Diego sighed. "It is fairly certain that whoever the Satanist is—whoever they are, I should say, since there's certainly more than one—he or she is aware that we are hunting for them. This is the third place where we have found their foul traces, but never anything more. And they've been very cautious never to leave material we can trace to a physical place or person."
Francis nodded. "And venturing beyond the physical, here, where we are denied the protection of one of the wards, is nearly impossible."
Eneko Lopez went to a cupboard in the back of the chapel. "So. I think we should investigate this." He produced the dried-out bundle of herbs and other unpleasantness that someone had once tried to use as a curse on Maria Verrier.
"But it is a fake," protested Diego.
"I know," said Eneko. "But let us consider the very nature of Satan-worship. Its essence is to recruit more souls. Unlike demons who are content to devour, devils accumulate—and use their acolytes to accumulate. And whoever did this is ripe for accumulation. They—or parts of their coven—may already be drawn into this." He held up the bundle, a bit gingerly. "Here, we have physical traces. With some risks, we can use these to divine where they came from. And once we have that, we may catch some trace of our other tormentor. Or tormentors."
By the time that the afternoon sun was sinking, the priests knew more about the "curse." One of the things they knew was that the maker knew absolutely nothing about how to stop themselves being traced by magic. The priests, patiently, set a watch on the suspected house. Curfew or no curfew.
It was after the midnight bell that they saw the various "visitors" arrive. Then the priests calmly went down the street and waited for the Knights' patrol.
"Just what are you doing out here, Father Lopez?" asked Ritter Wellmann. "It is after curfew, you know."
"We need some Venetian soldiers, too, Ritter. Please fetch some for us."
"To do what?" asked Wellmann.
"God's work, Brother."
"I'm supposed to be on patrol, not on missionary work."
Eneko Lopez was not amused. "You are Knights of God. Your oath is to serve Him first, Ritter. Send two of your men to fetch a detachment of troops and their officer here. Now."
Ten minutes later, an alarmed-looking lieutenant and some twenty pikemen arrived at a run. "I sent a message up to the fortress," said the lieutenant. "What is it? A mine?"
"Spiritually speaking, yes," said Eneko. "Follow me. The house must be surrounded and we must move in quickly. Wellmann, take the door down with your axe."
Ritter Wellmann was an artist with an axe.
Business, thought Morando, was booming. He always tried to think of other things at this stage. It required detachment. The carefully soundproofed inner sanctum he'd created in the cellar of this unobtrusive house had no less than five of the Citadel's leading social lights in it. And they were dressed exquisitely for the occasion, thought the confidence trickster, forcing down a snicker. Bianca Casarini was a true gem of a recruiter. The trade in information he sold Fianelli was even more profitable than the money he got directly from the women.
Since the curse incident—which had apparently even worked, to Morando's astonishment—Sophia was his to command. The one problem with her, and the other women she'd brought around, was that all of them seemed to derive more from the "sinfulness" of the ritual he'd invented than they did from the actual deeds. It was trying his imagination, not to mention at times his spine.
The other problem was getting the paraphernalia. Black candles had to be made; and he'd had to resort to stealing chickens to dye black. He had a fortune hidden under a paving stone in this room, but he still had to steal chickens, because they just weren't for sale any more. Tonight he'd used a cat. They seemed to like that, even if he'd felt rather sorry for the poor creature.
His supply of hashish was running dangerously low, too. He couldn't see replacing that until the siege was lifted or lost.
Still, the cellar was well hidden, and he had stores of food and water. He'd sit out the orgy of killing and looting that he knew would happen if the Hungarians won, with Bianca and Sophia to keep him company and provide him with pleasure. If the Venetians won . . . well, he'd farm Sophia and her friends a little longer and then it would be time to shave his beard and leave with a convoy heading to Outremer, to enjoy a rich retirement in Constantinople. Bianca had already agreed to come with him.
