The capitano turned, looked, and blanched. His lips moved silently as he counted. "Twenty-two galliots. No, twenty-three. Pirates, by the looks of them. That's the biggest fleet of galliots that I've heard of since my grandfather's day, when Admiral Gradineri broke their power off Otok Brac and burned their lairs on the Narenta."
"They don't seem to have stayed broken," said Manfred dryly.
The capitano shook his head. "They're like rats, milord. You can never find all the holes. What are we going to do? We're trapped between them."
"Run with the wind and fight our way out of whatever trouble catches us," said Manfred.
"No." Benito hadn't meant to say anything, but the words just came out of him without thinking. He couldn't believe that neither the capitano nor Manfred nor Erik could see it—but it was so obvious. Maybe it was all that time on the rooftops as a boy, but he could see the battle in his mind's eye as if on a map.
"Look at the pattern! The galliots are aiming to cut us off. Look at them! They're not rowing toward us at all. They're heading toward where we'll be if we turn and run. I'd guess we were spotted from the shore yesterday and this was planned between them. Those carracks there are bearing down on us with the wind. The galliots only have to burn our sails and stop the oarsmen from getting a good stroke with a peppering of arrows, and the carracks and their cannon will catch up with us. We need to drop the sails and bull straight into the wind."
Erik's eyes narrowed. "We'll evade those carracks. They can't quarter close enough to the wind for that. But the galliots are smaller, lighter and faster. They'll catch us."
Benito smiled savagely, seeing it all unfold in his mind. "They'll have to row a good dogleg to do it. And then they can face our cannon. We don't outgun all those round ships, but we do those little things." Then he looked at Erik and said, "Uh. Sir."
Erik snorted. "That was for training. Speak if you have sense to speak, and it certainly sounds to me like you do."
Someone clapped. It was Eberhard of Brunswick. "Well, he is speaking it now. That is the Old Fox's grandson talking. That is thinking. Real strategy."
Manfred nodded. "Give the orders, Captain. And make signal to the other vessels." He turned to the knights. "Right gentlemen. Below and arm yourselves! Into armor. They won't be expecting fifty knights on each of these ships."
Erik held up a restraining hand. "Wait. Those galliots—the rowers fight too?"
The capitano nodded. "Yes. One or two of them might have small cannon, but they rely on boarding vessels and hand-to-hand fighting."
"Good." Erik turned to Manfred. "I don't think we should have the knights don armor yet. If we give those galliots a long chase . . . They'll be good and exhausted by the time they do catch us." For the first time since he'd come aboard, Erik gave Benito an encouraging smile. "Or what do you say, young Benito?"
Benito nodded, looking inwards at the map in his mind. "Yes. If we can keep up the chase for long enough we can turn again and quarter on the wind. We'll be upwind of the carracks. The galliots will change course, to cut the corner . . . But that'll mean that they have to keep rowing while we can rest on the oars."
Manfred bellowed. "No armor, gentlemen. Not yet. You'll all be taking a turn at the oars."
The grumble at this order was stilled by Falkenberg, who swatted an already gauntleted hand against his breastplate. "You heard the prince! Those of you already in armor, strip it off."
"Falkenberg!" yelled Manfred.
"Sir!"
"I'll want a roster of what order the knights and squires will row in. I want them to spell the rowers but not exhaust themselves. Set it up for me."
In the meanwhile, the capitano had sailors on the rigging, with orders flying. A sailor on the poop deck was making signals to the other vessels. As the sails came down, four steersmen swung the great rudder hard over. Oars came out and the steady drumbeat began.
"The carracks are resetting their sails," said Erik, squinting across the water. The vessels were, Benito judged, still more than a league away.
"Won't matter. They can't sail close enough to the wind."
Eberhard of Brunswick looked thoughtfully at Benito. "Just how do you judge this? I know from speaking to your grandfather that you are not a sailor. You've never been outside of Venice before."
Benito shook his head. "I . . . I can see it, milord. In my head. I know how close to the wind the galliots can sail. We've done that for the last two days. The capitano said to Erik—yesterday—that he was lucky this wasn't a round ship. They cannot get enough points to the wind." Benito shrugged and held up his hands helplessly. "It's a like a picture in my head from a high rooftop. I can see where people are going. I can see where they can go."
The Ritter nodded. "I knew your Grandfather well. I was based in Milano some twenty years back and he and I met on a number of occasions. Once, when he had delivered a crushing defeat against the odds to Phillipo Maria of Milano in some minor border dispute, I asked just how he did it. He described something similar. Only he spoke of it in chess terms."
Chess had been one of few things Benito had discovered in his life as Case Vecchie that was more enjoyable than the way he'd lived as a messenger and thief. "It is a great game, Milord."
Eberhard smiled wryly. "When this is over, you must give me a game. And if you desire a true challenge, that man is the master." He pointed to Eneko Lopez.
The cleric looked away from the sea, raising his eyebrows. "It is a challenging game. But the only man I know who sees a battle like a map is Carlo Sforza." He looked very penetratingly at Benito. Someone had obviously been telling family secrets.
Benito said nothing. So Eneko continued. "It is your birthright, boy. A God-given gift. See you use it wisely in his service." Eneko Lopez straightened up. "I will go below. Francis, Pierre, Diego and I will see if any protective magics may be worked."
"Better if you could blast them all to ash," grumbled Eberhard. "The pagans I fought in Smaland had a magician who could do that, until someone put an arrow through his eye."
Eneko shook his head. "It is not fitting to destroy human souls, for thus is evil magic defined. In wars among Christian men, it is common for kings to claim God is on their side, but that is vainglory. God is on the side of those whose souls need him. God decides on rights and wrongs of a cause, not kings, and our magic will be as sand in the wind if we try to use it to attack. But evil magics—ah, now those are best countered by ecclesiastical power." He turned and went below decks.
Eberhard snorted. "He said much the same thing to the Emperor, can you believe it? He's a stiff-necked man, that one." He looked wryly at Benito. "I don't think you got much else from Carlo Sforza, boy. You should be grateful for that skill—from both your father and your mother's side. Yes, I know, too, Benito. Half the world does."
Benito felt his face grow hot as he flushed, and he thought of Maria, and what she had said. "They keep expecting me to be like one or the other of them. I'm not! I'm myself."
The elderly Ritter tugged at his white moustache. "Some of us struggle to live up to the reputation bequeathed to us by our blood. Others struggle to rise above that reputation. It can be done, boy. But we are shaped by it. It's whether we allow it to rule us or whether we direct it. That stiff-necked priest is right. You have a gift. Use it well. Use it as Benito Valdosta would use it, not the Wolf of the North—nor, even, the Duke of Ferrara."