by Aidan Harte
“She suggested it.”
Vettori looked skeptical.
“She didn’t bring black flags to the bridge, I did. Bardini came at my invitation, but I still feel . . .”
“Manipulated?” Vettori suggested. “Now you know how the Small People feel. Don’t be upset; that’s how the Families stay powerful.”
Giovanni looked in the direction Sofia had gone. “That’s not how she’ll rule.”
Vettori squinted into the sun. “If she gets to.”
“The Small People still revere the Scaligeri.”
“That makes her useful today. Tomorrow it’ll make her a rival. She’s a pawn, just like the rest of us, and once the Bardini or the Morello get the upper hand, she’s disposable.” He saw Giovanni’s reaction and shrugged. “Things could be worse, Captain.”
“That’s not success. I remember the day I made that rope bridge with Pedro. It was easy, Vettori. With so many men, shouldn’t this be easier? Instead, our problems are multiplying. You know these men—what’s keeping them apart?”
“Hate’s a hard habit to break, Captain. Things happened over the years that can’t be forgotten just because the Families say ‘work together.’”
“Was it like this when you ran your workshop?”
Vettori shook his head. “No, I was too small to compare—and all my people came from the south.”
“But what did you do?”
“I gave them a share. When I made money, they made money. When you own something, you fight for it. That’s the thing: the northsiders think it’s theirs, and the southsiders resent it.” Vettori looked around at the men from both northside and southside. “What can you do? We can’t all own it.”
That night, Giovanni burned through a dozen candles studying old maps of Rasenna. Next morning, he found Pedro alone on the bridge. It was the feast day of Saint Daniel; for once Giovanni was grateful for the congested sacred calendar that was playing hell with his schedule.
“How’s the crane coming?” he asked with a grin.
Pedro pulled the toggle, and the engine sputtered to life and rolled along the track. A second lever rotated the segmented neck. “Perfect day for a test run. Anything in mind?”
Since there was no work on the bridge, Sofia and her bandieratori were back in the workshop. With a gentle touch, the Doctor unwound the sling and moved her arm at the elbow. “How’s that?”
“Good,” she said, flexing it.
He looked thoughtful and said offhandedly, “By the way, where’s Valerius?”
Sofia shrugged. He’d taken to sneaking out alone, looking for attention, presumably. “If he wants to get himself killed, let him. All part of growing up, right?”
“You’re supposed to be looking after him. Try the arm,” he grunted.
She did a few clumsy flag combinations.
“It’s fine, just weak. In a day or two I’ll be ready to spar.”
“You think your enemies will wait?” the Doctor said, looking around the workshop, then saying, “Mule, banner up.”
Sofia set her jaw firmly. The Doc was making a point. She wanted to fight? So he’d make her fight.
Fine. She wasn’t worried. She had been able to beat Mule since she was twelve. He had terrible defense; all she had to do was wait for a big obvious attack and see where he left himself exposed . . .
Nevertheless, Mule managed to do better than usual, landing several blows before she put him down with a careful attack that took advantage of his weaker eye.
The Doctor was stern. “What’s on your mind? It’s certainly not the fight you’re in. Secondo, you’re next.”
Normally she wouldn’t be worried, but Doc was right: she wasn’t focused. Secondo lacked Mule’s courage, but he was more dangerous: he had enough cunning to change tactics when necessary. He fought smart, made her work her weak arm. Kept up the pressure and—
“Ugggh!”
Sofia recovered and picked up her flag again. A crowd of students was gathering. She ignored them, telling herself this was just practice.
Thinking he was winning, Secondo became as obvious as Mule. She lowered her flag, inviting an attack, and he thrust his stick behind an obvious flourish. She dived for it, and Secondo fell back with a cowardly yelp. A quick blow to the knee and he tumbled to the ground, groaning.
The Doctor didn’t congratulate her. “Wake up. Daydreaming makes you fight like a novice in the workshop. On the street, it’ll get you killed.”
