Dubrovnik: Pearl of the Adriatic

The city you are entering is the old town of what was once the Republic of Ragusa. From thirteen fifty-eight, when Ragusa finally freed itself from Venetian domination, until eighteen oh eight, when Napoleon arrived and abolished the republic with a stroke of a pen, this was an independent sovereign state — one of the longest-surviving republics in European history. It was not an empire. It was not a kingdom. It was a merchant republic, governed by a senate of noble families, whose only obsession was the preservation of its freedom.

The republic's motto was written in Latin in the antechamber of the Rector's Palace: Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro. Freedom is not to be sold for all the gold in the world.

They meant it. For four hundred and fifty years, Ragusa surrounded by the Ottoman Empire to the east and the Habsburg Empire to the west, paid tribute to both simultaneously, played them off against each other, and maintained its independence. They were not the strongest military power in the Adriatic. Venice was bigger, richer, more powerful. But Venice fell in seventeen ninety-seven. Ragusa survived eleven more years before Napoleon. The secret was not walls. It was diplomatic genius.

In fourteen sixteen, Ragusa became one of the first states in the world to formally abolish the slave trade. One hundred and forty years before Britain's abolition debate even started, Ragusan merchants were fined and imprisoned for participating in the buying and selling of human beings. This was not sentiment. It was rational policy: the senate calculated that a reputation for justice was worth more in the long run than the profits of slavery.

Take a moment and look at the walls rising to your left as you face the gate. What you are seeing is the result of three hundred years of continuous construction — Minceta Tower at the top, the maritime walls falling to the sea on the right. We are going in through the gate now. Your first stop is about fifty metres ahead on the left.

Walk across the bridge, through the outer arch, through the inner gate, and into Stradun. Turn left at the Franciscan Monastery doorway. Your next stop is directly in front of you.

The city you are entering is the old town of what was once the Republic of Ragusa. From thirteen fifty-eight, when Ragusa finally freed itself from Venetian domination, until eighteen oh eight, when Napoleon arrived and abolished the republic with a stroke of a pen, this was an independent sovereign state — one of the longest-surviving republics in European history. It was not an empire. It was not a kingdom. It was a merchant republic, governed by a senate of noble families, whose only obsession was the preservation of its freedom.

The republic's motto was written in Latin in the antechamber of the Rector's Palace: Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro. Freedom is not to be sold for all the gold in the world.

They meant it. For four hundred and fifty years, Ragusa surrounded by the Ottoman Empire to the east and the Habsburg Empire to the west, paid tribute to both simultaneously, played them off against each other, and maintained its independence. They were not the strongest military power in the Adriatic. Venice was bigger, richer, more powerful. But Venice fell in seventeen ninety-seven. Ragusa survived eleven more years before Napoleon. The secret was not walls. It was diplomatic genius.

In fourteen sixteen, Ragusa became one of the first states in the world to formally abolish the slave trade. One hundred and forty years before Britain's abolition debate even started, Ragusan merchants were fined and imprisoned for participating in the buying and selling of human beings. This was not sentiment. It was rational policy: the senate calculated that a reputation for justice was worth more in the long run than the profits of slavery.

Take a moment and look at the walls rising to your left as you face the gate. What you are seeing is the result of three hundred years of continuous construction — Minceta Tower at the top, the maritime walls falling to the sea on the right. We are going in through the gate now. Your first stop is about fifty metres ahead on the left.

Walk across the bridge, through the outer arch, through the inner gate, and into Stradun. Turn left at the Franciscan Monastery doorway. Your next stop is directly in front of you.

Look at the fountain now. It is a large sixteen-sided domed basin. Around the base, sixteen carved stone faces are set into the walls, one on each face of the polygon. Water flows from their mouths. You can drink it — the water is still clean, still fed from the same source, still free.

Originally the fountain was two-tiered, with an elaborate upper basin decorated with stone carvings and statues. On the sixth of April, sixteen sixty-seven, an earthquake measuring approximately six point nine on the Richter scale struck Dubrovnik at just after eight in the morning, when the streets were full of people. In the space of about one minute, the upper basin of this fountain, most of the medieval city, and approximately five thousand people — about half the population of Ragusa at the time — were gone. What you see now is what remained of the lower basin after the earthquake, cleaned up and restored.

