He advanced on Benito, determinedly. Benito began to wonder if he was right about the danger. Did you kick the head of the Church in Venice in the crotch if he tried to seize you?
The old man reached out both skinny arms for Benito.
And then embraced him, and placed a blessing hand on his head. "This is a specific instruction from the Grand Metropolitan in Rome himself," he said, loudly, for the benefit of the audience.
Well, thought Benito. This reduces my chances of being lynched. I'm not sure what it's all about, but it's welcome.
The Patriarch continued. "Know all of you that as far as we have been able to determine the island of Corfu is under siege with great magical forces concentrated on it. The practitioners of sacred magic in Rome have detected demonism at work here."
He turned to the now-gaping Enrico Licosa. "I suggest this entire story of Prince Manfred reeks of the snares and deceits of the Evil One."
The Senate was in a hubble-bubble of frightened whispers now. Benito heard shreds of
"the Devil himself . . ."
Then another man stood up. This one Benito recognized: Andrea Recchia. His son and Benito had had a small affray consisting largely of Benito giving the handsome scion of the house a black eye and a broken nose, and ending in considerable trouble with the law for the Recchia boy. By the look on his face Benito could tell he thought this was payback time.
"If you ask me, fellow senators, you need look no further for the Devil's helpers than the
Casa
Valdosta. That man"—pointing at Benito—"has only this very morning assaulted the core of our republic. He viciously attacked and held hostage one of our Justices. He was banished from our fair city, to the relief of all respectable citizens. He has broken his exile—a clear breach of our ancient laws! He is using this tissue of lies to benefit himself. He hasn't come from Corfu. He has just come from the deceivers in Ferrara. I have witnesses to prove this! No doubt now he will come up with some plan to have the Imperials 'liberate' Corfu."
"Recchia," said Lodovico Montescue, "is your son out of jail yet for the bearing of false testimony under oath? Against the
Casa
Valdosta, if I recall correctly. My fellow senators, it is normally said 'Like father, like son.' This time it appears to be 'like son, like father,' eh? The
Casa
Valdosta is one of the
Case Vecchie Longi
. One of the oldest houses, and loyal and true to the Republic. The
Casa
Montescue once was entrapped into doubting them, to our cost. Let us trust to those who have stood by us in our hour of need. Benito here fought on the barricades during the Badoero and Milanese attacks. His brother was prepared to even offer his life for our great republic. Their names are both entered on the lists of volunteers who enlisted for our defense."
The old man glared at his opponent, even shook his fist. "And where were
you
, Recchia? Where is
your
name?" To the rest of the crowd, Lodovico perorated: "Young Valdosta here was banished for the sort of wild foolishness of youth that most of you, and myself, engaged in. I could tell stories about half of you that you'd rather have forgotten, so don't tempt me. Benito went too far, and it was decided that he needed tempering that would enable him to learn the deportment and responsibilities of a man. It was for that reason he was banished, not because he is a threat to the state. But when danger threatened our Republic, the
Casa
Valdosta was again the first to answer the call. Like Ferrara. Let us not forget who our true friends are."
Recchia ignored the cheers. "That's as may be. But I have witnesses—reliable witnesses!—who saw Valdosta disembark from a Ferrarese barge yesterday. Ferrara, I remind you all—you especially, Montescue, as senility is obviously catching up on you—is to the north. And what took him from yesterday morning till now to bring this 'urgent news'?"
Benito put a hand on Lodovico's shoulder. It looked like the old man was likely to go and run Recchia through. "May I answer this? The Adriatic is blockaded.
Block-a-ded.
Think now, those of you engaged in trade: Have any ships come up from as far as the Straits of Otranto in the last three weeks? No. I was smuggled out of Corfu by fishing boat to Italy. Southern Italy. A nasty little fishing village on the coast of Southern Italy, and I was dead glad to get there at all. From Southern Italy I came up the west coast, across the Ligurian sea. I then crossed the Apennines by the best route. Which leaves me approaching the city from the north. But short of growing wings, how else was I to travel? And as for not bringing the news yesterday—that is, if you please, what I was attempting to do
when I was arrested.
