Chapter 31: The Confession Vintage

Vlastos still had one hand spread over the front of his robe. Now the hand closed into a fist and took the cloth with it, as if the robe might be able to defend him where his wits had failed.

"I do not. That is, I have no notion what you could possibly mean, Ser Barozzi. None at all. I assure you. Completely."

Toffolo leaned forward, curious as a youngster who had just discovered the benefits of romance. "Is she pretty? And the wax, does it really hurt as much as they say? Or is that just what the priests tell you so you’ll never be tempted to find out?"

Pellegrino’s hand shot to his saint’s medal with unfathomable speed. "Santa Maria Maddalena, preserve us. The man keeps a lover for wax and whipping under his own roof, with his wife’s linens hanging out to dry."

He crossed himself twice, which seemed the prudent minimum. "And here I was thinking I merely owed Father Ambrogio for a little stolen silver plate. Now I’ll need a candle simply because I heard the words."

Vito clicked his tongue with a smile, "Of course, I only know bits and pieces, so I’d wager we’d get a much better tale if sweet Zoë were here to tell it herself. After all, she has firsthand knowledge of the whole business, and I’d imagine she’d know better than anyone which parts hurt and which parts feel rather pleasurable."

He reached across the table, took back his cup, and drank slowly before continuing. He had all the time in the world, which was unfortunate for Vlastos, who plainly did not.

"Let’s go through this properly, Theodoro, since you haven’t managed to do it yourself."

He turned the cup between his fingers. "Your wife first. I’ll wager she thinks you’re out here counting olive trees, the poor woman. Imagine her surprise when she learns you’ve actually been counting whip marks and little beads of wax on fair skin. I suppose she’ll want to know whether you’ve been keeping regular records, too."

"Ser Barozzi, please. I, I beg you, this is..."

Vlastos’s hand fluttered helplessly at the space between them and stopped there, having apparently run out of things to do.

"Then there’s your archbishop, wherever the man has chosen to hide himself these days."

Vito went on without worry. "And once your fellow nobility hear about it, Theodoro, and they will, because a nobleman would rather eat another’s shame with his supper than taste the finest roast in the continent, it won’t stay simple your household issue."

Pellegrino stared into his cup and shook his head. "Madonna santa. I confess to hearing it, and now I’ll have to pay my indulgence for the week just to cleanse my ears. And I haven’t even been to a brothel."

Vlastos’s sank onto the bench opposite them, and at last both hands dropped away from his robe and hung uselessly at his sides.

When he spoke again, the stammer was gone, and so was the grand manner. What remained was a plain, tired voice, and it was considerably more sincere.

"What do you want from me, Ser Barozzi?"

It was hardly a question. His shoulders had fallen an inch, and he seemed to have decided that putting them back where they belonged was no longer worth the effort.

"The truth."

Vito put the tease aside, but not the warmth in his voice. "Everything that has actually passed between this house and the cathedral. No more games, Theodoro. tell me what happened."

Vlastos exhaled deeply,

"The archbishop is certain Venezia has no right to this island."

The words came steadily now. "He has been speaking to men throughout the countryside, priests mostly, and through those priests to whole villages, about how their new masters are heretics and therefore have no right to demand obedience. I helped him to spread the word, Ser Barozzi. Nothing more."

"But heretics? We’re lawful Christians!" Toffolo blurted. "Your archbishop must be mad!"

Vlastos’s lips parted open and closed once before any words came out.

Vito leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and whatever playfulness he’d been wearing faltered to a more precise sort of attention.

"Who else came through that gate, Theodoro? I want everyone, don’t spare a soul."

"Just priests, and once or twice men from the villages themselves."

Vlastos twisted his hands together in his lap. "But there was one man, only once, that was kept apart even from me. He came after dark, on foot instead of horseback, with his cloak pulled up and his hood so low I could not see his face properly."

A hooded man after dark, no colors.

Vito knew the sort.

He had spent one life among men who preferred doing their work where the sun could not see it and who never put their names on the deed. Venezia had one rival who worked much that way, a city treacherous enough to let a whisper do the work of a fleet.

Vito would have bet every one of his galleys on the answer without another word.

"Genova."

That did not make it proof, of course. "Cazzo, that city can’t even come to steal without sneaking in after dark."

He got to his feet. It was time for action, not more talk, "Pellegrino, Toffolo. Saddle up. We’re paying His Holiness a visit, and if he’s out of his way to use the church to stir the island against us, I’ll give him the courtesy of hearing his confession before I decide whether I’m feeling merciful."

Toffolo rushed to the door.

Pellegrino drained the last of his cup before standing and muttering enough saints to fill the cathedral they were about to visit.

Vlastos’s shoulders sank another inch. He let out a long breath through his nose, like he had finally convinced himself that the worst part of his afternoon was over.

Vito stopped at the door and looked back.

He was grinning.

"Get your boots on, Theodoro. You’re coming with us."