Irenicon (27 page)
“I will, Podesta.”
“War’s a creature that eats from both ends, and a growing prosperity affords greater protection than any wall. With better machines and faster ships we can compete with cities like Ariminum and, in time, Concord. Signore Bombelli, will you counsel us?”
“I will, Podesta.”
“Neither walls nor wealth will stop Concord’s engineers. Nothing can cancel that power but the
same
power. I therefore propose that Rasenna form an Engineers’ Guild of its own.”
A sudden disquiet went through the crowd. The wrinkled brows of older citizens were troubled with a dark memory.
Giovanni paused for protest that never came.
“Hear hear,” said the Doctor a little too loudly.
“Signore Vanzetti, will you help me form it?”
“I will, Podesta,” Pedro said quietly.
And they were a mob no longer but citizens, united by hope and a question.
Fabbro voiced it: “Can we win?”
“United, we can do anything.”
“Then,” said Fabbro, with a wink to the Doctor, “who shall divide us?”
He led the cheer.
“Forza Rasenna!”
“It’s unnecessary, First Apprentice.”
Snow drifted down through the charred skeleton of the triple dome. The winds that assaulted the black mountain now roamed the ruins of the Molè’s great hall. The cold air and darkness leached every color to gray except the First Apprentice’s red gown. His face was as tragic as ever as he lovingly caressed the individual letters spelling
resurgo
at the base of the colossus. The angel had come through the fire intact, though the gilt decorating its breastplate and sword had been scorched away. All was changed.
“Bernoulli’s heir must be true to his legacy.”
“Oh, you are,” said the Second Apprentice with a bitterness that belied his youthful face. He was breaking off shards of glass from the shattered column and dropping them into the empty darkness of the pit. “He was delusional toward the end too.”
“Are not the signs he left us borne out?” said the man in red with passion. “He told us that after his blood betrayed him, one would be born to overturn the power of this world.
Our
power.”
“His blood
already
betrayed him—his son—and yet we remain. You look for signs where you should seek facts. Yes, you should have killed her; just accept that you made a mistake and move on,” he said with empathy. “You’re insecure because the generation of Forty-seven wanted a Bernoulli instead of you; there is nothing you can do to change that. You’ll always be judged against him.”
There was a faint
krinch
of crushed glass. The First Apprentice spun around and knocked the shard out of the young man’s hand with a chop, then kicked him in the chest.
“Uuggh!”
the Second Apprentice gasped. He staggered toward the shattered column and would have tumbled into the pit had not the First Apprentice grabbed his collar.
“And you would love to wear the red, boy, so
you
must just accept that you will have to wait your turn.”
He was defiant. “We have enough problems in Europa without wasting more time on foolishness.”
“Granted, the Captain was a weak vessel without talent, but don’t you find it odd that Bernoulli’s grandson turned against us
there
, of all places? You
were
right. I should have killed her while I had the chance.”
“Our scouts say they went southeast. She could be in Oltremare for all we know.”
“She’s a Scaligeri. She’ll return to Rasenna. We must finish her, and it, for good.”
“But we’ve already set the target.”
“There are other ways to deal with Ariminum. Are you blind?
Something
happened in Rasenna to turn Bernoulli’s own flesh against him—what other power could it be?”
“Logic worthy of a Cardinal! We’re Philosophers. How do you know these are not just coincidences?”
“Faith.” He smiled. “You’ll need to acquire some if you’re ever going to wear the red. Until then, your agreement will suffice. Do
I have it?” He let the Apprentice’s collar slip a little in his grasp. A cold charnel wind came up from the darkness.
The man in red showed his teeth. “Feel that, boy? Be assured that it feels you, and it smells your fear.”
The Second Apprentice was pale but struggling to keep his composure. “I’m not going to bow to superstition, but there are perfectly valid strategic reasons to target Rasenna. It’s proved itself incapable of obedience once too often. We can’t let that stand.”
“Good enough,” said the man in red with a laugh that was soft and without music as he pulled the Second Apprentice up. He walked to what was left of the doorway and looked beyond the snow falling on the dark white city.
“Run to the world’s edge, Contessa. We’ll catch you.”
