street, a shop; Caesar even added an extra church, though this church might require the Venetians to fund its construction themselves—but for wealthy Venetians, that was no problem at all, and it would also allow them to show favor to the Roman Church.
Although the current Alexander III certainly did not like Caesar or the Venetians much.
“Do you want the Cypriots to convert to the Roman Church?”
Caesar paused for a moment, and this pause was immediately caught by the sharp Dandolo. “No,” Caesar said, “I don’t have that idea for now; it might take a few years.” In fact, Caesar did not care at all what faith his subjects followed, as long as they obeyed his laws, did not betray or sell him out, or commit acts against human decency; they could quietly live according to their old customs.
But such words he absolutely could not say aloud. He had refused the niece of Pope Alexander III of Rome; one could still say it was because he was so pious that he could not accept the illegitimate daughter of a holy office holder—though it did not sound good either way.
People could say he was too straightforward or did not know when to weigh things—but if he said he had no intention of converting the heathens in his territory to the Roman Church, that would be a big problem.
Even now in Ayyarasa Road, Antioch and Tripoli, and the other cities of Christian lords, there were crowds of heathens, but at least on the surface, they were distinguished from Christians, and every ruler also promised the Roman Church that they would convert them to the Church as soon as possible.
But at this moment, Dandolo slyly smiled.
Hmm, as Venetians who leaned toward the Roman Church in faith and toward Byzantium in politics, in fact they did not care much either. Of course the church still had to be built; it would benefit both them and Caesar.
But this was just a preliminary agreement; finalizing it would require days of consultation and negotiation.
“Where do you want to stay? The room next door, or together with your granddaughter?”
“Together with Boccia. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
Dandolo said, and he was soon escorted to the Rose Court. As soon as he stepped into the courtyard surrounded by roses, he saw Boccia rushing toward him.
The girl hugged her grandfather joyfully. The anxiety that had plagued her heart finally settled completely.
Dandolo slightly bent his knee to make it easier for Boccia to kiss his cheek without effort. Then he gently pushed Boccia back and observed her current clothing and expression.
He had already heard about how the previous governor’s confidants had even planned to dress Boccia up as a second Princess Anna to win Caesar’s favor.
What he saw now was still that girl running on the bridges and roads of Venice: she wore no hat, no headscarf, exposing a bit of her chest and her collarbones on both sides; the tight-waisted robe made her as light as a small bird on a branch.
Boccia happily, with a face full of joy, took her grandfather’s arm and entered the Rose Court—the room had been tidied by the servants, but Boccia had also adjusted many things according to her grandfather’s habits. Dandolo could tell Boccia had much to say to him, and he had much to say to Boccia, but it was already late at night.
He never made decisions when tired, and even spoke little, to avoid making wrong judgments or leaking secrets.
Today was the same; he told Boccia to go rest as well.
The next morning, Dandolo woke to rhythmic shouts one after another. He squinted, sat up, and called a servant to help him change clothes. “What’s happening outside?”
“The knights are training, and the market outside has opened.”
“Aren’t the knights in the barracks? Or just the ones stationed here?”
“The barracks outside the city have been abandoned for a long time; it will take time to repair them. For now, they are staying in the Governor’s Palace.”
The Governor’s Palace was more than sufficient if only for the governor and his family members, attendants, and a few guests, but to accommodate over a hundred knights and their escorts, servants, craftsmen, priests, and monks… it was a bit cramped. So Caesar had temporarily rented a spot from the market for the knights to do strength training.
“After they marry, we still need to find a way to expand and improve the Governor’s Palace,” Dandolo said.
After 1171, Dandolo had come to prefer quiet, dimly lit rooms, but today he felt a different interest. He stopped the servant from lowering the shutters and tapestries, leaned by the window, and looked down— no wonder he could hear so clearly; the spot provided for the knights’ strength training was right under the Governor’s Palace city wall, not far from the market.
The knights’ strength training took many forms: they could lift stones, or iron hammers, or hay bales—and at this time, a hay bale weighed about fifty to eighty pounds.
Perhaps because today was a fasting day, though church law only prohibited knights from using metal weapons on the battlefield during fasting days, out of caution, some knights also refused to do training that required metal weapons on fasting days.
What Dandolo saw was knights in neat formation, under the supervision of some older knights, repeatedly throwing and catching a heavy bag, the bag rustling with sand inside, and visibly heavier than an ordinary sandbag.
“They’re polishing chainmail.” This was a two birds with one stone method. Knights might use hammers or stone blocks during training, but putting chainmail and sand in a bag, tying it tight, and repeatedly lifting and lowering it was just as effective, and it could polish the chainmail smooth and clean through the sand’s friction at the same time.
When doing this kind of training, the knights were not dressed neatly—besides, June in Cyprus was already hot. In fact, they were dressed much like Roman soldiers from centuries ago: sleeveless or short-sleeved belted short robes, exposing arms and thighs.
“This is truly a rare fine sight,” Dandolo said as if to himself. “Did Boccia live here before too? Who arranged it? The lord here, or the lord’s sister?”
His voice was very soft, as if just muttering to himself, but how could his servant not know his master’s increasingly suspicious nature after that ordeal? He immediately replied: “No, Miss Boccia did not live in this room.
Although by tradition, the best room in the tower should belong to Boccia. But Nathia arranged a room for her facing the courtyard blooming with roses; even though it had a window and balcony too, as an unmarried girl, all Boccia could see each day was sunlight, flowers, and small birds.”
Only then did Dandolo’s expression soften slightly. Though he believed women could pursue beauty just like men, Boccia was still a pure girl. She could become bold—perhaps many years after her marriage—but not now, especially under deliberate arrangement by those with ulterior motives.
