The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy)

by Aidan Harte

Ignoring the dozens of hands slapping his great back, the blacksmith finished his beer in one long drink, wiped his mouth, and said calmly, ‘Well. Come tomorrow.’

  Fabbro offered to buy him another, but Jacques refused. Fabbro was still wondering why later that evening as his godson excitedly related his adventures in the tunnels.

  ‘—then Levi lowered me into the pit—’

  ‘You ought to be more careful, Pedro,’ said Maddalena. Tower Bombelli and Tower Vanzetti had always been close, and Maddalena still took a big-sisterly attitude to Pedro. She couldn’t dominate her real brothers; they were much older. ‘Let Levi take the risks. That’s what Papa pays him for.’

  Levi raised his drink sarcastically. ‘Too kind, Signorina.’

  ‘Well, what could you see?’ Fabbro asked.

  ‘Not much, though I inserted glow-globes at regular intervals. I passed several caverns hollowed out of the tufa, some clearly the work of erosion but others, roughly square in shape, well, they looked manmade.’

  ‘How old?’ Fabbro asked.

  ‘Etruscan if I had to guess – but that’s still not the strangest thing. We didn’t have enough rope to go all the way down, so I dropped my last globe. It fell, there was a splash, and then it vanished. A river, Fabbro! There’s a second river, flowing beneath Rasenna. All this time!’

  ‘How fascinating,’ Maddalena interrupted. ‘Pedro, I know that southsiders do things differently, but can’t you wait till tomorrow to discuss sanitation?’

  The way Pedro reddened reminded Fabbro that Rasenna’s Chief Engineer was still a boy. It was easy to forget. Though adolescence lingered on his face, there was hardness too. Life had tested Pedro early.

  ‘Hush, Maddalena,’ Fabbro scolded. ‘Since when are you so prudish? The cloaca is an endeavour every bit as noble as Giovanni’s bridge, and just as necessary.’

  Giovanni was still alive when Rasenna’s boom had began, and he had warned the Signoria it could be make or break for them. Concord had experienced a similar expansion in the last two decades, and if her antique sewer system, the old Etruscan cloaca maxima, had not been still functional, disease would have destroyed the city. The siege of Rasenna had proved doubly serendipitous in this case, for the Concordians’ discarded diggers made extensive rapid digging possible.

  Few in the Signoria saw the urgency and clamoured instead for more public buildings, wasteful vanity projects, needless improvements. Pedro was continually frustrated by losing his newly trained engineers to lucrative private commissions. Their short-sightedness amazed him. Since Giovanni’s death, Rasenna’s growth-rate had quadrupled: nine months after each new influx – the Hawk’s Company, the labourers drawn by work – a wave of babies followed. Children, like men, produce mountains of dung and torrents of piss. The Irenicon could take only so much before it became a festering source of disease.

  ‘Well, let’s all turn troglodyte, then!’ Maddalena snapped and turned to pester Levi.

  After the Gonfaloniere had escorted his daughter home, the traditional grumbling began. Where once the Small People had complained about the Families’ exploitation, now they complained about those who sat in the Palazzo del Popolo and kept them out. It was curious: the wider the enfranchisement, the more emboldened the Signoria was to gather taxes. More curious still, the Small People, those without votes, did not complain about the Signoria’s greed but that they could not feed at the trough.

  Levi and Sofia did not partake in the griping. They drank and listened to Yuri’s gruff voice beating an Etrurian dirge into some Slavic shape in which he found a pleasing melody. He was in fine spirits despite his defeat.

  ‘A night in the stables will do Uggeri good,’ Levi said.

  Sofia was still irked by Fabbro’s high-handedness, and naturally defensive of her men. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that boy but the want of a war.’

  ‘You look ready to do battle yourself,’ Levi remarked.

  Sofia threw him a streak of silver, which he tried to catch but missed. The coin floated to the bottom of his tankard. When he saw it was Ariminumese, Levi sighed.

  ‘I got that on the bridge today. We’re trading with those dogs!’

  Levi knew what was coming. ‘We’re going to need them.’

