Fight to the Finish

 

AUTUMN 1379–JUNE 1380

Slowly, relentlessly, Venice was being squeezed dry because ‘the Genoese held [the city] locked tight, both by sea, and by land from Lombardy’. As autumn wore on the price of wheat, wine, meat and cheese rose to unprecedented levels. Attempts at replenishment proved disastrous; eleven light galleys loading grain further down the coast were caught and destroyed. The strain of guarding the palisades by night and day, waiting for the ringing of church bells, serving in the trenches on the Lido as the weather worsened, all started to take their toll. The Genoese meanwhile continued to receive plentiful provisions down the river routes from Padua. But after the eruption of popular anger at the fall of Chioggia, the patricians realised that it was in their better interest to take regard for the suffering of the poor. ‘Go,’ the people were told, ‘all who are pressed by hunger, to the dwellings of the patricians; there you will find friends and brethren, who will divide with you their last crust!’ A fragile solidarity persisted.

The only hope of relief was the return of Zeno, still far over the horizon. In November it was learned he was off Crete, after months of plundering Genoese shipping on a wide track between the coast of Italy and the Golden Horn. Yet another ship was despatched with all haste to call him back. Knowledge of his whereabouts raised a small hope.

Pisani’s seamen attempted to damage Doria’s supply chain. They used their knowledge of the inner lagoon, its creeks and secret channels, sandbanks and reed beds, to intercept the supply boats coming down the Brenta. With information passed by spies within Chioggia, teams of small boats probed the shallows, lying low at twilight to catch unwary merchants delivering grain or wine. Near the Castle of the Salt Beds, the beleaguered Venetian outpost close to Chioggia, they ambushed sufficient boats to force the Paduans to supply armed escorts, and to discourage merchants from making the voyage. They also had the advantage over the deep-draughted Genoese galleys, uncertain of the channels and liable to grounding if the water was low or they missed their way. Watching the movement of these ships closely, ambitious plans were made to trap isolated vessels, like hunters trying to down an elephant. Lying up at evening in the reed beds, using the cover of the fog and closing night to surprise a foe unable to manoeuvre, landing detachments of archers to shoot from the shelter of the clustering trees, setting fire to the reeds to confuse and obscure, taking short cuts to head off their prey, darting out from nowhere in rowing boats to the sudden blaring of trumpets and drums, they began to play on their enemy’s nerves. They had an emboldening success when they cornered and destroyed an enemy galley, the Savonese, and captured its noble commander.

It was a small triumph which had disproportionate effects on morale. Upping the stakes, Pisani attempted to snare three galleys on their way to bombard the Castle of the Salt Beds, but the plan was spoiled when the ships spotted the soldiers’ banners behind the reeds. Back-paddling furiously and under a bombardment of missiles from the banks, they slipped away. And Pisani had his outright failures; trying to reconnoitre Chioggia’s defences with increasing curiosity, he lost ten small boats and thirty men, including the doge’s nephew killed in the skirmish. But his close observation of the position of the enemy and the entrances and exits of the lagoon convinced him of the possibility of a daring strike. The disparity between the two forces was huge. The enemy had thirty thousand men, fifty galleys, between seven and eight hundred light boats, ample food supplies, access to timber, gunpowder, arrows, crossbow bolts. But they also had one hidden weakness, which he was certain they had not foreseen.

Some time in late autumn he put forward a proposal to the doge and the war committee for positive action. The city had its back to the wall. Zeno’s whereabouts were unknown; the people were wilting both from a lack of hope and a shortage of food; rather than let their morale dwindle to nothing, it was better to die on their feet. The plan was supported by Venice’s hired general, Giacomo de Cavalli. The senate accepted it and, perhaps still mindful of the sailors hammering on the chamber door, published a remarkable decree to harness all the resources of patriotic goodwill of a languishing people. For a hundred years, entry to the Venetian nobility had been closed to newcomers. Now the senate published a proclamation offering to ennoble fifty citizens who provided the most outstanding service to the Republic in its hour of need.

The resulting influx of money, resources and goodwill had a short-term galvanising effect on the mood of the people. The work fitting out the galleys was pushed forward in the arsenal; there was rowing practice in the Grand Canal for the inexpert oarsmen who volunteered for the operation, but it was touch and go. The sharpness of deprivation drove people wailing into the piazza. When would Zeno come? There was fear that any delay could prove fatal to the willpower of the city. It was impossible to wait for the missing fleet, and news from Chioggia that the Genoese and Paduans had fallen out over the distribution of booty suggested that the time was ripe. The old doge declared that he would lead the expedition as captain-general with Pisani as vice-captain.