The water was free to every citizen of Ragusa, at any time, without charge. In medieval Europe, that was remarkable. The public provision of clean water as a civic right, not a commercial transaction, was genuinely unusual. The fact that the Republic built and maintained a twelve-kilometre aqueduct to achieve it tells you something about what kind of government Ragusa was.

At the far end of Stradun, near Luža Square, there is a smaller fountain — the Little Onofrio Fountain, also designed by della Cava, also fourteen thirty-eight. It's still there. Still running. We will pass it later.

When you're ready, walk east along Stradun. About thirty metres on your left is the entrance to the Franciscan Monastery.

Look at the fountain now. It is a large sixteen-sided domed basin. Around the base, sixteen carved stone faces are set into the walls, one on each face of the polygon. Water flows from their mouths. You can drink it — the water is still clean, still fed from the same source, still free.

Originally the fountain was two-tiered, with an elaborate upper basin decorated with stone carvings and statues. On the sixth of April, sixteen sixty-seven, an earthquake measuring approximately six point nine on the Richter scale struck Dubrovnik at just after eight in the morning, when the streets were full of people. In the space of about one minute, the upper basin of this fountain, most of the medieval city, and approximately five thousand people — about half the population of Ragusa at the time — were gone. What you see now is what remained of the lower basin after the earthquake, cleaned up and restored.

The water was free to every citizen of Ragusa, at any time, without charge. In medieval Europe, that was remarkable. The public provision of clean water as a civic right, not a commercial transaction, was genuinely unusual. The fact that the Republic built and maintained a twelve-kilometre aqueduct to achieve it tells you something about what kind of government Ragusa was.

At the far end of Stradun, near Luža Square, there is a smaller fountain — the Little Onofrio Fountain, also designed by della Cava, also fourteen thirty-eight. It's still there. Still running. We will pass it later.

When you're ready, walk east along Stradun. About thirty metres on your left is the entrance to the Franciscan Monastery.

Go inside if you can. The cloister, the garden at the centre, dates from around thirteen sixty. Its columns are Romanesque, with capitals carved into faces of animals and humans — each one different, each one quietly remarkable. The stone is worn soft by centuries of hands running along it.

The monastery library survived the sixteen sixty-seven earthquake because the monks had time to pull manuscripts from the burning buildings before the fires spread. The collection includes illuminated manuscripts from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, medical texts, correspondence, and the only contemporary chronicle of the earthquake itself — written by a monk who survived it and recorded what he saw.

When you're ready, step back onto Stradun and continue walking east. You are now on the main street of what was once one of the most sophisticated republics in the Mediterranean.

Go inside if you can. The cloister, the garden at the centre, dates from around thirteen sixty. Its columns are Romanesque, with capitals carved into faces of animals and humans — each one different, each one quietly remarkable. The stone is worn soft by centuries of hands running along it.

The monastery library survived the sixteen sixty-seven earthquake because the monks had time to pull manuscripts from the burning buildings before the fires spread. The collection includes illuminated manuscripts from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, medical texts, correspondence, and the only contemporary chronicle of the earthquake itself — written by a monk who survived it and recorded what he saw.

When you're ready, step back onto Stradun and continue walking east. You are now on the main street of what was once one of the most sophisticated republics in the Mediterranean.

For four hundred years, the street was lined with Gothic merchant houses, loggias, and ecclesiastical buildings built up gradually over medieval centuries. Then came the earthquake of sixteen sixty-seven.

The sixth of April, sixteen sixty-seven. It was a Tuesday. At just after eight in the morning, when Stradun was busy with merchants opening their shops and citizens on their way to morning Mass, the earth moved. A magnitude six-point-nine earthquake struck the city. The shaking lasted less than a minute. When it stopped, the street you are standing on was rubble. The medieval city — seven hundred years of accumulated stone architecture — was largely gone. The Rector, the Bishop, and most of the Ragusan nobility died in the first few seconds when their buildings collapsed. Around five thousand people out of a population of about ten thousand were killed. Fires burned for three weeks.

What happened next is the defining story of Ragusan character. Within months, the Senate — reconstituted from whoever survived — passed a reconstruction ordinance. Every building on Stradun was to be rebuilt. Every building on Stradun would be exactly the same height, exactly the same width, exactly the same style. Stone facades, identical doorways, green shutters. The ornate individual merchant houses that had lined the street before the earthquake were replaced with a single uniform Baroque streetscape, designed as a coherent unit.