And I would have been still effectively silenced, if I had not resorted to extreme means."
Benito drew his rapier. "And if necessary to get the Republic stirred to action I'll do it again. And you've offered insult to my friend Lodovico. The Valdosta stand by Venice and by our friends. Do you want to name your seconds, sir?"
Well, that put the bull in the glass-shop. The hall erupted into a bedlam.
Or—started to.
The room was suddenly hushed by the slamming open of the great doors at the far end of the hall.
Except that "slamming" was far too mild a description for what happened.
The doors exploded inward, with the sound of a thousand bombards. Benito looked up to see a familiar figure standing there. His heart leapt to see Marco. But his soft, kindly and gentle brother could scarcely quell this lot—
But this was not his soft, gentle, kindly brother. In fact, it wasn't entirely his brother at all.
Oh, Marco was there, all right. But he was completely overshadowed by a great, hazy golden figure with wide-spread wings that overfilled the doorway.
And it spoke in a roar, a roar that was also words that reverberated in the chest and actually caused some of the
Case Vecchie
to drop to their knees.
"What fools are you, who threaten my City?"
The windows and walls trembled from the force of those words. Marco strode to the front of the Senate, and with each step he took, the shape of the Lion shrank in around him until he wore the golden aura like a garment. And in nowise was that lessening of apparent size a lessening of the very real
power.
Marco turned when he reached Benito's side, placed one hand on Benito's shoulder, and faced the gathering. The windows still shivered slightly with the force of his words.
"I have come in haste from Verona, sent by Doge Dorma as soon as we received word from our ally, Duke Enrico Dell'este, of the invasion of Corfu. We are at war and have work to do, gentlemen. You are the leaders of our Republic. Get out there and lead. The people need you."
Only Recchia stood his ground. Benito could not imagine how he could.
He
wanted to drop to his knees in front of his brother. Was the man too utterly blind and stupid to see nothing but what he wanted to see?
"The charges against Benito . . ."
"
Silence!"
Marco roared, and Recchia, at last, seemed to realize that he was in the presence of something that really did not give a damn about petty bureaucrats and petty feuds.
Marco—or the Lion—moderated his tone. Slightly. "These
charges
will be answered in a court of law and not in an open assembly. And your part in this will be questioned too, Recchia, be sure of it.
Now go!
"
It was an order, given with such force that even Benito felt compelled to obey.
Marco put an arm over his shoulder, holding him in place. As the
Case
Vecchie
fled from the room, the gold aura began to fade, until it was only Marco again.
"Not you, Benito. And do you think you could put that sword away?"
Marco handed Lodovico and Benito each a goblet of wine. "Bespi and my horses will be along from the border shortly. Petro, Kat and Grandfather are coming as soon as they can get to horse—and I expect that the treaty negotiations will be completed, if not within hours of my leaving, possibly in the saddle. We couldn't all leave without breaking the whole thing up, and we'd come a long way toward concluding a treaty. But when the word came about you—the siege—I knew I had to get here before someone managed to silence Benito. Or worse. Make him disappear, maybe. The moment I crossed the border and I could invoke the Lion, I did so, and I left my horses in Bespi's hands. I'm afraid—or perhaps I should say, I am glad—flying as the Lion in broad daylight is something that no one can silence; everyone in Venice knows that when the Lion flies, Venice is in danger, so besides getting here faster, it let everyone in the city know that
something
horrible has happened."
"Um," Benito said. He felt odd. Humbled. To be the center of
that—
Marco smiled. "To be honest, all of this uncertainty since the Emperor's illness, and all of the conflicting rumors and reports, could have served us a backhanded good turn. Ferrara and Venice would have been a lot less obliging and conciliatory if they hadn't been spooked. As it is, it looks to me as if we'll get a good deal, which will improve security, benefit trade, and sideline Milan a bit further."
"Sounds good, Brother," Benito replied, trying to regain a bit of his composure. "But when I've finished drinking this, I need to get along to the Imperial embassy and show the ambassador my head."
Marco blinked. "Your head?"
Benito chuckled. "Come along and see."
