The Lion of Venice

Chapter One - An annoying navy commander

Isle of Lina, Adriatic Sea

September 1756

What should a girl do when she realizes her fiancé isn't interested in her anymore?

"Typhus did not kill us, but tedium will for sure," the baroness said as she embroidered her husband's initials on a handkerchief.

Her chair rocked under her corpulent figure by a gigantic tapestry depicting falconry scenes.

Princess Isabella Leonora Pamphili of Rome, fourth daughter of Prince Girolamo and niece of Pope Benedict XIV, turned her eyes heavenwards as her fingers danced on the harpsichord keys playing the final notes of Johan Sebastian Bach's Capriccio.

Isabella sighed gracefully. "We need to be patient, Baroness Orsini."

Two more cross-stitches and the baroness let the tambour fall on her womb.

"It is just that, you know Your Highness, it is so boring here."

Isabella opened her mouth to rebuke the woman, when a sudden crash made the bedchamber's walls quake.

The lady uttered a cry and Isabella's fingers collapsed on the keys, the harpsichord's discordant notes mixed with the loud noise. Paintings fell, the headboard adorned with pearls shook, and a long crack peeled the plaster off the wall. Isabella jumped to her feet and the stool on which she sat tumbled to the floor.

A sudden coldness hit her.

Blood pulsed wildly under her tingling skin. She rushed to the window and flattened herself against the wall as if a monster might appear before her eyes any moment.

Her fingers contracted against the wall's hard surface. Her heart raced until she could hear its insistent beat in her ears. She peeped out enough to catch the blazing chaos.

A mighty broadside from a ship had ripped through the walls of the fortress. A flood of raging, bloodthirsty, scimitar-wielding men rushed in, bent on devouring the Republic of Venice's sturdiest outpost in the South Adriatic Sea, only three days of navigation from Venice.

In the name of God, who were they? Isabella cupped her burning cheeks, dragging the fingers down to her throat as the baroness found shelter behind her chair.

"What... What in God's name was it?" Baroness Orsini asked, her voice trembling, her eyes two wide-open hazel orbs.

Isabella peeped out again. From the ramparts just below her window came shouts and orders.

Only a small swarm of soldiers defended the outpost, and they ran back and forth like little ants.

Ten men against hundreds, if not thousands enemies. She and the others were doomed to die.

Captain Brando Loredan, governor of the island and fearless warrior, shouted out orders and incited his men to fight, as he loaded guns and positioned cannons between the Medieval merlons towards the enemy ships. Venice's fiercest lion, his men called him. A butcher, a kind of ferocious killer at the service of the Serene Republic, Isabella thought.

As if he could feel her presence, the captain lifted his gaze to her window and for a moment their eyes locked.

His attractive tanned features hardened as all his countenance betrayed rage and worry. Fear maybe? No, not fear. The man didn't seem to know what it was.

"Run to the church, Signora!" he shouted to her waving his sword.

"Captain, what...?"

"Now!"

Isabella saw the hard set of his face, the need for revenge in his grim expression. So needless to fight against all those enemies. Where, for Goodness' sake, was she going to hide or run?