Spira Mirabilis

by Aidan Harte

  ‘For the last time, I forbid you to give up Rasenna without a fight!’

  ‘For the last time, this town doesn’t have any fight left. You can be imperious as you like with the natives but when the legions come knocking, believe me, servility is our best defence.’

  ‘You’re a coward.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe. All General Spinther wants from Rasenna is quietude on his way south. He needs someone who can guarantee that and I’m willing to bet he’ll leave me in charge. We’re old friends.’

  ‘You’re gambling with the life of your unborn son,’ Maddalena hissed and stomped back to the doorway.

  ‘Amore, we’ve discussed this,’ he cried. ‘It’s a good bet.’ But she was gone, slamming the door behind her. ‘That woman,’ he said philosophically and wondered how to sneak out the whore under the bed without his wife noticing. His flag was sufficiently soiled already.

  CHAPTER 7

  The winds that scattered the dunes fell silent at dusk and uncanny black-bellied clouds crept silently from the west until the emerging stars were shrouded. The first drop fell before midnight and sands that had not seen rain for a generation were deluged. Sleepers awoke to the sound of the bone-dry rooftops of Akka being battered, and the percussive waves of thunder drowned the celebratory clackers and rejoicing. Streets became rushing streams.

  It ceased, as abruptly as it had begun, and the sand absorbed the puddles so thoroughly that it might have been a dream. Befuddled harbour gulls drifted over the city as white-cloaked angels of death bearing torches marched through the streets. The Lazars hammered on doors; any not immediately opened were broken down. They searched every Ebionite home; they ransacked boats moored in the harbour; they overturned merchant caravans about to embark across the Sands. Sentinels lined the walls as usual, but tonight the enemy they sought was within.

  The sinister flocks invaded every district bar one.

  A single Lazar silently prowled the Butchers’ Quarter, bearing a bundle instead of a torch. Puddles remained between the cobbles to reflect the moonlight. Not all the detritus of the day’s work had been washed away, and the smell of bad meat and old clots started to penetrate his mask. He stopped at a stall that fronted one of the abattoirs and listened; through the thick wooden door he could hear huffing oxen and hectoring goats. The lock looked intact in the darkness and he nearly passed on. Nearly. When he touched the lock gently, it fell in two.

  Drawing his axe, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  ‘Bleat and I’ll leave you hanging on a hook with the lambs.’

  The blade pressed deep in his neck, expertly placed beside the carotid. He was trembling from the blood pounding to his brain. ‘It’s me,’ he whispered.

  Sofia pulled the knife away. In the shafts of white light piercing the roof, her face was pale, though glistening with sweat. Her hair hung down in damp straggles.

  Fulk searched the darkness behind her and saw – there between the stalls of beasts patiently awaiting slaughter – the little manger. How he knew the child within was smiling, he could not have explained. He knew little of childbirth except that it was a deadly business that required an officiating midwife. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘All right?’ she said sardonically. ‘Hell, I’m blessed amongst women.’ But it was true: she had been dreading the litany of horrors new mothers suffered – cracked skin, weak back, swollen legs – but she felt nothing. Her body was hers again. Seeing his confusion, she explained, ‘My pain comes later.’

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Where’s Levi?’

  ‘He put up a fight, but they have him.’

  ‘And Arik?’

  ‘They … got him too.’

  ‘How long have I?’

  ‘A few hours at best. They’re moving from the walls inwards. Stay here and you’ll be discovered by dawn.’

  A short sob escaped her as she considered the reality of her situation. ‘I’ll go down flag in hand,’ she promised.

  There was a soft answering sob from the manger – just an infant’s cry, nothing more – but Fulk felt some hidden string within him plucked. The purity of it cleansed this wretched place, made it holy.

  ‘If you die, your child dies,’ he said unwrapping his bundle. ‘You have to trust me, Contessa.’

  She was confused, exhausted, terrified. He grabbed her shoulder as he would one of his brethren. ‘Stay strong, and put this on.’

