18 September 1173
“Lovely as it may be, Constantinople is hardly the true heir of Rome. That honor belongs to the Serenissima, the great and serene nation of Venice.”
This declaration, made with a casual and offensive certainty, produced no visible reaction beyond the arching of an imperial eyebrow.
Reading volumes in that single facial tic, the Venetian Ambassador pressed his opinion. “As you will recall, when the French and German barbarians came down in their hordes, the best and the brightest of Rome fled and established a new community in the one place in all the world that the barbarians could not attack them.”
“A swamp,” replied Strophantes Komnenos, cousin to the Emperor and seated upon his right.
“A lagoon,” corrected the Venetian Ambassador, an aged fellow with a hearty appetite for fine things. Even now he was consuming the sorbet with indelicate haste, having never tasted such a treat before.
That the two nations were not at war was a mere technicality of law. Constantinople reserved the right to place foreigners under house arrest. That they had done so for over two years to every single citizen of Venice was a nuisance within the city, and an outrage without. What made the situation intolerable, however, was not the loss of liberty to Venetian citizens, but the confiscation of their property. To a people founded upon trade, it was the grossest kind if insult.
After several protests (ignored) and bribes (accepted, but without alteration of policy), Venice had last summer mounted a military expedition. But the invading fleet had never reached its target. Decimated by a pest, the Venetian navy had limped home, pursued by a large Byzantine fleet. Upon landing, Doge Vitale Michiel, who had led the foray, was literally torn to pieces in the streets by an angry mob.
As part of last year’s ill-starred military expedition against this great city, Enrico Dandolo had escaped both the shipboard pest and the legal enquiry that had wrecked so many careers. So vocal in his demands for justice, his part in the debacle was quite forgotten. Within months he had achieved the post of Balio, empowered to act as ambassador and to negotiate a settlement with the Eastern Empire.
Having arrived in due course, Dandolo and his fellows had suffered an imprisonment of isolation, residing in a silken cell in the palace. Never denied food or entertainment, only liberty, they had proceeded to act upon their commission.
Just one week before, a bargain had been reached that would allow the Emperor Manuel Komnenos to claim victory, while at the same time permitting the Serenissima to resume trade – a victory that spoke for itself.
The negotiations concluded, diplomacy insisted upon a feast to celebrate their newfound amity. That the Emperor chafed at this meeting was clear to those who knew him, but to those unfamiliar with the imperial mood it appeared that the great man was aloofly amused.
Until some royal retainer made a passing remark about the Empire being the direct continuation of all that made Rome great. Then Manuel the Magnificent began to show a keener interest. Because the Venetian Dandolo, with unbecoming arrogance, had chosen to argue the point.
Not that Manuel uttered a word. He did not need to, as he owned many adherents well attuned to his every gesture. Even were they not, they were incensed at Dandolo’s dismissal of their great heritage, and their polite eloquence belied the fury behind their words.
The Emperor’s cousin Strophantes was the most restrained, relating the history of their city with remarkable clarity. “As you surely are aware, my dear Signore Dandolo, after the failure of the Diocletian tetrarchy to govern the vast Roman Empire, the Emperor Constantine moved the seat of imperial power to this end of the world, to a city already great. Yet his greatest gift was endowing that city with his own name. Byzantium became Constantinople, and in that moment we became the heirs of all that was Roman. At the same time, he altered the state religion from paganism to Christianity, thus endowing our nation with the approval of the Almighty God. So while old Rome declined, the culture of the Caesars flourished here, within these great walls.”
“And within two generations the Empire unraveled,” said Dandolo. “Hardly the imprimatur of divine pleasure.”
The Greeks seated near Dandolo shifted. Even his fellow envoys leaned back on their cushioned couches, as if to disassociate themselves from his words. But Enrico Dandolo appeared not to care. Indeed, he continued to eat as if there was nothing remarkable in his opinion.
Of only middling stature, old Dandolo’s physical presence was enhanced by girth. With shoulders broader than any Greek, he took up the place of two at the low table before the imperial throne. Stout and stubby hands emerged from stout and stubby arms. His wide, round nose far overshadowed his small mouth despite the swollen-looking lower lip. Only his brow could the Greeks have called handsome. But the eyes beneath them were frightening – so calm, so piercing, and yet at the same time dead. They were the eyes of a man unimpressed with the world.
This was a direct contrast to Manuel Komnenos, who was darkly handsome and well-refined. Said to be an admirer of the West, he had instituted knightly tournaments in his own land, and even participated in some, much to the scandal of his court.
But his love of the West did not extend to Venice, thanks to an ill-timed jest twenty years earlier. While jointly attacking the isle of Corfu, the Venetians had seized the imperial flag-ship and staged aboard it a mock coronation, placing the imperial crown on the head of an Ethiopian slave – a jab at Manuel’s dark complexion. That, more than need of funds or arguments about trade-rights, had prompted the recent insult. Though her admired the West, in matters of a grudge he was thoroughly from the East.
Strophantes was about to retort when the Emperor himself opened his mouth to speak. At once all other sound ended. “Perhaps it will amuse the Venetian balio to see the full city in all of its grandeur. He may then compare our two nations, and draw his own conclusions.”
“It would be a great pleasure. As your Majesty is well aware, we Venetians are not allowed outside our poor quarter across the Horn except under guard. Even with the lifting of the recent restrictions, for which we gratefully and humbly offer your Highness our thanks, few of our city have ever been allowed to see the magnificence of Constantine’s home.”
Even this compliment bore the mark of a complaint. But the Emperor paid it no heed. Only he said, “It shall be arranged,” inclining his head to cousin Strophantes, who bowed. “When your eyes have beheld the beauty that is our city, you will be forced to confess that you shall never see another to match it.”
It was said without even a hint of malice. The Emperor began to speak of his favorite pastime, falconry, thus giving Dandolo no indication of looming personal disaster.
