by Aidan Harte
‘What a privileged existence you live, Contessa. You take part in referenda but don’t abide by results you dislike. You goad these tower-renting fools to disrupt business, and if I attempt to remove them, you threaten to hinder me.’
‘I don’t like your tone, but that’s about the size of it,’ Sofia said.
‘Doctor Bardini schooled you well.’
‘Doc died defending Rasenna’s freedom.’
‘Yes,’ Fabbro sniffed, ‘never mind how he spent the years before that moment—’
‘Bardini paid the ultimate price,’ said Pedro, ‘as did Giovanni, as did my father. That’s why we’re here, Fabbro. Rasenna can’t be ruled by a few towers.’
‘How long do you intend to occupy the bridge?’
‘Until the tax is revoked.’
‘Pedro, she’s using you!’
‘My eyes are open. Aren’t the priors using you? They want to create a precedent. We’re here to do likewise.’
Fabbro pulled Levi back a few steps. ‘Can you break this up?’
Levi shook his head. ‘Only if you want a riot. You can’t win, not that way. Sofia says the bandieratori will stay clear as long as we do. I say let them cool off for the rest of the evening. They’ll get bored – and if they start anything, we’ll be in the right.’
‘We’re in the right now!’ Fabbro hissed. He swore and looked back at the other magnates, waiting expectantly at the palazzo’s steps. When he turned back to the bridge he was smiling widely. ‘Well, I’m not going to let a good feast go to waste because of a few spoilsports. Unfortunately, things cost in life. Stay here and brood if it makes you feel virtuous. Anyone who cares to join us in celebrating this happy day is welcome.’
And with that he walked back to the isolated wedding party and ordered the musicians to strike up. The celebrations that began were an odd affair, with acrobats, jugglers and puppeteers performing under baleful eyes from the bridge. The jaunty airs were ridiculous in an empty piazza. No one danced. The condottieri captains drank with the embarrassed groom, while the twice-humiliated bride, ignored by all, wept quietly to herself.
Donna Bombelli gave her a glass of warmed spice wine, then walked to the bridge with a tray.
Sofia and Pedro watched her approach with embarrassment. Instead of reproach, she tutted mildly as if they were mischievous bambini. ‘Do what you think right. Closing down the market, you’ve hit on the one tactic that might change Fabbro’s mind.’
‘Because it hits his purse.’
‘No, Sofia, because the market brings peace. My husband cares about peace more than anyone.’
‘Because he hasn’t figured out how to get rich from rioting.’
‘Girl, you’re just like him: stubborn. Well, take a drink. It’ll warm you up.’ Donna Bombelli was passing out drinks when suddenly the glass was smacked from her hand.
‘Keep your charity! You and your husband act like royalty – you’re nothing but thieves.’
‘Donna Soderini! I— I’ve been nothing but a friend to you—’
The glowering woman stamped on the broken glass. ‘Where were you when we were thrown out in the street? We’re sharing a single floor now with two families in a crooked old tower in Tartarus. And you’re going to make us pay extra for our salt? My friend Donna Bombelli’ – she spat at her feet. ‘You’ve had a good life – all your sons, your fancy daughter, your money.’ She made horns with her hands and waved them at Donna Bombelli’s belly. ‘Whatever that is, I hope it brings your husband grief. He should eat the unsalted bread the rest of us choke on.’
Donna Bombelli put her hands protectively over her belly as Pedro stepped in front of the angry woman.
‘This is nothing to do with Donna Bombelli.’
‘You’re Vanzetti’s boy! How can you of all people defend them? Your father came to grief while Fabbro Bombelli got rich.’
Donna Soderini’s embarrassed husband pulled her away before she could say more. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Maestro Vanzetti, we’re thankful for your help.’
Pedro flushed, embarrassed at the accusation, but also vexed at the disrespect shown to the woman who had been a mother to him after his father’s death. ‘Sofia, can you escort Donna Bombelli home?’
Sofia felt the mood getting ugly. She took the midwife’s hand. As they crossed the bridge, the crowd parted for her, but treated Fabbro’s wife to evil looks and whispered insults. Donna Bombelli was more shaken by Donna Soderini’s spite. ‘I never knew she felt that way.’
