The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy)

by Aidan Harte

  ‘I just hate being bored. I was looking forward to a fun night instead of this hysteria. I don’t suppose your men could do without your scowl for a couple of minutes? With all these excitable fellows around, I need an escort back to the palazzo.’

  ‘… that all?’

  ‘The servants are in the tower hovering around the Contessa – she likes extra attention too – so there’s no one around to help me get out of this thing.’ She took his hand and pulled it to her waist. ‘It is awfully constricting.’

  After a moment’s consideration, Uggeri cleared his throat. ‘Allow me to show you home, Signorina.’

  Pedro turned to the crowd with a big smile. ‘We’ve won!’ Cheers mingled with cries of Viva il Popolo! and Forza Rasenna!

  Fabbro addressed them. ‘Friends, the food’s getting cold and the condottieri are making short work of the wine. You’d better help them, fast!’

  Another cheer, and the congestion on the bridge suddenly cleared itself. As the crowds invaded Piazza Luna, the disgusted wedding party retreated to the fortezza. Levi and Yuri took care to herd the condottieri with them. Humiliations like this could swiftly blossom into violence.

  Fabbro let them stream past him. He couldn’t face joining either party, the feckless would-be rebels or his venal colleagues.

  ‘Thank you, Gonfaloniere,’ said Pedro, standing next to him.

  Fabbro tousled his dark hair fondly. ‘You only use my title when you’re mad at me.’

  ‘Thank you, Fabbro.’

  ‘Di nada.’ Fabbro walked briskly over the empty bridge, feeling some measure of contentment that tomorrow it would be full of merchants instead of malcontents. When he reached the other side he saw the final plinth wasn’t empty any more. There sat an effigy of a fat bearded merchant dressed in scarlet with coins tied around his sleeves. It was burning. He felt laughing eyes all around, waiting for his reaction. He marched on, affecting unconcern, but the portent slowed his step and when he reached the ladder of Tower Bombelli, he froze. What if, up these rungs and behind that door, was an irrefutable fact that would destroy his happiness? Must he climb up? Must he open it? Could he delay the revelation, alter it somehow by not acknowledging it, or maybe negotiate some reprieve? It was childish, yet the thought kept his foot fused to the first rung. He might have stayed on the threshold until the sun rose, but for the soft voice he heard calling his name. He willed himself to open the door.

  His old counting room resembled the aftermath of a raid, with tearful faces and blood-stained clothes. His mouth opened and he sneezed once, twice.

  ‘Cavolo! Shut the door!’ Sofia boomed, and turned back to her patient. Behind her Fabbro saw his wife’s face, horribly pale, with intermittent pink splashes.

  ‘She’s bleeding …’ Fabbro whispered, feeling the freeze again.

  ‘It’s a popped vein. It happens. Come closer, man.’

  Fabbro knelt beside his wife and sneezed again; there was pepper dust everywhere. A midwife’s husband knew it was a bad sign when labour had to be induced, and still worse when those means failed. ‘I’m here, amore,’ he whispered. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Fabbro?’ Donna Bombelli spoke like one waking. ‘Promise me something.’

  ‘Anything!’

  ‘Find Maddalena a husband.’

  Fabbro replied with forced hilarity, ‘There’s time for that yet – she’s still a girl.’

  His wife ignored his babble. ‘Find a good man, Fabbro. Without one she’ll ruin herself. So long as he’s good, it doesn’t matter if he’s poor.’

  She was too delirious to see her husband wince.

  ‘I’ll write to our sons and insist they send portraits of a dozen eligible bachelors with their monthly accounts. How’s that? We’ll sift through them together and – if that fails – why, I’ll jump on a horse like the old days to search the length and breadth of Etruria and haul them back for your inspection.’

  ‘I’m with you, Fabbro, no matter what happens …’ The inexpressive mask suddenly crumpled into a spasm of anguish.

  ‘You should go now’ – Sofia pulled Fabbro firmly by the arm – ‘but stay close.’

  He rose to his feet like a much older man and backed away, ‘Thank you, Contessa. Thank you.’ His head bumped a low-hanging spice bag and he stumbled into a stack of silver plates. Neither Sofia nor his wife noticed; they were back in the constrained world of effort and endurance.

