The Nascenza Conspiracy (24 page)

When they reached the very bottom of the amphitheater, where the ground underfoot had been paved with the same unpolished marble, the heat from the bonfire was so intense that Petro’s face felt tight and ready to burst, like a baked apple. They’d arrived only a few moments after the skull-faced brigade, who had split into two and began to walk around both sides of the circle. Brother Ioannus didn’t seem to notice the heat from the fire as he cut across the circle in the direction of the altar. Petro, however, was glad for the little bit his hood shielded him from its direct blast. He watched as the foremost of the charm-bearers nodded at the rest. They all simultaneously set down first one, then the other, of the buckets they’d been carrying, by the walls that flanked every staircase leading out of the center. Everything here seemed to be done with the same practiced choreography as the laying on of timber to the bonfire.

The seats reserved for the insula attendees were no more richly appointed than any of the other benches set in neat rows on the amphitheater’s tiers. They were merely closer to the action. “The two from the Insula of the Penitents of Lena will sit here, of course,” said the priest in a normal voice, now that they were a goodly distance away from the devout. He gestured to a small bench directly below Lena’s banner. This close, it was almost impossible to see the figure of the goddess within all the little knots of thread, but one thing was certain: both of the banners were also impressive up close, as the summer breezes made them clank against the tall bases that held them upright. “And the two from the Insula of the Children of Muro, there,” he said, pointing to a similar bench on the opposite side. “Where are they, exactly? And your escort?”

“They’re
…
back at our camp, making friends,” Petro temporized.

“Well then, be sure to tell your Brother Narciso that he’ll be seated here at the altar, with the other nine priests in attendance. I’m certainly glad you came.” For the first time since they’d followed him to the crackling bonfire, Ioannus seemed overwhelmed by both the heat and humidity of the day, in addition to the sweltering blaze nearby. He pulled a handkerchief from one of the pockets of his robe and mopped at his face, beneath his hood. “Goodness gracious. Indeed, I’m happy you lot arrived when you did. The people like knowing their Seven and Thirty are present, and without you we wouldn’t have much of a show.”

It was a casual comment at best, but the hair on the back of Petro’s arms pricked up at it. “What do you mean, signor?”

“Oh, but it’s nonsense, really. Ordinarily we have any visitors from the Seven and Thirty sit in the first row of benches on this level.” His finger traced a circle around the stone floor’s perimeter. “Apparently it’s to be a sorry showing this year, however, as several families came to me this morning saying that they’d not be attending tonight.”

Again, that feeling of having stumbled onto something important charged Petro’s skin, causing goose pimples like those from a wild thunderstorm or a chilly night. He tried to keep his voice as steady and casual as he asked, “Oh? Who?”

“Let me see, let me see.” The brother bent his head low as he thought. “One of the younger sons of the Catardis was here, but announced that he preferred to sit up top for a better view. The family Gaudi said the same thing, so I suspect it must be a new fad. The Falo woman and the di Angeli fellow both left this morning to return to Cassaforte. At least we’ll have some of the Piratimare grandsons present, and several from the Menci family.”

“Isn’t it unusual for people to leave before the Rites? Or switch seats?”

“Highly unusual. I suppose there are always circumstances. Yes?”

Yes, thought Petro. Circumstances such as the certain knowledge by certain members of the Falos and the di Angelis that they were part of a conspiracy to force Cassaforte into the arms of all-devouring Vereinigtelände. And a knowledge that something was about to happen there, this very night. No wonder they all scurried like rats from a sinking ship.

Disentangling themselves from Brother Ioannus took some time, for he was naturally talkative and seemed to want to give the boys a lecture on the history of every Midsummer High Rite he’d ever attended since the age of eleven. After many promises to be in their appointed places at the correct time, however, they managed to make their way back up the staircase to the spot where they’d met the priest. And there they waited.

For the better part of the afternoon they waited, while Petro attempted to scrutinize the faces of everyone who passed. As the day wore on, more and more people left their camps and trickled into the amphitheater, taking up kneeling positions on the grasses or sitting respectfully on the benches with their heads bowed in prayer. At some point, musicians took their stations in towers erected around the outermost ring of the amphitheater, so they could beat a slow tattoo on their enormous bass drums. Each pound, slower than a heartbeat, resonated through Petro’s skin at first, making him jumpy. After a while, however, it simply became part of the crazy background of noises.

