The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (15 page)

As the dust settled on the mount, Bernoulli drew his plans for the cathedral to be built on the grave of St Eco’s. He understood the Etruscans – their love of the circle, the triangle, the balance of the horizontal with the vertical – and his optical studies gave him a philosophical appreciation of the spectrum, but he rejected all Classical precedents. His vision for what became the Molè Bernoulliana was monochromatic and severe
.
⁹

With hindsight, it is clear to us that Bernoulli’s conception of the Cathedral was more Europan than Etrurian but, when the Curia realised just how iconoclastic the style we call
Concordian Gothic
was, traditionalist architects reacted with shrill protests
.
¹⁰

His critics fell silent as the frame of one dome was capped by another and still another. It was clear to all Concordians that the right man had arrived at the right moment to solve the problem that had bested so many. Bernoulli had made his name as a bridge builder, after all, and what is a bridge but an arch, and what is a dome but three hundred and eighty arches? The triple dome of the Molè was more than an answer to Duke Scaligeri’s Cathedral; it was proof, for all Etruria, of Concordian superiority – though utterly different to that envisaged by the Curia so many years ago
.

Job 38: 8, 28

One year after the Siege of Rasenna, the Year of our Lady, 1371

The other students never mocked Uggeri’s elaborate preparations to his face; he was, after all, a hero of the siege which had ended with the destruction of the Twelfth Legion and the death of all but the youngest Apprentice. Uggeri made up for his late start in the Art Bandiera with practice and ability. He prepared like the bandieratori of old, and it was quite a thing to watch his prickly dissatisfaction as he picked a weapon from the rack – to hear him testing the flag’s snap and the wood’s spring, weighing it in his hand, tipping it, letting it roll over the top of his fist with the sceptical look of a man listening to a coin-changer. In any other student Sofia would have called it fetishism, but give Uggeri an enemy and all hesitancy disappeared like dew on sun-baked stones. The Doc used to say sincerity was as rare in a fighter as charity in Ariminum, but Uggeri did everything with sincerity.

He came at her roaring,

Tok

       Tok

                  Tok.

Sofia gave ground coolly. ‘Pace yourself. Every strike doesn’t have to be a knock-out.’

In response Uggeri roared again and leapt for her, twirling his banner in great red swoops. As Sofia stepped aside her flag did a great, leisurely rotation, then she suddenly jabbed his left leg.

‘Ugh!’ He tilted protectively, but declared defiantly, ‘I’m still standing.’

‘Not for long.’

She threw the same combination back and this time, balance gone and footing confused, he tripped himself. Sofia stood over him, flag aimed at his temple. ‘Bam, you’re asleep. From the moment you grip a flag you should be thinking. But you’re too angry to think. Find the peace at the heart of the fight and you’ll be unbeatable.’

Another student would have been embarrassed to be bested so easily, but Uggeri laughed and jumped up, eager to try it again. His approach to Art Bandiera was practical; before he’d picked up a flag he’d been a fighter. Things that other bandieratori valued – looking good, style – meant nothing to him, but Sofia knew he loved a good trick.

His devotion to her was fierce, and she trusted it because it had nothing to do with her former status. He had given his flag and his decina to Doc Bardini, but that loyalty did not automatically transfer to Sofia Scaligeri when she took over the Bardini workshop. Uggeri became a believer when he saw her fight.

‘Go easy on them, Contessa!’

Sofia turned sharply, smiling when she saw who it was. ‘Pedro Vanzetti! I’ll run my workshop my way, thank you very much. You concentrate on running the Engineers’ Guild. You left so many half-built churches when you disappeared that I’ve been thinking of picking up a hood myself.’

Pedro held up his hands contritely. ‘Matters of state; I returned as soon as I could.’ He wore the same outfit as all Rasenneisi engineers: a sleeveless leather jacket with several pockets, and hose and doublet in sober tones of grey and brown and black, but his long, tangling hood was used as a scarf and was dusty from his travels. He looked better with skin tanned by the sun
instead of the furmaces, and not covered with yellow grease and soot. ‘When’s the next meeting?’ he asked.

‘Tomorrow. I thought you were too busy for us now?’

‘I’m trying to remedy that,’ he said; he’d made a point of attending the monthly Signoria meetings until his responsibilities had interrupted.