‘Her husband drinks. She’s looking for someone to blame.’
Piazza Stella, packed with bandieratori, was scarcely less hostile. Although they all now carried the same red banner, each borgata kept separate; only the disciplined example of the Borgata Scaligeri kept the others from flooding onto the bridge.
Uggeri tipped his cambellotto respectfully to Donna Bombelli. ‘What’s the situation, boss?’
‘Waiting to see who blinks,’ Sofia said. ‘Your job—’
‘Do nothing. I know.’
‘Keep your flag up. As long as the magnates see flags behind the Small People, they won’t push it.’
‘Levi wouldn’t let them,’ Uggeri said doubtfully.
‘Levi’s podesta; he must do what the gonfaloniere orders.’ She glanced at Donna Bombelli. ‘I know Fabbro doesn’t want violence, but the other priors … Just keep it cool, Uggeri.’
He leaned back. ‘Got it, boss.’
Sofia led Donna Bombelli back to Tower Bombelli. She was, at heart, an old-fashioned Rasenneisi – the palazzo was a place of business, a place to greet the world – but all she wanted now was the privacy of her tower. Sofia had to help her up the ladder to the first floor; towers were designed for security, not for heavily pregnant women. Since Palazzo Bombelli was finished, Fabbro’s old counting room in the tower had been used for storage. The camphor bags hanging from the roof had grown stale and dust covered the rusted scales on the old banco.
‘I don’t feel like climbing any more steps, Sofia.’
‘You all right? You’ve gone pale.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, I’m not a— Oh! Sofia, oh!’
She sat down clumsily on a pile of silks, smiling as if she’d been caught in a lie. ‘It’s coming!’
Sofia grabbed her hand and kissed it. She cleared a space on the floor, piled up some wool bags and covered them with fabric to create a little nest for Donna Bombelli to rest in. She laid her down gently and started tearing linen strips. ‘I expect Fabbro will make me pay for these?’
Donna Bombelli laughed. ‘Only if it’s a girl.’
‘Where’s Maddalena?’
Donna Bombelli pointed upstairs. ‘Nobody told her the banquet’s been cancelled. She’s probably still getting ready. She likes to make an entrance.’
Sofia bounded up the ladder, lifted the trapdoor that led to the central stairway and shouted. From a few stories up, a pale, pretty face appeared, ‘What do you want?’
‘Maddalena, get down here.’
‘Excuse me, I—’
‘It’s your mother!’
‘It’s time? Oh, of all the nights!’
Maddalena marched down the stairs, pushing one servant ahead of her while another followed, fiddling with her elaborately coiled hairdo. She was dressed sumptuously in a yellow gown inlaid with tiny ivory buttons. She swished her dress experimentally as she climbed down, crying aloud, ‘Better not be another false start, Mama!’
When she reached the last step, she recoiled at the scene. She pulled her gown away from the floor. ‘Mama, what a mess! Is that natural?’
Sofia kept tearing linens as she said briskly, ‘Maddalena, find your father, tell him what’s happening. You, Francesca, go to the baptistery and fetch Sister Isabella.’
‘But we haven’t even thought of a name yet, have we, Mama?’
‘For once, don’t make a scene,’ Sofia hissed. She turned to the other servant. ‘Angela, fetch three basins of water from the cistern
s and heat them. Then clean this up, and keep cleaning if you have to.’
Donna Bombelli called Sofia’s name like a frightened sleeper. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I’m here.’
The hand pouring the water was shaking. All day Isabella had tried to ignore the stone in her gut. She looked up at the window, but there was no comfort there; its rich colours had turned to mud in the gloom. The new crack – was it getting wider? The sun was obscured by clouds, which would not disperse, despite the northern wind. The water before her was quite clear, but she felt an aversion to it as though it were poison. Dismissing her fancies, she began to breathe deeply, then she dived.
This time was different.
The way was blocked by a boiling dark sun, as large as the ocean. In panic, she turned and swam away with all her strength and surfaced in the chapel’s dull light with a horrified gasp.
