Mrs. Hugh Fraser

Supernatural Recovery of the Apostle’s Body—Ruskin’s Account—Origin of the War—Early Life of Carlo Zeno—His Conquests—Governor of a Province in Greece—Return to Venice—Adventures at Constantinople—Escape of Zeno—Tenedos Becomes Venetian—Attack of the Genoese—Their Repulse—Carlo’s Popularity in Venice—Pisani’s Career—Carlo Routs the Genoese—Peace—Carlo’s Fame—His Visit to Jerusalem—Last Scuffle with the Genoese—Life in Venice.

It has been told how, after the assassination of the Doge Saundo IV, the mob, in a state of ungovernable fury, set fire to the ducal palace, and how this fire, spreading, injured many noble buildings including St. Mark’s itself. Orseolo, it may be remembered, left the world within two years of his election, and the repairs were finished under Vital Falier.

Then, to the dismay of the Doge and everybody else, it was discovered that the original resting-place of the Holy Apostle had been forgotten; and the pious Doge, having exhausted all the possibilities, resolved to leave the matter to the Almighty, who, by the intercession of the Evangelist, might enlighten them if He saw fit.

So a general fast was proclaimed, for how long we are not told, and prayers were offered up in all the Churches and in every home; a procession was arranged for the 25th of June, when the people—or as many of them as could—assembled in the Church and all prayed together with their whole hearts.

As they were doing so, to their wonder and delight the marbles of one of the pillars began to shake a little, which, as they watched, fell down completely, disclosing beneath it the bronze chest in which the body had formerly been laid.

Ruskin, of course, stigmatises this “as one of the best arranged and most successful impostures ever attempted by the clergy of the Romish Church”—how he does love that expression! He goes on to say that the body of St. Mark had, doubtless, perished in the conflagration of 976, but since St. Mark’s was not burned to the ground in 976, but merely damaged, it is not difficult to see upon what he bases the suggestion. Because the site was forgotten? There is not the slightest doubt that it was. Even if they had wished to, the clergy could not have deceived any one then, for all had had access to the spot formerly. It was not a secret at all.

Besides, the stone pillar was solid. It had been in place for a long time. To insert a bronze coffin into solid stone is no light task, while to do it unobserved and to replace the marble afterwards well enough to escape detection, in a church whose doors are open from the early hours of the morning until late into the night, savours of the impossible. The story is perfectly true, for the record of it is to be found, as Ruskin tells us, in a mosaic of the North Transept.

In the histories of all states and countries there are names that stand, as it were, as the very pillars upon which those histories are built; and, of these, some are solid and practical, some light and ornamental. Venice has had her share—Carmagnola, Pisani, Carlo Zeno, Marco Polo, Andrea Contarini, and many others.

Two, at least, of these served together—namely, Vittor Pisani and Carlo Zeno—during that incident in the almost ceaseless state of war between Venice and her maritime and business rival, Genoa, which is known as the War of Chioggia. So like the accounts which we read in our time of quarrels between great corporations, is that of the origin of this particular war, that it is worth explaining, if only to illustrate the unchanging quality of our human nature.

The long, long struggle that culminated in the War of Chioggia had its origin in an alliance—what is known in our day as a “gentlemen’s agreement”—between the two States, to boycott the Crimean Peninsula, in revenge for the murder of some Venetian and Genoese traders there by a certain Chief of the name of Zani Bey.

To be sure, very little incitement was needed on either side, at that juncture, for affairs at Constantinople had been spurring Genoese ill-feeling for some time past, and Venice, not to be taken by surprise, had been pushing her preparations—just as the great monetary powers are doing to-day—to a point where they were a threat and a menace to every state in her neighbourhood.

Each was hiring bravi and condottieri in every direction, each was hard at work forming alliances—the story of our own time all over again—and when Venetians discovered that the Genoese were flirting with the trade of the Crimea, in spite of their pledged word, and vice versa, the trouble came to a head, and both Carlo Zeno and Pisani were set to work.