That ordinance is why Stradun looks the way it does today. The uniformity you see — all those identical facades, each three storeys, each with a ground-floor shop and identical stone doorframes — is not accident or tradition. It is legislation. The rule still holds. The shutters are still green. The stone is still maintained. The Republic that built this died in eighteen oh eight, but its building code survived it by two hundred years.

Continue walking east toward the square.

For four hundred years, the street was lined with Gothic merchant houses, loggias, and ecclesiastical buildings built up gradually over medieval centuries. Then came the earthquake of sixteen sixty-seven.

The sixth of April, sixteen sixty-seven. It was a Tuesday. At just after eight in the morning, when Stradun was busy with merchants opening their shops and citizens on their way to morning Mass, the earth moved. A magnitude six-point-nine earthquake struck the city. The shaking lasted less than a minute. When it stopped, the street you are standing on was rubble. The medieval city — seven hundred years of accumulated stone architecture — was largely gone. The Rector, the Bishop, and most of the Ragusan nobility died in the first few seconds when their buildings collapsed. Around five thousand people out of a population of about ten thousand were killed. Fires burned for three weeks.

What happened next is the defining story of Ragusan character. Within months, the Senate — reconstituted from whoever survived — passed a reconstruction ordinance. Every building on Stradun was to be rebuilt. Every building on Stradun would be exactly the same height, exactly the same width, exactly the same style. Stone facades, identical doorways, green shutters. The ornate individual merchant houses that had lined the street before the earthquake were replaced with a single uniform Baroque streetscape, designed as a coherent unit.

That ordinance is why Stradun looks the way it does today. The uniformity you see — all those identical facades, each three storeys, each with a ground-floor shop and identical stone doorframes — is not accident or tradition. It is legislation. The rule still holds. The shutters are still green. The stone is still maintained. The Republic that built this died in eighteen oh eight, but its building code survived it by two hundred years.

Continue walking east toward the square.

The building served simultaneously as the customs house, the mint, the state bank, and the public library. The inscription above the interior archway reads, in Latin: Fallere nostra vetant et falli pondera, meque pondero cum merces, ponderat ipse Deus. Translated: Our scales are forbidden to cheat and to be cheated. When I weigh the merchandise, God weighs me. That was the customs house motto. The Republic was telling merchants, at the moment they paid their duties, that dishonesty had cosmic consequences.

Today Sponza Palace contains the State Archives of Dubrovnik — original documents from the Republic, some going back to the eleventh century — and on the ground floor, the Memorial Room of the Defenders of Dubrovnik. That room contains photographs and names of the eighty-two people killed defending this city in nineteen ninety-one and ninety-two, when Yugoslav Army forces and Montenegrin paramilitaries blockaded the port, shelled the surrounding hills, and fired artillery into the old town. The old town was completely demilitarized. There were no military installations here. They shelled it anyway. Sixty-eight percent of the Old Town buildings sustained damage. CNN broadcast the footage live. The international outrage that followed helped end the siege.

Now look to the right, in front of the Bell Tower. That is Orlando's Column. It was erected in fourteen eighteen. Orlando — Roland — was a Frankish knight who, according to Ragusan legend, defended the city from Saracen pirates in the eighth century. The column was the official centre of the Republic's commercial life: decrees were read aloud from its base, the standard Ragusan measurement unit — the Ragusan ell, roughly fifty-one centimetres — was the length of Orlando's stone forearm, carved on the column's base. When the Republic was at peace, its flag flew from the top of this column. When it was at war or in danger, the flag came down.

The flag of the Republic — white with the word Libertas in red — came down for the last time on the thirty-first of January, eighteen oh eight, when Napoleon's General Lauriston marched into Dubrovnik and ordered the republic dissolved.

The building served simultaneously as the customs house, the mint, the state bank, and the public library. The inscription above the interior archway reads, in Latin: Fallere nostra vetant et falli pondera, meque pondero cum merces, ponderat ipse Deus. Translated: Our scales are forbidden to cheat and to be cheated. When I weigh the merchandise, God weighs me. That was the customs house motto. The Republic was telling merchants, at the moment they paid their duties, that dishonesty had cosmic consequences.