By the moaning and panting, he would soon be called on to chant some gibberish again. Morando had even made an effort with a grimoire he'd obtained years earlier to garner some real words and phrases.
"Grimoire" so-called, at least. Morando suspected the thing was probably a fake. Which was fine with him, when all was said and done. Playing with Satanism served his purposes, well enough, and Morando wanted no part of the genuine article.
And then Aldo Morando discovered the real fault with good soundproofing and a cellar whose only secret escape route took considerable time to open.
They stormed in. Lieutenant Agra made sure he was the very first in through the door.
The room was a grave disappointment. It had a very ordinary table, a straight-backed chair, and a simple oil lamp, the flame wavering in the sudden disturbance. There was no one there. Nor in the single bedroom or the kitchen. But the priests seemed unperturbed, if in a hurry. They joined hands and chanted. As they did a misty trail of footprints appeared on the floor, ending at what appeared to be just another flagstone in the floor.
"Break it," commanded the short, slight priest with the eagle gaze. "Quickly. There is bound to be another way out."
The knight with the axe tried to put the edge of his axe into the crack. With a growl of impatience the priest took the axe from him and smashed it into the flagstone.
It split. The stone was set into a wooden frame full of lambswool. The knight took the handle of the axe and hauled and ripped the hidden trapdoor right out. Agra was down those smoke-shrouded stairs so fast he nearly broke his neck on them. At the foot of them, amid the screaming, despite the press at his back, he stopped.
He'd expected nearly anything but this.
The room reeked of smells, that of hashish prominent among them. Naked masked women, their breasts, groins and in at least one case buttocks painted with strange bloody patterns, clung to a man wearing a long cloak of black-and-red velvet, black boots, and nothing else. Not all of the women had the sort of bodies that the lieutenant would have paid to see naked. Even the smoky room lit with black candles could only do so much. It was the black altar and the headless cat lying with its neck in a bowl, though, that really got him.
At least, until the women went berserk. The lieutenant then discovered how well frightened and desperate women can scratch and bite.
Benito sat drinking some wine with Maria and Umberto in their small bedroom. Umberto sat against the pillows and Maria on the foot of the bed. Benito was sitting on the chair from the living room. Alessia was attempting to suck her toes on a rug at their feet.
Benito had been back every day to sit a while with Umberto and Alessia. Maria's initial surprise had given way to acceptance. But today she hadn't taken advantage of it to go out. Today she wanted to know what was happening. She was worried, and not without reason.
Benito grimaced at the wine. "I suppose the one thing we can be grateful for is that we've still got enough wine for a full ration. If it was good wine, we wouldn't have. The Libri d'Oro didn't want to buy it because it was so lousy. So even though the granary is down to an eighth full and the upper wells are running dry, we've got wine. If you can call it that."
Maria shook her head at him in irritation. "Benito, stop burbling about wine, and tell us what happened. You were there. You should know. The rumors in the lower town today are amazing! A coven of witches sacrificing babies and having orgies with demons and blasting priests and buildings to ashes—a high-class brothel—a cabal of female thieves. God knows what. People are claiming all sorts of things. I've even given in to curiosity and been to have a look, not that there was much point. There's a guard and a smashed-in door but you can't see anything else."
"Manfred says it's like a traveling players' version of a mixture between hell and a brothel down below in the cellar. They took him to see it. It's pretty tawdry in daylight, apparently, but the lieutenant who was testifying is thinking about becoming a monk after last night." Benito chuckled. "Apparently he saw a great deal more of a number of mostly unattractive women than he really wanted to. Anyway, it seems that some bored Case Vecchie women had initially gone to Morando because of his reputation as an astrologer and chemist and—ah—sexual physician. Apparently, no matter what else he can do, he's quite a lover, or at least, they think he is. And they, finding—at last!—a lover who wanted to hear gossip as much as they wanted to indulge in it, came in droves. Well. I guess five women isn't really a 'drove.' "
Maria snorted. "They're saying Sophia Tomaselli was right on the top of the heap."
