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  Benito had volunteered for the fireboats. The scuolo liked him too much to tell him he was an inexperienced amateur seaman. Besides, he was lucky. And crazy. They needed that, too.

  A caulker grabbed him by the shoulder. "Come, milord. The lads are getting the sails up. We'll deal with this ship. You get to yours. There'll be trouble coming."

  Benito scrambled over the side of the galliot and onto the fireboat assigned to him. Someone handed down the slow-match. "Go Valdosta! Go!"

  The darkness ahead was Vidos. With the fireboat's sixteen feet of oil-and-gunpowder-laden hull accelerating beneath the belling sail, Benito did what steering was possible. Then he put the rudder into the bracket. She'd run straight now, but any lookout attracted by the shooting out at the galliot could hardly miss her. Just as he thought that, Benito realized that the carracks at anchor were firing now, not at Vidos Castle keep, but at them. Salt spray flying, Benito touched the slow-match to the fuse. It sputtered and lit. Taking a deep breath, Benito dove overboard.

  The water was chilly. As he came up the night sky was suddenly lit by an explosion and a plume of flames. One of the fireboats wasn't going to get to the fleet.

  Benito tugged at the bottle tied to his waist. "Fiat lux!" he spluttered.

  There was light. There were other lights in the water, mostly farther back toward the Citadel. And the oil from the cannon-hit fireboat was burning on the water—much too close for comfort. Benito took a desperate look around, wondered how long he could hold his breath and swim underwater, and resolved he'd drown before he burned.

  Then a longboat with the boatswain calling stroke, as if this were a regular trip out to a carrack at anchor, came out of the darkness and hauled him inboard. "I might have known you'd be the closest to the enemy," said a wet Erik, grimly. "We've lost a good few men, and the galleys are going to be after us. Look."

  Benito saw a galley silhouetted against the flames. Saw the muzzle flash. And laughed helplessly. "That's the one we captured, Erik. It looks like the boys are trying to take it home."

  There was huge explosion and flash behind them. The men at the oars pulled. The little boat raced toward the Citadel. Vidos might fall, but, as Benito peered back at the pandemonium of fireboats exploding, he knew Umberto's idea made sure it hadn't been a cheap victory for King Emeric.

  It was a fitting repayment.

  * * *

  It was morning before they could see just exactly what the damage had been. Benito already knew the cost. Four men had not been picked up. One, Dimitros, had ridden his fireboat right in, while his longboat team, rowing frantically behind, had screamed at him to jump. Only God knew what had been in his mind now; presumably he was explaining himself to the recording angel, trying to persuade him that it hadn't been suicide. In attacking the galliot, now beached on the northern shingle beside the San Nicolo and Dolphin's hulks, the Venetians and Corfiotes had suffered nine wounded and five killed.

  They'd seen that some of the Byzantine fleet had burned last night. But now at first light every survivor (who wasn't in the hospital) of what was being called "Umberto's revenge" was on the northern wall looking out. Counting ships.

  There was silence. "Lord and Saints," said someone awed. "If we could come along now with four great galleys we'd hold the sea!"

  That might have been something of an exaggeration. But the carrack fleet was considerably reduced. The fire had taken—or made the skippers run up onto Vidos—at least fifteen carracks, the bulk of the cannon-bearing vessels.

  But it was the flag on the outer walls of Vidos castle that brought a cheer that must have rung right across the bay between them. When the fireboats had struck, the besiegers must have run to the shore. The island's trees had also caught fire, and the galleys and smaller craft the enemy had landed with must have had to either be rescued or burn. And the surviving soldiers had used the opportunity to retake the outer walls. How long the small garrison could keep the winged lion flying there was another matter, as the gate must be smashed. But it was a heartwarming sight, nonetheless.

  A gunner from the walls of Vidos celebrated first light with a round into a largely intact carrack.

  But looking at the cheering men and women on the Citadel, Benito couldn't escape the fact that they were all gaunt. The siege had now lasted more than eight months. Starvation might beat them yet, even if they'd just singed Emeric's beard for him.

