A Death in the Venetian Quarter by Alan Gordon

independent deals, then they reform for the next one. The only thing they won’t do is collude with any of the other quarters.”
    â€œCould Bastiani have been doing that? Entering into some kind of pact with the Genoese or Pisans?”
    â€œI doubt it. As I said, he didn’t like to gamble. The quarters police themselves, and any outside contact would be scented quickly and dealt with.”
    â€œMaybe it was dealt with,” I said. I leaned forward to whisper. “There is some belief in Blachernae that a Venetian uprising is being organized. What do you know of it?”
    â€œJust the same rumors,” he said.
    â€œWas he the type who would participate?”
    â€œNot him,” he said firmly. “He cared little about his fellows. I cannot see him taking up arms for Venice. It would cut into his profits. And now you have me wondering if he was killed because he knew too much about it.”
    â€œI am beginning to lean in that direction myself.”
    â€œI have to get back to the Senate,” he said, rising. “We are bravely deciding upon a wait and see position. But I will keep my ears open. Come by anytime, Feste.”
    He paid for the lunch, and left.

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    I saw a pair of familiar faces when I came out of the tavern. Henry, a captain of the Varangian Guards, was standing in the street, his adjutant Cnut by his side. They were in full armor, as always, their enormous axes resting casually on their shoulders.
    They were chatting amiably with a group of Genoese, who were listening intently and nodding a lot. The conversation ended with handshakes all around, and the two soldiers turned and caught sight of me.
    â€œHallo, Feste!” bellowed Henry. He was a good-natured Englishman who took soldiering seriously but little else. Even for a Varangian, he was powerfully built, with any number of scars that he would proudly display at the slightest hint of a request. Cnut was much younger, a stripling sent from his native Denmark to gain military experience, something lacking at home of late.
    â€œWell met, good soldiers,” I said.
    â€œHello, Feste,” said Cnut. “What brings you here?”
    â€œWhat brings me anywhere? Good food, good wine, and someone else paying for them. How about yourselves?”
    â€œJust getting some of the city defenses organized,” said Henry.
    â€œTime for people to decide what side they’re on. Either you’re a Greek or you’re a Venetian, that’s the choice.”
    â€œSaid the Englishman and the Dane to the Genoese,” I said. “And there are Frenchmen with the Venetians, too.”
    â€œThat just means I get to combine pleasure with business,” chortled Henry. “It’s about time we had a proper war around here. Things were altogether too boring.”
    â€œSo I hear,” I said. “Someone told me you’re now doing escort duty for funerals.”
    â€œExactly my point,” said Henry. “Escorts for the dead! A waste of our talents. If this keeps up, I’ll end up using my axe to hew wood.”
    â€œI’ll beat your sword into a plowshare if you like,” I said. “I admire
your bloodthirst, but what will you do if there is no war? They could still make peace, you know.”
    â€œNow, where’s the fun in that, eh, Cnut?” scoffed Henry, slapping the younger fellow on the back, which resulted in a loud clanging noise.
    â€œHow about you, lad?” I asked Cnut when the reverberations had faded.
    â€œOh, I would like to see battle,” he said. “Father sent me here for experience, and I haven’t had much, except for marching.”
    â€œThere’s plenty of experiences you can have without getting yourself killed, you know.”
    â€œYou can stay home in bed and grow old if you want,” said Henry. “But the true test of a man is with steel.”
    â€œSteel cuts all men, the brave and the