This can't be happening! cried out some little corner of himself. You idiot! You'll turn into a fool like your brother!
The rest of him, however, as his hands drifted across Maria's shoulders and back—so feminine, for all the muscle—had a different opinion.
Shut up . . . boy.
* * *
The next hours seemed almost like a dream to Benito. In a bed, well lit by candlelight, Maria was not the fierce and dimly seen rutter she had been in the bottom of a gondola, lit by nothing more than a crescent moon. There was nothing of the hard canaler left in her now. She was soft, rounded, smooth—more velvety and gorgeous than anything Benito had ever imagined.
The muscle was still there. The strong arms and legs coiled around him in passion gave proof of that often enough. But Benito barely noticed. His entire existence seemed nothing but a world of warmth, wetness, softness, all aglow with candlelight and his own dreams, finally boiling to the surface.
The first time he told her he loved her, Maria didn't even scowl at him. Indeed, she smiled.
"You don't have to say that, Benito," she murmured softly.
"I wanted to," he insisted. Feeling a bit of the old street savvy wailing somewhere in his heart—you idiot!—but not much. Hardly any, in truth.
Maria shook her head. "Please—don't. The word is cheap. Caesare showered me with it like false coins. I don't want to hear it any more."
So he subsided, for a time, distracted easily enough by Maria's next wave of passion. She might not want to hear the word with her ears, but every other part of her body seemed eager to listen. Besides, it was hard to stay poetic with Maria. She made him laugh too much.
When she wasn't criticizing him, that is. Usually both at the same time.
"What did that silly Sarispelli teach you, anyway?" she grumbled at one point. "I'm not a wooden plank being nailed on a ship, you know? And that thing of yours is way too big for a nail in the first place."
By now, Benito was relaxed enough to give an honest answer. "Hey, she's nice. I don't think she really knew any more than I did."
"Guess not," agreed Maria.
Benito was even relaxed enough to be smart instead of street-savvy stupid. "Show me, then. Please."
"Good boy," gurgled Maria happily, and proceeded to do so. Some time later, as she cried out with pleasure—much louder than she had before—Benito whispered the words again. Moaned them, rather, since he was awash in his own ecstasy.
Maria slapped the back of his head, sure enough. But, that done, the same hand which slapped began to caress and clutch. And stroked him, softly and steadily, as they lay in each others' arms afterward, pooled in their own moisture.
"That stinking bastard Aldanto was good for something," Maria whispered. "I give it to you as a gift."
"I love you," he whispered back.
She didn't slap him, this time. But her hand came up and closed his mouth. "Don't, Benito. Please. Tonight is too special, for both of us. Just let it be what it is, that's all."
He never spoke the words again that night, even though it lasted almost until dawn. Before he finally fell asleep, not long after Maria, he raised himself on one elbow and gazed down upon her nude body lying next to him. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and knew that he never would. Fifteen years old be damned. Some things are certain.
Still, he didn't say the words, even though she was no longer awake to rebuke him. In some obscure way, he couldn't.
He puzzled at the problem, for a bit. Just as he drifted into slumber, it came to him. He could never steal anything from Maria, he realized. Not even words of love.
Chapter 78
"We have the dagger. It's a Ferrara-steel blade with scarlet and blue tassels," said Retired Admiral Dourso, one of Petro's fellow Signori di Notte. "We have the witnesses—one who saw him lurking in the alley, and two who heard him utter angry threats at the bishop. You were there. It was the night he was arrested in that affray with the Knights and Servants of the Trinity."
Petro Dorma took a deep breath. "Bishop Capuletti was killed at about midnight?"
The admiral nodded. "The body was still warm when it was found, just before midnight. The clothes were barely wet. I'm sorry, Petro. I must take Marco Valdosta into custody."
Petro shook his head at his older colleague. "Admiral, I haven't had much sleep. I must tell you that some hours after midnight, I became an uncle."
It took the salt-and-pepper-haired admiral a few moments to work this out. "Valdosta's child?"
Petro thought the little girl looked very like its father. But that was another matter for later. "My sister, Angelina, has had a daughter, yes. The child is rather premature."
"Congratulations, Petro, but . . ."
"The birth was attended by the Doctor Rigannio, a midwife, my mother, Countess Marangoni—and Marco Valdosta. He assisted as he is learning to be a doctor. Angelina went into labor just before midnight, at the soiree at the Casa Antorini. Which, as you know, is near the Oratio del Cruciferi."
Petro walked over to the sideboard and poured each of them a glass of Vin Santo. He handed the admiral one of the Venetian-ware glasses. "So. Unless you wish to accuse my ward of witchcraft and having a doppelganger, I suggest you look elsewhere for a murderer. The time and distances traveled make it unlikely. The witnesses who actually saw him help with Angelina make it impossible."
When the admiral had left, Petro sat with his head in his hands. Someone had set out to deliberately incriminate Marco. It was pure luck that he had a cast-iron alibi. This was plainly an attack on Dorma. Somehow the deliberations of Council of Ten must have leaked. This lot was bad enough . . . without that Angelina had spent half her labor demanding that Caesare Aldanto be brought to her, and already this morning had summoned him to her bedside to demand the same.
