by Aidan Harte
The Doctor effortlessly took the Speakers’ mace from the notary and set his sights on Quintus Morello, as if preparing to hurl the dense metal orb. He gave the gonfaloniere a nod before handing it to Giovanni.
Sofia and Gaetano ignored their Concordian charges while they caught up. They hadn’t spoken for months, since the escalation, and both were relieved that it was still possible.
“Does every Concordian have a genealogy instead of a surname?” Sofia said.
“All except engineers, I suppose. Speaking of which—?”
“He’s all right. Got salt for a Concordian.”
“I wasn’t asking what he’s like. Why’s he here?”
“As if you don’t know.”
“I don’t,” Gaetano protested.
She wanted to believe him. It would be a relief if her old friend was kept from intrigue or, still better, avoided it.
“He’s going to build a bridge, Tano.”
Gaetano whistled. “Madonna!”
Sofia nodded.
They were silent, thinking what it meant for Rasenna, for them; they had always avoided each other on the streets—with a real bridge, that wouldn’t be possible.
“Remember when I used to come over here?”
Gaetano smiled. “Sure—you used to beat me up.”
“Just to make you chase me.”
They laughed together, reminiscing about crossing the rooftops, not hunting, just running for the fun of it, innocent of the arguments below. When Gaetano’s uncle died, all that stopped and Gaetano became workshop maestro. Sofia knew from her closeness to the Doctor what power does: it stunts; to be constant is to be static. Gaetano remained that boy on the roof, catching his breath, while she ran farther every year.
“We have to grow up sometime,” Sofia said with a smile she did not feel.
The Concordian boys were engaged in a dance of their own. Deciding who had higher status was complicated, and Valerius took the steps more seriously than his rival did. He circled warily, probing Marcus’s defense with small talk about cousins and titles.
“I’ve heard of everyone, but I’ve never heard of you. You can’t be anyone important.”
Marcus laughed. “That’s reasonable, I suppose. Well, what matter? We’re all nobodies now.”
“Speak for yourself. My father’s general of the Twelfth Legion.”
“Really? That is impressive!”
“We Luparelli have adapted to the times.”
“He studied in Rasenna too? That’s why I was sent here too, to get a good posting.”
Valerius drew himself up. “May the best men win.”
“No need to be like that. There are twelve legions.”
“Child, everything is a competition.”
Having enjoyed a genteel upbringing, Marcus had no idea how to deal with this extraordinarily aggressive boy. He decided it was best to agree. “Undoubtedly. I just meant that we nobles are in it together since the engineers took over, if you follow.”
“You’re preposterous. If circumstances change, the best Families change with them; the best always rise.”
Valerius thought of his year in Rasenna as a career step; for Marcus it was an extended holiday, full of rough camaraderie and daily drama. What did the nobility’s irrelevance matter? That race had been run and lost before he’d even been born.
“I suppose there’s no point asking if you know who this engineer is.”
Marcus was relieved to change the subject. “I heard he’s here to build a bridge,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Bah, everyone knows that! I’ll write to Father. One thing’s certain: he can’t be any good.”
“But he is a captain. Must have done something to earn that rank.”
“And something worse to be sent here.”
“What’s wrong with Rasenna? I like Rasenna.”
“It’s a fine place to learn fighting. But for an engineer, it’s relegation. Punishment. For incompetence, insubordination, who knows what.” He suddenly looked over his shoulder. Gaetano had succeeded in making Sofia laugh. She never acted that way—like a girl—with the boys of Workshop Bardini, certainly not with him. When Valerius turned back, he saw Marcus had begun polishing that ridiculous glass contraption again.
He smiled his cherub’s smile. “I’ve never seen eyepieces up close before,” he said in a friendly way.
As evening drew on and torches were lit around the Chamber, faces already angry took on a demonic hue and the milling whisperers threw monstrous shadows.