  *

  The search parties in the street and the sentinels manning the citadel’s ramparts were looking for something out of the ordinary and so paid no attention to the boyish knight trailing the Grand Master, or the bundle he cradled so tightly in his arms. The citadel’s lower floors would be empty at this hour, so Fulk led her down to the workshop and lifted lids till he found a coffin without an occupant. She had always respected his courage, but when he lifted the coffin down to the slope with a single heave, she realised how physically strong he was too.

  He looked at her, waiting.

  ‘Are you pazzo?’

  ‘I said you’d have to trust me.’

  While she climbed in, grumbling, Fulk found a small plank that he deemed suitable and placed it beside her. The baby looked up at him. He was the most beautiful thing Fulk had ever seen. He hastened to brief Sofia before he began to weep. ‘You’ll be underground for a good minute – it’ll be bumpy, but don’t worry; there’s no space to overturn. Then you’ll feel the ground below you go and there’ll be a sudden drop and a big splash. I have to nail this tight because after the drop, you’ll be submerged, all right? There’ll be enough air to bring you up again. As soon as you feel the coffin return to the surface, break the lid open.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  He removed his gloves to hammer in the nails, then leaned in, holding up a scar-mottled index finger. ‘There’s a riptide – it’ll take you miles out if you let it. It’s too strong to fight, so just start paddling north – that’s the side the moon will be on. Once you’re free of the current, row to shore, but don’t tarry on the beach. There are dogs, and bandits worse than dogs, all looking for cast-ups. I’ll try and keep the search parties away as long as—’ He froze as the baby grabbed his finger.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said.

  Fulk jerked his hand away. ‘He shouldn’t touch me!’

  ‘His name’s Iscanno, and he can’t get sick – not that way.’

  ‘You can’t be sure,’ he said. But he knew she was right. Like any Lazar, he was accustomed to discreet looks of superstition from men, flinching sympathy from women and unconcealed horror from children – but Iscanno smiled at him with the steady eyes of a sage.

  ‘What’s his grip like?’

  ‘Strong.’

  ‘Thank you, Fulk – for tonight, for everything. I won’t forget.’

  ‘Just don’t forget to start paddling. Get away from Akka as quick as you can. There’s nothing here but death.’

  He hammered the lid shut, banged three times for luck and heaved the coffin onto the slope. ‘God’s speed,’ he muttered as it began to slide. It vanished as soon as it hit the water, and he felt a wave of desolation. He was a master of pain, but this new keen note threatened to unman him. He bent to pick up his gloves.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

  Fulk pulled his gloves on and nodded at Basilius. ‘Too bad I’m not the one you’re looking for. If we don’t find that Etrurian whore, the queen will throw us both in the Sea of Filth – or worse. Come. There’s a nest of places she could be hiding in the Butchers’ Quarter.’

  *

  Sofia was entombed in the bracing smell of fresh-cut cedar. There was no light, only Iscanno’s warm breath on her neck and a cascade of noises. Her sense of smell and sound and touch were all she had to rely on as her little vessel sped through the narrow tunnel, carried on rapid waters. She waited for the drop – was that it? That? How long had it been? It felt an age …

  Suddenly her he
art hit her ribs and she knew she was falling.

  whumpf

  There was a great blow as they struck the water and her shoulder hit the lid so hard she feared it would burst open. She could still feel Iscanno’s breath against her skin, but now there was cold trickling water too. The coffin slowed as buoyancy reasserted itself, then there was another surge as it shot upwards. She had time to consider a single terrible thought – what if it surfaced face-down? – before new sounds grabbed her attention: a bawling gull, lapping waves, a tolling bell. She pulled her fist back as far as it could go and—

  ‘Ugh!’

  The only thing that broke was the skin on her knuckle. Fulk had sealed the lid too securely. Every moment took them further out as the current’s tendrils caught them and started pulling them already. She heard the gull land on the lid. It paced about this strange floating fish, pecking its wooden belly.

  ‘Yah!’

  The coffin’s lid flew off, sending the gull flapping skywards, squawking its outrage.