  He stepped out into the dawn’s light blinking stupidly and climbed down the ladder. His feet instinctively carried him to his palazzo. A lamp-candle was lit in the hallway. The servants were standing vigil at Tower Bombelli – his wife was a popular mistress – or over in Piazza Luna, enjoying the party. So who was here? What was that noise from the central courtyard? Theft was rare in Rasenna, but flags had grown slack of late. He picked up the small Herod’s Sword that hung inside the door and left the lamp behind, the better to surprise them. The noise became clearer, groans and grunts – lifting something – his money-chest?

  A woman’s scream – Maddalena! Fabbro ran into the courtyard, forgetting stealth or caution.

  Writhing on top of a bandieratori was his daughter. Her yellow dress covered them both, but their occupation was obvious. The boy reacted first, his head turning, his hand reaching for his flag at the same time. Maddalena shrieked in mortification and leapt behind the banco, leaving the boy exposed. He pulled his britches up and moved before Fabbro could take another step. He ran at one of the courtyard pillars, then up it, grabbing the low-hanging Bombelli banner and with it swinging to the second-storey balcony. He lobbed his flag onto the roof above and followed it with a catlike leap. He scampered over the roof and leapt into the darkness without looking back.

  In the courtyard below Fabbro stood before his weeping daughter. ‘In my workshop! On my banco! You let others tend to your mother as you tend to your lust with the son of a lowlife like Hog Galati!’ He raised the sword.

  ‘Papa, no!’

  ‘Don’t “Papa” me—’ In a kind of daze he threw down the blade, grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. ‘Your mother’s right. I’ve been too soft with you.’

  Sofia’s hands were shaking when she came out of Tower Bombelli. The sun was up over the river, the pink light over Piazza Stella throwing long shadows of those revellers who hadn’t yet gone home. She hugged her hands under her arms to stop them shaking and stopped before the small Madonna perched in an alcove on the side-street. It was an oddly humble statue for the richest family in Rasenna. Was it Bombelli’s studied humility, a sentimental attachment to the old style, or just apathy?

  The servant Sofia had sent returned with her master trailing after her like a captured prisoner. Fabbro went to the ladder’s base and looked pleadingly at Sofia.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She couldn’t meet his eyes.

  Rung by rung, Fabbro climbed the ladder and pushed the door open. The long emptiness was filled by the swallows’ shrill songs amongst the morning towers. Fabbro reappeared at the door, stumble-falling down the steps like a drunkard. ‘Why did you cut her?’ he asked with wounded outrage.

  ‘She begged me!’ Sofia wept. ‘She knew she wasn’t going to make it. The baby’s only hope was—’

  With dull eyes Fabbro wandered away from Sofia’s explanations: ‘It – he must have been dead all the time. It was a boy, Signore Bombelli. I’m sorry—’

  He disappeared into the maze of alleyways.

  ‘The Contessa regrets. What consolation!’ Sofia turned to find Maddalena stumbling towards the tower. Her gown was torn at the shoulder and her face covered in ugly bruises. Her left eye was black and the other one was completely shut by the swelling.

  ‘Maddalena – who did this to you?’

  ‘As if you don’t know! Papa – you sent him – you want to destroy the Bombelli family. We’re in charge now and you can’t stand it. And now you’ve murdered Mama.’

  ‘I loved your mother.’

  ‘Do Rasenna a favour and keep your love t
o yourself. It’s poison.’

  Maddalena glared at the weeping servants. ‘Get up there and start scrubbing!’

  She turned back to Sofia and screamed, ‘I told you to go!’ She clumsily lifted the Madonna from the alcove and threw it with a roar of hate. Sofia didn’t have to duck; it smashed harmlessly against the cobblestones. ‘The Scaligeri are a plague on Rasenna. How many Waves must come before we realise!’

  Sofia backed away from the hysterical girl, but her screams echoed in the piazza.

  ‘You’ll only be happy when we all drown. Wake up, Rasenna, save yourself! Wake up!’

