Spira Mirabilis (34 page)

‘May I ask, Spinther, why you never sought the Red?’

‘That particular colour makes a great target,’ Leto said. ‘I prefer mud-splattered battle fatigues myself.’

The Moor was not to be deflected. ‘If you will allow me to say so, your friend’s desire to capture this girl – well, if it were anyone else, I’d call it
unreasonable
. She did not strike me as worth starting a war over when I met her. Pretty, and spirited certainly, but—’

‘Concord has only been defeated twice. The first time the Contessa’s grandfather led the army. The destruction of the Twelfth Legion two years ago convinced Etrurians that his granddaughter was made of similar stuff. As long as a Scaligeri lives, they’ll keep fighting. Her head on a pike means peace.’

‘I see,’ the Moor said, though obviously he still didn’t. ‘Well, I hope your employer is content to wait.’

Leto fell silent. He was tired of defending Torbidda. The Moor was right after all: Torbidda’s obsession with Sofia Scaligeri
was
unreasonable – and the plague had come from Concord. He’d caught a glimpse of that Rasenneisi girl before the hood was put on her. Torbidda had just told him to set her loose at Montefeltro – he should have been warned about how infectious she was.
It wasn’t the secrecy that irked; it was the sloppiness. People changed, but he could not believe that Torbidda of all people had become careless.

After the convoy passed Pescara, they saw that word of the Serenissima’s fall had outpaced them: the burning shipyards told them exactly how the natives were celebrating their unlooked-for freedom.

Still suffering privation, and in no great order, the exiles swept down the long outstretched limb that was Etruria and turned west once the thumb of Taranto was sighted. The Moor said the rock-strewn bays between the Four Fingers were unfit even for pirates, ‘And harder to navigate than a wolf’s gut.’

‘You know the Black Hand well?’ Leto asked. When he had brought Veii and Salerno to heel he would have to subdue this wilderness next.

The Moor leaned over the rail so that the cooling spray doused him. ‘I hail from Barbary, where the sun is too hot for civilised thought, but the Black Hand gives me nightmares. There is a cave here roundabouts where, the natives say, an immortal crone keeps the four winds and their progeny imprisoned, and when she sleeps they run free. The one I dread most is an errant child of the Ostro. The Libeccio herds before it stampeding squalls, coming sometimes from the west, sometimes from the south. It especially delights in throwing ships against the rocks, and the natives of this hellish land sacrifice to their barbarous idols for shipwrecks. That, General Spinther, is all you need to know about the Black Hand.’

A few hours after they passed the last finger, Leto looked up from his maps and correspondence and demanded to know why they weren’t bearing north again.

‘Don’t meddle in things you don’t understand,’ the Moor said. ‘We go around the Sicilies first. It makes little difference.’

‘It means days lost! That’s unacceptable – we’ll take the Strait of Messina.’

Leto had insisted that the First Apprentice would understand their need to deviate from the plan, but the Moor saw now that he was less certain than he pretended – and he was not surprised. He had heard many things about the First Apprentice, but never that he was forgiving.

But on this front, Spinther
had
to be persuaded otherwise. ‘Taking the strait would be folly, General.’

‘Do you take me for a novice? It’s been used since antiquity—’

‘Yes, and any mariner will tell you it has turned into a graveyard since the Great War. Charybdis has expanded her reach. I’d hesitate to run it with one ship, let alone a fleet. I pray you, do not insist on this.’

The Moor – and his entire crew – waited for Spinther’s decision, praying he would see Reason.

‘But I do insist, Admiral.’

*

Only when Leto got his first look at Charybdis did he begin to understand the Moor’s doubts – but it was too late; they were committed to this course. He held on to the railing and remembered how the Guild Hall examiners used to talk of the terrible beauty of the spirals. He could see nothing beautiful in the great perpetual vortex, which was caused by the meeting of currents off the coast of the Sicilies and the rocky shoal-ridden shore of Etruria.

Besides the danger these two merciless ladies presented in themselves, each extended her reach with her kin. The nephews of Scylla and the sons of Charybdis made the strait into a lethal gauntlet. The row of craggy black pillars that interrupted the strait at irregular intervals were called the
niponti
, Scylla’s nephews, and they concealed ship-murdering reefs beneath a skin of water. They could be run, but each was a roll of the die,
for terrible though Charybdis was, the chief terror was her wayward children, the smaller maelstroms that roamed subject to no law – sometimes they vanished for months, only to appear suddenly in routes previously considered safe; such inconstancy meant that even with the most experienced navigator at the tiller there was never any sure passage.

