Chapter 4 - Time To Leave

A view of Genoa and its fleet by Christoforo de Grassi
(1597 copy, after a drawing of 1481);
Galata Museo del Mare, Genoa
Wikicommons

“This incessant rain is making the bodies turn to soup”.  Consul Dondedeo de Justo looked over the wall down to the market area. Another body landed into the mud. The right arm lodged  in the mud and consequently the body seperated. The corpse somersaulted twice, skipping across the sloppy ground and piled itself beside five or maybe six other corpses. “Well they have the trajectory correct”, de Justo quipped. “I’m glad they don’t have Greek fire”.

The Master at Arms didn’t wait around for the Consul of Kaffa and the Black Sea to be clobbered by a plague infested body. “Your Grace, we will need to put more men towards removing bodies from the city”. He guided de Justo to a safer location. “Consul, The Tartars”, as the Genoans called the Golden Horde, “continue to have bodies building up. I do not believe they are going to run out any time soon”.

The Golden Horde had lost a third of their fighting force. The plague like the rain started in the spring had continued through the summer and was now a serious impediment. To complicate matters the fearocious Crimean winter was on its way. Decisive action was required.

Kaffa under the Genoese had been flourishing since they took the port back from the Venetians 40 years earlier in 1306. The city was heavily fortified with two concentric walls. The inner wall enclosed 6,000 houses, the outer 11,000. While a few of the trading families had seen the Mongols siege Kaffa before, the new traders were decidedly uneasy. The spread of this new pestilence turned the unease to terror. If it was as simple as boarding a plane and leaving town, many of the Genoans would have got onboard in an instant.

This, however, was the middle ages and at the end of the world. Their factories and business wealth were intrinsically linked to this small city tucked on the edge of the Crimean peninsular at the far north of the Black Sea. The ability to just move on was simply not feasible. One of the more mobile Genoans was Gabriele De’ Mussi. A lawyer and notary, his role was to certify contracts on behalf of the Genoan Republic. It took six months for D’Mussi to return to Genoa having documented the plague of the east. He was ready for his presentation to the Doge or Duke. In the Republic he was an elected official with the title of  “The Commander of the Genoese and Defender of the People”. 

To much acclaim, Simon Boccanegra was elected as the first Doge of Genoa. It was a position that came as an appointment for life. The internal tensions of the trading families within Genoa made an appointment for life a short term appointment. Giovanni di Murta was appointed as the second Doge and two years into a 5 year rule, Murta had brought an uneasy calm to Genoan politics. As Doge, Murta had sent a fleet to support and secure the colonies in the Crimea against Jani Beg and it was on this fleet that d’Mussi returned home. D’Mussi’s influence as a contract lawyer was minor but sufficient to speak at the Grand Council meeting in 1347.

His hands shook a little. The Doge sat at the centre of the long table, flanked either side of him by the Council. Between his shaking manuscript and the dim light of the council room, d’Mussi was slow to start his plea. The Court Secretary sat by with a handful of candles and efficiently took down every word.

“…In 1346, in the countries of the East, countless numbers of Tartars and Saracens were struck down by a mysterious illness which brought sudden death. Within these countries broad regions, far-spreading provinces, magnificent kingdoms, cities, towns and settlements, ground down by illness and devoured by dreadful death, were soon stripped of their inhabitants. An eastern settlement under the rule of the Tartars called Tana, which lay to the north of Constantinople and was much frequented by Italian merchants, was totally abandoned after an incident there which led to its being besieged and attacked by hordes of Tartars who gathered in a short space of time. The Christian merchants, who had been driven out by force, were so terrified of the power of the Tartars that, to save themselves and their belongings, they fled in an armed ship to Kaffa, a settlement in the same part of the world which had been founded long ago by the Genoese.

The dying Tartars, stunned and stupefied by the immensity of the disaster brought about by the disease, and realizing that they had no hope of escape, lost interest in the siege. But they ordered corpses to be placed in catapults and lobbed into the city in the hope that the intolerable stench would kill everyone inside. What seemed like mountains of dead were thrown into the city, and the Christians could not hide or flee or escape from them, although they dumped as many bodies as they could into the sea. As soon as the rotting corpses tainted the air and poisoned the water supply, and the stench was so overwhelming that hardly one in several thousand was in a position to flee the remains of the Tartar army. Moreover one infected man could carry the poison to others, and infect people and places with the disease by look alone. No one knew, or could discover, a means of defense.”

