I arrived in Venice in the early days of winter 1071, when the cold wind from the Adriatic Sea swept through the narrow canals like thin, sharp knife blades, slicing through my worn sheepskin cloak. I had left behind the blood and smoke of Manzikert—that terrible battle still haunted me like an unending nightmare, with arrows whistling through the desert air, horses neighing in agony, and the stench of death rising from thousands of corpses strewn across the red sand. I carried a chipped Viking axe, its steel blade nicked from countless swings in chaos; a leather pouch holding a few glittering Byzantine silver coins—meager reward for months as a mercenary in the Eastern Roman Empire—and the heavy memory of Khalid al-Turki's final gaze, the Seljuk warrior who died on my spear, his eyes wide with shock and hatred before they went dark. Venice appeared before me like a strange dream: a city floating on water, built on thousands of wooden piles driven deep into the marsh, with canals crisscrossing like a giant spiderweb, and tall stone buildings with red-tiled roofs glowing faintly under the weak winter sun. Church bells echoed from the San Marco campanile, mingling with the chatter of merchants from around the world—Latin, Greek, Arabic, Frankish, even Slavic tongues from the Dalmatian coast. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea, the sweet-sour scent of wine from canal-side taverns, and pine resin from the wooden ships docked thickly at the harbor. Here, money was the only thing worshipped, an invisible god ruling every deal, every scheme, every dream.
Theophanes—the man whose life I had saved—had sent me a letter of introduction to a Venetian merchant named Niccolò di San Marco, who traded in Baltic amber and Eastern spices. I became a porter in his warehouse in the San Polo district, working fourteen hours a day, from the first light on the red tiles until dusk draped the shimmering water. But I did not feel misery; for the first time in my life, I tasted peace that smelled of opportunity, of gold and silver and freedom—a freedom not seized with blood, but earned with sweat and wit.
Niccolò di San Marco was a hard man, his hair gray and ragged from sea winds, his gray eyes cold as Adriatic granite, and his rare smile sharp as a dagger hidden in a boot. Born in Venice, raised among canals and markets, he had built his trading empire from nothing: starting with fresh fish from the sea, then expanding to spices and silk from the East. He taught me things not found in the Bible or the monks' lessons from my childhood at Mont-Saint-Michel: how to haggle while making the other think they were winning, how to read a buyer's intent in greedy or hesitant eyes, how to say less than half of what you know to keep the upper hand. "Ealdred," he would say by the flickering fire in the damp warehouse, where spice scents mingled with salt and rotting wood, "trade is no game for the weak. It is war without guns, where the winner takes all without spilling blood—at least not their own." I learned the merchants' language quickly, as I once learned the axe from Vikings: Latin for deals with Italian nobles, Greek for talks with Constantinopolitans bringing goods from the Black Sea, basic Arabic to understand ledgers from Damascus and Baghdad. I kept daily records, counting sacks of spices—glossy black pepper from India with a tongue-searing bite, nutmeg from the distant Moluccas with a seductive tropical whisper, frankincense from Arabia carrying sacred smoke, and cinnamon from Ceylon fragrant as memories of ancient forests. Each scent, each grain told a story longer than the bloody battles I had fought: tales of camel caravans crossing the Sahara, sail ships riding winds on the Indian Ocean, merchants risking lives to bring them to Europe. At night, when the city sank into darkness and waves lapped gently at the canal banks, I still sharpened my axe and practiced spear thrusts in the warehouse's dark corner—an old mercenary habit, for in Venice, a good trader still needed to protect goods from dock thieves or jealous rivals. People said I had "a mathematician's mind in a warrior's body," with lightning-fast profit-loss calculations and strength to intimidate cheats. I only smiled faintly, for I was merely learning to trade blood for gold, iron for silver, scars on flesh for numbers on ledgers.
