by Aidan Harte
At that, the mob pushed forward like thirsty cattle in summer, clamouring and tearing at each other, pushing, even drowning each other, to get a pint, a mouthful, a drop …
*
The children of Concord might be united, but their elders were irrevocably divided. The inner rotunda of the Collegio was empty, but the vestibule outside was full of nervous consuls waiting for the First Apprentice’s address. Numitor Fuscus and Malapert Omodeo had brought their factions together, but there was small comfort in numbers. The Grand Legion billeted outside the city, the legionaries General Spinther had brought – unconstitutionally – inside the walls, the approaching armies, the rising waters, the ceaseless rain and the fanciulli’s predictions of imminent destruction – these things had made them timorous. They could not decide with whom they were more outraged: the First Apprentice, who ignored them, or General Spinther, who sought their support in deposing said Apprentice in such a vulgar fashion. Whispered conspiracy might be integral to Concordian politics, but the art was best practised in shady taverns; it was not done to debate such matters in the vestibule of the Collegio itself.
Consul Fuscus was not scared, but he too was divided: he was elated that his revolution was at hand, but was anxious to keep the general in a subordinate position, lest they be ‘accidentally’ dispatched along with the Apprentice. ‘You had no authority to offer terms to the League,’ he said pompously.
Leto had no time for stately intrigues. Girolamo Bernoulli had unleashed two Waves upon his enemies, and now like Nemeses, two vast armies were descending upon the city he had made glorious. He exposed the blade of his sword. ‘What is this if not authority? You charged me to use it in the defence of Concord. Do not blame me if you did not realise what you were doing.’
‘We gave you that sword to tame Etruria, something you have signally failed to do.’
‘I was forced to march into the worst territory at the worst time, while desperately-needed iron went into that architectural atrocity that defaces fair Monte Nero. Tell him, Omodeo: your gallant nephew is dead because the Grand Legion was stabbed in the back.’
‘It’s true.’ The financier was still in shock after learning that young Horatius had fallen at the Volturno.
‘Have you forgotten,’ one consul groaned, his head in his hand, ‘what happened to Corvis?’
‘Hardly: I was the one who flayed him,’ Leto said. ‘Has the First Apprentice addled your brains along with the fanciulli? Courage, Consuls! You sound like a school of cardinals. I’m here because your leaders asked for my help. If we do this, there can be no half-measures. He is mortal. Everyone here was trained by Grand Selector Flaccus too. We can take him.’
‘That’s hardly a mathematical certainty,’ said Omodeo gloomily.
‘Yes, you’re right. There is another possibility: that he survives. What of it? We’ll be dead if we do nothing.’ Leto saw they all needed stiffening, ‘Nothing is certain when you pick up a sword: I learned that on the northern front in my father’s camp. My father told me, “You cannot succeed without knowing your enemy,” so I asked him who were our enemies, that I might learn. “Barbarians,” said he. I knew he used certain Frankish tribes – who wore rank furs and spoke poor Etrurian – as auxiliaries, but to me they seemed no more barbaric than our own legionaries. My father brought me to a funeral of the chief of a tribe allied to us. They lived up to expectations, getting blind drunk at the feast before lighting the chief’s pyre. They threw his weapons into the flames, then his cattle, then his slaves and finally his wives. My father held me close enough that I could smell the cooking flesh. “This is barbarism,” he said. I never forgot it. When he was killed – by his own officers – I learned that even he did not know his true enemy. I learned that your enemy may speak your own dialect, salute the same flag. And such enemies are deadliest of all.’ Leto looked around. ‘The First Apprentice must die. The question is: must we throw ourselves on the fire with him? A wise man once told me never to take counsel from fear, for it chases away opportunity and leads nowhere. There is no certainty but that, Consuls. The rules are the same as they were in the Guild Hall. Strike first or die first.’
*
The oppressive atmosphere of impending storm encased the San-grail. Enervated air built up on the needle’s skin until it was repelled in thunderous charges that created turbulence even as the lower pressure sucked in more air. A vortex as vast and terrible as Charybdis was churning the sky.
