'Si. I'll need some gunpowder from the Arsenal anyway.'
Petro looked rather warily at the imp he'd just set loose. But he dug into his pockets.
'I guess that leaves me,' said Kat. 'I'd better go with my grandfather to Della Tomasso.'
Petro took a deep breath. 'No. Lodovico Montescue is old enough not to need his hand held. You go with Marco. We may all be dead soon. You may as well--' He waved a little feebly. 'Be together.'
Lodovico looked at Marco Valdosta. Shrugged. 'My house is in ruins anyway. Be happy at least, cara mia.'
* * *
Marco faced a crowd, a sea of faces. The torches made the planes of the faces stand out. Showed the lines of hard work and poor food, particularly in the clustered caulkers. Hard times and hard faces. Mouths set in a grim line. His stomach turned itself inside out. He looked at Maria. There was the same grimness, the same determination in that square jaw, as there was on the faces in the crowd. And Maria said that he, not she, must tell the Arsenalotti what Petro had said.
He looked at Kat. She reached out and squeezed his hand, and he realized just how right Petro had been. He still did need someone to hold his hand. 'Introduce me,' he said to Maria.
She stood up onto the marble step. 'Arsenalotti!'
There were a few cheers. A number of smiles. A good many waves. Everyone here knew Maria Garavelli. Honest as the day was long, even if she had a temper on her that you could boil a kettle on. 'What are you doing up there, Maria?'
'This is Marco Valdosta. He needs to talk to you. He's Case Vecchie, but he has doctored some of your kids. He's a good man and he's got a message for you from the Council of Ten.'
Marco got up onto the step. 'Thank you, Maria.'
There were a few people clapping. He heard his name repeated. He cleared his throat and looked at Kat. She smiled.
'Who has always defended the Doge, the piazza? On whom has the last defense of Venice always rested?' His voice cut through the silence.
No one answered. Then someone in the back of the crowd said 'Not Petro Dorma's damned 'militia,' Valdosta!'
'Right,' said Marco. 'Not the militia. The Arsenalotti. That is the way it has always been. And that is the way it must stay.'
The crowd cheered.
Marco knew in his bones that he was doing the right thing. He had them. He held up a parchment. 'Dorma made a mistake. He's man enough to admit that. I, Marco Valdosta, have his writ here. The Council calls the Arsenalotti to the Defense of the Republic.' A strange power infused his voice. 'In the name of the Winged Lion of Saint Mark, you are called to Arms! Will you answer?'
The assent itself was a roar. And to Marco's shock, he realized that they were chanting 'VAL--DOS-TA! VAL--DOS-TA!'
He stilled them with a gesture. 'This is my brother, Benito. He's the one who is good at organizing and plans. He'll tell you what the Council wants.'
Benito, wide-eyed, was pushed to his feet to face the cheering crowd. 'I'll get even with you for this, Marco,' he said quietly.
'Face it, Benito,' said Marco. 'You tell people what to do far better than I do.'
And Benito went on to prove him dead right.
Chapter 87 ==========
Erik stared at the desecrated Lady chapel. Grim. Silent. Pellmann had not run away after all, as his remains testified. But it was the bells that were the most offensive. Made from infant skulls, with a small thighbone for a clapper. The cross was broken. The walls were scrawled with strange and unpleasant symbols . . . scrawled in what could only be blood and excrement. Rusty stains marred the once white altar cloth. Pieces of clothing . . . A cotte. A knitted cap. A richly embroidered nightshirt . . . lay on the floor.