by Aidan Harte
With a tired grunt, he stood. He let the shouting dwindle before he spoke. “Brothers, anyone who bleeds for Rasenna has earned my respect and your attention.”
It was enough to restore order. Everyone returned to his side of the chamber as the other Signoria members looked upon Valentino Morello with mingled curiosity and annoyance.
Valentino spoke calmly. “The Doctor’s analysis is essentially correct. The Concordians mean to be paid. They’ll plunder the south to feed their war machine. Rasenna has no riches to lose, but we still have our pride.” He turned slightly. “Perhaps that’s where we differ, Doctor. I ask how we can hold on to our honor, not what price we ask for it.”
The mace lay where it had fallen. Instead of the usual shouting, boos, and threats, there was unbearably taut silence. Hastily the notary adjourned.
When Sofia said they must go home the old way, the Doctor sounded unconcerned by the sabotage. His catlike grin spread over his wide face as he said, “It went well.”
He had told her that he desired one thing from the meeting only, and the rest was theater, and that had happened: the bridge was going ahead. Come what may.
CHAPTER 12
Unwilling to be a mere parchment engineer, Bernoulli made his name by mapping the so-called hydra, Etruria’s river system. Because of his youth, his first building project was a renovation. The Etruscan bridge connecting the old city walls to the mainland was straining under the rising population. Unimpressed by its antiquity, Bernoulli considered bolstering inadequate structures not only folly but immoral.
His alternative proposal, an audacious one-span bridge, was controversial. Surveyors, masons, and engineers of the day insisted that such a structure would not support its own weight, let alone the city’s traffic. Bernoulli found an influential advocate in the Patrician Senator Postumus Tremellius Felix,5 whose forceful arguments convinced the Curia. The old bridge was demolished and speedily replaced with a bridge immediately recognized as an architectural marvel. Bernoulli was never questioned again, at least in matters of technique.
CHAPTER 13
Giovanni was given a floor in a Morello tower that, although unfurnished and rather strange-smelling, suited his needs. An open space with good light was all he needed for drawing. After getting settled, he climbed the stairs. The trapdoor opened before he had a chance to knock.
“Dio, you take a long time to unpack!” Pedro motioned him up with impatience. “Come up and meet my father.”
When Giovanni saw the wool crammed into every corner, he realized what his room had been used for. Vettori Vanzetti rose from his loom. “Captain, Pedro has told me all about you. He’s wanted to interrogate an engineer since he was old enough to put two words together.”
“My door will always be open.”
“You might live to regret that,” said Pedro with a grin.
“I’ll take my chances.”
As the men spoke, Pedro went back to repairing a loom. Noting Vettori’s fresh black eye, Giovanni guessed he had not volunteered for the job.
“What do you need, Captain?”
“Answers, to start with. You have construction experience?”
“Not much.”
“Quintus Morello recommended you as foreman. Why?”
“I can’t speak for my betters, Captain, but I used to run a small business. People know me, northsiders too, and trust me, as far as that goes.”
“Concord will pay for your equipment, however it got damaged.”
“None of the crew can accept money. We’re all in debt to Morello or Bardini. Our money is their money. My loom, I broke it myself. That’s how I got this shiner too. I’ll help you, Captain, but if you don’t want an accident-prone crew, please don’t ask questions.”
“I am not here to cause trouble.”
“Simply by being here you will.”
The two men stared at each other in silence.
“He’s all right, Papa.”
“What do you need, Captain?” Vettori repeated.
Giovanni knew it would take more than his son’s word to satisfy Vettori. He stuck to practicalities. “Stone. Wood. Iron.”
He cut and pinned paper to the wall to make one large sheet and drew his plans while Pedro watched over his shoulder. It had been a long time since he had felt any enthusiasm for his work. The bridge was a tool. Even if the Apprentices planned to use it for war, the bridge itself would be innocent. Perhaps he could be too. His window looked out to the piazza and the river beyond, and he saw it as it could be: a graceful symphony of material, a lithe shape belying hidden tensions—the contest of strength between design and matter and the pressures they must bear: of gravity, load, and environment. The first was simple to calculate, the second was a variable, and in time he would come to understand the third.