* * *
An hour later the admiral was back. "Not Marco Valdosta. His brother."
* * *
Benito was struggling to wake up. Having his room at Dorma—which he'd been back in for less than two hours—invaded by Petro, another Signor di Notte, and two Schiopettieri was something of a shock.
It was even more of a shock when they wanted to know where the hell he'd been last night.
They didn't find his refusal to answer at all satisfactory.
"Benito Valdosta. I must ask you to dress and come with us," said the salt-and-pepper-haired ex-admiral turned Signor di Notte. "You will be charged with the murder of Bishop Pietro Capuletti."
* * *
"Ha!" Kat's grandfather came into the breakfast salon, where Kat was picking at a bowl of frumenty. "I told you, girl! Blood will out! They've arrested that damned Valdosta boy for murder!"
Kat's chair went flying. The fragile bowl was dropped, shattering on the fine intarsia floor as she leapt to her feet. She felt blood drain from her face. "What?"
The old man rubbed his hands in glee, ignoring the destruction. "That Valdosta-pig. I went to see Dourso this morning. Just checking things out for you, girl. And he was just on his way to arrest Marco Valdosta. For the murder of Bishop Pietro Capuletti. Ha!"
"Did you do this?" she demanded furiously. "Did you engineer this, Grandpapa?"
Lodovico Montescue shook his leonine old head. "I wish it were my doing. But they'll have his head, anyway," he said with great satisfaction.
Kat stared at him. "He wasn't even born when you had your stupid fight! You crazy old man! He doesn't even know who you are!" She stormed out.
"Katerina! Where are you going?" He hurried after her as fast as his old legs could manage.
Over her shoulder, Kat snapped: "To hand myself over to the justices at the Doge's palazzo, for murdering Bishop Capuletti."
"Stop, Katerina! You can't do tha—" His voice was cut off by the great front door closing. A passing gondolier answered her hail. And Kat, in a turmoil of emotion, set off to rescue Marco.
* * *
Marco Valdosta stared incredulously at his brother-in-law.
"You just let them take him away?"
Petro threw up his hands helplessly. "He has witnesses. A Ferrara-made knife with house tassels. I'll swear it's not Benito's. But it looks bad. And then your brother refuses to say where he was last night."
Marco steepled his long slim fingers. "Ten to one he'll have been doing something for Caesare Aldanto. Probably with Maria."
Dorma leaned forward. "Who is this Maria?"
There was no sense in pulling punches. "She's a canal-girl—the one who was abducted by the Dandelos. She lives with Caesare Aldanto. He's worth asking about this. If anyone will help Benito, it's him."
"I'll have some of my people go out and fetch him." He stopped Marco's reply. "You will stay right here, Marco. Under my eye. You'll accompany me to hear the galliot captain address the Senate at midday. You will be seen. This is intended as an attack on Dorma. I wish I knew by whom."
Marco shook his head. "The knife is too obvious, Petro. Why would he leave it behind?"
"Exactly," said Petro. "But they'll claim it was wrestled from his grasp by the dying man."
Marco took a deep breath. "Who are these witnesses, Petro? And tell me about this knife."
"By the description, the knife is one with the main gauche you and Benito carry. As for the witnesses, it's a Filippo Recchia and Vittorio Toromelli. Boys from respectable rising families."
Petro Dorma was one of the most phlegmatic of the Case Vecchie. He was totally unprepared for Marco's harsh laughter. He positively gaped.
Marco stood up. "Petro, I think we can deal with this and find out for you exactly who is trying to get at you. Can we arrange to see the justices before the Senate address?"
"It should be possible, yes," said Petro. "Why?"
Marco smiled like a shark. "They came here looking for me first, right? Recchia and his buddy Toromelli know me. I'm willing to bet they don't know Benito. They know I have a younger brother. But he doesn't show up at the Accademia. And he hasn't been to any major functions with you."
"We're trying to polish out the rough spots," said Petro with a smile. "He's been to three private soirees. He should have been at last night's one. That would have been the first time you were 'on show' together."
"They claimed they saw me. Then, when you provided an alibi for me . . . they changed it hastily to Benito. We're going to trap them. They don't know that we don't even look alike."
* * *
Dorma realized that Marco was right. They don't look alike, not in the least. If I hadn't known—if Duke Dell'este had not warned me—I never would have guessed they were brothers. Even half-brothers.
Petro sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands. "That's not all," he said. "They claim to have heard you swearing revenge on the night of that abortive raid by the Knots on that supposed Strega circle. Except for the time when you were in with me—alone without anyone to claim to have listened—you were with the injured. Including a Knight of the Holy Trinity."
He rose and began pacing slowly about. "I wonder if the injured have been called as witnesses? I'll ask the abbot to send that knight to the justices. Sachs should agree—he wants back into my good books after that fiasco at the Accademia."