Somewhere in the pilgrim camps to the west, someone had erected a giant katarin wheel. When lit, the twin rockets affixed to the outside of the circular metal frame made it spin rapidly on its pole, so that the more rapidly the little incendiaries burned, the brighter it blazed and the more sparks flew. Vico was fascinated by the contraption, having never seen such a thing on his uncle’s estate. “I want one,” he declared.

“I’ve never had one, and I’m of the Seven,” Petro told him. He had hoisted the boy up to his shoulders so that he could see over the heads of the crowd. “Keep wanting.”

“How does it work?” Adrio asked, still fascinated.

“You’ve seen Scillian candles,” Petro told him. “If you pack
yemini alum
into a cylinder of paper, or a length of hollowed-out bambua, and then set it ablaze, it burns so rapidly that it sends the rocket into motion if it can, or explodes if it can’t. The Scillian candles shoot straight up into the air because of the ballast at their back ends.” He made a whooshing noise and demonstrated with his hands. “On a katarin wheel, they just go around and around.”

“I still want one,” asserted Vico. “And I shall have one, too. You will see.” Petro might have chuckled a little if he hadn’t been worried about Emilia and Adrio. They’d not set any specific time to meet, it was true, but Petro thought Emilia should be done meeting with Berro by this point.

Not until the katarin wheel had long died out and the eastern sky had turned a deep purple bordering on indigo did Emilia finally find them. Petro had taken a seat on a nearby bench, while Vico was curled up beside him, half-asleep and tired of trying to peer into half-hidden faces. Emilia and Adrio arrived among a throng of pilgrims, all of them now streaming into the amphitheater to take their places for the Rites. Beneath her cowl, her cheeks were flushed with triumph. “I did it,” she said, almost jumping with happiness. “It was so simple.”

“You ought to have seen her, Petro,” said Adrio. He, too, looked glad to be reunited.

“Did what?” Petro asked.

“I met that former guard, Berro. I told him I was a guard on duty in the service of King Milo, and that I had reason to believe that traitors were planning to do something today at the amphitheater, and that I was enlisting him to assist me. He leapt right up and told me he was at my service.”

“And saluted her. Like this.” Adrio did an imitation.

It was plain that Emilia relished that particular memory as well, though she glossed over it. “I didn’t have to ask him if I could be in charge, like you said,” she admitted. “I simply told him I was in charge, and he believed me.”

“Not only him. The others, too.”

Petro blinked at Adrio. “What others?”

“Tell him,” he said, nudging Emilia.

“Well. Berro was so concerned that he suggested we find more former guards.” Emilia’s eyes danced. “He knew of two in the immediate area, and they pledged their service to me. One of them knew a naval guard, and she knew of another woman who had served on the palace guard for over thirty years. It kept growing and growing, Divetri.”

“Guess how many we found?” Adrio could scarcely contain his excitement, and nearly stepped backward into the stream of people quietly descending the stairs. He held up both hands twice, and then several fingers. “Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four trained guards,” Emilia said. “Almost all of whom have weapons of some sort hidden beneath their robes. Twenty-four allies, Divetri. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I knew you could do it.” Even to himself, he sounded curiously lifeless.

“Something’s wrong,” she said immediately. “What did you discover?”

“Whatever’s about to happen, it’s happening down in the center, and soon.” Petro explained to her what the priest had said about the Falo and di Angeli families, as well as the Catardis and Gaudis. “Other than that, we found out nothing.”

“I don’t understand. How in the world could the loyalists attack anyone from the center of the amphitheater?” Emilia shook her head. “They would have to forge past hundreds of pilgrims on the upper levels on their way down. It makes no sense.”

“We’ll find out when they come down to us, won’t we?”

“I might. You won’t.” When Petro raised surprised eyebrows, she made it clear for him. “You can’t be sitting on the insula benches. Narciso will spot you right away, and where he finds you, he’ll think he’s found Vico. It’s too dangerous.”

