Von Stemitz spoke in a whisper. “If Venice . . . is destroyed, the Holy Roman Empire will have no choice. If you don’t intervene—with direct military force—the Hungarians surely will. And—and—”
“And with Lithuania and the borderlands to deal with already, I cannot also afford to see a more powerful Kingdom of Hungary—especially not one which has a toehold in Italy. Especially not with a man on the throne like Emeric, who doesn’t quite have Jagiellon’s reputation—outside of Hungary, that is—but comes in a very close second.”
“There’d be war between the Empire and Hungary!”
Charles Fredrik nodded. “For a certainty. With—for a certainty—Milan and Rome sucked into the vortex as well. All of north Italy. Genoa also, be sure of it—soon enough, the Greeks as well.” He turned his head, staring out of the arrow slit again. “Within a year . . .” he mused. “Within a year, half of my army would be mired in north Italy. Leaving Jagiellon free to strike elsewhere.”
“Where, do you think?” asked Father Francis.
The Emperor swiveled his head back and fixed his eyes on Eneko Lopez’s companion. “I don’t know,” he said. “You’ll find out for me.”
Father Francis’s head jerked a little. Then, slowly, a small smile came to his face and he lowered his head. The gesture was almost—not quite—a bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said softly.
The Emperor chuckled. “Not just yet, Francis. We still have to spike this plot of Jagiellon’s in Venice. And you still have to get the agreement of the Grand Metropolitan in Rome before you can form a new order. What are you going to call it, by the way?”
Francis hesitated. “We haven’t really decided, Your Majesty. Most of us lean toward the ‘Society of Hypatia.’ ”
“Eneko Lopez also?”
“No, actually—he doesn’t seem to like the name. He—”
“Smart man!” barked the Emperor. “Within a year, your enemies will be calling you ‘the Shits.’ What does he favor?”
“The Society of Chrysostom.”
The Emperor stroked his thick beard. “Better. Better. Still . . . they’ll shorten it to something like ‘the Socks.’ Then, within a week, to ‘the smelly Socks.’ Be certain of it.” He paused. Then: “Call yourselves the Society of the Word,” he stated. Firmly, even imperiously.
Francis seemed to bridle. The Emperor barked a little laugh. “Don’t be stupid, Francis! Allow me the luxury of command in small things, if you would—since you do need my permission to operate in imperial territory. My cooperation, in fact, even if it is kept at a certain official distance.”
Francis’ stiff shoulders eased. “True, Your Majesty.” A little crease appeared between his eyebrows. “But I don’t see how calling ourselves—” The crease disappeared into a much deeper one. “Your Majesty! ‘The Swords?’ We are not a militant order.”
The most powerful man in Europe simply stared at him. And, after a moment, the priest looked away.
* * *
When Antimo finished his report, the Duke of Ferrara rose from his chair and moved over to the blade-rack along the wall. There, for a moment, his eyes ranged admiringly over the blades before he selected one and took it down from its rack.
“Benito has made his decision, has he?” mused the Old Fox. He hefted the dagger in his hand, holding it with an expert grip. “The main gauche, Antimo. Not so glorious as the sword, of course. A plebeian sort of weapon.” His left hand glided through a quick motion. “But, in the end, it’s often the blade sinister which spills the enemy’s guts on the field.”
Dell’este replaced the dagger and turned back to Bartelozzi. “Show in Baron Trolliger now, if you would. I assume he’s brought the rest of the money with him.”
Antimo nodded. “Enough to hire all the condottieri we’ll need.” Smiling grimly: “Ferrara will seem like a veritable military giant, when the war erupts.”
The Old Fox shook his head. “Don’t fool yourself, Antimo. The great swords will remain in the hands of the Emperor and the Grand Duke and the King of Hungary. But for the needs of the moment, here in northern Italy?” Again, his left hand made that swift, expert motion. “Ferrara will be Charles Fredrik’s main gauche.”