Compulsion was also required: it was announced that all the oarsmen and soldiers should be boarded by noon on 21 December, under pain of death. The doge, Andrea Contarini, gathered the people beneath the banner of St Mark in the piazza; there was vespers in the church, then with great pomp the expedition prepared to sail. There were thirty-four galleys under their noble captains, sixty barks, four hundred small boats – and two large cogs, hulking merchantmen, whose role in the operation was crucial to its success. It was eight o’clock on the evening of the shortest day, the depth of midwinter, but the night was clear and mild, the sea calm, just a light breeze blowing. Contarini ordered the great Venetian banner of war to be unfurled. In silence, hawsers were untied and the expedition set out. The ships were divided into three parts. In the vanguard, Pisani with fourteen galleys and the two cogs; in the rearguard, ten more galleys; the doge took up the centre with essential equipment and the more experienced soldiers.

Pisani’s plan was simple but highly risky. He had closely observed the comings and goings of the Genoese; they had become complacent. Doria believed he held Venice in an iron grip, and that little more was required now to squeeze the remaining life out of a starving enemy. There were three maritime exits from Chioggia. Two, at either end of its lido, led directly out to sea; the third, the Lombardy Channel, ran behind the island and through the lagoon. Pisani’s idea was to block these exits, hemming the enemy in. The besiegers would become, in their turn, besieged.

Under the long hours of darkness the fleet moved forward unseen. For a short while a thick fog obscured everything, causing temporary dismay, then cleared as suddenly as it came. By ten o’clock they were off the Chioggia opening – the first objective. There were no ships; no disturbance; no guard. At dawn on 22 December, the galleys began to ferry men ashore on the Chioggia lido. Four thousand eight hundred troops were landed, along with carpenters and trenchers. Pisani meanwhile manoeuvred the cogs towards the mouth of the channel.

On the lido, the men started to erect a defensive bastion. The noise of the carpenters attracted the attention of a small detachment of Paduan soldiers lying low in the sand dunes, and battle was joined. Hungarian and Paduan troops advanced from Brondolo. Others poured across the bridge from Chioggia, and the Genoese fleet began a bombardment. The Venetians were pushed back and massacred as they tried to retreat to the ships. As they fled, six hundred were killed, drowned or taken captive. The bastion was quickly demolished, but in the meantime, under this distraction the cogs were being hauled into position – one near the shore, the second blocking the main channel. The first was bombarded and sunk; some Genoese swam out to the second and set it on fire. It burned down to the waterline and also sank. ‘And transported with pleasure at this deceptive victory, which prevented them from perceiving the difficulty, full of joy, they returned to Chioggia.’ Doria was complacent with success: ‘What the Venetians do in a day, I can undo in an hour,’ was his smug comment. But he had understood neither the enemy’s tactics nor the unintended effect of his own soldiers’ actions. The sunken cogs had effectively blocked the channel anyway. The doge proceeded to return with two more cogs laden with rocks, marble and large millstones, which were tipped into the submerged hulks, then wrapped with chains. They were now immovable barriers.

On the 24th the fleet moved down to block the southern exit to the sea – that of Brondolo. Two more cogs were towed into place. Too late Doria woke up to the gradual encirclement. He sent out galleys to destroy the Venetian task force, bombarding it with gunfire from his land batteries at Brondolo, but the Venetians again managed to sink the boats, and reinforced the barrier with tree trunks, ships’ masts and chains. Under heavy fire, engineers began the construction of a fort, the Lova, on the shore of Fossone opposite Brondolo. By 29th December it was well on the way to completion. On Christmas Day, or the day after, sailing round the lidi, Pisani completed his work by blocking the Lombardy Channel. Chioggia was now hemmed in; its only access was inland, via the rivers of central Italy.

