Spira Mirabilis

by Aidan Harte

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Geta, ‘they’ll be arriving in a matter of weeks.’

  ‘Which is why it’s imperative that you march now. The arrow is in deep and pulling it out would only cause more pain. The thing is to push it through—’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Leto exclaimed. ‘We need to restore our strength, heal our wounds, stock up. If we wait, all the petty potentates south of the Albula will come crawling to us – we may conquer Etruria by force but we cannot long rule it that way. Bernoulli knew this—’

  ‘What Bernoulli knew, I know. You must harry the south. The lessons they must learn must be taught with fire and steel. You will go, now, and meanwhile the fleet will sail south and blockade Salerno.’

  The Moor looked up from his cups. ‘That would be a mistake.’

  ‘Have I wandered into a Communard council? Shall we put it to a vote? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a fight, too, Admiral. Didn’t you used to be condottiere?’

  Though Azizi’s speech was slurred, his earnestness was apparent. ‘Yes – and I learnt that nothing but trouble comes from fighting men who don’t do it for the money. The Veians are not brave, and see how they resisted. Every Salernitan is a soldier. If we allow reinforcements to come to their doorstep, they’ll fight to the last. A better idea would be to meet the Contessa on the way – and I know just the place.’

  While the First Apprentice listened to the Moor’s plan, Leto noticed Malapert Omodeo filling his glass. His hand was trembling.

  ‘I’m surprised that Torbidda was able to drag you away from the forge,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I welcome the chance, General. I have a favour to ask of you.’

  The young man with the Byzantine sense of dress must have known he was being spoken of, for he came closer.

  ‘Go on,’ said Leto.

  ‘This is my sister’s boy, Horatius. Could you give him a commission? He’s no head for figures, but he’s brave as any.’

  ‘We can always use new talent,’ said Leto diplomatically. ‘How are things in the capital?’

  ‘Wonderful – production’s up – spectacular efficiency—’ As they talked, Omodeo manoeuvred him to a corner out of earshot of Torbidda’s praetorians. ‘—every target met. It’s wonderful.’ Once he was certain no one was paying him any attention, he started, ‘When the First Apprentice invited me back, he told me I would have influence. Instead I am being used as a milk-cow – he keeps me close lest I flee.’

  ‘You’re in no position to complain. You knew the terms under which you accepted amnesty.’

  ‘My loans were given to fund the war-effort and I accepted no interest on them because I am a patriot, believe it or not. But I’m beginning to understand that I will never be paid back.’

  ‘You’ll get your money when the war is won,’ said Leto, wondering at Omodeo’s unfeigned fear. Was this just about his money?

  ‘How can we win without weapons? Don’t expect your annunciators any time soon – the factories are empty. All of the Small People are working on the Sangrail. And even if there were workers, they could produce nothing, for all of the metal from the north has gone into this damn needle.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this? Do not, I pray you, say “patriotism” again; I’m not a complete fool.’

  ‘Nor I, General. When my fortune is exhausted, he’ll throw me to my enemies; that I know. Burning me might placate Numitor Fuscus a while and I know you would not mourn me – but what then of Concord? If the Contessa truly has enlisted Prince Jorge, the danger is greater than you know.’

  ‘I’ve fought Byzantines before.’

  ‘Aye, but you have not seen the Purple City. Its wealth is vast.’

  ‘There are other considerations besides money—’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Torbidda shouted. ‘Hiding away in the corner there? Anyone would think you’re plotting. Come, partake of this fine feast, Leto. It’ll be your last for a while.’

  *

  When the order to decamp came, the men set about loading their loot with alacrity, too busy to realise the full implications. As the Grand Legion slowly poured out of Veii the following morning, Leto wondered if Malapert Omodeo was the only one who had worked out that the aftermath didn’t interest Torbidda in the least. There was no one he could tell, no one he could talk to who would even care. They would just shrug and carry on as decades of Guild governance had taught them. Everyone had too much invested in this diabolical deal – wealth for complicity – to risk saying anything awry. There was no sin so base that they could not excuse it: Rasenna had the Wave coming, and as for blameless Gubbio – well, that was an example for all Etruria. The bloody work went on while everybody pretended that there was no choice; they would keep their heads low and wait it out.