She would never return to Rasenna, but it was instinctive to compare its rolling hills with the flat fields of the Ariminumese contato. The calm sea was as flat as the land, but she could sense its power; the salt-sharp coastal air was edged with it. The last time she had seen it, she had been peering through a cage. Now, looking at its world-spanning expanse without constraints, she swore that she’d never return to confinement, whether it was a cell’s walls or Rasenna’s towers. This was
freedom
—from strictures, from the burden of a name—and she would embrace it. She
must
.
Levi studied the landscape for other reasons. Although they had crossed some land scarred by troop tracks, there was no evidence of outright pillaging.
“This field is newly sowed,” said Levi.
“So?”
“
Madonna
, Rasenneisi are a slow breed. So the farmer expects to be around for the harvest. So the Company isn’t besieging Ariminum, it’s negotiating a Contract.”
“The city is buying an army?”
“The Hawk’s Company is not for sale,” Levi said proudly, and then coughed. “Besides, it’s a renting culture.”
They rode until they spied the camp in a valley a few miles from the city walls. Even at a distance, Ariminum’s wealth was obvious. An extensive port dominated one half of the city, and the inland half had burst its limits, with new towers being built outside the walls, spurning their shelter.
“Didn’t we promise the Virgin we’d live better lives if she helped us escape?”
“Being a condottiere is the best life there is. Oh! It’ll be good to see some friendly faces again,” said Levi happily. “Hey, watch out!”
An arrow landed a braccia away. The horse bucked, but Levi got it under control.
“Dismount, Sofia. Make it slow.”
“Your friends don’t seem too friendly.”
Five heavily armored soldiers rode toward them. Another arrow landed beside the first.
Sofia reached for her dagger.
“Don’t . . .” said Levi.
“Are we just going to let them ride us down? I’ll be damned if—”
“
Tranquillo!
It’s too late to run. They fired to show us we’re covered.”
The leader of the advance party rode forward and then stopped and lifted his visor.
“Porca Madonna!”
he said reverently. “It can’t be!” He pulled off his helmet altogether and laughed heartily.
Sofia recognized his monkish hair and stiffened.
“Scarpelli? I thought you were dead!” said Levi.
“We thought
you
were dead!” exclaimed the broad-shouldered condottiere, leaping down. “Come here, you slippery dog!”
They embraced like brothers. “Where have you been lying low? Salerno? Veii?”
Levi cocked his head and said casually, “Concord.”
“Tell me another one, Levi. They’re not in the hostage game anymore.”
“I didn’t
buy
my way out. I broke out!”
“You escaped from the belly of the Beast?” Scarpelli failed to conceal his skepticism. “That’s a first! And this pretty young lady?”
“You remember Sofia?”
“No, I don’t believe I’ve had the—Hold on, the Rasenneisi?”
Scarpelli took a step back with a hand protectively to his neck and laughed nervously. “How could I forget Doctor Bardini’s prize student? You’re quite a fighter, Signorina.”
“Thought we could use another one, so I took her along,” Levi said expansively.
“Well, welcome both. It’s damn good timing—we’re about to begin negotiations with Ariminum.”
“I figured. For a campaign?”
“I’ll tell you all about it in camp. Let’s just say it’s been an uneasy courtship so far.”
Levi and Sofia followed Scarpelli down into the valley. When he was out of earshot, Sofia slapped Levi on the head.
“Ow!”
“Took me along?”
“Sorry! Listen, just follow my lead until I know who we can trust. And, technically, I did take you with me—
“Ow!”
The old priest opened the cage and selected one of the older doves. He covered its head and cooed softly. When it stopped struggling, he snapped its neck with an efficient twist.
A man stood at the flap of the tent, impatiently watching the procedure. He was a little younger than the priest, though his square beard was grayer and his face more lined by years of worry. He was a big man, and the armor on his upper torso and the bulbous general’s cap on his head made him look even larger. If the old bull had passed his prime, it wasn’t obvious.
“I want a name. I want to know what he’s planning next.” It wasn’t a request. The general expected obedience.
The priest ignored him and continued studying a diagram in a tattered book. His old eyes were shadowed by grayly blossoming cataracts, and they wept constantly. He threw the book to one side angrily and turned to an old chest stocked with vials of powder, various roots and dried plants, and a variety of rusted cutting tools.