  Chapter 95

  "We still hold total military superiority here on the island. We've still got some several hundred men on Vidos, and the barricade the defenders have put up on the gate's ruins can't hold."

  General Krovoko was trying to put the best face on the situation that he could, but he was going to have to tell all of the truth, and he knew it—as he knew of Emeric's propensity to kill the messenger. "But the Byzantines are whimpering. With the bad weather most of their fleet was here in the shelter, so, naturally, we used them for the attack on Vidos. It was a fiasco. They were anchored in close formation off the southern side of the islet. When they saw the fireboats, several captains tried to run."

  Anger crept into his tone. "If they'd just stayed put we'd have lost half as many vessels. In the dark, in panic, they ran into each other, fired cannon into each other, ran aground or just plain ran. Three of the vessels ran all the way to the Albanian shore and one of them was wrecked. We had a ship, burning, make landfall at Kommeno point. The local people killed most of the crew before the cavalry arrived. We lost nineteen carracks, and three galleys, with fire damage to another four vessels. We're down to seven carracks. The blockade, with nothing more than the Narenta galliots and that handful, is worth little, Sire."

  General Krovoko was done with his report. Now he waited, fatalistically, for the sky to fall on him. Emeric pushed himself back in his throne. "I know. But that's not really what concerns me. The Atlantic fleet hasn't come home and we know that the eastern fleet is still sitting in Trebizond after their attempt on the Dardanelles. It's the steady trickle of losses here on the island that worries me, especially as the weather, and the lack of ships, limit my fetching more troops."

  Krovoko shook his head. He was a little surprised to find himself still alive and discussing the matter. "Sire, the countryside is definitely hostile, the insurgents in the north must number in the hundreds, and although we've taken Kassiopi, Paleokastritsa still holds out. The place is inaccessible and the locals have managed to resupply when the insurgents have attacked the forces we have there."

  "But the island grows drier. Lack of water must be affecting them."

  General Krovoko nodded. "What we really is need a safe place to rest our men. This campaign of raids and ambushes . . . it's wearing them down, Sire."

  Emeric looked thoughtful, but offered no comment.

  The Magyar cavalryman pointed to the map. "We can land men here, on the mainland, near this lake. Make a base for accumulating supplies and let the troops rest. We have more men than we need for the siege, and less than we need to hold siege and subdue the island. They'll be safe from the Venetians or even Corfiotes."

  The Narenta pirate captain muttered in his dialect. It was, by the tone, something derisive.

  Emeric looked coldly at him. "What was that?"

  The pirate captain looked uneasy, but stood his ground. "I said that would be escaping from an angry cat into the lion's den. That is Iskander Beg's land. The Lord of the Mountains will not like it."

  Emeric pinched his lips into a harsh line. "He doesn't have to like it. I've tried to contact him, to reach an agreement with the bandit. Well, he doesn't wish to treat with me. I would have preferred to bring my men here by land, but the mountains have too many places where ambushes are easy. But the land next to the lake is gentle. With the lake behind us, the sea in front, this should be an easy strip to hold. I like the idea. See to it, General. It will act as one side to the pincer I want to work on the coastal strip. I'll leave the bandit chief to his mountains. We'll hold the lowlands from here to Montenegro in t
he next few years.

  "Now onto other affairs. We must press the attack on the Citadel hard now. Let drought take the rest of the island."

  "We've walled and entrenched the moles," said Dragorvich. "The troops can move forward protected. The front wall is crumbling. Give us another two weeks' cannonade, Sire. A determined push will take the first curtain wall."

  "You can have a few weeks. I want them pounded into submission. At the end of February—or at the latest, early March—we must be in. The Venetians will doubtless make something of a push in the spring with whatever ships they have ready. We'll want at least three weeks to repair and reequip the Citadel against that attack."

  * * *

  "We're down to third-rations." It was so dry that Maria and the other horta gatherers were not finding much to gather. Winter was not the best time for wild greens anyway, but there had always been something. . . .

