by Aidan Harte
CHAPTER 34
More exiles arrived before the second day, and over Signore Lot’s shrill protestations, the quarantine was extended. Soon Rasenna was surrounded by a sea of tents and caravans. The wealthy tried to bribe their way in and Lord Geta happily collected their gold, but the gates remained closed.
The dancers took longer to arrive. The first swaying silhouettes were spotted in the distance on the third day. Some stricken by the Danse Macabre had exhausted themselves in an hour, but in others the fire smouldered on, and those who had somehow escaped Ariminum’s flames were drawn by an insatiable hunger for society to the nearest city: Rasenna, though many perished on the way, drowned in the rivers, froze on the mountain, eaten by wolves or murdered by suspicious farmers.
The exiles did their best to keep the infected away from the refugee camp. Young bravos rode forth to dispatch them at a safe distance; at night they kept fires burning and maintained diligent watch. It worked for a while – but they were not soldiers, and on the third watch of the fifth night the camp was breached.
Rasenna awoke to find itself besieged by hordes of dancers, all battering their fists bloody on her walls.
For want of anything better, Geta had fiddlers and pipers stationed along the battlements. Then he waited for time to do its work and when that got boring, he helped the process along, applauding and shouting, ‘Bravo, amore! Good shot!’
Maddalena lowered her crossbow with a demure smile. ‘Where do you think the plague came from?’
‘Ariminum, of course.’
‘Yes, it did break out there,’ she said patiently.
‘Ah,’ said Geta catching on. ‘You think this dart was shot from a Concordian bow?’
‘Worse than that: I think we were the intended target. They’ve never forgiven us, and you didn’t help matters by embarrassing Spinther.’
Geta’s pride was wounded. ‘Truly my stock must be low to treat me so callously after all I’ve done for them.’
‘We must win back their favour.’
‘That’s easier said.’
‘It’s that, or kill Leto Spinther.’
The second suggestion dispelled his gloom. ‘My dear, you always know the right thing to say. Oh look – there’s Lot’s wife. Watch this shot …’
*
The restless horses stamped on the cold cobbles and their breath made a low-lying cloud over Piazza Luna. Geta’s horse Arête was impatiently waiting. His master was looking fondly on the sleeping city, wondering when he would see it again. Geta couldn’t boast that he was leaving Rasenna a better place, but the natives’ obstinacy was mostly to blame for that.
An outraged cry burst from the window above and the shutters slammed open. ‘It’s true! Bastard!’
The men attended to their saddles, grinning that their captain had missed his opportunity to make a quiet exit.
He looked up at his wife. ‘Maddalena, don’t misunderstand—’
‘I understand perfectly. You’re cutting your losses—’
‘I am devoted to you, our son and Rasenna, and that is why I must leave. The First Apprentice and General Spinther think I’m expendable – you said so yourself. I have to show them they’re wrong.’
‘What about us?’
‘Once I’m secure, I can protect you. Just keep the gates barred and hold tight. Bocca will look after you.’
‘That sot! I’ll be alone for the birth of our son, for his baptism. Uggeri will kill us both.’
‘I’m leaving a battalion of Hawks behind, amore, more than enough to keep Uggeri underground and the Signoria and the Small People in line. You’re in no danger.’
‘Go, then! Abandon me with the rest of Rasenna’s widows.’
‘You won’t let me leave without a smile?’ he said confidently. His men chuckled when the shutters slammed shut.
He was relieved when the palazzo’s door opened and she marched out, prising a ring from her finger. She flung it at him. ‘I want it back.’
He caught it and declared, ‘I’ll think of you whenever I look at it.’
‘Just don’t pawn it.’
Geta slipped a silver medal from his chest. ‘This I won for bravery in Dalmatia.’ He considered this a white lie; he’d actually stolen it from the body of a Byzantine soldier. ‘I’ve never known anyone as brave as you.’
She kissed his hand as she took it. He held her chin. ‘You do understand, don’t you? I can do more for us in the south than waiting here for the First Apprentice to dream up more ways to murder us. Besides, the Signoria’s coffers are quite empty. These dauntless fellows won’t stand going unpaid much longer.’ He held up the ring. ‘How much do you think it’s worth?’