D’mussi was thanked by the council for his detailed recounting of the horrors of Kaffa. The room was silent for what felt like ten minutes. Not a word among them. The Secretary the Council had finished his notes and was ready to hand them to the scribes for the meeting records. D’Mussi, was still standing in his place numb from his presentation.

“Doge Murta, with your permission, I would like to add to my story”. The Doge looked towards the Secretary to confirm correct council etiquette was being followed. With a node of his head, The Doge invited d’Mussi to continue.

“But behold, the whole army was affected by a disease which overran the Tartars and killed thousands upon thousands every day. It was as though arrows were raining down from heaven to strike and crush the Tartars’ arrogance. All medical advice and attention was useless; the Tartars died as soon as the signs of disease appeared on their bodies: swellings in the armpit or groin caused by coagulating humours, followed by a putrid fever”.

The Council had listened intently to d’Mussi. His plea was impassioned and detailed but Genoa would not be closed. There were too many trade links at jeopardy to implement extreme measures like a quarantine. Many cities of the Mediterranean would make the same mistake that year. The Doge died of the plague three years later in 1350. Like all of the trading cities of Europe, Genoa would lose at least one in three of the population.

Chapter 3 - Bordeaux

Harbour at Bordeaux Édouard Manet, 1871

Robert and Lydia turned out of the small lane from the surgery and headed down Bordeaux's main boulevard towards home.  This was not the grand Boulevards that Napoleon III built in Paris to make the city more open, hygienic and worthy of a pilgrimage. This was a Roman boulevard.  With two lanes allowing carts and humans to flow easily, it was a luxurious Roman boulevard. Porte de Garrnone connected this Southern region of France to its motherland England and the lucrative wine trade of the Plantagenet Royal House in Windsor.

Lydia by now was a lengthy distance from her father, hunger pushing her gently home. With a quick glance she realised her father was deep in thought, as usual. He had fallen back completely oblivious to the traffic building up behind him.  A small line of carts with produce for the port were now trying to make it down the gentle slope. Trying to make it to their destination before the sun went down.  Transport drivers are the same regardless of which millenia and Robert received suggestions about how quickly he should be moving.

Grabbing his arm, Lydia directed Robert to the side of the boulevard and gave the first cart rider a wave to acknowledge his patience. The cart driver continued to give Robert suggestions about how quickly to walk on the boulevard..

“I didn’t know you had any Frankincense.  Where did you receive it?”. Robert looked with a small smile on his face acknowledging Lydia’s observation. “What would you have prescribed for the old man?” Robert asked, now the Master not the father.

“Our spice remedy of course”. “Frankincense is much better”. “Well I know that”, Lydia gave a turse retort. “Where did you receive it?”, she asked again. No response was given, just the sound of the last of the carts heading to the port could be heard. You could see the masts of the English Mechant Cogs from the Boulevard. Bordeaux, was an economic powerhouse with it’s riverway harbour and nearby vineyards. Wine had been produced here since the Roman era and were now much loved in the wealthy homes of England.

“Where did you receive it?”. Still silence. “Father?”, she pressed. “Oh a long time ago” he finally replied. “That’s not what I asked you”. Lydia wanted to know how Robert had come to acquire the rare frankincense, Robert was saved from answering the question with their arrival at home. The traditional herringbone exterior that adorned the front the house donated Robert as a member of the merchant class. The manor houses of the elite vineyard owners were nowhere to be found in the bustling city of Bordeaux. They were located out of the city, away from the smells and the common folk.The manor house were less like a home and more like a village. Self sufficient estates divorced from the realities of city life. The Roman elites had lived this life and yet a thousand years after the fall of the western empire, this social premise showed little change. 

The entry to Robert’s home consisted of a small room that protected the rest of the house from Bordeaux’s hot southerly summer winds and the snow and northerly wind of winter. Robert and Lydia were greeted by a servant who took their cloaks.  “Father! Father! Father!”. A riot came towards the entrance. Twins, 5 years of age, red curly hair, bounced and jumped and clapped. Robert washed his hands thoroughly and did not stop his rather obsessive method of personal hygiene to entertain the riot. “Am I invisible to you little ones?”. The riot erupted again. “Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!”. This time the riot spread its circumference and little feet jumped in all directions. Up and down and around and around. Bouncing and hands clapping together , they danced round and around again. The riot was joined by yelping and barking with Nero, the black terrier, joining the dance.

