Two minutes later, at the cost of one dead and three wounded men, the dock was theirs. And even from here they could hear the chaos that Valentina’s black powder had generated.
They moved out, to the slave pens. Heavy hammers and cold chisels in the hands of two blacksmiths from the Arsenal began making short work of the locks. Two of the Arsenalotti stood by with a barrel full of cutlasses. In the meanwhile Maria and her ten escorts raced up the stairs, looking for the passage she’d found through to the Casa itself. The barrel of black powder they had with them should see that door blown open. Then it would be a case of shepherding freed, armed slaves up and in.
“Listen up, all of you!” shouted Benito. “We have to cut our way out of the Casa. Loot what you can, especially clothes. And don’t kill anyone wearing these hats.” He pointed at his red woolen cap. “They’re our people. When you’re out into Venice, toss the cutlasses into the canal. Scatter. Act like citizens, otherwise the Schiopettieri will put you away.” Not strictly true, but the last thing Petro Dorma wanted on top of his troubles was a rampaging mob of armed ex-slaves. Arsenal-issue cutlasses were cheap compared to that risk.
There was a ragged chorus of cheers. Most of the slaves were still staring, unbelieving. They started to believe when big Gio smashed open the first lock with his cold chisel. Men and—from the next pen—women streamed out, taking the weapons as if they’d been handed the Holy Grail.
There was a small explosion from upstairs. A much more controlled-sounding one. At least Maria had an Arsenal gunner to manage her black powder.
“Up!” shouted Benito. “Up the stairs—and at the Dandelos!”
The cheer now was a wild deep-throated roar, like a tiger uncaged and seeking furious vengeance on its trapper.
Benito led them on up. Reflecting all the while on an old proverb he’d once heard about the risks of riding a tiger.
* * *
Maria had found being back inside this place a nightmare. It made her feel weak and scared. Not the fighting, or the danger. Just the horrible place itself. Still, they had a job to do. And Casa Dandelo would rue the day they had taken her prisoner. She heard the tumult of the slaves coming up the stairs, and saw Benito at the head of them.
There was a fierceness in his shining eyes. This wasn’t the mischievous, laughing boy she knew—and had once made love to, a memory she found strangely haunting. This was the blood of the Wolf of the North. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all. But when she thought about it, it had always been there, lurking under the surface. For all his charm, there was also something a little frightening about Benito.
She followed after the rush. Fifteen minutes later she and Benito were out on the Grand Canal in fog. The Casa Dandelo was burning behind them.
“Well. That’s that,” said Benito, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.
“I suppose you’re proud of yourself?” said Maria quietly.
“Well,” said Benito, swelling his chest a bit. “It was a good fight. We didn’t expect them to have Milanese soldiers hidden in there. But those slaves didn’t let arquebuses or even the magicians stop them. No finesse but lots of courage.”
“They had lots of courage because they were desperate, Benito, and no way out. And you used them as cannon-fodder. And that ‘distraction’ of yours exploded in the family living quarters. You probably killed and maimed a whole lot of kids. So I hope you’re not too proud of yourself, Benito Valdosta, because I’m not. We just did what we had to do, that’s all.”
Benito started to say something. Then he stopped himself. “So what should I have done, seeing as you are so clever?” he asked. But there was doubt as well as hurt in his voice.
Maria looked back at the burning building. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But that was the way the Wolf would do it. The Old Fox kills for family, not just for fun. He would have figured out a better way.”