“Let me make the decisions about what’s too dangerous for me, Fossi. Besides,” he pointed out, as he dug in his heels and prepared to be stubborn, “if we’re there, ready to be snatched or attacked, won’t it draw them out? Make them come to us? You know I’m right.”

Apparently she did. After a moment, she nodded, and then said to Adrio, “Find Berro and tell him to post two guards at the upper entrance to every stairwell. The rest should find seats near the center and be on the alert. We’ll be sitting in our seats near the altar.”

Petro watched as Adrio pushed through the crowd to do her bidding, fighting upstream through the flood of pilgrims. “So, is he your second-in-command now?” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but it ended weakly.

She regarded him levelly. “Jealousy is an ugly emotion, Divetri.”

“Need I be jealous?” The question came out so snappishly that it took him aback. Petro was surprised to discover she was right. He was utterly envious to see his friend and Emilia return in such an elated mood. No wonder he’d displayed such a muted reaction to her good news a moment before. What a fool he was, after she’d said some of the kindest words he’d ever heard. “Pretend I kept my mouth, please.”

They stood and faced each other for a moment. The silence was awkward, particularly surrounded as they were by gray-robed people shoving past on their way to the highest of the High Rites. “I wish you wouldn’t feel that you possess me,” said Emilia at last.

“I know. I can’t. I shouldn’t,” Petro said.

She didn’t remove her eyes from him. Even shadowed as they were, he avoided their intense stare.

“I’ve never loved anyone before,” he added. “It’s all very strange.”

“You don’t love me,” she reminded him. “We were thrown together into something intense and developed a tight bond very quickly. You’re confusing it with love. ” She placed a hand on his shoulder and let it rest there. “I like you very much, Divetri. I respect you. But it’s not love.”

“You’re right,” he said. Then he swallowed and looked directly at her. “It’s not love. It never was. It was simply a
…
reaction. You’re one hundred percent correct. I’m not really in love with you.”

“Good. Now you’re growing up. You say we have seats near the altar? When Adrio’s back, let’s take them. Care to sit by me, little man?” she asked Vico, who nodded gratefully. “We’ll be the Children of Muro this evening.”

Petro kept a smile on his lips until she happened to turn away. He had just told Emilia Fossi the biggest lie of his entire life. If it made her happy, he would continue to tell it, over and over again, until she finally believed him. The repetition, however, would never make it true.

The initial piece of advice I would give
to the first-time pilgrim would be to pack lightly.
The more baggage one carries, the more one has to lose.

—Antonio di Magretto, famed for fifty consecutive annual pilgrimages to the rites in the amphitheater of Nascenza

Midway through the hour-long prayer service, Petro realized he was being watched. The massive bonfire roared before him, fed into a veritable inferno by the practiced placement of a half-dozen tree trunks. The fire was so bright that he couldn’t see the assemblage in the darkness beyond, but if the crowds beyond the fire were anything like those behind him, the amphitheater was very likely packed full. Hood after hood covered the faces of the faithful. Some wore the traditional skeletal masks, including the men who stood at the foot of every staircase, guarding the moon charms. Most, however, did not.

Petro wondered what Vico must be making of it all. The sight of all the people in their cowled cassocks probably looked to Vico as if he was surrounded by hundreds of visages of the grim reaper, come to lead the newly dead to their last resting place. Rather ironic, considering that the ceremony was supposed to memorialize the deceased. Or perhaps, Petro reflected, the resemblance had once been entirely intentional, though forgotten with time and tradition.

It was then that he first felt someone’s eyes upon him. No, it was more than a feeling. It was a conviction. From somewhere he could sense a pair of eyes focused on his own form, trying to pierce through the gray covering that sheltered him. Careful not to lift his face too much, Petro looked at the benches around the fire. The seats reserved for pilgrims who belonged to the Seven and Thirty were sparsely populated; those families who had been in on the conspiracy had vacated their spots. The benches behind, however, and on every other tier of the amphitheater were crowded with pilgrims of all sizes. It was impossible to tell who was focused upon him so intently.

