by Aidan Harte
“And that was over a month ago,” Sofia finished her story, finding herself a little shaken reliving it. “The Doc set my arm, said it’ll be good as new when it heals. He hates the Sisterhood more than me, but the nuns do everything beautifully, he said, even bone breaking.”
“Wasn’t he angry?” said Giovanni, less surprised at the story than at the catch in her normally confident voice.
“He didn’t give me the lecture I was expecting, just shook his head and scratched his chin a lot. He’s like that, never tells you what he’s thinking. And it’s funny, up till that day, I thought he was Rasenna’s best fighter.”
Giovanni shook his head. “Is that true, that she named you?”
“How do I know? Even if it is, how could that old zoccola recognize me? The Sisterhood has acted like the rest of Rasenna doesn’t exist for years.”
“Maybe she knew you were coming, like she said.”
“And let me get the first one in? Aren’t engineers supposed to be rational? Or did you miss that day in school?”
“Rationality means following evidence wherever it leads.”
They walked on in silence until Sofia said, “You think I got what I deserved.”
Giovanni became engrossed in his plans.
“Tell me. I won’t get mad.”
“Do you do that type of thing, threaten people for the Doctor, often?”
Forgetting her promise, Sofia snapped, “That’s the natural order of things, isn’t it? Concord doesn’t use love poetry to wrest tribute from bankrupt towns, does it?”
“That doesn’t make it right. Will the Small People accept you as Contessa?”
“You saw yesterday what they think of me. Besides, I don’t need permission; it’s my right. You might have broken your nobles’ banners, but we still carry ours. Certain families are born to rule, others to follow. That’s the way it is.”
“Why? Has it proved efficient?”
“This isn’t Concord; we don’t aspire to efficiency. Rasenna’s problem is the Morello. If they showed proper respect to Scaligeri—”
“What do the Scaligeri have to do with it? The Morello quarrel’s with the Bardini—”
“—and Doc’s loyal to the Scaligeri. I don’t like what you’re implying. Concord’s no different.”
“Since the engineers took over, our nobles don’t—”
“Your Re-Formation was the same thing that’s been happening in Rasenna for the past decade: a power struggle. The engineers gelded the old aristocracy, and now they’re the aristocracy.”
“You misunderstand: the Guild has no institutionalized privilege. Promotion and advancement are based on merit.”
“Didn’t you say you came from an engineering family?”
“Of course, some families have an aptitude—”
“—just as previously the criteria were martial skills. All that’s changed is the criteria for exclusion. Concord, Rasenna, wherever: there’s still one group who rule and Small People who serve.”
They had come to Piazza Luna, and Giovanni did something she hadn’t expected: he agreed. Taken aback, she became almost conciliatory. “Don’t get me wrong—I don’t object to it here or there. Like I said, it’s natural. Certain people are born with a higher destiny.”
“You believe that?”
“I do. The only thing I disagree with Doc about is how he takes the long way around. When I’m in charge, the Morello—or anyone who gets in my way—had better watch out!”
They parted as before:
“Have a good day, Contessa.”
“Go to hell, Captain.”
Sofia stopped midway over the chain bridge to look at the river underneath. A permanent bridge still seemed as impossible as a tower built on clouds, but when she looked back and studied the man who was committed to building it, she knew that impossible or not, he would do it.
In Piazza Luna, a shantytown of workshops for carpenters, masons, and smiths had sprung up overnight.
The workmen were quick studies, and Giovanni was surprised at their readiness to adopt the labor-saving devices other Etrurian towns had shunned. Gradually he began to realize the important difference: no other town had been so completely defeated as Rasenna. Traditional techniques were cause for shame, not pride.
The first week’s progress was impressive. Pile-driven stakes outlined cofferdams where abutments would be planted even deeper for stability. He envisaged a structure with a long central arch, elegantly bracketed with two lower and shorter arches, a subtle slope rising from each bank.