  But this is a storm no one will survive.

  Then he remembered that Numitor Fuscus had warned him of just that. He had dismissed the consul as ambitious, but he was right: Torbidda had changed, and it was something to do with Fra Norcino. Some philosophers risked their souls for new knowledge, like Old Democritus, who had put out his own eyes that he might better contemplate. His friend had done himself some mischief …

  Geta, still half-drunk from last night, trotted alongside with a merry grin. ‘Where’s Scaevola?’

  ‘I told him I wanted someone I trusted to go with the Moor, keep an eye on him. Did you know Scaevola was keeping an eye on me? Sending secret reports to the First Apprentice?’

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. Why so glum, Spinther? Will you miss the sycophantic tight-arse? Or were you expecting the First Apprentice to give you a Triumph?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ Leto admitted.

  ‘I may have been a little merry last night but if the First Apprentice explained his thinking, I missed it. Why are we going again?’

  ‘Orders.’

  ‘Madonna, you’re as much in the dark as the rest of us, aren’t you? I know it’s useful to keep the enemy guessing at your strategy, but to keep it from your general? That’s a new one to me. But then, I’m not as learned as you. There must be some use to a Guild Hall education – I’m sure you can cite precedents from the Etruscan Annals. I can’t help but feel that we’re being punished, though—’

  ‘Trying to set me against Torbidda is a waste of time.’

  Geta smiled at that. Discord was a weed that needed little encouragement.

  Irritated by Geta’s smug silence, Leto said, ‘He deserves our—’

  ‘He’s deserving of the same treatment as any other lunatic: chains, flogging and a straw bed. If you care for Concord—’

  ‘The Spinthers have nothing to prove on that subject. Our escutcheon is riddled with chevrons of honour.’

  ‘Stop waving your bloody medals at me,’ Geta growled. ‘You’ve never fought against the Black Hand, have you?’

  ‘I’ve studied previous campaigns. Torbidda studied them too, so if he’s ordered this, it’s because it’s vital that the Black Hand is broken before spring.’ Geta was taken by surprise when the boy suddenly dropped his assured act, and whispered, ‘What should I do? If I refuse, I won’t just lose my commission – I’ll lose my head.’

  ‘By the holy face of Lucca – don’t you realise you have a sword in your hand? The Grand Legion might be riddled with flux and pox, but what does he have to oppose it? A fancy title and a yard of red cloth. Turn around while the legion’s still intact and march on Concord.’

  Leto stiffened, realising that he should never have let his guard down. ‘After everything, you’re plotting still. You had your chance to overthrow the Collegio and all you succeeded in doing was destabilising the empire and giving Veii time to mount the defence that has so ruinously delayed us. I should have left you hanging on that tree.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wish you had, lad,’ Geta sighed.

  CHAPTER 48

  The lanterns still retarded the Sirocco’s pace but the passage westward was faster now that they were no longer
burdened with pack animals and foot soldiers. They looked like what Khoril insisted they were: a raiding party. The tribesmen were comfortable with this style of warfare and remained confident – but they had never seen the productivity of Ariminum’s arsenal, or the earth-trembling mass of Concord’s legions.

  Yellow-spotted dolphins escorted the convoy across the Strait of Otranto, much to the delighted admiration of the Ebionites. It was a restful evening and they were sailing through warm green waters into a blinding setting sun when a Sicarii lazing in the rigging drawled, ‘Scout ship ahoy!’

  Moments later, the lead crow’s nest confirmed it by raising a red flag.

  The xebecs either side of the Tancred took off like loosed arrows. Sofia was in the first xebec, the Solomon, which was beating at attack-speed, while the other xebec, following at battle-speed, began firing its forward chasers.

  The scout ship had spotted them now and briefly presented its beam as it tacked to bring itself about; the xebecs’ light guns fired and it completed the turn with only a shattered bowsprit. Every hand not at the oars lined the weather rail to stiffen the xebec and increase its speed. The cutwater struck the cresting waves like a hammer, shattering them to foamy spindrift, till an apparent snowstorm enveloped them. Captured wind moulded the sail to stiffness and the yards were braced taut.

