Reborn in The Most Serene Republic of Venice – Rise of a Doge

The ride back to Candia went faster than the ride out, though perhaps fear had simply found a cheaper way to measure the distance for poor Vlastos.

Vito stopped long enough to pull a few more men from duty until they had enough bodies to make a respectable disturbance outside a cathedral. By the time St. Titus came into view, the sun was already making for the sea.

One deacon flung himself against the cathedral doors the instant he noticed the soldiers walking toward the holy place. He planted his hands against the wood as though the strength of his arms might somehow stop the entire company.

The majestic resistance held out for about as long as such plans usually do. One soldier drove a shoulder into the door, the deacon went backward into a row of unlit candles, and the company entered over the remains of his defense.

Inside, incense lay thick against the gold of a hundred little icons and the trembling light of oil lamps hung along the walls. It was the sort of place where a man might ordinarily feel that heaven was keeping an eye on things, which made the armed men somewhat inconvenient.

Vito came through the doors like he was late to his own wedding, looking altogether too pleased with himself for presently trespassing in a house of God.

Toffolo could hardly contain himself, as if he had been turned loose in an armory and had just discovered that nobody intended to take anything back.

Pellegrino paused just inside the doors, crossed himself, kissed two fingers, and touched them to his forehead before carrying on, ”San Marco, forgive me. I know I confessed Constantinople would be the last, but surely one little church won’t count after a sack like that. Though I admit, if you’re keeping score, I’d rather you put this one under the heading of enthusiasm.”

Apparently a man could march into a cathedral with soldiers at his back, provided he had first taken the trouble to ask God for permission.

Vlastos came in last, his robe gathered tight around him, eyes on the soldiers ahead as though he might slip through the church unnoticed. He had been silent since they left the estate, and now he looked thoroughly miserable.

Around them, the soldiers spread through the nave and chapels without waiting for orders. They went through chests and a writing desk beside a side altar, quick in their work, leaving little untouched and less broken. Evidently, they had been taught the difference between searching a place and demolishing it, which was a small mercy for everyone involved.

Vito’s boots resonated across the stone as he made for the altar, with Vlastos dragged half a step behind him. They passed a carved screen crowded with painted saints, the thing dividing the nave from the sanctuary beyond as if a few solemn faces on a wooden wall might discourage determined men.

At the far end stood a man before a wall of icons. The gold leaf caught what little light the lamps offered, and in front of it stood an old, gaunt figure in dark, heavy robes with a jeweled cross hung against his chest, and one hand around a tall wooden staff propped beside him.

His head was bowed, his gray beard falling past his folded hands, and for one brief, unguarded second he looked exactly like a man who had come there to pray.

Then he saw who had crossed his sanctuary, and the prayer was over.

His hand struck the staff hard against the stone. The crack snapped through the church and turned the heads of men still searching the nave.

”How dare you.”

The archbishop’s voice spread trough the whole cathedral without any need for shouting.

”Have you lost what little sense God bestowed upon you?”

He straightened, drawing himself up inside his robes as though he were putting his authority back on after finding it lying on the floor. ”You have brought a heresy into this holy place, and you will not leave it unpunished. The Almighty Himself will judge what duty demands of us, and when He does, the faithful of this island will see you returned to whatever heathen church you came from. Do not mistake your sword and your soldiers for protection, Ser Barozzi. They will not shield you from God, nor from the men who serve Him.”

Then his eyes landed on Vlastos, and the anger that had overflow the whole church found itself a new target.

”And you. You swore to me that your loyalty belonged to the true faith and to nothing else...”

”Your Grace, I, I never, that is, I only ever meant to...”

”Silence, you’re nothing but a heathen and a traitor both.”

Vlastos seemed to shrink where he stood, even smaller now than he had when his secrets were exposed at his own dining table, which was quite an accomplishment.

Vito leaned one shoulder against the nearest pillar, as if enjoying a play whose ending he already knew.

”Heresy?”

He let the word there, as though considering whether it had anything to do with him. ”I came to pay my respects to the Almighty, Your Grace. Even I can spare a moment for prayer, particularly when the church is this conveniently placed.”

Calling it an arrest meant making it an arrest, and with that came witnesses, questions, and a churchman with friends in the most inconvenient places. Much better to call it a courtesy call, and once everyone agreed on the name, there was very little left for anyone to object to.

The archbishop’s fingers had tightened until the knuckles were white around his staff. ”Your men are prying open my poor box as we speak, Ser Barozzi. Does the Almighty require an accounting of my silver as well?”

”Ah, that.”

Vito lifted one hand, as though the situation had only just occurred to him. ”Purely a mercy on my part, Your Grace. I heard this cathedral had been troubled by rats lately, and my men are only clearing them out while they’re here. Very thorough fellows. They’ll look into every chest in the building if that’s what it takes to make certain Your Grace sleeps peacefully tonight.”

The archbishop stared at him, the gaze carrying all the disbelief he had not yet managed to fit into his voice.

”Is this some ill-conceived joke, Ser Barozzi?

”Mache, Your Grace, the rats are quite real. Large ones too, the sort that wear robes, keep to dark corners, and write letters they ought to leave alone.

That was enough to break what remained of the archbishop composure.

”You blasphemous dog.”

The staff struck the stone again. ”May the Almighty Himself turn your own sword against you and leave you to answer for every desecration you have brought into this holy place. You will not mock God forever, Ser Barozzi. There will come a day when no Venetian silver, no soldier’s blade, and no clever tongue will stand between you and His wrath.”

Vito’s grin stayed exactly where it was. ”I’ll take my chances with the Almighty, Your Grace. He’s been considerably more forgiving of me than most men expect.”

Toffolo came jogging back across the nave before the archbishop could gather another speech, a little bundle of letters tucked under one arm, most of the wax seals still untouched.

”Ser Barozzi! Found these behind a false panel near the sacristy. And before you ask, no, I can’t make head nor tail of them, not one damned letter.”

He held them out, still breathing hard. ”I had one of the men who can read it take a quick look. Says they’re addressed to priests out beyond the hills, whole villages named plain as a church bell!”

Vito took the letters and weighed them in his hand. They felt heavier than a bundle of parchment had any business feeling, which was never a good sign for the man whose name might be written inside.

He reached over and gave the archbishop a friendly wave, the sort a man might give an old acquaintance before heading home after a pleasant visit. ”You’ve been more helpful than you know, Your Grace, and I do appreciate the hospitality. I’ll leave a few good men behind to keep an eye on the place. Wouldn’t want anything happening to such a fine cathedral, especially with all those rats still about.”

The archbishop failed to reply. His lips quivered, then again, but whatever answer he had in mind never made it past them.

Vito turned toward the doors without waiting to see whether he found his voice again. The rest of the party fell in behind him, with Vlastos left behind to keep the archbishop company, or perhaps simply to give His Grace somewhere to pour the holy fury that had nowhere else to go.

”Toffolo. Find Zaccaria and tell him to get the men ready. Wouldn’t want to keep our friends waiting now.”