She grinned and slapped Arête’s flank. He turned his head and snapped at her viciously, before Geta reigned him in. ‘I won’t be sorry to see the back of your horse, but if you must go, Lord Geta, go with my love.’
‘Then I depart happy. Andiamo, Condottieri!’
The heroes mounted and the Hawks rode through Rasenna, leaving heartbreak in their wake. They reached the southern gate and formed up tensely, watching the swaying mass through the portcullis. By now, starvation had done more damage than even the archers on the walls. Some were still moving, lying on their backs, writhing and cycling their legs. A hardy few were dancing still.
‘Avanti!’ cried Geta and the gate was hauled up. Boiling oil cleared a path and archers above and below provided cover. The Hawks’ tight formation broke through like a cannon-shot and the portcullis dropped; the few dancers who succeeded in getting close got decapitated or trampled for their efforts.
Back in Piazza Luna, Maddalena looked around at the other abandoned women, knowing all too well the reason for their tears. Brothers, fathers and neighbours who had held their tongues would from today call them whores and traitors.
She cast Geta’s medal in a pile of horse dung and spat on it. ‘Scorn your tears, Signorinas. A pox on all Concordians, all soldiers, and all men.’
CHAPTER 35
In previous years, the streets of Akka would have been awash with shameless lovers rutting away, and a few brawlers wading amongst them, but today the Dead moved with one mind, isolating the citadel and the palace where the Lazars had regrouped.
The palace barbican faced into the streets. Lazar guards would have stood fast to any earthly enemy, but the sheer wave of rage broke through and quickly flooded the bailey. Above this mayhem, the twelve dusty knights who had released Fulk were seeking entry to the second storey of the palace. Sofia led them to the balcony of the throne room, where they willingly shed their masks. Inside, the tribesmen circled the empty throne with their knives out. On either side hung a pair of Guis-card flags; it emanated awful power still. Behind the chamber’s thick doors, they heard panicked voices, urging each other to stand fast.
‘God blacken her face,’ Mik la Nan swore, ‘she’s already fled.’
Sofia took down one of the flags. ‘I know where.’
As the knights outside were overpowered, their screams were drowned under a bestial baying. The door began to buckle under pounding.
‘Go then, Contessa,’ said Bakhbukh. ‘We shall hold these ghouls.’
*
Jorge lay bleeding at the foot of the staircases. One of his arm manikelians had been shattered by a blow and his Exkoubitores stood over him, trying to keep his attacker at bay. One tried some fancy swordplay, intending to disarm the queen, but with an effortless sweep of the broadsword she shattered his blade. The next stroke lopped off his head.
The other swordsman froze in terror as a falling blow parted his shoulder from his body. Blood cascaded on the steps about Jorge. His right shoulder was a bleeding mess and he tried to still the trembling in his left hand and raise his sword as the queen turned towards him.
Suddenly, behind her, he saw a young woman dressed in a Lazar uniform, creeping up. At first he doubted his own eyes – but in case she was real, chivalry obliged him to cry warning. ‘Stay back – she’s poss
essed,’ he croaked.
The stranger didn’t retreat but called out, ‘Here I am, Catrina!’
‘Catrrrina is hiding inside me.’ The queen turned around. She was wearing the death-mask of Tancred Guiscard. ‘She rrrran to me as she did when she was a frrrightened child.’ The growl from the grim face had the rolling tenor of old-fashioned Etrurian. The queen rested her foot on the Exkoubitore’s severed head. ‘That is my flag thou holdest, lass. Thou seekest to be my mascot bearerrr?’
‘I seek justice. I’ve no quarrel with you, but Catrina must answer for her crimes.’
‘Crrimes! I am punished forrr mine. Hot chains bind me. Ice burrrns me. Rrrat-spawn gnaw my entrrrails. But only cowards rrrepent. I rrrather weep that I had just one life’s worrrth of sin. Would that I had a scorrre, I’d make my name as famous in Hell as Berrrnoulli’s!’
‘You’ve had your turn.’