Giovanni was everywhere, solving technical problems almost before they arose. He knew it was vital to have the cofferdams drained before the spring rains, and he knew the men would test each other, so whenever confrontation came, he did not shy away but stood there, arms crossed and head slightly lowered as he listened to both parties, and then decided matters with certainty. He did not draw his authority from distant Concord or from the ever-watching Signoria. It came from another place.
And then came a problem engineering could not solve.
“This side, it’s lagging. Why?”
Vettori was evasive, but by now Giovanni recognized the resignation with which Rasenneisi met certain realities.
“I hate to say this”—Vettori looked down at his feet—“but it’s because the crew here is an even split. On the other side, it’s mostly southsiders. The northsiders over there are cutting stone, away from the rest. They don’t have to mix.”
“You’re telling me we make more progress on the other side with fewer people?”
Vettori called to one of the workers, “Galati, any reason why you’re just sitting there looking stupid?”
Hog looked up casually and spit. “Got no nails, boss.”
“Nails, anyone?” Vettori asked.
Hog wasn’t the least abashed as several hands went up. With a strangely vain gesture he ran a hand though his lank black curls.
“What do you recommend?” said Giovanni quietly.
“This is Rasenna.” Vettori regarded Hog coldly. “Put a crow’s head on a stick.”
“Fire him?”
“And make sure the Signoria hears why. Morello won’t let Bardini break Hog’s legs, but he’ll tolerate a beating. Then redivide the crew.”
“It’s divided according to the crafts they know!”
“Which would work if this was no-man’s-land and not—”
“I know! You don’t have to say it.”
Rasenna: when things fell, they didn’t blame gravity—they said, “Rasenna!” and walked away. It explained everything. Giovanni had come to know Vettori as a reasonable man, a good father, yet here he was, calmly recommending throwing a man to the Doctor. He stared hard at the river flowing under his feet. He’d drown under logistics while they squabbled like children. Building sites had a thousand tests of competence, of leadership, every day, but this was different. This was the noise of a fight brewing. Vettori was right; an example was needed. An image assailed him: a crow’s beak caked in blood, a boy bathing his face and smiling like a cat.
“That would be an example,” he agreed. “Not the right one, though.”
“What else can we do?” asked Vettori impatiently.
“Work together. If it takes longer, so be it.”
“I guess Rome wasn’t burned in a day,” Vettori said, skeptical but impressed at the engineer’s stubbornness.
“I’ll make up the difference today; I’m a decent carpenter,” said Giovanni, walking over and taking a place beside Hog.
After an awkward silence, Hog spit and got to work.
By day’s end, Giovanni was exhausted. There’d been no fights yet, but at close of play the men gravitated north and south like armies lining up.
CHAPTER 17
Fabbro was frequently offsite sourcing materials, and when the first barges docked, he struck up conversations with their captains, but Vettori didn’t complain. Luck had reunited them, and he was conscious that he’d done littl
e to keep their partnership alive over the years, while Fabbro had been tenacious.
Escorting Giovanni to and from the bridge, Sofia noticed Fabbro’s absence too and told the Doctor.
“Bombelli’s got plenty of sons. Tell him to delegate.”
The Doctor grinned. “Why throw away an opportunity?” He wrote to remind the gonfaloniere that the truce stipulated that they each have a man on-site at all times.
Sofia couldn’t understand why the Doctor picked Secondo Borselinno to take Fabbro’s place. Secondo had been agitating for payback since the ear incident.
“You said the bridge is an opportunity, Doc,” she started.
“Yes, and Secondo will help things along. Trust me.”
Sofia knew Doc too well for that. She decided to avoid the bridge while Secondo was on it until she knew what Doc was after. The truce was fragile enough.
Giovanni didn’t understand the Doctor’s methods either. “A straight line is shortest.”
Vettori shrugged. “Not in Rasenna.” He was frustrated with Fabbro for giving the Doctor an excuse to interfere, but he quickly saw that if it hadn’t been that, it would just have been something else. “Don’t fight it, Captain,” he advised, “in the interests of safety.”