As the channels were closed one after another, anxiety and desperation started to grip the Genoese. It was essential that they break the barricades. For the blockaders, despite their success, morale remained parlous. The galleys had to maintain an alert presence, day and night, on the lee shore. In the trenches at Fossone and on the tip of the lido of Pellestrina, adjacent to Chioggia, the Venetians were subjected to continuous bombardment. Food was in short supply; the winter cold was taking its toll on morale. Many of the men were civilian volunteers, artisans, merchants and craftsmen, rather than soldiers used to the vicissitudes of war. The English mercenaries, under their captain William Cook – Il Coqquo – were particularly vociferous. The doge tried to lead by personal example, swearing on his sword that he would never return to Venice unless Chioggia was taken. Despite this, the Venetians began to crack. There was no sign of Zeno. The men wanted to return to the city. On 29 December their misery reached its nadir: short of food, cold, under fire, forced to wade through the winter canals, they were at breaking point. Danger; tiredness; sleep deprivation; death; the now hateful lagoon – the murmuring became ominous. Many wanted to forsake Venice altogether for the Stato da Mar and sail away to Negroponte or Crete. Pisani attempted to rally the troops: if they disengaged, the chance of victory would be gone for ever. He argued that help was near; Zeno was on his way. Eventually the doge and his vice-general struck a bargain with the dissenters. If Zeno had not returned by 1 January they would lift the siege and return to Venice. There were forty-eight hours to save the city. It was known too that Doria was expecting further naval reinforcements.

The 30th and 31st passed in the cold and an agony of expectation. The dawn came up on 1 January. For the Venetians it was not the significant start of a new year – in their calendar this was celebrated on 1 March – but the breaking day was greeted with rapt anxiety. As the feeble winter light grew, fifteen sails could be seen on the southern horizon. They were too far out to determine the flags – the lion of St Mark or the cross of St George. The Genoese watched from the towers of Chioggia, the Venetians from their ships and trenches. Impatient, and deeply worried, Pisani sent out light boats to reconnoitre. As they drew within line of sight, they could see the flag of St Mark run up a masthead. It was Zeno, back from a damaging run across the eastern seas, inflicting huge losses on Genoese commerce. He had blocked the flow of reinforcements and supplies to Doria by sea and taken seventy ships including an immensely rich merchantman, which he towed behind his galleys. It was a decisive turn of events and it signalled a profound psychological shift in the fortunes of war.

Faced by these naval reinforcements the Genoese now struggled with increasing desperation to find a way out. The two seaward exits from the town, at Brondolo and the Chioggia channel, were guarded by Zeno and Pisani respectively. They needed to keep a force of galleys on station, day and night, against the threat of a breakout. The winter weather was ferocious; the onshore winds and strong currents threatened continuously to sweep the vessels onto the enemy coast. One evening, towards dusk, with the sirocco blowing hard up from the south and a boisterous current, Zeno’s ship was torn from its moorings and pushed towards the Genoese forts. Instantly it was met with a hail of missiles; Zeno was hit by an arrow in the throat. The ship was wallowing in the swell, drifting slowly into the jaws of death. The crew, cowering under the bombardment, begged their stricken commander to strike the flag and surrender. The indestructible Zeno would have none of it. He plucked the arrow from his throat and barked out an order to a sailor to dive overboard with a tow rope and swim back to the mooring. Cuffing his crew into silence, he ran across the deck, fell down an open hatch, landed on his back and knocked himself out. Bleeding from a head wound, he started to choke on the blood; close to death from suffocation, he came dimly to and turned himself over. He lived to fight on.

Given the appalling conditions, and the narrowness of the Brondolo channel, it was decided to keep just two galleys on station; the remainder were harboured a mile down the coast, within trumpet call, if the need arose. Seeing this, on the night of 5 January Doria made a determined attempt to remove the obstructions. Three Genoese galleys armed with large grappling hooks and stout cables advanced in line up to the entrance on the channel. Their aim was to drag the sunken ships, spars and tree trunks out of the mouth. As the first one reached the entrance, the leading Venetian galley sounded its trumpet and advanced to attack. The Venetians managed to board the first vessel, but the other two, coming up behind, attached hooks to their Venetian opponent and passed the cables to the banks of the canal, where a large body of men hauled the helpless ship back towards the port of Brondolo before aid could arrive. The second Venetian galley, forced back by a volley of arrows, could do nothing. Many of the Venetians threw themselves overboard and drowned as the triumphant Genoese reeled in their prize. Zeno arrived too late.

So began a pattern of moves and countermoves in the narrow waterways and marshlands at the edge of the lagoon. The Genoese tried continuously to find a way out of the steel net; the Venetians to keep it drawn tight. The following day the Hungarian troops made a determined assault on the Chioggia channel. They were driven back. In Genoa, news of the sudden reversal of fortune caused alarm. On 20 January they despatched a new fleet of twenty galleys under Matteo Maruffo; like Zeno however, the Genoese admiral took a wide view of his brief, roving across the sea, capturing Venetian grain ships, sacking ports. He would not reach Chioggia for another four months.

