Spira Mirabilis

by Aidan Harte

  ‘It’s our sea. The only foothold on the Etrurian peninsula we seek is Ariminum.’

  Sofia was confused. ‘There is no Ariminum.’

  ‘Its harbour remains,’ said Costanzo.

  ‘We understand each other, Signore Bombelli. I will rebuild the City of Bridges – Cam’era, dov’era as the natives used to say – and run it as a client state.’

  ‘What of the Rhineland?’

  Jorge’s manner became colder. ‘We ought to finish this war before worrying about prizes – but let me say that those won by Byzantine arms alone concern Byzantines alone. Just as the peace Etruria devises is none of our concern.’

  Sofia noted how Jorge included Fulk in that ‘our’, and that Fulk did not object. Both apparently considered Akka a Byzantine dominion.

  ‘Whatever arrangement you make, ’ the prince continued, ‘I’m sure that some other state, a year or a few decades hence, will take Concord’s place. You’re fighting for liberty, a splendid cause. Ours is more prosaic but no less vital: security.’

  After that frank exchange, the captains waited in a tense silence as a single rider emerged from the wounded city. Pedro saw he was carrying the red flag that Rasenna had once united behind. Before the rider got close, it became clear he was having difficulty controlling his horse. It danced around in a circle, before bucking him off. The unseated rider had to scramble to avoid its hoofs. The captains exchanged a wry glance and trotted forward together.

  ‘Hail Liberators!’ cried Bocca as he slapped the dust from his arse.

  ‘I recognise that beast,’ said Pedro.

  ‘That truculent nag,’ said Bocca, picking up the flag, ‘belonged to the tyrant who usurped the rightful powers of the Signoria. Where you now sit, he and the boy general begged for succour but a few days ago. We gave them passage but made it clear they were not welcome.’

  ‘If another lie escapes that tongue of yours,’ said Pedro solemnly, ‘it’ll get the same treatment as Jacques the Hammer’s got. What really happened?’

  Bocca wiped his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘The part about it being Geta’s horse is true. He sold it to me just before he and the general had an altercation at my tavern.’

  ‘Why were they fighting?’ said Levi.

  ‘The general wishes to make peace. Geta – well, he knew what that meant.’ Bocca was not sure that his implication was understood and so illustrated with an elaborate mime of a man being hanged.

  ‘Go on, man,’ said Levi impatiently.

  ‘After he fled, the Concordians up and left too. The general told me to inform you that he was surrendering Rasenna as a mark of his good intentions. Which is what I am doing. Here. Now.’

  There was a long silence as they looked down on him. He lowered the flag. ‘On behalf of the Signoria, Contessa Scaligeri, I humbly beg amnesty.’

  Prince Jorge lacked a dog in this fight, but he waited to hear the Contessa’s response with curiosity.

  ‘You, who sat silently as Rasenna’s towers were burned,’ she said, ‘ask for lenience?’

  ‘What could we do, Contessa! We were prisoners of the Concordians, isn’t that so, Maestro Vanzetti?’

  Before Pedro could respond, Sofia said, ‘We’re not here to settle scores, Bocca. You’re pardoned.’

  ‘All but one,’ corrected Costanzo. ‘Maddalena Bombelli must answer for her crimes.’

  Bocca was drunk with relief. ‘Do what you like to her. It was only out of respect to your family, Signore Bombelli, that she wasn’t hanged with the rest of the whores.’

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ said Levi.

  ‘No, he’s quite right,’ said Costanzo. ‘The Signoria’s enormities were forced upon it by my sister and her Concordian lover.’

  ‘God’s beard, Costanzo, you forgave the Veians!’ said Pedro.

  ‘Marsuppini will be paying for his treachery for the rest of his life. He has no credit with Tower Bombelli.’

  ‘But you’ll still do business with him—’

  ‘Veii’s our chief source of alum.’

  ‘And Maddalena is your sister!’

  ‘That makes it worse!’

  Bocca stood before the liberators uncomfortably as they began to shout at each other. Sofia noticed the Byzantine’s embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, Prince Jorge.’

  ‘Unnecessary, Contessa. This is a family matter,’ he said, taking up his reins.

  ‘I mean, sorry for not trusting you.’