Robert’s servant took his towel from him as he began to sit himself in the entry armchair. “You are looking a little old today Master”, Joseph said gently with a  glint in his eye. “I maybe a half a century on this world boy, but I still have colour in my hair and unlike you I can grow a beard if I choose”. Joseph nodded his head and as he took away his Master’s chattels, he was gently reminded of his position in society. “Joseph. Do not allow our familiarity to compromise you in the company of those that may be more judgemental”. “Thank you Master”, Joseph stopped and faced Robert. “Your wisdom has shone through with care as it always does”. He turned and returned to his duties.

“Where is my family!” Robert bellowed. The riot responded and Robert was enveloped in bouncing and dancing and dogs and love. Standing at the door to the entrance, was Eleanor with a broad smile on her face. Her Norman ancestry was obvious. Tall with that slight red tinge to her hair were traits of her Norman, Viking heritage. “Albert!”. “Philipa!”. “Please clean yourselves for the evening meal”. “Mother!” Lydia managed to separate herself from the riot and embraced her mother. Looking up almost eye to eye with Eleanor, Lydia gave that little giggle that a 14 year old does. “You are so short mother”. Lydia then guided the riot towards the dining room.

Eleanor took Robert’s hands. He was still sitting in his armchair. “Welcome home my love. I do not want to concern you, but you are looking a little old today”. “Does no one show respect to the head of this household any longer?” Robert asserted in a mock outrage. “Happy birthday my Master and Husband”. “Thank you my wife”. Robert smiled and rose from his armchair. He took  Eleanor’s arm and headed to the dining room. “How are your herbs?”. She inquired of her husband’s day. “If this incessant rain would stop, maybe they will stop rotting”. “Are you concerned?”. “Not yet”, Robert replied, “but let us discuss medicines at another time. I believe we have a birthday feast to enjoy”.

Chapter 4

Chapter 2 - In The Garden

Frankincense tree (Oman)
Wiki Commons

The garden looked beautiful. Ordered and peaceful, it was made up entirely of citrus trees and herbs. This was no household garden.There was a diverse range of exotic herbs that few in Bordeaux had seen before.  “Robert! Robert! Come! Come quickly”, called the young lady running towards him from the small building. Robert looked up with a small amount of disdain and a large amount of annoyance. But duty called.

“Lydia?”, a raised eyebrow seemed utterly unnecessary as Robert presented his dirty hands. Lydia could hear her Master's light sigh. From beneath her cloak she presented a small jug of clean water and a towel which was followed by a beaming smile of satisfaction. But alas no gratitude was reciprocated, just a purposeful cleaning of his extremities followed by a progression towards the small building at the front of the yard.

“Can I tell you my diagnosis, Robert?” Silence. “Can I?”. Silence.  The buildup of learning and understanding were like lava in the magma chamber of a volcano. “Gout!” Came a yelp. And now Robert could hear Lydia’s sigh. It was out. Lydia had assessed and diagnosed the visitor and required Robert to validate the diagnosis. The long strides Robert had made towards the building suddenly stopped. So quickly that Lydia ran into the back of him and with so much force that she bounced back. Robert turned and glared.  His head turned back and his long strides resumed.

Robert sat in his chair. The pressure on his feet slowly dissipated and the earlier sigh of annoyance had been replaced by a restful sigh.  He finished drying his brow and face and handed his towel back to Lydia.  “And who is my first patient for the day?” he politely enquired of Lydia.  “But Master, I have diagnosed the patient”. Lydia blurted again. Confidently she continued, “I simply need you to verify me diagnosis”.

Robert nodded his head and smiled. Lydia was uncertain whether he was being sympathetic or dismissive and then reality set in. It was dismissive.  “But Master!” an exacerbated Lydia implored. But Robert was not moved. His head was bent down and in a near meditation. Robert had given his towel back to Lydia and she spun around on her heels and headed into the next room flinging the towel into the corner approximately near the washing basket.

