Chapter 156: The Crimean Hub

The Georgian boats turned back at the surf, and the eleven ships took a north-northwest course.

With no coast to follow, they had only the compass to guide them for six days of open water between Phasis and Soldaia. Every lamp on every ship burned through the night, the reverse of their dark passage past Trebizond.

The water in the casks went flat, the biscuit filled with weevils, and the sun baked the mail and the oarsmen’s backs. The sea offered plenty of room for a sailor to relieve himself, though not much else in the way of entertainment.

That left the long hours to think about the destination at the end of the journey. Soldaia stood on the southern shore of Crimea, where three cultures knew the town by three different names.

The Greeks called it Sugdaia, the Rus called it Surozh, and the Venetians called it Soldaia.

The town spoke Greek and followed the Orthodox Church, and its trade with Constantinople lay on the familiar ties of religion, shipping, and commerce. Then the sack of 1204 had dealt a heavy blow to that empire, and the damage has never been repaired.

Mountains rose across the coast with grassland beyond them, while roads climbed the valleys and crossed the hills to reach the sea, through territory held by the Cumans.

The Cumans followed a host of leaders, each with his own herds and riders. They raided, made alliances, or hired out their horsemen to whichever prince paid.

Beyond the grass lay the Rus lands, where most of the goods brought in the ships would eventually end up. The princes of Rurik’s house ruled those lands, each with his towns, court, and armed retinue, and although they shared one Church and one family, they often tried to defeat one another.

Kiev remained the old prize and the seat of the Church. In the northeast, Vladimir-Suzdal prospered under Vsevolod, known as the Big Nest, and farther north, Novgorod ruled the fur and wax roads, while Galicia in the southwest held the salt trade and faced a succession struggle that had begun the year before, when its great prince, Roman, died.

Wine, oil, silk, church goods, cloth, and glass traveled up the rivers. Furs, wax, honey, hides, and people came down them, including slaves captured in raids and sold to whoever would pay.

The venture intended to sell its cargo to the merchants who brought goods up those roads, and Soldaia was where those merchants came to buy.

At the end of that road, the wine and oil might finally find buyers, while dried figs and raisins would suit the fasting tables of monasteries, and icons, incense, and silk would find their place in cathedrals and courts.

Glass had a market along the rivers, too, although woolens and linen were less certain prospects, while the goods from Sinope and Phasis would stay below for the Rialto.

The fleet would approach in daylight, the Lion flying, the war colors struck, the galleys holding off the harbor entrance, and the gift crates ready.

It was a sensible way to arrive, provided the people on shore had enough sense to appreciate it.

In Vito’s histories, the great fortress above the bay belonged to Genoa. The Genoese would take the town in 1365 and spend the next years turning it into a stronghold, a century and a half from now.

He knew what the Crimean trade would become under those walls, who would grow rich from it, and how little Venezia would get in comparison. Now, he was opening the very road the Genoese would follow, and his ships were the first fleet to sail it.

His grin never left his face.

On the sixth dawn, a few hours from land, Vito stood at La Contessa with Zaccaria and Domenego.

The lieutenant had been complaining about the water in the casks since the third day, and the captain had endured the performance with patience.

Vito swept an arm across the horizon. "Ciò, Domenego, Domenego! Since dawn you stare at that sea like it owes you money, so come, amico, put your teeth in better problems than weevils. Say a man wants Soldaia, the whole belly of her, walls, warehouses, every sack and every saint inside, and after, no one is to ask one single question. Tell me, how many soldiers must he bring?"

Zaccaria was the one to reply, keeping his eyes on the water. "Eight hundred. Good men, not boys, and if the garrison’s asleep. Awake, twelve hundred."

He let that sit for one slow breath. "But the taking, Barozzi, this is the small coin. The harbor is the bait, and the road inland is the bill. To hold the place, you want three thousand men, and a very deep purse to feed them."

Domenego flung his hands skyward so hard the deck seemed to flinch, then turned his face to the heavens as though appealing the verdict to a higher court. "Eight hundred! He says, like he is buying chickens! Ostrega! Give me three hundred men, Barozzi, and a night with no moon, and I open that gate before the bells of matins have finished clearing their throat."

Vito let the laugh roll out of him loud and easy, while behind the grin, every number dropped into its place like a coin into a purse. "Sixty soldiers and a ship full of figs, and for one whole morning, amici, Vitale Barozzi was Alexander! Conqueror of the weevil! Scourge of the raisin! Ah, grazie, grazie, the both of you, already you cut me down to a very small man, and the sun, she is not even high yet."

Whoever came for the town would need a fleet, plenty of time, and the will to see it through, and given enough years, someone would have all three.

There was no need to be that someone today.

Before noon, the wind changed and brought the smell of warm stone and dry herbs. The sea shifted from slate to clear green, not like the silt-brown water at Phasis, and birds began appearing over the bows.

A hail came down from the masthead, and a wall of mountains rose blue from the sea, their long ridge softened by the haze. As the fleet drew closer, the coast took form in white cliffs, green slopes, a headland, and a wide bay.

A town climbed the curve of the bay, its tiled roofs rising from the water toward a ridge crowned with an old wall and a few low towers, besides a church dome among the rooftops, and smoke rising from the hearths.

Behind the town, a green valley climbed toward a pass with orchards that covered its slopes, and wagons crawled along a pale road.

The harbor stood open and busy with Greek ships, amphorae stacked beside them.

La Contessa glided between the other ships under oars, and a rope flew from her bow to the harbor towards a sailor in the crowd, who stepped forward to catch it and carry to the bollard.