“Right,” said Marco. “Not the militia. The Arsenalotti. That is the way it has always been. And that is the way it must stay.”
The crowd cheered.
Marco knew in his bones that he was doing the right thing. He had them. He held up a parchment. “Dorma made a mistake. He’s man enough to admit that. I, Marco Valdosta, have his writ here. The Council calls the Arsenalotti to the Defense of the Republic.” A strange power infused his voice. “In the name of the Winged Lion of Saint Mark, you are called to Arms! Will you answer?”
The assent itself was a roar. And to Marco’s shock, he realized that they were chanting “VAL—DOS–TA! VAL—DOS–TA!”
He stilled them with a gesture. “This is my brother, Benito. He’s the one who is good at organizing and plans. He’ll tell you what the Council wants.”
Benito, wide-eyed, was pushed to his feet to face the cheering crowd. “I’ll get even with you for this, Marco,” he said quietly.
“Face it, Benito,” said Marco. “You tell people what to do far better than I do.”
And Benito went on to prove him dead right.