"The captain-general is trying desperately to hush it all up," said Benito, nodding. "She's his wife, after all."
Both her eyebrows went up. "And the wife of the Salt Minister and of the largest oil exporter on the island. Come on, Benito! Everybody already knows all that. He might as well try to hush the sea. People are getting very restive about it. The scuolo are all for burning the Castel a terra."
Benito was silent for a moment. Then he said wryly: "Fortunately, they jailed the man and the women separately, because all the women came out singing one tune: It was a complete fraud, a put-up job by the Knights to discredit their husbands and allow the prince to take over. They'd been kidnapped, stripped, abused, and locked in the cellar. They wanted the Knights punished for the degradation by being thrown out of the sanctuary that Venice had kindly offered them—and the cowardly mercenaries who'd sold out to them shot."
"What!" Umberto had started upright. Alessia stopped playing with her toes. "You can't be serious!"
"Dead serious. And Tomaselli was ready to make it stick. Heh. It was pretty exciting, what with Lieutenant Agra having to be restrained and calling the captain-general's wife a whore and witch."
"Well, he was dead right!"
"Yes, well, as it pans out . . . half right. Morando lent her some of his occult books—those were fakes, too, Eneko says—and apparently she tried to cast curses on—ah—people she considered to be her enemies." He interrupted himself before he said the name, but Maria saw the guilty look in his eyes, and she knew who he was going to say. And although she had suspected it, having the evidence in front of her was enough to send her simmering temper into full boil. So that was, indeed, where the ill-wishing had come from!
But Benito was continuing. "Fortunately, old man De Belmondo was sick and we had the assistant podesta of Corfu standing in. He's one of the Libri d'Oro, but he did his law in Padua University and takes it pretty seriously. He pointed out that since it was the captain-general's wife accused, Tomaselli couldn't take part in the hearings. And he sent the guard off to fetch the other Justices, even De Belmondo from his sickbed. And, as I say, it was fortunate that they'd kept the man separate. He's from the north of Italy, originally. Milan, in fact—Pauline country. They burn witches up there on suspicion. His name—the one he goes by here, anyway, is Aldo Morando. He was so keen to prove he wasn't a man-witch or a Satanist, that he was spilling the beans as fast as he could. He was selling information and black lotos, and acting as a glorified pimp for that gaggle of rich women. They followed up several of his confessions, and found them all true. Then they had the brains, finally, to split the women up and question them individually. Then they came apart. Their stories didn't tally. Eventually, the truth became obvious."
Umberto shook his head, confused. "What? That he really was training witches in our midst, practicing black magic?"
"Well, no," Benito said. "That he was casting horoscopes, telling fortunes, dabbling in the occult mostly as window dressing for his real interest—getting information from one set of stupid, bored, sexually unsatisfied women to sell to whoever might be interested in it. The Justices called Eneko Lopez. And he said, although they'd hoped to catch real practitioners of black arts, that this lot were simply nasty, spoiled, bored, rich women."
"And what happened then?"
"Well, to make a long story short, Eneko had cut the legs out from under the Justices. It's not an offence to prance around naked in a cellar done up to look like a cheap whorehouse with astrological trimmings. And, while selling the stuff is illegal, simply using black lotos is also not a crime. As for participating in orgies and gossiping to your lover, well, the outcome of that is mostly up to the husbands, not the courts."
"What! You mean they've got away with this? The scuolo will—" Umberto was struggling to stand up.
Benito flicked up out of the chair and pushed him down, gently. "Relax! For starters, selling information to enemy agents is a serious matter. So is pimping. Morando is the one who's really to blame here, and they have him dead to rights. They even got him for chicken theft! And two of the ladies of Corfu high society are up for . . . prostitution. It appears that Morando was selling their favors for certain services he rendered—including Tomaselli's Sophia. But the cream of it is that Lieutenant Agra—the one who got so upset about being called a cowardly sell-out mercenary—has slapped a civil suit for defamation against them."
