Chapter 45: The Cellars of Chania

Vito’s finger found the coast west of Candia and stopped.

He rapped the parchment twice, because apparently one tap was not enough to make the point. "One house here, a priest worrying his prayers there, scattered all over the place. Most of it amounts to little more than noise."

His finger crept along the chart until it reached a spot marked in a monk’s uncertain hand.

"Except for two places."

He tapped the smaller mark.

"Rethymno."

It was some little town had been a port long before any Venetian had thought to put it on a chart. It was older than the men in the room and had never managed to become anything grander than a place people passed through on their way to somewhere more important.

Rethymno had an interesting habit of watching which way a fight would go before it made the decision of which side it had always been on.

Some of its lesser houses had already taken Genoese coin without much fuss, yet the man who truly ran the town had not chosen a side. Neither had the church that blessed whatever he felt it need a holy sacrament.

Orso snorted, folding his arms. "So we dragged ourselves out of bed to discuss a town that hasn’t done a damned thing? Or do we have enough reason to march there and set it ablaze?"

Zaccaria kept his eyes closed. He seemed to consider opening them an unnecessary expense.

"Burn the place over a maybe and you’ve given Genoa a martyr for free."

Pellegrino said, still worrying his medal between his fingers. "He’s right, patience is worth more than swords, San Marco taught me the lesson personally. Nineteen candles’ worth, as I recall."

Vito moved his finger farther west, all the way to the edge of the chart, where even the ink seemed to lose its nerve and give up on the coastline.

"Chania."

Some men still called it Kydonia, which was the sort of name left behind by a century when this island had gods enough to spare. Most of Crete called it Chania now, and that was the name likely to survive the old one.

It was considerably larger than Rethymno, close enough to Candia’s size where it counted, and old enough to have buried a long succession of dozen masters without developing much sentiment about the matter.

A thirteenth would hardly keep it awake.

Vito simply clicked his tongue. "Genoa has sunk its roots here. The archon’s chair, the church behind it, the whole camp nice and comfortable."

Nobody needed that explained. This archon would fight for the Genoese because the merchant republic had already made itself valuable to him.

Vito tapped the parchment again.

"I’ll personally pay them a little visit with one platoon."

He looked across the table.

"And you’re coming with me, Domenego."

Domenego rose from his chair again, and this time his whole expression broke open.

"At last, a fight."

He savored the word slowly. "Real steel, Barozzi. Men who’ve spent their whole lives learning where to put a blade between my ribs, and who’ll mean it when they try. I want an arm strong enough to shake mine loose from a parry. I want a curse thrown at me in a tongue I don’t understand, with a man’s whole chest behind it. Give me Chania, and I’ll give those walls some mad tale worth remembering."

Pellegrino’s hand clutched his medal, and this time the prayer was real. "San Marco help him. I don’t think the man remembers he’s got a soul worth keeping."

Zaccaria facepalmed, exasperation obvious through his voice. "Enjoy it a little less, Domenego, before the men decide they’ve been given a lunatic instead of a lieutenant."

Domenego grinned wider and dropped back into his chair. The fire in him banked as quickly as it had caught.

Vito pulled his hand away from the coast and set it in the pale middle of the chart, where the monk had wisely decided not to invent any geography.

"The rest of the list goes overland. You and Orso’s platoon, Zaccaria."

He continued, "Slower work this time, we want proof before we draw steel. Be it some sworn statement, a letter with the right name on it, some neighbor willing to stand up and say what he saw. Show a man what you’ve got before you arrest him."

Orso groaned. "First I’m wrestling a priest over a hay rake in a chapel that smelled like a goat, and now you want me knocking on some fat archon’s door like a polite little clerk and asking him to come along?"

Zaccaria considered their objective.

"So the journey without battle, presumably, is the one that actually worries you."

"Sì. Cazzo, drag some innocent archon away and the whole countryside will erupt in uprisings for the next generation, free of charge."

Vito’s attention finally came to rest on Pellegrino.

He simply nodded, "Stay in Candia with your platoon and every crew from the two galleys that aren’t sailing west with me. The walls, the harbor, and the fondaco above all, some construction yard full of green hands and uncertain loyalties is exactly the sort of place trouble walks into when nobody is watching."

Pellegrino replied with a sardonic tone. "Naturally. San Marco, hear your servant, while Domenego gathers soldiers and Zaccaria gathers confessions, I remain behind, forgotten by God and man, to grow old guarding a construction yard."

"Bah, man up, you don’t sound nearly as miserable as you’re trying to sound," Orso snickered.

The reply came in the same even voice. "I am a man of tremendous discipline, Orso. To hide my suffering is one of the burdens I carry for the greater good."

Vito let them quip, then pulled the room back to business.

"We depart in a week, enough to prepare accordingly for each platoon."

Nobody argued with the number.

Zaccaria pushed himself up first, and then Pellegrino followed, still muttering half a prayer for the souls of the bricklayers. Orso stretched until his back cracked loud enough to make Pellegrino wince.

Domenego was the last to rise. He was already halfway through the door before he remembered himself and turned back, wearing the sort of grin that promised the coming expedition would be noisy whether it deserved it or not.

"A week to work myself properly into a righteous fury, Barozzi."

He opened both arms as though presenting the glorious sight of his own future anger.

"God willing, I’ll be magnificent by the time we sail."

"Ma va’." Vito waved him toward the door. "Just be standing."

The chart remained spread across the table after the room had emptied. Each plan was set into motion and the week was already counting itself down, whether any of them felt ready for what came after it or not.