Spira Mirabilis

by Aidan Harte

  ‘Our legs don’t spread so easily, Signore Lot. I’ll open my gate when you convince me there’s no danger.’

  ‘But really, how can I guess its origin? We had not the time to pack, let alone time for investigation. Ariminum is accustomed to minor plagues – our too-social sailors bring them back in the holds of their ships – but this dancing fever—’

  ‘Dancing?’ Geta drew back, placing a protective hand on Maddalena’s stomach. ‘You’ve had visitors from Concord recently?’

  ‘Ariminum is the world’s bazaar. We consider it a disgrace to shut our gates to anyone …’ The long silence that followed failed to prick anyone’s conscience and at last the man admitted, ‘Yes, all right. I heard rumours that the Concordian boy general was meeting with the Moor. Look here, will you give us sanctuary or no?’

  Geta frowned.

  The increasingly desperate Ariminumese suddenly recognised the woman at the gonfaloniere’s side. ‘Signorina Bombelli?’ he exclaimed in relief. ‘I worked with your father—’

  ‘I remember,’ she said graciously. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Honestly? I’ve had better days. I beseech you, gracious lady, convince your husband to do his Marian duty.’

  ‘Alas, sir, my husband is a perfect tyrant. Perhaps I could sway him if you donated one of those heavy-looking coin-bags to the city.’

  ‘You grasping whore!’

  ‘Oh dear husband,’ Maddalena cried, ‘what did he call me?’

  ‘Block your ears, my delicate flower. Try another city, Signore Lot!’

  ‘Please – no! I’ll pay—’

  ‘Good,’ said Geta, trying hard not to lick his lips, ‘but I fear the price of admission has gone up. Two bags.’

  ‘To take advantage of us like this—’

  ‘Make that three. Murder these days, inflation.’

  Still grumbling, Lot untied three of his bags and lugged them to the gate. Maddalena descended to verify that the silver was genuine, then awkwardly covered the sentry with his crossbow as he hauled the bags inside and slammed the gate shut.

  After Maddalena had confirmed the silver’s worth, Geta shouted down to the expectant exiles, ‘Signore Lot! You may enter—’ As the family dismounted, he continued, ‘—in three days’ time. If you and your family haven’t turned to salt, Rasenna will welcome you.’

  The Ariminumese hurled bitter curses as the city’s first couple continued their promenade.

  ‘Was that a bit harsh?’ said Geta.

  ‘Would you rather be hospitable and perish? The Reverend Mother warned you keep the gates shut, did she not? You have to look after me and your son.’ After a pause, she asked ‘What do you think this plague is?’

  ‘Divine punishment for our sins. About time too.’

  She began walking faster. ‘You oughtn’t joke about such things.’

  ‘Amore, you should see your face!’ He pursued her, laughing, as a bell began to chime somewhere in the ruins north of the Irenicon. ‘Come, I’ll teach you how to fire a crossbow. Something tells me you might need to know before long.’

  CHAPTER 33

  Groans of despair filled the corridors of the palace – though the outcome of the Lazars’ raid was as yet unknown. This repentance was the rehearsal of Akka’s courtiers for the following day. Today – the Day of the Innocents – was for the Akkans a day of parades and marigolds, ablutions and confession extracted by flagellation. For their petrified servants, it was a day of cooking feasts, of nailing down furniture and burying silver and hiding knives. The final stage of Akka’s purge was the temporary expulsion of all the Sown, and as the Ebionites streamed out of the city, merchants’ caravans rolled in, eager to get home before the fun got under way.

  One of these dust-covered caravans belonged to the widow Melisende Ibelin. The Lazar escort had not been enough to prevent her drivers from quitting and so she had led it herself. She, her private guards and the escort were weary. She bid the Lazars thanks and good luck and took herself home to the Palazzo Masoir to board herself in before the coming storm.

  The twelve dusty knights did not report to the citadel but marched instead straight for the Haute Cour. No one in the jostling crowds noticed. With most of the Lazars off on the raid and without Fulk’s stern eye overseeing security, there was an air of improvisation and chaos to the day.