Lydia returned to the room with the old man, her arm leading him to a wooden stool. It was seating that was unlikely to support a small child. The old man happily took Lydia’s arm as he limped gingerly towards the stool. In front of him, Robert was sitting in his comfortable armchair. Robert looked up slowly, gradually making eye contact with the old man. “Name?”. Robert demanded. The old man did not reply, blissfully unaware that he was being asked a question. “Name?” Robert repeated himself looking directly at the old man then looking to Lydia. The patience of Robert’s short thread had now reached its end. His eyebrows seemed to rise incredibly high. His eyes seemed incredibly wide. His open palms were now directed at Lydia demanding an answer, “Name? What is this man’s name?”. The volume of the question elicited a response.

Lydia suddenly comprehended the situation, shook off the fog and offered the old man’s name. “Andrew. Andrew of Pauliac”. Lydia looked out of the corner of her eye towards Andrew to double check she got that right. One eyebrow rose. She paused and with no additional response from anyone else in the room, her eyebrow slowly lowed.

Robert lit a small incense candle and leaned forward, looking Andrew directly in the eyes. He stared deeply into Andrew’s eyes. Uncomfortably into Andrew’s eyes. Andrew fidgeted in his seat and was no longer able to withhold Robert’s stare. He leaned back demanding some action. “Young man. Are you going to look at me all day or are you going to fix my crippled knee?”. Robert did not respond. He continued to stare into Andrew’s eyes unflinching and continued to make everyone in the room uncomfortable. “Young man”, Andrew repeated himself, “Are you going to fix my crippled knee?”. But Robert merely responded, “I’m not young” and continued to stare into Andrew’s eyes.

“Well you can’t grow a beard I see’,  Andrew quipped. Robert ignored him. Lydia smirked. Andrew had an overwhelming need for Robert to stop staring directly at him. Robert had started to lean in, getting closer and closer. So close he could smell the rotten tooth Andrew had on the left side of his lower jaw. But Robert continued to stare. Andrew glanced his eyes towards Lydia looking for an exit strategy. “Look forward!”, barked Robert.  Andrew responded to the command and quickly realigned his gaze back to Robert. Lydia thought it was hilarious and began to laugh a hearty, youthful cackle. “Child. Silence.” Robert quietly requested silence. “Don’t worry Andrew, father often does that”. Lydia promptly corrected herself, “Sorry Master. Robert the Doctor does like to do his work in silence”.

Robert pushed his armchair back, stood to attention and headed over to his work bench. A collection of mortars, clay jars and small baskets sat atop of the bench. To the untrained eye, this was a rabble and even to some with a trained eye this was still a rabble. “Child, where is the Oriental Pot? I left it right here” pointing to some random pile of herbs and baskets. Lydia looked back to Robert blankly like he had asked for the King’s throne. She nervously glanced towards Andrew, back to Robert and moved forward towards the work bench. ‘Beside Robert’s right hand was a pot with markings of Greek script. Lydia picked it up and offered it to Robert. “You know in the Orient they speak Greek father”. He silently accepted the offering, opened the lid and took a deep breath taking a sensory inspection of the contents.

Removing a small piece of resinous amber, Robert gently shaved it into a powder onto a small cloth, wrapped it and firmly placed it in Andrew’s hand instructing the old man on how to use the remedy. “Add some to your wine in the morning”. Andrew looked back at Robert and saw the doctor looking at Lydia. Robert’s eyebrows were raised, “His eyebrows always seemed to raised”, Andrew thought to himself. Robert’s eyes widened, still looking directly at Lydia. He nodded at her. He nodded his head again, followed by a long sigh. Much longer than the previous one. Lydia jumped forward and helped Andrew to his feet. Guiding the old man to the door, Lydia could see Andrew was flummoxed by what had just happened and how it would help with his crippled knee.  “Do not worry Andrew. Add this the powder to your wine before you go to bed. Your knee will be much better in the morning”. Lydia would have written him a reminding note, but Andrew couldn’t read anyway. The old man stood on the dusty road outside of Robert the Doctor’s surgery. “Not in the morning?” Andrew asked, seeking clarification. “Before bed will make it work better”. Andrew looked back at the young woman. Lydia smiled at him but Andrew had a fearful look on his face. “I do not have the funds to pay for this remedy”. Lydia took Andrew’s hand that was holding his remedy and  brought it to her lips and kissed it. “It is a gift Andrew. Take it with your wine tonight. Perhaps Robert would like some bottles of wine from your special cellar next time you visit the city. Travel safely home Andrew”.