  ‘They sold John Acuto. They stood by as Concord attacked us. What’s the point of keeping your company in beer if we—’

  ‘I hate Ariminum as much as you, but do you really want to start a second war when we still have the Concordians to worry about? This town’s not big enough to—’

  ‘We’re a city now, Podesta,’ Pedro interrupted. He sat down beside them, pleasantly tipsy.

  Sofia relaxed and eyed Levi humorously. Pedro didn’t drink often, but when he did he talked like his father. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘In a town you know your murderer’s name.’

  ‘When did you get so cynical?’ Levi asked.

  ‘When the Palazzo della Signoria was renamed the Palazzo del Popolo,’ said Pedro without hesitation. ‘A sop to the Small People.’

  ‘The Families used to ignore them,’ Sofia said. ‘Surely that was worse?’

  ‘Was it? Farmers think of spring lambs often, but their thoughts are not kind. They change the name and hope the Small People are too stupid to notice that a body that can’t agree on anything agrees that every new tax proposed is vital. And if one’s repealed, they execute a flanking move and tax the food we eat and wine we drink. The Morello used only to break our legs. At least they left our hearts intact.’

  ‘Listen to the communard,’ Sofia laughed.

  Levi finished his drink and said, ‘Long live whoever wins.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Isabella woke before the other girls. Her chamber faced east, and the rising sun lifted her gently from sleep. She preferred it so: the night she had woken suddenly to fire was still a scorching memory. While Rasenna slept for a few more hours, she performed her exercises with the gravity of someone far older than thirteen. The fire had taken much, but it gave Isabella the strength to hold the convent together after the Reverend Mother and Sister Lucia were slain; her duty, as theirs had been, was to serve Time, and to divert those who would divert it.

  Sofia had become her teacher of Water Style. She took Isabella to the bridge to observe the Irenicon, telling her there was a still-greater river all around, carrying them all into the next hour, the next year and finally, into infinity, and that if she became aware of it, she could use it. Like Sofia, Isabella had been raised in a bandieratori tower, so the physical part came easy. Self-control took longer; she only attained it by burying certain memories.

  When she felt ready she went to the chapel carrying a jug of water and a glass. She sat at the low table looking up at the depiction of the Virgin and made the Sign of the Sword. She filled the glass with a trembling hand. The water fluttered in the multi-coloured light of the recently repaired stained-glass window.

  Sofia had warned Isabella that evasion would allow her to progress only so far. The way to get beyond memories, however painful, was to dive into them fearlessly. They were waiting: the fear that she would burn with her brothers, her mother and father, and shame that her first thought was saving herself. It took many attempts to pass through the firestorm under the cool surface, but now it was less painful than slowly drifting a finger over a flame.

  Below the fire, the water grew precariously cold and viscous, and the pain changed pitch. The deeper she swam, the deeper it cut, until fingers and toes, hands and feet, arms and legs were numb. She had to push on and ignore the ice stabbing her heart until at last she broke though. In the dark infinity below the fire and ice waited the greatest horror: the Darkness. She knew instinctively she must defeat it now, or perish. Its limbs were writhing maggot heads, their touch was intimate, cold and insatiable. Its sustenance was inexhaustible: the hate of the world, the infinity of fear that even the weakest heart contains. Its tight grip pulled her in as she struggled.

  Alone, Isabella would certa
inly have perished, but Sofia had dredged her up and ordered gruffly: ‘Practise.’ That was Sofia’s way. She was a fighter, and so fought to the point of exhaustion. That came quickly, against Sofia; the Reverend Mother’s speed was nothing compared to what Sofia had achieved. Before she landed, Sofia was waiting; before she kicked, Sofia had sidestepped and countered, not just one step ahead but many. Isabella dimly understood from her glimpse of the Darkness the great cost Sofia had paid for that speed, and worked harder.

  Day by day she was getting stronger.

  Then, a year to the day after the siege, Sofia abandoned her. Was it part of her training? Perhaps this next step must be taken alone, like birth or death – but no, that wasn’t it. When Isabella caught Sofia’s eye on the bridge, she would turn away. When Isabella visited Tower Scaligeri, Sofia made excuses – she was busy in the workshop, in the Signoria, assisting the midwife. Something had changed; something Sofia had not expected. She needed help that Isabella was incapable of providing.

