The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (17 page)

‘What a scare you gave the farmer. He thought you were going to drop him!’

‘I ought to have. Cold-hearted
stronzo.’

Sofia and Donna Bombelli were walking to the bridge from Tower Sorrento. Piazza Luna no longer looked like an accidental creation; with the new bridge and the rebuilding of the Signoria’s meeting hall, the piazza had unexpectedly attained civic dignity, though increasingly new towers were encroaching on its half-moon shape. Rasenna was remaking itself. In every ward, the presiding Guild advertised their respectability and wealth by clearing space for an oversized piazza and decorating it with vulgar fountains and statues.

Only the thoroughfare to the southern gate was kept wide
and unimpeded. A steady flow of well-packed carts took Rasenneisi linens and wool south and brought back the Oltremarine spices that Rasenneisi had developed such a taste for of late. Goods from Europa couldn’t come via Concordian lands, so the Irenicon was choked with broad-beamed barques waiting to dock. Their clinker-built hulls, bulging with the heavy materials Rasenneisi engineers needed, sat low in the water.

‘The farmer’s no monster, he’s just cheap – who will marry Rosa now? He’s got two mouths to feed that will never bring his tower anything but shame.’

‘Shame! As if the Sorrentos are unique. We’ve been busy every day this month, and Melissa Tesoro and Lucrezia Abbrescia will pop any day now. There are a hundred girls in Rasenna praying for blood at the end of the month.’

Donna Bombelli was surprised at Sofia’s vehemence. ‘I’m just glad I have your help. I’m too old and Rasenna’s too big to have just one midwife.’

‘I’m trying to fill Doc’s shoes best I can.’

‘Well, thank Madonna this one went smoothly.’

‘She’s young. It’s only the old ones who have difficulties—’ Sofia stopped. ‘That is, there’s more of a chance of—’

Donna Bombelli just laughed. ‘Stop back-tracking. I’ve done it enough times to know it doesn’t get easier. It wears you, sure as washing wears dye out of wool.’ She rubbed her hand fondly on the bump. ‘After this one –
basta!
If Fabbro gets so much as a twinkle in his eye I’m going to chase him from the bed-chamber with the broomstick.’

The noonday chime made Donna Bombelli’s head turn, and Sofia noticed her proud smile. Her husband was determined to leave his mark with his ambitious
Renovatio Urbis
. The new Palazzo del Popolo might still sound strange to her, but the magnificent tower it housed was capped by a clock that counted
not only the hours but the phases of the moon, the rotation of the zodiac and the seasonal ebb of the Irenicon.

Sofia laughed. ‘I’ll let you borrow a banner from the workshop. I never imagined Fabbro such a goat. You should be happy, most men his age—’

‘Most men his age work for him,’ said the old matron with pride, then rolled her eyes. ‘You know how men are. The more Bombelli business expands, the more Fabbro’s—’ she giggled like a girl.

‘Give yourself a holiday. Hire a pretty maid to scrub the floor in front of his banco in the mornings.’

‘Contessa!’ said Donna Morello with mock indignation. ‘Such an imagination for such a delicate young lady. Besides, it wouldn’t work – even with his trousers round his ankles, my husband’s a businessman. Bastards are a luxury only nobles can afford. The cost-benefit ratio would make Fabbro wilt before any transaction could be effected.’

Sofia avoided looking at the Irenicon as they reached the bridge. The wound still wept, and enough time had passed for her to realise it would never heal. At arm’s length, beyond an impassable frontier, Giovanni
survived
, but she could not reach him. He was in another country. When they pressed onto the bridge between the baying salesmen, the Rasenneisi made way for Sofia. The balustrade had been left unmended in tribute to the dead of the Morello revolt, until commerce trumped sentiment; when the foreign merchants complained, the Wool Guild offered to pay for a yearly mass instead, and the damage was now completely repaired. Memory was subject to conversion like every other coin.

Donna Bombelli noticed Sofia’s downcast eyes. ‘Sleeping these days?’

‘I’m not dreaming about that boy, the Apprentice, any more. Sometimes I dream – it’s strange – I have my back turned to a
ruined city. Don’t ask me how I know what it is, I just know. I know like I know that it’s forbidden to look at it.’

‘Let me guess – you look?’

‘And the second I do, it crumbles – the whole city, into dust.’

‘Wonder what that means …’

‘It means I should find a better place to drink than the Lion’s Fountain. You’ve been a rock, Donna Bombelli, but I sometimes wish the Reverend Mother was around.’

