The Merchant of Venice

[Nicollo da Conti]

Introduction:

I have written professionally for almost a decade now, for magazines and newspapers, television, and websites, and perhaps you've even read something I wrote. If so, my apologies.

At last I have time to return to an unfinished book, a goofy sort of historical farce – a 'what if' of facts with an altogether different (and incredibly more far-fetched) interpretation. The story involves Niccolò da Conti, my pseudo-namesake, though a rather unfortunate incident with alcohol during my sign-up procedure lead to a misspelling . A very interesting fellow, da Conti was a trader of Venice in the early 15th century, and set out while still young to the Holy Lands, setting himself up in Damascus, then on to Baghdad, and much further. The accounts of his voyages (“Le Voyage aux Indes”) take him through Iran, India, Sumatra, Champa (NW Vietnam), and beyond. He was one of the few Europeans who ever saw the great Chinese fleet of Zheng He, while both were in an Indian coastal city.

My book has sat unfinished for almost a year, mostly due to work, somewhat due to a solid DLV addiction, and altogether due to a lack of time and effort. It seems even harder to re-start than it was to start.

I've finally found the time, and I thought this AAR might help me get back into this character (and the mindset of prose). Unlike most others, this AAR isn't focused on military exploits and the spoils of war, but the world of one trader named Tusco Dolfin. When his assets get acquired, it will end. But until then, we'll see how far he gets.

1180AD, Summer

My name is Tusco Dolfin. I am from the coastal town of Chioggia, a little south from the grand canals of Venice, though it isn't without its own Grand Canal. My father worked the nearby salt pans, my mother made lace, and together the three of us worshiped at the church of Santa Maria with Father Oliverio Grissani.

My father wished that I would join him in the salt pans, but my eyes were always drawn seaward to sails on the sunrise. As a boy I'd sometimes hear rumors of what luxuries the ships would bring to Venice, and the many stories of strange and distant lands. I knew at a very young age I was destined to visit them – and grow rich along the way.



I began my merchant career early, soon learning the languages of the Muslim traders that arrived in their dhows. I am now 30 years of age, and have acquired the wealth needed to set out on a journey of discovery, fame, and fortune. I will be sad to leave the great city of Venice, but I am excited to get underway.

Our Doge is Orio, a skilled politician and bureaucrat, defender of the great city. I have learned much from his rule, such as the boldness I'll need in my future bartering. Doge Orio has three sons, each of whom I expect to meet during my travels.



I've set off from the great city to the rebel Croatian town of Zagreb, for one last windfall of golden trades before venturing further into my unknown. The Doge has wisely initiated the construction of roads, but in these lean years even the trek to Zagreb is fraught with danger. When I leave the lands of Venice, it will be the furthest I've ever traveled from my beloved Chioggia.

I've left with news in the air of a new alliance with Milan. I hope it will remain strong and true, as I feel we must concentrate on defeating the many pirates and rebels that stalk our lands and waters. Perhaps, in time, they will feel obligated to pay heed to the Republic's banner.

Along the way I happened upon a fellow named Victor Carosi, also a native of Chioggia. Emboldened by wine and camaraderie, he told me a very intriguing story of his mission from the Doge to infiltrate Zagreb. “Perhaps for an invasion,” he pondered. Indeed, Zagreb would be a very rich addition to the Republic. I have arrived at the gold mines, where I expect a handsome return of 152 florins for the season. It will be very much needed in the seasons to come.

1180AD, Winter

This is harsh country for such a cold winter, and my experiences of it only seem to mirror that of the Republic's. I am told a great rebel army has arisen under the flag of Carlo, a young and capable general of considerable dread, though he is still somewhat of an unknown. It was Victor who brought me the news as I was packing to leave. He seemed rather skittish, as if it were unsafe to stay in the region. In any case, he told me he'd been summoned by the Doge to return to Venice, perhaps to spy on the rebels.



I set out from the Zagreb mines with the intention of wintering at an iron camp near Zara, but as I approached it soon became obvious the way was impassable. The snow kept coming, and with my supplies dwindling, I decided (rather dejectedly) to wait out the season in Zara castle, with no hope of income until the next year.

Zara is ruled by Consigliari Pietro, the Doge's eldest son and a superb administrator. He and his wife Magdalena, along with their two sons, greeted me warmly at the castle gates and invited me to share the reserved luxuries Zara has on offer. They are a loving family, though it seems Consigliari Pietro is at times frustrated by his position ruling a castle. I feel he would be happier in charge of a city, perhaps such as Zagreb. Several times over the course of the winter I found him alone with his wine, lamenting over lost opportunities, and yet there were 'Republic secrets' (as he called them) that would lighten his mood.

It was most pleasant, considering the rather spartan surroundings and the dreadful weather, but I am anxious to keep moving – and to refill my lean pockets.

1181AD, Summer



Spring finally arrived in Zara, and with great fondness I bid farewell to Consigliari Pietro and his happy family. It was only at the gates of Zara I realized the Consigliari's great Venetian talent; the charges levied for wintering in Zara were quite high, and heading south I was quite worried my fortunes would give way long before my journey's end.

Luckily, I was befriended by a wineyard owner just north of Ragusa, where I quickly set up a rather profitable trade in his wares. My accounts, however, were somewhat diminished by the quality of his wine; lest it be known, I have an affinity for sampling.

