This Rough Magic

'You tell them to leave our women and children alone and no one will get hurt!'

It was a very nasty situation. On one hand, the troops were armed, and armored. They had the women and children as virtual hostages. On the other hand, armor is no defense against hot pitch. And the Corfiotes were between them and the way out of the shipyard. Something else ominous was happening beyond the Corfiotes too. The scuolo, being Venetian guildsmen, were all part of the Militia. So they were in the habit of bringing their weapons and breastplates to work for duties afterward—and now they were arriving, armed, in dribs and drabs. They were positioned behind the Corfiotes with their pitch and crowbars, their felling axes and knives.

One of the guildsmen pushed forward. 'Don't try to stop this, Master Grisini,' said the big Corfiote. 'We're desperate men.'

The elderly guildmaster sniffed irritably. 'We've no intention of stopping you. But I warn you, Dopappas. You get one drop of that pitch on my deck-planking and I'll shove that cauldron up your ass.' Maria risked a quick peep to see that her Umberto was backing old Grisini up, coming up the ramp to where the soldiers stood with their prisoners. The master wasn't a big man. The Corfiote laborer he was threatening was enormous.

But the Corfiote nodded respectfully. 'Yes, Master Grisini. But they want to take our women.'

Grisini sighed gustily. 'I'm old. I'm tired. But I'm also aware of the scuolo's rights and responsibilities.'

The Corfiote blinked.

The old man walked on through the Corfiotes, Umberto following behind him.

Maria saw that some more entrants had arrived for the affair. The Contessa De Belmondo and her husband, the governor. And, peering nervously through the gate: Stella, with Alessia and several of her own children. She'd plainly gotten a message to the contessa.

'Good morning. And what is happening here?' De Belmondo enquired with gentle curiosity.

'We've found these illegal entrants hiding here, Your Excellency,' said the captain-general. 'These men seem set on daring to rebel against legally constituted military authority in a war zone. The penalty for that is death, as you might like to remind them.'

Old Grisini bowed respectfully to the governor. 'Morning, Your Excellency. We seem to have a problem here about authority. Would you please explain to the captain-general that the Little Arsenal is part of the Arsenal of Venice—not part of the military of Corfu. He has no authority here. We explained that to him when he tried to draft us, but he doesn't seem to understand it.'

The captain-general looked frigidly at him. 'In this case food and shelter intended for the island's people are being wasted on these women.'

De Belmondo blinked. 'Are these women and children from some other island then?'

'No, but they're not Venetian! They're locals.' Tomaselli's tone added the unsaid words: and thus beneath contempt.

'I do not recall—as governor of this Venetian possession—anything which abrogates our responsibility for 'locals,' as you put it.' The governor's voice was decidedly frosty. 'In fact, I wasn't even aware of any such official category of people.'

'But they're here illegally!' sputtered the captain-general.

Old Grisini snorted. 'Not to make too fine a point of it—so are you, Tomaselli. They are in our building. They're the wives and children of our employees. We'll see to them. We'll see to their appropriate treatment.'

The captain-general played his trump card. 'Not with the food from the Citadel's stores. They must be put out!'

De Belmondo shook his head. 'I cannot allow you to do that. And I don't think your men would be prepared to do something that would have them forever labeled as murderers of women and children. The Senate of the Republic would have my head, and yours.'

This plainly hadn't struck Nico Tomaselli. 'But we can't just allow them to freeload on the Citadel's stores!'

Umberto cleared his throat. 'Excuse me, milords. I have an idea. If we put these women to work for the Republic, they would be entitled to a place as these men are.'

The captain-general sneered. 'You haven't even got work for yourselves! Besides, what can they do?'

Umberto answered instantly. 'Weave sailcloth. We have flax, but the stores of sailcloth are very low.'

'And what do we do with sailcloth in a siege?' grumbled Tomaselli, but you could see he was weakening.

'There is life after siege, we hope,' said De Belmondo. 'And if there isn't . . . well, we shall have no use for anything—never mind sailcloth.'

* * *

There was no help for it. Maria came and had her name—Elena Commena, she decided—scribed in the book with the other workers' wives. Umberto nearly dropped his quill.

* * *

'But why sailcloth? The flax is intended for ropes, Umberto. It's too coarse for good sailcloth,' said old Grisini. He'd virtually collapsed when the tension and need went—he was in his late seventies, and it was hard on him.

Umberto paused. Bit his lip trying to think how best to put this to the old man. 'Because, master, the captain-general is right. We don't have work for ourselves. That's really the main reason there's fighting and dissatisfaction. So I have been thinking ever since the Teutonic knights arrived here under fire, that we need to be able to strike at the enemy ships. We have everything we need, except brass nails and sailcloth, to build ships