Spira Mirabilis

by Aidan Harte

The baron ground his teeth, his pugnacious jaw moving as if he were chewing his reply. There was no point trying to charm her.

  ‘The baron comes from impoverished noble stock,’ Arik whispered to Sofia. ‘He was one of the queen’s childhood friends.’

  ‘Hard to believe she had any.’

  ‘They were more than friends, according to some, but in any case, she found a richer baron to marry and Masoir rebuilt his fortune by marrying into a noblesse nouvelle family with impressive Byzantine shipping links.’ Arik pointed out a petite, serious-looking middle-aged woman standing towards the back but watching the proceedings avidly. She was dressed in black silk and surrounded by a retinue of formidable-looking slaves. ‘That’s his wife, Melisende Ibelin. Old Akkan family with blood as pure as the queen’s. They’ve known each other since girlhood – which is not to say they were ever boon companions. She was a Lady of the Privy Chamber but the queen considered her marriage to Masoir a great betrayal. She has never forgiven them.’

  ‘I felt bound to come,’ said the baron, ‘as your Majesty lacks disinterested advisors to tell you that the course you’re intent upon is folly.’

  ‘When I need advice, I’ll ask,’ Catrina said curtly. ‘All that’s required of you is silent obedience.’

  ‘Silence when the ship’s bearing down on the rocks? I call that negligence.’

  ‘I may not be the mariner you are, but I believe there’s only one navigator, and when others attempt to steer, I believe that’s called mutiny. I see no rocks.’

  ‘Then it is well I have come. Now that your servant the Moor has won Ariminum for us, the Middle Sea lies open. For God’s sake, let’s enjoy it! With no competition, direct access to Etrurian markets, and Europa beyond, our prospects are immense—’

  ‘You might think to thank me.’ The queen’s temper, never good, was shorter than ever since her uncle’s attempted coup.

  Baron Masoir ignored the mockery. ‘You’ve handled the foreigners admirably, no question, but the domestic situation has never been so precarious. The Lazars’ aggression is pushing the tribes together—’

  ‘Enough! A slur on my soldiers is a slur on me. You talk of Akka, but your concern is to protect your myrrh caravans.’ She turned from the baron and looked around the rest of the court. ‘Is it so hard to believe that I see further from this throne than a peddler grubbing in the bazaar?’

  Her ladies answered with loyal titters, but the men responded only with hostile stares. Under this daunting scorn, the noble faction shrank – all but the baron.

  ‘Business must be good that you’ve time to waste interfering with affairs of state that are none of your concern. Perhaps I should have you – and that rabble you’ve brought with you – audited again?’

  The baron recognised it was time to withdraw. ‘When it comes to tithes and tolls, your Majesty knows well that we are adequately burdened. Thank you for the audience.’ He bowed perfunctorily and retreated with his supporters to the back of the courtyard.

  The queen glared and hissed through clenched teeth, ‘Who’s next?’

  While Chrysoberges laboriously consulted the agenda, a husky voice rasped, ‘Me.’

  All heads turned to the court’s entrance where an exotic figure stood silhouetted. He was very tall, and though he did not look it, old. His nose protruded like that of a bloodhound. His long, sharp teeth smiled from the middle of a cascading beard that was braided and ornamented with green and blue beads. His eyes were steady and lively with humour, as if everything he saw amused him a little.

  ‘Thank you for answering my summons, Mik la Nan. We are honoured.’

  ‘The honour is mine. I’m told that my unlucky race is not ordinarily permitted to speak here.’

  ‘That might be the case ordinarily, but I am told you are exceptional.’

  ‘I have always considered myself so,’ he said, and ignoring the scandalised wispers, marched into the courtyard. He gave the impression of great power held in check in a way that reminded Sofia of the Doc. The two ragged but fierce-looking warriors following quietly behind carried tall baskets.

  His aplomb amused the queen. ‘How do you like my city? Better surely than tents that the wind may sweep away?’

  He stopped in front of her. ‘A strong enough wind sweeps away everything. Your walls seem to offer security – the illusion may be comforting, but it comes at a cost.’

  ‘Let me guess: liberty. When one considers how the Ebionites cherish their freedom and how often they’ve lost it, they begin to look almost careless.’ The court erupted in sycophantic titters until the queen silenced them with a testy gesture.

