He shrugged. "The Mother's place has rain at last, and will heal.
It
has got its people again, and they love it. It is in a magical place with those that perished giving birth to it. They blame it no more than you, and now they can cherish it. With that, it will heal."
"What about the siege?"
"Ah." Tall already, he seemed to grow taller. And grimmer. "War is death's kingdom.
Mine
, not Hers."
"Hah," Maria replied, feeling anger giving her back her strength. "Maybe so. But I'm going to help."
Erik was on the battlements of the inner curtain wall, organizing and trying to prevent panic. Most of all, wishing silently that the inner walls had been built as the outer had: to withstand cannon. But the outer walls had been rebuilt not fifteen years back. This inner wall was probably a century old.
The outer wall had stood up to months of pounding. The inner wall would last weeks at best. Which was more time than they had water for, anyway.
A cannon across on the Spianada boomed. They must be mad! They should move them up first . . . a second, then a third cannon spoke. And Erik realized they were firing into the outer city. Into their own troops. Peering out to the enemy encampment on the other side of the Spianada, Erik's jaw dropped. For the first time since Svanhild's death he began to laugh. It was harsh sound, but it was laughter nonetheless.
The Hungarian camp was burning. Not as if from a little brave band in a small patch, but across a wide front. It must have taken thousands of men. And more and more of the Hungarian artillery fired into the Hungarian troops in the Citadel. If they spiked those guns before retreating . . . the inner citadel would last as long as its water held out.
Erik wondered whether this was Venice's forces at last. Like the rain, those had just never seemed to get here.
Manfred came up behind him, helmet under his arm and grinning like the cat that had eaten the cream. Von Gherens was just behind. "Well, Erik. What do you think? Half of them seem to be running back to camp. Are we going to sortie again?"
Erik shook his head. "The cannon-fire is doing it for us. As soon as it stops—"
A cold wet something hit him on the nose. Then another hit his cheek. "I don't believe it! It's raining!"
The rain came down in a gray, hissing curtain. So heavy that the view of the Spianada and then the section of the Citadel outside the inner curtain suddenly disappeared.
Manfred, Erik and Von Gherens stood there, rain driving in their faces, plastering their hair down, grinning at each other.
"Come on, you pair of loons," said Von Gherens. "Your armor's getting wet."
Behind them the Citadel was echoing—despite the rain—to cheers and cries of
"San Marco!"
Erik was the last to leave the battlements.
He looked out at the rain, but he saw her face. And no one in the downpour could tell rain from tears anyway. He hadn't been able to weep, since that early moment in the hospital. Now, here, alone in the rain, where no one could see him, he could. Somehow it lifted a weight from his soul.
Giuliano saw the first heavy drops splash on the dusty earth. Like Erik he gaped. But he'd lived here all his life and he knew that when it rained here, it rained in earnest. "Sound the retreat," he said to the young Venetian with him.
"But sir, we still have some cannon to spike!"
"Believe me, Nico. They won't be using them for a while anyway. Look at that rain. This place is going to be fetlock deep in mud soon. And this rain will cover the retreat beautifully, eh, Thalia?"
She smiled at him, eyes like stars. "Good for the olives, too."
She was a jewel past price.
The cannonball must have hit the house, because even in the cellar they felt the impact of it. Flakes of black paint fell from the ceiling. Alberto looked owlishly at Benito. "I believe I'll have that second drink after all. No sense in dying sober."
In Benito's informed opinion, if the next cannonball came right through into the cellar in two heartbeats' time and hit Alberto . . . he still wouldn't die sober. Yet he'd suffered Benito's rough surgery stoically. The wine might have helped. They hadn't eaten much in the last while and a little wine went a long way.
"Air holes, but no view," grumbled Benito, passing the bottle over. "No wonder the woman went mad in here."
"You ask me she was mad to start with," said Alberto phlegmatically. Once he'd got over his shock the big man had rapidly reconciled himself to staying down here for a while.
Benito hadn't. He'd been pacing the cellar like a caged animal for the last while. Being pinned down would kill him as surely as bullets or swords, he decided.
"Alberto. I'm going to have a look outside."
