Spira Mirabilis (40 page)

Her fire was accurate and sustained, while the Veians made plenty of smoke and noise but with little result. Scarcely a shot got off without one of the gun crews getting injured by a recoiling gun, rope burn or powder-flash, and whenever someone fell, the rest made a great hue and cry and were deathly slow replacing them. On the few occasions that their aim might have been true, shaky hands spilling powder and spume-doused wicks ensured that they missed most opportunities to fight back.

The Moor took all this in with glee. The
San Barabaso
was heading the northern column and his crew were artists with a collective consciousness of the ship’s pitch and roll. When the moment came to fire, not only had they far more practise, they had the technical edge – their guns were better cast, with clean bores, the powder was better, and dry; the wicks burned slower and more effectively – and there was a new Concordian locking mechanism that minimised misfires.

The Veians prepared to be rammed, but at the last moment, the
Barabaso
turned parallel, its action precisely mirrored by the
Bellicose
on the other side of the harbour, and each sailed majestically towards the centre, steadily peppering the Veian line. Their broadside cannons had no great range, but this close they had wonderfully destructive powers – and whilst they themselves were equally exposed to close-range retaliatory fire, the Veians were in no position to deliver it, for they were being simultaneously raked with fire from swinging siphons fore and aft of the
lead galleys. The
Barabaso
and the
Bellicose
were followed by two more galleys performing exactly the same manoeuvre, denying them any respite.

As they passed each other in the middle of the harbour, the Moor called over the thunder, ‘Fine hunting, eh?’

Scaevola declined to respond. He was taking his first command very seriously.

It was the sheer volume of shot that broke the Veian line more than accuracy. After each ship had traversed the line, it spat a final shot from the stern, then turned and turned again to meet in the middle. Coming parallel once more and facing the centre of the fractured line, they surged forward at ramming speed, breaking through like a spear-thrust, and the battle, till now a stately pavane, became a free-for-all. Even through the thick smoke that hung over the estuary, the Golden Fleet could see vessels breaking ranks and trying to flee. The worthless fishing boats they chased down and sank; others – those vessels that might have some worth – they took as prizes, including one large cargo ship after the crew mutinied and ran up a flag of surrender.

The wharfs of Veii were chaotic as ships docked wherever they could and the crews fled back to the city. Some of those who had not been part of the defensive line now broke their mooring ropes attempting to flee, and the Moor’s captains, loath to let even any reasonable prize escape, followed them out of the harbour.

Scaevola put his ship alongside the
San Barabaso
and ordered the Moor to stop them, but the admiral laughed at the notion. ‘These are the fruits of victory!’ he shouted back.

Those captains who neither fled nor fought but waited for the battle to decide paid the price for their lethargy when a new order came through from the duke, who commanded they
scupper their ships rather than let them fall into Ariminumese hands.

The Moor cursed to see so many prizes burn, and now it was Scaevola’s turn to chide him. ‘Cheer up, Admiral. Tomorrow, we’ll have a whole city to enjoy.’

‘I told her—’

…

‘—the midwife,
cretino—
!’

…

‘—about the Furies of course.
Madonna
, you don’t listen any more. I told her how they rattle my window frame and snap the flags outside so I can’t sleep. She just laughed and said it was the Tramontane. She also assures me that nightmares are perfectly
normal
for new mothers. Everything is normal with her. An excess of choler, she said.’ Maddalena smiled slyly. ‘I didn’t tell her what I dream about. She wouldn’t say
that’s
normal.’

…

‘Of course I’ll tell
you
. There’s a wedding feast in the piazza but – oh, it’s
so
dull – no one’s dancing. And the dancers outside the walls hear the music and want to get in and one of my enemies opens the gates and they burst into the city and the music is everywhere, and they’re after me. They scream, “Come and dance, Maddalena, or we’ll tell everyone what you did!” and I say “Not so loud!”’

The infant in her arms writhed peevishly – the servants despaired at how roughly she handled the sickly creature. ‘Hush! I’m talking to your grandpapa.’