Dorma rang a bell, and then he wrote a hasty note. The runner came up and was dispatched.
"Well, I think we shall go across to the Doge's palace."
"Good," said Marco, grimly. "Because I have another string to this bow. If that blade is like this one, if we can get it to Ferrara, then my grandfather can tell us exactly who it was sold to. I want them."
Petro looked at the intent, pacing Marco. "I've never seen you like this before, my boy."
"They threaten my family, Petro. Filippo Recchia has let his little grudge against me put Benito in prison for murder. I won't allow that. If necessary I will kill him and his friend myself. Because I can if I have to. Or I will pay Aldanto to do it."
Petro stared at his young brother-in-law. He had never seen Marco in such a state, and was just realizing that the years in the marshes had left an imprint. A rather savage one. "I glad we're family, Valdosta," he said wryly.
* * *
The Piazza San Marco was already crowded. All ten of the justices were in their chambers. Most of the senators were also there in the palace. It was not hard for someone of Petro Dorma's standing to ask the chief justice with two of his colleagues to have a preliminary hearing on the holding in captivity of the suspected murderer Benito Valdosta, with a couple of eminent senators for witnesses. "This affair is political," explained Petro. "We are likely to take political actions this afternoon, so this may have a bearing."
Two Schiopettieri were sent off to find Masters Filippo Recchia and Vittorio Toromelli. Marco was able to direct them to a couple of likely taverns. Another three were sent to round up another five boys of between Marco and Benito's age.
They waited on them and the arrival of the Knights of the Holy Trinity.
* * *
Abbot Sachs looked thin on patience. He didn't get up when Erik entered but remained at his piled scriptorium. "I have all this correspondence from our courier out of Trieste, and now this note from Dorma. It seems better-natured than our last encounter. And we could still use the man's good graces. He wants Von Gherens and any other of the Knights or Servants of the Holy Trinity who were with the injured in that raid of ours at the Accademia. Go, Ritter. Take Von Gherens. He is up on his feet again. Brother Uriel helped attend him too, along with that student. Take Uriel along. Go." He shooed.
Erik was only too glad to go. The embassy had been full of things going on for the last while that he wasn't on top of—and whose consequences for Manfred worried him. He wanted out, for both of them. He didn't ask permission to take Manfred. He could always claim that he'd needed Manfred to support Von Gherens. So what if Manfred had been safe at the embassy—actually, with Francesca—that night?
The palace was crowded, but a couple of Schiopettieri were waiting for them at the doors, and escorted them to Petro Dorma, who was sitting with a couple of the Venetian justices, and a stripling Erik recognized. It was Dorma's ward. Yes, he had been there at the raid. Von Gherens probably owed his leg to the boy, and one of the students probably his life. Erik hadn't put two and two together at the time. There had been other things on his mind.
Petro Dorma greeted them. "So Abbot Sachs was not able to come personally? A pity. But never mind. We need you as witnesses to the truth or falsehood of a particularly unpleasant accusation. We are questioning statements allegedly made by this young man. Do any of you recognize him?" He pointed at his ward. Uriel, Von Gherens and Erik all nodded.
Dorma smiled. "Right. If you don't mind, could you wait in the antechamber? You will be called one at a time. I've sent for some wine."
Manfred brightened visibly. "I'll stay here and look after the wine," he said cheerfully. "I wasn't there."
Dorma smiled humorlessly. "I suspect the 'Accusers' might well not have been there, either. This way, gentlemen."
* * *
Filippo Recchia, the handsome and wealthy champion fencer, looked sulky, angry, and just a little overawed. His sycophant Vittorio just looked terrified. They were led one at a time to bear witness. Dorma insisted they each testify separately.
Recchia spoke first, his face stiff but seemingly calm. "He was angry. He said to that friend of his, Rafael de Tomaso. 'I wish we'd killed all of these German monks and knights. I wish we could get rid of Bishop Capuletti. I would do it myself if I had half the chance.'"
One of the Justices pointed at Marco: "And it was definitely this man who said that?"
Both Filippo, and then Vittorio, confirmed the statement. Yes. They knew him well. Would recognize him with certainty.
"But it was not him you saw lurking in the alley next to the Fondamenta Pruili," the justice asked Recchia.
"I thought so, Your Honor, but I realized I must be mistaken and it must be his brother."
"Ah. But you saw him well enough to recognize him?"
<
br /> Recchia crossed himself. "My oath on it."
"Thank you. Stand down, Signor Recchia."
Marco watched as the first of the knights was called. What if he were part of this conspiracy? Fear of the Knots and their reputation rose in his throat as the young blond knight with the chiseled features took the stand.
Unnecessarily, it seemed. "No. He was with us all the time from when the Schiopettieri arrived, until we were summoned individually."
"And did he at any stage say anything about killing anyone?"
The knight, Erik Hakkonsen, frowned. "No. Definitely not. He said very little. His attention was on the wounded. A good young fellow. An innocent bystander who came to provide assistance, that's all. The Knights of the Holy Trinity are in his debt."
The Shadow of the Lion Page 76