  She gasped to see how far away Akka already was and reached for the paddle. It was still dark, but the band of watery orange light beyond the city heralded the morning. The dead were discharged frequently enough into the Lordemare not to be a novelty, but if anyone happened to be watching from Akka’s battlements, their attention could be drawn to the coffin suddenly bearing north. She prayed that every eye still turned inwards.

  By the time she escaped the current, she was shattered. The first spark of dawn gave her the spirit to finish the job – that, and the knowledge that she’d just become very visible.

  When she felt the coffin bottom catching, she climbed out awkwardly, carrying Iscanno. She fell, but managed to hold him clear of the shallow water as she picked herself up and waded to dry sand. She threw herself down, breathing hard, looking around: the last time she been in this situation, scavengers had attacked. Even so, she couldn’t move. She watched the empty coffin being carried out to sea again and wondered where it would wash up. Etruria? She might have done better to have gone to sleep, allow herself to perish quietly and be buried in the soil of her motherland, instead of prolonging the inevitable in this hellhole – but no. She wrenched herself out of her mawkish fantasy. Iscanno depended on her to be strong. Up, you spoiled brat. She could hear the Reverend Mother’s croak and pulled herself to her feet. As long as you can breathe, you can fight.

  The forsaken shore on which she had washed up was north of Akka’s Harbour; any traders who failed to make it to the city’s gates before curfew camped here. There were a few isolated dying campfires and as she came closer she could hear the sighs and moans of waking camels. She doubted she’d be able to steal one without being discovered – the Sown lived in fear of tribal banditry – but even so, she was looking about for a likely target when she saw the silhouette of a man riding towards her.

  ‘Ho there!’

  There was nowhere to flee, so Sofia prepared to fight, all the while praying she would not need to. She was still dressed as a Lazar and this close to Akka the queen’s men were not molested without consequence.

  The stranger pulled his white horse short. ‘Why is your hand on your weapon, Mistress? Do you not recognise me?’

  It took her a moment, then, ‘… Abdel? What are you doing here?’

  ‘The Grand Master entrusted me to wait for you here and’ – the Moorish slave hopped down – ‘to present you with this clumsy creature. Dressed as you are, a horse will be less conspicuous than a camel.’ He patted a bundle tied to the saddle. ‘There is a change of clothing here – a simple shift and veil – and bread and water. I would have taken more, but it would have been conspicuous. All the Sown are suspects until you are found.’

  Sofia nearly cried with gratitude, but instead she hugged him hard and kissed him. ‘Tell Fulk I can never repay his kindness.’

  ‘Repay him by taking yourself far away,’ Abdel said sadly. ‘An evil time is come to Akka.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The sky of bleached cobalt was tyrannised by the patient white sun that reflected, dazzling, off the sand crystals. She rode with Iscanno tied to her chest, as she’d seen the Ebionite women in Akka do, and covered by the white cloak, until she stopped to rest by a cluster of tall speckled rocks. Iscanno was happy to be unbound while she changed into the Ebionite clothes and buried the uniform. She covered the disturbed sand with stones, though she knew it wouldn’t fool any decent tracker. She kept the axe. She watered the mare first, then herself, taking care to ration her own sips from the waterskin.

  As she fed Iscanno, Sofia looked about to see what effect the monsoon had had – but she could see nothing.

  The Sands had swallowed every drop of the torrential downpour. Disappointed, she lay down in the shade – and was thrilled to discover a small lizard hiding under the rocks. Down its back were stripes of vivid yellow, the colour of the crocuses of the Rasenneisi contato. So life was possible here.

  She feared to sleep too long, and after a few hours of uneasy dozing she set off again. She rode until dark, when a lonely tamarisk bush served as kindling for a fire too small to warm her but large enough to scare away potential scavengers. The night was bitterly cold, and she hugged Iscanno close as she prayed for the sun to hurry back and thaw out her bones.

  A few hours later, she was cursing its heat.

  The Kerak Malregard sat on the summit of a hill whose hard-edged lines proclaimed it obviously manmade. The kerak dominated the eastern border of Esdraelon Plain, overseeing the Akkan border. Though the Guiscards made bold claim to rule beyond the dry bowl of Galilee, this was the true limit of Akkan power. Further east were the badlands, where no merchant caravan willingly ventured.