  The scout’s stern chasers were aimed squarely at them and a ball went hissing over Sofia’s head and punctured the mainsail. The gap increased. The Lazars were strong, but the scout’s crew were more practised.

  Then they struck a lucky stroke: the sniping xebec missed, but the shot skidded along the scout’s portside and tore through the oarsmen. The havoc it wreaked below deck was apparent from its sudden stop. The uninjured rowers on the other side succeeded only in exposing their beam again and this time two volleys struck home.

  A thin plume of white smoke rose up from the becalmed scout.

  A cheer went up from the rest of the Sirocco, who had been watching the chase, but it died when the scout fired a shot into the westward sky which exploded into green sparks. Sofia’s worst fears were realised when she heard the cry from above, but she ascended the rigging herself to confirm it. There, a league to the west, was a second scout ship silhouetted against the dying sun, going about.

  ‘Shall we give chase?’ the tillerman panted. ‘We’ve reserve rowers – we could pump out our water and throw the guns overboard to give us more speed—’

  ‘Save your energy,’ she said. Even if they did manage to run the second ship down, there was likely another further west still.

  Instead, she had the stranded ship’s slaves unchained and let loose on their former masters.

  As the rest of the xebecs returned to formation, Sofia came aboard the Tancred.

  ‘They know we’re coming.’ She spoke casually, but they all knew that their odds, never good to begin with, had just got even longer. The moon rose and the stars became visible, merging with the running lights and glowing battle-lanterns. The ships spread out to avoid collision, and each sailed alone with its fears on the dark sea.

  *

  Next morning’s blue-green sea was beautiful, but Khoril was wary of the slow, pregnant swells beating against the starboard bow. ‘Augurs storms in the west. Madonna help us if a nasty Gregale comes upon us.’

  There was nowhere to seek cover, though Taranto – the thumb of Etruria – was due north. It was Sofia’s first sight of her motherland in a year. She held up her child and said softly, ‘Look, Iscanno! That’s home.’

  He solemnly chewed on a lock of her hair and looked. Taranto was the Black Hand’s best port, so the Moor would have it well-blockaded, Khoril assured them. Besides, it was capacious enough for the better-armed Ariminumese galleys to keep their distance – just the type of fight he wanted to avoid. They needed somehow to fight a land battle at sea. Besides, their destination was on the far side of Etruria. If they rescued Salerno, the war was not won, but if Salerno fell it was most certainly lost.

  Even so, once they passed Taranto all of them felt another fatal irrevocable step had been taken. That feeling was confirmed when a dozen Ariminumese galleys emerged from the port in hot pursuit.

  *

  While each ship was being stripped for battle – the yards padded and slung with chains, splinter-netting rigged, powder prepared and shot stacked – the leadership held a midnight council on the Tancred’s foredeck. The Messina Strait was leagues away yet, but they could just make it out, stretching before them in the moonlight.

  The creased corners of Khoril’s old map, pinned down with a sextant and a spyglass, trembled in the wind. The lines might be faded, but it clearly showed the dread gauntlet between the Black Hand and the Three Sicilies. Besides what lay ahead, they could see the distant lights of the chasing galleys behind them.

  ‘They’ve not increased their pace since Taranto,’ Khoril said. ‘They’re content to keep us in sight. They’re herding us towards the strait, knowing we’ll never cross it.’ He drew a half-circle around the Sicilies. ‘We have to go round to get to Salerno.’

  Sofia stared at the map. ‘Let’s cross the strait then – they won’t be expecting that, and if we go now, by the time they see us, we’ll be through.’

  ‘Navigate the strait by moonlight?’ Khoril was aghast. ‘I’d not do it for all the silver in Ariminum.’

  Bakhbukh was with her, but his voice lacked his usual authority. In this liquid desert, he was an alien. Sofia couldn’t explain her urgency, but now that Etruria was in her sight, the Darkness could see her: she could feel it reaching out for her and for Iscanno. ‘To get this far and have our nerves fail—’

  ‘If you had ever seen Charybdis, believe me, you’d not be so casual,’ Khoril said. ‘Think of your child.’