  ‘O Queen. I have lived long enough to know few are truly free,’ the old nasi said solemnly. ‘I have come to discuss a matter of urgency. The Empty Quarter has become truly barren. Even my Napthtali’ – he gestured to his two shadows – ‘who live on nothing, even they cannot live there. Therefore we have moved into lands upon which your shadow falls. The other tribes know my name, and with words or other tools, I’ll find an accommodation with them. To you, O Queen, I lay down my sword.’

  Fulk and Basilius watched warily as he drew his great sword and kneeled. The pommel was carved in the shape of a mountain lion and the blade was curved like a crescent moon. Etched Ebionite characters made its surface dance. On cue, his men placed a reed basket either side of the sword. ‘Besides my fidelity, I offer—’ He paused and tipped the first barrel over ‘—these.’ A dozen short curved blades scattered nosily on the ground.

  Arik leaned forward. ‘Sicarii blades,’ he said, with an intake of breath.

  ‘I am grateful,’ the queen murmured, ‘but assassins can always find new weapons.’

  By way of answer, the nasi reached into the second basket. ‘I did not know which flavour you preferred, so I brought one of each. Gad—’ He took a head from the basket, then another, and yet another, displaying each to the queen while reciting, ‘Benjaminite, Zebulun, and more besides.’ He tipped the basket and the rest of its grisly contents vomited forth and thudded onto the marble. One head rolled right to the queen’s feet and the horrified patriarch rushed to remove it, but she shooed him away and picked it up herself. The neck was cleanly severed and the hair was lank with clotted blood. Dried rivulets painted the broken contours of the face. The eyes were swollen black from a haemorrhage within; the teeth were bared as if surprised in laughter.

  No one spoke. Fulk and Basilius looked to the queen while the old nasi’s eyes strayed to his sword.

  She solemnly kissed the cracked lips and exclaimed, ‘What a handsome gift!’

  Mik la Nan’s relief turned to confusion as the queen leaped from her throne, brandishing the head like a lantern. She held it up to Masoir and his cronies. ‘Behold, Baron, the fate of traitors! Is it not handsome?’

  Masoir paled a fraction and agreed.

  Mik la Nan grinned. ‘I am pleased it pleases your Majesty.’

  She turned and stood before him. ‘You please me. By all means, bring your Napthtali north and welcome. If the other tribes fail to make room, respond accordingly, with the assurance that I will not interfere.’

  ‘Praise God, it is true what they say: verily, a new Sheba is come amongst us, as generous as she is wise. Were you not an idolater, you would be perfect.’

  The patriarch, indignant after the nasi’s gruesome exhibition, pounced on this heresy. ‘To what idolatry do you refer?’

  The nasi gave the priest a scornful look. ‘I came to pay homage to a queen, not debate with her fool.’

  ‘Please, O Nasi,’ the queen dramatically intoned, ‘this is the Haute Cour, where the weak speak truth to power. Here, I am obliged to listen to contrary opinions – so pray answer Patriarch Crysoberges’ question – tell us all, how am I an idolater?’

  Mik la Nan, a practised politician, understood that this was a game, intended to make some point to the queen’s courtiers. Even so, he had been called to testify. He drew himself up stiffly, all mirth draining away, and said clearly
, ‘God is God, one and indivisible, but you would make the Prophetess into God’s consort.’

  The patriarch smirked. ‘Small wonder the savage misunderstands. I could show you the holy writ where it says, “Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me, and live,” but doubtless you’re illiterate, so I’ll explain in your own words. If God is one, as you say, it follows that He cannot diminish Himself. Therefore a mediator is necessary. The Madonna is that mediator. Like a favoured daughter, she stands between God and Man, shielding us from His wrath. Therefore,’ he concluded triumphantly, ‘it is not us but the Ebionites who diminish God!’

  ‘God will blacken your face for these lies,’ the nasi responded.

  ‘Thank you, Patriarch Chrysoberges,’ said the queen sweetly, ‘for reminding us all that theology is so unbearably tedious. I’d almost forgotten. Now, Mik la Nan, to practicalities. My permission to enter my lands you have. If you want my friendship, keep sending the baskets.’

  ‘Any particular flavour?’

  ‘I consider any tribe which fails to make war on the Sicarii traitors.’

  And with that, the queen clapped her hands and declared the Haute Cour concluded for the day.