Fearing he would blunder, Giovanni had made a note of what he needed to say—and for a horrible moment he thought he’d lost it. He found it and looked down at the swimming text in despair. Then, with his heart hammering in his chest, he looked up and began to speak. “Men of Rasenna, thank you for this audience. I am Captain Giovanni of the Engineers’ Guild. My task is to bridge the Irenicon.”
He waited for the whispers to subside, then went on. “I will complete my survey this week and then provide details of the material and men I need. Based on a cursory examination, I shall confirm to Concord that the allocated time is sufficient. Concordian machines make it possible to build a bridge by summer’s end, but Rasenna’s men will make it happen. I propose taking an equal number from north and south. I leave my initial notes, with approximate costs and quantities, for the Signoria to study.” He felt that he was speaking too loudly but carried on. “Concord expects your cooperation. My task is to bridge the Irenicon—it is your task too. Thank you.”
He folded his note slowly before looking back up into the impassive faces of the cynical and prematurely old men, and he remembered Pedro’s first question this morning: Was it a request or an order?
He cleared his throat. “More than just cooperation, I ask your support. I say this bridge is for all Rasenna knowing that you have reason to doubt me. Until today, you have only seen Natural Philosophy’s destructive power. I pray you, see today as I do—a new beginning for Rasenna and Concord, an opportunity to heal our discord.”
The faces were still hostile but now were looking toward their respective leaders.
“Thank you, uh, again,” he finished.
Quintus Morello stood. “Thank you, Captain. This is indeed a new era. As gonfaloniere, I pray your example inspires Rasenna to put aside our own divisions. May the Virgin grant success!”
The applause surprised and embarrassed Giovanni. He bowed to the assembly, gave the mace and estimates to the notary, and, blushing furiously, went toward the door.
In the outer chamber, Sofia was watching the Concordians play their game of status. The games she’d played with Gaetano had been more innocent yet more dangerous. She remembered the day she had blundered into a crow’s nest on the eaves of Tower Ferruccio. When the outraged mother crow attacked, she lost her footing and began sliding down the tiles—she still woke sometimes from nightmares in which she kept sliding—but Gaetano had caught her, and she had kissed him and slapped him and then run home in a cloud of giddy laughter. Everything was easier back then.
The Chamber door burst open suddenly, and the engineer stepped into the water. He was wiping his brow dazedly, then blushed when he saw them looking at him. He nodded stiffly before wading out to the piazza.
Sofia caught Gaetano’s skeptical look. “Really. He’s all right.”
A tinkle of smashed glass brought their attention immediately back to the Concordians.
“Damn it, Valerius! What did you do?”
“Are you all right, Marcus?” said Gaetano.
“I won’t be able to see now!” Marcus cried.
“You little stronzo!” said Gaetano, grabbing Valerius and slamming him against the wall. Several crests fell and smashed.
“Get your hands off me!” screamed Valerius.
“Hands off, Tano!” The end of Sofia’s flag stick lightly touched Gaetano’s temple.
“All right, all right—” He let go and backed away, dragging Marcus with him.
“I’ll make sure he’s punished,” she said.
“Do that.”
Valerius laughed. “Idiota! She can’t punish me!”
Sofia stuck Valerius in the stomach. He doubled over and gasped, “Why did you do that?” He sounded genuinely shocked.
She held her stick under his chin. “Say it again. I dare you.”
Gaetano pulled her away. “Sofia, he’s right. Anything done to him, Rasenna gets back tenfold. Let’s just keep them separate.”
Sofia had to leave or she’d do something she’d regret. Outside, amid the slender-columned loggia adjoining the palazzo, she found the engineer glumly regarding the river.
“What’s the matter with you?” Then she saw: someone had cut the rope bridge. While he had been speaking inside about reconciliation, somebody had been sabotaging it before it had even begun.
The applause ended the moment the engineer left the room. Quintus Morello crossed the floor, snatched the estimates from the notary, and crumpled them into a ball. “Let’s hope the buio take him for a tour of old Rasenna.”
