The beady eyes returned to the parchment, which shook in the podgy fingers.
'Fra Berto Caccia, the Bishop of Piacenza, preached a sermon to the people lauding the murder of my brother, and promising in Estorre's name a Golden Age for Milan, with immunity from taxation. Thereupon they laid at his bastard feet the keys of the city, the standard of the republic, and the ducal sceptre.' He dropped the parchment, and sat back folding plump, white hands across his paunch. 'This calls for action, speedily.'
'We can provide action enough to surfeit Messer Estorre.'
'Ha!' The great flabby face grew almost kindly, the little eyes beamed upon the condottiero. 'Serve me well in this, Bellarion, and you shall know gratitude.'
Bellarion's gesture seemed to wave the notion of reward aside. He came straight to facts. 'We can withdraw eight thousand men from Bergamo. The place is at the point of surrender, and four thousand will well suffice to tighten the last grip upon the Malatesta vitals. Perhaps the Lord Estorre has not included that in his calculations. With eight thousand men we can sweep him out of Milan at our pleasure.'
'And you'll give orders? You'll give orders at once? The army, they tell me, is now in your control. Facino's authority has descended to you, and has been accepted by your brother captains.'
And now this arch-dissembler went to work.
'Hardly so much, highness. Facino's captains have sworn fealty, not to me, but to the Lady Beatrice.'
'But ... But you, then?' The news dismayed him a little. 'What place is yours?'
'At your highness's side, if your highness commands me.'