Book 1, Short Story; 1346 - From Caffa
It had been nearly two weeks of sailing from Caffa now; since his vessel and a dozen others had escaped from the Tartar wrath--from the Hell that God had first cursed them with, and then His faithful.
They had spent Christmas aboard.
The Mar Nero, far from a placid woman, had bitched at them the entire voyage, as she was oft fond of doing, even this early in the day.
"Capitano!" came Lorenzo's voice; his helmsman--Giovanni, the Capitano of this vessel, perked up from his stupor; he'd heard coughing below, and his mind flashed with the images of the Pestilenza.
Had they failed to escape it?
"What is it, frate?" Giovanni offered, drawing a hand through his beard, before standing up to full height and coming to stand near his oldest friend and shipmate. Lorenzo looked a tad worried, and in a moment Giovanni figured out why--they were passing through the Stretto di Costantinopoli, and into the Propontis.
A dark look rushed over his face, and he gave Lorenzo a glare, "No, I'll not dock in the same city as those sorde eretico!" Giovanni spat; the filthy Orthodox had taken from him his home in Galata, he wasn't about to beg for aid there, and as far as he knew, most of the ships around them--independent, and equally fleeing, would feel the same.
Most of them, these sailors, had lived in Galata to ply the Mar Nero and her trade, and this hadn't changed even with the loss of Galata--they had instead moved to Caffa… which God had ordained they lose too.
What had they done to earn His ire?
"I'll not dock in any Greco port--I'll not go scraping for their aid; we will make for Siracusa, and then if needed Cagliari," he pressed, having seen Lorenzo about to open his mouth--he heard a cough again below deck, how it echoed and then muffled against the wood; grinding his teeth in agitation--in worry.
"Capitano--do you think the Doge will rally a reprisal?" Lorenzo offered as if trying to take his friend's mind off of things--they passed deeper into the Stretto, and on they went. If they had been porting in the Neorion (the thought of it bringing fresh anger to him, as it only came first to mind now that Galata was gone) the time to lower sails would have been now.
But the command never came from the Capitano.
"With what Lorenzo? The Cità Matre is too busy wrestling with the Aragunese over Sardegna--more now that the Greci have taken off the tips of our fingers in the Aegean," Giovanni answered, before sighing deeply; his eyes drifting to the horizon. Lorenzo looked a tad tired, but Giovanni chalked it up to the fact that he had been on duty for a half-day at this point.
"What should our heading be then Capitano? I'll need to correct for our destination," Lorenzo asked, and Giovanni focused, offering a slow nod.
"I'll be back, frate," came Giovanni's answer, along with a handwave that told Lorenzo he was going to his quarters to fetch the charts and strumenti di navigazione--his friend, curly-haired as he was, offered a nod.
The door swung softly then, as Giovanni entered; moving to draw the curtains, and let in the sun through his quarters finestrini. A beat later, he went for his charters, and the strumenti on his desk--a mild pinch hit his calf, and Giovanni instinctively drew back--and made for his stiletto, only to stop, and sigh.
He'd probably twinged it a little--that was all; pushing back the darker thoughts at the very back of his mind.
Giovanni made again for his charts, and strumenti--taking them in hand, carefully, and adjusting his cappello around his greasy locks, before stepping back out onto the deck to the sound of the moza going about their deck work.
They would be in safeport soon, that Giovanni was sure of.
They had spent Christmas aboard.
The Mar Nero, far from a placid woman, had bitched at them the entire voyage, as she was oft fond of doing, even this early in the day.
"Capitano!" came Lorenzo's voice; his helmsman--Giovanni, the Capitano of this vessel, perked up from his stupor; he'd heard coughing below, and his mind flashed with the images of the Pestilenza.
Had they failed to escape it?
"What is it, frate?" Giovanni offered, drawing a hand through his beard, before standing up to full height and coming to stand near his oldest friend and shipmate. Lorenzo looked a tad worried, and in a moment Giovanni figured out why--they were passing through the Stretto di Costantinopoli, and into the Propontis.
A dark look rushed over his face, and he gave Lorenzo a glare, "No, I'll not dock in the same city as those sorde eretico!" Giovanni spat; the filthy Orthodox had taken from him his home in Galata, he wasn't about to beg for aid there, and as far as he knew, most of the ships around them--independent, and equally fleeing, would feel the same.
Most of them, these sailors, had lived in Galata to ply the Mar Nero and her trade, and this hadn't changed even with the loss of Galata--they had instead moved to Caffa… which God had ordained they lose too.
What had they done to earn His ire?
"I'll not dock in any Greco port--I'll not go scraping for their aid; we will make for Siracusa, and then if needed Cagliari," he pressed, having seen Lorenzo about to open his mouth--he heard a cough again below deck, how it echoed and then muffled against the wood; grinding his teeth in agitation--in worry.
"Capitano--do you think the Doge will rally a reprisal?" Lorenzo offered as if trying to take his friend's mind off of things--they passed deeper into the Stretto, and on they went. If they had been porting in the Neorion (the thought of it bringing fresh anger to him, as it only came first to mind now that Galata was gone) the time to lower sails would have been now.
But the command never came from the Capitano.
"With what Lorenzo? The Cità Matre is too busy wrestling with the Aragunese over Sardegna--more now that the Greci have taken off the tips of our fingers in the Aegean," Giovanni answered, before sighing deeply; his eyes drifting to the horizon. Lorenzo looked a tad tired, but Giovanni chalked it up to the fact that he had been on duty for a half-day at this point.
"What should our heading be then Capitano? I'll need to correct for our destination," Lorenzo asked, and Giovanni focused, offering a slow nod.
"I'll be back, frate," came Giovanni's answer, along with a handwave that told Lorenzo he was going to his quarters to fetch the charts and strumenti di navigazione--his friend, curly-haired as he was, offered a nod.
The door swung softly then, as Giovanni entered; moving to draw the curtains, and let in the sun through his quarters finestrini. A beat later, he went for his charters, and the strumenti on his desk--a mild pinch hit his calf, and Giovanni instinctively drew back--and made for his stiletto, only to stop, and sigh.
He'd probably twinged it a little--that was all; pushing back the darker thoughts at the very back of his mind.
Giovanni made again for his charts, and strumenti--taking them in hand, carefully, and adjusting his cappello around his greasy locks, before stepping back out onto the deck to the sound of the moza going about their deck work.
They would be in safeport soon, that Giovanni was sure of.
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