"Well," Francesca said, visibly forcing a little smile, "thank goodness young Leopoldo altered the duty rosters or I'd say the north postern was very insecure. But still, Manfred dear, I think we ought to consider extra patrols of Knights. Hefty patrols, not just a pair here and there. And I'm sure Leopoldo will listen to you if you suggest a few extra checkpoints."
Manfred nodded immediately. So did Von Gherens and Falkenberg. Whatever private opinion the two devout Knights of the Holy Trinity might have regarding Francesca's past, they had no more doubt than Manfred of her present competence.
* * *
Querini had a weakness for dice. And the cavalry captain's head was a lot less strong than he thought it was. The grappa had thoroughly fuddled it.
When he looked at the total of his losses he sobered up fast. "Ah . . . you'll give me time, surely?" If the siege went badly he might just die. That would be out from under this, at least. He'd lost several months salary, and was habitually in debt anyway.
The younger Dentico, now Count in his father's shoes, shook his head regretfully. "Can't do, I'm afraid. Since . . . the unfortunate happenings, we're having to watch things with the Army. You know my father was really killed because Tomaselli had borrowed heavily from him. It was a totally put-up job. We thought," said the young man, bitterly, "that Tomaselli was a friend of father's. So: no carried debts."
The cavalry captain was sweating now. "I . . ."
"Of course, if you could help us out on another matter that's been irritating us, we could let it go by for a while. We'd know we could trust you."
"Of course! Only too pleased to help. You know I organized those duty transfers you and the other fellows wanted so you could all be together . . ." Querini's voice trickled off.
"As it happens, Captain, it was about that that I wanted the favor. Some idiot's gone and shifted us around again."
Querini winced. "Commander Leopoldo has taken all the duty posting under his control. I can't do that again."
"Oh, there'll be no need to. I've got the June roster here. We'll just . . . cross out June and put in September. It's all in your writing anyway. And signed by the commander."
The sweat beaded on the cavalry officer's face again. "If Leopoldo finds out he'd . . . he'd . . . He doesn't like me anyway. I can't do it."
The young Dentico sighed and tapped the pile of chits. "Look, Leopoldo doesn't check every day, does he? The boys and I—well, I'll tell you the truth. It's Desarso's daughter. She's available and she likes a bunch. You know, some women just can't get enough. It's Adriano's birthday, and we thought we'd have a little party for him. But several of the fellows' fathers are real sticky about them being out, especially with this damned curfew. I mean, we understand why it's got to apply to the commoners, but it is ridiculous for us. So if you just slip this onto the duty board for the sergeants the day after tomorrow . . . we could forget this." He tapped the pile of chits again.
* * *
"It's done," said Saluzzo cheerfully, as he slipped through the back door of Bianca Casarini's house. "Within a fortnight, I'd say, maybe sooner. Hard to know, dealing with those idiot Greeks. But Fianelli tells me that Nachelli's cousin reported that the young Dentico handled Querini perfectly. He was there, watching, the fool. If it goes sour, the Greeks will finger him instead of us; through him, Nachelli—and me and Zanari will make sure that Nachelli can't finger anybody."
He laughed coarsely, pulling her to him and lifting her onto the table by the door. The Florentine's hands were already forcing up her skirt. "If it goes sour. It might very well not. Best thing the Venetians did, executing the old count. His son's smart enough to do the work right, and dumb enough to do it in the first place."
She responded to his lustful embrace with feigned enthusiasm. That was just a bit difficult, since Saluzzo was obviously in a rutting mood. He wouldn't, this night, give her the time to prepare the rituals that usually allowed her to leave him to his own fantasies.
So be it. It was a minor inconvenience, after all, and she could use the opportunity to advance another scheme. "That still leaves Fianelli himself," she gasped, spreading her legs. "I'd feel a lot better—oh, Paulo!"
* * *
The Emperor's hands shook as he held the parchment. He screwed up his eyes in effort, and then handed it to Baron Trolliger. "Read it for me, Hans. Damn this ailment. I want that boy safe, and I am too weak to see to it properly myself."