Ragusa is ruled by Duke Alessandro Mastropiero, second son of the Doge and a skilled bureaucrat. During my summer here, we spent many afternoons 'sampling' the local wines as we looked out across the rolling hills and discussed the affairs of the great Republic of Venice.

Unfortunately, the wine was necessary to wash away Duke Alessandro's concerns. The rebel general Carlo still roams free in Venice, and with no let up in sight, the Republic is slowly going broke. On the seas came news the Doge has raised taxes dramatically in Venice; “To crush Carlo,” the Duke stated assuredly, but I got the feeling there were 'state secrets' that went beyond a lone rebel general. Also came news of a grand alliance with the Holy Roman Empire, which we both agreed was a marriage of convenience, and while beneficial to all parties it was inevitable that the treaty would someday lay tattered.

1181AD, Winter

Roads! All the Republic is abuzz about the roads that will surely bring prosperity. I look back to the last year and wonder how much further I'd have been by now, but with the wealth I've accumulated from the Ragusa wineries, I'm confident my journey will go on.

The fleet of Admiral Paolo arrived from Venice just before the onset of winter, bringing with him news from home and all over the Republic. The kings of the far-off realms of England and France are dead, and my old friend Victor must've succeeded, as tales of cruelty and extermination had filtered from Carlo's camp into Venice. The first seeds of devastation and fear had been sown. Rumours sped through the great city of a night attack, but at the time of Admiral Paolo's departure, these were but rumours.

Happier news came from Ragusa itself – the birth of Giuliano to Duke Alessandro! All the castle rejoiced, and it was quite dear to see young Barbus make such a fuss over his new baby brother. The Duke and I celebrated our 'samples' vigorously for two months, until I began to feel the urge of a new horizon. I arranged for Admiral Paolo to transport me southward, and with glowing sentiments, the Duke and I said our farewells. I left the castle after a long night of 'sampling' with the Duke, when I felt assured he was unable to enable any of wintering levy scheme he may have learned from his brother.

These are dangerous waters. Pirates still roam freely, though most smartly have wintered off the coast of Bari. But the Admiral is skilled, and I have every confidence in his abilities to hasten my journey.


1182AD, Summer

I have been seasick for many months now; the waters have stirred so violently, but have finally let up and our fleet now approaches the Isle of Corfu.

(later that summer...)

Ah yes, success! The winemaster of Ragusa's information was correct, and by his word I was allowed to do business with a local lord of the wineries. This is an untamed rebel island, and though I sometimes fear for my safety, I am comforted by the Admiral's presence just offshore. While here, I've acquired a knowledge of customs, which makes dealing with these islanders a bit easier – and somewhat more profitable.

Ships to and from Venice pass nearby, through the narrow strait that connects the Adriatic and Ionian seas, and with them come shadowy bits of news from around the Republic – and an outside world. Something about the Third Council of the Lateran has met, though the sailors couldn't explain its objectives. My good friend and levy-extractor Consigliari Pietro and his wife have given birth to Leonardo at Zara! I'm sure the boys Gerardo and Benasuto will welcome their new brother.

Best of all, Carlo's forces have met ruin at the hand of the Doge's great army. As the story goes, the Doge stirred several hundred Venetians to rise up to defend the great city, and hiring several bands of mercenaries along the way, they vanquished the dreaded Carlo in a pitched battle that might have gone either way. With the grace of God, the Republic has prevailed!

There is much to celebrate, and staying the summer at a wineyard definitely helps. I have drank to the Third Lateran Council (whatever that is), the Consigliari's new son, the Doge's glorious victory... I even toasted the new grain exchange of Iraklion, which I hope to see soon. Admiral Paolo says we must depart soon, and I have my packed my things for the long voyage around the Pelopennese. We have stored much wine aboard for the journey.

Still... I must wonder... it was only a small band of rebels. Why would the Doge meet it with such a large force?

1182AD, Winter

We are still at sea, though this winter has been much kinder to the fleet. The waters are calm, with favorable currents, and we are making good time to Iraklion.

Still very much in the trade lanes, the faster ships that pass on their way from Venice have shouted news across our bows, and it seems to answer questions I had earlier this year. A great army is amassing at Zara, one that is most likely intended to siege Zagreb. I am pleased, not only for the Republic, but for Consigliari Pietro, who will likely lead the expeditionary force and will at last get to govern a proper city.

1183AD, Summer

Alas, it was not God's Will. Our dear Consigliari Pietro is dead, leaving behind poor Magdalena with three young boys. A career governor, he was not familiar with military custom, and as his horse reared to charge a mock practice enemy, his foot slid through the stirrup and the Consigliari was dragged most unceremoniously into the rugged hills near Zara, where he was found many days later, bloodied and almost unrecognizable.

The Doge is understandably distraught, though life goes on – including plans to take Zagreb, though I can't imagine who will now lead the charge.

We learned of the news just as we docked at Iraklion, where I first met the young Ordelafo Balbi. A merchant in good standing, he is good with money, quite willing to learn, and looks upon me as something of a mentor. “Take me with you,” he pleaded, and I didn't have the heart to say no. We will travel together to the Holy Land – and perhaps beyond.

