The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 104 Enrico Dandolo

In the early morning of December 1182, the day of the military parade, Constantinople was shrouded in a bone-chilling cold.

The night remained thick and inky, with only the faint, broken sounds of drums carried by the sea breeze from the direction of Golden Horn Bay.

At four o'clock in the morning, Enrico Dandolo, 75, was already awake at the official residence of the Venetian Republic's ambassador to Constantinople.

Despite being blind for many years, his biological clock, as precise as the machinery of the Venetian bell tower, has never let him down.

Enrico's withered fingers groped in the darkness, accurately touching the brass bell by his bedside, and gently shook it—a habit he had maintained without fail for nearly ten years since he became ambassador to the empire in 1173.

The old servant Giovanni entered silently, carrying a candlestick; the candlestick's light dispelled the darkness of the room.

Giovanni was not the old servant's real name; it was given to him by Enrico in memory of his deceased and closest brother, Giovanni Dandolo.

In the past, he had followed his brother across the Mediterranean to do business. Now, with his old friends gone, he has become the patriarch of the Dandolo family, shouldering the family's honor and the Republic's important responsibilities in the East.

The old servant skillfully helped Enrico put on his shirt, but when he touched the scarlet velvet robe that symbolized authority, Enrico waved his hand and said, "I don't wear this anymore. Bring me the ordinary black wool robe from yesterday."

His voice was old and shrill, with a heavy, bubbly tone: "These days are good for the Greeks, we... don't need to stand out too much."

The old servant obeyed and draped a black woolen robe over his master, then brought in a silver basin of warm water with a few drops of invigorating rosemary essential oil.

Enrico took the hot towel and applied it to his face, taking a deep breath as if to dispel the fatigue accumulated over the years.

Then, he walked to the window and skillfully opened it.

Although he couldn't see Constantinople in the dim light of dawn, he stood quietly for a moment facing the Golden Horn. The sea breeze brought the unique salty smell of the harbor, as well as the faint sound of troops trampling in preparation for the parade from outside the city.

Enrico turned around and sat back in the wicker chair by the window, where the old servant bent down to comb his now silvery hair.

"Giovanni..." Enrico's voice was soft, filled with deep weariness and regret, "My eyes are getting blurrier and blurrier. I can feel... that last bit of light is about to leave me."

"Master... please don't lose heart." The old servant's voice choked with emotion. "I am your eyes."

Enrico was silent for a moment, then suddenly said, "Bring a mirror."

"But, sir..." the servant hesitated.

"Giovanni, give it to me." Enrico's tone left no room for argument.

"Yes, sir."

A polished silver mirror was carefully handed to Enrico. His thin fingers slowly traced the cold, smooth surface of the mirror, as if touching a completely unfamiliar world.

He struggled to open his eyelids, but all he could see was a blur, as if shrouded in a thick, damp fog. He brought his face close to the mirror, almost touching it.

Finally, at that extremely close distance, he could barely "see" his own nearly blind eyes—they were like two dusty yellow agates, dull and lifeless.

He sighed almost inaudibly, raised his head, and moved his face away from the mirror.

"Giovanni, take it."

No one responded.

"Giovanni?"

Enrico listened attentively and subconsciously scanned his surroundings.

In the darkness where the familiar silhouette of the old servant should have stood, another blurry human figure was vaguely outlined.

The silhouette reflected in the corner of the silver mirror in Enrico's hand bore an eight or nine-tenths resemblance to him, with the same slender face and the same sharp lines, but younger, and with a light in his eyes that no longer existed in Enrico's.

"Who are you?" he whispered to his reflection in the mirror, in a voice only he could hear.

A voice almost identical to Enrico's rang out: "Long time no see, Enrico Dandolo."

"So it was you, Almorin." Enrico didn't show much surprise, as if he had already anticipated something. "My servant Giovanni, you didn't give him a hard time when you came in, did you?"

"Just let him enjoy a brief and peaceful nap," Almorin said with a hint of sarcasm. "It seems being your servant isn't easy. If you knew it would be so exhausting, why did you choose this path in the first place?"

"Ha..." Enrico sneered, with a detached air of world-weariness. "At my age, what's the point of talking about 'the past' or 'the present'? Just say it: what brings you to Constantinople at this time...?"

"Cooperation. Like at times in the past, we need to join hands again," Almorin said, getting to the point. "You must be worried about the Venetian sons captured in Antalya right now, right?"

Enrico felt a chill run down his spine.

The prisoners of war in Antalya! This was his greatest worry at the moment. Basilius had used his wedding as an opportunity to pardon a group of prisoners, but he had avoided mentioning the Venetian prisoners of war, which was undoubtedly a sign of the empire's contempt and suppression of Venice.

Enrico twirled the silver mirror in his hand and sneered, "You Assassins only know how to kill, so when did you learn to save people?"

"Nothing is true, everything is permissible. Killing is merely a means; if saving lives also benefits the organization, we are happy to do it."

"Don't spout your worthless doctrines to me. Even if your master were here, he wouldn't have the right to show off to me," Enrico scoffed, impatiently interrupting. "Speak, what do you need my help with?"

"His Majesty intends to establish a stronghold in Constantinople, and the Assassins need your material support and protection."

"Establishing a base in Constantinople?" Enrico keenly sensed something amiss. "A year ago, I vaguely sensed traces of your activities within the city. A whole year has passed, and you still haven't established a firm foothold?"

"That is not the real Assassins!" Almorin's tone suddenly turned cold and hard. "His Majesty has never sent any official members to establish an organization here. What you have discovered is likely heresy that must be eradicated. One of my missions here is to purge these traitors who have defiled the doctrine and establish a legitimate stronghold directly under His Majesty's control."

"Heretics?" Enrico pondered for a moment before making a decision. "Remember, our cooperation is limited to the most basic supply of materials and providing an underground warehouse as a cover for your base. As for your internal heresy purges and other sordid affairs, the Venetian Embassy and I myself will not be involved."

"So, it's a pleasure working with you?"

"It wasn't pleasant at all," Enrico waved his hand dismissively, as if to see him off. "No need to see me out. Remember to wake Giovanni."