Carlo Zeno came to the sword by devious ways. He was destined for the Church, and was sent at an early age to Avignon, in order to bring him under the eye of the Holy Father and into the circles where sinecures and promotions were most easily obtainable.

Nor were the hopes of his relations disappointed, for it was not long before he was appointed to a canonicate at Patras, that carried with it a very comfortable income; soon after which, being still a boy, he was sent back to his uncle’s people and thence, for his studies, to Padua. Here the spirit of the future Terror of the Seas began to appear in the boy, for he refused to study with any seriousness and spent most of his time and all of his substance in gambling and riotous living.

At last, having sold his books, and lost the proceeds, he escaped, by night, from the pack of creditors who had been dogging his footsteps, and took service, though with whom it is difficult to discover.

For some time he wandered over Italy, learning, as he went, the trade which was afterwards to make him famous, until, when five years had passed, he began to feel the need of “ranging” himself, and returned to his uncle, who had been mourning him for dead, and who received him with open arms.

The German custom of the “Wanderjahr” is an old one, and, as far as can be judged, a very good one, the idea being to harden the young man’s mind with travel before he settles down definitely to the pursuit of his business. In many trades it is demanded by the apprentice, and in almost all, it is at least expected. No one enquires too closely, upon his return, as to the sort of life he has been leading, for it is assumed that he must have been busy, since it is a sine qua non of his twelve months of freedom that he support himself by his trade. Carlo’s uncle and brothers did not enquire either, but packed him off, as soon as they could, to Patras, to take his Canon’s stall and become a prosperous, comfortable, easy-going Prelate, just sufficiently distinguished from the rank and file to be somebody, and far enough from any chance of real responsibility to allow of his leading a serene and unruffled existence.

The godson of the Emperor, he was a person of some considerable influence, too, and the knowledge of war that he had acquired during his service with the Condottieri was not at all amiss in an ecclesiastic of the Fourteenth Century, when Bishops had as often as not to guard their own marches with their own good swords. His education in ecclesiastical subjects was sketchy, of course, but amply sufficient for any need that he was likely to have of it; so he set out for Patras, half a priest, half a soldier, a canon unordained, a soldier unattached.

Now the Governor of Patras, just then, was engaged with the common enemy of Christendom, the Turk, and since the soldier in Carlo was always on the surface, the Governor, who had learned from some source or another of the young gentleman’s temperamental proclivities, and no doubt from Carlo himself of the various notable captains under whom he had served, pushed him into the fight. Carlo was only twenty-two, but he worked so well, and flung himself into the campaign with such whole-hearted enthusiasm, that before long he was wounded so desperately that for one night he was deemed to be dead and preparations were made to bury him, a fate which was only averted in the nick of time by his return to consciousness.

It was not for many months that he recovered of his grievous hurt, for the better healing of which he was sent back to Venice. In Italy he was fortunate enough to meet his godfather, the Emperor, and to make a good lodgment in the great man’s favour, the result of which was to send him on Imperial business to England, France, and Germany; so that, when he returned to Patras, he was better equipped than ever for either of the two causes, ecclesiastic or military, which he might choose to espouse.

At Patras, he found the choice made for him, since the place was once more imperilled, this time by Frenchmen and Cypriotes, and the good Bishop, handing over to him the tiny force which was available, bade him do the best he could, as speedily as possible.

Carlo’s best—the best of “Zeno the Unconquerable”—was very good indeed. So good, in fact, that it reads like a fable, but the authority is, or ought to be, unimpeachable, so it must be accepted that during six months of hard fighting he kept ten or twelve thousand enemies at bay with seven hundred men, and ultimately persuaded them to draw off, without the loss of a single man on his own side.

It must be borne in mind, though, that in those delectable days fighting was less dangerous for the combatants than at any time before or since. The accounts of the wars are very nearly bloodless—for the combatants, bien entendu—not for the inoffensive and helpless non-combatants, the sacking and looting of whom was the agreed consideration for which the mercenaries gave their services.