Cheers and laughter erupted from the southern benches, while across the floor the Doctor leaned forward and whispered to Guercho Vaccarelli.
The old man took the mace and fixed his one functioning eye on Quintus. “Levity?” he spit. “At this hour, Gonfaloniere? If our extension was refused, and we gather it was . . .” He spoke in whistling gasps, and when breath was exhausted he left sentences suspended in midair while his dusty lungs recovered a second wind.
“We have not come to that point on the agenda,” the notary interrupted, glancing at the ambassador. Valentino sat quietly beside his father, his slender frame still draped in his cloak, his face as blank as the empty sky above the old man.
Guercho Vaccarelli caught his breath and continued. “If there is no extension, I say, then Rasenna faces greater demands than ever: tribute for last year and the year to come! This is no time for levity or partisanship, not in this house, not on the streets.”
A southerner jeered. “You liked it when you were winning!”
The old man ignored the interruption and raised a shaking finger of admonition. “Concord will pay for the bridge. It brings employment and commerce to profit our merchants and to we who tax them. It is a means to pay our debt. Who knows another? Before displaying your considerable patriotism, my Lords, consider one more point.”
“Hurry up!” Boos erupted from the southside, and the notary hammered his gavel, shouting for order.
“Defaulting has strained relations with the Empire. What if we add defiance to our sins? You are all tower owners. When a tenant defaults, you throw him out. But when he insults you, you throw him out of a window.”
Property owners on both sides of the Chamber laughed in recognition.
The old man was not smiling. “Concord has a strategic reason to build this bridge. Is it to help Rasenna? Or is it a provocation to goad us into rebellion?” He waited a moment before loudly answering himself, “It is neither! We are not that important. The reason is simple: before Concord looks to Europa, it must secure its rear. It must bring to heel the last free cities of Etruria.”
“The Doctor’s visitors revealed all this?” Quintus Morello interrupted with exaggerated surprise.
The notary piped up, “Lord Morello, the condottieri are a separate order of business.”
Vaccarelli was unfazed. “Gonfaloniere, it’s obvious to anyone who troubles to study a map. Concord needs a bridge to campaign south, but there is no reason to build it in permanent stone except to send a message to the south and us that this is the new order. As we own our towers, they own us. If the bridge is unfinished in five months’ time, they will pause long enough to complete it, and when they leave, there will be a bridge and no Rasenna. Our role as playground for Concordian pups comes to an end. A sword hangs over us. We can be Concord’s vassal and live or her enemy and die.”
The old man proffered the mace challengingly. “Gonfaloniere?”
Quintus Morello waited for Vaccarelli to take his seat before speaking in tones of barely contained rage. “Friends, do not be deceived by arguments of expedience. Concord’s Wave made us eunuchs! This bridge is another assault, more insidious, for it comes gift wrapped. If it was indeed Trojans who founded Rasenna, should we emulate their valor or their credulity? The Doctor—excuse me, Signore Vaccarelli—paints a dark picture. Is it really so dark, or is it colored by ambition? Does he hope to win Concord’s favor by bending over at every opportunity?”
As every other southsider dutifully cheered his father’s words, Valentino stared at Doctor Bardini. There was something impressive about the old street fighter. He had not troubled to put his name in the election purse for years. What would be the point?
In the ebbing light, Quintus Morello’s faded red robes had become finally colorless and his voice had reached that unpleasant pitch that meant he was getting to the point. “Are we children, to be scared by rumor? I remind the northside that Rasenna is a republic where all the people have a voice. Or am I not your elected gonfaloniere?”
Riotous cheers answered his question. The Doctor whispered in Vaccarelli’s ear again. “The northern towers recognize the gonfaloniere’s authority,” the old man answered.
After the roars died down, Morello announced proudly, “Very well. As uncontested gonfaloniere of Rasenna, I approve this bridge—” He paused for effect.