  Patriarch Chrysoberges tried to fill the void, but he was himself too giddy with anticipation to be much help, and he finally gave up all pretence of organisation at the sound of a desolate horn. He rushed to the eastern gate, ready to hail the returning heroes – where a whimper escaped him, for the sight before him was not that of a victorious army.

  Old Gustav, now acting head of the Lazars, was riding alongside Jorge’s chariot at the head of a much-reduced body of men. As Chrysoberges watched, Gustav saluted Jorge and then rode into the city to deliver his report to the queen. The surviving Lazars followed despondently, filing past the patriarch as he turned and made his way towards the Byzantine camp. He heard Jorge call for attention and joined the press of men gathered round his chariot. The mood was sour: the Byzants had escaped almost certain death thanks to Jorge’s stalwart leadership, but it was obvious to the soldiers that the Lazar Grand Master had meant to use them as bait. That Basilius had got himself killed instead was little consolation, and many thought that sacking Akka would be just repayment for the queen’s mendacity.

  Jorge was more measured, but he made no attempt to hide his bitterness. ‘When locusts have eaten all that grows, they needs must eat each other. I beg pardon for dragging you here. We have tarried too long while real enemies trouble our western borders. Rest, tend your wounds, feed your animals, and we shall depart this lazaretto and leave these locusts to their feast.’

  The soldiers bounded from thoughts of revenge to homecoming and lustily cheered this unexpected news, even as the patriarch threw himself in front of the prince.

  ‘You cannot go, you cannot,’ the patriarch begged him, ‘Please – our queen has great need of you.’

  ‘To throw more men on the pyre?’ Jorge responded. ‘I left them bawling for their mothers, sloshing about in each other’s blood and drowning innocent worms beneath the earth. I’ve paid my tithe, Priest.’

  ‘They will see the Kingdom of Heaven—’

  ‘And never again their wives, their children.’

  ‘This is betrayal!’ He leaped up and attempted to grab the reins of the chariot, but the prince promptly kicked him under the chin.

  ‘Your queen has taught me well!’

  The patriarch fell to the ground and wiped his bloody mouth. ‘Foolish boy. When you return to Byzant and find yourself surrounded by rivals and doubters, you’ll rue this day. What are you anyway? Nothing but a jockey made good. Without her sanction, your rule lacks any credibility—’

  ‘That is the trouble with you courtiers. You mistake the appearance of power with its substance. You may whisper and call me usurper behind my back, but what of it? I need no man’s permission to rule, nor any woman’s either. A true prince forges his own crown.’

  *

  The Lazar’s cape was torn and his white robes were dyed grey and brown by the filth of battle. His shield was little more than splinters held together by its frame. ‘Your Majesty,’ he croaked, falling to one knee.

  ‘Is that you, Gustav?’ the queen asked, looking around. ‘Where’s Basilius?’

  ‘Fallen,’ the old knight said simply.

  ‘Alas,’ she said perfunctorily, then, ‘I see you don’t have a basket with a head for me; did the Contessa escape, then?’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘she won.’

  The queen received the calamitous news calmly, with her usual proud bearing, but the gabbling courtiers fell into shocked silence as they struggled to take in this unforeseen reversal.

  Minutes passed, and then someone with more loyalty to the queen than truth began, ‘Perhaps if we—?’ but then fell silent.

  Someone else said, ‘We did ev
erything possible—’ and another agreed, nodding, ‘Everything.’

  Still the queen merely stared and said nothing, and Gustav got up awkwardly and bowed. ‘Majesty, dread of corruption will keep the tribes away from Akka for the duration of All Souls. I’ll see the defences are prepared for … afterwards.’

  As soon as he was gone, Catrina slid bonelessly from her throne and moaned, ‘I am alone after all. After all, I am alone.’

  As more messengers arrived and the scale of the rout became clear, the queen took to pacing and wringing her hands. She shouted abuse at her attendants, pausing occasionally to beat any of her slaves who came within reach, until finally she dismissed them all.

  *

  The Lazar novice had been stationed outside Fulk’s cell since Jorge’s unscheduled visit. It was dull work, and most of the time he slept. A particularly pleasant dream – in which he was liberating a grateful harem from a wicked nasi – was interrupted by the clatter of twelve knights entering the dungeon.

  ‘We’re here for the prisoner,’ said their captain in a gruff voice.