And with this she turned, closed the door gently and then stormed back to the observation room where Robert was shuffling through clay pots at his work bench. With a cry of exasperation Lydia berated him, “Father! Why didn’t you let me administer the remedy?”. Robert did not turn back to acknowledge the berating. “Anyone can shave some Frankincense and send an old man on his way!”. Lydia was looking for acknowledgement, but none was forthcoming. “Father! You are impossible!”. With a lack of acknowledgement from Robert, the young woman turned on her heels and headed for the exit. Lydia finally received her acknowledgement before she had left the room. “Call me Master when you are at the workplace please” said Robert quietly, not looking back. Lydia looked back to Robert and bit her lip and a gave him a stern frown. This was not going to be resolved today. “Father. It is time to go home for dinner. The sun is going down”. Robert put his pot down and headed for the door.

Chapter 3 

Chapter 1 - The Trebushe

A city under Mongol siege.
From the illuminated manuscript of Rashid ad-Din's
Jami al-Tawarikh. Edinburgh University Library
Wiki Commons

The sight of a trebuchet was always terrifying. From a distance, it all looked quite poetic. On release, the projectile swept around the axle and left the sling on its way with a woosh towards the foe. The projectile would buzz through the air as the resistance against the air created a sound. But it wasn’t the sound that brought a sense of dread. The sound of the rope tightening the sling in place, or the sound of man and horse loading the projectile were far off sounds out of range. Right now, it was the smell of the siege that was different and made both sides uncomfortable.

Soldiers on the castle wall could hear the release of the projectile and it’s buzz through the air. By the time they could hear the sound it is too late. The projectile, moving faster than the sound, was already there. The lookouts were junior officers. Many of the young men had already been apart of a siege before. For those new to the experience a besieging army of 20,000 men and the siege engines firing the projectiles made the occasional boy wet himself.

As well as lookouts, there were archers, swordsmen and runners along the wall. The runners were the fast boys, getting messages back and forth as fast as their legs would take them. Ancillary weapons men were there too. They were the dispensers of tar, hot oil and the occasional animal. The archers would sit back at a comfortable distance. They were clean. The ancillaries on the other hand saw death at close range. They knew the sights, sounds and smells of war.

The besieging camp produced a smell that neither side recognised. The projectiles flying into the moat were initially stones but now they were human bodies. Most had seen and smelt that before. Bodies, sometimes living, sometimes dead, hit the ground and exploded. The internal organs would breakfree and splatter across any surface in reach. The smell would be bearable if it could be cleaned up promptly. The smell this time was the smell of sickness. 

The bodies that made it over the wall were efficiently collected and dumped back over the wall,  into the moat on the north side of the city. The bodies began to build up and the harbour that sheltered the city to the south became the alternate dumping place. The bodies sent over the wall, sometimes living, were slaves who were captives of other conflicts.  Sometimes the bodies living, were those of spotters, caught spying on the besieging army.  Sending them back to the castle was a highly satisfying action for the besieging army. It sent their enemy a deflating reminder that their information networks had become less reliable.

The bodies, sometimes dead,  were the inevitable nature of a besieging army camp. The camps were a recipe for mass illness. Medieval medicine dealt with mass sickness by implementing a quarantine as early as possible. Removing the sickness from the environment using a trebuchet was an efficient method.

The besieger, Yani Beg, was seven generations and 120 years removed from the Greatest Khan, Genghis. The westernmost realm of the Mongol empire, controlled by Yani Beg, was known to the Europeans as the Golden Horde. They controlled the northern lands of the Black Sea in what we know as southern Russia and the Crimea.

The Black Sea and the Crimea were a valuable trading region. The Genoans had controlled the sea lanes here for almost 100 years having bought the port city of Kaffa from the Golden Horde in 1266.  They succeeded the Venetians, who had succeeded the East Roman Empire. The Eastern Romans were also known as the Byzantine Greeks and they had succeeded their ancient forebears of classical Greek city states long ago.

The Mongols were happy to do business with the Europeans. The slave trade made both parties rich. Thousands of slaves a year headed to the eastern capitals of Constantinople, Baghdad and Alexandria. The Genoans had long dispensed with the niceties of royal etiquette which made them look arrogant in the eyes of the Mongols. Yani Beg simply needed the Genoans to make some compromises. A little respect to the glory of the largest empire on the planet would ease the tension. This tension made trading in the Middle Ages a dangerous business.