The charcoal snapped. He caught his breath. There were other contests, warring bone, warring muscle. It was with him always.
Gubbio.
Always, though he’d done his duty. Always, though the Guild said that geometry was innocent, that guilt was atavism, that sin did not exist. There was no Right and Wrong, only correct and incorrect. For the hundredth—the thousandth—time he wished he believed the dogma.
Vettori warned his son not to be distracting, but Giovanni needed an assistant and curiosity was the prime quality of a good one. Vettori, overhearing the engineer’s explanations to the unending questions, noticed he spoke to Pedro not as a child or a Rasenneisi but as a colleague, and he watched as Pedro responded with growing confidence, absorbing the barrage of new ideas Vettori himself found so alien.
Discussing logistics, Giovanni was pleased to find Vettori rational, fair, and far too cautious—these were the qualities of a good foreman.
Before the week ended, Giovanni’s plans had the gonfaloniere’s seal. The Signoria’s indifference suited him. He did not need assistance, and he dreaded interference.
Scaffolding was the first priority. Two decades with no building had allowed the forests outside the walls to regenerate. Time had also erased any evidence of previous visitors, and Giovanni could imagine himself the first man to walk there.
He broke a branch off and peeled back the bark. “You don’t know how lucky you are, having this life outside your walls, near enough that you can smell it. Touch it.”
Vettori watched the Concordian moving softly between the trees. “Aye,” he said evenly, “it’s peaceful.”
“It’s more than that: it’s alive. The land around Concord has been barren for years.”
Vettori didn’t respond, unsure of his ground. Normally the engineer talked fast and only about practicalities, and normally Concordians boasted of the things they had, things that others lacked.
“When they started diverting rivers, the trees stopped growing. We were woodsmen once, but you can’t plant in dust. All the scaffolding for the Molè’s nave had to be imported—that’s why Bernoulli built the domes without any.” Giovanni pulled off another branch. “He wanted to prove even Nature couldn’t hold him back.”
“What are you looking for?” asked Vettori.
“Quality”—he stripped another in the same way—“consistency.”
Vettori waited. It was irrational, perhaps, but he felt patriotically concerned that the wood would meet the engineer’s standards. “Well?”
“It’s good. Who owns it?”
“Morello,” Vettori told him, “and Bardini owns the quarries on the north.”
“Think they’ll give me a good deal since I’m buying wholesale?”
“Sorry, Captain. They’ll both gouge you for every soldi they can.”
“I won’t quibble. Concord has deep pockets. I suppose it’s good the Families agree on something. I expect iron will be more problematic.”
Vettori smiled. “I know a northsider who eats problems for breakfast.”
They crossed the river on the east side, where the Wave had smashed though the town walls on its way out. It was a risky journey, leaping from one
uneven pillar to another. Vettori was far from athletic, but he was a still a Rasenneisi; Giovanni found himself clinging to the wet rocks his guide had leaped between without a second thought.
“Why’s it called the Midnight Road anyway? It can’t be used solely by assassins,” Giovanni shouted over the water’s roar.
Vettori looked back incredulously. “Why else cross over?”
Giovanni, taken aback, had no response. Since the Signoria meeting he’d brooded on the consequences of reuniting this turbulent town. He saw someone standing on the north bank and shouted, “Seems we’re expected.”
“Spotted, more like. Every riverside tower is a lookout for raiders.”
Sofia leaned nonchalantly on her flag and called, “Madonna, I’ve never seen such clumsy climbing. I’m surprised you haven’t broken something yet.”
“Is that how you broke your arm?”
“Still none of your business, Captain. What is your business northside?”
“I’m meeting a merchant to discuss supplies.”
“Fabbro Bombelli, Contessa,” Vettori stuttered.