“I’ve told you before, John Acuto: guts tell no names. Keep the questions broad and you’ll get useful answers. Don’t, you won’t.”
The general bristled but did not retort. Only the priest dared speak to him this way. The general wasn’t the type to seek, cultivate, or keep friends, but if he still had one, it was the priest. They were rocks molded by the same river: both old, where every other face in the Company was young and trusting—young and trusting enough to still believe that Fortune truly did favor the brave. It was a relief to be around someone burdened with the same bitter knowledge: that Fortune was fickle and favored cowards and champions, saints and scoundrels, as the fancy took her. In fact, she favored all but her most devoted suitor, John Acuto—and now it appeared she chose even traitors above him.
“Fine. Should I worry?”
“No point. The dog stalking old men is not outrun.”
“Don’t riddle me, Priest. Is there treachery in my Company?”
The priest wiped away the snail trails pouring down his cheeks, grunted, and set to work.
It began well. It usually did. He deftly ripped out handfuls of chest feathers, then cut away the skin and fat of the breast. Snapping the bones away, he pulled out the irrelevant organs and placed them separately in trays sitting ready.
And then the familiar cloud came over him, and the usual confusion arose to spoil the work. A breeze disturbed the tent flap, and smoke got in his eyes, and John Acuto’s massive shadow covered the light as he paced. The priest rubbed his red-wet hand across his brow and thumbed through the pages of his weathered Etruscan Scripture. The pages concerning divination had been torn, and sewn back together, torn again, stained with dried blood . . .
“What do you see?”
“I see . . .” He pulled the entrails out and picked off the small feathers sticking to them. His heart pounded. He laid them out and tried to dispel the cloud with a distracted wave. Was that blob of flesh the bird’s heart or just meat? He looked at the beaker, at the water swirling in a maelstrom of blood. He swore and tipped the tray’s contents into the fire. They bubbled and spit, filling the tent with noxious air.
“Nothing. I see nothing, John Acuto.”
“Never mind, never mind.” The general put his hand on the priest’s sunken shoulder. “Sometimes Fortune prefers us to stumble in darkness.”
As the general went to leave, the priest raised his head. “General, I may be a blind old fool, but you don’t need augury to know there’s a traitor in the Company. You can smell it.”
Acuto narrowed his eyes; was the priest just telling him what he wanted to hear? No, it was the truth. His own intuition had prompted the question. “Aye,” he said after a moment. “I hoped to be told I was mistaken.”
They rode down into the valley. While Scarpelli brought Levi up to date on the developments since the Tagliacozzo debacle, Sofia took in the camp. She’d been expecting the carousing usual in Rasenna before and after raids—drinking, gambling, and fighting—but the place was as serious and neat as Fabbro Bombelli’s account book. The tents were arranged in straight rows like a Concordian camp. She was amused that the only army in Etruria to challenge the Empire in the last decade did so while imitating its mechanistic efficiency.
“
Madonna
, is John Acuto Concordian?”
Levi laughed. “The general’s from the Anglish Isles, but we’ve all sorts here—Teutons, Franks, Ibericans, some Russ, Welshmen, even some Hibernian brutes. We condottieri take business seriously.”
Sofia smiled to see how merry Levi was and how proud he was of the Company. He was right, too: no one was idle. Soldiers were
tending their horses, sharpening swords, polishing armor, repairing, cleaning—or training as if battle were imminent. In Rasenna, violence was unplanned, coming on like a convulsion. It was intense, irrational, and transient. It was queer to be among men who treated war as profession, not a vocation.
She stared at a man sewing up an arm wound with a bored look on his face. He was almost four braccia tall, with broad oxlike shoulders and a thick neck. He caught her stare as he bit through the thread and threw her a wry half salute and wink. Saluting back, Sofia saw the giant’s smile broaden when he spotted Levi at the horse’s reins.
“Hey, peddler boy!” he called in a thick accent.
“Yuri?”
“We thought maybe you were promoted to Heaven.”
Levi leaped down and embraced the giant. “Not yet, my friend.”
Sofia noticed how Yuri’s easy smile faded when he saw Scarpelli. He embraced Levi again and whispered, “We talk later maybe.”