It was shortly after this affair that the direction of Zeno’s life was settled for ever; jealous of his success and his growing fame, a Greek knight, in a moment of spleen, accused him, after all he had done, of treachery!

There is a touch of to-day about the form which Sir Simon’s venom took that brings that distant past very close to us. “Tradito!” “Nous sommes trahis!” These are still the first cries to be heard when the gold of the spendthrift years has run out and the horrible creditors crowd into a nation’s House.

One would hardly have thought that a reasoning man in Zeno’s position would have worried his head with such foolishness. The insult might well have been the occasion of a righteous wrath and contempt, but that is all. Carlo, however, did not see it in that light, and, despite the protests of his more sensible friends and the pleadings of his Bishop, he challenged his traducer, and, by so doing, threw up his ecclesiastical ambitions and took the sword in perpetuity.

Free now, and without friends, he lost no time in marrying a rich and noble lady who had fallen in love with him, at Chiavenna; her he left, after a short honeymoon, in order to meet Sir Simon, according to arrangement, at Naples.

That kingdom being in its usual condition, it was no easy task to penetrate to its Capital or arrive there, even by sea, in anything like safety. But Carlo was not a person lightly to be deterred when the prospect of a fight was in question, and in due time he arrived in the presence of Queen Joanna, who had been selected as an umpire.

But she, in the meanwhile, had come to the decision that it was a case for damages rather than for a duel, and, a court having sat upon it, the Greek was ordered to refund Carlo for his expenses. There being nothing else to keep him, he returned to his wife in Greece, where he was soon made governor of a province. Soon after his wife died, and he, being unable to retain her dowry, reËmbarked for Venice, where he struck out anew as a bachelor.

It was not long, though, before he married again, and his second wife, the daughter of the Admiral, Marco Giustiniani, had a sufficiently large fortune to permit of his establishing himself as a merchant in the East.

Either he must have left his wife behind on undertaking this expedition or else he sent her home later, for the adventures through which he passed at Constantinople would have been too risky, even for him, had he had any “incumbrances” with him.

Constantinople, at that time, was in the hands of a usurper, Andronicus, who had deposed his father, Carlo Yhomuas. Now Carlo Yhomuas was a friend to Venice and had gone out of his way, while he was on the throne, to show favour to Zeno’s father.

When it came to his ears that Zeno was in the city, it seemed to him that here was a chance to escape from his fortress and retake the crown, and that since the wife of his gaoler was an old “friend” of his, and still devoted to him, she would make an excellent go-between.

It was no very desirable undertaking for a woman, since Andronicus had filled the court with spies, and discovery would mean certain torture and death; but she accomplished her mission, and Zeno, to whom such adventures were the salt of life, fell in with the idea instantly and joyfully.

Having obtained the promise of support from some Greek soldiers, by ways known only to himself, he strolled out one evening along the shore, until he arrived at a point where, across the water and rising straight up from it, stood a high tower; being assured that no one was about, Carlo studied a window at the top of it speculatively.

It was not grilled, but it was small and it was a hundred and fifty feet up. From the land side he could do nothing; it was too well guarded, and all that he and the surprised captive up there had to rely upon was a small woman.

He would have to wait for the dark of the moon, he saw, and, besides, he must find some means of getting a long, stout rope into the Emperor’s bedroom. This was accomplished, I think, by winding it around the lady’s body, and since she had the privilege, while her husband’s back was turned, of ingress to the ex-Emperor’s apartments, she waited until the former was making his rounds in the evening and slipped past the unsuspecting sentry in the dark.

Then she dropped the rope from the window and left Carlo Yhomuas to himself. Carlo, who was as much a sailor as he was a soldier, speedily climbed up and, having hauled himself through the window, begged the Emperor to descend.

But, at this critical moment, Carlo Yhomuas’ nerve failed him. As he told Zeno, he had two other sons who were both at the mercy of Andronicus, and Andronicus was a desperate and bloodstained scoundrel who would probably cut both their throats if their father ran away.