Venice held the exits closed but had failed to prevent river traffic resupplying the stricken town. It was also desperately in need of supplies itself. Three galleys were sent up the Po with a detachment of soldiers to retake the strategic castle of Loredo, which controlled river access to the city of Ferrara. Its capture allowed men and supplies to be floated down to Venice. As news spread that the Republic now encircled Chioggia, merchants began to risk sending wine, cheese and grain back to the city again. Prices were still high but hope rose.

The fortress at Loredo had been reduced with the help of two massive bombards, individually named the Trevisana, which fired a stone ball of 195 pounds, and the slightly smaller Victoria, with a shot of 120 pounds. These two primitive cast-iron tubes, banded with iron hoops to reinforce them against the threat of explosion, were unloaded at the fort opposite Brondolo. The practice was to load the cannon in the evening – a lengthy process of lugging an enormous stone ball into its chamber – and fire them as dawn broke, when the Genoese would still be concentrated in Brondolo. This wake-up call was accompanied by a heavy bombardment of rocks from catapults. The bombards were notoriously inaccurate, but against large static objects at reasonable range the chances of a hit were good. On the morning of 22 January the Trevisana scored a major success. Its mighty stone bullet struck the campanile of Brondolo. A large chunk of masonry collapsed in the square, killing Pietro Doria and his nephew. ‘With great laments and grief the bodies were taken to Chioggia and salted so that they could be returned to Genoa.’ The following day falling masonry killed another twenty men. Many more died when the bombards hit a monastery taken over by the troops. Doria was replaced by Gaspare Spinola, but day by day the grip was tightening: ‘Neither their galleys nor their supply ships could leave harbour, with the bombards and catapults always firing and damaging them.’ And Venice knew the tide was turning. Pushing their resources to the limit, they hired five thousand Milanese and English mercenaries at the start of February to drive home the advantage before help could arrive. It was now the Genoese who stared anxiously out to sea for sight of a relieving fleet; they were still able to get supplies downriver from Padua but they could not escape. Unable to force the maritime blockade, they began cutting a new channel across the Brondolo lido to the sea. As soon as it was finished, they aimed to slip galleys out at night to Zara for supplies.

Across Italy the war between the maritime republics was yet again causing disquiet and the papacy started on one of its periodic attempts to separate the warring parties. Venice showed interest – the outcome of the fight was still far from clear – but negotiations with the allies involved a slow-motion round of Hungary, Padua and Genoa.

The escape channel being dug across the lido worried Venice. A decision was taken to snuff out the menace with an attack on Brondolo. On 18 February Zeno was appointed general-in-chief of the land forces of the Republic with orders to take the village and its command post in the monastery. He had fifteen thousand men at his disposal. As the galleys and the troops massed before dawn the following day there was a change of plan. It was decided instead to tackle the tower and bastion at Little Chioggia which controlled the bridgehead to Chioggia itself, to prevent reinforcements coming across. Fighting at the bridgehead quickly grew fierce. A large Genoese detachment advanced from Brondolo; more were rushed across from Chioggia; both were repulsed by the Venetian troops. The Genoese scattered. Some fled through the reed beds, waded the canals or drowned; more turned and fled back across the bridge in blind panic. So many crowded onto the wooden structure that it cracked and collapsed

It was a sudden and catastrophic collapse of Genoese morale. It was said afterwards that ‘anyone who wished for a suit of armour for a few shillings might have bought as many as he liked from those who stripped the dead’. After this disaster Brondolo was untenable. The Genoese sent their bombards by galley to Chioggia. Two hours before dawn the next day they fired the monastery, burned their siege engines and departed in galleys – some to Chioggia, but many of the Paduans abandoned the siege altogether. Brondolo was taken without a shot fired. Pisani managed to save two galleys that the Genoese had tried to fire ‘and many barks and small boats and other things abandoned in the rush’. Zeno now set up camp hard across the canal from Chioggia itself and drew up bombards and catapults, ‘which hurled huge rocks day and night into the town, shattering housing and killing people’. ‘I remember’, wrote one eyewitness, ‘that our galleys were sometimes so close to Chioggia that stones were thrown into it without number.’