  Arik was pensive as they descended from the balcony.

  ‘She wants war amongst the tribes,’ Sofia said, ‘that’s clear. But surely the Napthtali are more dangerous to Akka than any Sicarii dagger?’

  ‘They’ll be by far the largest tribe in all the Sands, but Mik la Nan knows his foe,’ Arik agreed. ‘The sight of blood excited her till she couldn’t think straight – she should have immediately added Mik la Nan’s head to that pile.’

  As disappointed petitioners filed out of the court into the piazza Arik walked towards Mik la Nan’s entourage, men with faces crossed and recrossed with scars.

  ‘My eyes are liars if this this is not an Issachar,’ said Mik la Nan as he came upon them. ‘Uriah ben Sinan was almost as skilful a warrior as me.’

  Though Sofia was standing next to Arik, the nasi didn’t acknowledge her. She did not protest; she was becoming used to this blindness from Ebionites in formal settings.

  ‘He was my father,’ Arik said.

  Mik la Nan glanced around at his followers. ‘It is true then, that the sons of great men often disappoint. This one is a slave to the infidel. The other slides daggers between the ribs of sleeping merchants and bowstrings around the fat necks of their wives.’

  Arik bristled. ‘The man who leads the so-called Sicarii is no longer my brother. As for me, my name is Arik ben Uriah. After the hospitality the Napthtali showed those Issachar who fled the Empty Quarter, I have longed to see you. God be praised, my prayers are answered. I will be blessed indeed if we meet in another venue, that I might give full expression to my gratitude.’

  ‘Pray that never happens, boy. I no longer wish to slaughter Issachar. That sport has lost its novelty for me.’

  Sofia wasn’t prepared to stand by and listen. ‘Don’t let this dog bark at you, Arik,’ she started.

  ‘Woman,’ said Mik la Nan grandly, ‘do you not know who I am?’

  ‘I know what you are. That’s enough.’

  Mik la Nan did not share his men’s amusement at this rejoinder. ‘It is not my custom to allow women to disrespect me—’

  ‘Surprising. You’re ready enough to bow to one.’

  ‘Queen Catrina is the greatest nasi in the land,’ he proclaimed, ‘and there is no shame in giving one’s sword to such a potentate.’

  ‘No shame crawling before the persecutor of your race?’

  ‘Beside my Napthtali I have no race!’ he said with sudden fury – fury that was gone as quickly as it had arisen. ‘Like your friend, I am a man of practicalities.’

  ‘Please, Contessa,’ said Arik, ‘don’t get involved.’

  Akkans were staring at them now, enjoying the scene.

  ‘I know not what a contessa is,’ said Mik la Nan, ‘but if it is some species of princess, be advised that that queen is not one to brook rivals. If I knew where your husband was, I would tell him to take you from Akka without delay.’

  ‘God alone is above me. I am unmarried.’

  The eavesdroppers gasped with pleasure to hear the rumours surrounding the foreigner confirmed by the girl herself.

  The nasi however took no satisfaction in it. ‘You have my sympathy,’ he said, turning away.

  That was worse than laughter. Sofia stared after him, trying to ignore the stares directed at her, trying to look like she didn’t give a damn. She left before her tears could betray her.

  *

  Fulk entered the chapel and made the sign of the Sword before sitting down in one of the front pews. ‘This place is only supposed to be for Lazars,’ he said mildly.

  A voice from the pew behind him said, ‘Everyone avoids me. No one talks to me. I think I qualify.’

  He turned around. ‘They’re afraid of the queen, Sofia.’

  She sat up. ‘And you’re not? You’re also only supposed to tell the truth here. Hadn’t you better run along before she finds you’ve been talking to the enemy?’ When Fulk didn’t respond, she went on, ‘I was at the Haute Cour today. She wants to start a war between the tribes, doesn’t she?’

  Fulk didn’t try to deny it. ‘The waste is that we could have peace with the Ebionites. They don’t covet our cities – they never have. Jerusalem was all they craved, and now it’s occupied by a force hostile to all men. The empire’s fractured and our half is crumbling. We’re spent, and the queen knows it better than anyone. She’s content now to let the hourglass drain until her mask takes its place amongst her ancestors.’

  ‘So why fight for her?’

  ‘Because that’s what our fathers taught us to do. A poor excuse, I suppose.’