Admiral Paolo has been ordered to return to Venetian waters, likely to support the Zagreb invasion, though news of this has been quiet. I have secured further transport from Lorenzo the Smuggler, a shadowy character but at the insistence of Lord Sebastiano he has promised his services to myself and the young Balbi.

Lorenzo brings with him a new discovery – magnesia. The Muslim traders we encounter use it in their prayers, pointing their way to their holiest city of Mecca. One one hand, this is somewhat unfortunate, as it was always quite humorous to hear them argue amongst themselves about Mecca's true direction; but on the other, this new discovery may give us an advantage in our future travels.

Iraklion is a very dull and boring place, and the last of the wine left with Admiral Paolo. Even the grain exchange wasn't worth the toast I gave it on the Isle of Corfu. They are just now clearing the land for agriculture, and one day I am sure Lord Sebastiano will make it a prosperous city, but for now there's little to do. I've left Balbi in town while I make trade at the nearby timber mills.

After all, the young Balbi might be my protégé, but he's also my competitor.


(I have a few more years of game to write, filled with death, inquisition, siege warfare, and more. Tusco Dolfin is still very much alive, and the story will continue. It seems to be good exercise.)

Oh, and Disclaimer: this is very much an unedited draft .

[Furin]

Very nice, I like the unique approach. Great writing too!

[AP49]

Good and interesting new kind of AAR.

[TheG]

Like your AAR very much! Unique approach!

[Nicollo da Conti]

Thanks all. Though I'm now re-reading and groaning; whoever had the idea of posting my first drafts was an idiot.

1183AD, Winter

Three years... three long years I've been away from Venice, from Chioggia. I yearn to see once again the Grand Canal and the church of Santa Maria. But I am sure it will be there when I return; the Doge is a fine ruler and I am beginning to understand his strategic skills. The Republic will remain.

Balbi and I have now crossed out of her waters, into an unknown seen only by the most adept merchants. Lorenzo the Smuggler, keeping true his promise to Lord Sebastiano, has brought us to the eastern edges of the Aegean, through what I can only call the most treacherous leg of my yet unfinished journey. Storms abound, and as I land on the Isle of Rhodes I've taken sick and must rest seaside to regain my strength. This is a lawless place, and I feel I shall need to recover fully if I am to attempt any dealings with the locals.



Lorenzo's battered fleet limped to the Smyrna coast for repairs, taking with him the young Balbi, who immediately found good trade in wine along the coast. I must be wary of his intentions; long did he and Lorenzo drink into the night, perhaps making secret alliances and cargo agreements.

1184AD, Summer

Word of a great plague in Italy has reached this tiny spit of far-off land, though not a disease of the corporeal flesh. Muslim sailors tell news of an Inquisition, though they don't know the meaning of such things.

But I do. As I was leaving the heathen Cathars were gathering, spreading their vile forms of Manicheism. I am told Oliverio Gissani, my boyhood priest and now Cardinal of all Venice, has been summoned to deal with the outbreak of blasphemy. For the sake of the Cathars, I hope he has retired his cane.

Also on the wind comes the news, at last, of the siege at Zagreb. I was right to think the Doge a cunning strategist. After thwarting the upstart Carlo at Venice, the Doge marched his mercenaries on the Croatian rebels – met by our strong forces under the command of Alessandro Mastropiero! I can only imagine the scene; a tearful goodbye at Ragusa, marching and wintering at Zara, and then on to Zagreb as the snows melted. It is said the rebels will not be able to hold out for long.

Lorenzo has returned, re-equipped and full of tales of stealing into the night without paying his outfitters. I wonder sometimes how he endures in these dangerous waters. When I asked of Balbi's whereabouts, Lorenzo said the lad had ventured inland to seek the riches of inner Anatolia.



The young fool. He'll be wandering penniless before winter. It is said to be a harsh land, dangerous with the strength of Turks and Byzantines. If their armies don't end him, his thirsts will. I shan't see him again, I'm afraid.

But more riches for myself! Lorenzo has brought me to Attalia, an ancient land with Roman reminders abound. Yet they are for the most part crumbled; They are Byzantine in name, ruled by rebels, and everywhere threatened by the Turks. A perfect environment for trade. I have found enormously rich dealings in sulfur, which I expect will bring 278 florins this season alone, and should cast shadow on any side deals made between Lorenzo and the young Balbi. Lorenzo sees nothing but florins.

1184AD, Winter

Great sadness falls upon my heart as I write these words. Our beloved and benevolent Doge is dead, stricken by what can only be a Cathar curse. The Republic, in respect, has elected his son Sebastiano of Iraklion, who has vowed to rid Venice of blasphemy. Lorenzo the Smuggler has been summoned to Iraklion to transport the Doge-in-waiting to Venice, and I fear I am without naval support for the rest of my journey.

Orio has left us in good standing. Zagreb fell easily to our overwhelming forces, who for three days plundered the town before its new ruler Alessandro could bring his armies into line. With its fall came the fulfillment of the Council of Nobles' promise, and 10,000 florins poured into the Republic's coffers. From his deathbed, Doge Orio announced a grand building program across our fledgling empire.



Milanese traders brought the news, and also of our new trade agreements with the Hungarians, secured by the very diplomatic emissary Enrico Dandalo. But it was not the agreement that is news; for it was on his way to Hungarian lands, in the forests just east of Zagreb, where he came upon a hiding Hungarian army. They greeted him warmly and gladly accepted his terms, though no one is sure what to make of their close proximity.

