Benito decided he liked Renate De Belmondo, even if he'd rather have been having a glass of wine down with the Arsenalotti. "Oh, I'm not trying too hard."
That was true enough. He simply wasn't interested. Other than their physical charms, the "young ladies of Corfu" lacked salt. If he'd said the moon was green, they'd have agreed with him.
It had amused Benito at first to be considered a prize. But it had come as a shock to realize that more than one of the delicately bred young damsels of Corfu's high society, never previously in a man's company without a duenna, would happily lift her skirts on the floor of her parlor for the mantle of his name, his position with the Doge and his reputation as hero. As an actual person he was unimportant. He could have been a hunchback or a pygmy able to speak in short grunts only. It was his position that made him valuable—grandson of the Old Fox, second son of Valdosta, friend to the Doge, brother to the Young Lion, confidant of Prince Manfred. Political power, a coin he held as debased to the point of worthlessness, was the true gold to them.
Then there were the real hero-worshipers. They were almost worse.
"He was complaining about the lack of spice here only yesterday, Contessa," said Manfred, grinning at Benito.
She waved her fan. "Well. If it's 'spice' you're after, I would think you'd want to consort with the ladies of our little covey of degenerates and try one of their Romanesque orgies. Except that they seem to be keeping a very low profile, these days. They used to be the glitter of these little affairs."
Benito snorted. "I think I want a girl to chew me out, not chew me up."
The contessa smiled. "The best kind, those. They probably remind you of your mother."
He shook his head. "You obviously didn't know my mother, Contessa."
Before this conversation could go into details about his mother, Benito was glad to see Von Gherens bumping through the butterfly crowd, like a steel bumblebee. "Prince Manfred," he said without bothering to excuse himself for interrupting. "Emeric's doing an inspection of his troops. It looks like he's planning something. You'd better come and have a look."
"Very well," said Manfred. "You'll excuse me, milady."
"You coming, Benito?" asked Von Gherens. "There is someone I want you to see."
So Benito went along, tagging behind Falkenberg, who had been doing an uncomfortable job of bodyguarding. He knew it was a put-up job that Manfred had organized to save himself from sitting through a second hour of a hard seat and bad music. Well, Benito didn't mind being out of there either.
"As it happens, Emeric really is out and about," said Von Gherens to Benito, "and we really do want you to look at one of his companions. We think we last saw him in Venice. We'll go down to the main gatehouse. You get the best view from there."
The late autumn air was cool and dry, and that dryness lent great clarity. The enemy trenches and earthworks across on the Spianada were so visible it was possible to see the rough mortaring between the stones. Von Gherens looked to a knight staring across from the battlements. "Are they still there, Klaus?"
The knight nodded. "Yes. They're just at that end of the rampart. They should move across soon."
They waited. And, sure enough, men moved from one earthwork to the next. It was a pity that accuracy on the cannons was so imprecise, and that the king and his generals were out of range of arquebusiers. "There."
The blond head stood out clearly against the dark background. Benito squinted. If only it were closer! He gritted his teeth. "It could be Aldanto. Damn his soul to Hell. It could be."
"Klaus here is long-sighted. He saw him in Venice, during the troubles there. He says it is him. By the walk."
"If Erik was here, I'd say we'd have to stop him going out to look," said Manfred. He glanced at Benito. "No, Benito. No."
"I'm not doing anything useful here. Besides sitting with Umberto and 'Lessi."
"No, Benito. No," repeated Manfred firmly.
Benito shrugged his shoulders. "I'll see you later. I want to go and look for something in among my gear."
* * *
"So," said Emeric, glaring at the Citadel, which, after all these months, still refused to fall. "We've lost four ships. All at night. All in the north. And at last count—"
His voice was rising dangerously. "—over two hundred horses. And more than seventy men." He pointed an accusing finger at Caesare. "You said you'd catch Hakkonsen. You and that yellow dog of yours. As far as I can work out, the situation has simply gotten worse. So, my involuntary and so-far-useless ally. Where is he?"
Caesare looked at Emeric with empty eyes. "We have a traitor at last. We will have either him or his woman soon. And given the kind of man he is, we will have him if we take her."
Emeric looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Where did you find a traitor? The peasants are terrified of the idea. They'd rather die. We've tried."
"Word has spread that the Libri d'Oro we captured are being reestablished on their lands."
"Ah. That policy has played handsome dividends. It is always easier to corrupt the leadership than the people. And it achieves more."
* * *
If Benito had remembered he had it, in the early days after Caesare turned out to be as false a hero as possible, he would have burned it. But it had stayed tucked away somewhere in his gear at the Casa Dorma. He certainly wouldn't have brought it along to Corfu. But, as he'd been sitting in jail, some anonymous servant had packed it along with just about anything he owned that was reasonably presentable. So, it had come into the governor's palace in the Citadel, along with a corded bag of other clothes and bags of grain and spare weaponry and whatever else he could carry easily. He'd seen it while looking for spare stuff Maria could cut up to make winter clothes for Alessia. The fabrics that the Casa Dorma had clad the younger Valdosta ward in were the absolute finest. Finer than Maria could dream of buying. And, damn her pride, she wouldn't take money.
When he'd found the silk scarf, he'd decided that he wouldn't give that to Alessia. Some residual trace of Aldanto might cling to it. Maria might just recognize it, too. She noticed clothes. And if she wouldn't take money from Benito . . . she certainly would have nothing to do with Caesare, in any shape or form.
But Benito remembered how Luciano Marina had used Maria's scarf to give them some idea whether she was alive or dead. Perhaps Eneko Lopez could do the same. With the scarf in a pocket, Benito went in search of the Basque priest.
He wasn't at the Hypatian chapel. In fact, it took Benito some time to track him down. He spotted Father Francis first. He was trying to be unobtrusive, but definitely up to something. Benito didn't disturb him in whatever it was. He walked on, and ran into another of the tight-knit group; this time it was Diego. And around the third corner, Lopez.
"Father Lopez, you don't do this well," said Benito calmly, as he walked past.
Eneko Lopez was a man of deep faith and great patience. So he didn't swear at Benito. He did turn around and let his breath hiss between his teeth. He gave Benito a look that would have turned many a man's wavering footsteps back to the paths of righteousness.