‘O faithless generation, not one of you was worthy.’ The First Apprentice leaped down from his pulpit and walked over the bodies of his congregation. Most of the fanciulli were lying still, but some were twitching like legless insects or vomiting endless bile into the pool they had so recently supped from.
The girl who’d drunk first was stronger than most. She grabbed his ankles as he passed and spat out, ‘Poison!’
He knelt beside her and rubbed her golden hair tenderly. ‘Oh no, Child. It was Judgement. And you must not say that you were harshly judged – you must not say anything again. Your tongues will cleave to the roof of your mouths to ensure that. You will have to find other ways to express your love.’
CHAPTER 67
The tavern was a braccia deep in foul water, and it was rising. Bottles floated between the legs of the customers, along with an occasional cloaca rat. Madame Filangeiri hadn’t planned to spend her final years with those whose ruin she had facilitated, but life is full of surprises, few of them pleasant. Since the Dolore Ostello had burned down, she had become a great customer of the Rule and Compass, along with many of her former clientele.
Empty bottles formed a little wall between her and her neighbour.
‘You’re something resembling a woman, Madame,’ said a disembodied voice behind the glass wall. ‘Why, pray tell, would a loving mother want to scare her child? Mine used to tell awful stories about wolves and buio and the barbarians of the north.’
She sipped her pint of gin thoughtfully. ‘It’s no puzzle, Lord Geta. Youngsters love a scare, simple as that.’
‘Some perhaps’ – he reached for her hand so suddenly that his barricade of bottles collapsed and revealed a basket on his table – ‘but I always liked the parts where the beast gets to do his worst.’
Madame Filangeiri might not be a procuress any more, but she still knew a guilty conscience when she heard one. ‘What’s troubling you, ducky?’
‘I have been’ – he flicked a finger at his glass to make it ring – ‘debating my course since my return. I am fixing to attain a new low.’
She pulled her hand free. ‘Well, practise makes perfect.’
‘I’m selling,’ he confessed, tilting the basket towards her.
‘Oh, isn’t he a lovely little fella. With a smile like that, he’ll fetch a good price.’
‘I have not shocked you?’
Madame Filangeiri had trafficked in depravity and was skilled in the sophistry of tolerance. ‘People do anything when they’re starving.’
‘I am not starving, Madame,’ he said sharply. ‘I don’t want to do it, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
‘Doing the low thing gets to be a habit. You could always quit.’ She burped and tottered off to the bar. When she returned with a new bottle, Geta’s shoulders were shaking. She couldn’t tell if he was laughing or weeping until he looked up and she realised it was both.
‘Progress would cease if Man stopped doing things that sicken us. Semper Eadem, that’s my motto. Same, same, always the bloody same …’ He straightened up and raised a glass to constancy. ‘A valiant fellow told me you’ve got to live for something. I’ve been heading for the hot place for years; to veer now would be disgraceful.’
He set down his drink unfinished and waded out into the streets with his basket, careful to avoid the floaters.
*
The Angel of Death hovered over the mount but did not alight on the bodies of the children, for they had been marked by another power, and now it called them to service. Their stiff
limbs snapped to life and pulled them helplessly to their feet like a marionette army. Their black eyes looked up and saw at last the needle for the fell idol it was. They could not decry it; they could only bark and gibber – and so they were silent. They had imbibed the truth and that was that there was only one commandment, and that commandment was to dance. They twirled and swayed and pirouetted to the stairway to spread the news to the city below. The general’s troops billeted in the Piazza dei Collegio did not salute the First Apprentice when he alighted from his gondola. The intimidating silence was interrupted only by the billowing of the great banner that hung from the Collegio’s empty balcony. Its rumblings augured a coming storm. He entered the vestibule to discover his general, together with Consuls Fuscus and Omodeo and their respective supporters, all with scrolls in hand.