She caught her breath and tried to understand what that thing was. It was a wickedness beyond words – the very hunger of famine, the sickness of pestilence. When Sofia had agreed to be the Lord’s Handmaid, a seed of divinity had been planted in her vulnerable mortal womb, and now, somewhere, another power was gestating, growing like a canker.
A small, snaking movement in the glass caught her attention: a scarlet cloud in the water, swelling with writhing hunger until it filled the glass with a diluted pink that turned swiftly into a syrupy red. It spilled over the lip and onto the table, and with a nauseated cry, Isabella kicked against the leg.
A novice appeared at the door of the chapel. ‘Reverend Mother?’
‘Carmella, the blood! The blood!’
‘Blood? Where?’
Isabella looked down. The shards of broken glass were lying in a puddle of water. ‘I’ll clean up the glass,’ said Carmella, giving her an odd look, ‘You’re needed urgently at Tower Bombelli.’
Maddalena tried barging her way onto the bridge and was surprised to be rudely pushed back by the wives and daughters of carders and pullers who usually showed such deference. ‘How dare you? Get your dirty hands off me!’ she cried, and when she realised her threats were ineffective, she strode away in a fury and crossed Piazza Stella to the corner where Borgata Scaligeri had raised its flag.
‘You, boy! Uggeri, isn’t it? I need to see my father. Those sheep-shearing sluts won’t let me through!’
‘Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.’
‘My mother’s giving birth – shall we push it back in?’
Uggeri took the news gravely. ‘Merda.’
‘“Congratulations” is more traditional, you uncouth dog,’ Maddalena said sweetly.
‘Where’s Sofia?’
‘Madonna, you really have no tact, have you? Elbow-deep in my mother! Do you want me to draw a picture?’
‘Merda,’ Uggeri repeated, then, ‘Stay here!’ He marched to the bridge and the crowd parted before him. A ripple of excitement passed as he crossed the Irenicon.
Over in Piazza Luna, Yuri could see over the heads of the crowd. He nudged Levi. ‘Flag on the bridge, chief.’
‘What idiot? Where’s Sofia?’
‘It’s probably the Scaligeri bitch herself,’ said Piers Becket.
Yuri grabbed him by the collar and lifted him closer. ‘You’re lucky it’s your marrying day. Otherways we see how well you outswim buio with breaked legs.’
Just then a bottle flew from the bridge and crashed at the steps of Palazzo del Popolo, where Fabbro stood surrounded by the priors.
Levi walked to the line. ‘No more of that now.’
But the excitement grew as Uggeri got closer, and though Pedro tried to stop them, the crowd began to surge forwards against Levi and Yuri. Other captains came forward to back them up and soon it was a pushing match, with the condottieri shouting, ‘Back! Back!’ and the crowd instinctively reacting to the force by pushing just as hard in return.
Levi shouted over the other voices, ‘Stop pushing, everyone,’ and a more authoritative voice within the crowd echoed his: Uggeri. The heaving stopped, and they came face to face.
‘What the devil are you thinking?’ Levi shouted.
‘Where’s Sofia?’ Pedro shouted back.
‘Donna Bombelli is having her baby—’
Pedro’s face registered joy, then frustration. ‘Levi, tell Fabbro and tell him Sofia’s with her. Come on, Uggeri.’
The heaving stopped after Uggeri left, but with the captains now face to face with the front line, the tension could only mount. When Fabbro tried to pass through, he found it impossible.
‘For the love of decency, I need to be with my wife!’
‘We can force a way through, Gonfaloniere,’ said Becket with excitement.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Fabbro snapped, and Levi silently thanked the Madonna that the gonfaloniere wasn’t a typical Rasenneisi.
So they waited and listened to the Torre dell’ Orologo count the hours’ passage. Fires blossomed in both piazzas as evening drew on and the strong men on either side of the bridge kept warm with drink and braggadocio while the Small People shivered and huddled together in the darkness and listened to the unceasing bellow of the Irenicon beneath their feet.
Sister Isabella, her face wan and fearful, came from Tower Bombelli to help the other Sisters on the bridge handing out roast chestnuts and warm drinks. A little girl was crying, and her mother was struggling to distract her from the night’s icy grip. Isabella hummed a melody to sooth her, the River’s Song, and soon other voices joined in. In Piazza Luna, the brewer stomped his feet to blot out the sound.
