by Aidan Harte
His bowels might be eloquent, but the consul himself was an indifferent speaker. His weapons of choice were bribery and threats, a combination that in his skilled hands had proved as persuasive as the most inspiring oratory. He was a backbench whisperer, one who represented the Old Guard, the conservatives who wanted a return to traditional Guild values – by which they meant the straightforward Empiricism of Bernoulli’s immediate successors. His opposition to Torbidda was muted in comparison to that of Consul Corvis, which was not unsurprising, as he had achieved prominence only after Corvis’ execution. Of course he would tread carefully, to avoid suffering the same fate.
Leto broke away from his prepared remarks to challenge him. ‘I answer to the First Apprentice, not you, Consul Fuscus, and he has complete confidence in my command.’
The consul replied through a mouthful of apple, ‘So you say, but it would be nice to hear it from him. It would be nice to hear anything from him – but alas, we are not worthy of his time. He spends his days in consultation with the Opera del Duomo.’
Consul Fuscus looked away from Leto and addressed the chamber. ‘I fear that in the First Apprentice’s absence we are reduced to interpreting his actions like soothsayers deciphering sheep-guts. Surely the fact that the First Apprentice allows this incompetent to keep the baton reveals his total indifference to the war effort—?’
Leto had never had much time for the Collegio, and he listened with increasing irritation to this annoying man playing to the crowd. This wasn’t about Veii. The animosity between the Fuscus and Spinther families spanned generations, but Leto had fired the feud with new blood when he’d killed the consul’s niece and nephew in the Guild Hall.
Then Malapert Omodeo jumped up to defend Leto, and that was the final insult. Leto was about to leave in disgust when a passing notary dropped his papers. As he bent to pick them up, he surreptitiously passed Leto a note.
After the assembly broke up, Leto went out to the Collegio balcony – and was met there with the broad expanse of Numitor Fuscus’ back. He was leaning over the balustrade, admiring the gargantuan green banner that hung below it over the impressive view of the empty Piazza dei Collegio and the broad canal that led to it, one of many that stretched from Monte Nero in every direction like the strands of a spider’s web.
He turned around and grinned at Leto. ‘You’re not used to the Collegio, General Spinther. We seem to take bites out of each other, but it’s all theatre, I promise you. You mustn’t take our rhetoric seriously. Apple?’
Leto caught it and took a bite. ‘I don’t take you seriously at all. You were of Consul Corvis’ party once. You would do well to remember his fate.’
‘Funny thing, you mentioning that. I have been meditating upon that very thing.’ He turned back and pointed. ‘There – you see that? That is the podium on which Corvis was flayed, at the orders of your one-time friend.’
‘Torbidda remains my friend, Consul.’
‘Such fidelity! You must be the most singular Cadet in the history of the Guild Halls. I do appreciate the risk I take in approaching you, but I believe your patriotism will outweigh your emotional attachments. Our families have long vied against each other, but I am willing to leave that in the past, for the sake of Concord. Don’t pretend you have no qualms about letting that rat Malapert Omodeo into the Collegio, and don’t pretend’– he gestured towards Monte Nero – ‘that you enjoyed the First Apprentice’s conversion either. This daily spectacle of children dying is as vulgar as a Miracle Play. Is this what our great Reformation has become? There’s only so much suffering people will bear.’
‘That is what you don’t understand, Consul: they’re glad to suffer. If you’re expecting rebellion, you’ll be disappointed.’
‘The last thing I want is a rebellion,’ said Fuscus hastily. ‘What we need is a revolution.’
Leto had little patience for the word-parsing of parliamentarians. ‘There’s a distinction?’
‘My dear boy, there is a world of a difference. Rebellion is a spasm, like vomiting. Revolution is born of Reason and calculation by men who have something to lose. The suffering people I refer to are our peers: it’s the powerful who challenge tyrants. The poor, having never tasted the fine wine of liberty, are content to quaff the weak beer of stability. Free a serf and he will take up his chains again within a generation. We who have known power, on the other hand, are inured to its glamour. We can act in unison, assured that all of us are inspired by a disinterested patriotism.’