‘What a reception – and to think that I was beginning to fear I’d become unpopular.’ He glanced from Fuscus to Omodeo and finally to Leto. ‘Your Triumph isn’t ready, Imperator, if that’s why you’re back in Concord.’
Leto ignored the derision. ‘I’m here as a disinterested patriot. The consuls are here to petition you. They want peace. So do I.’
Torbidda backed into the rotunda. ‘War is your profession, General. Pacifism will not win you laurels.’
‘I care not,’ said Leto as he led the consuls into the speaking chamber.
‘Good for you. It’s so rare to hear a rapist voluntarily take a vow of chastity,’ said Torbidda as he retreated to his place at the stone table. He turned to address the consuls, none of whom had yet taken a seat. ‘Be careful of soldiers who would befriend you. I speak from experience. Remember, the League was able to dissect our retreating army because of the good general’s incompetence – it was he, remember, who allowed the Bouncing Bridge to fall into enemy hands and now he is panicking, flailing about looking for someone to blame. That’s very natural – but panicking men make poor judges. Our position is not so dire. Be steadfast a little longer, friends, and you shall have your peace. General Spinther has also, in his wisdom, abandoned the territory north of the Irenicon without lifting his sword, but his cowardice has at least preserved the core of the Grand Legion. I’ve summoned the three legions guarding the northern border and they will arrive before the League reaches Montaperti where our bolstered forces can meet them in strength. This campaign has been wearying for our enemies too: if we are close to exhaustion, so are they. If we prove that our will is unbroken, they will sue for peace, on terms more honourable than any you’ll get lying supine.’
The vestibule had finally emptied of consuls and now the praetorians followed and hauled the two large doors shut. He ignored this, and continued, ‘And then we’ll do as we’ve always done: we’ll make promises – different promises to every party. The Contessa’s coalition will dissolve in acrimony and all will be as it was. Any questions?’
There was a long, tense pause before Leto said mildly, ‘One springs to mind: are you insane? Those legions were guarding our northern border. What remains to prevent the Franks from crossing into Etruria?’
‘Not a thing, but that’s a fire we can quench later.’
‘You speak as if we have unlimited resources and time. We’re out of both. The Byzantines have made an art of manipulating barbarians. They’ll goad the Franks into revolt and follow in their wake as they spill over the Alps. You haven’t saved Concord. You’ve guaranteed its destruction.’
The circle tightened, with Omodeo coming towards Torbidda from the left and Fuscus from the right.
He did not appear to notice. ‘You exaggerate: there will be incursions, of course, and I don’t doubt they’ll take resolve to repel, but repel them we will. It’s a necessary risk. If the Contessa’s army is not stopped, there is no empire.’
‘Torbidda, I beg you one last time,’ Leto pleaded. ‘Step from the brink. See Reason! We’ve lost the south – make peace before we lose the north too.’
Omodeo leaned from behind and whispered into his ear, ‘Spinther’s right, First Apprentice. The iron mines are better security than any walls.’
Fuscus’ lips were at his other ear, ‘While we hold them, we can rebuild our empty coffers and broken army—’
‘There can be no peace!’ Torbidda roared. ‘Not while the Contessa or I both live. One of us must perish.’
‘So be it,’ said Leto.
The consuls grabbed Torbidda from behind. Their followers dropped their petitions to reveal the daggers within.
‘Praetorians!’ Torbidda cried, but the black-robed soldiers at the door did not budge.
‘These men are mine, First Apprentice. You have no friends here.’
‘No, I see that.’
The consuls nervously drew round with their daggers up, as though Torbidda was a lion at bay.
Leto pushed them back impatiently. ‘No. A knife’s too clean for this traitor.’ He picked up the mace. ‘Omodeo, Fuscus, hold him down.’
Torbidda struggled to keep his head up. ‘Traitor?’ The fear vanished from his face, leaving a sneer. ‘That would make you – what, loyal? Isn’t this how they came for your father?’