  CHAPTER 39

  The Gospel According to St Barabbas

  33

  The Jinni searched the depths and the secret places of the earth until he found that prize the priest had wished for. Zacharias stood on the mount that all the city might hear, and cried aloud, O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you that killest the prophets. See ye not all these things? Verily I say unto you, there shall not be left here one stone upon another that shall not be thrown down. Jerusalem, the winds will take you. Even as the walls of Jericho fell, and the pillars of Iram fell, this Temple will fall. The tyrant who built it, he too will crumble.

  34

  And Zacharias blew upon the ram’s horn.

  35

  And King Herod ordered the troublesome priest thrown down from the mount. So perished Zacharias of the House of David.

  36

  In Galilee his daughter heard of it and was filled with wrath.

  37

  But the Lord had heard the horn. He visited Herod and Herod was visited with affliction.

  38

  The tyrant fled Jerusalem and her troublesome people. He retired to his palace overlooking the Sea of Zoar, and the servants said that his body stank worse than the sea. His privy parts burst forth with maggots and festering wounds.

  39

  And though he suffered, the tyrant thought himself safe in his stronghold. But the Lord is not denied.

  40

  Mary and Her band climbed the mountain. They stormed the palace and found him hiding there. For his life he offered gold that Mary took and threw from the mountain.

  41

  And She said, Now, false king, thou shalt follow thine idol.

  CHAPTER 40

  The gonfaloniere’s wife was well liked, and Rasenna was unusually subdued in the days that followed. Fabbro didn’t notice. He’d tried losing himself in the minutiae of his accounts and when that failed, drink worked.

  It was noon, and Maddalena found him three-quarters through the bottle. She sat at his feet saying nothing. His fingers gently touched her hair.

  ‘We used to fight, Maddalena, your mother and I – oh, the most tremendous quarrels! And not just shouting, either – I, well, I never was a bandieratoro, and your mother was a Cassini – I could tell you stories about her father, he was a real bandieratoro. But we’d wrestle and slap and scratch until we were quite exhausted, and then reconciliation would be sweet. Our love matured, but I always took comfort that she was as strong as I. Oh child, what will we do without her?’

  ‘I’m here, Papa.’

  When the Ariminumese letter came, it was a relief for everyone. Donna Bombelli’s death left Sofia friendless, and with a horrible dread that Maddalena had been right: the longer she tarried, the more would suffer. Hadn’t Isabella warned her?

  ‘There’s opportunity in every crisis.’ Levi held up the letter. ‘The invasion of Dalmatia has woken Ariminum from its lethargy. As General Spinther marches, its colonies fall like towers, one by one. Without this hinterland, the Adriatic is no longer a solely Ariminumese sea. Ships clog Ariminum’s harbour, ships full of merchants who’ve abandoned fortunes to save their lives and families, exiles who infect that proud city with fear – fear that has belatedly made Ariminum realise it’s part of Etruria too; fear that shows Ariminum Concord for the threat it is. This summit they propose is the first real progress in months. Where Ariminum leads, the South will follow. That’s why we must go and make the case for the league.’

  Though the gonfaloniere looked to be sleeping, he was listening, and he suddenly had an illicit thought he knew must never be voiced: that Rasenna had more in common with Concord than with any of the cities of the South, which was still ruled by lords, families, tyrants; Concord and Rasenna, ruled by men of skill, should be natural allies.

  ‘They address their letter to The Contessa,’ the brewer remarked.

  ‘So?’ Levi said quickly. ‘How should they know Signorina Scaligeri gave up her title? And for that matter, why should they care?’

  ‘If we send her, Ariminum and the other cities will continue with that impression.’ Grumbled agreement circled the room. The bandieratori’s role in the occupation of the bridge still rankled with the priors.

  Fabbro seemed to wake suddenly from his stupor. ‘This summit is to resolve one question: peace or war. We must do something with our surfeit of soldiers.’ He looked directly at Sofia. ‘Blood follows the Scaligeri wherever they go. Let this one go and preach war so that Rasenna may have peace. Go, Contessa. If you can persuade Him, go with God. If you cannot, go anyway.’