  But with this many women, and a restricted area to hunt in, it was getting less easy by the day. The sound of the cannons was by now such a normal part of the background noise, that it was only its stopping that they would have noticed. The attack on the walls now was relentless. The Hungarians had so increased their forward positions and fortifications that they could sally and attack the walls repeatedly with relative impunity. Food ships and water carts arrived for them each day. Here inside it was relentless starvation and less in the water ration by the day. Maria's biggest worry was having milk for Alessia. Two of the other women's breasts had already dried up. Too little water. Too little food. Alessia now weighed less than she had two months ago.

  Maria could not weep for Umberto anymore; she dared not waste the water on tears. What would she do if her milk dried up? It was a constant nagging fear.

  * * *

  "I know it's risky," said Benito, irritably. "But we're on our last legs here. If we actually knew when they were coming, it would make the world of difference. Come, Eneko. Please."

  The cleric nodded, wearily. "Very well. We'll try again."

  But there was no response.

  * * *

  Marco had an almost overpowering compulsion to make contact with his brother. But both Mascoli and the Strega sage Du Catres who sailed with them advised against it. They had, to be precise, forbidden it utterly. Marco had insisted on going on this voyage. "They'll need healers and food more than soldiers," he'd said. Finally Doge Dorma had given permission for him to go. Under conditions. The first was the shield of mages who accompanied him. The second was that Kat remained in Venice, at least until the siege was lifted. Dorma made it very clear that he would prefer it to be until Marco returned.

  * * *

  The priestess looked at the half-almond on the altar, and wondered. There was only one candidate. She had explained everything, as best she could. She had instructed, without demanding, without, as far as she could tell, even hinting. The candidate must choose of her own free will; that was the law. But would she? Would she even see the need?

  She must. She must. Or they would all die here. Perhaps, even, the Goddess, and the Cold God.

  Yes. Perhaps even them.

  PART XV

  March, 1540 a.d.

  Chapter 96

  "Back!" shouted Erik. "Back to the inner curtain-wall!"

  Maria watched as the knights charged again, making space and time for the footmen and others to pull back without endangering the wall. Benito was out there, somewhere. Rearguard, setting explosives with the Knights' bombardier. She herself had only just gotten up here, having led the women up from the wall by the Little Arsenal. Toward the end, they'd been reduced to throwing cobbles and bricks at the enemy. The arquebusiers had shot out their powder. Blades were blunted and nicked. And yet there always seemed to be more foes.

  Maria closed her eyes to pray, then opened them, looking at the scene below. Already the bulk of the Hungarian forces were pouring in through the breach in the outer wall. The inner wall, which enclosed the Castel a mar and the Castel a terra, was higher than the outer curtain wall—but it certainly wasn't thicker. And the wells in the upper part of Citadel were long dry. True, they'd all taken part in the filling of the huge cisterns up in the Castels . . . uphill all the way, carrying water ewers. But when that was gone, there would be no more.

  According to Benito, the water available might last the ten thousand people inside the Citadel two weeks. The cisterns had been intended for the garrison only. On wet, verdant Corfu, the wells and the two springs in the inner citadel never ran dry.

  Except now. There was an evil thing out there, as the high priestess had explained. A spirit of dryness, fire and death. A thing that caused green life to wither just by its existence.

  Maria sighed. First her home. Then Umberto. And now this. They were being devoured slowly. She made her way through the crowded streets and to the hospital and the Hypatian chapel, where some women and the children who were too young to fling rocks had been sent when it was realized this was an assault that might actually succeed. Stella had taken Alessia and a number of other scuolo and Corfiote children so that the younger women could go to help on the walls.

  She found Stella at the chapel, looking stunned and crying. "Alberto—he's missing! They tell me he was shot. He was with the rearguard. There was no one to bring him in. Dear God! Dear God!"

  For once her children were silent. Big eyed. Scared, even the ones too young to fully understand.