"So what's happening to them now?"
"Morando will rot in jail until trial in Venice. The treason part will probably have him executed. The others . . . well, they've been bailed. Released into the custody of their spouses. Except for the wife of the Salt Minister. She asked to remain in jail for her own safety, since he threatened to kill her." Benito shook his head, ruefully. "Not that I think, under the circumstances, those other women will find their husbands very, ah, 'protective.' Probably beat them to a pulp."
"So you mean that Tomaselli bitch is out there, free?" demanded Maria furiously.
"Calm down, Maria."
"I will not calm down. I'll—"
"You're upsetting Alessia." Benito had picked the baby up and was soothing her.
Maria pursed her lips and took a deep breath. "I am going out," she said between clenched teeth.
"Maria!" said Umberto, anxiously. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid. Please."
Benito had moved between her and the door. "Think of Alessia, Maria. You hurt Sophia, you're the one who will end up being punished. And by doing that you'll be punishing your baby. She'd rather have a mother at home."
"Get out of my way, Benito Valdosta. I'm not going to kill anybody unless it's you, for not moving. I'm going to talk to someone. A friend."
"I'm your friend."
"I need to talk to a woman. A man wouldn't understand. Now give me Alessia."
"I'll stay and take care of her. Just promise us you won't do anything crazy."
She laughed bitterly. "That's rich, Benito, coming from you. Just let me go, see. I'll be back once I've got this out of me."
Renate De Belmondo handed Maria a cup of steaming, fragrant liquid. "This tisane is a kind of magic too," she said with a gentle smile. "There are more and deeper magics than Eneko Lopez and his kind understand. There is magic in things they consider inert. There is power in people that they cannot detect. There are magics in love and hatred, too. Especially here."
Maria sipped the brew. It was soothing, there was no doubt about it.
"Vervain and a little heartsease. There are times and places for the picking of both. And it can only be done by one who has the great Goddess's hand about her." Renate looked sternly at her. "You must learn, Maria, to control and direct that anger of yours. Otherwise you'll hurt those closest to you."
Maria bit her lip. There was some truth in that, she had to acknowledge. Especially this afternoon. She knew that the source of the "curse" on her house was Sophia Tomaselli, even if she couldn't prove it. She'd heard some of what Benito had not told her—just what Sophia had said, to the Justices, to the curious gathered around as she and the other women were taken away. Vitriolic, to say the least, and Sophia placed all of the blame on being caught on Maria. And though of course it was not in the least logical, if you believed Sophia, it was Maria who had somehow forced her into the spy's service.
"It's . . . it's just the injustice of it all. It's not right!"
The older woman looked at her thoughtfully. "A sense of justice is a part of what makes us what we are. Some of us are willing to suffer ourselves to make sure there is retribution . . . even if it costs us. You are one like that."
Maria thought back to her single-handed vendetta against the Casa Dandelo, when Caesare wouldn't help—and Benito, the scamp, did. "Yes. I suppose so."
"But are you prepared to extract the cost of your retribution from others? From innocent parties. From your friends?"
Just the intonation said to Maria that this was a very important question. A question far wider than just the issues she'd run to Renate with. She paused to think. Maria thought of what Benito had said about Alessia. And of what she'd decided to do.
She shook her head. "No."
Renate smiled. Maria noticed that small lines eased from around her eyes. "The Goddess and her followers do not practice retribution."
"I don't think I can forgive that woman for what she tried to do."
Renate shook her head. "Neither could I. But our justice is based on restitution. And restitution finds no gain in mere retribution. Sophia Tomaselli was looking for retribution. She was quite content to hurt innocent parties in her quest to get it."
Maria sighed. "Yes. But . . . well, it was such a small thing. I mean she set out to attack everything—my life, my loved ones' lives, for something so small. So unimportant. Who on earth cares if some people think I'm more attractive than she is? Why would it make any difference to me? It's not as if I'm competing with her for anything! It's not fair."