  She knew better than most the compulsion of feuds, however old. ‘You’d be a better king than she is queen.’

  ‘Impossible. “Who represents the whole people must himself be whole”,’ he quoted, ‘and I am walking corruption.’

  ‘Your affliction is terrible, but she’s rotten from the inside.’

  ‘Stop!’ he cried, standing. ‘It’s sinful for any vassal to whisper against his queen, and still worse for a son.’

  ‘And what of the patriot who foresees his kingdom’s ruin? Should he too remain silent?’

  He grabbed the pew for support and bowed like a penitent. ‘You cannot turn me against her.’

  ‘The truth at last. Not so hard, is it?’

  CHAPTER 3

  There was the mount, but surely this was not Jerusalem? The Winds had no dominion here. The Waters had deluged this city. Instead of an ark, she sat in a narrow little boat on a sea carpeted with bodies. More floated gently down about her like the leaves of autumn. She did not wish to see them and stared instead at her ferryman’s back. It was not Ezra, no – it was someone much younger, with the bearing of an engineer. Might it be—? She longed to ask the stranger to turn around, but she knew that was forbidden.

  One of the drifting bodies stirred as it came close. With white bloated hands, it pulled itself up onto the prow. The bloated, long-dead face next to hers was a face she knew. The ferryman raised his oar to stave in Giovanni’s head, but before the oar descended, he cried, ‘Wake up!’

  Sofia opened her eyes to darkness. Lately she was grateful if she managed a few hours of rest uninterrupted by the baby’s kicking or strange dreams. She felt her eyes: wet again. God, why was she crying so much? Expecting mothers, she knew from midwifing, were crazy as cats in a bag, but this was more than that. If even Fulk, who Catrina had sacrificed as a babe new-born, remained so blindly loyal there was every reason to be upset.

  The door opened. ‘Mistress? I heard you cry out.’

  ‘Just a bad dream, Abdel.’

  The sight of the Moorish slave who guarded her chamber door made her smile. She wasn’t completely friendless. The queen expected Abdel to spy on Sofia; instead he told her the court gossip and found whatever foods she craved f
rom the kitchen.

  He looked into the darkness behind her. ‘No wonder, Mistress! You left the window open – how often have I told you? That’s how the Jinn enter.’ He closed the lattice, then, after scolding her some more, left her to her thoughts.

  Reclining there, staring at the moonlight diamonds the lattice scattered over her chamber, it was easy to recall that early dawn nine months ago in Rasenna, when she had woken to find a buio standing by her bed. The buio had asked her to be God’s Handmaid.

  Why had she answered as she did? In a word: Giovanni – but it wasn’t logical. The two things she knew about the man she loved flatly contradicted each other: Giovanni was dead, but water could not die, so Giovanni was … what? To speak of individual buio was as absurd as speaking of the drops of water that made a river. Her lover had betrayed his country, sacrificed his name and, finally, his body. Even if the Handmaid’s lot was ultimately grief, she owed him. And so she had said yes, and only months later had she realised to what she had consented. She had not sacrificed her life but her child’s. No wonder she couldn’t sleep. She was as bad as Catrina.

  Suddenly she tensed, guilty ruminations forgotten. Abdel had said she’d left the window open, but she distinctly remembered closing it. Something had woken her. Slowly she turned. The shadow standing by the window was no buio. She reached under her pillow.

  ‘Looking for this?’

  The knife was illuminated in the moonlight.

  ‘Fulk?’ Sofia whispered to the chill night, balling her fists in anticipation. The queen had finally condemned her to die. Of course she would send her son to do it.

  ‘Relax. If I’d come for that you’d never have awakened. I’m here to get you out. Morning will find Levi and Baron Masoir with Sicarii daggers through the chest.’

  Sofia leaped up. ‘I have to warn Levi—’

  ‘Relax. Levi’s the one who told me. Khoril told him after they got the Moor’s ensign drunk. Arik is helping him now.’

  ‘You expect me to believe the queen didn’t share her plans with her loyal Grand Master?’

  ‘Believe what you like – you know your child’s doomed if you give birth within these walls. Arik said you know the Ebionite Quarter well now. Pay who you must to escape Akka – find a ship, or a caravan bound for Byzant.’ Fulk threw a veil towards her. ‘Change now, quickly. Basilius will soon be here.’