In spring 1072, when wildflowers bloomed along the canals and Venice's air warmed with lavender from small gardens, Niccolò gave me my first task as a test: join a small merchant convoy to Ragusa—now Dubrovnik—to buy salt from Dalmatian mines and olive oil from hillside groves. I saw the Adriatic open before me like a giant mirror, reflecting the silver morning light, waves gently slapping the hull like an invitation to adventure. We traveled on a galea—a rowing ship with twenty strong oarsmen, square sail billowing in the spring wind—gliding over waves to the rhythmic "Heave-ho!" of the crew, echoing with seagulls overhead. The journey lasted nearly a week, past scattered islands with white rocky shores and peaceful fishing villages, where wind carried smells of grilled fish and hearth smoke. In Ragusa, a bustling port with high stone walls and lively markets, I learned a true trader's first lesson: "Price lies not in the goods, but in the one who craves them." I haggled with a Croatian merchant desperate for salt to preserve fish for Italian export, selling at triple the expected profit in exchange for pure white salt sacks and barrels of golden olive oil. Returning to Venice under gentle spring rain, Niccolò clapped my shoulder, his rare smile breaking: "You have a fox's instinct, Ealdred. Profits like this, and you'll be rich before thirty." He rewarded me with five silver coins—a fortune for one who once lived on dry bread in Normandy—and a pair of new cowhide boots, soft yet sturdy, the first shoes I owned without looting from an enemy's corpse. From that day, I understood money smelled of new leather, sea salt, and tasted of freedom—a freedom not wrested with battlefield blood, but with clever words and patient negotiation.
But Venice was no poetic paradise of gold; it was a city of shadows and plots, where narrow canals could hide corpses, and wealthy merchants often died from a rival's stealthy dagger. Adriatic pirates lurked offshore—Dalmatian raiders with swift ships and curved swords, ready to seize cargo and kill without mercy. At the docks, thieves slunk like ghosts, stabbing for a few gold coins or a precious spice sack. One June night in 1072, under a full moon silvering the canals like liquid metal, I caught two strangers picking the lock on Niccolò's San Polo warehouse—gaunt men in black cloaks, daggers glinting in moonlight. The lock's click echoed in the silent night, cheap wine breath fouling the air. I didn't call guards—Venice's law was slow and often bought; instead, I silently drew my Viking axe from my belt, stepping light as a stray cat on wet cobblestones. The first turned, eyes flashing shock as I charged—the axe swung once, felling him, blood spraying hot and metallic onto the stones. The second fled in panic, but I pursued through narrow alleys, night wind howling past my ears, and struck him down by the canal bank, his body splashing into black water with a resounding "plop." Next morning, Niccolò eyed me appraisingly, voice low: "You could mercenary forever, Ealdred, but to live long—be a merchant. Here, we buy lives with gold, not blood." Then he laughed, cold as ice, and told me to join him to Constantinople—the Byzantine capital, where the fading empire still held its last glory. The journey took nearly two months, along Dalmatian coasts with peaceful fishing villages, lush Korčula island with vineyards, then the narrow Dardanelles strait with swirling currents like history's flow.
On deck, I wrote in my journal with black ink on thin parchment, recording amber cargoes from the Baltic, Slav slaves from Eastern coasts, Italian wines—tales of survival and ambition. I began mastering persuasion: knowing when to use smooth words for deals, when to draw steel for protection—a fragile balance of mind and might.
In Constantinople, the golden city of the Byzantine Empire, I was overwhelmed by its grandeur—golden domes gleaming in summer sun, mosaic tales of saints and emperors in Hagia Sophia, the world's largest church with a dome soaring to the sky, prayers echoing from thousands of faithful. The city was the world's hub, where Asian trade routes converged: silk from China smooth as a maiden's skin, spices from India hot as hellfire, gold from Nubia sparkling like fallen stars. I stayed half a year, trading Arabian frankincense and Persian silk, brokering between long-bearded Arab merchants in white turbans and Venetian nobles in crimson silk robes. I met old Manzikert mercenaries, now guards for Byzantine lords, in worn blue armor with weary eyes. They saw me in wine-colored silk cloak and soft boots, laughing: "Ealdred, traded iron shield for gold bars? From mercenary to merchant lord—life's strange!" I replied calmly but deeply: "War feeds corpses; trade feeds living souls. Here, I learn to live without killing." Yet inside, I knew blood never truly left my hands—it was just veiled by shining gold, clever deals, and market smiles. Returning to Venice late 1072 after a wind-fighting voyage laden with frankincense and silk, I brought goods worth over two hundred solidi—a vast sum, enough for a small San Polo house. Niccolò hugged my shoulder, proud: "Now you're a true merchant, Ealdred. Venice is your home."
