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.

You'll Love An Act Like this

De Bortoli Wines are one of the family wineries that often get tarnished because of their heritage. There success was built on affordable wines produced out of the grape processing factory that is Griffith.

And yet with many successful family businesses, the on going generations add depth and diversity to this original success. They adapt to find relevance to the society that they live in, make a living and consequentially creating a legacy.

And this is happening today with Leanne De Bortolli and her Yarra Valley division. With insightful marketing and modern winemaking from De Bortolli's husband Steve Webber.

Located on the Melba Highway in the upper Yarra, DeBortolli's have produced a beautiful range called La Boheme. A node to the Highway named after Australia's first entertainment superstar abroad, Nellie Melba and her role as the tragic Mimi in the Opera "La Boheme"

Be assured that this range is no tragic Opera, but with four distinct acts, the La Boheme is, as discussed earlier, insightful marketing and modern winemaking.

Act One is a Riesling blend, in what is a revisit of the classic Alsace wines of Riesling, Pinot Gris and Gewurztraminer.

Act Two a Pinot Gris blend is also a  look at the Alsace blends, this time includes riesling, Pinot Blanc, Gewurtztraminer and the interloping Piedmont varietal, Favorita.

Act Three is the very pretty Pinot Rose.

And Act Four is a Shiraz Gamay red to finish the opera.






Tasting Notes

Act One - Riesling

Blend: Riesling (93%), Pinot Gris (5%) and Gewurtz (2%)

Clean fresh. Slightly briney.White nectarine

Aromatic - rose petal, white peach

Juicy lingering acidity. Slightly bulky green apple middle and back end as the wine warms up.

Yummy.



Act Four Syrah /Gamay

In certain circles the Shiraz and lighter variety blend has quite the following. There are those who don't - only thing wrong with Shiraz Viognier is Viognier? This is a great lunch time wine.


Colour: Magenta - to garnet

Red Rose aromas - anise/clove

Slightly reserved in the fruits: Red fruits - raspberries.

Slightly heavy on the oak to the deteriment of the fresh fruit.

Soft delicate tannins, juicy acidity.

Lingering length

I've Got 99 Bottles But This Book Ain't One

The Psychology Of Wine Labels; Part 1


Wine labels. Do wine snobs still buy based on what a label looks like? You bet they do. 

This is a little warm up to a series of stories on the Psychology of Wine Labels. 

Creative Design companies don't always get the opportunity to show off their portfolio to the general public. 

99 Bottles Of Wine by CF Napa Brand Design is a beautiful book with a US focus. 

http://99bottlesofwine.com/

99 Bottles of Wine: The Making of the Contemporary Wine Label  is a celebration of this unique and evolving art form. David  Schuemann, Owner and Creative Director of CF Napa Brand Design, reveals the inspiration and strategic thinking behind ninety-nine of the most successful packaging designs from thecompany’s portfolio—from solutions for boutique producers 

Difficult Teenagers That Grow Up To Be Lovely Adults

Like most agricultural pursuits, wine is totally at the mercy of the environment; be that the rain, the amount of sun or even the soil type. Despite the variation of environmental conditions it is always remarkable that there are still some flavours that remain consistent from a defined piece of land. There is a French agricultural term called 'terroir', (pronounced Tair-wah) that is now commonly used to describe this characteristic.

One of the most famous and noble French regions, Burgundy, is a text book example of the understanding of terrior. This is primarily because of the uninterrupted production of high quality grapes over at least a millennium. The behavior of individual vineyard style is well understood. As a basic rule, Pinot styles in the north around Dijon are robust, earthy styles, and approaching the southern town of Beaune, Pinot will soften to a more delicate fruited style, showing characters of strawberry and ripe cherry.

On the surface, Pinot would appear to be highly at the mercy of its location and of course that is true but when you consider Shiraz in the Australian example, the same is the case. Grown in such disparate locations as Margaret River, Barossa Valley, Hunter Valley and even the cold climes of  northern Tasmania, Shiraz presents itself in many different guises.