  ‘I had no notice of this,’ the novice began, ‘so I’ll need to confirm—’

  ‘Relax, lad,’ said Fulk. ‘I believe these loyal gentlemen are here in an unofficial capacity.’ He had suspected the queen would exploit the annual anarchy of the Day of the Dead to dispose of him in such a way that she could plausibly deny responsibility.

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ said the knight. The novice hit the bars so hard that he left a dent. Sofia removed her mask, gasping, ‘I don’t know how you breathe in those things!’ She took the unconscious novice’s key and opened the cell, then paused uncertainly.

  The handsome prisoner she did not recognise turned to her but remained sitting. ‘It’s me, Sofia.’

  ‘Fulk?’

  ‘Aye. Your boy has got some grip.’

  Sofia turned back to her colleagues, who could not know what was so marvellous, then back again, and in the same tones of wonder exclaimed, ‘But you’re whole!’

  ‘Yes: crime enough to land me in here.’

  ‘Well, you’re free now.’

  He didn’t move. ‘If you mean to betray Akka, best kill me now.’

  ‘I don’t want Akka. I only want her.’

  ‘And what of your men?’

  ‘We want peace,’ said Bakhbukh.

  ‘Forgive my incredulity, but you’ve been making war for the last year.’

  ‘You mother has led Akka to the brink of ruin,’ Sofia answered, ‘as you well know. A true prince preserves the kingdom for the next generation; she has promised Akka to the dead. Tonight they’re coming to claim their inheritance.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘After the masks go on, they won’t come off.’

  Fulk walked out of the cell, removed his glove and smashed the taunting mirror with his fist. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘We brought you a uniform. Keep the Lazars away from the palace – we’ll do the rest.’

  He looked at it, then kneeled beside the slumped guard. ‘If you want them to listen to me, I’ll need a mask too.’

  *

  While the Byzantines struck camp, Jorge reluctantly went to bid farewell to the queen. He found her in the Ancestor Room. He told his Exkoubitores to stand guard at the stairway to give them some privacy; he guessed Queen Catrina would not take rejection well.

  She was staring up at the mask of her grandfather, the infamous Tancred Guiscard. Beneath that cruel face hung the conqueror’s broadsword, one of the oversized blades that the first Crusaders had wielded to awe the Ebionites.

  It was not just the facial resemblance that brought Jorge up short: with her back bent and hair unkempt, Catrina looked old, haggard, and he could make out her whispering voice: ‘I will not sleep. They shall not find me in bed.’

  He cleared his throat and without looking at him she said, ‘Gustav told me what happened. I can’t imagine what prompted Basilius to stray from the plan.’ She turned away from the broad-sword.

  Jorge sighed inwardly but played along. ‘Who can say? The God of War is capricious. It doesn’t matter anyway; he paid for it.’ He glanced up at the fearsome mask above her.

  She caught his glance and explained, ‘In times of adversity past glories remind us for what we fight – but do you know what I’ve just now realised? My city is protected by dead men. Once the Lazars were the dashing vanguard of Akka’s army. Now they are the army. I did not notice because my enemies had been reduced to scattered bands of thieves I could play off against each other. Now a wind has risen and fused those fragments into an army to dwarf my own. What are our chances?’

  ‘The Ebionites strike hard and fast, then they break apart like waves. Such tactics will not help them take Akka. They’ll have to mass: a bold charge would break that wave – but it would be bloody work.’

  ‘A suicide mission? I know just the men for it.’

  ‘The Lazars fought courageously for you today, and they suffered grievously.’

  ‘Tears are wasted on the dead.’ She did not bother to hide her contempt. ‘The Lazars have sworn to protect Akka. In using them to break the Contessa’s army, I will help them keep their vow.’

  ‘Why not make peace – a temporary peace – and regroup?’

  ‘No, Akka’s day is done – but not the Guiscards. Our empire is greater than any city. Take me with you to Byzant and there we will reforge the fraying bonds of north and south. Think of it, Jorge: an end to this tiresome vying. You fear Concord. Oltremare can break that wave too, but only if it’s united. I speak of union and inheritance. You came here to find an ally and to be confirmed ruler of Byzant. Take me with you and you’ll return as Crown Prince of all Oltremare.’