  ‘Scepticism’s healthy. There are no lifelong friendships in diplomacy. Today the Byzantines, the Akkans, the Salernitans and the Rasenneisi are pulling the same chariot. Tomorrow we may be pitted against each other.’ He tipped his head to Bocca. ‘This dog may be lying about General Spinther’s change of heart, but until we know for certain, we should press our advantage. I shall return to Ariminum and send my dromons into the Venetian gulf. I’ll take my men by the coast until we’re north of Concord, at which point we’ll double back.’

  ‘And we’ll be the other claw of that pincer. Until then, Prince, Godspeed.’

  He gave Fulk an expectant look before turning.

  Fulk touched Sofia’s shoulder, ‘Contessa, my place—’

  ‘—is at his side, yes. These fools will ever be suspicious of each other, but that is enough to give me assurance. At Concord then.’

  ‘At Concord.’

  *

  Carmella leaned over the font. The whispers had stopped, and left behind a question: what would it feel like to kiss water? She leaned closer, closer and—

  ‘Ahem.’

  She leaped back and bowed to hide her blushes. ‘Contessa Scaligeri, Maestro Vanzetti. Our prayers are answered. You have delivered Rasenna.’

  ‘We all played a part,’ Pedro said. It had been the right decision, but guilt at leaving Uggeri behind lingered. ‘We’re here to ask what we can do for you.’

  Carmella nervously confessed that she was afraid for the safety of the women who’d taken up with Concordians during the occupation.

  Sofia said that Levi had resumed the office of podesta. ‘Justice will be done by him, or not at all,’ she promised. ‘There’ll be no score settling, no purges.’

  ‘I see.’ Carmella was taken aback. She had pictured the Contessa as an angel of vengeance. ‘In that case, I’d like to introduce you to our newest novice.’

  Sofia followed her into the garden and to the chapel.

  Carmella cleared her throat nervously, ‘This is—’

  ‘The Contessa knows me well,’ said Maddalena without looking away from the Madonna in the stained-glass window.

  Sofia stared in amazement at the girl sitting in front of the table in the same cramped position she had spent so many hours.

  ‘I was haughty when she most needed sisterhood. I slandered her while playing the whore.’

  ‘The Contessa will surely forgive you,’ Carmella said, looking at Sofia with pleading eyes.

  Maddalena wept, ‘I do not deserve forgiveness!’

  After fighting so long to keep Iscanno alive, Sofia could take no satisfaction in a widow’s grief. She didn’t believe the self-serving account of the occupation that Bocca and his cronies had painted, nor did she imagine there was justice to be extracted from Uggeri’s sordid end – vendetta, that old ghost that haunted Rasenna’s towers could never be fully exorcised, but she would not feed it either.

  She came out of her reverie to see Pedro had joined them. He was staring at her expectantly.

  ‘We fought our battles, but what sisters do not quarrel now and then?’

  ‘Sisters!’ cried Maddalena in ecstasy.

  ‘Sisters,’ Sofia repeated, and bounced Iscanno in her arms so that he giggled. ‘Would you like to hold him?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Maddalena drew back in alarm. ‘You don’t understand, Contessa. I’m not safe.’

  Sofia had to force Iscanno into her trembling arms. She started weeping and laughing at once.

  ‘Now I require something from each of you. Carmella, will you bap
tise Iscanno?’

  Carmella concealed her anxiety well. ‘I would be honoured, Contessa.’

  Sofia thanked her and took a deep breath. ‘Maddalena, if your mother were alive I would have asked her to be Iscanno’s godmother. Will you to do me the honour in her stead?’

  Maddalena scarcely appeared to have heard; she was twirling Iscanno round the chapel, sweetly laughing together. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

  Pedro was proud of Sofia – and of Maddalena too, for all her sins. Knowing how deep the two young women’s enmity had run, he could not help being moved. He was caught unawares when Sofia asked, ‘Will you be godfather, Maestro?’

  ‘Of course he will!’ cried Maddalena with something of her old spirit, rushing over with the baby. ‘We shall outdo each other in showering Iscanno with gifts, won’t we? What saint-name are you giving him, Contessa?’

  Sofia didn’t have to think. ‘Giovanni.’