“Fine. Follow me. I don’t know what lies those southsiders have told you, Captain, but it’s not safe for Concordians to walk the streets unescorted.”
“I’m not a soldier; I’m an engineer.”
“What’s the difference?”
Vettori was visibly relieved to reach the merchant’s tower. The door burst open, and Giovanni saw a short, well-fed, well-dressed man sliding down the ladder with surprising grace for someone with so white a beard.
“Vettori! Just as I am about to come to you, you come to me. Hello, Captain! Pleased to know you. You’ll never guess; just this morning another friend suggested I help out with your famous bridge. Naturally, I was delighted.”
Giovanni caught Fabbro’s shrewd glance at Vettori’s black eye and wasn’t surprised when he asked, “You’ll be working on it too, my friend?” He clapped his hands and cried, “Vanzetti and Bombelli, together again! Captain, may you never have sons as cruel as mine! The scoundrels mock me, telling me you have the power to keep the buio at bay!”
While Giovanni explained how the eggs worked, Fabbro tilted his head appraisingly. He looked upon business opportunities with almost motherly affection, and though he did not understand the technology, he saw the possibilities at once. “Let me understand: we can unload barges without endangering the operators? But this is marvelous—my sons are honest!”
“You’re forgetting the wall,” Vettori interjected. “What’s left of it.”
“We’ll knock it down,” Giovanni said. “With a real bridge, you won’t need it.”
The very notion left Vettori speechless, but Fabbro’s nimble mind had already leaped into a future in which river traffic was not feared but welcomed. “Knock it down. How simple. This will make delivering your iron a trifle, Captain. Tell me exactly what you need and Bombelli and sons will look after the rest.”
After Giovanni had gone over his requirements, he turned to Vettori. “You can go back now. I need to speak with Doctor Bardini.”
Vettori looked sheepish, and Sofia looked suspicious. “Why?” she demanded.
“He’s in charge, isn’t he?”
Sofia picked up her flag. “Go home, Vanzetti. I’ll see the Concordian gets back in one piece.”
When Vettori had left, Giovanni caught up to her. “I didn’t mean to be rude, Signorina. I just meant—Well, you are under his protection, aren’t you?”
Giovanni thought she wasn’t going to answer until she turned on him. “The Signoria sits at my pleasure. I’m not some ordinary Rasenneisi; I am the Contessa Scaligeri!”
“We don’t make such distinctions in Concord.”
“How wonderfully modern. Keep up, will you?”
Giovanni followed through quickly turning streets with difficulty, annoyed with himself for glibly repeating Guild dogma. He had reviewed their last meeting several times, imagining ways he could have done better—now this! What was it about wanting to make a good impression that ensured you didn’t?
The Doctor greeted him from the steps of the workshop like an old friend. “Captain, come in!”
“Doctor, I need help.”
The Doctor looked for Sofia, but she was already dragging Valerius from the pillar he was lurking behind. It wouldn’t do for Concord to hear secondhand of any arrangements the Bardini might make with the engineer.
“What’s he want, Sofia?” Valerius said, sulky at having been removed from his vantage point.
“If you paid as much attention to your studies as you do to gossip, you might be half the soldier your father’s expecting to collect.” As she led him away, she glanced over her shoulder. She was curious too.
“I’m impressed that you’ve come so soon. You’re a fast learner, Captain. And Sofia tells me you’ve got some salt in a tight corner.”
“I got the impression she hated me.”
“She hates Concord. In time, she’ll see you have many good qualities. Knowing when you need friends, for example. How can I help?”
“Keep your feud away from my bridge.”
The Doctor’s smile didn’t falter. “What do you mean?”
“You know very well: neither Vettori Vanzetti nor Fabbro Bombelli was given a choice in working for me.”
“Vanzetti’s a southsider.”
“I already told Quintus Morello I don’t want my crew intimidated.”
The Doctor smiled a little more widely. “And how did our sage gonfaloniere respond?”