…

‘His grip? Weak but, between you and me, I suspect the midwife botched it. That hag was always jealous of Mama, wasn’t
she? All she was interested in was bleeding me. I told her I’d bled quite enough, but still she insisted.’

…

‘No, you’re quite right. Normally I wouldn’t take orders from the likes of her, but she did rather have me at a disadvantage. Ha!’

The gleam in Maddalena’s eyes and the shine on her skin were not the healthy glow of a new mother. Her child had come early and with a great deal of pain, and she had been bedbound since with a fever – which had apparently finally broken this morning. Her servants, who had been assiduously keeping knives and hairpins away from her, now risked the Midnight Road to cross the Irenicon. They followed her to the Palazzo Bombelli, which they had abandoned so many months before. Now they sat quietly watching their mistress talking to an empty seat behind the banco in the overgrown courtyard and realised that the fever had merely entered a more dangerous phase.

‘Oh, don’t be squeamish! You saw your fair share of blood when Mama was around. Well, I wrote to my absent husband, telling him that the child looks nothing like him and that people are saying I put horns on him.’

…

‘Bah, don’t be so pious – he’ll laugh at that. But I told him another thing he won’t like. He wanted me to call the child after one of his illustrious ancestors but I told him – I said no. The very idea! A Concordian name? I said we’re going to name him after Papa!’ She threw the squealing child into the air again. ‘My little Fabbro – shall we weigh you? Yes, let’s do that!’

She attempted to put the child onto the scales, but the servant restrained her.

‘Get away, you harpies! He’s
mine
!’

She clawed them away with one hand and held the child to her bosom with the other, whispering, ‘See how they treat me,
Papa? They nag and interfere and whisper. They whisper that— Oh no, I can’t tell you that. You’ll never forgive me,’ and she spun and spun through the desolate courtyard until she sprawled across the floor of the banco. She sat up suddenly, staring at the servants. ‘Why are you just standing there, fools? Let’s go, or we’ll be late for the baptism.’

*

The baptistery’s roof had suffered some damage in the fire, but the formidable bronze doorway had remained intact.

‘All right now. Places everyone!’ Maddalena said strictly. ‘No, not like that – like this, see? You here, and you here. And when I come out, you applaud me.’

The women exchanged worried glances, but they made the guard of honour as their mistress instructed. Once she was inside the baptistery, she whipped out the letter knife she had taken from Fabbro’s banco. ‘Keep back!’ she shrieked.

‘Please, mistress, don’t—’

With a shrill giggle, she rammed her shoulder against the door and bolted it shut.

The interior was dim and cool, and water puddles fed by the leaking roof reflected what remained of the ceiling’s golden mosaic. She solemnly approached the font, her steps slowing as she got nearer. The small painted panels round the base showed terrible scenes – scenes from the dreams that plagued her: Herod’s soldiers tearing babies from their mothers’ arms and dashing their brains out on pillars. She darted a guilty glance at the sword hanging over the child shivering in her arms.

She placed the knife on the edge of the font before bending to put him on the cold stone floor, ignoring his wails of discomfort. She dipped her hand in the font and made the sign of the Sword and blessed herself, then dipped and again blessed herself, then once more. She began washing each finger separately, staring all the while at the vengeful hanging blade. With a sudden groan
she stumbled back from the font, narrowly avoiding treading on the bawling baby, and fell to her knees before the Madonna of Rasenna.

‘Hear my confession, gracious Lady. I have sinned. I’ve been – oh, the usual: proud, wrathful, envious—’

…

‘What? No. Who told you that? I
did
nothing of the sort. Oh, we talked about it – I was angry! – but I never thought we’d go through with it. Why does everyone blame me? All I wanted is to be respected and loved, like the Contessa. Is that too much to ask? You’re a fine one to judge – you never let a man get away with beating you!’

Locked in her reverie, Maddalena didn’t hear the hands pounding on the door. She picked up her child and hugged him so tightly that he screamed. ‘Oh, my little Fabbro, Mama was foolish! But it’s not too late. We can wash ourselves clean.’

She lifted him to the font and gently dipped the crown of his head into the icy water. As she did so, strong hands came from behind and held her in a tight embrace. Lips at her ear whispered, ‘
Murderer
.’