Trolliger read the agent's report aloud. The Emperor pursed his lips. They were slightly blue, Trolliger noted.
"Two things," said the Emperor, tiredly, but breathing slightly easier on the new medication. "One. I want an attack on Emeric's borders with the Empire. Give him a reason to come home. Second. Dispatch to Spain. If my commanders there can spare the Venetian Atlantic fleet as many extra men as the ships can carry. Rations too. These generals. So literal."
The Emperor closed his eyes. "I hope Francesca is all right. Sieges are hell on horses. And worse for women and children."
"Sieges are hell for everyone," said Trolliger quietly. He'd lost his younger brother, two sisters, his mother and his dog in a siege that had spawned disease. It had taken half his family, that plague. Except for the dog. They'd eaten that. The baron still gagged every time he thought of it.
* * *
"We've already got six light galleys ready for sea, Doge Dorma," said the Admiral of the Arsenal. "Mostly," he scowled at Benito, "because of that menace you have put in our midst."
Benito sipped his Soave, and smiled beatifically. "The admiral and I are the best of friends, really, Petro," he said innocently. "I've solved so many problems for him."
"Broken so many scuolo rules that the older masters want to murder him and the youngsters think it is a fine thing to do," growled the admiral. "I will say that this building program has been the better for it, though. Of course in the long term we'll regret it. You can't put the wine back into a grape when you want to."
Petro Dorma smiled and waved a hand pacifyingly. "Well, Admiral, how about if I took him off your hands? Of course, we'd want you to keep up the same rate of building, or we'll send him back."
The admiral scowled again. "We'll need an extra four laborers for the heavy lifting, but think of the tranquility! I don't think you'd need to send him back, Your Grace. The Arsenalotti are caught up in the patriotism of this young ward of yours now. I don't think I could slow them down. But what are you going to do with him? I can recommend a flea-ridden village a few miles from Eraclea. I have a grudge against the place."
"We want to send him back to Corfu, if we can. With three of those light galleys, some men, money and weapons."
Benito bounced to his feet, spilling wine. "I'm out of here! When do we sail, Petro?"
"Within the next two days. Your brother wants you to come and see him about 'special guidance,' Benito. As soon as possible. He said you could even walk, ride or come by gondola." The Doge raised his eyebrows. "I was not aware that you could get to him any other way."
Benito grinned. "You learn something new every day, Petro."
* * *
The blond-bearded triton Androcles was, as far as Benito was concerned, far less alarming than the undine had been. For starters, the look in those aquamarine eyes told Benito that the triton would probably delight in just the sort of practical joke that would appeal to Benito. And for a second thing, if the nonhuman's eyes looked into his inner being, Androcles wasn't as deeply interested in what he saw there.
"Whoever advised you, advised you well. There is indeed something out there. Something to be avoided. A monster of slime and teeth. A parasite that likes to eat its victims alive. And it is working with the ships above, sometimes."
"Can you help us avoid it?"
The triton grinned. "I can. But will I?"
Benito shook his head mournfully. "Questions, questions. That's a hard one . . . as the camerata singer said to the bishop."
Androcles' shoulders twitched. He smiled and nodded. "He'
ll do, Juliette. The Lion seems to think that your efforts might get rid of this menace. And the truth be told, we don't like the thing. It stinks and befouls water even worse than humans do."
"Two days' time?"
The triton nodded. "We'll go and range the deeps in the meanwhile. We can taste the creature from a good many miles off, now that we have learned what it is."
Chapter 73
Dragorvich had been prepared for Emeric's fury at the loss of his mines in the earthquake. So he'd been relieved to find his master taking it all in relatively good humor.
"They may be unnecessary after all, Dragorvich. My agent within the fortress has widened a good chink in the enemy's armor. In the meantime, see if you can make the north causeway at least passable by footmen, and light cavalry at a pinch."