Commercial realities dictate that popular wine styles should maintain a high degree of uniformity from one season to the next; after all, loyalty is built out of consistency. Preferably good consistency. This can be considered relevant for products to meet a mass-market or non-wine geek segment because explaining the variation does require a significant engagement from the consumer.

So where does the title for this article come in? Despite all of the pessimism of wet and challenging vintages that can be faced by grape producers, there is the opportunity to recover perfectly acceptable commercial wines. Looking at the Tower Estate case which I see everyday, I can share some of the pain of producing wine that initially may appear like an awkward gangling teenager and how it will develop into a really lovely adult.

Panorama Vineyard in Tasmania

Tower Estate has, for several years, been sourcing Pinot Noir from the Panorama Vineyard in the Huon Valley. Near the village of Cradoc, The Panorama Vineyard, owned by Michael Vishacki is a southern Tasmanian treasure. You can see the location of the vineyard in more detail if you click on the Google map. 

A cool climate location, Cradoc is at the limits of producing viable fruit for wine production in the southern hemisphere. Early ripening red varieties like Shiraz have no chance of ripening in time before wineter arrives, leaving only Pinot Noir and Chardonnay to consistently produce the best quality fruit.

In the Tower Estate example, the 2009 vintage Panorama Vineyard Pinot Noir won a trophy at the Hobart Royal Show. The 2010 Panorama Vineyard Pinot Noir was highly acclaimed, with the famous Australian wine writer James Halliday giving the wine a rating of 96 points; his highest rated Pinot Noir of that year. 

The old addage that a wine is made in the vineyard is a relavent one, so looking at weather conditions that year should give us an indication of how such high quality fruit was produced. The table below is from the Bureau of Meteorology, and compares a 30 year average with the 2010 rainfall figure; the nearest BOM station to the Panaroma Vineyard is the town of Geeveston.  The most notable feature is that during the growing period between January and April when rainfall was generally below the average but sufficient for good grape production. 

The table below by contrast shows the 2011 vintage which reflected difficult growing conditions, with above average rainfall across many wine growing regions in southern Australia and in this specific example, the Huon Valley in Tasmania, where Tower Estate was going to buy top quality, very expensive Pinot Noir grapes.

Notice the spike in rain in April? April is such an important time in picking grapes. You do not want rain just at the time you are trying to ripen the grapes and concentrate flavours. But the 2011 vintage brought almost double the average rainfall, with over 100 mm of rain for the the month.  With these adverse circumstances we have all the ingredients for "A Difficult Teenager" wine in the making. This is the time that the skill of the vineyard owner comes into play; minimising the risk of disease and the total loss of a crop. But it is also the time for the winemaker to work hard and make gentle touches with the processing of grapes in the winery.

Note: This article was originally written in 2013 when I worked in direct marketing at Tower Estate in the Hunter Valley. 

Manky Cherries Are A Thing

Wine gets better with age - right? Right? Anyone? Taste is such a personal thing and aged wine sometimes bring characters to them that don't always ring bells for me. The key to the recipe is tannins. Tannins those elusive compounds that apparently make wine the bees knees.

Spanish Tinto

These large complex compounds that are drawn from the wine skins as well as the barrels during maturation are anti-oxidant in nature. You know? the healthy antioxidant.

During the maturation process the tannin compounds will slowly chew up the interesting characters that make a young wine, a young wine. The purple colours and fresh fruit characters.

With their antioxidant effect, the tannins will oxidise these delicate flavours and colours, giving way to the underlying red colour and savoury flavours.

And that is an aged wine. 

Now the Spanish Tinto I tried recently received the following review;

         Well that was a challenging wine.

         Manky cherries, sock-it-to-ya oak 

         spewing out the anise and a slippery 

      acidity to clean it up. One for the wine fans

 #notthattheresanythingwrongwiththat

So if we get serious for one moment, let's translate my dodgy words into a serious tasting note describing this 9 year old wine. And below is a tasting note from the Importer Echelon Wines as a young wine.

