Spira Mirabilis

by Aidan Harte

  Scaevola’s face was pale. His surcoat was splattered with blood.

  ‘Treachery!’ Leto had been so calm for the last hour that his sudden anger made the burghers jump.

  ‘Yes, General,’ Scaevola said, ‘but not Veian treachery.’

  Leto pulled him closer and demanded, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘An hour after you entered the city, the Moor and his crew landed in force and insisted on their right to prizes. They set about taking them, very roughly, I fear, and some of the hills resisted—’

  ‘And not one Concordian thought to stop them?’ His voice might have been quiet, but no one listening could have doubted the force of his anger.

  ‘Well, no— That is, Lord Geta said we should join in.’

  *

  From the steps of Castello Grimani they could see each of Veii’s hills glowing. One was entirely ablaze; others were dotted with fires that had yet to combine. The town bell chimed away to no particular rhythm – the bellringer was trapped by a fire on a lower storey. From the top floors of the palazzi around the piazza, jewels and cameos and silverware rained down on the marauding soldiers, and carved chests worth small fortunes were smashed for the baubles within.

  A horse with a burning tail sprinted round the piazza’s curve. The slain Veian soldiers, women and children who lined the piazza were an unappreciative audience. The horse’s auburn coat was slimy with sweat and foam gushed from its mouth. Its eyes were huge and rolling wildly as it crashed through the doors of the cathedral. In the apse stood a legionary with a leathern carafe in one hand and a baby, held by the ankles, in the other. His men were busy with the mother. He finished the wine, swung the infant against the cathedral’s thick pillars and went to join the sport.

  While the Concordians indulged themselves, the Moor’s men took a more focused approach – this, after all, was their business. They had already cordoned off one quarter of the piazza into two separate pens for slaves and horses.

  ‘You look ridiculous, Azizi.’

  ‘I bow to you, General, in military matters. Not in fashion.’ Around the Moor’s neck were rows of pearls and jewels and his shoulders were draped with a fur-lined cape, luxurious as a bishop’s. His fingers were laden with as many rings as fit.

  Before Leto could say more, the Moor cupped his ear. ‘Hark!’

  Leto was confused, but then he heard the silence as the fires reached the belfry and the ringer finally let go. Then came the bell’s death-cry: a repeated, discordant clanging as it plummeted through floor after floor, sending sparks out of the tower’s windows like cannon-shot. The bell struck the earth with a magnificent duhoonong!! and every Veian still alive to hear it knew that summer was over, that tomorrow the slaves working the Cagligarian mines would be their own children.

  It told Leto something else entirely: it was too late to salvage this mess – but perhaps it might be for the best. The Moor was still grieving the loss of his beautiful ensign and it was better that he vented his spleen on these wretches and satisfied his greed with these scraps.

  The real prize won this day was ownership of the Cagligarian Isles. Leto marched away, meditating more happily upon that, until he came upon something sprawled on the steps of the Castello that once again upset his tranquillity.

  ‘Geta—’

  ‘None other!’ The swordsman leaped to his feet and clicked his heels. He was drunk, and incredibly pleased with his prize: a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat with an ostrich feather that bounced along to his drunken swaying. He gestured at the Moor’s assembly line in disgust and declared, ‘That’s no way to enjoy a sack! Time enough for that in the morning. Drink?’ When Leto demurred, he wagged a finger. ‘I’m disappointed, young man. I thought we were making progress after our heart-to-heart.’

  ‘I blame the Moor no more than I would blame a wolf for savaging livestock, but you—‘ Leto was trying hard to rein in his fury; it would get him nowhere. ‘You are a Concordian officer.’

  ‘You expect me not to kick a fellow when he’s down? I’m only human, dear boy.’

  ‘Veii surrendered. Displaying leniency would have encouraged other towns to quit. We’ve just given them a reason to fight us to the death—’

  ‘Your trouble, Spinther, is that you want everyone to like you.’

  ‘Not everyone … I promise you this: when we go south, you’ll be the vanguard.’

  ‘Spare me your sanctimony. You meant to do to Veii over years what we did in a night.’