Leto did not bother to conceal his scepticism, but he let the consul continue.
‘Your friend, to put it simply, is on the wrong side of history. After the Curia, the Apprentices were necessary transition figures – now they have outlived their use. That’s clear to all now that a lunatic has risen to the red.’
That was going too far. ‘You call it lunacy,’ said Leto, ‘but Torbidda was chosen as First Apprentice for reasons that are beyond you and me. His understanding is not given to the rest of us. Consider this, Consul: Bernoulli expanded the empire to limits we can barely protect today, and he did it with more than technology. He did it because Concord believed in him. Faith wins wars, and Torbidda knows that. His seduction of the fanciulli wasn’t just some gambit: look at the miracles they are working on a daily basis.’
‘Aye – and to what end?’ the consul said bitterly. ‘Your friend cares about this Sangrail to the exclusion of all else, even the war. When it is done, mark my words, he will set Concord on fire the better to light it up.’
‘You ask me to believe that it’s patriotism that animates you, but you forget I was made in the Guild Hall – I recognise the stink of ambition. Be careful, lest yours leads you to that podium.’ He tore up the note and threw it over the balcony. ‘I will not speak of this, but do not ask me again to betray my friend. Good day, Consul.’
*
Leto climbed Monte Nero, taking the same dusted path as the fanciulli. The stone stairway he had climbed on the day of his induction had been worn smooth by the daily passage of that army of zealots. Despite his promise of discretion, he considered as he climbed whether he should tell Torbidda of the consul’s plotting, but decided in the end to leave it – another round of purges would only weaken Concord, and this was a time when it needed all its strength.
The Grand Legion was vying against Veii, a nation sustained by bondsmen. He had little sympathy for the slaves, but the effeminacy it implied in their masters disgusted him – and it bothered him that Torbidda was intent on making Concord into such place – the fanciulli might be enslaved by fear of God rather than the whip, but a slave was a slave nonetheless.
The stink that assailed him when he reached the summit reminded him that architecture is no pure art but one where the gross and sublime lie together: the foundations had been plastered with dung and urine to keep the masonry moist and workable. Overhead, the tripod’s form was already clear: it was as if a great diseased insect of unknown origin had alighted on the mount and was waiting there to die. Scaffolding erupted out of the bricks like wildflowers on a mountaintop; workers in that great crown of thorns did not have to be admonished not to look down.
The First Apprentice, standing at the very centre of the mount, spotted him and waved Leto on. After his moment of weakness, he was eager to flaunt his control to the captured soul within him. ‘Think, Leto, how terrible it will be when this tower goes unpunished. No censuring thunderbolt, no purging flood, just … silence. The ego of the race will not bear it. Is it not marvellous?’
The Angel of Reason had been dismembered and rendered down. The stone base had been split into great fragments, and the motto was now illegible.
‘Marvellous …’
‘I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s irking you.’
‘It is marvellous, Torbidda – but can’t it wait? We have finite resources. Would we not be better delaying construction to concentrate on the war? Once we win, there will be time—’
‘Time
is short! Winter is almost upon us and yet still Veii remains uncracked.’
‘I’m pushing as hard as I can,’ said Leto unhappily, tired of repeating himself.
‘Perhaps you’ve been pushing in the wrong direction. I want you to go to Ariminum and tell the Moor that it’s time for him to pick a side.’
It was a moment before Leto realised what he meant. ‘What if he decides to stick with Catrina? He’s in a good spot.’
‘You saw the relish with which he strangled the procurator.’
‘What of it?’ said Leto coolly. He was beginning to to dislike both Torbidda’s new didacticism and his un-Torbidda-like loquacity.
‘For some men, pride is a stronger spur than greed. As long as the Moor holds Ariminum in Catrina’s name he knows he’s a slave, even if the leash is very long. Tell him we’ll recognise him as doge if he’ll allow us the use of the Ariminumese fleet.’
‘You’re right.’ Leto was already savouring the moment. ‘It’s just what’s needed to break the deadlock at Veii—’
‘No – you’re going to Akka. Queen Catrina has decided to keep the Scaligeri girl. The fleet’s presence in her harbour will change her mind. And if it doesn’t, you’ll just have to use other means.’