Before she could retort, the door burst open.
“Doc!” Valerius called loudly so everyone would look. “You’ve got to see what the engineer’s done!”
The Doctor led him away so he wouldn’t distract the students more than he already had, and Sofia watched his expression change from annoyance to anger.
“He did what?” Doc grabbed a flag and went to the door with Valerius.
When Sofia followed, he shouted, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“With you.”
“You can’t even focus in the workshop. Practice until you can.”
He slammed the door in her reddening face, leaving the students staring at her. Publicly undermined. Again.
It felt like a gut punch.
“Well, you heard,” she said, flattening all emotion from her voice. “We need practice.”
Rasenna looked on as the Lion was lowered into place on the bridge’s south side.
Using old plans and estimating the impact of the Wave, Giovanni had correctly triangulated the likely position of the first of the old town’s mascots. Pedro fished the first sculpture up with the crane. The native stone’s earthy gray had turned mottled green underwater, yet the accumulated filth and weathering somehow accentuated its dignity. The crew cheered as it was set down.
“Madonna, he’s ready to roar!” Fabbro laughed, stopping abruptly when he saw the Doctor.
“Captain, have you gone mad?” the Doctor whispered fiercely.
“No,” said Giovanni, “but I’ve stopped being lukewarm. This bridge belongs to Rasenna. The Lions are one of the few things people have in common.”
“Don’t be facetious. The banner of Rasenna is outlawed by Concord. The Mascots only remained because no one could see them. Put it back.”
Giovanni refused to back down. “I’m responsible for this and the civil war that’ll happen if Rasenna isn’t united when it’s complete.”
“Dreamer!” The Doctor used the word as an insult. “We risk far worse offending Concord! Put it back.”
“It’s staying,” Sofia said loudly.
The Doctor turned and found her standing with the crew.
“Girl, be obedient,” he growled.
“How dare you! I am the Contessa Scaligeri. I don’t take orders; I give them.”
The Doctor checked if Valerius was in earshot, then stepped forward and whispered, “And what if one of the Concordians mentions this in a letter home, Contessa? What about when General Luparelli comes? You don’t think he’ll notice?”
“No—you’ve spent too long in your tower. Just look around! See what it means to them.”
The Doctor turned his back on Sofia’s angry stare. He walked up to the Lion, lightly touching it. “The others remain where they are, Captain.”
“Very well.”
“Explain to the Apprentices in your next report that you did it without the Signoria’s sanction and with my reservations.”
“Very well.”
The Doctor seized his arm. “Captain, you mean well. You see ragged flags and want to return our pride—but pride led us here!” He released him suddenly and turned north. “Contessa.”
“Doctor,” she said, apparently unruffled even though she felt the ground shifting beneath her feet. The bridge was the future of her reign, he said, but when Giovanni tried to make it part of Rasenna, he objected. He’d left her no choice but to hide a dagger behind her banner too.
Sofia only remembered the smell of incense. The last time she’d been here, she
’d been too apprehensive to pay attention to her surroundings. In a dark niche, the Madonna of Rasenna held the infant Savior’s body in one arm; in the other, a cluster of miniature towers. Her face was kind, but she was still a Rasenneisi: one of her delicate feet was crushing a serpent’s head.
The Baptistery roof was a mosaic depicting the Virgin showing Saint Barabbos the keys of Heaven. He and the Prophets would languish in Limbus Patrium until the Second Coming, or so went the story.
The font bore closer inspection too, if she’d truly been baptized in it. Its five faces were decorated with paintings, composed in gold, black, and red, showing the traditional Stages of the Virgin’s life: the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Error, the Substitution, and the Assumption.
Familiarity had dulled the tale’s strangeness. From a distance, it was just a record of madness and hysteria: a grieving mother who called herself a virgin and her murdered child, God, preaching of a Kingdom to come, until the Etruscans grew fearful of sedition. Her Apostles claimed She escaped crucifixion and bodily corruption by ascending to Heaven.
