The Lost Adventures of Captain Veneti

By Jayson C. Stiles

In the 1500s, amidst the “Age of Discovery,” young Captain Raidyn Veneti prepares to set off on an adventure beyond his wildest dreams. A charismatic Venetian merchant, he is master of a uniquely designed ship called La Pasquala, the brainchild of a mysterious and talented man who once gave Veneti a secret key to be used at his own discretion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483451190

Book preview

Derrick

PROLOGUE

The Encounter

T he young captain walked briskly along the bustling Grand Canal in eager anticipation of finally touring his nearly completed galley, La Pasquala . Earlier in the day, Raidyn had been instructed by his patron to meet the chief designer at the Ponte di Rialto and assess the progress of the build in preparation for his inaugural voyage as an official merchant of Venice.

Captain Veneti! a voice said, clearly audible among the various voices of the dozens of men clamoring and shouting as they worked on ships of commerce moored near the Ca’ Loredan.

Raidyn turned around and was greeted by a distinguished man holding a loosely constructed manuscript. The captain found him to be strikingly familiar and thought the gentleman was doubtless someone of great importance judging by the certainty in his patriarchal voice and the air of confidence that surrounded his movement as he made his way through the crowded walkway. The two men stood silently for a moment staring at each other, until another man walking by said, Buongiorno, capomastro!

Signore, are you …? Raidyn began to ask.

"La Pasquala, il lavoro e praticamente finito, the chief designer replied. I am very pleased to see you, Captain. I have waited a long time to … come; there is something I must show you."

Have we met before? the captain asked. You seem very familiar.

The chief designer studied Raidyn’s face and said, "A trick of light and shadow perhaps … many pittori spend years perfecting the chiaroscuro in their work. I once knew a face similar to yours, but that was a long time ago."

Raidyn accepted the vague response and wondered to himself why all his older friends spoke in such a similarly evasive manner.

Capomastro. I want to thank you for dedicating your time to this build. I know how busy you are.

No, no. It is nothing. And please, to you I am Leonardo.

As Raidyn boarded La Pasquala, Leonardo ordered everyone on board to unship for a midafternoon break, allowing him to take the young captain on a tour belowdecks. The Venetian galera was smaller than Raidyn had expected, but there was a peculiar attention to detail that he hadn’t seen on any other sailing vessel. The master builder reached beneath his crimson-dyed velvet pourpoint and pulled a necklace chain with an attached key over his head. He handed Raidyn the key and necklace as soon as they entered the most forward cabin compartment underneath the ram bow of the ship. The confident designer then said, I intend for you and this ship to be the envy of all of Venice and her many rivals. Hold fast to this key, Raidyn. You will know when to use it.

CHAPTER 1

Import/Hexport

W aving emphatically at the others to run faster as he led them through the dark streets of the Dalt Vila, Raidyn finally slowed his pace enough to let his charges catch up and despair of their physical conditioning.

Perche? Ahh … Larghissimo. Rapidamente … Correre veloce! he encouraged in a whispering yell, always demanding the men to move faster.

Who is your father? Hermes? Or did he just lend you his winged sandals, Captain? Sandro asked Raidyn as he gasped for air.

Raidyn found it difficult to hold back laughter as he watched everyone hunched over. He knew he could move faster than most men, but it was fun every so often to remind his crew of this fact, although young Jali seemed only mildly affected by their midnight jaunt.

It seemed as if, for the moment, the crew of La Pasquala had managed to escape their drunken pursuers. Raidyn hoped the others, whom he had directed to stay in Valencia, were having a better time.

This is the last time I ever want to do business with that gypsy witch! Five hundred scudi are … well, it isn’t enough. Those herbalists she had us meet were not your garden-variety ‘herbalists.’ They were huge, armed, and didn’t smell very good! And—what a surprise—they were expecting a much different shipment. Every time, cousin, every time we help her, we tempt fate, Korser complained to Raidyn.

Of course Raidyn knew Korser was right. We’re privateers, Korser. This is what we do, and we need to keep our reputation intact. The Ibiza port—perils and pitfalls aside—is one of the few places in the northern Mediterranean where we have made a name for ourselves. Fiorella is mysterious, I grant you, but she is a loyal customer and values our discreet methods. Our patrons in Venice expect their share. And besides, I thought you preferred the subdued nature of merchant life to what we were doing before, Raidyn said as he pulled back his black shoulder-length hair and adjusted his hooded cloak.

Subdued? Are you in your right mind? Korser heatedly asked. We haven’t had a day’s rest in weeks.

We’re resting now! Jali quipped.

Did she intend to curse us so? the large-statured Sandro mused as he labored to quell the burning of his lungs.

Let me think on it … Why no, Sandro. No. Why would she bother hexing us when we do it to ourselves? Korser retorted as he flung his arms skyward in contempt. It seems by our captain’s own admission that we choose to be in the business of import and ‘hexport,’ and, as such, we should embrace a life of witchery and surprise, followed quickly by panic and ruination of one’s undergarments!