  ‘You’re a short-sighted fool, Geta – how are we supposed to winter in a ravaged town?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll find enough to get by, don’t you worry.’

  Leto noticed the town fathers had emerged from the chamber and were now huddled together on the steps. They were staring, speechless, at their ruined city, until at last their putative leader piped up, ‘General Spinther, this doesn’t change our agreement, does it? We’re still in charge … aren’t we?’

  ‘I take it,’ said Geta to Leto, ‘that these – hm – patriots are the new government? My good fellows, your names will be listed in the Annals and remembered for ever. I congratulate you.’ He bowed low, sweeping his hat from his head, and brushing Marsuppini with the ostrich feather. ‘May your rule usher in a new era of peace. Mind you, after tonight I daresay anything will be an improvement—’

  His voice faded away as an ominous creaking followed by a sharp report like the death-crack of a great tree heralded the final seconds of Veii’s great bell tower before it crashed into the piazza, demolishing the pirates’ pens and setting people and horses running madly for freedom. The Moor hurled oaths as his men chased after them.

  Geta threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘Serves them bloody well right!’ he bellowed.

  There was nothing else to do, so Leto joined him.

  Marsuppini cleared his throat awkwardly.

  ‘Hello,’ said Geta, ‘looks like the father of his country has something to tell us.’

  *

  The prisoner looked up as a key rattled in the lock. He heard Marsuppini speaking rapidly: ‘Our first act after overthrowing the tyrant, besides removing his head, was to release the victims of his oppression.’

  The prisoner groaned as his cell was flooded with early-morning light.

  Marsuppini continued, ‘That’s when we found the Rasenneisi banker. My colleagues were all for setting him free, but I thought it best to keep him here till—’

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Leto as they entered the dark, ill-smelling chamber. He took one look at the man in shackles with frank amazement, then shouted at Marsuppini, ‘Remove these shackles at once! Don’t you know who this is? Signore Bombelli, forgive me. Had I known Duke Grimani had imprisoned you, I would have doubled my efforts to unseat him. The scoundrel was obviously holding you in reserve as a bargaining chip. I see he treated you ill. If it’s any consolation, he will trouble you no longer.’

  Salvatore rubbed his wrists. ‘It is not, and apologies are unnecessary. War is no respecter of persons. Why should I be singled out?’ His tone was nonchalant, but he eyed Geta coldly.

  ‘Because you are singular, sir – I had some dealings with your brother Guido when I was stationed on the northern frontier, but the head of the Tower Bombelli is someone I would like to consider a friend. I speak not merely for myself, you understand, but for Concord.’

  ‘Do you now? Correct me then, but didn’t that base-looking fellow standing next to you declare himself head of the Bombelli Family? He bases his claim, if I am not mistaken, on his dishonourable association with my sister.’

  Geta bowed in acknowledgement. ‘Forgive me, dear brother-in-law, but for once you are misinformed. I wish we had met in happier circumstances, before such jealous whispers reached your ears. I am honoured to call myself a Bombelli – that much is true – but I do not dispute your authority.’ He fell solemnly to one knee. ‘Pray, not for my sake but for Maddalena’s, let us be reconciled.’

  Salvatore had been denied water for too
long. His spittle didn’t reach its target.

  Geta looked up, grinning. ‘Perhaps other considerations will sway you then. You’re known as a man with a talent for keeping track of things, a prudent judge of good and bad investments. I daresay that even buried in this cell you know the way the war’s going. Rasenna, Ariminum, now Veii – detect a pattern? The towers of Etruria are tumbling. Isn’t yours stronger for an infusion of Concordian blood?’

  ‘I’d sooner see it fall. Madonna, you have a nerve to ask that after murdering my father – don’t bother to deny it – and making a whore of my sister.’

  ‘Maddalena,’ said Geta proudly, ‘makes her own decisions.’

  ‘That she does. I judge by your smile that her latest crime has not yet reached your ears.’

  Leto glanced nervously at Geta.

  ‘I thought all Etruria knew,’ said Salvatore with satisfaction. ‘She’s made a cuckold of you – and her poor bastard child, whoever sired it, has paid the ultimate price for her sins.’