‘I do understand the propaganda value of bringing the Scaligeri line to an end, but just to be clear, Torbidda: you’re talking about starting another war.’
‘War must come to Oltremare,’ he said serenely.
‘Of course I agree, but must it come immediately? Akka’s not the power it was, but I know from personal experience that Byzant is as terrible as it ever was. Opening a second front right now would be imprudent, to put it mildly—’
‘You can take Akka before the Byzantines can reinforce it. Fortune is won by the bold, is it not?’
This was uncomfortably close to Geta’s prescription, and Leto said angrily, ‘What’s lost by first using the fleet against Veii?’
‘Time, Leto, time! You measure in seasons, but my scale is wider. This moment has been coming for centuries, so should I miss it just so I can knock down walls that must surely fall a few days later?’
Leto looked at him, bemused. ‘Torbidda, I don’t understand what the greatest power in Etruria can possibly have to fear from one girl?’
Torbidda stared at him then, a quart of pity, a pint of contempt in his look. ‘Next to her, our power is wind-borne dust. Next to her, all this is nothing. She is the edge of history and behind her is a wave that can overcome us, if we let her set foot on Etruria again.’
Leto put a steadying hand on Torbidda’s shoulder. ‘I think you’re worrying about nothing. Most likely she’s dead in the Oltremarine desert.’
‘If she was dead, I’d know it!’
‘How?’
‘The way I know it’s night or day.’ Torbidda pushed his hand away. ‘Ack! I might as well describe red to a blind man. Being First means I don’t have to explain. Ever. Find her, Leto – because I say find her.’
‘I’m not an Apprentice,’ Leto said coldly, ‘and I never sought that honour. I know you’re privy to secrets I am not, but surely it is common sense—’
‘I’ve heard enough! Do as I say, or I’ll find someone else who will follow my orders! You have presumed on our friendship for too long. I need soldiers willing to take risks – and for all his faults, Lord Geta knows when that’s necessary. You see that mob down there? They’re carrying stones of such weight that their bones are deforming. It is not Reason that makes men toil till their bodies collapse! When Varro made us dissect the human heart he never told us of the power of dreams. I’ve shown them my dream, and I’ve let them share it. I’m asking you now to dream a little too.’
Leto straightened his uniform and tried to maintain his composure. He had always been instinctively wary of this kind of Naturalist nonsense, but to hear it spouting from Torbidda’s mouth was shocking. The exhausted young bodies scattered dead and dying across Monte Nero’s cold, sharp stones were like a parody of the Guild Hall’s annual cull, hardly any cause for celebration.
Torbidda’s new talkativeness disturbed him too: he’d never been one to chatter or share. Other Cadets and Consuls bragged and joked, told stories, related plans – but Torbidda was silent. He listened and pondered, and when the time came to act, he knew the right course; that was how he’d navigated the crises of his youth with the world against him and come out on top.
‘Besides, Veii can be made to surrender by other means,’ said Torbidda with his new smile. ‘Shall I tell you why Bernoulli’s legions were so successful? Fear. No town wanted to be another Rasenna or Gubbio. After we sent the Waves, the other towns got into line. Etruria’s memory is short. A fresh example is overdue.’
Leto had been growing more and more appalled at Torbidda’s plans, but this idea made him forget all his reservations. ‘Make it Rasenna!’ he exclaimed with sudden inspiration. ‘What better place to destroy than the city that destroyed the Twelfth?’
‘You’re really angry with Geta, aren’t you?’ Torbidda laughed. He turned his back. ‘You’ll need men if the Moor proves less than agreeable. Ready the reserves to go to Ariminum tomorrow.’
‘Is it safe to remove them from the capital?’
‘I have an army of maniacs at my command. I’ll survive.’
‘Where are you going?’ Leto asked, eager to get on now.
Without turning, Torbidda answered, ‘To the Wastes, of course. I must prepare Rasenna’s lesson.’
