by Aidan Harte
‘Of course.’ Sofia bowed and retreated with a feeling of new optimism. Clearly, there were powers in Oltremare that viewed an Etrurian war as an opportunity to acquire territory from the weakened states in the aftermath, but the queen impressed her as more clear-sighted: Catrina understood the existential threat Concord represented to her throne.
CHAPTER 74
It was getting dark when Jacques woke. In the half-light, he examined his wrists for a long while, then – quite calmly – dashed his head against the wall. If he had not been so weak, that blow would have been sufficient.
He woke the following day in a worse state. In front of him was a bowl of tripe stew. He looked at the stone wall, splattered with his blood, and his bandaged wrists, then back to the bowl and considered whether he had anything to live for. After a moment, he crawled forward on his elbows like a dog and lapped up the cold stew.
Next day his jailer stood before him with a fresh bowl. ‘If you had chosen to die,’ Yuri said, ‘I would have let you.’
Blankly Jacques nodded. He had nothing to live for – no name, no freedom, no hands. What kept him breathing was something else. As Yuri fed Jacques, he told him how his apprentice had been discovered, how his ankles and wrists had been smashed with Jacques’ hammer; how his chest was branded; how the letters that formed the word TRAITOR encircled the hole where his heart had been cut out; how the organ was cooking on the forge beside the body. He didn’t mention the mêlée on the bridge, or the curfew subsequently imposed. He left after cleaning Jacques’ wounds and changing his bandages.
Next day he returned with Pedro. The engineer examined his wrists and took some measurements. Jacques made a sound, the first attempt he’d made to speak: ‘—meeewhuuu?’
‘I can’t give you back your hands,’ said Pedro, ‘but I can give you something else.’
Lord Geta finished briefing the priors – they’d come to consider his advice as both impartial and indispensable. With the swagger of a gonfaloniere, he descended the steps of the Palazzo del Popolo and smiled to see who was waiting.
‘Haven’t you done well?’
He bowed. ‘I can’t take all the credit. It was your suggestion that led me to the villain.’
Maddalena rapped his arm with her fan, not playfully. ‘I didn’t mean that, stupid! That was elementary. I meant having Yuri carry out the sentence.’
‘You liked that?’
‘My dear fellow, I loved it. The good Podesta is only a standin. The magnates support him only as long as he can keep the peace. I should think his flag’s worn pretty ragged in bandieratori eyes, and that there are plenty of condottieri who’d prefer a leader less even-handed.’
‘So I understand. Personally, I don’t see why the bandieratori are still allowed such latitude. The Families are gone.’
Maddalena shuddered irritably. ‘The same reason for every foolishness in Rasenna. You can’t step on the street with soiling your shoe on some time-honoured tradition. We’re faithful to nothing here but the past.’
Geta’s eyes twinkled in amusement; he saw what was expected of him and harrumphed accordingly. ‘That must change. Now that Rasenna has both an army and an engineers’ guild, the old way will not serve. The engineers will abuse any liberty we allow them – see how Maestro Vanzetti absents himself from the Signoria, yet no one reproaches him.’
‘He’s playing nursemaid to that traitor.’
‘Currying popularity with the Small People, more like. The engineers may act like artisans, but don’t be fooled: they’re soldiers. If the army taught me anything—’
‘Besides how to gamble and whore?’
‘Besides that – it’s that soldiers need discipline. Without it, I fear Rasenna will go the way of Concord.’
Maddalena put her arm under Geta’s. ‘You don’t need to convince me. My father needs to hear these arguments. Just remember he has the same weakness as most selfish men; he can’t admit to being one. That’s why I like you, Lord Geta. You’re different.’
‘You’re too generous, Signorina.’
The crowd studiously ignored them as they walked across the bridge together. Maddalena surveyed the stalls with a proprietary air. ‘Believe me; Papa’s as nervous of Pedro Vanzetti’s intentions as the rest of the magnates. He’s just too guilty to admit it. You must form your argument in terms of what’s in Rasenna’s long-term interest. Put it like that and he’ll go along with anything.’
‘I don’t understand how such a fool got to carry Rasenna’s flag.’
‘Papa’s no fool; he’s just got a blind spot.’ Maddalena brushed away a fly dismissively. ‘The chief engineer’s father, Vettori, was Papa’s partner. He was an agitator.’