  ‘Enough of this!’ Leto grabbed Geta’s sword-hand and made him step back before turning back to the cell door. ‘Salvatore, you’re a businessman. I’m an Engineer. We both know that allowing emotion to infect calculation is foolish. While other bancos let themselves be tumbled by the winds of speculation, you have increased your family’s fortune by discipline and prudent diversification. Show that prudence now, and if that quick-boiling Rasenneisi blood impedes you, consider this: were you to suddenly lose your head, the Bombelli family would get a new one. Perhaps one that—’

  ‘Guido would not prove false – if he did, my brothers would no longer consider him Bombelli; he would be a stranger to us like Maddalena.’

  Geta whistled. ‘They are a stubborn breed, these Rasenneisi.’

  Leto sighed. ‘I’m sorry you take this attitude, truly sorry. Please excuse me. Come, Marsuppini. You don’t need to see this.’

  After the door closed, Geta wearily pulled out his sword. ‘Family get-togethers are such grief.’

  CHAPTER 46

  The Peoples of the Black Hand: A Bestiary

  Salernitan perversity is a product of circumstance. After the fall of the Etruscans, Salerno was ruled by a succession of tyrants,8 as were so many Etrurian states, but when Crusading fervour swept over Etruria, Salerno took a unique turn. They repudiated all kings and declared they would rule themselves. Many peoples have aspired to be free, but what makes the Salernitans unique is the commitment they have shown to that aspiration.

  Understanding that hitherto, every democracy had been rent first by faction and then overturned by oligarchy, they resolved to devise a way of life that would protect them from corruption. According to the histories, this Gordian knot was cut by the philosopher Fra Copho.9 He recognised the paradox at the heart of civilisation: that the city ennobles and corrupts men. His solution was as elegant as it was severe: every man of Salerno would henceforth spend the greater part of his life in self-imposed exile.

  To preserve the city, the menfolk are kept away from it. The Salernitans glory in this self-discipline. They claim the dichotomy between the civilised and the savage is an unhealthy illusion; they argue that just as each year has four seasons, so does a man.10 And just as each season has its humour, so it has its proper activity.11

  CHAPTER 47

  The busts of Grimani’s ancestors all wore fool’s caps and were painted up as courtesans and carnival clowns, part of Geta’s redecoration of the former duke’s throne room to turn it into a banquet hall. Leto had promised Castello Grimani to the city fathers, but might have omitted to tell them they would have to share it for the duration of the cold season.

  The Moor’s men were making extravagant bets on a spinning knife, winning and losing their new fortunes according to who ended up with the sharp end.

  Geta, thoroughly enjoying the hospitality of the ‘liberated’ Veians, concentrated on filling his belly. ‘Come on, Spinther. Eat before it gets cold. Don’t look so dour – you’re putting me off. I plan to fatten myself up this winter, starting tonight.’

  ‘Don’t you have a grieving wife somewhere?’

  ‘She’ll understand the sacrifices I have to make.’ He burped and reached for the nearest flagon of wine.

  The party was in mid-swing when a petrified herald announced the First Apprentice was at the gate.

  ‘Let him in, man!’ said Leto and, close to panic, tried to dismiss the revellers. He was pacing the hall while Geta and the Moor tried to keep the party going on either side of the table. All of them were trying to ignore the dread sitting in their bellies; the Moor hid it by drinking, while Geta continued wrestling slices off a roast pig sitting in a bed of salt.

  ‘What do you think he wants, Spinther?’ Geta asked through a mouthful.

  ‘To admonish me …’

  ‘Well, if you’re left with a head on your shoulders when he’s done, you can’t have done anything that bad.’

  ‘Disobeying orders now and again is good practise,’ said the Moor.

  ‘Then you three must be virtuosi by now.’ Torbidda’s crisp young voice echoed through the hall. ‘Gentlemen, I fear I have interrupted your revels.’

  He stood in the doorway as his praetorians filed by, taking up positions against the walls. Geta, fearing the worst, sprang to his feet and cried, ‘Welcome First Apprentice!’

  ‘Lord Geta! You left Concord in such a hurry that you forgot to say goodbye.’