Renate curled her lip. "Of course it is not fair. Such a person is an island of their own self-importance. The fact that their retribution is totally out of proportion, will not benefit them, and will hurt others, is irrelevant. You dared to slight the most important person in her universe. Anything is acceptable to punish you."
Maria paused for a while sipping the tea. This might all be true. But it didn't apply directly to her problem right now . . . did it?
"So what do I do about her, Priestess? I'm not having that woman on the loose to endanger my man or my child again. She might try anything. Poison. Thugs. Planting evidence to make us look like traitors."
Renate smiled. "I am only the priestess when I let down my hair and don the robes." She pursed her lips. "Of course, a charge of attempted murder should stick. I suggest tomorrow you swear one out. The fact that she used a weapon that she did not know wouldn't work, does not alter the fact that she tried. After all, if a man tries to shoot another and the weapon fails to fire, it is still an attempt at murder. She would be confined again in that case." The older woman took a deep breath. "Other than that, you must come to me every day now. I must teach you certain magics and certain rituals that will protect you and yours. I must teach you, too, how to control that temper of yours. How to break it to harness."
"Me? I can't do magic!"
The priestess stood up and put her hands on either side of Maria's head. "You already do magic. Magic that Eneko Lopez does not understand exists. Magic more powerful than he understands. An old, rough and elemental kind of magic, but strong."
She took her hands away and tugged at a sidelock of her white hair, a gesture indicating thought in the priestess who was also the governor's wife. "You know, I know a great deal about Sophia Tomaselli. In some ways we are very alike."
Maria shook her head vehemently. "You couldn't be more un-alike!
Renate twinkled. "I think that's a compliment. But there are some similarities that Eneko Lopez would see. For example: We are both aristocrats at the apogee of our social setting. We both turned to other sources of comfort after we arrived here. We both, I believe, did so for the same reasons: We both wanted to get pregnant. I know Sophia has tried all sorts of 'treatments' and diets and consulted churchmen at some length. She fell in with a trickster. I . . . fell in with one of my maids. She was a Corfiote and felt sorry for me. There, but for fortune, went I."
Maria shook her head again, vehement. "No. Sophia cares for nobody but herself. It's a blessing she's never had a child. You care for everybody. I don't believe you'd have done something like trying to curse me and mine. That's not like you."
"I don't think I would have done what she did, no. And caring is what the sisterhood looks for: sisterhood. And that was why I was taken to the temple. That is why you were. And that is why she wasn't."
"The two things are not alike at all," said Maria, stubbornly sticking to her earlier contention. "The Mother is gentle—not sick!"
Renate shrugged ruefully. "Stella is inclined to sensationalize news, but still, yes, those women were seeking perversion. Probably some of it came out of their mothers telling them that the natural urges and pleasures of their bodies were bad, wrong, and evil. Therefore they came to conclude that evil gave pleasure. Possibly only because they were bored and their husbands were under the impression that if they were pleasured and pleased, it didn't matter if their wives were." She sighed. "I don't want to deceive you, Maria. The great Goddess . . . well, there is one aspect that does call for a willing sacrifice. And the spring ritual dance is conducted in the nude. But no men are part of it. It is done for a reason."
She stood up again. "Now, I think you're all safe enough tonight. Here." She took from her reticule a sprig of green holly. "Prickly thing. And full of the heart of green-ness. Put it above the door lintel. Not with cold iron. If it turns black—come running, and bring your child. And go barefoot if you can. Touching the earth, it will be difficult for any other magic to affect you."
Now she looked mischievous. "Don't tell Eneko Lopez that's why his spells don't work well here. Contact with the earth of Corcyra. The earth here drinks magic. The more they use, the less well it works. And the magic is reborn in other forms within the Earth. We use it."
"I want to learn."
"Very well. You must come to me, here. This hilltop was a temple before it was a fort. One of the entries to the inner temple is still here."