‘Like the good King Jacques,’ said Geta thoughtfully. ‘Well?’
‘Signore Vettori didn’t prosper. Papa did. Success is unforgivable to the Small People, and Pedro’s not above playing on Papa’s guilty conscience. The engineers have been granted unlimited funds with no oversight, but when a tax that doesn’t profit them is proposed, they protest. They say they’re taking the people’s side, but I’m not fooled.’
‘Hello, what’s this?’
Ahead of them the crowd abruptly parted to reveal Uggeri, flag in hand.
‘Madonna, Uggeri,’ Maddelena sighed, ‘don’t make a scene.’
‘The Signoria has charged us bandieratori to keep cut-purses off the bridge. Hands off, Geta. That’s not your property.’
‘I take it this boy is one of those over-mighty bandieratori you mentioned, Signorina? We have rock-throwing children in Concord too. I know how to deal with them.’
‘I’m no boy.’
‘You’re an impertinent dog and this young lady is unmarried; you’ve no claim.’
‘I apologise for his barking, Lord Geta.’ Maddalena glared at Uggeri. ‘He’s been off the leash since his harlot mistress fled the city in disgrace.’
‘Stand behind me, amore,’ said Geta, drawing his sword. Of course the boy had been Maddalena’s lover; she was using him to make the boy jealous. He didn’t mind – this was just what was needed.
‘You’re not a boy, eh? Then what say we settle this like men?’ He dropped his sword.
Uggeri said, ‘Suits me,’ and bowed to place his flag carefully on the ground.
Geta knew a Rasenneisi would never just drop his flag, and before Uggeri could rise, he dived at him. His weight knocked the boy over, but Uggeri punched him in the jaw and neatly rolled him over. His strong fingers locked around Geta’s gullet and squeezed.
Instead of fighting, the Concordian pulled out a short boot-dagger and pressed it to Uggeri’s neck. ‘Decide,’ he croaked. ‘Live or die. Either suits.’ A lie: the last thing Geta wanted was a dead Rasenneisi on his hands – like this anyway.
Uggeri’s rage was stronger than his prudence and he kept squeezing, even as Geta’s blade cut deeper.
Geta’s eyes darted briefly to Maddalena and he whispered, ‘Think she’ll grieve long?’
‘Don’t get yourself killed on my account.’
Her derisive laugh penetrated Uggeri’s anger and he released Geta, grabbed his flag and leapt to his feet. He was breathing hard, and looked embarrassed. ‘Next time we meet, Concordian, I’ll hold onto my flag.’
Geta bowed. ‘I look forward to it.’
Uggeri walked towards Maddalena, who stepped back nervously. ‘Lord Geta!’
Geta did nothing. If the bandieratoro hurt the Gonfaloniere’s daughter, it would only be to his advantage.
Uggeri grabbed a pair of long silk gloves from a stall and flung them at her. ‘Here. Whores are supposed to wear these.’
Maddalena regained her composure as Uggeri walked away and called, ‘That must be a new law. I don’t recall seeing them on Signorina Scaligeri.’
‘Oh, I forgot to pay,’ Uggeri said, taking out a few coins.
‘A gift, Signore, a gift,’ the terrified glove-stall owner said, but Uggeri wasn’t talking to him. He sprinkled the coins in fro
nt of Maddalena.
She slapped him, hard. ‘Stop embarrassing yourself.’
Uggeri smiled to see her angry. As he sauntered off, he said at Geta, ‘If you stick with that harpy, better watch your back.’
Geta wondered whether this was a threat or a warning. He looked at Maddalena’s murderous scowl and decided it was both.
CHAPTER 75
The Land across the Water
DEUS EX MACHINA
In the last century the scale of corruption in the Curia and factionalism in Oltremare had made the word ‘Crusade’ something of a bad joke. Critics observed that the First Crusade was launched to save Jerusalem, not Akka, and that successive Crusades had served only to impoverish Etruria and unite the Radinate. Shunned and friendless, the beset kingdom was left to die.
Only a miracle could save it.