The virgin who conceived a savior who could not even save Himself. It was truly an odd story—was it odd enough to be true?
The Doctor had not raised her with a shining example of observance—he recognized no obligations, religious or otherwise, unless they profited him—but these tales were in the air in Rasenna and in the blood.
Her reverie was broken by the sound of footsteps. “Contessa, are you here to see Isabella? She’ll be pleased.”
“No. Yes. I mean—” Sofia stood to attention. “I apologize for attacking you, Sister.”
“No harm done. To me, anyway.”
“Well, it was impolite.”
There was a strained silence until the Reverend Mother said, “Why don’t you ask what you came here to ask?”
“Will you teach me?”
“I’ll think about it. Anything else?”
The crowd was still on the bridge when Sofia returned.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” said Giovanni.
“Are you a pagan?” the nun inquired.
“I’m an engineer.”
“Then be rational! What harm can an old woman do?” she said, striding onto the bridge and pulling up her sleeves. “I only wish you’d called me earlier.” She stopped abruptly at a certain point in the middle of the bridge. “Here. Let us pray,”
The crew knelt as one.
“The river has been much offended: driven from its natural course, made party to murder, by Concordians and Rasenneisi. This bridge will divide the river, just as the Wave divided us. Forgive us, Madonna, all trespasses. The hour is late and the Lord is not refused. He cannot be diverted, though He suffers Himself to be delayed. Like a river, History pushes through all obstacles; if the Lord’s will is diverted in one age, then It will be made manifest in another. Therefore, be patient, the Kingdom is at hand. The Lion awaits its brothers. Until they come, he will not wait alone. The Virgin, who has always protected Rasenna, now protects Rasenna Bridge!”
“Amen!” the crew agreed.
The nun nodded. “Less bad. Assist me, my child.” As Sofia helped her to her feet, she whispered, “We’ll start the day after tomorrow. You must bring two things . . .”
CHAPTER 24
The wind’s howling made it impossible to hear other footsteps, and until that moment Marcus Marius Messallinus had not really missed his spectacles. Losing them was a good excuse to skip the training intended to give his military career a head start. The young Concordian saw no reason to apply himself; modern generals didn’t lead so much as point the machines in the right direction.
Gaetano would never have allowed Marcus to venture alone from Palazzo Morello, but after all, Gaetano might well be part of the plot. Marcus had learned of the conspiracy only today. In the excitement of the bridge ceremony, someone had dropped a note in his hood:
If you love Concord, be in Piazza Luna at Midnight—
A fellow Patriot.
What Marcus lacked in drive, he made up for in imagination. Clearly, his counterpart in the Bardini workshop had put aside rivalry to enlist his help.
He waited in the empty piazza until bells rang out across the river. He had bright visions of himself and Valerius, friends tested by battle, returning to Concord in triumph, to be congratulated by the First Apprentice. On the twelfth chime, a figure gestured on the far side of the piazza. Yes, Valerius was shrewd! If the two heroes were seen, it would alert the plotters.
An hour later he was lost in the dark, twisting backstreets and seriously worried. A strange thought was gnawing at him ever more insistently. Perhaps this “patriot” was a Rasenneisi. It had simply never occurred to Marcus that one could be loyal to a place that spawned schismatics so prodigiously—but why not? If he had learned nothing else in his time here, it was that Rasenna and contradiction were no strangers. Was it true, though? Had some Rasenneisi murderer lured him from safety this night? Wait, was that someone up ahead, at the mouth of that alley?
“Valerius?”
He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. He’d overheard stories of the headless northsider; if one ghost had risen, might not another? How many Rasenneisi had Concord drowned all those years ago? How many yearned to share their tombs? He dropped his flag and ran.
The boy had been ensconced in Palazzo Morello for the last year, and his knowledge of the streets was poor at the best of times; in the darkness it was even worse. But if he could find his way back to Piazza Luna, he could get to Palazzo Morello and safety.