Dragorvich nodded, too relieved to ask many questions. "I've had men on the dark nights sneaking as far as they can and then swimming across, to clear caltrops. A few have been shot, but they paint themselves with mud first. They're difficult to see. The shingle should be safe for cavalry from that point of view, anyway. The causeway . . . give me a week, Sire, two at the most. It'll be good enough. We can make a covered way with green cowhides on top and some sandbags. It won't stop all the fire but it should make it possible for us to push a number of men across."
"That sounds excellent, Dragorvich. Don't make your preparations too obvious."
"Very well, Sire." He hesitated a moment. "I have a request. I know the policy is to get these peasants back onto the land, but I am desperately short of labor. If there is any trouble, can I have some of the troublemakers? We'll put them in leg irons and use them up at the front. They're likely to die, but rather them than my sappers."
"An excellent idea. I'll let Ionlovich know. Don't spare them. They're not in that short a supply."
* * *
That had been ten days ago. Dragorvich had gotten his peasant-prisoners and had achieved all he'd promised. In the darkness his men had been readying the causeway to take a push of several thousand footmen, mostly Slav pikemen, and a number of Croat light cavalry units, who had been forming up since dusk. Dragorvich wished he knew exactly what the king had planned. It was plainly treachery from within the Citadel, and plainly on the northern side, presumably with someone on the postern there.
In the meantime, the new mines had been started anyway. He had reluctant Corfiote slaves to do that work now. And the cannons still kept up their volleys against the walls. The walls—so far—hadn't crumbled much. The trouble with bombarding Corfu's Citadel was that so much of the fortress was made of natural rock. You could eventually pound a breach in it, but it was harder than mortised stone.
* * *
Sergeant Boldo looked up at the duty rosters above him. The current roster had been made out by that ass, Captain Querini again, he noticed. Lazy bastard just crossed out the month. Oh, well.
"My name is there, Sergeant," said the young Libri d'Oro buck languidly. "See."
Sergeant Boldo shrugged, and handed the young man a curfew pass. "Password for tonight is 'nightingale.' "
This new system of Commander Leopoldo's was a pain in the bollocks. Still, orders were orders, and the man was reasonable. After the chaos of the first week, the commander had given week-passes instead of daily ones for those who worked nights, whom he—and some mysterious other—approved. The recipients had to learn the week's worth of passwords and two of the Arsenalotti masters had ended up in the brig for the rest of the night because they'd forgotten them. The sergeant had expected them to kick up a stink the way the scuolo usually did when they thought their territory was being infringed, but they'd been sour but reasonable about it.
* * *
Umberto got up for the midnight-to-dawn guard shift when Alberto Mavroukis tapped gently on the window. Alberto was one of those rare individuals who could fall asleep at the blink of an eye—at any opportunity—and yet had an internal clock that could wake him when he needed to. Alberto and Umberto were two of the ten masters from the Little Arsenal who were recipients of week-passes for this new curfew system. Though its purpose was to allow them to work late, it also meant he could sleep at home if he was on guard with Alberto. Sleeping next to a warm, soft-skinned Maria was infinitely preferable to sleeping in the north wall guard barracks.
The two walked down the dark cobbles. As luck would have it they ran into a bored, small-minded guard, who refused to accept their week-passes and insisted on taking them to his guard commander at gunpoint. The guard commander was in the throes of waking the next shift, and it took a great deal of Umberto's patience to get them, late, heading for the guard barracks on the north curtain-wall. The bells were already chiming for midnight before they were halfway down there.
"That bastard of a guard commander will probably make us sleep there next time," panted Alberto.
"He'll just chew us out," said Umberto, and saved his breath for running. The two arrived at the guard barracks.
Both realized immediately that something was very, very wrong.
The guard barracks was silent. It should have been full of people getting their gear off and lying down to rest, earlier watches griping about the noise.
Umberto looked at Alberto. Then he took the issue rapier out of its scabbard and walked forward into the lamplight.
The guard commander wasn't going to chew anyone out. Or make them sleep in the barracks. He lay in a pool of his own blood.
"Merde!" said big Alberto, in a very small voice. "What the hell do we do now?"