Leto smashed down the mace and hit—
Nothing but stone. A consul’s dagger stuck into the chair where Torbidda had been a moment ago; he landed behind Fuscus and Omodeo and slammed their heads together. There was a hollow crumbling sound. He pulled back the chair and removed the blade as the consuls crowded around him, keeping the chair between as they circled at a safe distance. Leto was at the outer rim of the circle. When they finally attacked, he could see an occasional flash of steel, and jets of arterial blood – then, one by one, the consuls dropped, leaving the two boys facing each other.
Leto backed away and risked a glance over his shoulder. ‘Praetorians,’ he started, but Torbidda laughed.
‘Really?’ he said as he advanced on Leto. ‘You think they’ll be able to stop me?’
Leto took out his dagger. ‘They may delay you a little.’
‘To what end? You’re supposed to be the best and brightest, and yet you’ve never understood: all this ritual’ – he gestured at the bodies, the endless rows – ‘this building’s finely tuned proportions, the title I hold, the red I once wore and the rags I now wear: these are merely tools to concentrate my will, so that I could influence not only humanity’s muck, but people like you. Leto, you too are my tool, and harnessing your will, I have magnified my own till God himself cannot ignore me.’
As the praetorians assembled behind the general, he said, ‘You’re mad.’
‘No – but I am a little disappointed. All I asked for was the Contessa and her son, and you failed me. No matter: another of my tools is bringing the child to me as we speak. O, and then shall the world see such a winter—’
‘Who do you think you are?’ Leto demanded.
‘So blind. I am what remains of Girolamo Bernoulli. Torbidda’s in here too, and others – legions. We are made one in the Darkness. Would you like to join us?’
‘Go to hell!’ Leto cried, and flung the mace. It stuck Torbidda hard in the chest and took him off his feet and the praetorians rushed him.
Leto ran for the balcony. He knew he had only seconds. He leaped over the balustrade, crouched down and plunged his dagger into the Concordian banner – then let himself fall. The dagger ripped through the thick green fabric, and for as long as it did, it slowed his descent – but before he was halfway down, it came free and he hit the ground hard, landing badly. There was no time to moan about it. The legionaries surrounding the Collegio were panicking, for a queer mob of fanciulli was invading the Piazza dei Collegio, apparently with every intent of transforming it into a bacchanal.
*
The sentries on the walls looked down at their brothers billeted in the Wastes and wondered if they knew their role was to break the wave descending on Concord. And after they’d fought and died, it would be the sentries’ turn to fight, and Concord’s turn – at long last – to suffer the torture with which it had
broken so many other cities. They wondered how long the gate would hold.
Bells and alarums from the city behind them spun them round in time to see General Spinther riding from the Piazza dei Collegio directly across the Ponte Bernoulliana. ‘If you love Concord,’ he cried, ‘open this gate.’
CHAPTER 68
The dead eyes of the Wastes had witnessed countless prodigies but none as odd as this: Concord’s general had ridden out, over his officers’ protests, to the unclaimed dirt in front of the uncountable ranks of the League. The captains of the armies that had scorched Etruria stared at each other. Their horses sensed their masters’ animosity; they gnashed their teeth and pawed the dirt.
‘Why should I believe you, Spinther?’
‘You want the First Apprentice dead, Contessa. I’m saying I will help you kill him if you will help me.’
‘We have to get to the summit,’ said Pedro urgently.
‘Why?’
‘Because we do,’ Sofia snapped. ‘You want our help or not? But I will get an answer first, General. In Ariminum, you told me that if we trusted each other, the day would come when our grandchildren would look on each other as friends. You said that peace is worth the risk – but that was a trick.’
‘Look in my eyes, Contessa Scaligeri, and tell me if I’m lying. I would have lined the rivers of Etruria from here and back to the Black Hand with the crucified bodies of you and every soldier of your cursed League if I had not been sabotaged and undercut by the First Apprentice. Old Town has flooded and he has done nothing, and now he’s loosed a plague – the plague I watched consume Ariminum – on New City. He’s mad – he believes himself to be Girolamo Bernoulli. He told me so. I saw the Serenissima burn, and I shall not stand by as Concord drowns.’