The Doctor’s man proved to be not just useless but divisive. Secondo didn’t know construction, nor did he care to learn, but he arbitrarily decided that the southsiders were working too slowly and wasting money. It was pointless to argue. Secondo had other goals in mind.
Toward the end of the second week, the rains got heavier. Seeing clouds coming in from the north, Giovanni ordered the carpenters working on the floating platforms to come in while the storm lasted. They reached the bank just as the central platform broke loose. It was left hanging by a corner.
“Thank the Virgin no one was on it,” said Vettori.
“That raft is worth something,” Secondo shouted.
“Don’t be stupid; it’s too dangerous!”
“What did you call me?” Secondo grabbed Vettori by his collar. “I don’t take that from a Morello stooge.”
“Let him go,” Giovanni said.
Secondo pushed Vettori away and glared at the engineer.
Giovanni had to shout to make himself heard over the wind. “Concord’s got deep pockets. We can replace equipment, but Rasenna can’t spare men.”
Secondo gave Giovanni a slow blink, shook his head disgustedly, and turned back to the river.
The crew huddled in the craftsmen’s tents in Piazza Luna, and as lightning dispelled the gathering gloom for an instant, Giovanni looked over them. By now he knew every face. The boy who had asked for a sacrifice on the first day wasn’t among them.
“Where’s Little Frog?”
“Secondo was talking to him,” said a voice.
“Where’s he now?”
When no one answered, Giovanni ran out into the slashing rain, cursing.
Secondo was crouched on the bottom level of the abutment, holding his combat banner into the darkness. On the other end, Little Frog crawled toward the wildly bobbing platform.
“Get back in!” Giovanni cried.
Frog looked back uncertainly as Secondo shouted that he almost had it.
“I don’t give a damn! Come back—that’s an order!”
Frog crawled back to the abutment—
—just as the platform broke free, pulling with it the section he’d been on a moment earlier.
Secondo had the decency to look embarrassed as Pedro took the shivering boy back to the tent. Everyone inside watched Giovanni berating Secondo outside in the rain.
“Take your banner and get the hell off my site!”
“The Doc’ll hear about this.”
“So? I’m not frightened.”
The Captain surely did not understand: Secondo was more than a bandieratoro. Bardini capodecini intimidated even seasoned fighters. The crew waited to see what Secondo would do.
None of them understood why he backed down and, after a lull in the storm, slunk back north.
After Giovanni sent everyone home for the day, he stayed in the tent. Frog, shivering in a towel, was trying to drink a glass of spirits he’d been given.
“It’s my fault,” the engineer said. “The platforms should have been secured better.”
Frog’s hands trembled, but he shook his head firmly. “Nothing you could have done. The river hates us. What can you expect from something the Devil set loose?”
Giovanni looked back at the Irenicon, seeing it like a Rasenneisi: something impious, unnatural, unwelcome. The wind pulled up sheets of spray, ghosts that briefly soared before they were torn apart by other winds.
“Quitting?” he said quietly.
Warily, Frog looked up. Giovanni knew he was debating the most prudent lie to tell a Concordian. He was surprised to hear the truth.
“Yes. Tonight’s my last night in Rasenna, and I’m going to get drunk!” The boy held up his glass. “Cincin!”
“You’re going to join the Hawk’s Company, right?”
Frog, pale already, became paler. “Who told you?”
“No one. If I wasn’t Concordian, I’d fight us too.”
Frog laughed and handed Giovanni the glass while he drank from the bottle. “Then let’s drink to being someone else!”
CHAPTER 18
The same drooping lips had supped for years in the Lion’s Fountain, a simple and charmless establishment that was little more than a few tables scattered around a square under the frugal light of a few charred torches and the more generous donation of the moon. A counter kept the patrons away from the bottles. Crammed into the constrained piazzetta was the usual mix of students and Woolsmen, each convinced they toiled for the other’s leisure, a nightly test whether lions and lambs could lie together.