  When Geta looked about for a window through which to hurl himself, the First Apprentice hastened to put him at ease. ‘My dear fellow, tranquillo. I look upon those events as in another lifetime. Whatever your sins, your subsequent actions have more than atoned for them. As Podesta and Gonfaloniere of Rasenna you did more damage than we ever could. The general is my dear friend, but he is too careful. He needs men who are not. It’s so important in life,’ Torbidda continued, ‘to do as rivers do and find one’s true course. Your vocation, Lord Geta, is destruction. Continue to practise it and we’ll continue to get along.’

  ‘Yes, First Apprentice,’ said Geta, thoroughly confused, sitting back down. This was not the dour, murderous boy he had fled from a year ago. As much as Spinther got on his nerves, he felt almost sorry for him as he watched the two old friends size each other up.

  ‘Leto, you’ve met Malapert Omodeo. I had to drag him away from his counting table to get him to come along. I always say that it’s good to see your money at work.’

  Leto nodded perfunctorily at the financier, who was accompanied by a slender young man with hair coiffed in the Byzantine fashion.

  ‘That is why I am here too. After I received your letter, I decided I had to hear you explain yourself in person.’ His polite smile vanished. ‘Well, get on with it.’

  Leto began a long account of what had happened at Ariminum, and why – after the disaster – he thought it vital to use the fleet to bring Veii to heel. The First Apprentice listened with growing irritation and finally silenced him with an imperious wave. ‘Let me get this clear: you do not know how Ariminum burned – you surmise, but the only certainty is that the Serenissima is ash. Yet you are bold enough to imply that it would not have happened had you known the prisoner’s condition. Believe what you like – I never confide with subordinates and I do not propose to start. I see it was pure luck that you escaped with part of the fleet – had I been of a conspiratorial bent, I might even think you burned Ariminum on purpose to give you an excuse to bring the fleet here. I see now that you always intended to disobey my orders.’

  ‘Torbidda, when conditions change, it is—’

  ‘I suppose you thought success would mollify me. Despite your mistakes and defiance, your resignation is refused. I need you yet. Our purpose was to terrify Etruria and now that Ariminum is burned, that is achieved.’

  He looked around the room, then asked, ‘What’s this about the Cagligarians being in revolt?’

  Leto had no time to wonder where Torbidda got his information. ‘As soon as Veii was s
ubdued, I dispatched a new governor to the colony—’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But the islanders were not content to exchange one master for another. It may have been an act of emulation – there have been rumours for months of civic unrest in the Sicilies – or perhaps it was merely simple opportunism. In any case, I was obliged to send reinforcements.’

  ‘That is unfortunate. They’ll be missed when you go south.’

  ‘Oh, I think they’ll have the situation under control before spring.’

  ‘While we’re getting the bad news out of the way,’ Geta interrupted, ignoring Leto’s glare, ‘Salvatore Bombelli revealed before he died – ah, trying to escape – that the Contessa is on her way back to Etruria. She’s not alone either. Somehow she’s recruited the Oltremarines. She has Akkan ships and Byzantine troops.’

  Torbidda turned to Leto with a look of vindication. ‘Now do you see, Leto, what comes of disobeying your Apprentice? The storm is coming here.’

  ‘The Contessa of Rasenna has no authority in the Black Hand,’ Leto pointed out. ‘How could she get the south to follow her?’

  ‘She’ll use the same charm that worked on the Oltremarines. They won’t “follow her” any more than the fanciulli “follow” me. We are each of us only the furthermost drop of two great waves rushing towards each other.’

  Leto made a face. ‘Well, that’s all very picturesque but it’s hardly reasonable to—’

  ‘—Reason,’ Torbidda interrupted. ‘You’re too old to still worship that idol. My predecessors justified their rule by claiming that they were ruled by Reason, yet they did nothing but squabble. How is it that Reason cannot agree? Is Reason divided? A thing is true or it is false, is it not? Consiglio, Signoria, the committee, bah! The wisdom of the collective is a game for lukewarm times and when war comes, games must end. We must be ready before they arrive. Now that we have Veii, we have central Etruria. When we take Salerno, we will have the Black Hand. They can take to the hills, but we’ll have every city of consequence and the Contessa will find a cold welcome.’