‘How long are we going to let this farce go on? Know how we look, Bombelli? Weak,’ he said. ‘We look weak.’
Fabbro stared at the lights of Tower Bombelli across the river. ‘Idiota, we are weak. We’ve just broken Rasenna in two again.’
The music carried to Tower Bombelli.
‘Remember the night the bridge opened?’ said Donna Bombelli. ‘You looked beautiful, just like your mother. She was brave like you, Sofia. She crossed the river when everyone else was too scared.’
‘Brave?’ Sofia laughed mirthlessly. ‘If you only knew.’
‘Don’t be scared. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.’
Sofia looked around in alarm, but the servants were both asleep.
‘How—’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not obvious yet but I’d be sore incompetent not to recognise the signs.’
‘It’s not what you think.’ Sofia reddened.
‘I know. You’re no fool. Whoever you gave yourself to, he loves you.’
Sofia didn’t argue. She could see Donna Bombelli floating in and out of consciousness. ‘Wake up. Are you still in pain?’
‘No …’ Her breath was slow and deep and far apart, but her eyes became suddenly lucid. ‘Sofia, you’re midwife enough to know the trouble I’m in.’
‘Don’t say that!’
The stillness about her was growing. ‘It’s true, and you know it. Promise me something …’
On the palazzo steps, Fabbro was surrounded by the priors who, to a man, urged breaking up the protest. He told them it was madness.
‘But we have to pay for the gold somehow!’ said the brewer indignantly.
Fabbro had hoped one of them would suggest paying for it; instead they kept repeating that simple fairness demanded that the expense should be shared equally. ‘After all, the lion must be gold, and the tax will apply to us as much as them.’
‘It may be harder to bear for some,’ Fabbro said, concentrating now on the condottieri captains circling poor Becket. A few drinks on, they were getting rowdy too.
‘You know who you sound like, Bombelli? Vanzetti’s boy,’ the brewer said. ‘Every bit the communard his father was. If that were my boy— ’
‘What, Bocca? What would you do? At least Pedro has convictions. All you have is greed and an unearned sense of entitlement. You got rich selling beer to soldiers; any fool could have done as much.’
‘Now hold on – I never
said I wouldn’t pay my share. That’s not the point any more. It’s about the Signoria’s standing. If we give in on this, we’ll never be listened to again.’
As the others affirmed the brewer’s sentiments, Fabbro cursed himself for not listening to his wife, for at last he saw that there were agreements to which he had not been party; the salt tax had not been a spontaneous idea. The priors wanted a confrontation. He had an overwhelming desire to be back in Tower Bombelli with his family and away from these vulgar, ambitious curs.
‘I’ll pay for the gold! There’s no one need for anyone to dip into their purse, and no need for the tax.’
The priors were speechless for a space. Then Polo began, ‘But Fabbro—’
‘But nothing! Podesta, come with me.’
As they walked to the bridge, Fabbro told Levi his decision.
‘Bravo,’ Levi said mildly. ‘Let’s break the good news.’
The good daughter keeping vigil was a tiresome pose to maintain. Maddalena reasoned that she might as well get some use out of her gown. She paraded between the fires of Piazza Stella and the hungry eyes of the bandieratori until she found Uggeri in a dark corner. He was sharing a paper purse of warm chestnuts with Carmella.
The novice blushed when Maddalena approached, as though caught in some scandalous tryst.
‘Sister? Shouldn’t you be ministering to the dauntless heroes on the bridge?’
Carmella curtseyed and left, and Maddalena turned with a wide grin to Uggeri. ‘Why, Signore Galati, I knew you were a villain but I never took you for a corruptor of young virtue.’
Uggeri could have explained that their relationship was innocent – Carmella’s tower had been next to Tower Galati while her family had lived – but he knew better than to rise to Maddalena’s bait. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.
‘Hard at it. I’m in the way, of course. Only the Contessa can do anything! If there’s an emergency I suppose Pedro Vanzetti can rig up a pulley system.’
‘You hate anyone else being the centre of attention.’
