by Aidan Harte
‘Yes, yes, the same Regalian Rights that every vaunting would-be conqueror from the north has ever demanded.’ The duke felt wrong-footed: he’d come expecting a generous bribe in exchange for neutrality and safe passage through his lands, but instead this pup was expecting him to lick his feet in front of his countrymen. ‘Sophistry will not avail you, boy. I patronise enough court-philosophers to know one can disguise anything as Reason.’
‘Then it is not Reason,’ said Leto with cold fury. ‘What if our ancestors had been this obstinate? Had they not banded together in federation, every Etruscan city would have fallen one by one to the ravenous Romans. We must follow their examples and see beyond our petty differences. I offer more than an olive branch: I offer membership of the greatest league since the Etruscan Empire. The First Apprentice has begun to rebuild the Molè. He wishes it to be a monument for all Etrurians, a symbol of the titanic works we can achieve when we forget ourselves and think and act as a corporate body.’
‘A gilded chain is still a chain.’
Leto realised that Reason was wasted on this one. ‘Have you ever studied a peacock closely, Grimani? Its feet are mired in caked shit that mocks the display in which it prides.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘That the worst fools are those who think themselves wise. You are right about one thing at least: words are the wrong tools to convince the likes of you.’
The duke signalled to his bodyguard that the meeting was over. ‘You’ll find us ready, Spinther.’
As the dust of the duke’s horses engulfed them, Leto said to the man standing behind him, ‘What do you think, Scaevola?’
‘He must think he has a chance.’
Leto suppressed a smile. ‘Has Rasenna discouraged even you?’
‘Perish the thought, General. It’s only that our engines will be delayed.’
A quartermaster should be cautious, but Scaevola was cursed with such ill luck that risk-avoidance had become his religion. His first error was to be born minor nobility, his family lands far from the capital, where the Concordian contato met the coast. His parents were too reactionary to let an obviously intelligent child train as an engineer, and too poor to send him to a Rasenneisi bandieratori studio, and as a result he entered the army with no advantages – a handicap which spurred him to hard work.
His appearance was no help: his great flapping ears were the most insistent crimson, and his large nose lumpen, and while a smile might have made these features endearing, his cracked lips were perpetually frowning over his sums. This unhappy combination might have attracted the mockery of the young engineers who surrounded Leto, but in truth, Scaevola’s foolish appearance had been Fortune’s one favour: no one had ever taken him seriously enough to want him assassinated. Over a long career of dogged service he had earned steady promotions, but in such crawling increments that no one ever really noticed, until, to the wonder of all, he had attained a rank of which any man could be proud – though how galling to be grey-haired amongst boys and adolescents. He was condescended to by the engineers, distrusted by the nobles and flat-out despised by the foot soldiers, who would have preferred daily scourging to the tyranny of his fastidious parsimony.
Many officers had used Scaevola to aid their own rise within the ranks, but the first man to truly see his qualities was Leto. The First Apprentice’s last friend had become suspicious of Wunder-kinder – he knew better than anyone the ruin left in the wake of their wild leaps and intricate schemes. Away from Concord, things were simpler. There was no art to War. It was butchery, pure and simple. Brilliant stratagems rarely won the day; most of the time it was simply a matter of grit, drudge and application, of showing up on the right day, of making sure the horses were shod, that the men were fed and marching in the right direction.
Attention to such routine matters was Scaevola’s gift. The other reason Leto trusted him was that he was universally reviled – the stiletto of an ambitious subordinate was ever an occupational hazard for a Concordian general, but if Leto were ever assassinated, the quartermaster would lose everything: his rank, his fortune and probably his life.
Scaevola did not see it in these stark terms. He had always won promotion by default, but being shown actual favour had changed his life. His fellow officers, perhaps a little jealous, might mock his hound-like fidelity, but he loved his general as a freed bondsman loved his liberator.
‘If they use that time to shore up their walls, gather provisions, well …’ He looked at his master with concern. ‘General, you know I do not voice doubts idly. My loyalty obliges me to attend to the facts, however unpleasant, however bothersome. Veii’s natural defences are such that even an incompetent resistance would delay us. What if Grimani does all he’s threatened?’
