The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (42 page)

Soon the fog had thickened so much that walkways and canals became indistinguishable. Pedro’s pass got him into the Arsenal district, but in the misty conditions he took first one wrong turn, then another, and he had to return to the main canal to get his bearings. Another
battaglia
was under way, more chaotic than before. The hump of each bridge was burdened by a brawling mob, and the air was filled with war cries, challenges and flags. Men tumbled into the canals, and some were fished out, others lay floating where they fell. The people on the boardwalk pressed towards the bridges, eager to join the fight – or gamble on it. Pedro, trying to go against the traffic, found his way blocked by a well-dressed young man.

‘Permesso
, Signore.’

‘Who’s form do you like, boy? The reds?’

‘I’d bet on the arsenalotti. Signore, I must—’

‘Ah, a working man? Of course, I knew I recognised you. You’re the Contessa’s pet engineer. Count Grimani, at your service.’

Just as Pedro realised this encounter wasn’t accidental, strong hands pulled him into an alley. None of the passers-by answered to his shouts for help – only the
battaglia
mattered. Grimani’s swordsman bundled Pedro into a gondola waiting at the other end of the alley and the count leapt in afterward. ‘You, search him; you, get moving.’ While the swordsman patted Pedro down, the gondolier pushed off and soon they were cruising down another canal under similarly thronged bridges. Dead and unconscious bodies floated by, and pairs of swimmers struggled together, trying to drown one another.

Grimani’s swordsman took an annunciator out of Pedro’s satchel and held it up with a blank expression.

‘So that’s how you’ve been spying on us,’ the ambassador tutted. ‘Give it here. Maybe that’s how you do it in Rasenna, but in Veii we consider eavesdropping’ – he smashed the annunciator against the side of the gondola – ‘very rude! I don’t know what you’re up to, but it’s no good. Perhaps if I give you to the Concordians, I can negotiate a wholly different league, with Veii in charge.’

‘You’d betray Etruria.’

‘So you’re another who thinks there’s such a thing as an Etrurian. Tell me, how can one be a traitor to a nation of traitors?’

A falling body created a massive splash that set the gondola swaying. Grimani looked up. ‘Insolent dogs! I could have you all strung—’

Suddenly a falling body crashed into the gondola and Grimani’s swordsman was knocked overboard. The body stirred, and Pedro realised it was draped not in grey or red, but in a fur-lined cape the colour of night and lined with stars.

‘Ferruccio!’ Grimani hissed, whipping out his sword and retreating to the gondola’s prow. The old man ignored him and turned to the gondolier, a more pressing danger, but Pedro had already grabbed his oar. Ferruccio’s blade rammed home, then he turned to deal with Grimani.

‘I have diplomatic immunity – you really don’t want to start a war with me, Count. Don’t come nearer.’

‘As you like,’ Ferruccio said. He crouched and began rocking the gondola from side to the side.

‘What are you doing?’ Grimani bleated, trying to keep his balance. ‘No, stop – I can’t— Ahhh!’ He fell into the water screaming, spluttering until he found a body to cling onto.

‘Hand me that paddle, lad,’ Ferruccio said.

‘Don’t be hasty,’ Grimani said, trying to paddle away as the gondola approached. ‘Look, we can make a deal! We can—’

Grimani was still begging when Ferruccio lifted the oar over
his head and brought it down on his head. Ferruccio turned to Pedro. ‘Where’s Sofia? Count Scaligeri saved my hide at Montaperti and I’m not about let his granddaughter be sacrificed. She needs to get out of Etruria, now.’

‘She’s leaving on an Oltremarine galley tonight.’

‘
Bene
.’ Ferruccio steered the gondola towards the dock ‘What do you need?’

‘Time. I have to get to the chain-tower, and they must be long gone before anyone notices.’

‘Right. I’ll keep these sham negotiations going as long as possible.’

‘And what about him?’ He looked at the body in the water.

‘Who? This never happened.’

After Pedro climbed onto the boardwalk, he turned back. ‘You knew the Concordian’s offer was a trap?’

‘From the first. I’d be a poor hunter if I didn’t. Go on now, lad – do what you must.’

Khoril, the
Tancred
’s commander, was a short hairy Levantine. He gave them a warm welcome – he was furious with the Ariminumese, and blamed the Moor for their confinement. The enmity between the two ex-pirates was obviously personal. Khoril had been looking forward to seeing the Moor dangle in the Arsenale, not running it. Still, when Ezra told Khoril the plan, he was sceptical.

‘It’s true,’ said Ezra. ‘The
Tancred
’s spooked them into Concord’s arms.’

‘Queen Catrina never learned to tread gently,’ said Khoril. ‘Look, if this were
my
ship, in a heartbeat I would do it.’

‘You wouldn’t have this fine retirement home if I hadn’t helped you outrun the Moor so many times.’

‘If I sink this galley, Queen Catrina will set me rowing in another, and you beside me.’

‘And if you let the Moor scuttle it, she’ll give you the freedom of Akka? Let’s keep her Majesty out of it. This is between you and me.’

Pedro’s pass got him through the Arsenal without arising further suspicion. The tower – a Rasenneisi would never call it that; it was more like a stubby lighthouse – sat on the very precipice of the southern horn. Its low, thick walls were built to take heavy pounding, and the chain cast to defy cutting – each link was as big as a child. It hung across the harbour in a shallow arch just above the water’s surface, attached to a huge wheel in the top storey. The northern horn had vanished in the fog, so it looked as if the chain was suspended in nothingness: a bridge to oblivion.