“He said he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Ah, you’re simply confused by our provincial ways. Fabbro Bombelli asked me, as a friend, whether he should get involved, and I told him exactly what I told the Signoria: Concord wants a bridge, so Concord will get a bridge. It’s in Rasenna’s best interest to cooperate.”
“Maybe you don’t listen to others in the Signoria. I came to build a bridge for Rasenna.”
“Then, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you’ve misunderstood your mission. Not that it matters whether you pick it up or not; Concord holds the rod.”
“You’re still not listening, Doctor. You’re talking small-town politics. A crew needs peace to get anything done, and if you and Quintus Morello disrupt that, there’s going to be discord and delays.”
“And what I’m saying, Captain, is that discord’s inevitable. We’re not like other towns—” He broke off and laughed. “But you’ll come to see that. I’ll stay away, since you ask, but don’t think I’ll let that dreamer take advantage. He agreed in the Signoria for form’s sake. He imagines he can stop the bridge and still avoid Concord’s wrath.”
“You know better?”
“I was a boy the first time Concord punished Rasenna. For years I dreamed about it.” The Doctor looked away. “Don’t misunderstand; I’m as ambitious as Morello, but I don’t put faith in dreams. The only constant in Etruria is Concord’s strength.”
Giovanni followed the Doctor’s gaze. At the other end of the workshop Sofia was instructing the students.
“And my ambition is not for myself. If you won’t take my help, at least take my advice. Like it or not, you’re a conqueror. Act like one. Strength is all Rasenneisi understand. Whatever you are, don’t be lukewarm. It’s no good to anybody.”
“I came to build a bridge for Rasenna,” Giovanni repeated stubbornly.
“Then you’re just another dreamer.” The Doctor sighed and turned. “Sofia, take the Captain home. I no longer guarantee his safety.”
On the way back, Giovanni was quiet and thoughtful. Sofia had assumed the engineer had come seeking Bardini protection—everybody folded to the Families eventually—but the Doctor’s abrupt dismissal suggested otherwise.
“Get what you wanted?” she asked casually.
“I said what I wanted. I don’t know if he heard.”
“What do you want?”
He realized he could easily appear rude again if he didn
’t frame his reply carefully. After a moment he said, “I don’t want to interfere with Rasenneisi politics, but I have a mission. I need both Families to keep their quarrel off the bridge.”
She frowned. “Look, you mean well—”
“But?”
“You’re not a Rasenneisi, Captain. What you want might not be possible.”
There was no arguing the point; he could see that. He said, “I saw you in the workshop, by the way. I’m no judge, but you look very skillful.”
She shrugged. “I have to be.”
“But won’t you inherit all this at seventeen?”
“It’s not that simple,” she started. “Engineers know about maps, right? Well, you only need maps when you’re going somewhere. I found one in my mother’s trousseau when I was seven. I didn’t know what it was until Doc told me. Don’t laugh, but I couldn’t find Rasenna until he showed me the crease where the map was folded. There we were, worn away.” They could hear the river now. “I realized then that being Contessa was something I couldn’t count on; I’d have to be a bandieratoro too. I practiced harder than anyone in the workshop until—”
“—you were the best,” he finished for her.
She blushed, realizing it sounded like pride. “So who taught you?”
“Every engineer studies with the Guild.”
“I meant, was your father an engineer?”
“Yes. I come from a line of men with machine grease instead of blood.”
They reached the river. Giovanni looked at it like a bandieratoro sizing up an opponent.
He caught her staring. “Contessa, you say you’re Scaligeri, not Bardini, but from what I’ve heard, the Morello don’t see a distinction. And I can see why the Doctor might not want them to.” Even as he finished, he realized he’d done it again.
“And I keep reminding you to mind your own business! You think you can drive a wedge between me and Doc? Divide and conquer, eh?”
“I’m not a conqueror—”
“We’ll see,” she said, turning away. “Mind you don’t break your neck getting back.”