Today Sponza Palace contains the State Archives of Dubrovnik — original documents from the Republic, some going back to the eleventh century — and on the ground floor, the Memorial Room of the Defenders of Dubrovnik. That room contains photographs and names of the eighty-two people killed defending this city in nineteen ninety-one and ninety-two, when Yugoslav Army forces and Montenegrin paramilitaries blockaded the port, shelled the surrounding hills, and fired artillery into the old town. The old town was completely demilitarized. There were no military installations here. They shelled it anyway. Sixty-eight percent of the Old Town buildings sustained damage. CNN broadcast the footage live. The international outrage that followed helped end the siege.

Now look to the right, in front of the Bell Tower. That is Orlando's Column. It was erected in fourteen eighteen. Orlando — Roland — was a Frankish knight who, according to Ragusan legend, defended the city from Saracen pirates in the eighth century. The column was the official centre of the Republic's commercial life: decrees were read aloud from its base, the standard Ragusan measurement unit — the Ragusan ell, roughly fifty-one centimetres — was the length of Orlando's stone forearm, carved on the column's base. When the Republic was at peace, its flag flew from the top of this column. When it was at war or in danger, the flag came down.

The flag of the Republic — white with the word Libertas in red — came down for the last time on the thirty-first of January, eighteen oh eight, when Napoleon's General Lauriston marched into Dubrovnik and ordered the republic dissolved.

In the year nine seventy-one, a Ragusan merchant named Stojko was checking his fishing nets in the harbour. He looked up and saw an old man in a bishop's vestments standing on the shore. The bishop told him that a Venetian fleet anchored in the harbour was planning to attack Dubrovnik at dawn, and that the city should prepare. Stojko reported the vision to the consul, the city prepared, and when the Venetian fleet attacked — it attacked. The attack was repulsed. The old man in the vestments was declared to be St. Blaise, and from that day he was the patron of Dubrovnik. Whether the story is literally true is beside the point. The Ragusans believed it, and that belief shaped the city. His image is carved above every gate, built into every church, sewn onto every processional banner.

The church you are looking at now is actually the third on this site. The first was built in the eleventh century. That was destroyed in the sixteen sixty-seven earthquake. The second was built quickly as a replacement, but burned down in a fire in seventeen oh six. This one was finished in seventeen seventeen.

Go inside. The high altar contains the silver-gilt statue of St. Blaise that has been the most precious object in Dubrovnik for eight hundred years. He is holding a model of the city in his left hand — a miniature Dubrovnik, about thirty centimetres long, cast in silver, showing the city as it looked in the sixteenth century, before the earthquake. That model is the most accurate record we have of what medieval Dubrovnik looked like. The Cathedral you can see in miniature on the altar is the original Romanesque cathedral, gone since sixteen sixty-seven. The Rector's Palace. The Bell Tower. All of it, preserved in silver, carried to safety by the monks who grabbed what they could as the buildings fell.

Walk out the south door and turn left. The Rector's Palace is about sixty metres to the south on Pred Dvorom street.

In the year nine seventy-one, a Ragusan merchant named Stojko was checking his fishing nets in the harbour. He looked up and saw an old man in a bishop's vestments standing on the shore. The bishop told him that a Venetian fleet anchored in the harbour was planning to attack Dubrovnik at dawn, and that the city should prepare. Stojko reported the vision to the consul, the city prepared, and when the Venetian fleet attacked — it attacked. The attack was repulsed. The old man in the vestments was declared to be St. Blaise, and from that day he was the patron of Dubrovnik. Whether the story is literally true is beside the point. The Ragusans believed it, and that belief shaped the city. His image is carved above every gate, built into every church, sewn onto every processional banner.

The church you are looking at now is actually the third on this site. The first was built in the eleventh century. That was destroyed in the sixteen sixty-seven earthquake. The second was built quickly as a replacement, but burned down in a fire in seventeen oh six. This one was finished in seventeen seventeen.

Go inside. The high altar contains the silver-gilt statue of St. Blaise that has been the most precious object in Dubrovnik for eight hundred years. He is holding a model of the city in his left hand — a miniature Dubrovnik, about thirty centimetres long, cast in silver, showing the city as it looked in the sixteenth century, before the earthquake. That model is the most accurate record we have of what medieval Dubrovnik looked like. The Cathedral you can see in miniature on the altar is the original Romanesque cathedral, gone since sixteen sixty-seven. The Rector's Palace. The Bell Tower. All of it, preserved in silver, carried to safety by the monks who grabbed what they could as the buildings fell.