  Isabella felt the warmth light on her skin and looked up at the window. ‘Madonna,’ she whispered, ‘you suffered and were not afraid. Give me courage.’

  She closed her eyes. Alone or not, she must overcome the Darkness: for Rasenna’s sake, and Sofia’s.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Gospel According to St Barabbas

  48

  Now King Herod saw rivals to his throne everywhere. He murdered the wives of men; he murdered his own. He murdered the sons of men; he murdered his own; and a great many priests besides.

  49

  His deeds impressed the Etruscans but disgusted his subjects. The Jews alone amongst the peoples in the Empire refused to worship Etruscan gods. Herod shared neither the religion nor scruples of his subjects. His blood was a barbaric blend and thus he reasoned as barbarians do, that a mighty Empire must have mighty gods.

  50

  Now at this time there was an upright priest in Jerusalem, a Galilean from the House of David. His name was Zacharias. Of all the priests who served in the Temple, only he condemned Herod’s idolatry.

  51

  But his fellow priests railed at him and said, Zacharias, thou art a fool. And this king, though tyrant and pagan, is also a fool. Canst thou not see we use him to profit our Nation? Hast thou not heard us persuade him that he can buy the Lord’s favour? Dost thou not know he is restoring the Temple to the glory it enjoyed in the reign of Solomon?

  52

  But Zacharias said, It is thee who are foolish. This Herod is no Solomon; he is Nimrod reborn. Dost thou not see his bloody hands? Dost thou not know that if the restorers of the Temple are corrupt the Temple must be corrupted also? Hast thou forgotten the fate of Temples that displease the Lord?

  CHAPTER 28

  ‘Bombelli, you scoundrel! Catch!’

  Fabbro deftly caught the purse. ‘Well?’ the street seller said.

  ‘I’m hungover!’ Fabbro protested.

  ‘Don’t give me that. No amount of drink can make Fabbro Bombelli miscount.’

  He bounced it in his hands. ‘Thirty-two?’

  ‘Bravo! You’ve still got it.’

  Fabbro grinned proudly and threw back the purse. ‘Years over a scale, my friend.’

  ‘So, where’ve you been?’

  ‘Book keeping keeps me locked away. Speaking of which, I should get back …’

  They chatted for a while before Fabbro left, greeting other merchants as he went. The market never failed to lift a black mood; he missed its gladiatorial badinage. By the time he reached Piazza Stella he was jolly again. He stopped beside the third lion and looked up at the empty plinth. Instead of heading back to his palazzo, he abruptly turned right and walked along the Irenicon’s northern bank.

  The northeast of town was traditionally the tanners’ quarter. It was under-populated even before the Wave struck; now it was a jumble of squat houses and sudden towers, apparently built overnight with bricks of coal. A dark cloud hung low over these structures and the river was gauzed in smoke. Fabbro covered his mouth using his hood as a scarf, engineer-fashion. Other fire-working trades had been drawn to the area to the point where it had become a kingdom itself; its cantankerous denizens called it Tartarus. Rasenna once had small need of blacksmiths – masons for towers and weavers for flags answered all the requirements of defence and offence – but of late it had become a pilgrimage destination for metal-workers, just as Concord had twenty years ago. Their ranks swelled further when the Hawk’s Company arrived; armourers and sword-makers follow armies as devotedly as whores. These noisy and noisome trades had been herded together so the filth they produced didn’t pass through town. The last few empty spaces were filled with the factories of the engineers.

  From a distance the factories were a sight to make Rasenneisi blood run cold; closer up, it was clear that the towers were only chimneys billowing steam. Driving northern winds carried the steam and smoke of the tanners and smiths over the city walls, where the whir of mills and the clatter and putter of paddle-powered contraptions competed with the roaring Irenicon. Before the river was permitted to leave town, it was filtered through a mechanical gauntlet – several rows of variously sized paddles, coupled with belts and chains. To Fabbro this combined assault on the senses was beautiful: Rasenna was growing, and every inch was a victory for common sense, a defeat for the turbulent. He entered the foundry yard whistling.