In the temple cave, Alessia stirred. The rock beneath her moved slowly, slightly, readjusting from the terrible stresses that had been put on it and were now washed away. The crack that split the holy pool healed. Water, rising from a deep artesian flow, began to drip slightly faster. And, as the rains beat down outside, faster still. The drops became a trickle and the trickle became a stream. The clay bowl overflowed. The pool filled up.
The healing and the magic in this place affected other things, too. Alessia woke up. She got to her knees; then, waving her arms for balance, stood up. It was no great height. She took little swaying baby-steps forward.
And fell into the pool.
Another baby might have drowned. But this child was hemmed in by certain protections. She sat up, wet through, and screamed. And screamed. She wanted her mother.
She wanted her mother NOW.
And if her mother is not there to care for her—she just has to touch running water to call me or my kin to help.
So had the undine Juliette stated at her christening. Alessia hadn't understood the words at the time, of course. Nor would she have now. But in a pinch, the new baby-sitter would do. He was big and warm and smelled nice.
Not like Mother. But nice. Familiar.
Benito had eased the trapdoor up very cautiously, ears straining for the sounds of danger. Instead he heard a peculiar drumming noise. He couldn't place it at first. It was a long time since he'd heard rain on the roof.
"Hey, Alberto!"
"What?" asked the big
scuolo
man, warily. He'd bet Alberto had the late Sophia's wheel-lock at the ready.
"It's raining out there! Not just raining. Bucketing it down."
"No! After all this time!"
"I'm going out."
"You'll get wet," said Alberto with a laugh.
"Yeah. But so will anyone else. It's nearly as black as night out there."
"I'll stay here and look after the wine. I can't run and you'll probably need to."
Benito realized very shortly that "rain" was an understatement. It was as if the heavens were trying to catch up on the whole dry winter in one fell swoop. Even in a final assault on a beleaguered city, troops would be reduced to seeking shelter in this. He stalked up the narrow street, seeing no one. Benito felt he could hardly have seen someone across the narrow street, it was sheeting down so hard.
And then he realized he was seeing someone after all, walking toward him. As he turned to shrink back against a doorsill he realized this was a very strange someone. The woman wasn't wearing any clothes, except for a crown of water lilies. And even in this light, her hair was green. In spite of his attempt to hide she obviously knew where he was, and beckoned imperiously at him.
"You! Your daughter needs you. Come."
"Who are you?" he said warily.
"I am the Crenae of the spring within the hill. And your daughter wants either her mother or you. Our kin promised we would help if she was in need. Besides, she is nearly shaking the holy mount with her screaming. Nothing we can do will comfort her."
"Er, I'd help. But you've got the wrong person. I don't have any daughters."
The cold rain was soaking Benito. It didn't seem to perturb the nymph. "Yes you do," she said firmly. "Juliette examined your blood."
"Alessia?" The rain was getting in his eyes. "She's
my
daughter?"
"She certainly isn't your son!" snapped the nymph. "Now come. We must go to the cliff on the side of the Castel
a mar
. She is in a cave there."
Benito's mind groped at the thought of Alessia as his daughter. He'd thought—Caesare—
Suddenly it all clicked into place for him. The timing—Maria's sudden determination to marry Umberto—
And, the truth was, the baby didn't look in the least bit like Aldanto. In fact, now that he thought about it . . .
He pushed it all aside for a later time. "Got a place I can climb the inner wall in this?"
"The gates are open. The people of the city have pushed back the attackers."
"What? I must go and tell Alberto!"
"Your daughter needs you,
now
. She is very young and very unhappy. I have left my sister with her, but she is screaming the place down."
Benito shrugged. "Let's go, then. I'll send someone for him."
On the way to the gates, the rain slackened off slightly. It looked to be a mere lull in between waves of heavier downpour, but Benito realized the Venetians were making the most of it. Troops were marching down to the outer wall, set on doing what repairs they could. Ordinary people were hastening to their homes and lodgings to see what the Hungarians had left. Benito was pushing against this tide when a wet-haired, red-eyed woman grabbed his arm. Benito hadn't even recognized Maria's friend Stella without her permanent smile.