Though the Curia thought it a fool’s errand, they still permitted Saint Francis’ voyage to Egypt.41 The Sage of Gubbio, however, was confident: he had persuaded carrion birds, wolves and wool merchants to adopt the one true faith; how hard could it be to convert a benighted Melic? Contrary to all expectations, he succeeded.42 Overnight, Oltremare’s territory doubled. The conversion restored hope to the Oltremarines, but it alone would have been insufficient to break the stalemate with the Radinate. That required a third party.
CHAPTER 76
They waited for the queen’s decision. And waited. And as they waited, Sofia’s belly grew rounder. She had always taken her body for granted. A bandieratori sweated and suffered in the workshop so that whatever else betrayed him in the streets, it would not be his body. The bovine, lumpen, achingly slow thing looking back at Sofia in the mirror was base treachery.
Since she refused to go veiled, Akka’s streets were barred to her. She objected to the restriction, though she had no wish to return there. The air down in the bazaar was adhesive, hopeless as sap oozing from a fallen tree. She found herself thinking fondly of the cleanliness of the desert, where the wind never ceased and the sun consumed all shadows. The wind lost its roar in the labyrinth of streets soaked in Oltremarine art, which, with the exception of the Madonna Muerta, was an inhuman vocabulary of geometrical ornament. Motifs that began as stylised plants became abstract patterns, intellectually brilliant, but lacking all warmth: clockwork flowers. The sea’s thunder penetrated her dreams in the same way the salt corroded the Lazars’ armour. She was out there, in the middle of the unbounded water again, with Ezra roaring at the heavens as the sea sank beneath them and a wall of spiralling water surrounded them.
It wasn’t just her; all Akka was on edge. By now Sofia was used to the near-panic that overtook the poorer quarters as everyone rushed to buy provisions on the eve of Sabbath. But tomorrow was not Sabbath, and there had been a nervousness in the air all week. The people milling in the streets were dressed more sombrely than usual, and that morning she and Levi had watched the seneschal leading Lazars out of the main gate. It was almost as if they were evacuating the city. Levi went to investigate – no part of Akka was closed to a man.
Sofia circumnavigated the wall and found Arik perched on the east side, watching his falcon’s shadow sweep over the dunes. He held his arm out and called her.
His back was turned to Akka; his spirit too yearned for the freedom of the Sands. The patriarch was leading a procession through the streets below. Dolorous chants competed with the din of clashing cymbals. He was followed by a sumptuous train of Akkan ladies, all veiled, of course, but dressed in black instead of their usual vivacious colours. They cast ashes on their heads, weeping. In the midst of them, four slaves carried a float with the Madonna Muerta, wreathed in incense and sprinkled with black petals and desert thorns.
Sofia asked, ‘Where are all the Lazars going?’
The bird landed on Arik’s gauntlet. He deftly replaced its hood and fed it some meat. ‘Ask Fulk.’
He was ill-at-ease in the city, but also with her – she was just another Frank now.
‘I’m asking you.’
‘It’s a show of force while the Festival of All Souls lasts.’ Seeing Sofia’s confusion, he scornfully indicated the procession below. ‘This blasphemy. Today’s the Day of the Innocents.’ Arik’s face didn’t usually reflect his feelings, but today his disgust was obvious. ‘It’s a warm-up for the main event: tomorrow is the Day of the Dead.’
Knowing Akka’s chauvinistic citizenry, Sofia was sure the Day of the Dead would be a sombre memorial to the fallen, followed by vows to revenge them. ‘What if a tribe attacked the city during the festival?’
‘That’s what the Lazar patrols are for. But it’s unlikely; my people give Oltremarine cities a wide berth at this time. I myself am going to sell Dhib in Nazareth. You’re welcome to come – but if you stay, however much they press it on you, don’t wear a mask. Stick by Fulk.’
‘He’s staying, then?’
‘Someone has to stay sober.’
Sofia followed the procession through the streets from her vantage point, watching as the intensity of the mourners mounted, culminating in the women ripping off their veils and tearing their hair and scratching their arms and cheeks. Suddenly there was a clamour from the streets, shouts and yells, and the Lazars patrolling the walls started descending as fast as they could move.
Levi came running. ‘Get to your chamber and lock the door,’ he cried.
‘What is it?’
‘Prince Andronikos tried to kill the queen!’