Tasting Note:

With a slightly smelly nose that disappears with decanting, the wine is dominated by a slightly over ripe cherry character, followed by a star anise, licorice strongly reflecting new oak that once blended in with the delicate fresh fruit characters. The savoury finish and fine delicate tannins, that sneaks in the end is balanced off with a fresh bright acidity that makes this still a great food wine.

Echelon Wines - 2011
Deep red in colour with purple hues, the VT displays a nose of blackberry, lively spicy fruits, currants, and freshly sawn wood notes. The upfront lifted red fruit palate presents exciting and fun licorice flavors with elegant tannins and a well balanced acid structure.

Is it better? For me no. But for many it is; but the key most importantly is that it is different and that is the joy of wine. Diversity in style, the variation and the unpredictability.  Enjoy.

A New Year Resolution

Of course a New Year's resolution is meant to be broken; after all what would the human frailty be without failure.

The origin of a New Year's resolution is murky at best, but my suspicions are that it was born of some futile Victorian Era piety. Those guys were party poopers if ever there was a generation to dampen things.

None the less, my endeavour is the write some more. I enjoy the research aspect of writing. Pulling together ideas that may produce a coherent and engaging narrative. A narrative that people will freely invest their time in. 

Ideas don't come easily nor freely and most certainly not chronologically. They take time to ferment and stew and are utterly obvious to deadlines; implied or imposed. But with some inspiration from the Spanish lateral thinker, Picasso I push on to hone this craft. For those looking for similar inspiration you can find some of his insights at Brain Pickings here. 

And my final thoughts on the subject come from this simple saying I discovered recently. I actually had it said to me firmly this year. It is necessary occasionally, but I do wish for enough energy for it to come from within, rather than have it pointed out. Be careful what you wish for? 

So... proceed 2015.

Underrated Get A Leg Up

Most wine buffs have a region that they adore; but feel the wine styles or region itself don't receive the recognition it deserves. For me...? Queensland's Granite Belt.

A district that has been producing wine for over 40 years and yet often suffers from old growing pains undeservedly. In my opinion, more a reflection of the state of public perception rather than reality.

This week, James Halliday's 'The Wine Companion', features the Granite Belt. Check out the article here. 

I hope you find a producer that will be your new favourite.

Getting Your Hands Dirty

Many people are coming to the realisation that we live in an era of convenience and getting away from our roots of food production. For me, this issue set in when I left the food production industry in 1997 for. My concern was that too many people were leaving regional areas and we were seeing rationalization of industries like dairy production. This led to factories around the country being shut down and effectively closing down small towns as a consequence.

Newcastle City Farmers Markets

By the early 2000's there seemed to be an early movement in the "Tree Change" concept with communities rediscovering the love of their region and investing in ventures like wineries and cheese factories, farmers markets and boutique ventures that brought people to visit. It was the birth of food tourism. 

Along with this development of regional food, we also saw to rise of the Television celebrity chef and the continued promotional of regional food.  With this process now coming into the mainstream with shows like "Masterchef", "My Kitchen Rules" and even the personal favourite, The Great Australian Bake Off, the joy of home cooking has meant a proliferation of small produce markets and importantly a diversification of farming revenue streams. My local is the Newcastle City Farmers Markets which are held each Sunday at the Newcastle Show Grounds. The diversity of regional produce is outstanding. 

On the home garden angle, this historically been left to pensioners with time on their hands and to the conspiracy theorists believing there is an end of the world not far around the corner. Around  1999 with all of the guf about Y2K computer issues, the stocking up of cans in the pantry didn't seem unreasonable.

Bees doing their thing on the citrus blossom

Forums like Instagram and Twitter are wonderful environments to share the love of growing food. While it may seem fashionable it doesn't take away from the self satisfaction of producing your own goods that you have made with your own labour and just a drop of sweat. 

Eating produce in season is the result of this process and it certainly forces you to change your approach to cooking. The need to stay with a given product for a month or even two, but cook with variety, is a challenge that brings diversity to the cooking repertoire. 