  ‘I am!’ she insisted, but saner heads agreed with Khoril.

  ‘West it is.’

  *

  After the council broke up, Fulk climbed down to the Tancred’s rowing deck. Whatever happened in the next few hours, there would be no further time for talk. Over the last weeks, the Lazars had sought to lose themselves in servitude, but this voyage into the unknown had been an ordeal for their faith.

  They knew the hour was imminent and they were all leaning at their stations, praying. Here in the ship’s bowels, the air was thick, the walls caulked with the congealed fog of sweat.

  ‘Brothers,’ he said softly.

  They made the sign of the Sword and warily, grudgingly, gave their Grand Master their attention.

  ‘This day you are Crusaders.’

  ‘We are orphans, Grand Master,’ said Gustav dryly. Such back-talk would have been unthinkable a year ago.

  ‘Yes – just as the first Crusaders were orphans. They had no fortune at home, so they sought it doing God’s work. For them, Crusade meant protecting the Holy Land from the devil. Things were more complicated than they could have imagined. The Ebionites aren’t the infidel – their fidelity to God is equal to ours.’

  ‘But they are not so handsome,’ said the old knight.

  Fulk chuckled with the rest. ‘I’ll give you that, Gustav.’ He looked over the rows, seeing each man despite the masks. Even those the disease had ravaged still wanted to hold onto their self-respect. ‘I won’t lie: most of us will never see Akka again, and I know some of you begin to fear that we have given our lives for a dead cause. Brothers, Crusade never ends. This night has brought us to the very shores of the land our fathers left. We made the devil so unwelcome at home that he has retreated here – and we will not let that worm rest. All lands are holy lands, even Etruria. We are as fortunate as our fathers, for like them, we are doing God’s work. Like them, we fight wherever we can make our sacrifice count most. Tonight that’s here. Be brave: fight for Akka, fight for your brothers – fight because God wills it!’

  The chant of Deus lo Volt! made the deck vibrate beneath the Ebionites’ feet, and though they rolled their eyes at the gauche manners of the Marians, it cheered them to know such
madmen were at their side this night.

  *

  The Sicilian coast was dark except for the light of burning Syracuse. The Sicilies’ division into a trinity was a convenient fiction of the geographers – the same queer breed that fancied the archipelago formed a stiletto for which Etruria was eternally reaching. Beside the three principal islands – Palermo, Messina and Syracuse – there were any number of islets, not to mention hidden mile-wide reefs waiting to tear into the hulls of careless ships like a fishmonger’s gutting knife.

  In an instant the night was impaled by a trail of fire that streaked across the starry sky and hung for a moment before melting into flaming drops that hissed where they landed on the water – hissed, and kept burning like lime-coloured lights of a ghostly puppetshow. The glare pulled back the curtain of darkness to reveal some forty ships directly ahead, lined up beam to beam. At the far end of the line was the source of the fiery rainbow, and several smaller ships were extending the barricade of fire in case they should try to circumnavigate.

  Khoril ordered a full stop before they came within range of the fire-siphons. The gun crews were ready: slow-matches smoking in little tubs along the deck, the men at their stations. ‘We could go south,’ his navigator suggested hopefully. ‘Creep along the Barbary coast for a few days then turn north?’

  ‘And if they intercept us? We run away again? If we take that craven course then Salerno is done for.’ He shouted across to the Solomon, ‘Looks like you got your wish, Contessa. The strait it is, Madonna help us. The strait it is.’

  *

  The Moor’s men cheered as the Tancred changed course. He only nodded and scanned his formation again, not to ensure the line was straight – he trusted his captains’ seamanship. Their greed, that was another matter. Pirates practically considered it a sacred duty to pursue a feeing enemy but – mirabile dictu! – they restrained themselves. He was strangely disappointed. How soft the Serenissima had made them.

  *

  Khoril too was bothered by the restraint. ‘Not that I’m complaining, but usually they’d fall on us like wolves.’