Zeno argued and pleaded and stormed, but all to no purpose, and, finally, he was compelled to climb down again alone and make his way home.

No sooner was Carlo Yhomuas alone again, however, than his courage came back to him, and the gaoler’s wife was entrusted with another communication for the young Venetian, to which the latter replied instantly, spurred by the proposal which Carlo Yhomuas made to present Venice with the island of Tenedos, in his will.

This time, though, Fate was against them. It is very rarely that the hussy smiles upon a second attempt, if her favour has been too lightly treated during the first one, and now she turned her face away spitefully. The gaoler’s wife had hidden Carlo’s note in her shoe and, just as she was reaching Carlo Yhomuas’ room, the shoe slipped off and the sentry pounced upon the paper.

In an hour she was in the torture room and in an hour and a half she had given up her secret, while Zeno (upon whom, as soon as the accident occurred, Fate smiled again, as upon a well-loved child, who has caused his parent a momentary displeasure by the company he has been keeping, but who, once rescued from his friends, immediately becomes the adored offspring again) escaped to sea and got on board a Venetian warship, which happened to be visiting the port, and showed the will of Carlo Yhomuas to the officer commanding.

It did not take this latter worthy long to come to the conclusion that, since Carlo Yhomuas was the rightful Emperor, and, also, since he was not likely ever to reach his youngest son, that the Venetians might as well take possession at Tenedos before Andronicus could exercise his illegally obtained power and make a present of the island to his friend, the Genoese.

Fortune still smiled upon her son, for, when the fleet came to Tenedos, they found it to be held by an officer of Carlo Yhomuas, well fortified, and stocked with provisions; and he, having heard everything and seen his Emperor’s will in his own handwriting, was easily persuaded to place the island under the protection of Venice. That done, and the seeds of a pleasant and profitable war with Genoa sown, they garrisoned the island as heavily as they could, and sailed for Venice.

The Senate, as it was to be expected, disapproved gravely and openly of the whole affair—and promptly sent a fleet to Tenedos to hold it against all comers! With this fleet sailed Carlo Zeno. After a brisk but useless ruffle under the walls of Constantinople, Carlo returned to Tenedos with three ships, just in time to get his men ashore and his defences arranged before the Genoese swooped down upon him with twenty-two ships. I cannot be quite sure if, on this occasion, he had Michel Steno with him, though it is certain that the latter was, at one time, his assistant in the island; but, if he had, the subsequent rout of the Genoese becomes more understandable. Two such minds as Carlo’s and Michel’s were worth a good many hundred men. Be that as it may, the Genoese were repulsed, twice running in two successive days, and that so fiercely and with such loss that they left the island in a hurry. Nor did they come back, and Carlo, as soon as his wounds, of which he had received three in the two days’ fighting, would permit of it, returned to Venice in a blaze of glory.

Venice, at the time of his return, had a half-finished quarrel with the Carrara upon her hands, and Carlo was immediately despatched to the scene of hostilities.

In 1378, he was made military governor of Negroponti, but the sea called him again, soon after, and from that time until the Genoese siege of Chioggia he spent his time upon his favourite element and at his favourite business—to wit, fighting the Genoese.

During the interminable wars that occupied the next thirty years, Carlo became the one shining star in the State’s skies that no cloud or storm could dim or hide. Vittor Pisani, his nominal superior, had his ups and downs, and proved himself to be almost if not entirely Zeno’s equal, but Zeno was the popular idol.

He raided the Genoese coast in such a fashion that his name was a terror to the city of Genoa for a hundred years afterwards, and, by closing the Mediterranean to his enemies, he struck a vital blow at their prosperity. By keeping continuously on the move and darting from point to point with his light ships, he contrived to keep a considerable part of the Genoese fleet constantly employed, and a good part of the Genoese troops on the coast; but his peripatetic methods were not always to the advantage of Venice, for they made it extremely difficult to reach him, either with news or orders, so that, although the Senate despatched boat after boat and messenger after messenger to acquaint him with the defeat of Vittor Pisani at Pola, by the Genoese Admiral Luciano Doria, with instructions to return, it was by accident that the story reached him, six months after the battle, as he was standing out of Candia, where the Doge’s messenger arrived soon afterwards.