As Sofia ran toward the queen, Catrina kicked the head with huge force, but Sofia leaped it, landed on her knees and skidded below the queen’s great sweeping turn. She struck upwards with her flag, but it was blocked by the crossguard of the broadsword.
‘Not bad, Handmaid. Oh yes, I know what thou arrrt, even if my grrranddaughter does not. Where is thy whelp? I’ll purrrge it as I purrged this land of infidels.’
‘I didn’t come for you, demon.’ She was face to face with the mask. ‘I know you can hear me, Catrina!’
Sofia twisted her flag, and the sword fell from the queen’s grip, but before she could follow up, she was hurled backwards by a heavy iron fist against the side of her head.
‘I hear!’ Catrina’s voice echoed from behind the death mask. ‘Now hear me: you turned my people against me – that I could admire – but to turn a son against his mother? Unforgivable.’
‘You did that yourself,’ Sofia spat.
The queen landed a kick to Sofia’s stomach. ‘I should not be surprised at Fulk’s weakness; after all, all men are traitors. I should congratulate you. To conceive without a man’s touch is some trick.’ She picked up the sword and hefted it meditatively. ‘I think it a capital idea. I’ll sneak into my grrranddaughter’s womb and teach the worrrld to once again fear the name of Tancrrred Guiscard. Why should Berrrnoulli have all the fun?’
Jorge made a weak grab for the queen’s leg, but she viciously kicked him aside and raised her sword.
‘Drop it, Mother.’
‘Fulk, stay back!’ Sofia cried.
‘No, boy – come. Or dost thou only take orrrders from women? What stamp of weakling did my grranddaughterrr bear?’
Fulk took down one of the masks. ‘Shall I show you?’
‘Yes!’ The queen’s body shook as a great baritone laugh boomed out. ‘That’s the face of my firrrst wife, the poorrr wee thing. Trrry it on; I shall need a consort when I rule again.’
‘Fulk, don’t listen – please, you’re better than her—’
‘I know,’ he said, and smashed the mask to the ground. The queen roared curses at him as he stalked forward towards her, attacking the rest of the hanging masks with the flat of his axe, smashing plaster and clay left and right.
The queen leaped over Sofia, bellowing, ‘You are not my flesh!’
He calmly ducked her swooping sword, came up quickly and buried his axe in the scaled armour between her breasts.
‘Guhhaweaahahh!’ Two cries came from one mouth.
As her life slipped away, Tancred’s grip on her body loosened. Fulk pried the mask off her face and looked into Catrina’s dying eyes as he smashed it to the ground. ‘Would that it were so, Mother.’
She reached out for him, but he pulled away from her embrace and she fell to the cold marble floor, her face pierced though by the shards of Tancred’s.
*
The Sown had served the franj for so long that they considered themselves inured to shock – but nothing could have prepared them for what awaited them when they returned to clean up after the Akkans’ revelry. The Marian population of the city had been dwindling for years, but in one terrible night it had reduced itself by half.
The Lazars could tell themselves that they had saved Akka from itself, but the heaped bodies of the citizens they had sworn to defend told another tale. Like kings of old, the Guiscards had taken their most devoted servants to the grave with them.
CHAPTER 36
The Grand Master set the queen’s body on a pyre by the shore. It was a small funeral, with just a few elderly courtiers who remembered when Catrina was younger. One of the mourners was the noblewoman already emerging as Akka’s new mistress: Melisende Ibelin. Like the rest of the mourners, she watched the flames warily, as if expecting some sort of fiery resurrection. The patriarch was more emotional than most – he had survived the Day of the Dead only because Fulk had tied him up in the Lazar chapel. Now he had to be restrained again, this time from throwing himself on the pyre.
Melisende pulled back her veil and stepped closer to the fire, where Fulk stood like a sentry. He thanked her for coming.
‘I came to shed tears for a friend I lost decades ago, and pay respects to Akka’s king.’
‘You mistake me, my Lady. A king would not have let it come to this pass.’
‘We were all of us in her thrall. You cannot carry all our guilt.’
He kicked a burning log back into the flames. ‘Is that not a king’s duty?’
One by one, the mourners drifted away. Fulk kept vigil through the night.
