'Just like Francesca predicted,' he mused. 'I do believe Venetian politics just went through an earthquake.'
* * *
'I'm letting you off here,' Petro Dorma said to Benito, as the barge was almost across the canal.
At that moment, a young woman suddenly pushed her way to the forefront of the mob. Her eyes seemed a little wild. As soon as she caught sight of Benito, her square jaw tightened like a clamp. Then . . .
'That's an incredible command of profanity, she's got,' said Manfred cheerily. 'And the way your girlfriend's shaking her fist at you doesn't bode well for your future.'
'She's not my girlfriend,' growled Benito.
Manfred's already huge grin got bigger. 'Could have fooled me!' He eyed the shrieking young woman. 'In my experience--okay, it's limited, I admit--but still . . .' The grin faded a little, and the next words came softly. 'Young Benito, I think only a woman in love gets that angry at a man.'
'You're crazy!' snapped Benito.
They were almost at the edge of the canal. With as little effort as if he were picking up a toddler, Manfred hoisted Benito by the armpits and began to deposit him off the barge.
'Maybe so,' he whispered. 'But if she isn't, you're the one who's crazy, not me. Damn, but she's gorgeous.'
Benito stared at the furious eyes that Manfred's huge hands were depositing him before, to meet his punishment. The square jaw, the red face, the thick hair swinging wildly--almost as wildly as the fist--the broad shoulders.
Damn. She is gorgeous.
* * *
The thought vanished as soon as Maria's hand cracked his face. And it stayed away while she shook him by the shoulders--slapped him again; not as hard, but twice--and finished cursing him. But it returned, in a flood, when she seized him and hugged him close, sobbing softly in his hair and kissing his cheek.
'God damn you, Benito, don't ever scare me like that again.'
'I'm sorry, Maria,' he mumbled. 'But . . .'
He didn't know how to respond. He was too confused. Damn, but you're gorgeous seemed . . . crazy. But he couldn't think of anything else to say. Not a damn thing that didn't seem . . . crazier.
Chapter 62 ==========
When Antimo brought the news of Dorma's raid on the Dandelos to the Duke of Ferrara, Dell'este rose from his chair and went to the window. There he remained, for some time, staring toward Venice.
'How much money have we received so far from the Emperor, through Baron Trolliger's private agents?'
'We'll have enough to hire the condottieri we need.'
'Secretly?'
'Yes, milord. Since you'll be commanding the army yourself, I've not had to negotiate with any well-known great captains. Just a large number of small companies. Neither Visconti nor Sforza will be able to keep track of the numbers involved. Ferrara will field twice the force the Milanese are expecting. I'm quite sure of it.'
'Careless on their part,' mused Dell'este. 'But I'm not surprised. Filippo Visconti has always been too arrogant, and Sforza has grown complacent with success.' He was silent for a moment. Then gave the windowsill a little tap. 'So. Everything else is in place. We have the army we need, and it seems as if Venice has finally found a leader worthy of the name. There remains, only--Valdosta.'
When he turned back, the face of the Old Fox seemed to have no expression at all. But Antimo knew his master far too well to be fooled.
'The sword, then?'
The duke nodded. 'Yes. Send it. The time has come. At last.'