Count Von Stemitz at the embassy was a very urbane and unflappable man, as a rule. But he looked a little taken aback at being told to feel in the hair behind the grubby, scruffy-looking young man's left ear. "There should be a lump there," said Benito.
"Er. Yes," said the Count rather gingerly. He'd met Benito before, briefly. Now, vouched for by Marco, whom he knew well, and Lodovico Montescue, who was a long-time friend, Von Stemitz was prepared to accept that this tousle-headed sailor was in fact the
Case Vecchie
tearaway, and normally attired somewhat differently. He was even prepared to grant that this bizarre ritual might have some deeper purpose.
Might.
Benito's reputation preceded him.
"Cut it out, please," asked Benito unable to refrain from grinning. "I hope you have a sharp knife."
The grin plainly worried the count. "This is not one of your practical jokes is it, Signor Valdosta?"
"It's not my joke. If it's anyone's, it's Prince Manfred's."
Now that he was near to the end of this, Benito was beginning to feel all of it catching up to him. He was going to eat his way down the banquet table, and then sleep for a week. "And being funny is not its purpose. Believe me, I'm going to be glad not to have that lump there. A girl in Calabria tried to run her fingers through my hair and nearly pulled it out by the— Ow! You should sharpen that thing."
Count Von Stemitz stood examining the Imperial seal of the Hohenstauffen Dynasty. "I presume you are going to explain this. It is not used in jests," he said dryly.
"Oh, its purpose is earnest enough. Manfred just said I was the scruffiest personal letter he'd ever sent. We were in a situation where actually carrying a letter would be dangerous, given the possibility of a search. So this seal is to authenticate that I have come from the prince. I must tell you that he and his men are under siege in the Citadel on Corfu. Both King Emeric of Hungary and the Byzantines are laying siege to the fortress. The prince conveys his respects to his uncle, and asks for whatever assistance might be brought to their rescue."
Lodovico chuckled. "A talking letter. These modern advances! What will they think of next, eh, Hendrik?"
The Count had to smile too. "It's a very serious matter . . . but maybe cleaner envelopes? Well, if you will excuse me, gentlemen. A letter, slightly more conventional in form perhaps, must be dispatched to Mainz with the fastest messengers. I have a fit young
Ritter
here. I am going to dispatch him, with a covering letter, to see the Emperor—or, if the Emperor is too ill, at least the Privy Council and the States General."
"Good," said Lodovico. "Because I think the biggest problem with a relief force will be ships to transport them. Venice's fleets are away. We'll need ships from further afield. Few of the other Mediterranean powers are likely to wish to help us. Perhaps they will oblige the Emperor."
Benito hadn't thought of that. And ten to one, neither had Manfred.
The Count nodded, sighing. "We will surely find that Emeric has tried to prevent others coming to your rescue. I imagine part of the Hungarian's strategy is to get Alexius VI to trap the eastern fleet in the Black Sea. The western fleet is another question. Do you think the Barbary pirates may be involved?"
Benito bit his lip. "I don't know, milord. But this I will tell you: Eneko Lopez believes Grand Duke Jagiellon is also involved in all this. And that means Lithuania and its allies. And now, if you'll excuse us, Count. You have letters to write. And we have the Arsenal to visit. They'll be working night and day until another fleet is ready."
The situation at the Arsenal, Benito had to admit, was worse than he had hoped. Doge Giorgio Foscari had let the old policy of keeping a number of spare vessels in readiness, just needing to be rigged, lapse. The Senate had recently passed a new appropriation to restart the program, but it was still in its infancy. Only two extra new keels had been laid. The work had of course been proceeding on seven new great galleys to replace existing but elderly vessels, but the Arsenal simply didn't have a new fleet ready to sail. At least twenty great galleys would be needed, and three times that number of smaller galleys.
"How long?" asked Benito.
The representative of the Admiral of the Arsenal shrugged. "Six to eight months, milord. We'll start launching the smaller vessels within two, but it all takes time. We can't just throw money and resources at the problem: The limit is skilled manpower. You can't make shipwrights overnight, and they've got to sleep sometimes."