“—on the condition that the engineer lodge in a southside tower under Morello protection.”
Guercho Vaccarelli turned and whispered with the Doctor for a while and then, looking a little puzzled, croaked, “No objection.”
Valentino would have admired such coolness once, but the Beast had taught him better. Yes, the Doctor played more skillfully than Quintus, but the game itself was ignoble—the two worms were vying for a dung heap.
The notary moved to the second order of business, and, scratching himself like a flea-ridden dog, the Doctor wandered into the circle, carrying the mace and a deferential manner, and said, “Friends, you know me as a plainspoken man. There’s been talk that this morning’s visitors came by invitation to propose a new Southern League. It’s a wonderful story, but the truth is more mundane. The condottieri were merely passing through, and they were curious enough about Art Banderia to ask for a workshop tour.”
When the Doctor went to return the mace, Quintus called out, “Anything else?”
“Now that I think of it, Gonfaloniere, we did discuss a hypothetical situation.” He scratched his chin. “It’s embarrassing to repeat it, but they invited me to speculate on whether Rasenna would hire condottieri. I said it would not—it was but idle conversation; I am glad they wasted a citizen’s time and not the Signoria’s. Entertaining such guests officially would be difficult to explain to Concord should they hear of it.”
Morello harrumphed. “Why should Rasenna not employ condottieri? It is our right—”
The Doctor nodded. “As is suicide.” He added as an afterthought, “Though it’s rarely a wise course.”
He dropped his abstracted air abruptly. “Etruria has no use for condottieri. The towns that employ them have been bankrupted or betrayed often enough that they see their foolishness. The last such army in Etruria is led by John Acuto, who fights for whoever he can bully into employing him. As my esteemed colleague mentioned, Concord’s Twelfth marches south this summer—not a few squadrons, not a patchwork of allies fighting with the aid of one Concordian engineer, but an entire legion. That is the end of John Acuto, and Rasenna, too, if we join them.”
“In short, you told those mercenaries you were happy to be a slave.”
The Doctor smiled good-naturedly. “Much eloquence is spilled on the subject of freedom—its splendor, its nobility, its necessity. I only ask, Gonfaloniere, what is its use? We are slaves of time, of hunger, of passion, yet we make no complaint. We are rarely slaves of reason in Rasenna; of those chains we are unfortunat
ely emancipated. We are too weak to win more freedom but perhaps wise enough to keep the little we have.”
The Doctor handed back the mace to a barrage of cheers and insults. Before vitriol turned violent, the notary squealed, “Next order of business! Ambassador Morello, please.”
The young man stood. A hush descended. When Valentino had left to seek the extension, he had been mocked for his youth. Now every eye was locked on him. He reached the circle, shrugged aside the cloak, and cried, “Here is Concord’s answer!”
As shock rippled through the chamber, Valentino’s gaze was nailed on one man. The Doctor remained expressionless.
A northsider broke the silence. “No extension, then?”
“A small reduction,” the Doctor said.
The southside benches erupted with anger, but Valentino dropped the mace with a bang, bringing sudden silence.
“I am a warning of the price of disobedience.” He raised his remaining hand. “But Concord misjudges us! I would sooner cut off this hand too than cast away my honor. Rasenneisi”—Valentino pointed his stump at the Doctor—“this man is a traitor!”
With surprising haste, old man Vaccarelli leaped to his feet. “Slander! Slander, I say! Notary, remove this boy.”
Red-faced, Quintus Morello stood. His men’s flags rose with him. “Everyone, be seated. As you value your lives, molest none of my house.”
Bardini and Morello affiliates shouted at each other, then crowded onto the floor. In the crush, Valentino found himself back to back with his father.
The Doctor was amused that a boy who had left Rasenna before ever wielding a flag himself had returned militant. Whatever tortures he had been subjected to, he had left more than flesh behind in Concord. Quintus Morello was the perfect rival, weak, irresolute, and predictable; what if this son took charge?