At this critical moment the Venetians were affected by the same indecision as had overtaken Doria early in the siege. ‘The common opinion was that the Venetians could then have taken Chioggia, if they had attacked it at once; but they did not risk it.’ In a neat symmetry, they preferred to starve it into submission, squeezing the passes and waterways towards Padua ‘so that not a letter or a single thing might go from Chioggia to Padua, and that the Genoese, being unable to escape, would use up all their supplies’. The failure to capitalise on the rout at the bridge had an unexpected effect within the town. It actually improved Genoese morale. They expelled the Venetian women and children to eke out supplies and sat down to wait. The contest dragged on through the spring. The lord of Padua continued to besiege the key Venetian city of Treviso; down the coast at Manfredonia the slowly approaching Genoese relief fleet captured an entire Venetian grain convoy; a Venetian spy, dressed as a German, was discovered and tortured to reveal the Republic’s war plans. The pope went on pressing for peace.

The hope in Chioggia now rested on a Genoese naval rescue and the lord of Padua. Despite Venetian efforts, supplies still managed to make their way downriver. In a daring pass, when the river was full, forty barges were floated downstream loaded with food, weapons and gunpowder. They forced their way past a feeble river guard and made it into the town. The Venetians responded by blocking all the approaching waterways with palisades and doubling their armed boats. When the supply boats tried to return they were met with fierce resistance and had to turn back. The marshland and waterways behind Chioggia became the terrain for amphibious warfare: boatloads of men fighting in the rivers; infantry floundering through canals; ambushes among the sedge. The Genoese held a string of fortified water mills, which the Venetians assaulted. On 22 April they launched a major attack on a mill but were pushed back, ‘and because of this victory those in the mill greatly rejoiced and lit fires, by which those in Chioggia learned what had happened’. The following day battle was rejoined. The Venetians again attacked the mill, while the Genoese despatched eighty boats from the town to destroy the palisades and reopen the waterway to Padua. Warned of the approach, the Venetians suspended the attack on the mill; going stealthily through the cover of the reeds they ambushed the Genoese breakout, ‘and with wild shouts and the firing of many bombards and arrows they began a fierce battle’. The boat crews abandoned their vessels and fled through the reed beds and dry channels. Only six boats got away. It was an ill-omened day for Genoa: 23 April was the feast day of St George. Henceforward no further supplies could reach the beleaguered town.

Despite continued minor successful counterattacks, the pressure on Chioggia was now unrelenting. The Venetians could sense that the end was near. The old doge, who had been in temporary camp on the Pellestrina lido for four winter months, had written to the standing war committee on 22 April, pleading age and infirmity and requesting to be allowed to return. The Venetians, as unbending to state servants as to enemies, politely refused. Contarini was the ‘life blood, the security, the morale’ of the whole enterprise. He remained at the siege. And no concessions were given to the hated enemy. Supplies inside Chioggia were running low. There was discord between the Genoese and their allies, many of whom wanted to lay down their weapons and depart. The Venetians roundly declared they would hang anyone whom they caught leaving the town. They wanted to starve Chioggia as fast as possible, before a Genoese relief fleet could appear. Inside, ammunition was giving out. The defenders were reduced to eating rats, cats, crabs, mice, seaweed. The water, lifted from badly made cisterns, was foul. They stared anxiously out to sea. It remained a blank.

Desperate negotiations ensued. The defenders agreed to surrender so long as they were allowed to go free. Venice refused: surrender would be unconditional and a deadline fixed – after that date, everyone captured would be hanged. The deadline passed. The Genoese kept watching the sea. On 6 June, ‘at the hour of terce’, Maruffo’s fleet was sighted. People climbed on the house roofs, crying, shouting, waving flags. The Genoese admiral fired a shot challenging Pisani to battle; the invitation was refused. Every day Maruffo reappeared with the same challenge. Eventually Pisani sailed out and chased the Genoese several miles down the coast. From the rooftops, the defenders watched with unspeakable pain the flag of St George recede.