Walk out the south door and turn left. The Rector's Palace is about sixty metres to the south on Pred Dvorom street.

The Republic's founding insight was that power corrupts, and that the best way to prevent corruption was to make every position of power temporary, isolated, and non-renewable. No Rector served twice consecutively. No man accumulated enough time in power to build a personal network or extract private benefit. The government ran continuously — there was always a Rector — but no individual ran it for long.

Above the entrance to the palace, carved in stone, is the inscription the departing Rector saw when he walked back into public life: Obliti privatorum, publica curate. Forget private affairs. Attend to public ones.

The building itself has a complicated history. The original Gothic palace was damaged by a gunpowder explosion in fourteen thirty-five — the Republic stored its gunpowder in the basement, directly beneath the seat of government, which in retrospect was an unusual choice. It was rebuilt. In fourteen sixty-three, another gunpowder explosion. Rebuilt again. The sixteen sixty-seven earthquake damaged it a third time, but the Senate chose to restore it rather than demolish and rebuild, which is why it retains Gothic and early Renaissance elements alongside later Baroque repairs.

Inside, the Cultural History Museum has period rooms preserved as they appeared during the Republic: the Rector's study, the state chambers, the private apartments. One room has a bronze bust of Miho Pracat, a Ragusan merchant who became the richest man in the Republic in the late sixteenth century and left his entire fortune to the state when he died. He was the only private citizen the Republic ever honoured with a statue during his lifetime. Gratitude, institutionalised.

Continue south, about eighty metres, to Dubrovnik Cathedral.

The Republic's founding insight was that power corrupts, and that the best way to prevent corruption was to make every position of power temporary, isolated, and non-renewable. No Rector served twice consecutively. No man accumulated enough time in power to build a personal network or extract private benefit. The government ran continuously — there was always a Rector — but no individual ran it for long.

Above the entrance to the palace, carved in stone, is the inscription the departing Rector saw when he walked back into public life: Obliti privatorum, publica curate. Forget private affairs. Attend to public ones.

The building itself has a complicated history. The original Gothic palace was damaged by a gunpowder explosion in fourteen thirty-five — the Republic stored its gunpowder in the basement, directly beneath the seat of government, which in retrospect was an unusual choice. It was rebuilt. In fourteen sixty-three, another gunpowder explosion. Rebuilt again. The sixteen sixty-seven earthquake damaged it a third time, but the Senate chose to restore it rather than demolish and rebuild, which is why it retains Gothic and early Renaissance elements alongside later Baroque repairs.

Inside, the Cultural History Museum has period rooms preserved as they appeared during the Republic: the Rector's study, the state chambers, the private apartments. One room has a bronze bust of Miho Pracat, a Ragusan merchant who became the richest man in the Republic in the late sixteenth century and left his entire fortune to the state when he died. He was the only private citizen the Republic ever honoured with a statue during his lifetime. Gratitude, institutionalised.

Continue south, about eighty metres, to Dubrovnik Cathedral.

Whether this is true cannot be confirmed. There are no surviving documents from Richard's court that mention Dubrovnik. Ragusan historians were not immune to embellishing a useful story, and a founding gift from the King of England would have been extremely useful. But Dubrovnik has told the story for eight hundred years, and Richard the Lionheart spent years at sea, and stranger things have happened in the Adriatic.

What is true is that there was a Romanesque cathedral here from the twelfth century, that it was one of the finest churches in the eastern Adriatic, and that the earthquake of sixteen sixty-seven destroyed it in its entirety. The current Baroque cathedral was built between sixteen seventy-one and seventeen thirteen, designed by Andrea Buffalini of Urbino.

The Treasury inside is worth entering. It contains one of the most significant collections of relics in Europe: the gilded reliquary of the skull of St. Blaise, shaped like a Byzantine imperial crown, decorated with enamel portraits of saints; the reliquaries of his arm and leg, in separate gold cases; and a Byzantine cross from the eleventh century containing, according to the cathedral, a fragment of the True Cross, set in gold and enamel.

