Taki rubbed his hands and produced the wine, passing it around to the rest of the crew. "Never let it be said nothing good comes out of a war. I've wanted to fish old Scathos' bank for years, but never dared."
"I kept wondering whether the old bastard would still come out and shoot at us," said Kosti.
Spiro took a pull at the wine. "What? Shoot at your handsome face? Scathos' daughters would kill him."
Kosti pulled the jug away from him and handed it to Benito. "I hear that's the reason he wants to kill you."
"Me? I'm shocked."
"Well, you or any other passing fellow. Those are wild girls of his."
"Time to shift those sails!" Taki yelled.
The boat went about and they sailed on, but the direction troubled Benito. It felt wrong. "Just where are we going?" he asked Taki eventually. "You're supposed to be running me across to the Italian shore."
Taki belched contentedly. "And I am. But we'd not get across the Straits of Otranto in the dark. Not with this wind. So we're taking a longer cut at it. Have some more wine."
He frowned. "I don't want to be drunk if we have trouble."
The captain chuckled. "What are you going to do if we do have trouble? Fight a galley's worth of men? Try and outrun them? This is a fishing boat, not a galley. There is nothing much you can do except try and look like a drunken bum of a fisherman. So have some more wine. The more like us you look and sound, the safer you are."
* * *
The day was still very young, and Antipaxos some miles to the north of them, but still in sight, when they were intercepted.
It was a Byzantine galley. Benito realized, as it raced closer, just how futile trying to run would have been. Briefly, he thought the galley was simply going to run them down. But it drew up beside them. The officer on the bow bellowed something in rapid Greek.
Benito had the unpleasant realization that his life was in the hands of a bunch of poor people he didn't know very well, who would be well rewarded for selling him out and who would be killed if they were caught harboring him. Worst of all, he didn't understand what they were saying. He resolved to learn Greek, if he got out of here alive.
* * *
With his heart pounding, his mouth dry, Spiro heard the Greek officer yelclass="underline" "What are you doing out here?"
"We're fishermen," said Taki. "What do you think? We're on our way back home to Levkas. We got caught up in the blow last night and came too far north."
"Stand by to be boarded."
A dozen or so marines boarded the boat. The Case Vecchie did his best "I-am-a-poor-scared-fisherman" look. It wasn't hard to do the scared bit, Spiro realized. But he rapidly realized what a genius Taki had been to insist on catching fish last night. The fish, under damped sacks, were still cool and fresh—the most convincing evidence possible that this was, indeed, nothing more than a fishing boat.
The officer with the marines looked about—obviously searching for refugees, or maybe arms, supplies, valuables. There were few places anyone could hide, so it was a very cursory look. The nets, the boxes of fish, the small crew all said fishing boat.
"Why did you come so far north?" he demanded. "Orders went to all the villages that no one was to fish within sight of Antipaxos."
Taki cringed. "My lord. In the dark we drifted too far. We didn't mean to . . ."
The Byzantine officer hit him, sending him sprawling across the fish. "Fool. By the smell of you, I think you drank too much to celebrate the catch. It wasn't the wind that got you here, it was the wine. If we find you this far north again, we'll sink you. Do you understand?"
Taki, on his knees now, nodded furiously. "Yes, milord! It won't happen again." His voice quavered.
"It had better not." The officer pointed to two of the marines. "Here, you two. Take one of these boxes. We could use some fresh fish."
"Milord, my fish," protested Taki.
"Consider it a fine for breaking the law," said the officer. "And think how lucky you are not to have your filthy little vessel sunk."
Taki did the grovel magnificently. "Thank you, milord. But . . . can I at least have my box back? I'm a poor fisherman, milord . . ."
The officer laughed. "No."
* * *
The galley receded. The apparently hard-working crew of the fishing boat started to laugh. And laugh.
"Prissy-assed malakas." Taki blew a raspberry at the departing ship and then grinned at Benito. "You're my witness, Case Vecchie. They boarded my ship in the Venetian Republic's waters, stole my fish and—worst of all!—stole Venetian property."
Benito looked suitably mystified. "Venetian property?"
"The fish box. It belongs to the fish market in Kerkira. It is the property of the Republic of Venice—which is what that prim little official at the fish market tells me every time I come in. Property of Venice! And he took it!"
The crew started to laugh again.
"Piracy! That's what it was," said Spiro, trying to keep a straight face, passing over a jug of wine.
Benito took a swig and nodded sagely. "We'll swear out a charge against them in front of the podesta, and let him have the ambassador summoned, for a severe reprimand and a demand for reparations."
"Especially for the valuable catch," said Kosti. "The idiots chose a box of trash fish."
"So when do we turn and run across the straits to Bari or Brindisi?" asked Benito.
Taki raised an eyebrow. "We're not going to run across the strait. There they have twenty-five lousy little leagues to patrol. But they can't patrol the whole Ionian Sea. You're in for a haul, boy. I hope you don't get seasick easily."
* * *
Emeric looked with satisfaction at the bluish haze of gunpowder smoke blowing gently across the channel. The forty-eight-pound bombards took a huge amount of powder and a long time to load, but they were his second choice for reducing and penetrating the walls of a besieged fortress. Evening was drawing in, but the bombardment would not stop for that.
His first choice was treachery. Months before the assault on Corfu, he had begun to prepare the ground for it. Far better than the captain-general, he already knew the number of Corfiote refugees within the walls of the Citadel. He knew how much food there was in their garrison's storehouse, and he was already getting daily reports from Fianelli. He knew a great deal about the likes and weaknesses of the various officers, too.
One of the things that had made Emeric so sure Corfu would be an easy conquest was the past history of the captain-general. True enough, the man was not corrupt, but he was a vain and incompetent fool. His handling of the insurrection in the Venetian enclave in Trebizond had been so bad that it had gotten him sent to a station where there would never again be a need for military action. He was a bungler, but a bungler with political connections. In the Venetian Republic, a bungler whose godfather is the Doge could go far. Unfortunately for Captain-General Tomaselli, there was a new Doge.
The garrison commander, on the other hand, was a disaster from Emeric's point of view. Commander Leopoldo would have to die. Emeric had bought several of the soldiers within the forces at the commander's disposal. Most of the troops serving the Venetian Republic were mercenaries, for sale to the highest bidder. It was just unfortunate that they did not have a mercenary commanding officer. So: Commander Leopoldo would have to be assassinated. When he was engaged in some firefight—best to do it unobtrusively.