I have heard travelers from the Turkish town of Iconium speak of a European merchant fitting Balbi's description, there to trade in the same sulfur deposits I have found so rich. I sent word to him in a cunningly crafted letter that his Smuggler had already made sail for Venice, so as to make it known I was on to their intrigues.

The Doge is dead. Long live the Doge.


(And long live Tusco Dolfin! To be continued...)

[Ruckel]

this was a new nice idea

[Harry Lime]

Oh good. Another excellent AAR has started. I've not read anything since Furin finished his.

Original story. Well composed screenshots. Beautiful prose. Who could want anything more..except maybe a battle or two..

KUTGW

[Nicollo da Conti]

Yeah, a battle or two... I wondered how to include them with the Venetian armies now so far away from the main character. But when in doubt, a hack writer like me relies on deux ex machina to save his butt.


1185AD, Summer

Admiral Paolo has returned! My heart jumped when I saw his sails off the Attalia coast, and we drank long into the night exchanging stories about our adventures. He says Lorenzo is now married, and even calls himself Admiral. Who would ever marry that sea-salt scoundrel, let alone promote him?

The Cathar problem is growing at home, despite the best efforts of our new Doge Sebastiano, so much that the Pope himself has called for a strengthening of the church in our lands. A new chapel is rising in Ragusa, and when next I hear of home others will be consecrated as well.

The Doge has been blessed with a son coming of age, Antonio. For some hidden reason, Antonio has never lived up to the Doge's expectations, and though no one seems to know why, it's rumored he lacks in piety.

Late in the night, describing my great sulfuric fortunes to Paolo, he told me of even greater veins near Adana, in the lands of Celician Armenia. I was quite anxious to move on, so early that next morning we set sail. He wasn't wrong; I am now in Adana, trading at the same levels I did in Attalia, though with a lower cost of living I am making even greater fortunes.



I have been befriended by – of all people – a Turkish Imam named Burhanuddin Ersay, who doesn't seem to mind my European ways and my keen eye for trade. He spoke of his recent journey from a castle to the north called Caesarea, and of passing a trader dressed like me. I can only assume it to be Balbi, yet I'm unsure what he means to procure. Silks?

1185AD, Winter

I have heard news that the Doge reached Venice and immediately unceremoniously stripped Antonio of his title. I can only imagine how the boy feels. I met him once in Iraklion, what seems ages ago. He seemed so eager to impress his father with his military skills, though Sebastiano never took notice. I wonder what will become of him.

I am now 35, my years already waning, and though my financial skills are becoming refined, my spirit is not as it once was. I set out from Adana, chasing a rumor of silver near a place called Aleppo, though it has been a terrible season and I fear I've lost my way. The maps supplied to me by Admiral Paolo are poor with details for this place, though I have been warned by my Imam friend that it is rife with traders and unscrupulous acquisitions. Perhaps I will do well here, if my thirst can hold out.

1186AD, Summer

Indeed I was lost, though I have found myself near the city of Edessa under immensely lucrative circumstances. Shortly after my arrival, I spied an old Jerusalem trader named Henry d'Ivry, imbued with wine and vomit in a makeshift tavern, flashing his coins to impress anyone who would look. Later in the evening, I sat with him and discussed a 'once-in-a-lifetime' proposal, and before he could realize the terms I had taken control of his assets. Such a stroke of luck!



Edessa, once the crusader capital of Baldwin of Bolougne, now given up to rebels and lawlessness. I have set up shop at a local iron mine making modest profits (95 florins) this season before I move further into the dark unknown.

1186AD, Winter

My father once told me: “Why move on if there's still salt to gather?” We always differed in opinion; he died many years ago in Chioggia, and I have found my way here to Edessa. But I have decided to stay on another season, not because I am becoming like my father, but because I have had such good fortunes. Earlier this month, an Egyptian trader named Masruq al-Hajjaj wandered into my camp and demanded an audience. This was late at night, and bleary-eyed I awoke to the hurried language of his proposition. He was a novice, and I almost felt bad about re-writing our contract so it transferred all his properties to me. Almost.

I have not seen nor heard from young Balbi for many seasons now. Perhaps the Turks have acquired his life. I realize I've been lucky, as I've seen many rich merchant caravans pass to the north, but none have stopped to challenge my rights. I feel I grow stronger with every moment that passes, and with every acquisition I become more confident.

1187AD, Summer

I have heard news from home, good and bad. Lorenzo the Smuggler... sorry, Admiral Lorenzo... has returned to the coast near Adana and sent a runner with a full parcel of letters, pictures, and word from home.

The good news is that our Doge's plans to rid the Republic of Catharism is going as planned. Chapels have been completed in Ragusa and Zara, though the Pope worries Zagreb might fall into the hands of Cathars (or worse, Orthodoxy) and has issued a writ to increase its followers of Christ.

The bad news came disguised as good. Our armies have taken the castle of Durazzo. Lorenzo is an excellent artist and can tell a tale with the best of sailors, and though his yarn began with my heart beaming with pride, it ended with deep sadness.