These objects were not looted from Constantinople or stolen from crusades. They were accumulated by a merchant republic over centuries, purchased, traded, and received as gifts. The treasury is a physical record of Ragusa's connections to Byzantium, Jerusalem, Venice, Rome, and the Ottoman court — a portable museum of the Mediterranean world.

When you are ready, walk west and south toward the sound of voices. You will find a wide stone staircase rising toward a Baroque church. That is your next stop.

Whether this is true cannot be confirmed. There are no surviving documents from Richard's court that mention Dubrovnik. Ragusan historians were not immune to embellishing a useful story, and a founding gift from the King of England would have been extremely useful. But Dubrovnik has told the story for eight hundred years, and Richard the Lionheart spent years at sea, and stranger things have happened in the Adriatic.

What is true is that there was a Romanesque cathedral here from the twelfth century, that it was one of the finest churches in the eastern Adriatic, and that the earthquake of sixteen sixty-seven destroyed it in its entirety. The current Baroque cathedral was built between sixteen seventy-one and seventeen thirteen, designed by Andrea Buffalini of Urbino.

The Treasury inside is worth entering. It contains one of the most significant collections of relics in Europe: the gilded reliquary of the skull of St. Blaise, shaped like a Byzantine imperial crown, decorated with enamel portraits of saints; the reliquaries of his arm and leg, in separate gold cases; and a Byzantine cross from the eleventh century containing, according to the cathedral, a fragment of the True Cross, set in gold and enamel.

These objects were not looted from Constantinople or stolen from crusades. They were accumulated by a merchant republic over centuries, purchased, traded, and received as gifts. The treasury is a physical record of Ragusa's connections to Byzantium, Jerusalem, Venice, Rome, and the Ottoman court — a portable museum of the Mediterranean world.

When you are ready, walk west and south toward the sound of voices. You will find a wide stone staircase rising toward a Baroque church. That is your next stop.

The stairs became known to a global audience of hundreds of millions in twenty-fifteen, when the HBO television series Game of Thrones filmed the scene known as the Walk of Shame on these steps. Cersei Lannister descended from the Sept of Baelor — which was this staircase — through a crowd of hostile citizens, in a scene that required three days of shooting and several hundred extras. If you watch that episode today you will recognise this view exactly.

Game of Thrones filmed eight seasons in Dubrovnik between twenty eleven and twenty nineteen, using Stradun, the city walls, the fort across the harbour, the port, and numerous other locations as King's Landing. The city estimates that the series added several hundred thousand visitors per year to its tourism numbers. On any given summer day, about fifty people will be on these stairs recreating that scene.

When you are ready, walk east and north through the old town alleys toward the sea — about three hundred metres downhill. You are heading for the Old Port.

The stairs became known to a global audience of hundreds of millions in twenty-fifteen, when the HBO television series Game of Thrones filmed the scene known as the Walk of Shame on these steps. Cersei Lannister descended from the Sept of Baelor — which was this staircase — through a crowd of hostile citizens, in a scene that required three days of shooting and several hundred extras. If you watch that episode today you will recognise this view exactly.

Game of Thrones filmed eight seasons in Dubrovnik between twenty eleven and twenty nineteen, using Stradun, the city walls, the fort across the harbour, the port, and numerous other locations as King's Landing. The city estimates that the series added several hundred thousand visitors per year to its tourism numbers. On any given summer day, about fifty people will be on these stairs recreating that scene.

When you are ready, walk east and north through the old town alleys toward the sea — about three hundred metres downhill. You are heading for the Old Port.

Ragusa built its wealth on maritime trade, and by the fifteenth century it had the third-largest merchant fleet in the Mediterranean, behind only Venice and Genoa. Ragusan ships carried grain, salt, silver, wool, and spices between the Ottoman Empire, the Italian city-states, the Iberian kingdoms, and the Levant. The Republic had consulates in Alexandria, Constantinople, Lisbon, London, Antwerp, and dozens of other trading cities.

The Ragusan commercial system had one feature that set it apart from its competitors: it worked with everyone. Venice and Genoa were Christian states that periodically went to war with the Ottoman Empire, which disrupted their trade routes. Ragusa paid tribute to the Ottoman Sultan — an annual sum of gold — and in exchange was granted safe passage through Ottoman waters and free access to Ottoman ports. They maintained diplomatic relations with both the Pope and the Sultan simultaneously, which required considerable diplomatic skill and no small amount of institutional hypocrisy. It worked.