CHAPTER 25
When Pedro left Veii after organising its defences, they gave him a trumpet chorus, in recognition of his service. Even so, he doubted that Duke Grimani would welcome a group of Rasenneisi exiles into his already crowded city, which was no doubt already suffering privations due to the siege. But Doctor Ferruccio had promised a posse of butteri to escort them to Salerno, so he sent the rest of his party across the Albula.
Pedro was able to gain entry only because the siege was undergoing a lull while the Concordians were busy constructing a vast ramp up the rolling hills, a massive task that involved shifting thousands of tons of earth and stone. When it was done, they would be able to roll their siege-engines right up to the wall.
He expected to find the duke atop the walls, seeing that his men were ready for the coming storm, but a much-amused Captain of the Guard instead pointed Pedro to the stables. The duke’s long argus-eyed cloak stood out brilliantly amidst the dun straw and leather-garbed stablehands.
‘Maestro Vanzetti! About time you gave up on Rasenna. Good blood after bad, I say. Come, let me show my latest acquisition. Beautiful, ain’t she? Apullian – look at those legs! I tell you, I’m confident that victory’s in the bag.’
Pedro soon realised he was talking not about the siege but the Palio di Veii, the annual race in the horseshoe-shaped piazza at the heart of the city. Each borough had a jockey and mount to represent its honour.
The duke, noticing his expression, grinned. ‘My condolences, Maestro Vanzetti. I discern that you are one of those unfortunate youths who take life far too seriously. As you shall see, we implemented your advice – well, those parts we could afford. The layered blockade has done well: it’s sufficed to delay the Concord-ians, which is all that is necessary. They can’t prolong a siege into winter.’
Grimani’s complacent speech was punctuated by – and somewhat undercut by – the groaning parade of stretchers carried past the stables. But he ignored them, patted the skittish horses and told Pedro to take his time surveying the walls before turning away to consult with his jockey. Pedro saw with a sinking heart that Doctor Ferruccio had been completely right. Grimani was resisting only so he could cut a better deal. After a few weeks, he’d hammer out a pact with the Concordians and solemnly promise not to interfere while the Grand Legion continued south.
*
Later, when Pedro was shown into the Castello, he found Salvatore Bombelli and the duke in heated argument. Without a trace of embarrassment, Grimani broke away to enquire ab
out his review.
Pedro paused before speaking. Candour would not be appreciated, he guessed: it would either wound or anger this peacock, and neither would help. In the end, he said simply, ‘Satisfactory, on the whole.’
Grimani beamed. ‘I’m happy you are happy, for this is only the most recent occasion Rasenna and Veii have cooperated.’ The duke clapped Pedro on the back and said expansively, ‘Your late gonfaloniere was an excellent friend to Veii – a great customer of our alum – and a man who knew his place. I grieve for his sons, who have forgotten the base roots from which they sprang. But the young are loyal to profit only; their fidelity is as transient as the price of silver. They rush across the peninsula chasing deals, exchanging, changing. I will not go as far as the Curia and say it is sinful, but it is unnatural, this wringing coin from coin.’
Pedro had no idea how to respond – these barbs were clearly aimed at Salvatore, not him.
But the head of the Bombelli Family was not to be cowed by innuendo.
‘I understand completely, Duke Grimani,’ he said smoothly. ‘I am often obliged to deal with those I would rather not. If my company ever grows too onerous, you could stop borrowing my money – and of course, there’s always the option of paying your debts, or even the interest on it.’
Pedro feared Grimani was about to order Salvatore beheaded, but the tension was dispelled with a round of insincere laughter from all sides.
‘We dine at eight,’ the duke announced shortly, and left the chamber.
As before, Salvatore insisted that Pedro accompanied him to his quarters to prepare. ‘That profligate Costanzo has left behind quite a wardrobe,’ he said with a laugh.
‘So where is he?’
‘Oh, I sent him and Guido down to Salerno. It never hurts to spread one’s assets. I was going to go with them, but when I heard you were on the way I decided to hang back.’
Pedro waited a beat, then asked, ‘Have you any word of the Contessa, Salvatore?’
‘Indirectly. The Tarentines trade horses with Akka in exchange for spices. The traffic’s usually pretty constant, but in recent months, hardly any ships have come from Oltremare.’