*
From the walls, Sofia watched the dying flames. ‘I didn’t think it would be right to go.’
Bakhbukh stood next to her. ‘No, best leave them to it.’
‘The throne is his to take, but he’s determined not to. She brought him up to sacrifice himself.’
‘It’s more than that: there’s a part of him – of all the Lazars – that feasts upon itself. It’s an evil appetite that can never be sated. They are traif, Mistress: injured meat. There’s no cure for that malady.’
‘Nonsense, Bakhbukh. He’s a king, if he’d let himself be.’
‘Whatever he calls himself, his men need him. Since the bodies have been gathered up, the Lazars are just drifting round the city like aimless ghosts.’
‘What of the nesi’im? Still squabbling over the spoils?’
Bakhbukh cast a stone from the wall meditatively. After a moment he said, ‘Mik la Nan takes seriously the charge you’ve given. Melisende Ibelin and he are practical souls; they’ll work together well. Unfortunately, Roe de Nail takes it as an affront that he is not Governor of the Sands. I fear the Benjaminites and Issachar will go to war before long.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a miracle the peace lasted this long.’
‘You’re bitter, my friend.’
‘Merely heartbroken. When the sons of Uriah ben Sinan did not live to see our victory, how can I call it victory? The Issachar are done and I am responsible. Every grain of the Sands reproaches my incompetence. Mistress, I long to leave.’
*
The hiss of the tide licking the charring wood woke Fulk and he had to work quickly to remove what remained in the ashes. Her bones were carved from rock that would defy even the Sands, so he had brought a harrier’s mallet to smash them. He was setting to work when he saw Sofia approaching.
‘Where’s Chrysoberges?’ she called.
‘The patriarch slunk off in the night. Perhaps he’s drowned himself.’
‘You’re back to wearing your mask again? Why? Your wounds are not shameful.’
He looked away in embarrassment. ‘After all these years, it’s more comfortable.’
She didn’t believe him. ‘Your men are shaken, Fulk.’
‘I know it. We considered ourselves intimate with death, but this—’ He swung the hammer. The ribs shattered like delicate ceramic. ‘When the fleet’s ready, we wish to go with you.’
‘You can’t prove anything to the dead. I’m going because I must, but I fear success is highly unlikely.’
‘What matter? By leaving, we’ll let i
n a new wind.’ He swung the hammer again and crushed the skull. ‘My mother wanted to make Akka into a necropolis. You stopped her, but she succeeded years ago in making her court a mausoleum, and we, who swore to protect Akka, slept as she did it. We owe you a great debt. The odds are irrelevant.’
‘Not to me. If you really want to help, there’s a way you could improve them …’
*
He said he would attend to it when this last duty was done. He would accept no help, and when he gashed himself on the splinters, he took that parting cut without complaint. When he looked for his mother’s death mask to smash it too, it was gone. Perhaps the sea had taken it.
*
Captain Khoril wasted little time celebrating the queen’s overthrow. He still had a job to do, getting the fleet ready to sail. There were rows of ships tied along the wharfs and the hands were cleaning them out, dumping the bilge-soaked straw and spoilt flour and provisioning with barrels of sweet fresh water and wine, smoked lamb and camel, bags of oranges and dried dates and figs and biscuit. The docks were a playground for the Sicarii orphans. Young Jabari was exploring the lanterns, reconnoîtring their darkest recesses. His fear of the dark retreated whenever he carried Iscanno with him into the depths.
The bulky lanterns were physically impressive, but it was the xebecs, the galleys with which the Radinate had once dominated the Middle Sea, that caught Sofia’s eye. Those dating from that heroic era had been made seaworthy again by the borrowed arsenalotti; the more recent vessels were those that still worked the Leviathan coast – Khoril didn’t ask their captains whether their work had been trading or raiding – who had voluntarily joined the fleet. He had chased and been chased by them and had a particular respect for these canny sailors. They were another breed of Ebionite entirely, as different from the lizard-eaters as they were from the Sown. The xebecs’ chief virtue was their speed – with the weather-gage, they could outrun most ships – and the adaptability of their crews, who were rowers, sailors and soldiers as necessity dictated.