*

The guns had fallen silent in Chioggia. The powder was used up. The defence was at its last gasp. Venetian and Genoese officers began parleying over the walls. The pope’s legates again tried to arrange a truce, but the Venetians folded their arms. Maruffo returned from Zara on 15 June with an augmented fleet, yet again dangling his galleys off Chioggia. A last effort was made to break out. Makeshift boats were constructed from any available wood – crates, beds, house timbers. A message was sent to Maruffo to send his ships off the lido for a rescue attempt. It failed hopelessly; the ramshackle craft were impeded by the ring of palisades in the canals. They were intercepted, captured and sunk. Maruffo withdrew. On 17 June, the Genoese released their prisoners and sent three ambassadors to Zeno’s camp. They made one final attempt to wriggle free, trying to cut a side deal with the mercenary troops: Chioggia could be sacked in return for a safe conduct. The mercenaries had to be appeased with the right to sack the town anyway as long as all the prisoners were given up. One dissenting condottiere was hanged between the two columns to keep the hired men in line.

On 21 June, a deputation to the doge’s camp was forced to accept unconditional surrender. The following day the commander, Spinola, hoisted the flag of St George for the last time; the impotent Genoese fleet sailed up yet again. Spinola ordered the flag to be struck as a signal of surrender. Maruffo replied with a smoke signal, begging the defenders to hold out just a little longer. There was no reply. ‘They understood that it was all over at Chioggia. They returned [to harbour] completely downhearted.’

On 24 June, the doge entered the shattered town; after ten months the banner of St Mark was raised over Chioggia once more, and the defenders, haggard, hollow-eyed, cadaverous, more dead than alive, staggered out to surrender. The victors carefully sorted their prisoners; they used a shibboleth to separate the Paduans, Hungarians and mercenaries from the Genoese. Asked to pronounce the word capra (goat), the Genoese could only accurately reproduce their dialect version, crapa. Four thousand Genoese were marched off to makeshift prison camps where many died; those who could say capra were freed.

On 30 June 1380 the doge was finally allowed to return to Venice. He made his entry in the Bucintoro, ornately dressed and decorated for the occasion. It was rowed by a hundred captured oarsmen and followed by seventeen dejected Genoese galleys, their flags trailing in humiliating defeat. They were the sole remnant of the fleet that had set out to bridle the horses of St Mark. Accompanied by Pisani, the Golden Boat returned in triumph to the city among a swarm of small craft, the clanging of bells, the firing of guns, the boom and thunder of victorious noise. So thick was the throng of jubilant people that it was almost impossible to force a way through the crowd for the ducal procession to St Mark’s, where the thanksgiving for the deliverance of Venice was celebrated with a solemn mass.

*

For the Venetians there was a saddening afternote. Pisani died six weeks later, chasing the remnant of Maruffo’s fleet across the Adriatic. After being at sea almost continuously for over two years, he succumbed to wounds and fever on 15 August at Manfredonia. The people of the city were grief-stricken. No Venetian admiral was ever loved so much or mourned so deeply. He was the subject of popular clamour to the last; his funeral procession to the Church of St Anthony inspired an explosion of popular emotions. A band of sailors shouldered their way through the crowd and hijacked the bier, shouting, ‘We his children are carrying our brave captain to our father St Anthony!’

But when peace came at the Treaty of Turin the following year, it was less a victory than the avoidance of defeat. Venice regained her land territory in the Trevigiano, but the Dalmatian coast remained in Hungarian hands. Restored at Constantinople, Venice was again excluded from the Sea of Azov. Competition between the two republics would continue as before. And the almost forgotten island of Tenedos, which had sparked the whole conflict, was demilitarised. Its fortress was demolished, the Greek population forcibly resettled on Crete. It was a solution that would please no one but the Turks, who now used the abandoned harbour as a base for piracy.

Venice had outlasted Genoa less through military supremacy than through the durability of her institutions, the social cohesion of her people and their patriotic adherence to the flag of St Mark. After the humiliation of Chioggia, Genoa imploded. Ten successive doges were deposed in five years; in 1394 the city handed itself to the French kings. For Venice such surrender was unthinkable. It would prefer to drown in its own lagoon. By the sixteenth century, when Veronese added a painting to the ducal palace of the doge’s triumphant return, the meaning of Chioggia was clearer. On the rebound of almost catastrophic defeat, Venice would eventually win the contest for Mediterranean trade. The enmity would remain but the Genoese contention was progressively enfeebled.

Effigy of Pisani from his tomb

 

There were other consequences for both republics still over the horizon, like a storm brewing far out to sea. The Genoese–Venetian wars repeatedly stalled papal plans to scotch the growing Ottoman threat. By 1362 the Ottomans had virtually encircled Constantinople; in 1371 they shattered the Serbs; by the end of the fourteenth century their territories stretched from the Danube to the Euphrates.