The Mongols had dominated this part of the Western Steppe lands since Genghis Khan came in 1223. The Khan came from nowhere. He destroyed and looted and left as quickly as he came. As the descendants of Genghis established their own territories, the local inhabitant, The Rus, became the victims of the slave trade. The Rus, of Slavic and Nordic ancestry, were tall, strong and illiterate and rounded up in their thousands to be sold through the coastal Genoan colonies of Caulita, Lusta and Kaffa.

The city wall of Kaffa was 30 metres high with a moat as the secondary reinforcement protecting the low lying sections of the city. It was easily defended, but merchants didn’t need defensive measures when trade was going well. Equilibrium was reached with their neighbours when everyone made money. Trust, however, was the ingredient that made business and diplomatic relationships flow with ease.

Republics like Genoa and Venice had dispensed with royal courts to make obscene amounts of money amongst the merchant families. The Black Sea was ripe for exploitation with the Mongols not seafarers and the Byzantine emperor in Constantinople financially weak.  The Queen of Cities, Constantinople, was reclaimed in 1261. The Venetians had gleefully emptied the city of its great riches during the fourth crusade in 1204.

Michael VIII Palaiologos of Nicea had regained the city with the aid of Genoa and Constantinople again controlled the flow of shipping through the Bosporus strait and the Dardanelles. This gave clear and tax free passage for the Genoan trading fleet to leave the Black Sea and head to slave markets of the mediterranean.

The besiegers of Kaffa had been camped 900 metres from the walls for a year. This was not the first time Yani Beg had tried to take Kaffa. He tried and failed 5 years earlier. The need for him to enforce his superiority was rising. If you can't dominate a small trading centre syphoning funds from your empire how could you possibly master the imperial court? 

Diplomatic manoeuvring by Genoan envoys had not gone well. Unsuccessful embassies to the Golden Horde were returned to Kaffa using the trebuchet. The strategy was for the Mongols to merely settle in for a slow and merciless strangling. After all this was the most efficient method with minimal loss of equipment and manpower.

The challenge was now to stay patient. Not the strength of an army full of soldiers. A second winter was 6 weeks away and while Kaffa was located on the water of the Black Sea, this was still land of the Steppe. A place of bone rattling cold. An escalation of activity was required.

The summer and autumn of 1346 were unusual. The normal blisteringly hot and dry summer had been replaced with a warm humid air and continual rain that had left the ground wet. Soon to freeze solid. An escalation of activity was required.

Wet autumns always led to famine. Wheat for bread and barley for beer would go mouldy in the field. Even the Khan could not maintain a hungry army and with grumbling in the imperial court, Yanni Beg had chosen to lead the siege himself. The smell of a second failed siege of Kaffa would make his rule untenable. An escalation of activity was required.

The Genoese had been defiant and kept access to the sea open. Not just to receive food and arms from trade routes but to maintain hygiene. With the invention of antibiotics another 800 years away, minor infections could be life threatening. They had kept the city pristine despite the wet weather.

The same could not be said for the Mongol camp. A sickness had arrived with the Blue Horde, the Mongol court of central Asia. The Shaman of the Khan were master physicians with many having learnt their skills in the hospitals and surgeries of Baghdad. But the sickness in the camp was something they had not seen before. Large black infections raised up on the skin in the groin and the armpits. The infections were lanced to remove the fluids and treatment was finished with leeches.

Normally this was a successful remedy, but not for this outbreak. The odour released was clearly an omen. The Shaman saw a sign from God of evil doings and removing the sickness from the camp was a matter of urgency. With regular rain and cloudy days, fires could not be sustained and as a result the bodies continued to build up. The siege engines now had a new toxic biological weapon at hand and the plague of the Mongols was about to be shared with the Europeans.

A trebuchet can deposit a fully grown man over a city wall from approximately 700m. The range of an Archer of the Republican forces was 500m. The field engineers that drove the trebuchet were free to test counterbalance weights and trajectories without being pestered by arrows.

They drew the counterbalance back. Moved the locking device in place. Loaded the dead bodies into the sling. Fire away. The engineers reviewed the flight path, made a few adjustments to the swing and fired again. The city walls of Kaffa were in range.

The bodies were flying over the wall and hitting and breaking apart with the impact. Blood and brains and limbs and guts disperse across the forecourt of the markets. The Sergeant of Arms was called to the first impact of the biological weapons. To this veteran of the the crusades, something was wrong. Very wrong.