"Signor Valdosta!" Her face was a map of misery. "My Alberto? You haven't seen him? Even, dear God, his body . . ."
He squeezed her shoulder. "He's fine. He's got a broken leg, that's all."
Stella simply dissolved on his shoulder, clinging to him. "Where is he? I'll murder him! I've been so worried. So unhappy—"
"I hid him. Now look, he doesn't know what's happened out here and he's scared and has a pistol. For God's sake, don't get yourself shot getting to him."
She nodded. Her smile was back in full-force. "I'll call. He'll recognize my yelling at him, for sure. Where is he?"
"You know the house that guy was using for his orgies with the
Case Vecchie
women? The fake magician, Morando? I know you went and had a look."
She nodded. "I even got a peek into the cellar, where they did . . . that stuff."
"Well, we hid out in that cellar. The trapdoor is closed and it has been mended. It's in the passage. And as I said, for heaven's sake, be careful. He's armed and scared."
She kissed him. "Bless you, Benito Valdosta! I will be careful." She started to hurry with the tide of people.
He grabbed her shoulder. "Uh. Stella."
"Yes," she turned.
"He's also a bit drunk."
"I'll break his other leg for him!" she said, with cheerful savageness. "And you'd better go and find Maria. She'll be worried sick by now."
"Will you come on?" said the nymph, tapping her foot impatiently. Benito realized, as he hadn't in his preoccupation, that no one else seemed to notice his strange escort. Well, Marco said that the undine Juliette had done much the same thing to the audience in the church at Alessia's christening.
She led him to the cliff. The hagfish had broken away part of the concealing tree, and Benito could see the cave. "I can go with water-flow. You will have to climb up there."
The limestone was wet. The handholds and footholds were tiny and rounded. It didn't matter a damn to Benito. He kicked off his boots, and began to climb. Reaching the cave, he wondered for a moment just where to go. The cave was dark. But then he realized that all he had to do was follow his ears.
A hundred heartbeats later he was holding and comforting a small, cold, wet child against his wet but exertion-warm body. "Why in hell didn't you dry her?" he snapped at the two nymphs.
"We don't know much about human babies."
"What sort of gratitude is this?" demanded the other crossly.
Benito sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I thank both of you. Now I must dry her, warm her up, and find her mother. What was she doing here?"
"You'd better ask her," said one nymph, pointing to the curled body of Renate De Belmondo. "She's been starting to stir." And with that, they slipped away into water that Benito would have sworn could not hold a minnow.
Benito looked around the temple, and took the finely woven cloth off the altar-stone. He stripped off Alessia's wet clothes and, using the Shetland knife, cut the altar cloth into a sort of poncho for her. Cut a strip to make a nice belt. He took off his own soaking-wet shirt too, and tossed it onto the altar-stone. He'd be better off without it.
There was no food down here, and 'Lessi was undoubtedly hungry. The whole of the Citadel was. But she could at least drink. He took a tiny clay bowl from beside the altar and helped her to drink. It seemed to do her a great deal of good, and she'd warmed up nicely against him. She started settling down for sleep. Loved, cared for, and with not a worry in the world. Benito put her down carefully.
Then he took a double handful of water and splashed it on Renate De Belmondo's face. He did it several more times, adding more sacrilege to the large number of incidents he'd already managed.
She moaned. He tried shaking her. She opened her eyes. He sat her up. Then, remembering something Marco had said, put her head between her knees.
Renate De Belmondo had been in the service of the great Goddess for nearly forty years. She came to the temple almost every day. The sounds here were as familiar as her husband's breathing. The fountain bubbling and the sounds of the tiny waterfall cascading into the sacred pool were like the voices of old friends. Even in her giddy and confused state they comforted and caressed. She tried to sit up. The someone who had been holding her head between her legs helped her to lean back against the wall. Then it came to her, as she tried to focus her eyes. The fountain had been reduced to oozing droplets, the cascade to accumulating drips falling slowly into the clay bowl instead of the rock pool. She blinked and then screwed her eyes up, willing them to focus. The pool swam into clarity.