"Raise the alarm!" Umberto took a deep breath.
"Keep quiet or I'll shoot," said a voice from the shadows.
Umberto yelled. "ALARU . . ."
He felt rather than heard the shot.
As he fell he saw in a sort of strange slow way how the big caulker had grabbed someone with a pistol. He saw Alberto fling the willowy, elegantly dressed young man at a second man. And Alberto was bellowing at the top of his vast lungs.
* * *
Knight-Proctor Von Desdel and his patrol of ten knights were within a hundred yards of the guard barracks when they heard the shout, the shot and the yelling.
"That's inside the wall!" He was already urging his charger forward. "Sound that trumpet!"
* * *
Over on the Spianada, the Croats had heard the midnight bells without getting restive. The plan allowed the guards on the western outer walls to be changed and settle down before the northern postern would be seized. The biggest danger was the bastion on the northwestern corner. The king's artillery and the arquebusiers in the trenches were due to start a barrage on that when the charge started. The occasional cannon fire with its loading lulls allowed the sounds from the sleeping Citadel to carry well in the silent times.
They heard the trumpet. And the answer. And the bells begin to ring.
"Into those saddles!" yelled their captain. There was no time now to swing this whole thing into planned action. Now they must seize the moment—if it was there to be seized at all.
The Croats were some of the finest light cavalry in the world, with only the Ilkhan Mongols in serious contention in their portion of Eurasia. In many ways the Croats had the advantage over the Magyar—in speed, as scouts, and in tactical flexibility. The Croats had the first hundred and twenty men across the mole causeway before the Venetian cannon and arquebus fire began to make crossing it without heavy losses impossible. By the sounds above them, there was fighting on the north wall. But the traitors had at least prevented the barrage from above falling onto the galloping Croats.
And the gate was open! There were battle sounds from the watchtowers but they'd done it! If the Croats could get inside, they'd hold those towers, keep the gate open somehow, until the huge mass of Serb and Slav infantry who were waiting got in past the Venetian guns.
Yelling, the Croats spurred desperately forward, galloping horses spread out in a long race along the shingle. Then the first were in, under the raised portcullis, into the narrow
roadway that led up into the Citadel.
And hurtling down on them, horses virtually shoulder to shoulder, were the famous Knights of the Holy Trinity. The sound of the metal shoes of those heavy horses on the cobbles was like thunder in the confined space.
In the moonlight and house-shadow-darkness, in the narrow lane, the Croats didn't know there were only ten.
There are places and times when light cavalry is superior to heavy cavalry—when maneuverability and rough terrain are factors, for instance. But one advantage that heavy cavalry always has is momentum. And armor—which adds to the momentum. In the narrow lane, neither terrain nor maneuverability offered any advantage to the Croats.
The Knights of the Holy Trinity hit them like a ten-pound hammer hitting a pin. Literally smashed the Croats back through the gate, riding down those that could not turn. The Knights wheeled and rode back in, preparing for another charge. A few of the later arrivals and some of the better horsemen who'd turned their mounts followed in on their heels, showing the advantages of the Croats' speed and maneuverability.
The portcullis crashed down behind them. The great gates were still open, but the heavy metal grid now had some thirty Croats trapped inside. Men were running out of alleyways, hacking at them, hacking at their unprotected mounts as they tried to fight the Knights. And more Knights had suddenly arrived at the fray. Some half-armored . . . but too many.
The Croat captain knew the moment had slipped away. He never even saw that the great gates were closing. He did hear his lieutenant outside the gates yelling for a retreat. Inside the walls they'd die, he knew. But then, very few would live through the retreat either.
* * *
Umberto awoke to a blurry vision. At first he thought maybe he was dead and that Maria's mother . . . God, he'd loved her . . . was there, waiting for him. But would Heaven have so much pain?
Then he realized it was in fact Maria. Maria as he had never seen her. Maria with tears on her face, holding his hand as if she never wanted to let it go, with something so warm shining in her eyes that she looked like an angel. She'd looked at the baby like that; never at him. Until now.
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