I WAS ACROSS THE TABLE FROM MILON AND BERTIE. HIS FULL name is Bertrand de Sully, and he’s Milon’s nephew as well as his squire. He’s as stocky as his uncle, but small as a shrimp.
“Arthur!” exclaimed Milon.
I bowed to him.
Milon pursed his lips. “I forget, you think,” he said.
“No,” I replied carefully.
“Yes,” said Milon, “I not forget I knight you.” Milon turned to our Venetian hosts. “Arthur bravee!” he said in a loud voice.
Milon had just begun to explain to the Venetians how in Soissons I stopped a man from knifing a woman, when the first course arrived.
On my platter were three creatures that looked like very juicy white worms, white tinged with pink; they wore plate armor and had long whiskers.
Lord Stephen’s eyes gleamed. “No time for faint hearts,” he said under his breath.
Milon and Bertie were tucking their napkins under their chins, and the four Venetians laid theirs over their right arms, and then they all munched their worms as though they hadn’t eaten since last week.
One of the Venetian councillors, Gennaro, raised his glass goblet. “Welcome back!” he said. “Our friends in God. Our partners!”
Then we all tapped the table with our knuckles, and raised our goblets.
I’d scarcely eaten a mouthful before a servant brought in a platter piled with strange black and yellow and green gobs and nuggets, like the nose-pickings of giants.
“Oh dear!” said Lord Stephen. “You’re spoiling us.”
But that didn’t fool the Venetian sitting next to me. “Sea snails,” he said. “Out of their shells! You like?”
They tasted disgusting, but it didn’t matter. I felt charged with such excitement.
When I entered service with Lord Stephen as his squire, I supposed we would be joining the crusade at once. But that was two and a half years ago, and since then I’ve chosen Bonamy and trained him; I’ve been fitted out with a suit of armor and practiced my fighting skills; I’ve learned to speak French; I took the Cross from our young leader, Count Thibaud, before he suddenly died.
We met the old Doge when we traveled here before, sixteen months ago. He’s at least eighty-four, the same age Saint Luke lived to. His eyes are bright and clear, but he’s stone blind. He waves his arms like a baby, and never stops talking.
Milon and the other envoys told him there’s no sea power to compare with the Republic of Venice, and asked the Doge to build the ships to carry the crusaders and their horses.
“You are asking a great deal of us,” the Doge said, but in the end he agreed to build ships for more than four thousand knights and the same number of horses and nine thousand squires and twenty thousand foot soldiers, so every able-bodied man in the city has been boat-building for the last fifteen months. Not only that. The Venetians promised to feed us and our horses for the first nine months as well.
I managed to wash down one of the worms and three of the nose-pickings with more wine, and then the servants brought in the next course. Alive!
“Magnifique!” exclaimed Milon.
“Bellissimi!” exclaimed the four Venetians.
“What are they?” I asked.
“Lobsters!” said Gennaro, laughing.
The eight lobsters were blowing out vile sea-spittle, and they peered at me in a kind of sunken way.
The servants carried the lobsters away to be boiled, and brought us blobs of matted blood and glossy brown balls on a silver platter.
“Oh!” gasped Lord Stephen.
“Cows’ eyes,” I said. “I’m sure they are.”
“Ceriglie e cipolle!” said one of the councillors. “Cherries. Onions! Marinati!” They all shook their heads and laughed.
Milon and the other French envoys agreed on a price of five marks for each horse and two for each man, and then they borrowed five thousand marks from Venetian moneylenders, and gave them straight back to the Doge so that work in the shipyards could begin. They swore to make full payment as soon as we’ve all mustered here, while the Doge promised all the ships would be ready to sail by the Feast of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. That’s the day after tomorrow.
I had to eat my lobster with a long metal pick and crackers.
“This enemy you must defeat with weapons,” said one of the Venetians. “First the lobsters, then the Saracens, yes?”
It tasted quite sweet. More like meat than fish, really.
Next, the servants came back with white wine and a huge bowl of fruit: pomegranates, grapes, cucumbers, lemons. There were oranges as well, and dates, which look like a badger’s droppings and have stones in them.
“From Egypt,” said Gennaro.
“Saracen fruit!” I exclaimed. “Like the fruit Saladin sent to Coeur-de-Lion when he caught the red fever.”
The councillor smiled. “Trade,” he said.
“So then,” said Lord Stephen, “the Saracens have numbers in their heads and dates in their mouths.”
“And stars in their eyes,” I added. “Sir William told me the Saracens have written books about astronomy.”
“We are ready now,” Gennaro said, “but are you?”
Milon nodded. He picked a piece of something from between his teeth and flicked it onto the floor. “I am ready,” he said, and he shrugged. “But everyone not here. Everyone bring money.”
The councillor leaned back in his seat. “We wait,” he said.
“Men from all over Europe,” Lord Stephen added. “Provins and Picardy and Champagne, Anjou and Burgundy and Germany and Italy. Even a few from England! All in this one place and all at one time. It’s not easy.”
“Not easy to build ships,” said Gennaro. “Galleys. Horse transports. Two hundred ships in five hundred days.”
“Incroyable!” exclaimed Milon.
“We wait,” said the Venetian coolly. “You give us money, we give you ships.”
“Our new leader is on his way,” Lord Stephen added. “Marquis Boniface.”