Everyone laughed—albeit in hushed and muted volumes, given their predicament—as they huddled together in the darkness. Jali, tearing up in his reaction to Korser’s dependable outbursts of humor, was having trouble scribbling on his parchment as he took a moment to document the night’s events in their fullest detail.

There will be no frolicking with lovely Ibizan courtesans tonight! added Korser.

Korser and Sandro both snickered as they stared at Jali, the not-so-subtle implication being that it was only the nineteen-year-old Persian scribe who eagerly desired the island’s sensual offerings. In actuality, the two thirty-year-olds knew little of his past success with the fairer sex, and they seemed unsettled by his calm demeanor as they taunted him. Jali Marisco was never undone overtly by lack of confidence and was always willing to think for himself—traits that Raidyn admired when choosing members of his crew.

What would the fair ladies think if they saw the two of you tonight? The sniveling, the shortness of breath, the sweat beading on your ever-increasingly wrinkled brows, your ragged pourpoints and hosiery ill suited to restrain your larded torsos! Raidyn teased.

Risking another chase through the streets—this time pursued by his friends—Jali winked at Korser and Sandro and inflated his cheeks and stomach to accentuate the captain’s commentary.

Korser jerked forward and made a thrusting motion in an attempt to startle his handsome young friend, but quickly he began to laugh as he and Sandro grabbed Jali and playfully wrestled him to the ground. They quickly tired and looked up at Raidyn, who was already plotting their next move.

We will set sail back to Santa Cruz de Tenerife and your favorite beach, Raidyn asserted, sensing that nothing short of the promise of the Canaries would satisfy his crew. The promise of pastries couldn’t hurt either. "Korser, anticipating your ornery disposition, I bought you some anise flaons, Raidyn joked as he handed Korser his leather pouch. And save one for the bird!" he added, alluding to the ship’s sole nonhuman crewmember—an arctic gyrfalcon that was mostly white with gray markings around his eyes and on his wings. And it had a black-tipped silver beak that often made its mark on Korser’s skin.

Ah! Flao d’Eivissa! rejoiced Korser as he feasted. Gyroni, too bad you are not here. You are missing quite a treat!

The captain might have been the only one able to ignore the comedic rivalry between the second in command and the gyrfalcon humorously named Gyroni. The two seemed fixated on annoying one another, just like a childhood rivalry between siblings who exchange subtle facial expressions or mimic gesticulations to provoke responses and retaliations.

Raidyn originally planned on spending a little more time on the island of Ibiza. Acting on an opaque theory of an old-timer months ago in Tarragona, Raidyn wagered this place might provide a much needed clue in his study of il Codex de La Pasquala. Researching the enigmatic portfolio and its unknown author had been a captivating interest for the young adventurer ever since he had discovered it almost three years ago in the summer of anno Domini 1499, hidden behind a secret compartment in his captain’s quarters. But he had to maintain his focus on the operation of La Pasquala and his fledgling endeavor. To this end, he intended to use his time on this island to gather local knowledge—first, about his competitors, and second, about any piratical activities along this shipping route. With this latest merchant deal having gone awry, however, he abandoned those pursuits and gave in to the reflex to sail the seventy-nine miglia to Valencia.

"Back to La Pasquala. Full sail to Valencia, rendezvous with the others, and on to the strait. If we need to resupply, we will set anchor at Cadiz and then set course with no deviation to our beloved Tenerife," Raidyn commanded.

Without hesitation, the crew nodded and readied themselves for the clandestine jaunt back to the harbor. For the first time in weeks, despite being the Ides of March, it appeared as if the fates presented nothing to hinder their efforts. Clear skies and favorable prevailing winds allowed for the rigging to be in an acceptable beam reach as La Pasquala left Ibiza and its travails behind.

Regretfully, no one had noticed the frightful galley Nave Fantasma and its sinisterly patient Captain Tarsh lurking in La Pasquala’s slip. The powerful influence of this dark presence could be felt across all known navigable waters, and its deadly reach haunted everyone. Merchants, fishermen, and even mercenaries were equally consumed by dread for Tarsh and his ghastly ship. Why had La Pasquala drawn its attention?

CHAPTER 2

The Secret Life of Alto Manuzio

H is time in Genoa had come to an abrupt end. The Egyptian gnostic hurriedly gathered his books, manuscripts, vellum portolans, and various other belongings as he glanced out his small window. He had prepared for this eventuality but regretted that he had to follow through with this manner of escape. He only hoped that the coded parchment message he charged his apprentice to deliver to trusted friends in Tarragona would reach his intended target.

Earlier in the day, Nicilo and his crew had agreed upon a reasonable payment with the gnostic to provide a quick and inconspicuous departure from the republic. The challenge would be traversing the narrow caruggi and crowded maze of city squares to reach the harbor without being recognized.