His hero didn’t disappoint. ‘Then we’ll make him pay for it.’
*
The night after the Grand Legion passed through Rasenna, the pontoon was cut from its moorings. No one attempted any replacement, so the only way north was once again via the Midnight Road.
Geta’s soldiers crossed in force. Their mission was to move the orphans south, ‘for their protection’, and they came armed with kindling and oil. They found the baptistery empty.
No announcement was made but all knew that the war had entered a new, more brutal phase.
Geta entered the bedchamber where Maddalena was confined with the morning sickness that had long outstayed its welcome. ‘How are you feeling, amore?’
‘Duped,’ she said grumpily. ‘I thought it was called morning sickness because it didn’t last beyond noon.’ She had chased away her servants hours ago and was surprised to find herself genuinely happy to see him. ‘Good day at work, Husband?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ said Geta, uncorking a bottle and pouring two glasses.
‘Actually, knowing whether victory is imminent or if my tower is about to collapse is of immense concern to me,’ Maddalena said snippily. ‘Whatever goes on in the world outside our bedchamber, we promised never to lie to each other.’
‘I said that?’ He raised his eyebrows as she glowered at him, then gave in.‘Well, I’m not hiding anything, amore, I promise you that. It’s just that my mother taught me to be silent when there’s nothing to boast of. We discovered three new holes today.’
‘That many!’ She sat up abruptly. ‘What did you do?’
‘I must give Vanzetti his due: he knows how to set a trap. The dogs I sent down weren’t smart enough to spot them.’
‘What about your men?’
He sniffed. ‘They’re not much better. The first chap actually volunteered – he was a real bruiser, more muscles than brain, but he wasn’t gone more than a minute before he came racing back out, screaming at the top of his voice. Couldn’t really blame him, as he was followed by a stampede of braccia-long sewer rats.’
‘Charming.’
‘Well, I can see the funny side of it now,’ he admitted, ‘but it wasn’t an ideal start to the day. No more volunteers were forthcoming, so I set a fire in the entrance and blocked it off with heavy rocks.’
‘Why don’t you do that every time? There can’t be much air down there.’
‘It stinks like a Lazar barracks, but Vanzetti’s obviously taken precautions against suffocation.’
‘Well, we’ve always known he’s not stupid.’ Pointing out the obvious always cheered her up.
‘The second tunnel we found is a good example of the bastard’s ingenuity: the first man down failed to come up, so I sent another – and then Giorgio reappeared; claimed he’d seen no one else down there, and said that the tunnel sloped downwards until it ended in water. Not that I believed him, of course – they’ll say anything to stop me keep sending them down – but in the end I went myself.’
‘Well, that accounts for the smell.’ Maddalena wrinkled her nose at him and he raised his glass to her. ‘But what if something had happened? What would happen to me?’
‘Don’t worry, amore – I don’t make a habit o
f leading from the front, I promise you. It’s just so damn frustrating. Well, Giorgio was right, there was a pool – but no sight of the missing Marco, the first chap, so I held my breath and dived in. The tunnel went down a bit more, then it rose upwards again. I found a set of legs blocking the way up and managed to pull Marco free – nearly suffocated myself, mind, but I got him out in the end.’ He sighed. ‘Might as well have saved myself the effort. I dragged him back to the other side where I’d left my lamp and as soon as I got him out of the water I could see the poor sod’d been garrotted as soon he stuck his head out.’
Maddalena’s eyes were wide. ‘So what did you do?’
‘What could I do? Nothing to do but blow up the tunnel-mouth. That took a fair bit of powder …’
‘What about the third?’ Maddalena was stroking his arm now, transfixed. She’d been bored silly all day and even if her gallant knight was being shown up by Pedro Vanzetti’s superior planning, it was diverting to hear about. There was also a part of her – she was still Rasenneisi, after all – that cheered for every strip Uggeri’s men tore from the foreigners’ flag.