  Kerak Malregard was the keystone of a ring of garrisons surrounding the city. The keraks might be architecturally unimaginative, but they served their purpose. If the Lazars were to patrol Akka’s hinterland effectively, they needed well-provisioned redoubts at the end of each day’s march where they could rest and regroup, or to retreat to if met by a superior force. The outermost garrison ring had been abandoned for years: some of the keraks had been buried by the Sands and others had been claimed by whichever tribe was locally dominant. But the inner rings remained in active use; they were sufficiently well maintained and equipped to cool the ardour of any ambitious nasi. The tribes were more likely to try to sneak around the forts than attack them, but then they had to contend with the increasing probability of being outflanked, and the closer to Akka they got, the greater the danger.

  Besides a garrison of queen’s men, Sofia knew the Malregard had deep, full cisterns. She might go there now, beg sanctuary, and drink her fill of cool water – and that too was death, and so she rode on and prayed that no one was looking her way.

  In another hour the valley was flooded with a windless heat that shimmered like oil on water. She’d been moving gradually downhill, and now there were small signs of the downpour – the song of invisible birds and the constant merry chirp of crickets. Her mare grew stupid, often stumbling, and Iscanno was uncomfortable under the scarf, but she dared not expose him to the sun. The suspicion that a more experienced traveller would have found water by now was galling, but she sucked on a pebble and ignored it.

  The further east she travelled, the less certain she was of the wisdom of her course. She was reconsidering her limited options when they came to a patch of black stumps that once must have been a copse of trees. Ahead lay a patch of grass, lush, green and perfectly round, and her horse broke into a trot. With difficulty, she held the panting animal back.

  The grass was no apparition, but she peered closely and soon discerned a slightly darker tone to the surrounding sand, as though the rains had not fully soaked through. It made a great circle, forty braccia across. None of the tree stumps were within its circumference. She knew a camel would be savvier about the snares of the Sands than her poor mare; absent an animal’s instincts, she must trust her gut. Something was off. She led the protesting horse around, only
to be faced with another grass patch, and yet another, up ahead. There were dozens now, and it was increasingly hard leading her dehydrated beast around each of these temptations. She was concentrating so hard on the circles that by the time she noticed a red flower in their path, it was too late: the mare had thrust her head forward and gobbled it.

  ‘Avanti!’ she cried, and dug her heels in, forcing the mare into a gallop. Behind her she heard the explosion and felt the sand scatter as the Jinni burst from its trap. She pulled her veil tighter around her face and leaned forward, urging the mare on, though she had no idea if the Jinni could be outrun. The miniature storm swept by and Sofia felt herself lifted from the saddle. Still she kept hold of the reins and then – a miracle! – she felt the storm’s hold weaken and she sank back onto the mare’s back. Perhaps this type of Jinn was restricted to a certain radius?

  But she had no time to rejoice before the panicked horse tripped over one of the tree stumps and tumbled to the ground. Sofia landed on her back, protecting Iscanno, and she pressed his face to her body, covering him with her arms and keeping her own eyes shut till the screaming wind had died away and the rain of sand particles subsided.

  Warily, she shook off the shallow layer of sand covering her legs. Iscanno emerged smiling from the folds of the scarf and she kissed him with relief. A few braccia ahead, the now thoroughly disorientated horse was back on its legs, shaking her head, flicking the sand from ears and tail. She looked about foolishly, then neighed contentedly at finding herself right beside one of the lush grass patches. Sofia looked down: they too were sitting on discoloured sand. She leaped up and ran for the tree stump the horse had tripped over.

  The horse was at last able to satisfy her hunger – but no sooner had she bent her head to nibble the inviting grass than the green centre capsized.

  Sofia already had her axe out. She would not look back, though she heard the mare whinny despairingly as dark sand churning like mud dragged her down. Feeling the sands flowing round her feet, Sofia leaped. The axe sank into the dead wood and she kept tight hold of the handle even as the sand sucked at her feet.