Life in Venice settled into rhythm, never dull—a cadence of calculation and risk, each day a small battlefield in trade. I rented a small room in San Polo, where narrow alleys led to canals smelling of fresh fish and gondola tar, black boats gliding like night shadows. By day, I roamed Rialto market—the city's pulsing heart, a vast wooden-stall expanse where everything was bought and sold: African gold gleaming in sun, Chinese silk soft as spring breeze, Indian spices tongue-burning, rumors of Eastern wars or Byzantine court plots. Shouts rang: "Indian pepper, three coins a pound!" "Persian silk, beautiful as maiden skin!" I learned to push through crowds, haggle calmly but firmly, read intent in gestures—a raised brow for doubt, thin smile for deceit. At night, as the city dimmed under flickering olive-oil lamps from high windows, I drank red wine with Pisan and Genoese merchants in canal taverns, hearing tales of Adriatic storms swallowing ships, Constantinople market scams bankrupting the rich overnight, Dalmatian courtesans with alluring smiles but hearts cold as north winds. Once, I met a Dalmatian girl named Isolda at a Rialto tavern—she had amber-gold hair like Baltic resin, eyes deep blue as the Adriatic, voice sweet as spring wind lullabies. She taught me Ragusa folk songs of sea and distant love; I taught her Latin from cargo ledgers. We had a few months—long nights by fire with wine and whispers—before she left with her father's convoy to Korčula.
Parting, she gave me a golden strand tied with red silk: "Keep it, Ealdred, as a wanderer's luck charm." Ever since, on sea voyages, I kept it in a leather pouch over my left breast—a reminder of love's fragility in a calculating trade world.
In 1073, Niccolò weakened with age and long sea trips, entrusting me with a separate warehouse at San Pietro dock—a lively area thick with ships, fish and tar scents blending. I hired four: two strong local Venetian porters for heavy loads, a Greek accountant named Demetrius skilled with ledgers and numbers, a tall Slav night guard against thieves. Under me, work flowed like canal water: imports from Ragusa of pure salt and golden oil, sales to Pisa with steady profits for Italian nobles' feasts. I learned Venice port taxes—complex fees set by the Doge, city leader—maritime insurance laws, and "bending" rules for gain without breaking them—a subtle art of wisdom and connections. Daily, I noted in leather-bound books: weekly profits/losses, partner debts, spice price shifts from Eastern wars, Rialto gold rates. Hands that once gripped spears now held goose-quill pens, black ink dripping on parchment, yet still strong, ready for a dagger if needed. I stood taller—about 1.9 meters—black hair cropped neat, sea-tanned skin, early-silver beard from sleepless calculation nights, gray-blue eyes cold as storm seas. I wore deep black wool cloak, brown leather belt with silver pouch, small copper-inlaid dagger in boot—a successful merchant's look, yet breathing mercenary air. Some said I looked more soldier than trader; I replied: "The market is a battlefield, where the weak are devoured without blood."
Summer 1073, Venice shook from a massive eastern dock warehouse fire—flames erupting midnight, devouring hundreds of spice and silk sacks, turning the harbor hell-red with billowing black smoke, merchants' ruin cries echoing canals. Many bankrupt overnight; rumors said arson to hide smuggling forbidden goods—slaves or weapons. Three days later, I got an anonymous threat slipped under my warehouse door: "Leave San Pietro, or fire comes to you." Instead of fear or flight, I invited the local trade guild head—a fat man named Lorenzo with greedy eyes and wide ties—to dinner at a canal tavern, red wine flowing like rivers, grilled fish fragrant. I gifted him precious Arabian frankincense and two bolts of fine Persian silk, with wise words: "Venice is big enough for us all, sir. Let fire warm, not burn." A week later, rumors vanished; my warehouse safe. I learned: in business, silence and gifts sometimes outweigh gold, threats, or violence. That night, alone on Rialto Bridge—the city's iconic stone arch, endless passersby—I watched full moon reflect on calm water, pondering my life: one lives by fear or respect. I chose the latter—fear breeds enemies, respect allies. That was the night I truly became Venetian, no longer the orphan boy from Normandy mud, but part of this city—an rising trade empire where gold flowed from world corners like rivers to sea.