Having lost his title to Venice, young Antonio found passage with Lorenzo to Zara, where in secret he summoned the armies that once defeated the rebels of Zagreb. Retraining his armies in Zara, Antonio also ordered the recruitment of several units in Ragusa to the south. Lorenzo could not reason with him; there was a fire lit that consumed everything that stood in his way. One way or another, I surmise, he would finally impress his father.

Gathering at Ragusa, Lorenzo transported Antonio's mob south to Durazzo, where Antonio immediately laid siege. The castle was poorly defended with a small garrison of two units of town militia and a band of peasant archers. With patience, Durazzo would fall bloodlessly, but I can only guess it wasn't heroic enough for Antonio. Early this spring, he ordered his armies to attack.

With two rams manned by peasant rabble, they approached to batter the wooden walls. Quickly the archers moved into place to cover their progress, and a hail of iron came down upon the rebel militia defenders.



The walls were easily breached, and when the militias were ordered back to the square, Antonio ordered them slaughtered by our invading peasants and a unit of mercenary spears. It was a bloodbath for both sides, made worse by the rain of arrows coming from the rebel archers in the town square.



Antonio, remaining safe behind his archers, commanded a unit of mercenary foot knights and another of peasants to flank the square on both sides while the carnage continued. Meanwhile, our archers were ordered forward to reach theirs, and blood now spilled freely in the square.

They were pinned, and with a few more minutes they would've been decimated, perhaps to the point of surrender. Even so, Antonio ordered the flanking troops to attack. The bloodshed was everywhere, and though I give slight spirit to the rebels, I give all to our own troops who died by the tips of our own arrows.



When victory was well at hand, Antonio did the unthinkable, charging through the last remaining rebel militia and hacking at them with abandon of all blessed compassions.



There was no call for it, save for Antonio's own glory. His own men were thrown down by the horses; those opposing slain in their steps. By all that's mighty, I fear for his soul. Many of our own were lost needlessly this day.

Durazzo fell, and looted of whatever could be found. Perhaps I don't have the stomach for war, but I must question Antonio's unchecked aggressive recklessness, for I feel it was more to impress the Doge than to suppress the rebels. Unfortunately for Antonio, the Doge surely would've been more impressed by compassion. I fear a rift growing between father and son.

As mentioned, Lorenzo is a wonderful artist, and his pictures truly reflect the gruesome nature of the battle. He must have a remarkable imagination, as it seems the perspective of his sketches is far removed from his body. Later in the evening, as I drank my worries into submission, I pondered how it looked as though the men were but pawns in a grand game of campaigning, at the whim of some unseen player giving the orders from high above. In any case, I hope Lorenzo may someday send sketches of Venetian victory in what I can only call this... total war. (writer coughs )

I have made my way to a place called Mosul after months of travel through sparse desert. I will rest here, making modest profits on wool while I determine where to venture next. It feels as if I have almost reached the ends of the world.

[Furin]

Very nice, especially the acquisition part. I wonder what you would have done if Tusco was the one acquired, brave sir Tusco .

[ivanhoex]

im enjoying this AAR a lot

only one thing, maybe find another way to make aquisitions, i mean, if you are doing a book about merchant, then that life wasnt probably the safest..

[Nicollo da Conti]

The one rule of this AAR is... it ends when Tusco Dolfin 'retires'

It's been a very new and different way of playing for me. A little more aggressive, making decisions based more on character traits than what I – the 'general in the sky' – would do. Whether or not that translates into an empire remains to be seen...

And yes (@ivanhoex), exactly why I wanted to write this AAR – to flesh out a character's world for my book, and there's a danger aspect I haven't yet addressed. Thanks for that - and for the groovy photoshopping to suit Lorenzo's artistic style.


1187AD, Winter

News from home now is fleeting and succumbs to rumor and exaggeration. I can only pick apart the details from traders along the Silk Road. What I hear doesn't raise my hopes for Republic glory.

The Pope has decreed a Crusade to take Cairo in Egypt. It has been almost a century since the First Crusade, and since then the powers opposing Christianity have consolidated, though for now they seem splintered as ever. The Turks fighting Byzantium, the remnant Kingdom of Jerusalem fighting the Egyptians, and everyone fighting the original Crusader armies. It is a bad time to be a European in this land.

I have taken to disguising myself in the Prophet's teachings. After news of another Crusade reached this distant place, it was impossible to do trade without submission. I have adapted to local customs, where even here in desolate roadside villages the word of the Prophet rules. I am on my way to Baghdad – the end of the world, according to Lorenzo's portilani. But then what would a sea dog know of the inland?

From all rumors and partial whispers I hear in these places, Doge Sebastiano has submitted to the Pope's will, and I expect he will heed the call of Crusade. I, however, now months away from any Venetian (save for Balbi, should he still live), believe Venice joining the Crusade would be the beginning of an end to the Republic. We are an emerging nation, one standing on a base of commerce, not conquest. In these dark hours, I hide the colors of my robes.

1188AD, Summer

I have reached the famed city of Baghdad, the 'Round City', one of the largest I have seen, now seemingly in control of Seljuk rebels, though their grasp on this cultural hearth seems tenuous at best. I have set up camp away from the city walls to trade again in sulfur, and in great secret I have befriended a woman named Shahrazad. I don't know her true standing in this place, but she tells good stories while my head bobs from sleeplessness and I try to forget the troubles of home. Someone should write down her great stories. I somehow think my time here will end before they are through.