  Maria couldn't find words, so she simply hugged her, hard. The older woman clung to her. Maria swallowed. "Stella. You . . . you stood by me, when, when Umberto and I were new and friendless. You were there when there was that curse and others avoided me. You've stood by me. I'll help as much as I can."

  Stella pulled away, despair warring with anger in her face. "God's Death, Maria, don't you understand? We're all going to die here. My man. My babies. All of us. We'll either die of thirst and starvation or the Hungarian monsters will get us."

  Maria picked up Alessia. The little girl hung listlessly in her arms. "I'll do something. I have to."

  She turned and walked out of the chapel. A horrible thought had just crossed her mind. If there had been no one to bring Alberto in . . . where was Benito? He was with the rearguard. Benito would always choose the hardest, the riskiest task. He would be in the front of the vanguard . . . and at the back of the rearguard. Maria went searching.

  Eventually she found Erik and Manfred. The prince's armor was dented. His visor was now up and there was blood oozing from a small cut above his eye.

  "Prince Manfred. I'm looking for Benito."

  He looked a little annoyed that someone should trouble him at this stage. At the mention of Benito's name, though, the expression eased.

  "Last I saw of him was when we were returning from that final sortie. He and a couple of others—a big fellow and another man—were lighting the charges to the houses on the road. Have you seen him, Erik?"

  Erik frowned. "No. And he's supposed to report to me. Check with the gate guards. Wait. I'll come with you. That'll get answers."

  Very shortly, Maria knew the worst.

  Seven of the rearguard hadn't reached the gate. Alberto and Benito were both among them.

  Benito. Gone.

  What little remained of the bottom of her world crumbled and fell away, leaving her hollow and utterly, utterly alone.

  She turned blindly from Erik, not hearing what he said, and walked away. Alessia whimpered and nuzzled weakly, but Maria had no milk to give her. Maria's eyes remained dry. There were no tears to cry now. The time for weeping was over.

  She'd lost Umberto . . . He'd not been her soulmate, perhaps, but he'd been someone she'd gone from liking to loving. And now she'd lost the man she'd truly loved, too. Benito was gone. She hadn't even had a chance to say good-bye to him, much less tell him—well, much of anything. Except that he was a fool. Which he was. And that his wildness was going to get him killed.

  Which it had.

  And very soon she'd lose her baby, too. Ale
ssia was dying, slowly, of hunger; the worst of all possible deaths. Even being spitted on a Hungarian spear was better than this, dying by inches.

  And that was when she knew what she had to do.

  It came to her, all of a piece; not as a blinding flash of revelation, but settling over her like a blanket. Certainty. And perhaps it was folly equal to Benito's, or insanity, and perhaps her soul would be damned, or perhaps it just wouldn't work at all . . . but there was only one person here who could and would do what she was about to. Therefore, she would do it. She had nothing to lose, now. Except Alessia, and if she did not do this thing, Alessia was lost anyway.

  There was only one way forward. Squaring her chin, Maria walked determinedly through the frightened crowds, onward and upward to the Castel a mar—

  —to see the high priestess. To tell her that she was ready to become the bride of the master of the black altar.

  The guards recognized her; let her pass unquestioned. It all happened very quickly.

  Renate was waiting for her, her hair loose, her white robe on.

  "If you had not come—" The priestess looked exhausted, and seemed twenty years older than when Maria had first come to the island.

  "Well," she said. "I did."

  They took the passage down from the Castel to the hidden temple.

  * * *

  "Merde! They've come up the side!"

  Struggling with the weight of Alberto—he might no longer be fat, but he was still large—Benito took a side street. Alberto was plainly in shock, but was doing his best to hobble, supported by the smaller man. The road was unfamiliar to Benito, but the sound of hooves galloping up the street was not. He hauled Alberto over a low wall and they hid as a troop of Croats rode past. Lying in the shadows, Benito suddenly realized that he had in fact seen the house across there before. It was dilapidated-looking, with a smashed door that was now boarded over.