Early 1074, Niccolò di San Marco died after a brief illness—peacefully in sleep at his canal-side stone house, leaving a will in black ink on parchment, bequeathing me a small share: ten pounds of gold—enough for a small ship or central home. In it: "To Ealdred, who saw trade as art, turning blood to gold." I used it plus savings—about thirty pounds from yearly profits—to open my own shop prime near Rialto Bridge, sign carved "Ealdred di Mont-Saint-Michel – Spezie & Ambra" in raised Latin on oak. Small but elegant: polished wood shelves displaying Eastern spice sacks, glowing Baltic amber blocks, fine Persian silk rolls—arranged by color and scent, a vivid painting drawing European customers. I sold pepper and cinnamon to Italian nobles, amber for Venetian women's jewelry, silk for rich merchants' robes. The shop buzzed: Venetian housewives for salt and turmeric, Milan nobles for festival frankincense, even Damascus Arabs for big contracts. I hired two assistants: Marco—a charming local Venetian with persuasive smile, pushing extra sales; Petros—a Constantinople Greek migrant, expert in spice pricing and books. They called me "Anglo boss" with respect and awe.
Mornings, I opened as canal mist lingered, San Marco bells welcoming; evenings, closed to church chimes, counting coins by candlelight. In three years, 1071 to 1074, I amassed fifty pounds gold—a fortune for a private ship or bigger convoy investment. More importantly, I built reputation: fair, tough, discreet—a partner trusted for golden-word promises, rival feared for storm-sea eyes.
In those years, Venice was more than livelihood; it became my soul's part, a city grander than any I knew. Venice was man's masterpiece against nature: built on marsh with millions of deep-driven wood piles, stone arches linking hundreds of islands, canals like a giant body's veins. Rialto market was all's center: vast with hundreds of stalls, price shouts blending with fresh fish, Indian spices, Italian wine smells. I often stood on Rialto Bridge, watching crowds—red-cloaked Genoese, hooded Constantinople Jews, sun-tanned Dalmatian sailors—reflecting on my path: from Normandy serf in clinging mud, across fierce Manche with Vikings, sunny Sicily with Ruggero, now Venice—city of gold and cunning. The change was not just wealth; it was soul: I learned to see the world not through sword blade, but profit scales, ledger numbers, trust-built ties. Yet deep down, I remained a wanderer, Khalid al-Turki's scar reminding peace is fragile illusion. Venice taught trade a grander war than Manzikert: no blood, but empires fall on bad deals, kingdoms rise on gold-laden ships.
On the last night of 1074, I sat in my shop's upstairs room by warm charcoal brazier, gazing at calm canal water under silver moon. Night wind carried salt and distant tavern songs, where Venetians welcomed the new year with wine and fireworks. I reopened my old journal—starting with shaky "I am Ealdred, Normandy child born of mud and hunger"—flipping worn pages: Mont-Saint-Michel serf with rotting grass and abbey bells, Manche coast wandering with howling wind and starvation, Viking drakkar slave with blood and mead, Sicily mercenary with Etna fire and clashing swords, Manzikert with red sand and arrows, now Venice merchant with spices and gold. Thirty near-deaths, five rebirths from ashes. I realized: war taught seizing life with brute force; trade taught seizing time and future with wise mind. I lived both, their blend making me stronger than ever. Outside, Venice glowed in lights and new-year song, rising as Europe's great trade empire. I stood, raised red wine—bitter as memory, sweet as hope—and said to myself: "Ealdred of Mont-Saint-Michel, you traded blood for gold. But gold is just a tool—real life begins now." I did not know the coming years' gold would drag me into waves bigger than the Adriatic, into new plots and conquests where trade and war would blend once more.