He left Candia on the 2d of December, 1379, and sailed for Paranzo, where he arrived upon the 14th. Although he knew of the defeat at Pola, he had not as yet any real idea of the desperate condition of Venice until he arrived at the Lido, where a government agent gave him a view of the condition of affairs and begged him to hasten to Chioggia, then closely blockaded by Vittor Pisani.

Chioggia had fallen to the Genoese on the 6th of August, but on the 21st of December, Pisani, who had only been released from the prison, where he was incarcerated after Pola, because the people flatly refused to follow or serve under any one else, had succeeded in bottling up the Genoese fleet, much as the Japanese bottled up the Russians at Port Arthur, with the difference that his operation was successful and theirs was not. To bottle up a strong enemy is sensible; to pay a broken one the distinguished compliment of sinking good ships, and sacrificing life to prevent him from getting at you, is something else.

Unfortunately, his troops were amateur soldiers, and, though their patriotism, helped by their acquired and inherited hatred of the Genoese, had held them to their task for a while, yet a winter campaign uses up the reserves of such passing enthusiasms quickly, and poor Pisani found himself, as have others who have attempted to carry out long and arduous operations with irregular troops, between the devil of abandoning his enterprise altogether and the deep sea of the revenge that the well-armed, well-disciplined, and half-starved enemy would exact by land, the instant that the necessity for guarding the harbour was over.

His men clamoured ceaselessly to be allowed to return home and attend to their affairs, disregarding the probability that, if they did relax their grip upon Doria’s throat, they would have no affairs to attend to, save that of paying the heaviest indemnity that he could exact. But the reasoning powers of human beings in the mass are not great, and, at last, Pisani was compelled to promise that, should Carlo Zeno not arrive within two days, he would sail for the Lido.

Heavy days they must have been for Pisani, with the very existence of the Republic depending upon whether or no a person who had not been heard from for many months past would, accidentally, arrive in time to redeem the promise and save it.

As it has been already suggested, Carlo’s popularity was due in a very large measure to his astounding luck; nor did it desert him now. For forty-eight hours was Pisani compelled to endure his agony, in order that Carlo might arrive exactly at the right moment—not an hour too soon to spoil the splendid effect of his seemingly miraculous appearance upon the scene, not an hour too late to save Pisani and Venice.

It was at daybreak that Pisani, despair in his heart, climbed out of his cabin and mechanically swept the horizon with his eyes. For some minutes he staid there, unwilling to turn away from the clean, open sea to the sight of the prize which he was being forced to give up when it was already in his grasp. How his heart must have ached, as he recalled the gathering of the citizens, the prayers, the shouting and boasting, the speeches of the Doge, the “do or die” ranting of the weak-backed people, who, having seen war (for they had, up till then, been a highly respectable community and had hired their fighting men by the month or year, as they needed them), were, of course, perfectly ready to plunge in it, and still more ready, once they began to feel the weight of it, to crawl out again.

His dreary meditations were suddenly disturbed by a cry from aloft, and he came to himself with a start as the cry was repeated.

It was a sail, and, in answer to his furiously anxious questions, the lookout presently reported that it was that of a fighting-vessel, and that there were more of them coming up behind her.

At last he shouted down that he had counted eighteen of them—and then Pisani, frantic to know the worst or the best as speedily as possible, despatched a light boat to reconnoitre and see if this were light or darkness that was descending upon him.

The little boat shot away into the morning haze and, when almost within hailing distance of the leading vessel, her crew straining their eyes to catch any hint which might tell them who and what these new arrivals were, they saw a flag broken out from the peak.

It was the banner of St. Mark, and, with a yell of delight, they went about and raced for Pisani’s flagship. Their demigod had arrived!

