by Aidan Harte
There was a muffled explosion as the vacuum collapsed. Ezra was momentarily fazed, and Norcino struck a fraction of a second before he recovered, sending him flying towards the fatal wall.
The impact as he first struck the ground knocked the breath out of him and he rolled over and over until his left hand flopped over the threshold. The sand stripped skin, then bone, before he could pull out his wrist and stumble to his feet. The wound was instantly cauterised by the heat, and pain is something immortals learn early to master.
Ezra had gathered his composure before Norcino landed.
Norcino fought with all a madman’s certainty, but his defence was weak. After several blows to his chest and midsection, he was smiling through reddened teeth.
Close to desperate, Ezra threw a huge right to shatter that grin – but Norcino slipped by Ezra’s lunge and caught him under his chin. He snared him in a vice-like embrace, his legs wrapped round Ezra’s waist, his hands resting on his face like a healer.
Ezra’s legs buckled as Norcino’s thumbs plunged into his eyes and he fell onto his back with the madman still on top, rhythmically pushing his thumbs in like a potter working clay, and all the time whispering: ‘I alone was true to the Ahura Mazda, the Light.’
Ezra wrested his stump free and smashed Norcino’s nose with it, and he rolled off with a groan.
As Ezra got to his feet, Norcino giggled. ‘I begin to understand: you seek to suffer in her stead.’ He bounced up, ready for more. ‘Alas, this is just a rehearsal. When I’m done with you, you know I’ll find her. I know every grain of every desert. I promise you, I will show her that grief is as boundless as God’s love.’
Babylon, Uruk, Tara and Mexico – all the lives Norcino had lived – they were dreams now. The Darkness had made him as deaf as he was blind. He’d simply keep going until Ezra was spent. In this contest, insanity was the deciding advantage.
Ezra whispered a prayer to every wind that owed him a favour and carried Norcino screaming across the threshold. The sand consumed them both in moments and scattered the dust of their bones amongst the exhausted things for which the world has no use.
The Handmaid, watching from afar, knew that her navigator had finally come aground. She opened the book and held it up to the Winds like a feast. The sheaves leaped for freedom and coiled in one long vortex of pages, spiralling on towards Jerusalem, to be consumed by its fire, as finally all things must be consumed.
CHAPTER 29
The old soldier had cause to be disappointed: the enchantment of Ariminumese looking-glasses famously made every brute fancy himself an Adonis and every whore, a Venus, but though he had never been particularly handsome, the veteran suddenly looked so wretched that even the younger soldier remarked upon it.
‘Tell the truth, sonny, I am a bit peaky.’ He shivered with rapture. ‘But this establishment cures all ills – Geta told us stories about it. The oldest in the Serenissima, he said. They’ve got girls from all over.’
‘I don’t think General Spinther brought us here to enjoy ourselves.’
‘Me neither, but he’s busy talking to the Moor, ain’t he?’
*
The captain wields absolute power at sea, a position to which even the most vaunting terrestrial tyrant does not aspire. But place that despot on Terra Firma and he is rendered impotent. And if the landlocked captain is sorry to behold, consider the still-more-pitiful condition of the landlocked admiral. After the Consilium gave the Moor command of the Golden Fleet, he was chagrined to realise that he could not indulge in even one of the thousand grudges that his pirate soul cherished for those proper Ariminumese captains who supposedly answered to him. What use is power, he asked himself, when one cannot abuse it? Such was his bitterness at the Consilium’s mendacity that he almost forgot he had come to Ariminum in the first place to dupe them.
Much had changed since the Moor became master of all Ariminum. With all checks removed, he swept like fire through the gilded circle. Those captains who displeased him were keel-hauled or hanged; a lucky few escaped with flogging. Though he had no notion of currying favour with the arsenalotti, the purge made him wildly popular. He capped it all by burning the Golden Book, and thereby won their loyalty for ever.
But – O! life’s endless surprises! – one can have a surfeit even of power. In winning Ariminum, the Moor discovered he had lost something crucial. Despite the ceaseless activity of the City of Bridges, he could not escape the feeling that he was mired in the doldrums. He would have been happier to sail away from it all, but since power once taken up cannot be safely left down, he sought other time-honoured remedies.