Petro looked to his right, where one of the priests stood at the altar intoning an endless prayer. In the distance, from the towers in which the percussionists perched, came the slow pulse of bass drumbeats. Eight priests sat on the seats behind the altar. With the one standing at the altar, that made nine—so Brother Narciso must not have joined them, if there were supposed to be a total of ten. A pair of attendants stood a respectful distance behind the priests, their faces covered with masks. Petro could see the profile of Brother Ioannus, in the middle of the seated priests. The man had his eyes closed, though whether in contemplation or sleep it was impossible to say. And across the way, under the shadow of the other banner, Petro saw Emilia’s taller form next to Vico’s small one. Her head was turned toward him, exposing the tip of her nose.

Adrio’s elbow in his rib cage brought Petro’s thoughts back to what was happening around him. The priest’s portion of the prayer had come to an end. “So say we all,” intoned Petro. He was joined by the sound of a thousand voices murmuring the same words.

Another priest stepped up to replace the one who had finished his supplication. It was Brother Ioannus. Thanks to the reflective marble floor and the good acoustics of the amphitheater, his voice sounded out loud and strong as he said, “Friends. Brethren. Before we offer our wishes for the coming year, let us take a moment to remember those who have departed. It is they whom we honor on this night, in the hope that they will speak well of us to our gods and prepare for us a place at the heavenly feast that is to come.” When he knelt down on the ground, everyone in the stadium followed, with no more sound than the rush of a thousand robes. Petro knelt and lowered his head along with everybody else.

Bless Aluysio Raponi,
he thought to himself.
And bless Bonifacio de Maczo, too.
He couldn’t forget the two men who’d died in the line of duty to protect him. Petro closed his eyes at the thought of them. The fact that he’d been too arrogant and wrapped up in his own petulance even to learn their names still bothered him. Likely it would nibble at his conscience all his life.

Wasn’t he doing his best, though, to see that they were avenged? If they were watching from the heavenly feast the priests always promised, wouldn’t they smile to see Petro and Emilia bring their murderers to justice? Petro had to hope so. If only the loyalists would make plain their plan. For hours they had waited, and waited, but there was no sign of them. At what point would they charge down from the uppermost lip of the stadium and make themselves known? “So say we all,” he murmured along with the other pilgrims crowding the ancient stone circle, as they rose and resumed their seats on the benches.

It was time in the rite for the moon charms. The masked celebrants at the bottom of each of the amphitheater’s staircases bent over to lift the buckets of crescent-shaped charms. Then they turned and gestured so that tier by tier, the pilgrims could descend, grab a small handful of the metal moons, and lob them into the bonfire.

At home, in the city of Cassaforte, the custom had been almost an afterthought, something that Petro and the other youths of the insula had done before donning their masks and running out into the city for the night. He’d always taken only as many charms as he had wishes for the year. He blushed to remember the childish things he’d wished for in the past. Extra pocket money. Candied fruit and other treats. Clothing. One year, after Prince Berto’s coup, he’d wished for an elixir of invisibility. Some of the things he might have gotten (though he was fairly certain that the invisibility elixir was not one of them), but who remembered? He didn’t think he’d ever squander wishes on trivial things again.

As he was herded in the direction of the nearest bucket along with Adrio, he lifted his cassock and reached into his own pocket for the charms within. There was almost more of the black grit in his pocket than there were actual scraps of metal. Only four remained from the handful he’d originally taken, from the first loyalist camp. What four things did he wish for, then? With his index finger he cleaned off the moons as he studied them in his palm.

He wished that not a single person lost their life, whatever happened that night.

He wished that Adrio and Vico could return safely home, regardless of what happened to him.

He wished that Emilia
…
he paused in his mind before daring to think the words, in case they came out wrong. He had kept his gaze on Emilia as she came from her bench in his direction. She held one of Vico’s hands in her own. Petro’s eyes met hers briefly as they turned to join the line that had formed on either side of the celebrant bearing the bucket of charms. Though her face was as drawn and worried as no doubt his had to be, she smiled at him. That decided him. He wished that Emilia would be happy, and recognized for her skills, whatever that took.

