The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (34 page)

Levi held his nose and murmured, ‘The only time you need worry about farmers is when they stop complaining. You know what’s over that pass south and yonder? Gubbio.’

Sofia felt a stabbing chill at the name and pressed her heels to her mount. They rode quickly past to escape its bad luck and whatever miasma poisoned the air, not stopping until they reached a mountain clearing that overlooked the beginning of the Ariminumese contato.

They’d forded the Ariminus a while back, and now they saw its winding trail eased down the flat slope to empty into the lagoon, its strength spent, with sundry tributaries veering off to the south like deserters.

The last time Sofia had approached this city, she had taken another route from Concord. It was getting dark, and just as then, Ariminum’s twinkling lights glowed in the night like an aurora: the burning energy of ceaseless trade, the type of city Bombelli wanted to build, the city Giovanni’s bridge had made possible.

As Pedro and Sofia went to collect firewood, Pedro started to talk about Ariminum’s famous shipyard, which he was eager to see for himself. ‘Giovanni would be proud of you,’ Sofia said.

Their mutual esteem for the dead engineer made them affectionate to each other, but each was weighed down by things unsaid. Pedro had never dared tell Sofia that Giovanni was a Bernoulli – even if he could find the words, what would be the point of adding to her grief?

Sofia wondered if she could ever tell Pedro – or Levi, for that matter – the truth about Giovanni. She had always been vague about the manner of his death, intimating that he had drowned when the second Wave struck. There was no way to make people understand that, in one sense, Giovanni hadn’t died. But whatever he was, buio or man, he had sacrificed himself to save Rasenna, so perhaps that was all that mattered. At times she felt his presence, in her dreams, when cold rain struck her skin, when she looked into the undulating, leaping froth of the Irenicon going under the bridge …

Pedro picked up the wood and left Sofia to her thoughts and she gazed down at the two horns of Ariminum’s harbour stretching wide apart, welcoming the Adriatic, Ariminum’s ‘road’ to the great Middle Sea and the infidel lands beyond. To the north lay the great Venetian Gulf – more swamp than sea,
to be sure, and cluttered with marsh islands and rocks, but the gulf was Ariminum’s back door to Europa, by which it avoided Concordian tolls. Growing up under Doc’s flag, Sofia had
learned
Rasenna, from its narrowest alleys to its highest tower-tops. It was a world complete unto itself – an illusion destroyed when she was taken to Concord. Now she knew that Rasenna was but one tower amongst many. Based on her last experience of negotiating with the Ariminumese, with John Acuto, the summit would be a protracted affair.

This was much more than a positive political development for her, though: the opportunity to escape Rasenna before every fool in the street could see she was pregnant was God-sent. She felt her stomach with mixed dread and excitement:
life
, inside her and growing, like an idea in one’s mind, but much more. This was
real
. But the summit was unlikely to last more than a few weeks at best; what should she do when it concluded? Stay until she had the baby then return with an ‘orphan’? She knew Rasenna; no one would be fooled by that charade. And if Isabella was right, neither option was safe.

But it was hard to consider abstract danger when the prospect of humiliation was so much more real. Sofia had grown up with the boys of Workshop Bardini; she had heard the mockery pelted at unmarried mothers. Some families had a grim solution to the shame: a midnight drowning. There were many Rasenneisi – like Maddalena Bombelli – who’d rejoice to see the proud Scaligeri heir brought low. Even worse than the mockery, she feared the high-minded pity of the matrons. Only now that there was a small chance of avoiding this would Sofia admit to herself how scared she had been.

When she wandered back to the fire, Levi was saying to Pedro, ‘Don’t get your hopes up about the shipyard, kid. We’ll be lucky if they don’t make us camp outside the walls like last time. Right, Sofia?’

She smiled in acknowledgement. In the silence, the fire popped and winds howled between distant peaks. Levi threw some more wood on. ‘Tired, huh? Tomorrow’ll be easier.’ He smiled at Sofia. ‘It’s downhill all the way—’

‘I’m with child.’

Pedro and Levi looked at each other in alarm, then back at Sofia. She stared at them as if ready to fight. ‘There it is! It’ll be impossible to hide soon.’

‘Contessa!’ Levi smiled wanly. ‘Congratulations!’

‘You mean commiserations. You mean who’s the father? Well, I won’t say but I can tell you I don’t intend to return to Rasenna until after. You called me Contessa, Levi, but I gave up that title. The Scaligeri name’s all I have now, and if this gets out, I won’t even have that.’

‘You can count on my discretion,’ Pedro said.

‘Thank you,’ Sofia said, and turned to Levi.

‘How can you even ask?’ He was indignant. ‘I’ll defend your honour with my life.’

‘All I ask is silence.’

The riding next morning was smoother, as Levi had promised. The ground levelled off into a great green flatness; beyond the city’s high walls it ran seamlessly into the sea. An awkward silence had troubled breakfast and more than once Levi caught Pedro looking at him narrowly as he stamped out the fire.

Sofia was riding slowly behind. Levi fell back into step beside her. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Fine.’

‘Look, that’s where the Hawk’s camp was – remember?’

Sofia said absently, ‘Yes.’