Pedro remembered the rope bridge he had made – was it really just two years ago? – the day he met Giovanni. A cascade of conflicting emotion assailed him. Giovanni, his friend, the man who taught him engineering, was not a man, but
water
. Certainly it was implausible, but could he really say it was impossible? Giovanni himself had told him that Wave Theory was the realm of paradox and shifting definitions. Pedro had seen one buio that thought it was a boy. The only difference was that Giovanni’s disguise had fooled even Giovanni himself.

Pedro gathered his courage and knocked on the door. He heard uneven, stumbling footsteps on a stairway before the watchman opened the door slot and grunted, ‘What’s it?’ A hot waft of alcohol came from his breath. ‘Oh. Maestro Vanzetti, isn’t it? What brings you out here?’

‘Just out for my passeggiata.’

‘Aye, s’lovely view.’

‘Bit chilly, though. Can I come in?’

Even drunk, the watchman was wary, ‘I ain’t supposed to— ’

Pedro interrupted genially before he could shut the latch. ‘Oh,
I understand.’ He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve anything to warm a fellow up instead?’

The watchman smiled through a trough of rotten teeth. ‘That’s the boy! I’ve just the medicine.’

He left the slot open as he turned his back, Pedro dropped the Whistle in and pulled the slot closed. The shrill beep ricocheted inside. After a second, he pulled the slot open and saw the watchman on his knees, holding his ears. Then his eyes rolled back and he fell over. Pedro reached in to open the door from the inside. The tower’s upper storey was open to the chill of the night, and the watchman had apparently been warming himself by a little stove. A jug of grappa was heating there.

Pedro examined the chain and the wheel by the light of a smoky cresset. Without help, raising the chain would be impossible – but he
could
slacken his end. Hopefully that would be enough – the
Tancred
’s displacement didn’t look to be as profound as the new Ariminumese galleys he’d been watching the arsenalotti build.

The moment he released the lock, the chain unwound with a thundering that made the whole tower shudder. The hot metal hissed like a great serpent as it hit the water; Pedro prayed that at this hour, this far from the city, it would not be heard.

He cut the dangling end of his hood off with his dagger and soaked the rag in grappa. Then he took his last annunciator from the satchel and tied the rag to its base before beginning to wind it up. He tilted the arms so that it would fly straight up when he released it. The burning rag was the signal the
Tancred
was waiting for. He prayed that they could see it through the fog.

A distant horn sounded.

‘Grazie Madonna!’ He took a swig of the grappa, then climbed down the stairs and poured what was left on the unconscious watchman and closed the door behind him. He would wake
tomorrow with all the symptoms of a bad hangover; with any luck he might not remember Pedro – and if he did, hopefully nobody would believe him until it was too late. Sofia and Levi needed all the time they could get, and he should get going too: Rasenneisi were about to become universally unpopular.

The thoughtful Reader will ask what place a Levantine kingdom has in a history of Etruria, but the very question, reflecting our generation’s theological amnesia, is its own answer. In the centuries since Jerusalem’s destruction, our ‘native’ religion has so altered that we forget it was forged in that holocaust. To the common Etrurian, perhaps, these scorched foundations are an irrelevant footnote, but this volume is meant for scholars
.

Since the removal of the Curia’s dead hand, it is hardly controversial to observe that our ‘Madonna’ is a composite figure. After scraping away those characteristics borrowed from Etruscan mythology,
¹⁶
we excavate the woman who led the First-Century Jewish rebellion that precipitated the rise of the Ebionite Radinate and the fall of the Etruscan Empire
.

That fall was cataclysmic, yet our peninsula was reborn in and renewed by its new Marian faith. Although we have since abandoned all
superstitions,
¹⁷
it would be unwise to forget that its light led Etruria out of the Age of Darkness and that its values continue to shape our history, for good and ill
.
¹⁸

Several home-bound Ariminumese barges rang their bells as they passed the
Tancred:
their masters might be on poor terms, but the sailors exchanged the usual courtesies. Over Khoril’s objections, Ezra didn’t steer the
Tancred
along the coast – the open sea might be more hazardous, but it was faster. Weather allowing, it would take a few days to escape the Adriatic’s confines, and Ezra wouldn’t be easy until they had passed out of the grasping Hands of Helen and into the Middle Sea. From there the swift trade winds would carry them East.

They made good headway – Ezra claimed the Bora wind owed him a favour – and a cheer from the nervous crew rang out at the first sight of the outstretched thumb of Etruria’s so-called hand. Normally the
Tancred
stopped in the Tarentine port of Brindisium, but not today – by now their escape was surely known, and the Ariminumese had doubtless set out in pursuit.

Ezra told them it was better to think of something else. ‘At sea, what matters most we control least. All we can do is do our work as well as possible.’

It sounded like something Doc would have said, and Sofia wondered what
he’d
make of her now, abandoning Etruria on the strength of a few bad dreams. She kept telling herself that her flight was Rasenna’s best hope, in the hope that she’d start believing it.

Levi’s respect for Ezra had visibly grown as he saw his expertise at the tiller, and how the crew relied on him. The Ebionite’s work might keep him at the stern, but nothing
escaped his keen black eyes. He watched the fog, stubbornly hugging the Etrurian coast, but his weatherbeaten face felt the wind changing and the colour of the sea, changing from cold green to dark blue, told its own tale.

Sofia had never sailed before, but discovered happily that it did not make her ill. Ezra inspired confidence; she found it fascinating to watch him work. As he checked the ship’s course against the stars and corrected it, he told her, ‘Wind and water are alive, and like us they change their mind ceaselessly. The stars alone are constant.’