Now look northeast across the water, about seven hundred metres offshore. That dark wooded island is Lokrum, where Richard the Lionheart supposedly sheltered in eleven ninety-two. The ferries leaving from this dock reach Lokrum in about fifteen minutes. The island has a medieval Benedictine monastery, a botanical garden planted by Archduke Maximilian of Austria in eighteen fifty-nine, a saltwater lake connected to the sea, and a population of feral peacocks descended from Maximilian's ornamental birds. It is worth an afternoon.

And one more thing about this port. In nineteen ninety-one, this harbour was blockaded. The Yugoslav People's Army controlled the Adriatic approaches. The electricity was cut. The water supply was cut. The population of the old town — about eight hundred residents — was under siege. On the sixth of December, nineteen ninety-one, which happened to be the feast day of St. Nicholas, Yugoslav Army forces shelled the old town for ten hours. The shells hit Stradun, the Cathedral, the Franciscan Monastery, the Sponza Palace, and the City Walls. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, completely demilitarized, was shelled by an army in front of the world's cameras.

The siege lasted until August nineteen ninety-two. Eighty-two people were killed. The War Photo Limited gallery, about two hundred metres north of here on Antuninska street, has a permanent exhibition documenting the siege and its aftermath, alongside photographs from other conflict zones. It is the best war photography gallery I know of in any tourist city in Europe. If you have time, go.

And that is Dubrovnik. The Republic lasted four hundred and fifty years, survived empires, an earthquake, and a siege. The limestone is still here, still polished, still reflecting the afternoon light. Hvala vam. Thank you.

Ragusa built its wealth on maritime trade, and by the fifteenth century it had the third-largest merchant fleet in the Mediterranean, behind only Venice and Genoa. Ragusan ships carried grain, salt, silver, wool, and spices between the Ottoman Empire, the Italian city-states, the Iberian kingdoms, and the Levant. The Republic had consulates in Alexandria, Constantinople, Lisbon, London, Antwerp, and dozens of other trading cities.

The Ragusan commercial system had one feature that set it apart from its competitors: it worked with everyone. Venice and Genoa were Christian states that periodically went to war with the Ottoman Empire, which disrupted their trade routes. Ragusa paid tribute to the Ottoman Sultan — an annual sum of gold — and in exchange was granted safe passage through Ottoman waters and free access to Ottoman ports. They maintained diplomatic relations with both the Pope and the Sultan simultaneously, which required considerable diplomatic skill and no small amount of institutional hypocrisy. It worked.

Now look northeast across the water, about seven hundred metres offshore. That dark wooded island is Lokrum, where Richard the Lionheart supposedly sheltered in eleven ninety-two. The ferries leaving from this dock reach Lokrum in about fifteen minutes. The island has a medieval Benedictine monastery, a botanical garden planted by Archduke Maximilian of Austria in eighteen fifty-nine, a saltwater lake connected to the sea, and a population of feral peacocks descended from Maximilian's ornamental birds. It is worth an afternoon.

And one more thing about this port. In nineteen ninety-one, this harbour was blockaded. The Yugoslav People's Army controlled the Adriatic approaches. The electricity was cut. The water supply was cut. The population of the old town — about eight hundred residents — was under siege. On the sixth of December, nineteen ninety-one, which happened to be the feast day of St. Nicholas, Yugoslav Army forces shelled the old town for ten hours. The shells hit Stradun, the Cathedral, the Franciscan Monastery, the Sponza Palace, and the City Walls. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, completely demilitarized, was shelled by an army in front of the world's cameras.

The siege lasted until August nineteen ninety-two. Eighty-two people were killed. The War Photo Limited gallery, about two hundred metres north of here on Antuninska street, has a permanent exhibition documenting the siege and its aftermath, alongside photographs from other conflict zones. It is the best war photography gallery I know of in any tourist city in Europe. If you have time, go.

And that is Dubrovnik. The Republic lasted four hundred and fifty years, survived empires, an earthquake, and a siege. The limestone is still here, still polished, still reflecting the afternoon light. Hvala vam. Thank you.