The Moor had made the run before, but still he kept a close watch on his helmsman, who in turn watched the shifting undercurrents as if they were rapid dogs. In any other stretch of shoaling waters, a leadsman would be in the channels, regularly calling the depths, but such caution was impossible here, surrounded as they were by a swarm of vortexes.

The helmsman was all for gambling on an eastern passage, but the Moor insisted that they go by the mother – at least Charybdis was something they could see. He listened to the creaking rigging, feeling her teasing fingers luring them to port, and the
Barabaso
’s protests as the helmsmen yanked her back to starboard.

Unlike most sailors, the Moor was not unduly superstitious, but for once the crew’s stories of ghost castles and sirens didn’t seem so incredible. He glanced starboard as the
San Eco
entered the next passage over. Behind them, the rest of the fleet were grouped messily in two halves, waiting to follow.

The passage of the lanterns took place in agonised silence, but once through, a spontaneous cheer erupted. When the hurrahs died down, the cry from the forecastle became audible: ‘Sail ho! Two points on the larboard bow.’

Tension made the Moor snarl, ‘Hush, fool. It’s the
Fata Morgana
.’ The mirages around the strait were legendary.

Another cry: ‘Admiral, the
Eco
’s hailing us.’

He spun around – and saw the problem immediately: the
Eco
was stationary, though her drums commanded ramming speed. Her stern alone moved, turning as if some unseen giant hand had
hold of it. On the distant deck, his ensign stood looking back at him.

‘She’s holding, Admiral – we could throw a line, tow her free—’

‘And be dragged to our death along with her? Charybdis’ pups don’t let go, you know that. Stretch back and pull, you slaves,’ he roared, ‘before we join them in Hades.’

As the
Barabaso
pulled away, the Moor looked back and raised his hand in a final salute.

On the distant deck, his ensign touched his heart, bowed and bellowed an order they could not hear. Rather than prolong a pointless fight, the ensnared ship raised its oars. In a moment, the maelstrom had sucked her screaming into the silent depths.

The heavily pregnant mistress of Rasenna was taking her passeggiata along the town walls, surveying her dominion with her husband. This pleasant promenade was interrupted when a panting sentry came galloping towards them.

‘Another visitor at the north gate, Lord Geta.’

‘I gave you your instructions—’

‘That you did, an’ I was going to plug him, only he didn’t come from the north. He came from the east. Add to that, he ain’t dancing and – well, he looks pretty rich.’

Maddalena grabbed her husband’s arm. ‘It is our Marian duty to help the helpless.’

‘That it is,
amore
. Lead on, my good man.’

*

It was obvious that the fellow had been riding all day, though he was foolishly dressed for it. The women and children behind him looked to have embarked upon this journey with even less notice.

The man’s finery and his magnificent bay horse would have revealed his wealth had his manners not got there first. ‘We are Ariminumese exiles – I demand sanctuary.’

‘You look an honest sort,’ said Geta. ‘Why did they kick you out?’

‘All my
paesani
are exiles. The
Serenissima
is no more.’ He paused after this statement, not for effect so much but because it was still astounding to him.

‘You exaggerate, surely, Signore …’

‘It is the unadorned truth – a fever swept the islands, followed
by a fire that forced me to abandon my palazzo and flee with only my hapless wife and poor children.’

‘I’ll call you Lot, then,’ said Geta. He turned to his wife as Maddalena whispered in his ear. Ever the money-changer’s daughter, she had noticed that the mules bearing the man’s wan-faced children were also bearing heavy coin bags.

‘Where did this fever originate?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know. My city spread her legs to the entire Adriatic. What does it matter?’ The gentleman was obviously unused to being questioned, and now he finally lost his temper. ‘It’s ridiculous to converse this way. You will open the gate—’

‘Our legs don’t spread so easily, Signore Lot. I’ll open my gate when you convince me there’s no danger.’

‘But really, how can I guess its origin? We had not the time to pack, let alone time for investigation. Ariminum is accustomed to minor plagues – our too-social sailors bring them back in the holds of their ships – but this dancing fever—’

‘
Dancing?
’ Geta drew back, placing a protective hand on Maddalena’s stomach. ‘You’ve had visitors from Concord recently?’