The smell of the corpse was more terrible than he had ever smelt before. The smell of death was unpleasant, acride and difficult. But this created an automatic response. The Sargent leant over and purged his lunch with a strong forthright vomit. The odours of the bodies were simply unbearable and they kept coming over the wall. The Mongols had a pile of them growing higher every day and the engineers had found their range.

Chapter 2

I Always Wished I Had Finished That Book

The idea of creating a novel is most certainly not novel. Anybody with a sense of creativity will at sometime in their life wanted to write themselves some type of book.  My presumption is that most of those that started this endeavor didn't expect that it would be published because they knew it would never be finished.

They found a quiet time in their life to get started on a very good idea, but life got in the way. Work, children, mental blanks and a vast array of other impediments placed the creative juices to a remote background. And with that, let's see if I have the capability to finish my endeavor. Historical Non-fiction is my attempt.

My interest in history goes back to a very young age. The only subject that I can recall being of more interest to me prior was astronomy. As I became a teenager, I reached my limit with astronomy when faced with the onslaught of baffling mathematics. And there it ended. Apart from an occasional space shuttle exploding, my interest in Astronomy disappeared.

History and it's connection to human nature has been a great fascination.  As a deep student of history I am endlessly frustrated with people who form opinions about historical figures or events based on how they feel rather than facts. If they did would we have wars? Probably.

Over the coming months I will start posting chapters of my attempt at a historical non-fiction called "A Tissue, A Tissue, We All Fall Down". When a medieval doctor is faced with the coming of the Black Death in the 14th century, how does he and his family survive?

Everything Is Go Astro Bunny

Everything is Go Astro Bunny

The last story in the series on wine labels; we look at a light-hearted but serious project by British Master of Wine Tim Wildmann. 


Project:  Fly to Australia, make a wine on a budget, with a deadline, get on a plane back to England - GO!


Astro Bunny is a project to produce as Tim puts it;
" A wine that has had its primary fermentation interrupted by bottling thereby rendering it naturally (naturel) sparking (pétillant) in the bottle".
Definition: Pétillant Naturel. (origin Fr.) abbrv. pet nat.





So have fun and dissect this 4 part story of wine made naturel:


Harvest Time in Australia

http://pet-nat.com/astrobunny/picking-it-2/

The easy step? - Winemaking

http://pet-nat.com/astrobunny/making-it/

What's In A Name

http://pet-nat.com/astrobunny/testing-it/

Sell, Sell Sell!

http://pet-nat.com/astrobunny/the-story-of-astro-bunny-2014/

Tim Wildman's Bio from webpage:

Tim Wildman is a British born MW who runs his own portfolio wine business involving travel, education and film.Tim became a Master of Wine in 2008 with a Dissertation on Australian wine, which is his professional speciality. You can read Tim’s Dissertation here 

He was awarded the Robert Mondavi Memorial prize for the highest score in Theory and his Dissertation achieved the highest pass mark in his year.With a background in teaching as well as wine Tim has helped dozens of MW students over the years to achieve their goals through his private tuition classes.

Tim has two travel companies specialising in wine tourism. James Busby Travel is a B2B company that takes wine trade professionals from around the world on educational tours to Australia.

Vineyard Safaris offers premium one day wine tours for private individuals and small groups in Australia

Tim is one half of film company Green-Shoot that provides wineries and wine companies with video content and integrated digital media solutions

He writes a monthly column for Australia’s Wine Business Magazine and prefers analogue to digital, in both music and wine. He divides his time between Europe and Australia

Don't Label Me

I would never buy a wine based on the label. My superior wine palate and knowledge means I don't need to resort to such trickery as a front label.




Wrong!

I'm a sucker for a wine label as much as any punter who goes into a bottle shop.


Exhibit A = Woods Crampton "The Big Show".

And fortunately for me, I'm not the only one who is susceptible to lures of wine marketers and their wily ways.



This Instagram post from Master of Wine Peter Scudamore-Smith, is acutely aware of the need for engaging labels.

For those interested in the psychology of wine labels and the ability of wine marketers to guide a customer in their purchasing behaviors. you can't go past this excellent article by News' Tony Love.

The story draws on insights from Professor Frank Lockshin from the University of Adelaide. Lockshin, a wine marketing expert and points out that on average a consumer takes 40 seconds to make a purchasing decision.


No pressure to get that label right.