Rasenna might be poor, but it was a profitable place to own a tavern. Young men required to be careless with their lives became first intemperate and finally reckless; publicans became rich.
Valerius cheerfully joined bandieratori in patriotic toasts of “Death to Concord!” indifferent to the hostile glares he provoked.
He clinked Mule Borselinno’s glass. “How’s the ear?”
“What?”
“How’s the ear?”
“Speak into the other side; can’t hear this side. My ear.”
Drunk already, Frog ordered another round, and after that: “One more!” Inspired by drink, he attempted a farewell speech: “As the Virgin’s my witness, before I go, I’m going cross that river and—”
He fell backward, bringing a dozen drinks with him, and lay laughing, his green legs and boots waving in the air.
“I think the Morello can sleep soundly,” said Sofia, raising her glass. “Froggy, we’ll miss you. Don’t be a hero tonight. Just get some sleep.”
“I’ll come back for you, Contessa, when I’m a famous condottiere with my own company!”
“And I’ll wait for you, amore. To the scourge of Concord, salute!”
Sofia drank, then, looking at Frog seriously, pulled aside her scarf to reveal a Herod’s Sword. “This was my mother’s. It’ll keep you safe.”
Valerius tried to interrupt the moment. “Sing us a song, Contessa!”
“‘The River’s Song,’” shouted Mule.
“No, something lively!”
She dismissed them all. “Sing for yourselves. I don’t sing anymore!”
Valerius watched Frog receive a parting kiss, followed by a playful slap and a final admonishment.
Sofia knew it was even money that he would stay; lots of boys had “last nights” and next morning thought better of it or went on drunken raids and next morning were dead. Yet year by year, more boys left town, more towers emptied.
There were more toasts to future knightly deeds, more drinks, and counterfeit joy. When night erupted, the chill air filled with curses and the crowd, sensing that they were celebrating the town’s slow death by blood loss, became irritable.
Sofia to
ok a bottle and left, not interested in joining the brawl she smelled brewing. Valerius crept after her. Since he’d effectively blinded the other Concordian boy, Sofia had been cold, still training him and guarding him, but no more than that. But Valerius was drunk. He grabbed her shoulder. “Contessa! Can’t we be friends again?”
She spun around and slapped his hand away. “Touch me again, I’ll snap your pencil neck!”
“Is that why you’re sore with me? Look, I’m sorry I hit you—I’m an ass. May I walk you home?”
“Drop dead. I’m not going home.” She might be too drunk to be polite, but still Sofia remembered practicalities. “Get one of the Borselinno to bring you home or you’ll end up gutted in an alley.”
Valerius slunk back to the party, trying not to be noticed. Mule slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, lad. You’re not the first.” He winked his good eye and raised an empty glass: “To the Contessa!”
Valerius burned crimson with humiliation. To be usurped by engineers was painful; to be mocked by inferiors, unbearable. But a fight broke out, and the crowd’s attentions moved on.
Valerius quietly nursed his drink, watching the drunken Rasenneisi claw at each other, retreating into comforting fantasies of revenge: on his father for sending him here, on the engineers, on Rasenna, Bardini and Morello, and Sofia—they could all drown together. With lighter spirits, he toasted the heroes: “Cincin!”
Sofia needed to clear her head, but the alley air was stubbornly stagnant despite the wind, and there was always the chance of bumping into couples tussling amorously or violently. She drained the bottle, threw it over her shoulder, and vaulted up the walls.
Topside, a cold wind swept off the Irenicon, waking her like a splash of water on the face. She wrapped her scarf tighter and looked south. Sometimes, when she forgot the duty to hate it, the river’s solemn beauty could startle her.
Earlier that evening, Secondo had stormed into the workshop to tell the Doctor about the accident, along with his theory that Captain Giovanni was conspiring against them. Frog’s rather different version of events surprised her. She wasn’t naive enough to believe the engineer cared; it was obviously about control—and a happy crew was a productive crew—but it was far better than the standard brutalist tactics. There was no doubt about it, he was different.