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

The chapel was much too small for the trouble inside it.

The lamp overhead swung harder with every shoulder and elbow that struck or brushed past it, throwing the room in and out of light. Those walls, which had probably expected a lifetime of prayers and the occasional funeral, were getting a whole night’s worth of brawling instead.

Orso faced the broom-youth, with a second man standing squarely next to him, stout as a barrel and planted so firmly he might have been built into the floor.

Near the altar, the priest had already got hold of some object that hung on a chain. At the far wall, the fourth man, thin and quick as a whip, slipped past Toffolo’s hands and disappeared behind a low bench.

Orso hauled the broom-youth up by one arm, dangling at his side like a sheep being kept out of the butcher’s way. The lad fought like hell to get loose, twisting, kicking, all desperately to get free, until one wild kick came up high enough to catch the large Venetian square under the chin.

”Άσε με!”1

Orso’s head snapped back. He spat a little blood onto the youth’s tunic, then grinned down at him, murderous and happy all at once.

”Oh, ragazzo. Wouldn’t it be easier if I could just crack your skull?”

He laughed with joy, and tightened his grip on the boy’s arm. ”Looks like it’s time I become Orso the Gentle Giant. What do you reckon? Has a nice ring to it, no?”

With the distraction, the stout man charged and slammed into Orso’s chest.

Orso did not move an inch.

The fellow might as well have tackled the chapel wall. Orso glanced down at him, almost puzzled by the effort, then brought his free hand around in a heavy backhand that caught the man square across the face.

He went sprawling, struck the bench hard enough to send it skidding across the stone, and hit the floor with a raw, ugly cry.

The broom-youth saw his companion go down and reacted with the sort of good sense that had brought them all to this point in the first place. He swung the broom at Orso’s chest, only for the shaft to break with a sharp crack, one half dropping from the youth’s hand while the other bounced uselessly off Orso’s mail.

”Σκύλε!”1 the youth spat, with a mouthful of mail and sleeve.

”Ow, cazzo. Fine. Have it your way.”

Orso slammed him back against the wall, hard enough to empty his lungs but not enough to break every bone know to men. Then he let him slide to the floor, where he stayed, dazed and thoroughly finished with the fight.

That left the stout man, still on the ground beside the bench. Orso figured he should deal with him in the oldest and most reliable fashion available. He bent, caught him by the tunic, and hauled him straight up.

Up came the man, boots kicking at the air, and down he went on top of the youth. Both crashed together in a tangle of arms and legs.

Orso dropped himself on top of the pair, planted his arse comfortably across them, and grinned down at his catch like a fisherman admiring the fat fish in the bottom of his boat.

”Ah, now this is pleasant.” Orso shifted his weight and grinned. ”Could get used to it.”

Meanwhile, across the little chapel, Vito nearly was hit by some incense burner. Its chain snapped tight as the priest swung it in a broad, smoking arc directly at his head.

Vito ducked underneath it, laughing. ”Your aim’s better than your theology, Padre. If you’d taken that on the road, you’d have converted half of Anatolia by now.”

The priest swung again, and this time Vito had to give him some ground. His boots skidded over the stone while the burner’s bowl whipped past close enough for him to feel the heat from the coals inside it.

The priest fought like he’d handed the other end of the chain to God himself, and the strength he put into it was remarkable for an old man wearing a gray beard that suggested he ought to have been spending his evening sitting down.

The third swing missed Vito altogether and struck the hanging lamp.

The hook tore loose, and the lamp came down in a shower of flame. The priest recoiled and dropped the burner, its chain clattering across the stone as he stumbled back from the fire.

Vito lunged for the falling lamp, and it struck his palm hard enough to jar his arm, but he caught it and swung it away from the priest’s robes. The oil splashed across the stone and he stamped it out at once, grinding his boot over the last flicker until the flame died beneath his heel.

He clicked his tongue, breathing harder now. ”Padre, please. I’m trying to take you alive, and you’re doing your damnedest to burn the place down.”

The priest made straight for the altar. The instant his hands closed around it, he became dead weight, hugging the thing like Vito was trying to drag him away from his own mother. He would not stand, would not let go, and seemed perfectly prepared to be hauled out with the altar still in his hands.

”Θα πεθάνω εδώ πριν σας ακολουθήσω!”1

Vito pried one hand loose, then the other, taking care not to wrench the old man’s arms in the process. It was more wrestling than dragging, and by the time he finally got both hands free, he had to haul the priest backward by the shoulders a few inches at a time.

”Your sins weigh more than you do, Padre, and that’s saying something. Up you go.”

Near them, one candlestick flew past Toffolo’s ear and smashed against the wall. The last man had thrown it while ducking low behind the vestment chest, which was apparently serving him as both shield and armory.

Toffolo laughed ”Ha! Close, amico, close! Best throw I’ve seen all night!”

The wiry man was fast, faster than either of the other two, and he knew exactly how much a cramped chapel could do for a man who was trying not to be caught. He used the chest, the broken stool, the shadows, and every bit of confusion, always one stride ahead of Toffolo’s hands.

Toffolo reached left. The man went right.

Toffolo lunged right, and the fellow was already swallowed by the dark.

”Μη με πιάνεις!” 1

The man shouted, panting now, with real fear beginning to crack through whatever defiance he had started with.

”Almost! Almost! Come here, you clever little bastard!”

Toffolo lunged again, missed again, and laughed again. On the next try, he finally caught a fistful of tunic and hauled.

That was enough.

Both men went down together over the ruined stool in a confusion of arms, legs, and splintered wood, with Toffolo ending up on top mostly out of luck.

Toffolo grinned down at him, pinning both arms beneath his knees. ”Not bad. You’d have made a decent sailor, you know that? Fast feet like yours are wasted on some farmland.”

Between the three of them, binding four exhausted and furious men took less time than expected. They used cord from wherever the chapel happened to provide it, and when the work was done, all four prisoners sat trussed along the wall, glaring at their captors as if the beating had been bad enough, but being tied up afterward was simply taking the piss.

Orso looked over the wreckage with deep satisfaction. He nudged a broken plank aside with one boot. ”Madonna santa. If we were Orthodox, I’d have to pay for all this in penance, and I’d never afford the bill.”

”Speak for yourself. I barely touched anything.”

Toffolo brushed two fingers along some scrape on his chin, discovering it only because the brawl was over and his face had finally had time to remind him of the pain.

Vito popped one shoulder, and now that the fight was finished he could feel what the priest’s stubborn weight had done to it. ”Cazzo, I’ve negotiated with nobles who were easier to handle than that old man. I had to drag him off the altar like he was part of the building.”

The three of them stood there for a few seconds, breathing hard and looking over the wreckage they had just made. Then Vito nodded toward the door.

Orso hauled the youth over one shoulder and the stout man over the other. Both hung there like sacks of grain, cursing into his back all the way out.

Toffolo marched the wiry man along by one bound arm, in a pace the prisoner plainly considered an unnecessary cruelty.

Vito took the priest himself, his robe torn at the hem and what remained of his dignity torn considerably worse.

The company that waited outside straightened immediately. Some grins appeared here and there, as though this were precisely the sort of entertainment they had hoped for.

Then Vito looked past his own men.

The street was no longer empty. Some dozen villagers stood there in the dark, torches burning in their hands, dragged from their beds by every crash and shout the chapel had sent into the cold night.

Firelight moved across their faces, but the faces themselves were blank with confusion.

And not one of them acted yet.

”Let me go!”“Dog!”“I’ll die here before I follow you!”“Don’t grab me!”