‘Ariminum is the world’s bazaar. We consider it a disgrace to shut our gates to
anyone
…’ The long silence that followed failed to prick anyone’s conscience and at last the man admitted, ‘Yes, all right. I heard rumours that the Concordian boy general was meeting with the Moor. Look here, will you give us sanctuary or no?’

Geta frowned.

The increasingly desperate Ariminumese suddenly recognised the woman at the gonfaloniere’s side. ‘Signorina Bombelli?’ he exclaimed in relief. ‘I worked with your father—’

‘I remember,’ she said graciously. ‘How are you?’

‘Honestly? I’ve had better days. I beseech you, gracious lady, convince your husband to do his Marian duty.’

‘Alas, sir, my husband is a perfect tyrant. Perhaps I could sway him if you donated one of those heavy-looking coin-bags to the city.’

‘You grasping whore!’

‘Oh dear husband,’ Maddalena cried, ‘what did he call me?’

‘Block your ears, my delicate flower. Try another city, Signore Lot!’

‘Please – no! I’ll pay—’

‘Good,’ said Geta, trying hard not to lick his lips, ‘but I fear the price of admission has gone up. Two bags.’

‘To take advantage of us like this—’

‘Make that three. Murder these days, inflation.’

Still grumbling, Lot untied three of his bags and lugged them to the gate. Maddalena descended to verify that the silver was genuine, then awkwardly covered the sentry with his crossbow as he hauled the bags inside and slammed the gate shut.

After Maddalena had confirmed the silver’s worth, Geta shouted down to the expectant exiles, ‘Signore Lot! You may enter—’ As the family dismounted, he continued, ‘—in three days’ time. If you and your family haven’t turned to salt, Rasenna will welcome you.’

The Ariminumese hurled bitter curses as the city’s first couple continued their promenade.

‘Was that a bit harsh?’ said Geta.

‘Would you rather be hospitable and perish? The Reverend Mother warned you keep the gates shut, did she not? You have to look after me and your son.’ After a pause, she asked ‘What do you think this plague is?’

‘Divine punishment for our sins. About time too.’

She began walking faster. ‘You oughtn’t joke about such things.’

‘
Amore
, you should see your face!’ He pursued her, laughing, as a bell began to chime somewhere in the ruins north of the Irenicon. ‘Come, I’ll teach you how to fire a crossbow. Something tells me you might need to know before long.’

Groans of despair filled the corridors of the palace – though the outcome of the Lazars’ raid was as yet unknown. This repentance was the rehearsal of Akka’s courtiers for the following day. Today – the Day of the Innocents – was for the Akkans a day of parades and marigolds, ablutions and confession extracted by flagellation. For their petrified servants, it was a day of cooking feasts, of nailing down furniture and burying silver and hiding knives. The final stage of Akka’s purge was the temporary expulsion of all the Sown, and as the Ebionites streamed out of the city, merchants’ caravans rolled in, eager to get home before the fun got under way.

One of these dust-covered caravans belonged to the widow Melisende Ibelin. The Lazar escort had not been enough to prevent her drivers from quitting and so she had led it herself. She, her private guards and the escort were weary. She bid the Lazars thanks and good luck and took herself home to the Palazzo Masoir to board herself in before the coming storm.

The twelve dusty knights did not report to the citadel but marched instead straight for the Haute Cour. No one in the jostling crowds noticed. With most of the Lazars off on the raid and without Fulk’s stern eye overseeing security, there was an air of improvisation and chaos to the day.

Patriarch Chrysoberges tried to fill the void, but he was himself too giddy with anticipation to be much help, and he finally gave up all pretence of organisation at the sound of a desolate horn. He rushed to the eastern gate, ready to hail the returning
heroes – where a whimper escaped him, for the sight before him was not that of a victorious army.

Old Gustav, now acting head of the Lazars, was riding alongside Jorge’s chariot at the head of a much-reduced body of men. As Chrysoberges watched, Gustav saluted Jorge and then rode into the city to deliver his report to the queen. The surviving Lazars followed despondently, filing past the patriarch as he turned and made his way towards the Byzantine camp. He heard Jorge call for attention and joined the press of men gathered round his chariot. The mood was sour: the Byzants had escaped almost certain death thanks to Jorge’s stalwart leadership, but it was obvious to the soldiers that the Lazar Grand Master had meant to use them as bait. That Basilius had got himself killed instead was little consolation, and many thought that sacking Akka would be just repayment for the queen’s mendacity.