For a few months, he had remained unnoticed, lost among the daily clamor of Genoa’s inhabitants. This maritime power, a thriving cultural and economic convergence point along numerous shipping routes, was a perfect location in the Mediterranean to gather threads of useful clues from all over the world. Tensions with Venice and the Ottomans were ever present, so suspicions were woven into the fabric of everyday life. But it was too perilous to remain here. There were too many eyes. He could see their presence in his periphery, and their intent raised the hair on the back of his neck.

It was unclear to the gnostic how his previous identity had become known or who was responsible for deducing the zetetic nature of his studies. But it was evident to him that his friend, mapmaker Alto Manuzio, could also be in danger. If agents of the doge in Genoa ever learned of Alto’s connections to Venice—or worse, if the nobility in Venice ever discovered he was within the protective walls of their maritime adversary, unsanctioned—his life could be forfeit. Worse still, if the obscurantists within the Church knew the secret Alto was protecting, his life would be forfeit!

There had been more shared meals between the two recently as they furthered their research, and the frequency of these meetings could have unintentionally drawn attention to their true purpose in Genoa. The gnostic had hoped that his unpredictable daily habits in the city would provide sufficient diversion to fool whatever watchers there were and give Alto the time he needed to paint the complete picture. And certainly, Alto had his tricks to add to their ruse as well. But none of that mattered now; it was time for them to leave.

The high initiates that operated within the warring maritime powers knew there were only a few great mapmakers in the world. Expertise in multiple disciplines was required to aggregate and synthesize the necessary information properly to create superior quality portolans. Of the portolan makers held in the highest distinction, only a fraction had personally traveled to the far-flung places that they charted. Alto fell into the latter category and did so with unparalleled childlike enthusiasm and flair. But Alto had long ago ceased admitting to anyone that he continued his pursuit of this passion. What he had learned would change the world and, if not carefully revealed, would lead to dangerous, unanticipated outcomes.

Bearing this in mind, Alto kept a low profile while operating a small bookshop and printing press business during the day. At night, however, he was completely immersed in his zetetic work. And the information the gnostic was able to gather during their time here in Genoa had really begun to help Alto decipher what was missing in their theory for all these years.

Events on the island of Malta in the previous year had provided Alto and the gnostic the breakthrough in evidence they had been seeking for over two decades. The Hospitallers and their network in Genoa were protecting a secret on Malta, just as the gnostic and their always secretive friend, Leonardo, had suspected.

Presently, the only thought the gnostic could entertain was to find his dear friend and finally begin the journey that they had planned together so many years ago. The daylight was fading; a bit farther and he would be able to breathe easier. He had begun to labor due to carrying the weighty sack that contained his belongings through the uneven streets. Finally, after a nervous ten minutes, he reached the dark caruggi that provided a shortcut to Alto’s street.

As he made his way to Alto’s bookshop, he pulled the hood down over his clean-shaven head, which had helped disguise his distinctive appearance. As an homage to his Egyptian ancestry, the gnostic applied black ash underneath his eyes, streaking outward to his temples. He typically wore a long white robe, sandals with ankle wraps, and a dark blue silk sash that he placed over his right shoulder and wrapped around his waist. On this night, however, he had altered his usual attire and covered himself in a black tunic and cloak. His tanned skin, angular features, and slender yet muscular frame were common enough, but his piercing light blue eyes set him apart in a crowd and could have betrayed this endeavor.

He had finally arrived, but something was wrong—very wrong. Alto’s shop door should have been locked at this time of day but was slightly ajar. As the gnostic slowly and cautiously entered the small musty room, he saw that books were scattered all over the floor and shelves were overturned. The gnostic’s heart raced as he immediately realized Alto had been ransacked, but where was his ungainly yet resourceful friend?

Although Alto was overweight and occasionally clumsy, he had a unique ability to fit into tight spaces and move quite stealthily. Perhaps the genius mapmaker had intuitively anticipated an imminent threat and had hid himself away in some unseen recess within his shop. But the gnostic could not find him.

Amico! Amico! the gnostic sternly whispered. Are you here, Alto? Alto! Where are you, amico?

There was no response. Have those unrelenting obscurantists found him? Did they do this? the gnostic wondered as he made his way to the counter at the back of the shop. On the wood counter a small piece of parchment with the letters VdPsdL, followed by the phrase what is lost is found scribbled on it, happened to grab the gnostic’s attention. He suspected this was a hastily written clue left by Alto in the event of his capture or an even worse fate. It was likely that the gnostic was the only person who would understand what Alto was hinting at with this note. Looking elsewhere, it seemed as if every object in sight had been tampered with and disrespected. Whoever had done this was clearly looking for something, and the gnostic knew exactly what it was. He hoped that Alto had kept it safe.

Suddenly, the gnostic heard a rustling sound. He rushed through the entryway behind the counter that led to the storage room and almost lost his balance as he slipped on a stack of folios. Relief flooded over him as he watched his friend emerge from behind a hidden door