  *

  After the baptism of Iscanno Giovanni Scaligeri, Maddalena took her godson into the garden. Sofia and Carmella watched them from the baptistery.

  ‘We should go to the Signoria, Contessa,’ said Pedro.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sofia, with a sigh. ‘There’s much to discuss.’

  Neither said it outright, but they were both resolved to reconcile Costanzo with his sister. If he saw her pitiful condition, surely he would bend? The Bombelli family had been a rock for Rasenna first, then for the League. To heal that schism would complete their victory.

  ‘We’ll be back in an hour or two’ said Sofia glancing out into the enclosed garden where Maddalena was rolling in the grass with Iscanno in the dying evening’s light. ‘Could you—’

  ‘Go,’ said Carmella. ‘I’ll watch over them. Don’t worry. Here at least they’re safe.’

  *

  Costanzo had convened the new Signoria in Palazzo Bombelli, in the same capacious courtyard where Fabbro used to hold court, but now weeds pressed up between the tiles. The olive trees had overgrown their pots and the fountain in the centre was long-dry. There was no notary and no handing round of the mace; instead, Costanzo sat at his father’s banco behind the scales and fired questions as though they were employees and not parliamentary colleagues: ‘If General Spinther’s offer is genuine, why did he run off at our approach?’

  Pedro noticed that Fabbro’s old cronies had come out of the shadows to pay obeisance to the new head of the family.

  ‘He can’t very well make peace without possession of the capital,’ said Levi. ‘He’s probably afraid we’d hang him.’

  ‘I just want the First Apprentice hanged,’ said Sofia.

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said Costanzo airily, ‘but remember, Contessa, he’s just one boy. Someone would take his place in a moment. And we can’t very well let the Byzantines march to Concord’s gates and sit here waiting for an annunciator to tell us how they get on. We need to be part of it. We need to make sure Concord never threatens us again. We need to grind its walls to dust, burn the Guild Halls down and sow the foundations with salt.’

  *

  Iscanno sat in Maddalena’s lap, exhausted from their play. He was staring up at the window and its kaleidoscope of colours. His godmother was tired too. Her joy had become something else – she didn’t quite know what. All that she knew was that the surface tension of the water was captivating. So thin, that boundary between air and water, and yet what a difference. That’s how it was with boundaries. One step too far and the world dropped from under you. The Contessa’s baby was alive; hers was dead. Such trivial differences.

  The water coiled up the surface of the glass and then poured in a balloon-like form over the lip and onto the table. Iscanno’s eyes went wide with fear, but before he could cry out, her hand covered his mouth. The water left an oily trail across the table as it flowed gloopously into the garden.

  In the baptistery’s perennial twilight, Carmella grasped the rim of the font and glanced into the garden to confirm no one was watching. She slowly put her hand out and rested it on the surface, so gently that she barely caused a ripple. She pulled her hand back. Something – someone – had touched her hand. The gold ceiling and the sword were reflected on the water’s surface, but that was an illusion. The water was not water; it was a window into another space. There was a boy at the other side. A fighter even in death, Uggeri was fighting to return to her – to tell her that he was not angry about what she had done. That he was grateful – she had set him free.

  She leaned in and as soon as her lips touched the water, she tasted it.

  It was foul, but before she could pull away, Maddalena’s hands were pushing her head under.

  As Carmella fought back, her eyes opened under water. She saw the boy looking up at her: not Uggeri but someone else, a pale boy with an ox-like brow, a frowning jaw and eyes with no pity.

  Maddalena held her until the thrashing had stopped, then pulled her out. Her body flopped listlessly to the ground beside the bawling baby. Maddalena picked him up and held him to her breast as she examined the font suspiciously. She warily scooped a handful of water and sprinkled it over the baby. ‘Now, Fabbro, let’s find Father.’

  *

  Geta was curled up in an earthen tunnel scarcely a brachia wide and holding his breath. The horrors of the sottosuolo were beyond comprehension: rats big as cats, and – Dio! – the stink … How the Tartaruchi had managed it for so long was beyond him. He’d chosen this tunnel expressly for his last stand and it was not likely to be glorious. It was a dead end that could only be reached by wading through a deep pool, and right now something was wading towards him. He watched the lumbering shadow approaching and at the last moment, he thrust with his knife – then pulled back in surprise. ‘Maddalena?’