*
The brothel’s lower storeys were given over to an extensive array of bathhouses in the Byzantine manner. While his men enjoyed themselves with the staff upstairs, Leto was sitting uncomfortably in a steam-filled chamber beside a large copper bathtub. He discerned from the empty jugs and full glasses scattered around that the Moor’s early dalliance with the local wine had become something of an infatuation.
A bubble broke the surface of the warm, foam-covered water and Leto said, ‘We had a deal.’
A pair of black lips parted the surface. ‘Have I not kept my part?’
‘You were to persuade Queen Catrina to deliver the Contessa.’
‘I asked her, and while waiting for a response, I’ve been preparing the fleet and drilling the men.’
‘You’ve been raiding the southern coast.’ Leto sniffed in disgust. ‘It’s like an addiction with you.’
The Moor sat up suddenly, water streaming through his beard like Neptune. His righteous anger would have been more impressive if the foam tufts either side of his head did not make him resemble a carnival devil. ‘What’s a navy for if not to inspire terror? I think you’re being unfair. The more I harass the Black Hand, the less ready they’ll be for you.’ He lay back and rang a bell. The Moor’s ensign appeared, filled his glass, rolled up his trousers and sat on the edge of the bath with his feet in the water, then leaned over and started rubbing some very expensive-smelling perfumed oil into his master’s back, which he then proceeded to remove with long slow strokes of the strigil, all the while eyeing Leto like a feline mother.
‘I didn’t come to watch you wallow in excuses.’
‘You must learn to relax, General. Life is good! I believe I am being finally corrupted. The local wine is sweet, but nothing compared to the local talent. They play the most wonderful tricks. Come, let me find you an angel to make a man of you.’
‘I don’t want a whore.’
‘Excellent. This establishment offers only courtesans.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘A courtesan tells jokes – not good ones, of course. But it makes a fellow feel less pathetic if he can tell himself he’s paying for wit instead of a fuck. We’re all about customer satisfaction here.’
‘The only female I’m interested in is the Contessa.’
The Moor exchanged a look with his ensign and sank lower in his bathwater. ‘No word as yet.’
‘Don’t trifle with me. If your queen meant to deliver the child, she’s had ample chance.’
‘That’s true. Khoril’s been back and forth several times.’
‘What? You mean to say the Queen’s flagship was here?’
‘The Tancred sailed but a few days ago at the head of a convoy, all so heavily loaded with supplies that I feared for their safety. Acquiring Ariminum has obviously awakened Catrina’s maritime ambitions. She’s been buying up wood, hemp and steel. I don’t suppose you’re planning another advance into the Dalmatian March, because that’s where we get our timbers and cordage. Lately it’s all gone direct to Akka. It’s damned hard to build when there’s nothing to build with. And even if the Golden Fleet were at full capacity, I would struggle to find good men. My crew, once the terror of the Tyrrhenian, have ruined themselves. Some have even sold themselves into bondage.’ He glanced sadly at his ensign, then back at Leto. ‘Catrina also requested a loan of
some of my best arsenalotti. I could hardly refuse without alerting her to our – ah – understanding.’
‘You could have found a thousand reasons to delay,’ said Leto, trying hard to hold on to his temper.
‘Aye, and perhaps Khoril might have swallowed them, but she would discern my treachery immediately.’
‘Idiota! She’s already guessed it – she’s taking what she can while she can.’ Leto stood up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To salvage this mess.’
‘Surely it’ll wait till morning?’
Ignoring the Moor’s imprecations, Leto strode through the maze of narrow corridors. His personal guard were nowhere to be seen, but the moans and laughter from behind the lace curtains suggested they were busy. The smell of flesh, sweat and other excretions was nauseating. Damn them all. He wanted only two things: fresh air and reliable allies.
A young soldier emerged from a curtain fixing his belt and froze when he saw the young general approaching.
‘Sir!’
Leto ignored his salute, brushing past him.