A giant condottiere tilted his head into the workshop. ‘Where is she?’

‘Yuri!’

The students leapt out the way as he marched towards Sofia. He picked her up by the waist and held her above his head like a toddler. ‘Ooof!’ His cheeks puffed out. ‘Getting heavy! Fewer noodles and more exercise for the Contessa!’

While Yuri teased Sofia, Pedro hailed Uggeri warmly, though he wasn’t surprised when Uggeri returned the salute coldly. They might be contemporaries, but Pedro represented the city Rasenna was becoming: a city, like Concord, with engineers at its heart. Uggeri took it as a personal affront that the bandieratori were being marginalised. Pedro regretted the animosity, but not the progress Rasenna had made. The coming war would not be won with romantic notions.

‘Put me down, you oaf. I need to inspire respect in these boys.’

‘Who is disrespecting my Sofia?’ Yuri let her down and made a lumbering stampede at a cluster of students. ‘Show him to me!’ When they scattered before him, he turned around with a wave of a giant hand. ‘See? Respect is restored.’

Sofia made a courtly bow. ‘My valiant knight.’

Yuri curtseyed in return and said, ‘Where’s the peddler? Is he getting fat too?’

‘No, he’s getting saddle-sores riding up and down Etruria, preaching about this league like a wandering mendicant. I’m afraid he’s made few converts.’

‘Levi is good talker.’

‘Nobody’s that good,’ said Sofia, glancing at Uggeri, ‘and while you have been away—’

‘Don’t tells me,’ Yuri said warily, ‘the little mices are fiddling. I tell you, Contessa, there’ll be no peace until there’s war.’ He lumbered to the door, goodnaturedly picking up students and hurling them out of his way as he moved.

‘So, what did you learn at Montaperti?’ Sofia asked. Pedro had been reconnoîtring the terrain between Rasenna and Concord. Montaperti, the site of Rasenna’s greatest victory, remained the most likely route Concord would take – though a new offensive was unlikely any time soon if the remaining Apprentice’s hold on power was as tenuous as reported.

‘Well, I can see why your grandfather picked it. If they come, the pass is still the best place to stop them. I have some ideas to run by Levi.’

Sofia watched him as she listened. Pedro was no longer the fragile boy he had once been. He had a hardy strength acquired on building sites, and a solemn, kindly manner. Though he was not yet sixteen, he was growing into a man who reminded the older weavers of the tall, confident figure his father had been before the Families had beaten him down. Sofia was reminded of someone else – a painful memory – but she didn’t hold it against him. It was good to have some tangible mark besides the bridge of Giovanni’s time amongst them.

She eyed him now. ‘That doesn’t explain the length of your absence. Your orphans have been missing you.’

Pedro became suddenly coy. ‘I should see how they’re doing.’ The members of the Engineers’ Guild were known as Vanzetti’s Orphans because of their unsociable hours.

Sofa was about to press him when Yuri’s great head reappeared in the doorway. ‘Sofia! Donna Bombelli, she say come at once to Tower Sorrento. It’s time!’

When Tower Bombelli proved unequal to his growing operation, Fabbro Bombelli built a new workshop which looked exactly like a great palazzo. Rasenna’s new gonfaloniere insisted it was no such thing, but it had all the characteristics: thick uncompromising walls to keep the poor at bay, an atrium where petitioners could wait and a capacious courtyard lined with olive trees in large red pots with a fountain bubbling away in the centre.

Here Fabbro held court, dealing with supplicants and clients in the morning, conducting civic business in the evening. He’d never been slim, but he had grown even larger in the year since the siege was repulsed. Now he sat drumming his fingers impatiently on his dark banco, which was carved from agar-wood imported at great cost from Oltremare. Its rich, oily scent had come to be associated with debt by a great many Rasenneisi, and with evasion by others.

‘If not now, when?’ said Levi.

‘I don’t know, Podesta, but not now,’ the gonfaloniere said without looking up. ‘Too much to do.’

‘I took this job on the understanding that I would be listened to. All I find myself doing is answered for the condottieri.’

‘Perhaps if their conduct was—’

‘It’s no worse than any army!’ His voice echoed around the courtyard, upsetting the nesting doves, and Fabbro looked up. Levi apologised. He was used to that.