‘The third was this long, sheer drop. You remember Bastiano? The one who looks like a choirboy until he opens his foul little mouth? We lowered him down on a rope and when he shouted up that there was a second hole I ordered him to investigate.’ He sighed. ‘Of course I did. What else could I have done?”
‘And?’ she said impatiently, prodding him in the arm.
‘We dragged him up screaming: he’d been stabbed in the crotch with a broken flag-stick. Guess he’ll not have to worry about losing that lovely singing voice, eh? Anyway, that was it for me: I decided I’d rather be drinking with my lovely wife – then, to cap off a perfect day, we got into a running battle through Tartarus on the way home and lost another man somewhere in the ruins. All we found for our troubles was a boy with a sling, he couldn’t have been more than six. So we stuck him on a stick for the birds to dine upon and crossed the Midnight Road whistling jauntily. Cin Cin!’ He took a long drink and belched heartily. He smiled down at her. ‘You know you’re right. It is good to share.’
Maddalena wasn’t amused. ‘You can’t give up the north.’
‘If they want that wasteland, let them have it. I’m a soldier, not a pest exterminator.’
‘This is Rasenna. If you show weakness, they’ll overrun us.’
He yawned. ‘Tranquillo, amore. You’re quite safe. I may not be able to get at them, but it works both ways. I’ve spent enough time in trenches to know that time’s on our side. There’re no laurels down there, just foot-rot and the flux. Vanzetti is holding Uggeri Galati back – he wants a glorious death—’
‘—and my head on a stick—’
‘Exactly, my little dove, and a lovely head it is too. So all we have to do is to sit tight, all nice and dry and fed on the high ground, and wait for the rat to come out of his hole.’
Maddalena was about to say that sounded awfully like being used as bait, but Geta had lifted his feet onto the bed and was already snoring.
CHAPTER 13
Sofia spent the next few nights anticipating an ambush that never came. She wondered whether Yūsuf was resigned to her presence, or if he simply could not persuade his men to abandon the concept of tribal hospitality. The old man, Bakhbukh, his chief counsellor, saw that she was fed, but otherwise she was left alone on her perch and treated like a bad-tempered animal that had decided to nest in their cave.
The children were more generous, following Jabari’s example. They were all orphans, and they quickly recognised a fellow reject. The tribespeople were called lizard-eaters for good reason: their favourite delicacy was the little gecko they called dhaab, which they roasted in its scaly skin. The child who caught it got the head, but they would give her the tiny liver and sweetbreads and the end of the tail, to make her milk rich for Iscanno. Lizards aside, Yūsuf’s operation was familiar to Sofia, for she’d been part of a condottieri band herself. Lacking the blood-ties that united normal tribes of the Sands, he relied on the promise of plunder to keep his men together, though competition for the few spice caravans that still risked the Sands was fierce as southern tribes like the Napthtali made their presence felt.
The cell she had happened upon was the hub, but there were more Sicarii units scattered in the hills of the badlands, for they were seen as enemies of the land and could not concentrate their forces. Yūsuf preferred the security of seclusion; he would occasionally allow Bakhbukh to travel between them, but more often he would force his deputies to come to him. Unlike the other tribes, who found safety and growth in their webs of marriage alliances, the Sicarii remained friendless, and were so used to betrayal that suspicion had become habitual. Like the Lazars, they had put themselves beyond normal society, living among the bones of the dead and the scavenging dogs as they did. Some tribes believed the Sicarii had made themselves traif, an unclean people to be shunned.
In the absence of booty, Yūsuf tried to inspire with promises of future greatness, insisting that they were the vanguard of a new Radinate – but no one attended to his hectoring. It was plain that his words were nothing more than an attempt to justify his thievery. His fighting skill was unquestioned, but technique was less prized than being lucky, and lucky was one thing, the Sicarii had decided in the secret councils of their minds, that Yūsuf was not. His hold might have been strong once, but it was slipping now, still, Sofia saw no challengers rising. It was a poor crown if no one was attempting to steal it.