A scream from below cut the air and the patriarch and the women scattered, diving to either side as several riders burst through them. The slaves carrying the statue could not move so fast – they and it were smashed under horse hoofs: the prince’s axemen, with Lazars hot on their heels.
Confusion reigned in the palace. Accounts varied: Prince Andronikos and his men had apparently stormed the throne room, cutting their way through several slaves, and Fulk and the queen herself had kept them at bay until more Lazars arrived.
‘I gave him something to remember me by,’ said Fulk grimly.
That’s when the fight had taken to the streets: the prince was counting on popular support, but he had seriously misjudged the city. The bawling of his daughter filled the throne room, an incongruous sound against the sight of corpses being hauled away. The queen did not appear to notice either; she paced and wrung her hands. ‘No sign of him?’
‘He can’t be far – probably hiding in the Ebionite quarter,’
‘I saw a lone rider leave the city,’ said Arik, ‘going south.’
‘He’s fled, the dog!’ Fulk rasped. ‘He tried to take advantage of the festival, Madonna curse his blaspheming eyes. When I find him—’
Arik glanced at Sofia. ‘No, Fulk, you should stay. Akka needs you tomorrow. I’ll bring him back.’
‘You can’t go alone,’ Sofia started.
‘I’ll go too,’ said Levi. ‘Two of us should be enough.’
The queen gathered herself. ‘Podesta, I will not forget this. Arik, I charge you now: bring my uncle back alive, that I might show him clemency. I will not let my kingdom be again divided.’
After their departure the queen clapped her hands and her ladies-in-waiting and slaves retreated. Fulk was reluctant to leave her, but she insisted. ‘The sun will not slow on our account, Grand Master. You’ve preparations to see to.’ She picked up the baby and bounced it roughly in her arms. Though clearly upset by the attempt on her life, she tried to conceal it with gaiety. ‘I am so looking forward to tomorrow. As King Tancred made me, so Count Scaligeri made you. We owe them everything. To loan them our limbs once a year is a small price. What’s one day, after all? You’ll take part, of course?’
Sofia remembered Arik’s counsel and politely refused.
‘Are you sure? You can use one of my Family masks – no? Well, suit yourself. If I could persuade you by telling you what it’s like, I would, but the truth is, I never remember. Imagine being sated after a great feast, without remembering the feast – for a few hours, someone els
e takes charge of your body. Though the dead are legion, they have one thing in common: they are not alive. Perhaps the patriarch would explain it better, but let me try: the pleasures of flesh are obviously greater ecstasy than Heaven can offer. The dead are famished, and we live in a land of plenty.’ She held up the baby. ‘Don’t we, chubby cheeks? Yes, we do! Yes we do!’ She turned to Sofia. ‘Would you like to hold her?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Look at you! You’re a natural mother. Contessa – Sofia – it’s just us girls now. There is something I must ask you.’ Her eyes dropped. ‘Who’s the father?’
‘You’d think me mad if I told you.’
‘I see – an unsuitable person? The world is full of them.’
‘You could say that.’
‘I shall not press you. You’ve found sanctuary here. From questions, from whispers, from fear.’
Two hours before sunrise, clappers and cymbals called Akka’s remaining Lazars to mass. They had been fasting since yesterday, but they did not appear fatigued. The chapel was small – only the funeral of a man who owed no one money could have been held in it. The walls were limed white and decoration was absent, but for a faded fresco depicting two angels drawing back a drapery with the satisfied expressions of clever schoolchildren. The rather unconvincing effect was saved by the wonder they revealed: here was the sympathetic Madonna Sofia knew. It was surprising that the Mother of God was depicted as a corpse everywhere in Akka but here – but no, not surprising at all – death cannot inspire reverence in those who live in its shadow. The queen had given Sofia charge of the prince’s daughter, and she laid her cheek on the downy crown of her head and said a prayer for Levi and Arik.
Before dawn, Fulk did a final check of the city, then retreated to the walls. Stairs were barred and ladders drawn up. He was still enraged at Prince Andronikos’ treachery. Sofia understood loyalty; this was something else. He was taking it personally. When she asked about the festival, he was scarcely less impatient. ‘They wear a death mask for a day as a joke. Great fun for them, a security nightmare for us.’