On the map before Fabbro were coins of different currencies, which he moved around cautiously, trying different combinations.
They represented the various sons and cousins Fabbro had dispatched as agents to the cities of Etruria and the frontier towns of Europa. As gonfaloniere, his proper place was across the river in the Palazzo del Popolo, but Fabbro was rich and few will tell a rich man how to conduct himself, and certainly not Fabbro’s debtors, a group that included all the priors of all the major Guilds.

Levi was also indebted to the gonfaloniere, for now Rasenna’s Signoria paid the Hawk’s Company’s wages. Levi was still the scarecrow who had first visited Rasenna two years ago, but he moved a bit slower these days. He was still learning to swim in the waters of the city’s politics. Like Fabbro, he carried dual responsibilities: in his case, Podesta of Rasenna and General of the Hawk’s Company. He had sought neither position, and their contradictions had worn him even thinner.

‘John Acuto always said Fortune’s not a lady to keep waiting,’ said Levi. ‘We’ll not have an opportunity so perfect. Concord’s in disarray: its nobility are restive and its engineers are panicked and virtually leaderless. No Apprentices have been elected to replace the two who died here and the last remaining is just a boy. Our enemy’s tower is tottering.’

‘Towers don’t fall easy,’ Fabbro said. ‘Take that from a Rasenneisi.’

‘Not if they’re tackled brick by brick – but a strong wind can perform prodigies. I have personal experience of that.’

Bandieratori kept Rasenna free of pickpockets, but the rogue castellans of the surrounding countryside were thieves on a greater scale. These self-styled barons might be pale shadows of the men Count Scaligeri had subdued half a century ago, but their newly-invented tolls were having a chilling effect on trade. In this case, Fabbro hadn’t needed persuading to use Rasenna’s new army to ‘free’ the contato, and Levi’s men had done a thorough job.

‘The South’s waiting for Rasenna to show leadership, an honour we earned by striking the first blow.’

‘If we’re so well regarded, why did no one accept your invitation to a summit?’ Fabbro scoffed.

‘Because those Ariminumese dogs refused to take part!’

‘Aye, they’re too busy making money. If you ask me, those
dogs
have the right idea. Waiting for Etrurians to agree is like waiting for a woman to be silent. Why should Ariminum be the only town to profit from Concord’s troubles?’

‘Because it won’t be long before some strongman wrests the baton from this boy and Concord’s legions are ordered back from Europa. Then the small gains we’ve made will be for nothing.’

Fabbro was once known for his imperturbability, but the stresses of power had chaned that. Hearing sound profits being denigrated was too much. ‘Rasenna’s gains may seem petty to you, but they pay your wage! You’ve managed to keep your men in check, I’ll give you that, but I doubt they’d be so docile if we didn’t buy their beer every night.’

Levi ignored the slight. ‘Another reason to take action. Give us something to do!’

Fabbro looked glumly down at the map as another voice interrupted,
‘You
don’t give orders to Papa!’

Levi sighed and turned around. ‘Good afternoon, Maddalena.’

A slim girl of sixteen waltzed in the courtyard. Her scarlet satin dress was gracefully tailored to cling to the sharp dips and peaks of her figure. The long sleeves ended in dangerously swinging large green gems. She had a small, elvish nose, wide eyes that could speak across a crowded room and a wide, brazen mouth that was generally set in a pout. For an Etrurian her skin was pale – Maddalena’s battleground was the gloomy underworld of wives and daughters who wielded gossip as generals used disinformation and bartered long intrigues and
brief alliances – but even so, her cheeks blazed and dulled with her humour. As Maddalena passed by to sit on her father’s banco, she smacked Levi’s neck with her fan, and not playfully either. She pushed Fabbro’s money piles aside and took up a Concordian coin.

‘That’s
Signorina
Bombelli to you. You take liberties, telling poor Papa what he must and mustn’t do. You’re a soldier and a foreigner. Rasenna is yet a republic. We shall keep our independence.’

‘Until it’s taken. As podesta, I am obliged to advise on military matters.’

‘Tactical matters. If we want to capture a convoy, the Signoria will consult you. In matters of strategy, your opinion is neither desired nor competent.’

Fabbro sank in his seat. ‘Maddalena, please—’

‘No! You’re too soft, Papa. These condottieri like to bully townsmen. We’ve let them live within our walls, given them their daily bread, and now they presume to dictate terms—’