1188AD, Winter

It is as I feared, and dare I say worse. Much worse. The Doge has become a champion of the Pope's Crusade and Catholicism. “To Cairo!!!” he cried in Piazza San Marco to the ears of thousands, but I say none are truly worthy of the journey. I am glad my father was not alive to take part in the hysteria.

The peasant rabble that met him in Venice wasn't to be his main force; that was to be the armies that had followed Antonio to Durazzo. But as I am told, when the Doge set anchor off the coast of Durazzo he found only a small garrison remaining. Antonio had moved to take the Corfu city of Kerkyra with most of the Republic's forces.



The Doge was livid, sailing immediately on to Kerkyra to confront his son Antonio. In this far away place, I shall endure months of agony wondering what became of this.

And yet... the longer I have been removed from Venetian holdings, the less they seem to intrude on my everyday living. My mother still lives in Chioggia, my friends still frequent the taverns of Venice, but the intrigues and conquests of my homeland seem to matter a little less out here. I am making good money here and Shahrazad has continued weaving her elaborate tales (apparently I'm some sort of test audience). But I am less than content, though more than happy to remain in the Round City for the duration of the season.

1189AD, Summer

I am drunk with wine as I write this. The tavern keeper in this dank shadowy place leers at me knowingly, and I count my coins very carefully. At a back booth, I lament the sorrows of what has become of my fragmented Republic.

Apparently the Doge reached Antonio's armies on the Isle of Corfu with siege in place. The son greeted the father expectant of praise, but Doge Sebastiano offered only condemnation for the needless slaughter at Durazzo, and furious rage for 'stealing' the garrison away to Corfu. Perhaps to repay his son's insubordination, or maybe for the good of the Republic, the Doge quashed Antonio's plans to marry Benedetta Bondumier, a local noble's beautiful daughter who I am told is more local than noble. At such a great distance I am unable to determine a real truth.

Incensed, Antonio lashed out at the Corfu rebels holding Kerkyra, madly charging into the fray in perhaps one last gasp at impressing his father, or indeed carving his own empire. Alas, neither was to be, for whatever grace protected Antonio during the Battle of Durazzo had vanished at Kerkyra. In the midst of pointed spears, Antonio fell among his routing troops.

The Doge was wracked by guilt, flowing back years from when Antonio was just a boy. I always felt the Doge had pushed Antonio to groom him for greatness, though now there was no chance for the father to explain. The Doge's armies had remained offshore, too far from reinforcement, and when the son needed the father, it was not to be.

His squires described him as distant and driven, unwilling to accept his son's parting and his own role in his death. In a mad fit, as the local noble's daughter Benedetta threw herself at his knees and cursed him, he struck her down with blade and professed to continue the work of our Lord Jesus Christ.

It was a bitter affair for all involved, including those who carry these rumors to me. I've no doubt they're true, and as they tell of the Doge's Crusade beckoning towards Cairo, I've no doubt Venice herself feels the scars of her Doge.



Somehow, my young friend Balbi heard the news before me. I met him on the road north from Baghdad. It seems my wine has brought forgetfulness to the account of his travels, though he mentioned his wariness of traders in the area. He's now on his way to Baghdad to take over my sulfur trade. Whatever. Young punk.

1189AD, Winter

No news from anyone, anywhere. I am traveling on a lonely road north of Baghdad to a town called Tabriz. I have not hired enough mercenaries to protect me. I am on edge at all times. I don't know how the Crusade goes, and at this bleak time it is a distant and removed happening from my daily life. There are hardy bandits here that would love to see the inside of my coin purse.

1190AD, Winter

It has been a full year since my last journal entry. I am growing older, yet I still feel my youthful energies strengthen. I am now at a town called Tbilisi, and my old bones enjoy my retreats to the nearby hot springs. There is a thriving economy here, with many skilled traders plying their wares. Indeed, it is a lovely city to walk in, and seemingly everywhere are the faded reminders of a great past battle between the Turks and these Georgian rebels. The people are mindful of outsiders, and I have taken to the local language quite easily.



It is, however, the first time I have backed away from adversity. A Jerusalem trader named Etienne d'Auberville has set up shop here to trade furs; wily as he is, I am quite sure he will try to acquire my assets in fair trade or back alley. In such a case, my father would say to keep my friends close and enemies closer, but in many ways my father was a braver man than I; I shall keep my distance from Etienne and hope I don't attract his attention.

Without resource I have no income, made worse by what seems a blockade on my business by Egyptian traders. Late one night came the news that Doge Sebastiano had reached the sands of Egypt and laid siege to its capital; the next morning the spitting began, and I fear if I continue in these lands much longer greater harm will come. I am lucky to have accumulated a tidy purse, though now more than ever I guard its contents with my life.

1191AD, Summer

I am beginning to acquire a fond affinity for Admiral Lorenzo, the Smuggler who married a rebel princess. Once again he has forwarded news from around the Republic, complete with his beautiful sketches. It is too bad he picks such macabre subject matter, and worse that it makes my heart sink so.

The Doge has taken Cairo, and while that should fill me with Venetian pride, I feel a great dirty emptiness for the Republic that's reflected in my own soul. I am now a slave trader, without regard for Etienne, acquisition, or the teachings of our Lord. Perhaps it is time I retire to Chioggia. I am making great profits at the expense of an eternity in hell, as it seems has the Doge's Republic.