It was a long story that he had to tell when the Doge met him, and it must have been balm to the wounded heart of the former when he heard how Carlo had ravaged the Genoese coast, captured Genoese convoys, dislocated Genoese trade with the East, and, to crown his triumphs, had captured a Genoese galley off Rhodes, with half a million pieces of gold in it.

Although he had been twice wounded, and, Pisani’s promise redeemed, there was no need of haste, he insisted upon being allowed to place himself opposite Buondolo. One night a storm sprang up of the Mediterranean sort, and the Genoese attempted to take advantage of it and break through the blockade to open sea; but Carlo drove them back again. It was during this action that his ship dragged her anchor and was driven in under the Genoese forts, and Carlo received an arrow through the throat, which all but killed him. He did not leave the deck, however, nor did he seem to pay the least attention to his wound, until his ship was clear again, when he had the misfortune to stumble over an open hatch and fall into the hold of the ship. Even then he had sufficient presence of mind to turn over on his face and let the blood run freely, thereby saving his life.

It does not seem to have taken him long to recover from a wound which would have been the death of most men, for he was almost immediately made General-in-Chief of the land forces of the Republic—to be exact, on February 15—and he had received the wound some time either at the end of January or the beginning of February!

Then it was that Zeno the leader appeared, as distinct from Zeno the fighter and tactician.

By the capture of Lorado, Carlo had cut the Genoese off from their remaining base of supplies at Icomea, and all that remained to accomplish was the recapture of Chioggia itself, either by storm or siege.

The former course having been decided upon, the famous Sir John Hawkwood was sent for—he whose name is a household word in Italy to this day, and his men were assembled at Palestina, an island in the near neighbourhood of Chioggia.

But Sir John did not appear, and the unmilitary Venetians were faced with the necessity of finding a man who could first reduce the wild free-lances to some sort of order, and induce them afterwards to trust him as their leader. Fortunately these gentlemen were shut up on an island, which must have been a sweet place for any unfortunate natives who might have been there in those days, for Hawkwood’s men were drafted from half a dozen separate nationalities, most of whom were fighting each other in France and Germany at the time.

The business of disciplining them was laid upon Carlo, as the only man who had had any experience of condottieri; brave as he was, he might well have shrunk from the task, as from entering a den of wild beasts, but he accepted it instantly, put on his armour, and had himself rowed over to the island.

When he got there he found the men, as he probably expected to do, at each other’s throats, but he was not daunted by their savagery. We are told that many of them had served under him before, so that when he announced his arrival with a blare of trumpets, and called upon them to listen to what he had to say, they did as they were told, and surrounded him, pouring out their complaints as to a man who was a soldier himself and who could understand them.

To be sure, he had known what was at the bottom of their grievances before he started. They were mercenaries. They fought for pay and for loot. The Senate, being extremely hard up, had not paid them, nor had it shown any honest intention of doing so. Carlo himself had already been told, and with all gravity, that the Senators were of the unanimous opinion that it was his duty personally to serve without pay.

But, having temporarily calmed the storm, Carlo immediately communicated with the Senate and informed that august body that, unless the mercenaries’ pay were forthcoming, he must give up any idea of storming Chioggia. It was an affair for regular troops, and, even in the unlikely event of his being able to bring the Venetian amateurs up to the defence, there was not the least chance of his being able to induce them to attack with any seriousness. He even went so far as to offer to subscribe five hundred ducats himself if the Senate would come forward with a similar amount.

This they did, very unwillingly, and Carlo was enabled to give his whole attention to the frustrating of the Genoese commander’s scheme for saving his fleet by digging a canal through the island and bringing his ships out to open sea, whence they could once more threaten Venice effectively.

This captain’s name was Grimaldi, and he was, by all accounts, a daring and resourceful man, but he had not reckoned with Carlo Zeno. He could outnumber the Venetians by five thousand and more, but, unless he contrived to cut or manoeuvre his way out, he would be driven to surrender by famine—one hope, albeit a very doubtful one, he had besides, and that was the arrival of the Genoese fleet under Matteo Maruffo, who, emboldened by an easy victory over Giustiniani, near Naples, appeared off Chioggia on the 14th of May, when he immediately challenged Pisani to an encounter.

