“I’m going to volunteer for the Fruili force,” said Marco abruptly.
Petro stopped dead. “Marco! You can’t do that. Venice needs you here.”
Marco shook his head. “I don’t think more than two people in Venice would even notice if I vanished in a puff of smoke, Petro. Angelina’s daughter has a father. Benito can take over as the Valdosta Casa head, and that’ll please Grandfather. Benito and he are like one another. On the other hand, those refugees from Fruili are just the first. I’m going to be needed there. Besides, if I go with the galleys to the Polestine forts I’ll possibly have to fight my grandfather’s troops. Alliances in war are not always kind.”
Petro put his hands on Marco’s shoulders. “You don’t understand, Marco. Casa Dorma itself is on quicksand. Ricardo Brunelli heads the pro-Rome Faction. He regards himself as a certain candidate for the Dogeship. Vettor Benero holds the next largest slice of support. He favors inviting Duke Visconti to share the Doge’s throne.” He sighed. “The third, weakest faction is mine. We stand for the Republic remaining independent. As Doge Foscari does.”
He sighed again. “I tricked Ricardo Brunelli this morning. I knew, by making him speak off the cuff like that—while he was shocked—that he would have no time to turn the Doge’s speech to his own purposes. That he would say what the Council had agreed to. Ricardo doesn’t think fast on his feet, but he isn’t stupid. He is going to work it out, and he is going to add it to his list of reasons to make Dorma an enemy of the state. And as for Benero . . . I’ve been trying for months to find out just how he is getting gold from the Montagnards. He wants my head, Marco. Dorma has only a few real assets: the militia, which Caesare commands for me; and you. Dorma’s wealth is tied to our shipyards . . . which is tied to timber, which comes from Dalmatia. It’s not going to take the wolves long to realize that if we have lost Dalmatia, Dorma has lost its wealth. Then I only have Valdosta and Dell’este.”
Marco shook his head. “Grandfather’s condottieri have lost Reggio nell’ Emilia to the Milanese. Modena is under attack by the Bolognese. Este is under siege by Scaligers. The Dell’este . . . well everyone thinks they’re finished. Even my grandfather must think so—that’s why he sent the sword here. As for the Valdosta name . . . well, there is my brother. And I don’t think it is worth much.”
“Valdosta, you don’t know your own worth,” said Petro, quietly. “And I will tell you, privately, we have signed a treaty with Duke Dell’este. The galleys going to the Polestine forts are actually going to help him. He’s not called ‘the Old Fox’ for nothing, you know.”
“Petro. I know I’m Angelina’s husband, and that as head of the House it is your duty to keep me safe. But I am going to join the militia, and go to Fruili. If the Doge dies and they elect Ricardo or Vettor Benero, the treaty with Grandfather will be broken. I’ve heard both of them on the subject of the Ferrarese.”
Petro rubbed his forehead. “Well, yes. But while Doge Foscari hovers like this, between almost dead and fully competent—it is going to paralyze us. Every energy will go into factional fighting. If he would get better, we have a Doge. If he would lose his wits . . . the Senate would impeach him. If he died, they’d elect a new Doge. But like this . . . Venice is at her weakest.”
“I wonder if that’s just not exactly what someone intends,” whispered Marco. “I didn’t say this before, Petro, but that is like no disease I have ever heard of. The way he is completely and immediately in possession of his faculties, and then once again near death . . . I wonder if this isn’t magic.”
Petro took a deep breath. “I think we’ll get that German abbot in to try a spot of witch-smelling and exorcism.” Petro was looking at Marco’s face as he said this. “Yes, yes! I don’t like or trust him either. He’s a damned fanatic. But he’s a Christian fanatic.”