This past month has seen a concerted effort to use all of my lemons in a vast array without putting thins in jars. Verdict? Enjoyed the strawberries, lemon mouse in puff pastry, topped with roasted almonds.

Lost For Words

Calliope was the most important of the nine Greek Muses of mythology.

The Muse of great epics.

That is all.

Heritage Lost

A cellar door environment is such an amazing place to meet a diversity of people. In a place like the Hunter Valley you are  always likely to meet people who work in the mining industry and those that you meet a most likely to be at a relatively high level in the organisation.

Discussion almost always politely leads towards the balance of mining and agriculture. Sometimes I am cheeky enough to discuss environmental rehabilitation programs; always a favourite, because of course as soon as you discuss water table protection and soil profile you get a change of subject - heritage lost.

The Hunter Valley is a place of heritage lost from many different perspectives as I am certain many of the Dairy Industry could tell you. From a miners perspective, there is much money being spent to demonstrate that co-habitation with agriculture is viable long term; go to the NSW Miners Page for more information.

The corporate raiders who make decisions on our lifestyle come from many different fronts and many different eras. For a look at wine rationalization during the 20th century one only needs to look at the treatment of the Lindemans name by companies like the cigarette manufacturer Philip Morris, followed by corparate winemakers, Southcorp.

This story is best articulated by the "Best Wine Under $20" webpage; the article is titled "Death by a Thousand Cuts".

And to finish on a positive note, heritage is never lost when passionate families get behind their own region and invest for the long term. There is a no better example of this than the Tyrrell family, headed by Bruce Tyrrell http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bz_084MGzPM.

Alternate Grape Varieties

                       

Of all the subjects on wine that I have researched over the years, this paraphrased article from the 1st Century AD historian Pliny The Elder proves one thing. As humans, we remember little and we learn from nothing. Harsh, but please humour my little academic exercise in what are alternative wine varieties.

                        I cannot sufficiently express my astonishment, that some  

                        grape varieties and even their names have become totally 

                        extinct, and lost to history; while some varieties written 

                        about by various authors, have wholly disappeared from

                        modern production.

                       Despite the loss of these ancient varieties, who does not 

                       readily admit that with modern communication methods 

                       we have made a rapid progress in access to an incredible 

                       array of new alternative wine styles and varieties to enjoy? 

                       Pliny The Elder - Natural History Encyclopedia (79 AD)

                     

CHAP. 1 —THE NATURE OF THE VINE. ITS MODE OF FRUCTIFICATION.

Pliny The Elder - Wikipedia

One of the most well known wine quotes of Pliny is the phrase "In Vino Veritas" which is often translated to "in wine there is truth". Another translation which is perhaps more accurate and perhaps intended is, "Drinking wine leads to the truth".

DRINK WINE, MAKE WORDS - The Wine Cellar

Wine cellars are such beautiful places; mostly dark, quiet, peaceful places. Sometimes decorated. Sometimes neat. Sometimes messy. But always likely to present a surprise.

A wine cellar is the repository of the owner's past, present and future endeavors. Maybe it holds the wine that was inherited, or collected for old friends to share and reminisce over. On the other side a cellar whispers the aspirations of the future and places yet to have arrived at. 

Stepping into my own wine cellar, the room has a clean floor and polished walls of refrigeration panel. The wines are stacked in neatly positioned racks. Not obsessively ordered - not far from it. I feel it needs some more work; to make it authentic. But the space was previously a hen house - how more authentic does it need to be?

When the weather is cold and you need to find something to warm the cockles of your heart, accessing wine requires commitment. A trek through the garage, out to the back of the yard, through a shed and into the cellar. 2 sets of keys are required to get through this labyrinth as well as exposure to the elements - it takes commitment.

What to drink? With a large cellar, sometimes the choices are too difficult. But heading to the Pinot section is always fun. You get down on your knees searching for something elusive, something that probably disappeared long ago. 

Hold on. What have I got? Rub the dust and a little bit of mould too.  

You beauty... 2008 Giant Steps Gladysdale Pinot Noir.