  She was shivering uncontrollably, and her lips were blue. ‘Oh, my love. It’s so cold. Take him from me.’

  He took the baby – it was close to frozen too. ‘But whose is it?’

  Maddalena’s stubborn anger had not left her. ‘He’s not the Contessa’s! She has too much. He’s my Little Fabbro returned. We’re going to be a family again.’

  ‘I see.’ He rocked the baby thoughtfully. ‘How did you find me down in this maze?’

  ‘The water showed me the way. It wants us to be together.’ She stumbled, and her head went under momentarily. She reached out a hand, but Geta did not take it.

  She rested it against his leg. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘I’m famous for my discretion, amore.’

  ‘There’s something hungry in the baptistery. That’s why I fled. It wants to harm my little Fabbro!’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’

  CHAPTER 66

  It was Pedro who found Maddalena and dragged her from the underworld. Costanzo embraced her lifeless body, crying, ‘Oh my sweet sister, forgive me!’

  Sofia backed away in horror and ran to the only place that offered any refuge. Maddalena was just one more casualty of her own ineptitude. She been warned, after all –Befana had told her what was waiting:

  ‘Once before, the Darkness had a tool as terrible as Bernoulli – a wicked king who tried to quench the light. The Lord sent a flood to destroy the wicked race who had crowned such a king. The deep rivers of the world would have drowned the world, had not a few worthy men begged for mercy. The Lord relented and He swore never to loose again the Waters, and the men swore to choose better kings. Man has broken the covenant, but the light will not suffer itself to be quenched. If Iscanno dies before the appointed hour, if his blood is wasted and it’s a choice between giving the world to Darkness and starting anew – then every hidden river and sea will overspill. Nor will the flood stop at Concord: the world will be washed clean.’

  She stood by the Irenicon, looking at the ruins of Giovanni’s bridge. The rubble sat in piles, making islands in the river. The Irenicon was unseasonably high and fast. In the absence of a body to mourn, the bridge had been the closest thing she had to a memorial. This was desecratio
n: just one more thing taken from her.

  She walked into the water. The cold made her gasp. A few braccia from where she stood, a mound of water swelled up on the river’s surface, indifferent to the current. As she continued to wade in until she was waist-deep, the water approached her.

  The bridge had been a place where deals were made: that was why she was here. The buio stood looking at her. Before she could ask Is that you? she heard the answer unreeling in her head:

  He is here amongst us, but not … as you knew him.

  ‘I want you to pass on a message. Can you do that?’

  Speak.

  ‘You made me Handmaid to protect Iscanno, and I’ve failed. I know now I should have leaped from some high place in the desert with my boy in my arms. I know now that Bernoulli has been running to lose. He led us on – he left his armies overexposed, he gave us our victories to draw us – to draw me – close to him. He threw the fight and vain fool that I am, I fell for it. I brought Iscanno to Etruria – I practically laid him on the altar. I can’t be your Handmaid any more …’

  *

  Every inch of Monte Nero’s summit was thronged with the fanciulli except for the shallow lake of liquid black from which the needle projected. The tripod overshadowed all. Its legs met two-thirds of the way up the needle, and were so darned with glow-globes that it looked a structure of permeable light rather than of stone, a momentary thing that did not pretend to permanence. Since the needle’s erection, the turbulence around the mount had spread until it overhung all Concord, and wherever its bloated shadow fell, it dulled men and made them brutish.

  For want of a pulpit, the First Apprentice stood on the shattered base of the Angel of Reason, one foot on each fragment. ‘We shall show these pretended Crusaders the extent of our devotion,’ he cried, ‘for no Crusader could be more worthy than we, God’s own children. But look into your heart before ye drink, for only the righteous may consume of His blood and live.’

  He pointed to a golden-haired girl who was grinding her teeth. ‘You, Sister! You must not drink if in your heart there is any doubt.’

  ‘I have no doubt!’ she cried and ran to the edge of the pool. She squatted like a dog and began lapping up the filthy stuff. The fanciulli waited in silence until she sat bolt-upright. She turned around with her face covered in the noxious black juice. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. ‘O, it is delicious!’ she cried.