Being a serious person, Pisani naturally refused to accommodate him and run the risk of losing men and ships, when the ends of the campaign could be attained without any further trouble than that of remaining where he was; and, a short while afterwards, Matteo withdrew, and the garrison of Chioggia were compelled to watch their last chance disappear seawards.

Before this, it must be said, Carlo had succeeded in capturing Brondolo, and the Genoese were running short of food and water. The garrison tried to foment disorder in Carlo’s command, and even attempted to assassinate Carlo, without success. At last, on the 22d of June, the Genoese struck their colours, and on the morning of the 24th Carlo made his entry.

Afterwards, Carlo captured the Castle of Marano, and finally drove the Genoese into their own harbour of Genoa and kept them there, which brought the war to an end. When peace was once more upon Venice, Carlo, now about forty-seven years old, was made Captain-General of the forces, and later was very nearly elected to the Dogeship, only being defeated by the fact that, if Venice should again find herself at war, there would be nobody to lead her troops, since the Doge’s place was in Venice. For another thing, the Patricians disliked him intensely, he having always and resolutely refused to follow their advice during the war.

There being nothing more to be gained at the moment in Venice, Carlo went a-visiting once more, and the receptions which he received at the various courts of Italy must have been a source of great gratification to him after the dark days he had been through.

Like a true soldier—one who has no personal ill-feeling for the accidental enemy of the moment and who, the question in hand once settled, is ready to do anything in his power for the man he has been fighting—Carlo, on meeting a former adversary in the person of the son of the Count of Padua, at Asti, and finding him in exceedingly straitened and uncomfortable circumstances, took him to his arms and lent him four hundred ducats. It is pleasant to know that his generosity was not imposed upon, for the money was paid back later, when the exile was restored to his possessions.

Later, too, Carlo again defeated the Genoese, led this time by a French general, and, after that, hung up his good sword and turned to civil affairs; though he once accompanied the troops against the Carrara, as a “provveditore,” and, on Padua being taken, was made Governor of that city.

Now, the real rulers of Venice were the dreaded and terrible Ten. From any decision of theirs there was no appeal, and, since these decisions were guided only by their own passions, it can be understood that the civil affairs of Venice were in a precarious condition. On the taking of Padua, Carlo’s old beneficiary, Francesco de Carrara and his son were taken to Venice and there, by order of the Ten, strangled in their prison. Carlo’s successor in the governorship of Padua, having nothing better to do, took upon himself to go through the old city accounts, and, among them, discovered the entry of the four hundred ducats which Francesco repaid to Carlo Zeno. The account made no mention of any loan, though, and the governor, anxious to get himself into the good graces of the Ten, immediately sent them the document.

It seems hardly credible that even that vitiated council could have refused to accept Carlo’s word for it, but, in spite of all his glorious services, they insisted upon believing this was a bribe that he had received and sentenced him to the loss of all his places and titles and to five years of imprisonment besides! And yet Venice was called a Republic!

By the lifting of his finger Carlo could have raised such a storm as would have swallowed up the civil government of Venice in a week, but he seems to have accepted the horrid injustice—as did Pisani before him—with philosophy. It is not likely that the sentence was executed, though—even the Ten were not powerful enough for that, one imagines—and Carlo was soon off on a journey to Jerusalem, where he was knighted—he, Carlo, the scourge of Genoa, the terror of the Turks!—by a Prince, it is said, of Scotland, though of that, in view of the character and occupations of such of the Scottish Princes of the times as our history tells of, one cannot but have the gravest doubts.

An old man now, Zeno had one last scuffle with the Genoese, in the service of the King of Cyprus, and after beating them soundly returned home, at the age of seventy-four or seventy-five, and settled down. He lived for several years afterwards, gathering around himself the best of the city—artists, literati, scholars of all sorts. And when he died he was carried to his grave on the shoulders of the seamen, as a sailor should be.