Having starved the citizens of Cairo for a full year, her garrisons finally sallied forth earlier this summer. Our Doge was taken by surprise, and unfortunately a reinforcement lead by Prince Guy of Jerusalem was still days away. Our forces would have to fight alone, outnumbered almost two to one against Khalifah al-Aziz of the al-Ayyubiyyun.



The Doge's forces scrambled to assemble, but they were an undisciplined mob – peasant archers, spear militia, and shoeless pilgrims, supported only by mercenary sergeants, Sudanese tribesmen, some light horses and the Doge's bodyguard. The mass threw itself at the emerging Egyptian forces without tactical regard.



The Doge held back the horses, frozen with indecision and lacking a formidable plan. The horrors continued for what seemed hours, as the mass of humanity hacked and slashed back and forth from the wooden walls of Cairo. The meager grasses outside its gates soaked red in blood as the afternoon progressed, man against man in undisciplined anarchy.



Finally the Doge awoke from paralysis and sent his horses to attack the flanks, but the spears of both sides brought down many calvary riders. As told by Lorenzo, morale was failing on both sides.



No one is quite sure whose spear brought down Khalifah al-Aziz, but it proved the breaking point of Cairo's defense. Once the news spread through the defenders' ranks, the reaper's fear took hold. A mass panic followed at the gates, with our spears and pilgrim clubs sending many routers to their graves as they fought to retreat through Cairo's gates.



Mad chaos ruled the streets of Cairo as the Doge's men carved their way to its square. Fatigue set in, pilgrims crazed with the blood of Muslims spilled on their robes, spearmen breaking rank, archers raining death upon all below. When the square was finally reached, the only horse limped beneath the Doge himself.

When all was over, the Egyptians had decimated the forces of Venice, but the few stood proud in Cairo's square while the rest slaughtered the remnants with an abandonment of chivalry. We had won, but at a great cost to the sons and mothers of the Republic. I shall write to mine in Chioggia to tell her I am well.

At this point, I turned away from Lorenzo's tale and his sketches to wonder. “What could the Doge be thinking?” Was he so mad with guilt over the loss of Antonio that he jeopardized the entire Republic? The mass of the Venetian army went with him to Cairo, and it now bore the scars of distant battles. At any minute the forces of Hungary, Byzantium, Germany, or even the Milanese could attack a barely defended Venice. What then?



Even worse, the great cost of the Crusade came with no gain. In the end, the Doge sacked Cairo and surrendered the broken city to the Papal States, retreating to Admiral Paolo's waiting fleet for the long journey home. I have no doubts this new Papal province will fall, leading to an endless aggression between two interpretations of the same God. Man against man, army against army, nation on nation, doing battle without purpose. I imagined the Doge aboard a galley bound for home, still awash in Muslim blood, celebrating great victory over countless heathens in the name of Catholicism, finally free from the haunting guilt of one dead son. Could he not see the slaughter of Cairo exceeded the horrors of Antonio's Durazzo - something he openly condemned - or is his view too muddied by the guilded glow of Crusade glory?

I set aside Lorenzo's account of the battle, dejected and lamenting a purity that has now left my beloved Venice, and in turn my own heart. Later in a fit of drunken logic I threw the well-traveled papers and sketches into the fire, though it did little to console me.

I feel dead, like the eyes of countless slaves I have traded, like the shell of what Venice has become. There was so much to be proud of. Long ago, my little feet couldn't carry me fast enough to the Chioggia shores to see our great sails on the horizon. Today I shed the last of my Venetian robes and trudge without bodyguard into the ranges north of Tbilisi. I shall wander soulless and alone as penance to a God that my country and I have somehow forgotten.

(Will Tusco Dolfin find forgiveness on his northern journey? Will Doge Sebastiano reach Venice before a neighboring warlord crushes the Republic? Stay tuned, same DLV time, same DLV channel... )

[Furin]

Another great chapter, I wonder if the testing of the tales took thousand and one nights too .

[repman]

Very well written
waiting for more

repman

[Nicollo da Conti]

Thanks repman, but remember I'm only elaborating on a story that's playing out in the DLV world. Many thanks to the DLV team for it!


1192AD, Winter

My knees have ached many months in this rugged place. I have fought off leopards and brown bears, the cold and my own hunger traversing these peaks. The forests have done nothing to soothe my withered soul. The steppes do little to mend my broken will.

It went as I had surmised. The al-Ayyubiyyun were quick to retake Cairo from the infidel Papal States, and I can only imagine the carnage of it, or what's to come in the inevitable vengeful retributions.

But, as I suppose I wish it, the whispers of news have all but silenced themselves and my footsteps echo deep in the forests and across the steppes. On the chance occasion I happen upon a living soul, I struggle to engage for lack of trust in myself, that I might betray yet another innocent. Even when I overcome, language is often a barrier, and those few I understand pay little heed to the matters of my fledgling, damned homeland. I have heard the Doge has returned to Iraklion in great triumph, though the Crusader chivalry that precedes him is tempered by slitted and calculative eyes towards a near future.

Last summer I subsided on a meager fur trade outside of a rebel town called Samandar. It is a land of occupants and occupiers, rulers and the ruled. Jews, shamans and priests fight as do warlords for souls of the living, while seemingly few pray for those of the dead.

