Benito lay still, trapped between the terror of the Schiopettieri and horror about Mercutio's death.
A minute later, Lopez returned. 'Schiopettieri are looking for you. Now. Explain to me what happened. Your burned-faced friend simply deposited you at my door and left.'
Benito sat up, frightened. 'I don't know what you're talking about. Mercutio, my friend . . .'
'With the Turkish waistcoat? The Schiopettieri say he is dead. Killed in the fracas.' Lopez took a deep breath. 'I am here to save a city, not to look after little sneak thieves. You are a piece in this puzzle, Benito Valdosta. You and your brother Marco and Katerina Montescue.'
Benito started in fear. 'How did you know--' He shrank back a little. It was always said that the Montagnards had killed their mother, had hunted Marco. Benito had always believed that himself. But what if . . . it had been the Metropolitans . . . even possibly this man, or agents of the Council of Ten. Those shadowy agents no one knew.
And Mercutio was dead. His mind just kept coming back to it. Dead . . . What was it that Valentina had said . . . He'll end up dead, and in two days Venice will have forgotten even his name.
Mercutio was dead. Dead. The whole of his face blown off. Dead.
Lopez shook him. Benito swung a fist at the Spaniard. 'He's dead! Mercutio is dead!'
Lopez sighed. 'Go on. Get out of here. You have that young fool's death on your mind. Perhaps we can talk when you are no longer a boy.'
* * *
As he staggered out onto the street, Benito was vaguely aware that there was something very wrong about that scary priest. Ricardo Brunelli's guest, at one time, now living in the Ghetto. A Legate of the Grand Metropolitan . . . being attired as a monk and manning a confession booth in Dorsoduro . . . waiting for some great happening. But his mind was too full of the death of Mercutio.
He charged down the cobbles to Aldanto's, wiping hot, angry eyes with his fists. He only slowed when he got to their house, because he had to talk to the gate-guard, and he wouldn't be crying in front of anyone, not if he died for it. So he composed himself--holding his sorrow and his rage under tightest of masks; opened the door with his key--
Started to. The door opened at the first rattle of key in lock, and he found himself looking at Aldanto himself.
He just stared, frozen.
'You're late,' Aldanto had said, grabbing his arm and hauling him inside. 'You should have been back--'
'Let me go!' Benito snarled, voice crackling again, pulling his arm away so fast his shirt sleeve nearly tore.
Aldanto gave him a startled look, then a measured one. He let go of Benito's arm and turned back to the door, careful to throw all the locks--and only then turned back to Benito.
'What happened?' he asked quietly, neutrally.
He'd told himself, over and over, that he was not going to tell Aldanto what had happened.
But Caesare was a skillful interrogator; Benito couldn't resist the steady barrage of quiet questions, not when Aldanto was between him and the door. Syllable by tortured syllable, the handsome blond dragged the night's escapade out of him, as Benito stared at the floor, smoldering sullenly, determined not to break down a second time. He got to know every crack and cranny of the entryway floor before it was over.
Silence. Then, 'I'm sorry,' Aldanto said quietly. 'I'm sorry about your friend.'
Benito looked up. Aldanto's face was unreadable, but his eyes were murky with thought, memory, something. He looked past Benito for a moment.
'But you know very well,' he said, noncommittally, 'that was a damned fool stunt.'
Benito snarled and made a dash for the stairs. Aldanto made no move to stop him. He tore up the stairs, stubbing his toes twice, getting up and resuming his run--got to Caesare's bedroom and through it, not caring if Maria was in the bed--to the roof-trap and out, slamming it behind him--
And out onto the roof, into the dark, the night, the sheltering night, where he huddled beside the chimney and cried and cried and cried. . . .