After his nightly harangue, Yūsuf would stalk off, leaving his angry, demoralised crew in peace to sit around the fire listening to Bakhbukh’s stories of Judas Maccabee and the first Sicarii. Bakhbukh had aching joints and haunted eyes, but when he told his tales, all weariness left him and his whole being was possessed by whatever hero he was singing about. The evening was never complete without his songs of the Golden Age and the marvellous deeds of meliks like Aaron al Rashid.
This night was different.
Yūsuf’s theme was the Naphtali’s incursion. Their presence was creating tensions, and not just with the Sicarii. Mik la Nan had invited Yūsuf to meet to discuss boundaries, and he was keen to go.
‘We might even make an alliance – we could take back our wells from the Benjaminites and our pastures from the Zebulun.’
‘I say again: this is foolish,’ Bakhbukh grumbled.
‘What else can you say, old man? Can you challenge me to my face or only whisper? I cannot defeat a witch, but I can defeat a base-born slave like you.’
When Yūsuf was done blustering, Bakhbukh asked pointedly, ‘Why does he wish to meet alone?’
‘How should I know? Perhaps he’s surrounded by meddling old fools who think they know better than their nasi.’
‘Why you?’ Sofia interrupted from her perch. ‘That’s the question you should be asking, Yūsuf. The Sicarii are weak.’
Before Yūsuf could complain that only those within the circle were allowed to speak, Bakhbukh said, ‘Mik la Nan says that every other tribe has made an accommodation with the foreigners.’
‘The Napthtali are as foreign to me as the franj,’ said one of the circle haughtily.
‘We’re Ebionites. That’s all that matters,’ snapped Yūsuf. ‘And this is none of her concern!’
But Bakhbukh was intrigued. ‘What does the Contessa say?’
‘I say that sons inherit their father’s weaknesses as well as their strengths. Yūsuf ben Uriah is making the same mistake that Uriah ben Sinan made.’
‘What do you know of my father?’ Yūsuf said indignantly.
‘What all the Sands knows. That he was a brave warrior, but foolhardy to sit unarmed with an enemy who could only benefit from his death.’
‘He was betrayed by a bitch with no honour! I will not hear him called a fool—’
‘The world is wicked. He should have expected it.’
Yūsuf threw a cutting glance at Bakhbukh. ‘Perhaps he was badly advised.’
&n
bsp; ‘That same bitch,’ Sofia continued, ‘has welcomed Mik la Nan into her domain, on the condition that he brings her your head.’
‘What concern of yours is my head? I have given you a roof under which to suckle your whelp, more than many would these days—’
‘—so much the worse for the cause of Ebionite hospitality. I don’t care a fig for your head; the only head I care about is my son’s. His safety is bound up with the Sicarii, and so long as they are led by one who will not listen to wise counsel, he is in peril.’
Yūsuf stood with dignity. ‘I sit here to dispense justice and to listen to my peers. I have heard what my men have had to say. Now I will take counsel with God.’ He strode out, and took the tension with him. No one objected when Sofia climbed down and joined the circle.
‘You mustn’t be offended by Yūsuf,’ said Bakhbukh. ‘He is capable of many things – but sustained thought is not amongst them.’
‘He’s not scared of Mik la Nan.’
‘He ought to be.’ Bakhbukh held his hands close to the fire. ‘The first time I heard of Mik la Nan, he was still young, nasi of nothing much but his family tent. One of his camels went missing.’
Sofia was not the only person listening intently.
‘Now, Napthtali camels do not go missing. They are stolen – and in that case, the proper way of it was to make a formal protest at the next tribal assembly and, if judgement went his way, he would be compensated.’
‘Was he?’
‘Mik la Nan made his own judgement. He rode through the valleys to the left and right of his lands and crippled his neighbours’ herds: three-score camels good for nothing but the cooking pot next morning. The Cat, as he became known soon after, neither knew nor cared which family was guilty. There are no secrets in the Sands and no deed is done without consultation. In his eyes, the family who had the family who had sat by and done nothing while his property was stolen was as guilty as the family who had stolen it. His message was twofold: that you must make war on the Cat’s enemies or be counted as one yourself. The second message, which the Napthtali later made known throughout the Empty Quarter, was that any slight would be paid back tenfold.’