‘Arrogant prick,’ muttered the soldier without conviction. He couldn’t be mad at anyone right now. He’d just conducted a most satisfactory transaction with a dusky brunette. She swore she was Ebionite, but she was probably from Taranto or some other Black Hand backwater. He didn’t mind; they didn’t talk much. He swaggered through the corridor and stopped outside the veteran’s room.
When he heard uproarious laughter inside he decided to leave them to it. The old man had picked a pair of giggling Russ twins. It was true: the charms of Ariminum cured all ills. As if to confirm the proverb, the hysteria inside grew louder.
*
While Leto’s men indulged themselves into the next day, the Moor had his ensign give the general a tour of the arsenal – that usually impressed visitors. The shipyard was the marvel of Etruria, but Leto saw only its inefficiencies. The arsenalotti’s ships relied on the weakness of men, the fragility of oars and the vagaries of wind. What miracles could be wrought with the power of steel and steam. He dismissed the fantasy; ambitious plans, like Torbidda’s wonderful self-forming pontoon, were bootless if they were unrealised when Mars called his disciples to their vocation. One always goes to war with the weapons at hand.
Everyone described Ariminum as changeless – yet this was surely a different city to the one that had hosted the League negotiations. He attributed it at first to the new management, but as the day went on, he detected a note of decay, a sickliness he had not noticed before.
He remarked upon this to the ensign, who said, ‘The lagoon we owe so much collects its annual tribute. Plague’s a trial to be endured like winter storms or heatwaves in June. Such is the seasonal demand that the undertakers have formed a guild.’ He pointed out their gondolas pushing through the mist: they had a distinctive green-burning light on their prow as they herded their coffins along the canals like loggers.
Leto had been pondering the change in Torbidda all day, both his mania about the Contessa, and what Consul Fuscus had intimated. He was motivated by power – that was obvious – but nonetheless, might the consul be right? Perhaps Concord had outgrown the Apprentices. Perhaps they could be shrugged off as easily as the Serenissima had shrugged off the doges.
*
The sun was setting but the running lights on the rigging of the lantern ships kept the harbour illuminated.
‘Admiral on deck,’ a voice piped.
‘Madonna! You look like you’ve only just got up.’
‘That’s because I have.’ The Moor had dragged himself out of bed when he’d heard that Leto was issuing orders to his arsenalotti. ‘Now see here, I did not give you permission to board my ships or— What exactly are you doing with them?’
‘Upgrades. We’re allies, remember?’ He stopped an engineer and ordered, ‘Install the siphons on the smaller ships. They’re more manoeuvrable.’
He turned back to the Moor, and patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll like what they’ll do. I’ve brought materiel enough for the whole fleet, but I count only twenty galleys.’ Leto waited for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he softly swore. ‘So not only did you let her take your supplies, you gave her ships to carry them? Did you ever consider that arming the enemy might be a bad strategy?’
‘Bah!’ the Moor said, ‘six ships. The arsenalotti can shit that many out a week!’
Before their argument could get properly started, it was interrupted by the Moor’s secretary tugging on his sleeve.
‘Admiral, I recommend the Courtesans’ Ward be quarantined.’
‘That would cripple our economy, you fool.’
‘Yes, but something’s – well, something strange is happening … everyone’s dancing.’
‘That’s hardly cause for concern,’ the Moor said fondly. ‘Those girls know their business.’
*
By the time the secretary managed to convince the Moor that this really was something they needed to see, the burning ward reflected in the lagoon like a rising sun. The bridges leading from it were dangerously thronged, for the crowds were desperate – not to escape the inferno, but to tell the world about the wonderful music. Happy pushing contests developed, and one bear-keeper spun like a dervish between the couples until he tumbled into the water. He was still dancing as he sank. His bear roared plaintively and wandered loose through the canal banks, dragging his chain and clawing with increasing irritation at the citizens who wanted to dance with him.
‘Saints protect us!’ the Moor exclaimed. The mariner’s horror of plague was deep-seated.