“What are you standing there stunned for?” he scolded his servant. “Go fetch a steaming cup of wine!” Not to drink one at a time like this would be such a pity.
At this time, the churches of Francia and Italy still promoted the virtues of humility and simplicity—though the popes and bishops might not follow them—and they considered gluttony a sin.
And the gluttony here did not mean gorging like Romans, eating to the limit then vomiting to continue feasting on food—their meaning was that people only needed two meals a day.
Thus for a long time, whether nobles or farmers, after waking in the morning they would work for a while—whether tedious mental labor or heavy physical labor—until near noon, when they finally had a proper meal.
Then in the evening, only a simple dinner.
But if conditions allowed, they would also eat some cheese upon waking in the morning, drink a cup of wine, just to invigorate the spirits.
But what the servant brought back from the kitchen was not just a cup of wine; beside it were spices and sugar—at this time Dandolo still did not know those sparkling little things were sugar—along with some cheese and two pies. “You probably can’t imagine,” the servant sighed; the people here were so luxurious, “they have three meals a day.”
Dandolo was not very surprised. He had previously served as ambassador in Constantinople and of course knew that the Christians here had long been influenced by the Persians and Saracens of the region to start having three meals a day. But as he lifted his wine cup, he still saw among those elegantly arranged meals a small dish piled with… candied fruit?
He curiously pinched one between two fingers, held it before his eyes for close inspection and a sniff. It looked like a translucent stone block, but as soon as it neared his nose, he smelled a familiar sweet aroma. He put it in his mouth and waited a moment—sure enough, he tasted sweetness.
“Is this sugar?”
“Yes.” The servant’s mouth also still held a lingering sweetness. When the kitchen staff had brought out this dish for him, he hadn’t believed it; only after tasting a small piece did he agree to bring it to his master.
At this time, sugar was still a luxury in the Apennines; even if not as rare as before, its price was still comparable to honey.
Although since the Crusades, they had also brought sugarcane to the Apennine Peninsula, to date neither planting, workshops, nor workers had achieved mass production. But as one of the most powerful members of the Venetian Council of Ten, Dandolo could not have not tasted sugar; he was even quite familiar with it, from the crudest dark sugar to bleached white sugar. Yet he had never seen sugar like this, solidified together, that did not quickly melt under normal temperature and moisture.
As a merchant, he immediately thought of how much convenience this would bring to transportation and storage, and for showing off—its color and shape were like colorless gemstones, very beautiful, worthy of a king’s dining table.
And as he carefully savored these sugars, they were clearly purer than any he had tasted before, with a special fragrance. Was this a Cypriot craft?
The servant shook his head. When he got this sugar, he had subtly probed the cook, who had no intention of hiding it.
When he said the Cypriots were so clever to make sugar into such a shape and texture, the cook laughed and said this was not a Cypriot product; on the contrary, it was a secret recipe brought by their master’s sister.
They all knew Nathia had spent many years in the Sultan’s Harem and had no doubt about it. To these Crusader knights, the Sultan’s Harem was like Ali Baba’s treasure cave—what rare thing was not in there?
They could not possibly go ask the previous Sultan Nur al-Din if he had tasted this sugar either.
Whether this recipe was brought by Nathia or not made no difference to Dandolo including this matter in the upcoming negotiations.
Some nobles, to show off their wealth, instructed cooks to make all sorts of sugar sculptures at banquets—sometimes a bird, sometimes a palace—but these sugars melted or spoiled easily.
He could imagine that if someone served sugar like this, even without any shaping, its ice cube-like texture and special flavor would surely conquer a great many people; and being hard enough not to melt easily, making other shapes would only be easier.
Dandolo already had a plan, so he no longer focused on the new sugar. He held his hot wine, leaned obliquely by the window, overlooking the scene below—indeed, even if he were not a woman, he would enjoy such an invigorating sight.
Knights’ strength training was lifelong, never ceasing; after all, once they donned chainmail weighing thirty to forty pounds, helmets, and other protective gear, it was not as if they could just stand there waiting for the enemy to charge them.
They had to mount and charge in full armor, raise and lower spears or swing swords.
In siege warfare, they also had to climb siege towers and scaling ladders.
And in dismounted combat, they had to fight face-to-face with enemies like infantry: sprinting, rolling, jumping. How much glory they earned, or at the very least whether they survived, all depended on how much effort they had put into prior training.
These young knights, even if all blessed by God, some were clearly not strong; after continuously throwing those bags of sand and chainmail twenty or thirty times, some knights already dropped them, letting the sandbags hit the ground.
Of course, he immediately drew mockery from those around and stern rebuke from the old knight. And only after everyone had thrown a full hundred times did they finally get a break.
Dandolo had previously noticed not far from their training ground, in a spot shaded by thick trees, there was a deep well, surrounded by the latest pressure water-lifting equipment—people had gone there to drink earlier, and their cattle and horses followed, drinking the cool, clear water alongside their masters.
At the time, Dandolo had paid extra attention and found the well’s charge not expensive at all—a copper coin was enough for a satisfying drink.
He thought the knights would go there too, or drink light wine; indeed, some did bring wooden buckets. But when a bucket was opened, what spilled out was neither ordinary water nor light wine. Dandolo leaned out the window and carefully sniffed the faint scent in the air—though faint, he caught it at once: it was tea.
At this time in Central Asia and West Asia, tea had also become a commodity, of course very expensive and rare; it only appeared in courts, temples, and apothecaries—as a medicine deeply favored by the nobles and officials of the day.
And during his time in Constantinople, Dandolo had enjoyed tea many times. Compared to coffee—at this time coffee was different from later coffee; people still only used its pulp and discarded the pit, the coffee beans.
Coffee did invigorate. But Dandolo thought tea more natural and fresh. “He actually has his knights drinking tea?”