Levi remounted, telling Scarpelli that the Russ owed him money before changing the subject. “Speaking of money, shock me: Who’s been appointed treasurer in my absence?”
Scarpelli gave him a look. “The Dwarf.”
“Oh. Didn’t know he could count,” Levi said mildly.
Scarpelli laughed. “We’re lucky you’re back in time for the negotiations.”
“The Ariminumese are wary about the Contract?”
“The Contract, the campaign, the venue, seating arrangements, just about everything!”
“They’ve never used condottieri before, so they think we’re criminals.” Levi turned around to give Sofia a preemptive look of reproach.
She politely feigned astonishment.
“That’s the trouble,” said Scarpelli. “They’ve never
had
to use condottieri. And you know what these burghers are like: insufferably proud of their puny militias in peacetime, but when war comes, they start to have visions of their precious walls tumbling like Jericho’s.”
“Towns protecting their walls? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Sofia asked.
Scarpelli smiled at her, a little more naturally this time. “It’s absurd, Signorina, but that’s how we humble contractors make a living. When burghers get anxious about their property, they pay whatever we demand. Rich towns think it’s the height of sophistication to hire an army to fight for them—they think they’re better and smarter than everyone: nobles, Concordians, and us. Especially us.”
“Well, they can think what they like,” said Levi.
“Because in the end you’ll bleed them dry and move on.”
“Sorry about her, Scarpelli. Anything more complicated than flag-waving makes Rasenneisi suspicious.”
Scarpelli just laughed. “She’s right, isn’t she? That’s how it
should
work. But wait till you meet these Ariminumese, Levi. They’re practically holding
us
hostage.”
“Times are changing.”
“Try telling John Acuto,” Scarpelli said with sudden bitterness.
Levi raised his eyebrows. “He’s not involved in negotiations, is he?”
“He was always a better soldier than politician, but since Tagliacozzo he’s been as paranoid as Herod. I’m sure he’ll share his theories with you.”
“Acuto suspects treachery?” Levi said guardedly.
Scarpelli was blasé. “Ever know a general who lost who didn’t? The panic started when the Standard fell and they found the Standard-bearer with a dagger in his back.”
“But the carroccio was behind the front line.”
“So they say, but you know how chaotic it was. We lost, simple as that. But since then, the old man’s been consulting Father Blood-and-Guts on strategy and checking for assassins under his pillow, so you’d better get your escape story straight before he questions you.”
“
Questions
me?” Levi stopped his horse. “Last I checked, I’m a colonel, not a prisoner. It’s not a
story
—”
Scarpelli clapped him on the back. “
Tranquillo,
Levi, I’m just telling you what to expect. Follow me.”
At the center of the camp was a large tent flying the Hawk’s banner. On Etrurian crests, hawks were depicted as plump-plumaged patricians; this foreign bird of prey was a clinical killer, sharp and lean, drawn with straight decisive lines.
The tent flap was suddenly thrown aside, and a short man, dark-skinned like a Moor, scurried out between the two guards. He was followed by a large angry man brandishing a scroll like a general’s baton.
“Tell your Signoria that if that’s all they have to offer, they’d better swallow their pride and make terms with Concord. This is the Hawk’s Company!” He threw the scroll at the notary. “This isn’t a Contract, it’s an
insult
!”
“You’re not the only contractor in the peninsula, John Acuto.”
Acuto slapped the notary’s hat off and grabbed him by the collar. “Then hire
them
! Throw your money away. Just don’t be surprised if you wake up one morning with your palazzi burning around you.”
Scarpelli leaped down to pry the notary from the general’s grip. “What the general means is that we need a few days to digest this and prepare a counteroffer,” he said, picking the Contract out of the mud.
“Take your time,” the notary said. “We’re in no hurry.”
Scarpelli helped the notary mount his sumptuously decorated mule and escorted him out of camp.
Acuto glowered after them. “What’s wrong with cities these days? Used to be we only had to show up outside their walls and bang a drum to get cooperation.” Finally noticing Levi, the general cut short his rant and glared at him.
Levi dismounted, gesturing to Sofia to follow his lead. “General,” said Levi warmly, extending his hand.