Maddalena screamed helplessly as her child slid into the font, its face, body and finally its legs kicking against her. The letter knife was inches away from her fingers – a great gulf. A stream of bubbles troubled the surface.

‘You betrayed Rasenna like you betrayed me. Admit it: you killed Fabbro.’

‘Uggeri, stop—’

‘Confess.’

‘You don’t understand—’

‘Confess!’

‘I confess—!’

‘
Bene
. This is your penance.’ And he pushed her face close to the water. She screamed, writhed, howled until the little legs
stopped kicking. A single bubble trembled on the surface and was gone. Uggeri released her and stepped back, breathing hard.

Maddalena picked up the knife. ‘Dogs eat cats and cats eat mice and you won’t enter paradise.’ She pointed it slowly at him, ‘Burn the candle. Ring the bell. Uggeri’s going straight to hell.’

Something about her crazy certainty made his flesh crawl. ‘That’s rich coming from a woman who murdered her father.’

‘Straight to hell. That wasn’t Geta’s son.’

‘Then you’re a bigger whore than I thought. Whose was it?’

‘Yours.’

Uggeri threw the blade and her aside. She struck her head as she fell. He ripped the little pink body from the water. ‘Oh, oh – Oh
Dio
– I didn’t
know
.’ He embraced the body and stared up at the Herod’s Sword glistening over the font. ‘Don’t do this to me –
don’t!
I’ve lost too much—’

The knife slipped neatly into his throat, puncturing the artery. Uggeri placed his son’s body gently on the edge of the font and turned around. He put one hand to his neck to staunch the flow and the other went instinctively to his assailant’s neck.

He found himself looking into Carmella’s eyes and the knife’s edge prodding his ribs.

‘We loved you, and this is how you repay us?’ Uggeri’s grip, always so strong, was weak as a babe’s. She rammed it in to the hilt. ‘This is how Herod was repaid.’ She pulled the blade out. Blood followed like watered wine.

He fell back against the font, watching Carmella drop the blade and kneel beside Maddalena. He was so thirsty. He turned to scoop a cool handful from the font, but before he could drink, the darkness swallowed him.

Whatever battle Maddalena had been fighting against the Furies was lost the moment she woke to see her child and her lover dead. She scrambled for the knife, but Carmella restrained her
in an embrace and crooned the Virgin’s Song. Maddalena tried to look away from the Herod’s Sword, but it was reflected in the blood seeping from the font towards her and she screamed – for herself, for her baby, for Uggeri, for Rasenna, for the innocent and guilty alike.

She
screamed
.

The Etruscan Annals

The shell spun in a lazy arc over the harbour, seemed to pause in mid-air like some low-hanging celestial body, and then plunged screaming towards Veii. First a small dust cloud blossomed on the distant wall, then came the muted crash of shattered masonry.

Leto looked up from the chessboard and shouted up at the lookout, ‘Well?’

‘Just shy, general.’

‘Adjust five points east.’

The bombardier made the corrections with a spring-line attached to a windlass and varied the amount of charge.

The Moor stalked the deck, sighing anew each time he caught a glimpse of the anchors keeping his ship pinned fore and aft. After the excitement of battle, this was crushingly dull. He loved the straightforward destruction rendered by the ships’ cannons, the drama of the fire-siphons, but mortars were sneaky, oblique things, Engineers’ weapons, not for seamen.

‘Sure I can’t give you a game, Azizi? We can play for gold.’

‘Thank you, no.’

‘Then what’s bothering you? You’ve a face like a slapped arse.’

He stamped his foot. ‘The deck is obscenely level.’

‘So I can shoot straight.’

‘Exactly. You’re using my flagship as a
platform
. It’s like using a sceptre to swat a fly.’

‘If you lack the stomach for this—’

The Moor leaned on the railings and watched fires bloom in the distant city. ‘I was born at the foot of the Atlas Mountains where the lions roam. From the first I have known the breadth and cruelty of the world, but this ignoble business of calculating arcs and slight adjustments—’ He paused and sighed again. ‘Without the element of chance, war is so …
grey
.’