into our harbor, but we can put up a fight they will not expect.”
The doge’s little eyes sparked alight and I felt glad—this corpulent fellow had some fettle. I began to like him.
“Further, my lord,” Signor Cristoforo went on, “we should with all possible speed douse the lanterna in the faro, and light a beacon on the cliffs to the west at Pegli. That way if the fleet is heading for the lighthouse, we can lead them to wreck upon the westward rocks.”
The doge hesitated for no more than a heart’s beat. “Do it.”
Signor Cristoforo and I made for the door, as Genoa’s duke called for his generals and his armor, pacing now as he waited before his couch while his kingdom crumbled around him. The door closed behind us, and I heard him sink back down into the velvet cushions. I opened the door again and crept back in on silent feet. The doge was seated, with his head in his hands. “Why has God turned against me so?” he muttered.
“Not God,” I said aloud. He looked up with a ruined face. “The fault lies elsewhere.” I put out my hand, sorry for him now. He seemed so young and alone. I suspected he had never been to war—that he had been trained in combat but never seen action, a noble in name but never, till now, in the breach. Like Brother Guido. “My lord, let your generals lead your armies. Why don’t you come with us to the faro? You are needed there on a matter of politics.” I knew with sudden certainty who would be waiting there. “There’s someone I would very much like you to meet.”
48
Brother Guido met us at the palace doors with great relief, matched only by my own—for once the plot had been revealed to the Genoese, a Pisan in soldiers’ garb with a war horse could be executed as an enemy outrider. The doge did not question Brother Guido’s presence once he was identified as our friend; I think he soon realized that there were very strange alliances on both sides of this battle. The doge’s grooms brought his horse, and a white charger and a black one sped us to the lighthouse. It was not until we left the tall and narrow sheltering streets that we realized quite how heavily it was raining. I pitied both armies, floundering in a muddy mountain battle-field, and for the first time thought about my mother. Would she survive the night to come? I felt no pity though—that I reserved for the mothers’ sons that fought for their families, or the city that they loved, or even a weekly purse: all more honest motives than hers.
Now it was fully dark, and the lanterna burned bright at the top of the faro, guiding the enemy fleets close. We skidded to a stop at the harbor, and Signor Cristoforo slid off at once, bellowing for Bartolomeo, running to help with the muster. We both dismounted and Brother Guido took my arms, yelled in my ear against the hashing rain. “Take the doge into the lighthouse, he will be safe. It is guarded by the Genoese militia, with lookouts posted. Signor Cristoforo says there is a chamber in the first terraza.”
“And I?”
“Go to the second terraza, and douse the lantern. It must be completely out, Luciana, so do this one last thing, and do not fail in it.”
I clung to his sodden cloak. His hair was plastered into black slabs which fell across his blue eyes like prison bars. “Where are you going?”
“I must take the horse to the westward cliffs and kindle a fire,” he bawled. “We need a beacon of gorze and heather to burn at Pegli and divert the ships.” He looked to the skies. “ ‘Twill not be easy in this rain, but it must be done.”
Still I clung like a monkey. “Cannot someone else go?”
“No.” He shook his head and the raindrops flew. “Signor Cristoforo is mustering the fleet, and the duke must be kept safe within. This is the fastest horse in the city, and as I am no swimmer, I must serve on land not water. Let me go to my task and do you go to yours.” He looked me straight in the eye. “You may pray for me though.”
The raindrops were my tears—
I felt that I was saying goodbye.
“I thought you had done with God.” I choked.
“I did have done with God, but he had not done with me.”
I