  CHAPTER 41

  The Gospel According to St Barabbas

  3

  In the distant land of Etrusca, the old Emperor Catiline was vexed by reports of the rebellion that erupted upon Herod’s assassination. For though a tyrant, Herod had kept the Jews biddable by constant building and murder.

  2

  Catiline’s soothsayers read in entrails the same prophecy that Herod’s astrologers had read in the stars; that a new kingdom would soon arise to overshadow all others.

  3

  Catiline was greatly disturbed, for while Judea burned, Herod’s sons fought for their late father’s throne and he sent word that henceforth the Jews would have no King and Judea would be a province ruled by an Etruscan prelate.

  4

  The new prelate was a man named Pilate and he was charged with quashing rebellion. This Pilate sought to do by cutting off its head.

  5

  He sent his legion swarming over the mountains and lonely places of Galilee. Mary and Her band fled into the southern desert and only in the shadow of Sinai did they stop to rest.

  6

  The angel of the Lord appeared to Mary in a dream, saying, Arise, Woman, arise and flee into Egypt. Would that Thy husband had done so sooner.

  7

  But Mary said, My husband was murdered protecting My son. Where were you then with your warnings? Tell your master that henceforth I choose my own path.

  8

  So Mary led her band into the Empty Quarter. Though the Sicarii were bold men they were sore afraid, for long had the children of Israel and Ishmael been enemies; yea, even in the womb had they quarrelled.

  CHAPTER 42

  Lord Geta’s knowledge of the Depths was such that he could avoid the conflagrations on his way to the Dolore Ostello. He watched a gang of youths carrying rocks chase a richly dressed woman into a dark alley. Although he knew the alley was a dead-end, he walked on. He had no time to tarry – today was Carnival, and Geta must gamble.

  He superstitiously averted his frosty cat’s eyes from the dark, disquietingly empty sky. All his life the Molè had been omnipresent; in front of him, in the corner of his eye and if he were bold enough to turn his back, its shadow covered him. Now the Molè was gone, and the sky was indecently naked. Although learning to fight in the tumultuous Rasenna of old was the fondest memory of his youth, Concord the day before Lent was a close second. It amused Geta to think of how innocent he had been – harassing strangers for money, pelting rival gangs with rocks, the hurried frantic couplings, the freedom that came with wearing a mask. Though Geta always made a sentimental point to return to the capital for Carnival, he had expected to miss it this year.

  Yet here he was.

  The spirit abroad in the streets today was undeniably different. Those shouting children were not noble bravos
but fanciulli, Fra Norcino’s brood of barefoot angels. The preacher assured them that they were doing God’s work, so they stooped to any brutality.

  ‘Death to the catamites!’

  The fanciulli used to be known by the great noise they made. Now they were known by the broken mirrors left in their wake. They wore white robes because they were young and stainless, and laurels because virtue was triumphant. They shaved each other’s heads to contrast their naked purity with the effeminate locks favoured by noble youths and paraded through the streets, olive branches and banners and statues held high. Others dragged the accoutrements of Natural Philosophy and the symbols of noble narcissism: astrolabes and compasses, paints and wigs and jewellery: a funeral procession for vanity in its protean forms.

  ‘Woe unto Babylon!’

  Great bonfires burned on every square, and in their dancing light all things seemed possible: that Carnival’s once-a-year inversion could be rendered permanent, that Fra Norcino could be king. Knowing the Collegio would let the mob do their worst, most nobles kept off the streets, and those who were abroad tried to be inconspicuous – all but Geta. A swordsman could never be inconspicuous. His breast was decorated with war medals and wounds and his face with scars – enough to frighten women, in the right way. From his shining spurs to his bounteous moustache waxed into prongs, he belonged to an age of selfish chivalry. He was in disgrace, and though that was a condition he was accustomed to, the memory of his show trial still rankled.

  ‘Lord Geta, have you anything to say before we pass sentence?’

  ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘In your defence!’

  ‘Let’s not make this farce more hypocritical than it already is, Corvis. I rolled the dice. Had I won, you’d be giving me a legion of my own.’