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
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