They walked on in silence for a space.

‘Have you told the little Sister about it?’

‘Isabella has her hands full with novices and orphans. I’m not going to trouble her with my fantasies.’

But Donna Bombelli wasn’t listening any more. ‘What
is
that girl up to now?’ she said with an intake of breath.

Sofia followed her gaze to the jewellery stall. ‘Outman-oeuvring
that
poor condottiere, by the looks of it.’

‘Signorina Scaligeri. Donna Bombelli,’ said Levi with a courteous bow, ‘your daughter’s kindly permitted me to buy her a small gift.’

Donna Bombelli eyed Maddalena knowingly. ‘I hope you haven’t been pestering the gallant gentleman. Did you thank him?’

‘No, Mama. Yes, Mama.’ Maddalena performed a slow curtsey to Levi. Then, with the same satirical coyness, she grimaced. ‘Mama! You stink like a whorehouse. How many times must I tell you: midwifery isn’t a fitting occupation for a magnate’s wife. We’ve a
name
now – let someone more suitable take over. Now that Rasenna’s got real soldiers’ – she tapped Levi’s chest affectionately – ‘the
former
Contessa must needs work. What say you, Signoria Scaligeri? Mama thinks you’re a natural. Now that there’s no one to raid, your workshop’s pointless. I bet you miss that daily fix of horror. So long as your hands are bloody by the end of day you’re not particular how it gets there, are you?’

Sofia smiled. ‘No, I’m not particular. Insult me again and I’ll prove it. Your father’s this year’s Gonfaloniere, but that doesn’t make you royalty.’

‘Ah. Rasenna can only have one princess.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Donna Bombelli, grabbing her daughter by the arm and marching her back to Palazzo Bombelli. ‘Wait till I tell your father …’

‘Madonna, that girl.’ Levi whistled in relief. ‘I’d rather face the remaining Concordian legions than her tongue. Did she upset you?’

Sofia was breathing through her nose with a strange look on her face. Her normal olive skin paled and she suddenly rushed to the balustrade and retched into the river. She coughed and spat and rubbed her mouth before looking up.
‘Merda.’

Levi patted her back. ‘Something you ate?’

‘Didn’t have breakfast.’

‘Don’t let Maddalena get to you.’

‘Would it be impolitic to break her nose?’

‘Sofia.’

‘I’ve just got to take it. Great.’ Sofia looked around defiantly until the curious turned back to their business. ‘I’m just not used to it, to these—’

‘—bitches?’ Levi offered.

‘They silently hated me because I was free to do things they couldn’t. Now that the Families are gone, they feel free to insult me. Come up the tower. We’ll get some breakfast.’

She rarely called it Tower Scaligeri, though it was hers now. She still half-expected to see Doc Bardini’s watchful silhouette on the rooftop, looking over Rasenna and spinning his plans. Everything else was the same – the workshop full of fighters, boys and young men, bandieratori learning the
Art Bandiera
, training with sticks until they were ready for flags …

As they climbed the hill, Levi complained in his droll way
about Fabbro’s apathy. ‘He doesn’t see the urgency. I’ve never seen him move fast unless there’s some gold in it.’

Sofia shared Levi’s anxieties, but she let him talk. She was still feeling a little queasy, but there was more: she remembered the Doc’s informal meetings, where he had corralled consensus. Growing up, she’d never questioned his reasoning – Bardini interests were Scaligeri interests, and so Rasenna’s – but now she knew better. The Signoria must speak for
all
Rasenna not just one tower. Finally she interrupted. ‘Say this in the Palazzo del Popolo. I’ll back you.’ But even that was too much, and she immediately regretted it. Prior agreements rendered the Signoria meaningless. It ended with two parties blocking their ears to each other’s arguments, every issue decided by who could buy the most votes. It was still the violence of the strong against the weak, only a tad more civilised than bandieratori fighting it out on the rooftops.

When they reached the tower, Sofia popped into the workshop to check on her boys.

‘Porca miseria!
What’s this?’ she cried when she found them trading fight stories instead of paired off in tight rows and sparring. She broke the little groups up with a clap of her hands. ‘You’d think you don’t need practise!’