  Jacques’ was covered in the same black grime as all the other foundries, but everyone knew his was the best in Tartarus. Normally it was full of assistants toiling in its inconsistent gloom, illumined by the ash-bitter glare of cinders and heavy, heaving bellows burping the slumbering ovens awake. Today it was empty, but for a small boy leaning at a wooden desk and tapping a set of greaves with a chasing hammer. Standing silently behind the boy was Jacques. The old waxy sheets on the windows were pulled back to let the morning light visit the workshop’s hidden nooks. Red earth was swept up, tongs and chisels stored away. The forge-maestro’s work today required only his hands and the world’s silence.

  Despite its thickness, Jacques’ neck was mobile, and he turned and tilted his head as he examined the boy’s work. Fabbro had never seen Jacques without his long-eared leather cap; he assumed it was a protective guard against sparks. His permanent squint was intimidating until one got used to it – the sparks were the reason for that, too.

  ‘Jacques! Congratulations again on your victory. Yuri took it well.’ As they shook hands Fabbro noticed Jacques’ hands again: they were crossed and crossed again with searing scars. They must have been from when he was a journeyman – all Tartarus knew that Jacques the Hammer could handle metal until it glowed.

  Jacques ignored the compliment. ‘Come,’ he said, and Fabbro followed, wondering whose son the boy was. Strange to think he knew so little about someone he’d trusted with so much money. When Jacques appeared outside Rasenna’s walls he’d asked who was king here, and when told that Rasenna had none, he had asked for sanctuary, volunteering only that he was a skilled artisan. Of course, he was a Frank, but did he hail from the Isles or the mainland? His Etrurian might be only functional, but his obvious talent soon won respect. That and his physical stature quickly made him a leader, of sorts: Gonfaloniere of Tartarus, if such a thing could be imagined. Jacques had no ambitions, at least as far as Fabbro knew, other than to be left alone. He liked the big fellow, but theirs was a fifty-per-cent friendship, that awkward bluff relationship that exists between contractor and contracted. When business was done, he would know the truth.

  Jacques led him to a freshly swept corner bathed in the strong northern light. On a low turntable stood a precariously leaning pillar. It was taller than a man, taller even than Jacques, and covered with a sheet layered with wax cracked like distressed stone.

  ‘Who hunted your assistants away?’

  ‘Later, when I’m pouring metal, I’ll need men,’ said Jacques, looking at Fabbro penetratingly with dark pupils that shone through the thick slivers of flesh.


  ‘Nonsense,’ Fabbro chuckled. ‘A good salesman knows the value of suspense. I’ll bet every smith in Tartarus is dying to see what’s under that sheet.’

  ‘Craftsmen are interested in craft.’

  Fabbro smiled knowingly. ‘As you like it, Maestro. Well, let me look at it.’

  Jacques grunted and removed the sheet. He did it slowly, revealing first the smooth earthen clay fashioned into a paw, then a curling tail, a slender torso and finally the snarling jaw. The wooden armature that supported it broke the clay’s surface unceremoniously at various points – the neck, the back – but it was easy to ignore this and imagine the final bronze in place on the empty plinth.

  Fabbro was gleeful. ‘This fellow will put his brothers to shame!’

  ‘They are decent sculptures,’ Jacques demurred, ‘in the old style.’

  Fabbro laughed indulgently. ‘Please Maestro, no false modesty. You know very well this will tear flags all over Rasenna.’

  Jacques shrugged and gently spun the massive turntable. He doused the lion with a water dispenser as it rotated. Fabbro was right: theatricality was part of Jacques’ art. Of course keeping the clay from drying was necessary, but a wet surface revealed the subtle modelling nearly as well as would the final polished patina.

  Fabbro stalked around, pulling his beard and exclaiming, ‘Bravo!’ in a reverent whisper.

  While the other three lions coldly gazed forward, this one would glower over passers-by. Its head twisted violently away from a body that trembled with tension and energy. Its scowl pulled ripples of flesh through its muzzle. Fabbro might be no connoisseur but he knew it was not merely the naturalistic rendering but the variety of description that made the sweet new style such a break with the past. He marvelled that the old artisans had been blind to these subtleties of contrast: the beast’s tense, compacted haunches and bristles of its mane were formed so the former appeared tough as stone, the latter soft as wool.