Or the near-dead. In what some may see as a victory of morality, I forsook the rampant trade in slaves that occurs there, choosing soul over coin, though I don't judge it this way. For me, not enslaving his fellow man is the least one can do, and now it seems my wretched soul operates at this diminished capacity.

I am aging, and I feel this place will one day consume me, as guilt has swallowed my soul. I have taken to prayer for myself, my Venice, and my dear mother in Chioggia, given to priest, rabbi, Imam, pagan or anyone that will listen. I know not anymore the way of one Lord.

1194AD, Summer

Have I really spent so long within this hellish demise? It has been more than a year since my last diary entry, since I have wandered these frigid wastelands alone. My fair skin has calloused to meet the driving winds, though a thickened shell does nothing to protect my soul from itself. I have wandered into the Volga Bulgaria, into the lands of the dreaded Mongol Uls. I was warned to stay away. Perhaps this is where it may finally end.

This morning I received another package from Lorenzo. The fleet-footed messenger was wounded, attacked by steppe rebels, barely escaping with his life. In front of a cool morning sun, he broke into my tent, bloodied and failing, clutching but a few of the papers Lorenzo had sent. With final effort, he passed them to me and retired.

Flos Masterpiero has come of age. She had just been born when I left Venice, and now she will soon marry. Secretly I harbored the dream of becoming her husband, though it was another unfulfilled fancy. Few women pass through my life, and I will undoubtedly die without another. Many nights regret consumes me, remembering that last night in Baghdad, of Sharazad's wanting eyes and her obvious suggestion to travel with me. At the time, I thought she would slow me down, but I know now her pace would've been correct.



The short note was ripped, accompanied only by one of Lorenzo's portliani, now soaked in the blood of its messenger, but through the reddened patches of death I could see an even bleaker landscape.

The Doge had not forgiven the people of Kerkyra for the death of his son Antonio. With mercenaries already landed on the Isle of Corfu, Lorenzo sketched the Doge's approaching fleet. Once amassed, a slaughter will surely follow. May whatever God above have mercy on all.

In the distance, another Venetian army has gathered on the Brindisi coast, though Lorenzo didn't include the name of its commander. It is a fertile land, a welcome addition to the Republic. I only hope it can be taken without suffering.

1194AD, Winter

So much has happened in these past weeks, I don't know what to write, and as my end approaches I begin to wonder who will ever read this tale. Perhaps it is an ode to myself, as a reminder to what I once was, to where I may someday return. Last night, I was re-reading my earliest passages. So much vigor in my words then, so much optimism in my future travels.

I had just poured another cup of wine when I heard the sound of hoofbeats, then the yelling of foreign words. In mere seconds, I could smell blood rising from the metal and feel the tip of its blade. I was bound and gagged, blindfolded and carried by horseback for many hours.

When the horses had finally stopped, I was lead through the crisp winter snows to where I could feel carpet beneath my feet and the flickering warmth of fire. I was made to kneel, and angry discussions shot all around me; I knew they were deciding my fate. At last one commanding voice silenced them all and my blindfold was removed.

He was their lord (later an old woman told me his name and his legend; Khan Menguk the Mauler, the most dreaded of the clan), seated upon a wooden throne and stroking his graying beard, gazing at me with piercing eyes. He spoke to me in the language I couldn't understand, and when he realized no reply would come, the metallic strains of his sword unsheathing sounded of death.

I pursed my eyes tight and silently prayed for a swift end. Not to pagan gods or any other I'd pretended to accept, but to the one residing in the church of Santa Maria in Chioggia. I imagined my father's arm around me, my mother's warmth beside, with the comfort of Father Grissani's soft words echoing in the stone arches. In that removed moment, I felt a change, one of final hope, praying not for a swift end but instead a new beginning, to see it all again. As the Khan raised his voice to his warriors scattered around the fire-lit tent, I now prayed for my life.

The final cut came not to my neck, but across the ropes that bound me. The Khan motioned for me to stand, and looking down diminutively upon me he laughed and said something to spread the laughter, and I knew what had been decided. I was no threat to them.

I was released outside the city gates, free to make my way in these lands. The Khan had likely surmised I wouldn't last the winter, but within myself I found a new will to persevere, to return to the Venice and Chioggia I loved. I soon set up camp outside the city, trading furs at a modest profit, a pursuit I engaged with renewed vigor. I was now saving for a long journey home.

My heart glided above what I had seen, what I thought I had become; I was not a monster, but a merchant of a Republic that might be saved from the wretchedness of mankind. At long last, I was comfortable in my life.

That is, until last night. I found the scribbled note at the doorway of my tent as I was about to close up. The rolled parchment was rather fresh, and as it unfurled the dread seemed to weaken my knees. I fell to the ground, re-reading and re-reading the words that were punctuated by the waxed Seal of Venice:

“You are being watched. I too am watching.”

[ivanhoex]

creepy

[Furin]

second

[Ataegina]

Nice aar

[Nicollo da Conti]

I regret to inform that the tale of Tusco Dolfin - the Final Chapter *menacing thunder* - will be delayed until next week.

His biographer is getting married this weekend.

[ivanhoex]

hey! congrats man! upload a photo with the lucky one XD

[Omar Nelson B.]

Great read. I look forward to the last chapter.

Cheers