  ‘Now and for ever,’ said Jorge hesitantly, ‘I am your loyal son but—’ He stopped short as her hand came to rest on the chain around his neck.

  ‘If I am to be your bride there must be a ring.’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  She ignored him, and yanked so hard that the chain snapped.

  ‘I said no!’ he shouted, and slapped her. She fell against the wall and he prised the ring from her fingers. ‘It’s time someone taught you what “no” means.’

  Before she could begin to weep, he turned his back on her, but a harsh metal clang made him spin around. She had taken Tancred’s sword down, but was unable to even lift it. Jorge was chilled by the murderous hate that distorted her face – if she had been a man, his head would be off – but bravado made him sneer. ‘It isn’t as easy as it looks, is it?’ he said mockingly. ‘You’ll have to do your own lifting from now on.’

  *

  The Order of Saint Lazarus had their own Haute Cour, in which even novices and journeymen had a voice. They gathered round the forge next to the citadel’s stables. Instead of a judge’s gavel, Gustav rapped the blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. He was supposed to choose the speakers, but no one was listening to him. The queen had yet to nominate a new Grand Master and in the absence of a leader, dispute held sway.

  Faction was common in Akkan politics – indeed, faction was practically its hallmark – but the Lazars had always been above that. Now they were divided. The knights all knew that Basilius had led them and their allies to disaster. The veterans knew it too, but that sin paled beside Fulk’s betrayal.

  Into this cacophony, like a spark on dry kindling, walked the disgraced figure many blamed for their current ill fortune. At once axes came out and the circle broke apart into two wings. The younger knights went to Fulk; the veterans clustered around Gustav.

  ‘Akka’s in mortal danger,’ Fulk said.

  ‘Stranger’ – Gustav rapped his anvil – ‘only Lazars are allowed to speak here. We are brothers sworn to each other. Who are you?’

  Fulk answered the challenge without rancour. ‘You know me, friend.’

  ‘Aye: you’re that pretended knight revealed a traitor!’ Gustav rushed at Fulk, and the entire chamber disintegrated into a mass of heavin
g bodies and echoed to the clash of steel wielded by men of matched skill and wills of deadly intent.

  Fulk turned his axe sideways to block Gustav’s downward sweep, but the handle came apart and he leaped back to avoid being sliced. He swung the broadside of his axe into Gustav’s mask, smashing it into two. The old man fell back and Fulk lifted his weapon to deliver the death blow – but the sight of the old man’s noseless, lipless face stopped him short.

  ‘Ah, that repulses you, does it?’ cried Gustav triumphantly. ‘Look, Brothers!’ he bellowed, ‘these scars are my bona fides. Let us see yours, Brother Fulk. Prove that you have suffered.’

  The fighting came to a sudden halt. ‘Brothers, listen,’ Fulk began, ‘this doesn’t matter. The queen has betrayed Akka—’

  ‘Why are you ashamed? Has the sorcery of that devil’s whelp worn off?’

  ‘Show us!’ another repeated, and another, and the cry was soon taken up, even by those Lazars who had fought with him.

  Fulk looked around. They were a brotherhood of pain and he was now an interloper. He slowly removed his mask. ‘You wish to see my face? Then see!’ He scooped up a handful of burning coals from the forge and plunged them into his face. The reek of cooking flesh filled the chamber.

  The circle drew back. When he removed his gloves, the glowing cinders were still eating away his flesh. His face was now indistinguishable from Gustav’s, and his voice was as ragged. ‘I promised my life and death to this Order. Who doubts me?’

  No one said a word. He fell to his knees beside the water trough and pushed his head under. The water hissed and bubbled.

  Gustav knelt beside him and pulled him out. ‘Welcome home, Grand Master.’

  *

  As chill dawn broke over the city the Lazars split up and went door to door. They had to work fast: they were angels of life as once they had been angels of death. They broke down doors and shouted warnings, that this year the guests meant to stay. Most of the citizens, horrified, ran to warn friends and family, but some, those who craved the freedom a mask conferred on this night, refused to believe the Lazars. Others did not care. These unfortunates had to be dragged from their Ancestor Rooms, but for many, the warning had come too late. Their flesh already belonged to the Dead – and the only remedy was the axe.