One of the great joys of writing a novel is the need to do research—it gives you a guilt-free respite from having to actually write and, as a bonus, you get to learn about all sorts of neat stuff. “Secrets of Bari” required research into two completely distinct eras of history, covering dress, speech, technology, religion, geography, weapons and weather, as well as momentous historic events. I travelled to Italy where I met with an anthropologist, an archeologist, Dominican and Resistanza historians, and a priest who is a world-renowned authority on the life of St. Nicholas. For the modern story, experts on and off the internet shared with me copious amounts of data about robotics, prosthetics, and medical conditions.
It is truly amazing how many details you can unearth about life seventy or even nine hundred years ago. The bombing of Bari during World War II is a little-known event, but a few excellent books and online articles by survivors of the disaster gave me a window into the shock and horror of the experience. The Middle Ages, on the other hand, have been described in countless books, movies and TV shows down to painstaking detail—except for one thing: Italian merchant ships in the late 11th century.
A key portion of “Secrets of Bari” takes place on the Mediterranean Sea in 1087, and recounts the experiences of a young boy aboard a ship bound for the Lycian town of Myra (now in Turkey) for the purpose of stealing the remains of St. Nicholas. When Tom and I travelled to Bari for the Festival of St. Nicholas, Dr. Antonio Brusa, professor of Medieval Studies at the University of Bari, took us into the restricted archives of the Museo della Cattedrale where we were thrilled to watch him extract antique parchments from a drawer marked 1087. Later, Fr. Gerardo Cioffari of the Basilica di San Nicola in Bari was kind enough to direct me to two detailed accounts of the translation of the bones to Bari, one written the week the remains arrived, the other in the 13th century.
I was excited to discover that the Basilica archives even contain a manifest with the names of all the sailors who were on board during that fateful voyage. There they were, sixty-two sailors, priests and merchants listed by name: Commandante Alberto, Stefano Tarantino, Gittagno, Summo, Leone Pilillo, Disigio and Matteo or Matthew, the sailor who smashed through the bishop’s crypt and bathed in the oil from his bones. All at once my characters came alive, their quest no longer just a story, but the adventure of real men who lived and died and who lay beneath my feet, having been honored for their service with burial under the Basilica. It was a week of such discoveries, so I was surprised that no one was able to shed light on the number or names of the ships that participated in the quest, or even the type of ship. What to do?
Popular culture has planted some ideas in our minds about old ships. If you were asked to picture an ancient Roman or Greek ship, you could probably conjure up a fairly accurate image of a long boat with a sweeping prow, a single mast and rows of oars issuing from the sides. Likewise, an ancient Viking ship would be easily imagined as a narrow, shallow vessel with tall posts at each end crowned with ferocious serpent or dragon heads. Descriptions and images of these ships abound in books and online, as well as in epic films about Biblical times, going back two and three millennia. You are probably familiar with later ships too—the ships that carried Columbus to America, carracks and caravels with raised decks and deep holds and three or four sails.
I scoured the library and the internet for information on the history of ships, but like the images in my mind, there was a frustrating gap about ships during the specific time and place of my story. Archeologists have not found any shipwrecks dating from that period, so we are in an area of what is delicately known as historical speculation. Was Matthew’s ship clinker built with overlapping planks or carvel-built with planks laid edge-to-edge over a skeletal frame? Was it powered by a square or lateen sail? Was it long and narrow like the northern hulk or flat-bottomed with towers fore and aft, like the cog? The next 300 years would be a time of transition for shipbuilding throughout Europe. In a few years, travel would expand with the first Crusade, and developments in navigation would lead to the building of faster, more sophisticated merchant ships with multiple masts, greater storage capacity and navigation techniques making them capable of extended voyages on the open sea. In 1087, however, single-masted ships navigated by the stars at night and crawled along the coast by day.
In Secrets of Bari, the vessel that carries Matthew and the Barian crew to Myra is modeled on earlier Roman merchant ships, with some features, such as the raised forecastle, that were developing in Northern Europe at the time and would soon be common in the region. Both square and lateen sails were used during the period; I’ve chosen the lateen, or triangular sail, because it was popular on ships venturing into the open sea, as it allowed a vessel to tack into the wind. Thus, we have Matthew’s ship—a hybrid of the boats of the earlier part of the millennium and the rapidly evolving ships of the later Middle Ages.
Research into real people, places and historical events can yield fabulously enriching discovery and detail—or frustrating dead ends. But thankfully, novels are by definition fiction, and where evidence is in short supply, we can use what we know to make an educated guess about the mysteries that still prevail.
Peace and Love,