But just to be on the safe side—
Rafael had suggested he hide out here about two weeks, then come back into town. Get hold of Benito first—give him a note for Caesare. Use the old Montagnard codes, and flat ask him if he thinks I’m better gotten out of the way, permanent-like. Then make a counteroffer. Say—say that I’ll do what he wants me to do; come in, stay here, or leave Venice altogether.
The last wouldn’t be easy, or desirable from his point of view, but he’d do it; he couldn’t go north—but south, maybe? Or maybe hire on as a hand on an Outremer-bound ship?
That was a possibility. The sailors had seemed pretty rough characters, but basically good people, when he’d met a couple at Ventuccio’s. But—
He had a fairly shrewd notion of what some of the duties of a very junior (and passable-looking) sign-on might well include, and he wasn’t altogether sure he could stomach the job. Better that, though, than dead. No such thing as a “fate worse than death” in Marco’s book—except maybe a fate involving a lengthy interrogation at the hands of Montagnards, the Servants of the Holy Trinity, or Ricardo Brunelli—or Caesare Aldanto.
But Benito—if he left Venice, he’d have to leave Benito. No good could come to a fourteen-year-old kid in a strange place like Acre or Ascalon, or more-or-less trapped on an eastbound ship.
That would leave him more alone than he’d ever been.
He swallowed hard, and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. So be it. For Benito’s sake, he’d do just about anything. Including take on that lengthy interrogation.
But figure Caesare wanted him back in; in a lot of ways that was the worst case. Si, I’ll go in, I take my licks. God knows what he’ll do. Probably beat the liver out of me. Be worse if he didn’t, in some ways. He won’t be trusting me with much, anyway, not after the way I’ve messed up. Don’t blame him. I wouldn’t trust me, either.
So. Be humble; be respectful. Take orders, follow ’em to the letter, and earn the respect back. Even if it takes years.
Thank God he’d told the truth—at least he’d cut the thing with Angelina short, before it had landed them in more tangles than could be cut loose.
Give up on the notion of the Accademia—too close to the Dorma, especially with Dorma cousins going there. Hang it up; stay content with being Ventuccio’s third-rank clerk. At least that paid the bills.
Stay clear of anyplace Angelina might show, unless Caesare ordered different.
Keep clear of the Strega, too. That meant Valentina and Claudia and Barducci’s tavern—again, unless Caesare ordered differently.
Going back meant more than facing Caesare—it meant figuring a way to pay the damn bills with no money. Rent was paid until the end of the month—but that was only one week away. Borrow? From whom? Maria didn’t have any to spare. Not Caesare—
Marco gnawed his lip, and thought and thought himself into a circle. No choice. Has to be Caesare. Or beg an advance from Ventuccio. Have to eat humble pie twice. Charity. Hell.
Sometimes it seemed as if it would be a lot easier to find one of the marsh bandits and taunt them into killing him; God knew it wouldn’t take much. But he hadn’t fought and fought and fought to stay alive this long just to take the easy way out.
Last possibility—that Caesare would tell him to stay. That Caesare would trust to the Jesolo marshes to kill him, rather than killing him outright. Well, wasn’t staying what Marco had figured on doing in the first place?
All right, if Caesare told him to stay in the marshes—well, Marco would stay. At least this time he’d arrived equipped to do a little better than just survive. Not much, but a little. So long as he could keep clear of the bandits, he’d manage. And he and Benito could go back to the old routine—at least he’d be near enough to keep in touch.
Now—the Montagnards—have I screwed up there too?
* * *
Benito waded through mud and freezing water; over his ankles mostly, sometimes up to his knees. His legs were numb, his teeth were chattering so hard he couldn’t stop them, and his nose was running. He kept looking over his shoulder, feeling like he was being watched, but seeing nothing but the waving weeds that stood higher than his head. There was a path here, of a sort, and he was doing his best to follow it. If he hadn’t been so determined to find his brother, he’d have turned tail and run for home a long time ago.