One of the bridges suddenly collapsed, and while the Moor stared, his secretary suddenly suggested, ‘We could destroy them all, Admiral – create a firebreak—’
‘No, it’s too late for quarantine.’ The newly arrived ensign’s face was blackened with soot, making him look like some ill-judged parody of his master.
‘You’re sure?’ said Leto.
‘Can’t you hear?’ he said with irritation. The din of disordered chiming was growing as ward by ward, the precise language of Ariminum’s bells was being rendered into babble.
‘We must do something,’ the secretary insisted.
‘My dear fellow,’ the Moor said, ‘do what you like – but first go and lower the harbour chain.’
‘And then?’
‘Follow me. Or stay and perish. As you like. I’m going for my ship.’
*
Foreigners of a romantic bent might have expected the arsenalotti to perish in the hallowed dockyards their forefathers had toiled in, but they had the same idea as their admiral. More than any, they knew there could be only one outcome when the inferno met that great store of tar, pitch and dry wood. They fled via rooftops and unknown alleys to the harbour and hoisted themselves along the ratlines to the nearest ships.
The admiral leaned over the stern of the San Barabaso as it bullied its way through the crowded water. Approximately half the ships had cast off – the navy in good order; the merchant barges chaotically. Those ships that had delayed were already overrun by the dancers.
The Moor looked on the city he had so briefly ruled with melancholy, mixed – he had to admit – with relief. He could track the infection’s rapid progress by the spreading blooms of fire. The looms of the Silk Quarter added more fuel.
When Leto joined him at the rail, the Moor said, ‘By the way, this sickness – it came from Concord?’
The general had been brooding on that very subject. ‘Yes …’
The Moor unsheathed his great curved sword calmly. ‘Too bad.’
Leto eyed him coldly for a moment before turning back to the flames. ‘You were never stupid, Azizi, so you must be still drunk. Why would we burn a city that had so much to offer us?’
Convinced by that simple reasoning, the Moor returned his sword. ‘This is the second time I have been dethroned. Evidently it is not God’s will that I be a king.’
Leto agreed,
and was about to say more when a cry came from the rigging: ‘Man overboard!’
The Moor looked over the bulwark. A red-faced man was paddling towards them, ecstatically panting. The Moor took hold of a long rigging-hook and let the wooden end drop onto the swimmer’s head. He sank silently, leaving a dark stain on the water. ‘Not one of ours,’ he explained.
‘No, but that is,’ said Leto.
‘Admiral, the Affondatore,’ a ship’s boy cried, ‘she’s – she’s coming for us!’
One of the lantern ships had turned and was bearing down on them. After the Moor had ordered evasive manoeuvres, he looked about for Leto and found him standing at the newly-installed siphon with a look of glee that would have been normal on the face of any other boy. Suddenly a great stream of green-bordered fire shot forth and brushed over the galleon with a touch soft as a swaying reed. Wherever it touched was washed with white dancing flames. Momentum kept the Affondatore going forward, and as it narrowly missed them they could see the crew, burned to skeletons, still dancing, even as their skin melted.
The Moor pulled a boy from the rigging. ‘Signal the merchant frigates: they can follow me, or I’ll assume they’re infected and give them like treatment. What is that marvellous fire, Spinther? It’s like the blazing sword that chased our unworthy ancestors from Eden.’
‘What an imagination you have. It’s just a blend of resin, quicklime, saltpetre and naphtha, a wicked oil that seeps from the ground where the Ebionite tribes roam. Torbidda discovered the recipe in the Molè’s archive before it burned.’
*
The Moor gave his ensign command of the other first-class lantern, the San Eco. Together with the San Barabaso, they glided into the Adriatic, trailed by a patchwork fleet.
‘Addio, my City of Bridges,’ he sighed.
‘When you’re done with romantic gestures, find out how many ships and men we have.’
‘I won’t kill you, Spinther,’ said the Moor through his teeth, ‘but don’t expect me to follow orders.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘You don’t think this’ – he nodded to the fast-dwindling flaming harbour – ‘changes our relationship rather? To attain the use of my fleet, the Apprentice offered me the corna. But look: the whore of the Adriatic is burnt to the waterline, may she rest in peace. How will you motivate me now?’