Had he seen that Madonna statue before? That mural? It was pointless; they all looked the same. In trying to retrace his steps, he’d just gotten himself even more lost. The harsh sound of cloth ripping made him jump, and he called out tentatively, “Hello?”
There was no answer—then a glint of gold, his flag, torn from its stick! By whom? By what?
It danced on the wind and then, animated surely by vengeful spirits of old Rasenna, flew toward him.
The blood pounding in his ears was louder than the screaming wind. Marcus ran around corner after corner, but every time he looked back it was closer. He turned into a narrow alley and stopped.
It was a dead end where two towers leaned into each other.
“Oh, Madonna, help me!” he cried. He turned and—
Nothing. It was gone.
After a moment, he stuck his head out of the alley. That Madonna, painted like a doll; he recognized it! This must be Via Purgatorio, east of Piazza Luna.
In his haste, he stumbled and cracked his head on stone. He pulled himself up in a daze and saw it—
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Gold covered him, trapped him, struggle as he might. The weight on his chest was holding him down, hands on his neck were strangling him—he couldn’t escape, couldn’t breathe—
The fabric invaded his mouth, a thousand raging corpses teaching him how they had drowned . . .
As breakfast was served in the lonely luxury of Palazzo Morello, Gaetano’s men were searching every tower south of the river. He just prayed Marcus hadn’t been dumb enough to cross the bridge. Bardini would eat him alive.
“Oh, he’ll turn up, Gaetano!” His father had been unbearably garrulous since the engineer’s behavior on the bridge. The Doctor’s Concordian had turned out to be insufficiently loyal to Concord; what a great joke.
“Don’t you realize what could happen if—?”
“Oh Gaetano, tranquillo. The boy’s just hiding in a tower. Have a drink. Your brother’s never understood politics, has he?”
Valentino smiled.
Quintus kept going, “Either our water is potent enough to breed faction in an engineer’s heart or the fellow was eccentric to begin with.”
“Perhaps that’s why they gave him this job,” Valentino suggested, amused at his father’s heroic self-deception. The old fool had made a policy of popular gestures, but his patriotism was a pose made safe by th
e Doctor’s pragmatic balancing act. They’d performed this ritualistic dance so long that Quintus had forgotten he was being led.
A bandieratoro entered and whispered something to Gaetano.
Valentino noticed his sudden loss of color. “What is it?”
Gaetano looked at him suspiciously. “They found Marcus’s body by the Lion, under a golden banner.”
Quintus Morello spit out his drink. “Our flag!”
He followed Gaetano out in a stupor, leaving Valentino alone with his thoughts and the dozing Donna Morello.
The only thing that upset the dance was disagreement about who should lead. The bridge would change everything, and his father was too frightened to acknowledge that Morello power had waned. Gaetano suspected it; the Doctor knew it. Valentino had another ambition entirely: to see the dancers destroy each other and let the world burn afterward. They had sent him to the Beast. All were guilty; all must be punished.
With threat of murder abroad, Valerius was safely under guard in Tower Bardini when the emergency Signoria meeting began.
The gonfaloniere was haranguing the Doctor. “You all know—the assassin knows—that Concord will hold the Contract holder as responsible as the assassin. But this assassin has miscalculated: this crime endangers every tower in Rasenna!”
Gaetano and Sofia sat next to the respective heads of their families, a silent signal of violent expectations.
The Doctor, grieving for Guercho Vaccarelli at last, took the mace. “Why would I provoke Concord?” he asked. “How could I possibly imagine they would smite my enemy and leave my tower standing? War will not make such nice distinctions: if no one is guilty, all are guilty. If war comes, all suffer. Call me a scoundrel, a murderer, but please, not a fool. Why would I suddenly change my policy, which has ever been one of conciliation and realism?”
“Because we are winning!” Quintus spit.
“Order!” said the notary.
“The murder of Marcus Marius Messallinus can, more plausibly, be blamed on a reckless unknown provocateur.”