After three wishes for others, no one would have blamed him for reserving one for himself. After much thought, though, Petro saved the last wish for his sister. “May Milo be free to marry Risa as he wishes,” he murmured, rubbing the last of the moons in his palm. “And not be frightened into marrying someone else.”

The enormously tall hooded figure with the skeleton’s face lifted the bucket for Petro as he neared. He could have taken more charms, but he shook his head. He had enough.

When he looked to his right, he saw Emilia instructing Vico on what to do next. Once done, she stood and looked around the amphitheater, trying to see past the dazzling bonfire and into the crowd. Everyone from the first two tiers was already crowding the staircases and pouring into the stone circle in an orderly, albeit still crowded, fashion. Of the loyalists, there was no sign.

The bonfire had been toasty enough from where they’d sat near the tall banners. Up close, Petro felt like a roasting leg of mutton. He watched as Adrio threw his handful of charms toward the blaze. They clattered close to the outermost of the pyramid of tree trunks and came to a rest at a spot where the flames began to lick over them. “That’s that, then,” said Adrio, wiping his hands.

Petro wondered what his wishes might be, and whether they’d changed, like his own. With a flick of his wrist, he let fly his four charms.

That was the moment something remarkable happened. As the little crescents flew near the fire, a shimmering wall of flame seemed to lick out and consume them, traveling toward Petro until it fizzled out in sparks a few feet away. It was as if the bonfire had reached out, but found Petro out of its grasp. Adrio saw it, as did Emilia. They both gasped.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Vico wanted to know, as he raised his hand to fling his fat fistful of charms.

Petro, in the meantime, shook his hand as if it stung. He looked down to find it still grimy with the powder from his pocket. “
Yemeni alum
,” he said, looking at the others. “It’s the only powder that would catch on fire and burn so quickly.” His mind raced furiously through the possibilities. “It’s been leaking from those charms I’ve carried for the last two days. The loyalists have made buckets of charms and filled them with
yemeni alum
. They’ll explode when they’re hot enough. Each one is a deadly missile.”

That was enough information for Emilia. She let out a shrill whistle that pierced the hush of the amphitheater. “Everyone move back!” she yelled. “Get out!”

The crowd began to react with confusion. “What is going on?” Brother Ioannus called their way, gesturing to keep everyone quiet.

Petro made a sudden dread realization. “We were stupid to wait for them to come charging in. They’re already among us.”

“Get out!” Adrio yelled, waving his hands over his head. He began to shoo people away from the bonfire. “Up the stairs! Get out!”

Petro charged over to the man in the skeleton mask, who was only beginning to turn and notice the confusion behind him. With a single deft motion, he leapt up and pulled off the mask, sweeping the man’s hood behind his head at the same time. “Thadeo,” he breathed, recognizing Simon’s enormously tall friend.

The giant exposed his teeth in a snarl, then fled in the direction of the bonfire. Petro heard shouts and screams as the people nearby started to flee. When he turned, he saw Emilia standing in a combat position, both her blades gleaming and at the ready. “Berro! Guards!” she cried, even as she eyed Thadeo with malevolent intent. “The charm-bearers with the skull masks! Detain them all.”

“Aye!” heard Petro, from some distance away. More shouts followed, but they were drowned out by the rapidly increasing volume of the crowd, who milled around uncertain of what to do.

Thadeo was in no mood for a fight, that much was apparent. He used his bucket of lethal scraps as a shield, feinting first one direction and then the other before dashing forward past Emilia, toward the blaze. She spun to catch him, her blades outstretched and slicing through the air. One of them caught Thadeo on his shoulder, slicing through his cassock and into his flesh, leaving a bloody gash that ran down his arm. He roared like a trapped animal, then used his bulk to put all his energies in tossing the contents of his bucket toward the bonfire. Hundreds of little moons spilled across the ground with a clatter, some sliding perilously close to the flames.

“Damn you!” he yelled as Emilia drew close. He threw the empty bucket at her with all his might, then tried to scramble past again. His feet slipped on some of the little crescents, which brought him crashing to his knees. Beyond, on the other side of the bonfire, Petro watched in horror as two other loyalists with skull faces dashed as close to the bonfire as they dared and threw in their loads of
alum
-filled metal scraps.