It was still marvellous to Levi. His condottieri were some of Etruria’s best-drilled soldiers and he knew the difficulties of coordinating
any
group of men in the twilight confusion of battle. The first time he’d first seen a troop of bandieratori was at the siege of Rasenna: a moving mass of colour, swooping in syncopated moves like a great serpent writhing on the dusty battlefield. The discipline of the individual within the chaotic mêlée had seemed nothing short of miraculous. In the year the Hawk’s Company had been stationed in Rasenna, he’d come to understand the thoroughness of bandieratori training, seeing how devoutly the basic sets were drilled, how obsessively minor
infelicities were corrected, how reflexes and improvisation were honed as Sofia’s boys rose to the challenge. Doc Bardini was gone, but they had her and Uggeri to show them what was possible.

Levi knew it had been a necessary discipline, that without
Art Bandiera
, Rasenna would have destroyed itself centuries ago. Rasenna’s beauty was not docile or retreating, and her emblem was no accident: these people were lions. They must scream and howl, break glass and beat drums. Since the day he had agreed to become Podesta, one question had plagued him: his job was to make war on Rasenna’s enemies and to keep the peace within her walls – but how long can there be peace between lions and hawks?

Sofia was looking about for Tommaso Sorrento, Rosa’s brother, to tell him he’d just become an uncle.

‘He’s gone to the Lion’s Fountain.’

‘Bit early …’ Sofia wasn’t annoyed; the boy was entitled to celebrate, and he’d probably cleared it with Uggeri – but where was Uggeri?

‘With Tommaso,’ said one of the boys carelessly, and Sofia froze. Uggeri drinking in the middle of the day? That didn’t sound right. Then she noticed that three of the older students were gone too.

She looked at Levi and swore, ‘Madonna!’ She grabbed a flag from the rack and raced for the door. ‘Levi, I can’t wait for you!’

‘Don’t! Go!’

An hour past midday, when cats yawn and even lizards find shade. Red-slate-capped towers burn like lynch-mob torches. Men creep home like ghouls, keeping to the dark side of the alleys. For an hour the city is dead, streetside and topside.

The noonday sun reigned in perfect silence everywhere but the Lion’s Fountain. There the hours passed unnoticed. The tavern had grown with its clientele, expanding into something more than an unsanitary hole in the wall. Bocca, the proprietor, was a beer-bellied red-nosed cur, known to everyone as the brewer. He was founder and self-elected prior of the Vintners’ Guild, which had recently become important enough to merit (or wealthy enough to buy) a seat in the Palazzo del Popolo. Some things hadn’t changed; the wine was still wretched and nights in the cramped piazzetta still ended with the customary brawls, only now the fights were not between Rasenneisi but bandieratori and condottieri. The debris of last night’s revels – unconscious bodies, broken stools, shattered glass – hadn’t yet been cleared when the next wave came for their morning glass: sweet wine for bandieratori, beer and spirits for the foreigners.

Piers Becket had a rusty Anglish look and brute manners to match. He was young and strong and had boyish blue eyes, and he would have cut an impressive figure were it not for the helmet he always wore to cover the patch where his straw-like red hair was thinning. The condottiere was popular with the old inner circle who had set out with John Acuto from the Northern Isles. Like them he was a sailor – or pirate; the distinction
was academic – as well as a soldier; military men in Europa, Frankish and Anglish alike, were necessarily both. Tired of starving on small fish, Becket had joined one of the passing condottieri bands that were gravitating towards Etruria and its bull-market of warring states and there he jumped ship again, this time to join the celebrated Hawk’s Company.

‘I never regretted that decision until now,’ he said. ‘If I’d wanted to die of boredom in a town garrison I’d have stayed at home.’

‘How did we go so wrong?’ a fellow drinker burbled.

The question was rhetorical, but Becket had the answer: ‘Levi. We should have collected our gold and moved on the moment we destroyed the Twelfth. Waiting here, doing nothing, we’re not only passing up the cream of the year’s Contracts, we’re giving Concord time to regroup.’

‘Concord’s done,’ said a bandieratoro sitting at the next table, ‘and, as I recall, the Twelfth were destroying
you
until
we
showed up.’

‘Your flags were a nice distraction, boy, I’ll give them that,’ Becket said genially. ‘All that noise and colour – why, it was like carnival! But don’t take credit for
our
victory. That was a battle, not a street fight.’

The Rasenneisi table scoffed, but it was uneasy laughter. The absence of a common enemy, and of any objective other than defence, sat uneasily with both groups, who had nothing to occupy their time now but sterile arguments over precedence.

‘Congratulations, then,’ said a different Rasenneisi voice.