Levi took hold of her arm. ‘Look here, damnit! I’ve never blamed a soldier for having fun when they get an opportunity – a girl just pays a higher penalty, that’s all—’

‘Fun?’
She pulled her arm away. ‘It wasn’t like that!’

Levi’s face clouded. ‘Who?’

‘It wasn’t like that either. It was … something else. I told you and Pedro out of respect. Respect my privacy.’

Levi nodded quickly. ‘I understand. Forgive me.’ He flicked the reins with forced casualness and rode ahead. Pedro looked back as he caught up and Levi saw again the suspicion behind his glance. ‘How dare you, boy? She’s almost half my age!’ It was a weak defence; that had never stopped a condottieri before, but Pedro knew the truth when he heard it and apologised.

The road was lined by poplars which overshadowed it like long fangs; the trees were overshadowed themselves by the soaring columns of a ruined Etruscan aqueduct. When Pedro wondered aloud that no one repaired it, neither Levi nor Sofia replied, though either might have told him that Ariminum had no lack of water. As the party rode up to Ariminum they kept their distance from each other and their fears private.

Take care around men who are careful when drunk
. Lord Geta spoke boldly in his cups, but some remembered that he had not spoken quite so freely before the Molè burned, no matter how many bottles had stood empty on his private table. Bold talk was commonplace now; few thought it likely that the engineers would remain Concord’s masters much longer.

‘You can’t tell me we were all bad or that you didn’t want us. We lived for
you
. The mob must work so that a few may dance, write verse, fight duels – we were your hawks; we made the hunt elegant and you gave it all to the dogs. Bad luck, Signori, bad luck.’

As Geta warmed to his theme, the older drinkers shook their heads and smiled. The speech was foolish and self-serving, but it was true. It was hardly an unusual subject for a drunken noble to declaim upon, but most suspected that even if it were in Geta’s power, he wouldn’t change a thing.

‘Oh, we had our fun, but you whores encouraged us: you can play coy, but you raised your skirts ready enough.’ His languorous merriment matched neither his polemic nor his military bearing.

‘Give it a bloody rest, Geta.’ The voice drifted through the mingled smoke and body heat that passed for atmosphere in The Rule and Compass.

Geta ignored him. ‘The noble Senator Tremellius was the Re-Formation’s first casualty. Its second? Glad you asked: nobility itself, no less. So, all equal, all impoverished.’ He looked around
for his long-departed lady companion, snorted a laugh and lazily surveyed the company through the yellow gloom. ‘Not that ye lice would notice the difference.’

A different voice answered this time, a boy’s, and the tone was not bantering. ‘You’re the bloodsucker.’

The tavern fell silent. Geta appeared not to have heard, but as if remembering some pressing appointment, he suddenly stirred, pulling himself up to his full height with a languid grace that belied his drunkenness. He pulled his heavy cloak over his shoulder and snatched up his hat, setting it at a precise angle, more dandy than soldier, before striding out. The other patrons watched fondly; his proud bearing carried the past with him – a hundred battles, a thousand banquets. Even with his limp, the snapping heels of his long boots and bright ringing spurs conjured stately dances of days gone by – dances to which they would never have been invited. Now nobody danced, the musicians had departed and they called it progress.

It was almost a shock when Geta stumbled into a low table where a girl and boy sat whispering together in low voices under low hoods that covered their faces.

‘A thousand, one million apologies, my good—’

‘Mind your step, you drunken oaf,’ the boy snarled, pushing Geta’s elbow so that he lost his balance again and fell sprawled on his back.

Lord Geta lay there a moment and sighed loudly. Presently he sat up and said with regret, ‘Boy, I must kill you for that.’

‘Lord Geta,’ the tavern owner began as the swordsman stood and dusted himself off, ‘just leave him alone – don’t you know he’s—?’

In a whirl of colour, Geta had his sword unsheathed and pointed at the boy’s neck. ‘An engineer? Is that what you’re going to tell me?’ He pushed the blade forward before the boy could react, though he wasn’t aiming to cut. With his blade he
pushed back the boy’s hood to reveal the numerals imprinted in sepia italics across the side of his shaven skull. ‘He might have been, if he hadn’t insulted the wrong fellow.’

The boy was speechless, but his partner spoke up. ‘My lord, please.’

Geta kept his blade pointed at the boy’s neck, but his eyes slid sideways. ‘Take off your hood.’ He looked at her appraisingly as she did. ‘You’re no beauty, Cadet,’ he said after a moment, ‘but you could do a
lot
better than this pug-nosed whelp.’

‘Please,’ she said. ‘He’ll—’

He brought the blade down and prodded the boy’s gullet. ‘Pay for my drink? Bloody generous of him. I’ve been running up my slate since yesterday morning and the lady I came in with appears to have absconded.’

As the stupefied boy fumbled for his purse, Geta leaned up against the bar and ordered another bottle. ‘Baldy’s paying.
Salute
,’ he shouted after the Cadets as they hurriedly stood up and left.

He pinched some snuff onto his hand as he kept an eye on the door. A month ago, Lord Geta’s only goal had been getting reinstated, but since the Battle of the Brothel a larger prize was in sight. He wasn’t about to leave the table, not with this hand, not while he was this hot.