The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy)

by Aidan Harte

  ‘How dare you! You’re the naïve one, little brother, repeating the communard rubbish that got your father killed. Perhaps you’d see a little wider if you weren’t burrowing holes all day. Perhaps you’d realise that Concord’s nobility are our natural allies against Concord’s engineers. I don’t know if Geta’s a good man – I gave up that search a long time ago – but I know he’s strong.’

  ‘And what about Uggeri?’ Pedro said quietly.

  Maddalena stiffened. ‘What is that boy to me?’ She turned and stomped up the stairs.

  Before she could reach the first landing Pedro called after her, ‘You know very well!’

  That she could discard Uggeri so easily galled him. Uggeri was no saint, but Pedro knew his worth. He had heard the rumours about Geta, but he had dismissed them, assuming Maddalena would know better than to get mixed up with such a person. But apparently not.

  When the servant haughtily summoned Pedro, he was irked enough to ask, ‘Do I approach on my knees, Gonfaloniere? What’s the etiquette these days?’

  ‘Don’t tease, Pedro!’ Fabbro laughed. ‘I’m still training them. Visiting dignitaries expect certain formalities. Obviously they aren’t necessary for Rasenneisi; I’ll have a word.’ He was happily rearranging the items on his desk, obviously unable to contain his excitement at the engagement. The apology was a formality too, and Pedro felt a perverse need to puncture Fabbro’s complacence. ‘Doc Bardini didn’t care for formalities.’

  ‘Because he was a hypocrite,’ Fabbro retorted with sudden aggression. ‘Surely you’re old enough to see that now? Or do you still believe everything that comes from Signorina Scaligeri’s lips? The Doc died for Rasenna, but let’s not forget how he lived either. He needed to pretend he didn’t rule, but I don’t have to dissemble. I’m the elected Gonfaloniere. When someone else is elected, I’ll support them.’ He regained his composure and sat down. ‘Please, let’s forget the past, I want to concentrate on the—’

  Pedro tilted his head back to the door. ‘I heard.’

  Fabbro clapped his hands together. ‘Isn’t it wonderful! It was my wife’s dying wish to see Maddalena married, but I’d given up hope. My sons are quite useless; they haven’t found anyone remotely suitable down south and – well, it just happened in the wave of a flag. I only wish Vettori had lived to see it.’

  He knew he should play along and broach his concerns later, but Fabbro’s mention of his father so soon after Maddalena had disparaged him made Pedro suddenly furious. ‘He’d be appalled! Your daughter should marry one of the Small People, not a noble! The gonfaloniere bears the flag. All Rasenna looks to your example, from the lowest bandieratoro to the mightiest magnate. Etruria’s watching too, to see how long our republican principles last. You’re becoming awfully autocratic with your formalities and servants.’

  ‘Oh, Madonna’s sake—’

  ‘For all we know, the man’s a villain. He’s clearly an exile. He’s emptied his purse paying off the tabs of the Hawk’s Company.’

  ‘If he’s right for my girl, I don’t care if he’s a pauper.’ ‘No, all you covet is his name. How will it look, after so many Small People died to overthrow the Families, when our Gonfaloniere sells his only daughter for a title?’

  Fabbro flinched as if from a blow. The question hung unanswered for long enough for the silence to grow ugly. Fabbro stood up slowly. ‘I never knew you were so politically aware. How sad that you don’t share your insights in the Signoria any more.’

  ‘I’ve been busy. You know that.’ That was all he was going to say, but a reckless spirit goaded him on. ‘The Signoria is the people – that place across the river represents only the magnates.’

  ‘Pedro, you’re very brilliant, but very immature, with a boy’s shallow understanding in many ways. The Small People weren’t the only ones who sacrificed to overcome the Families – far from it.’

  ‘Don’t give me that line. Maybe you’ve forgotten what the truth sounds like. I warn you – others won’t be so understanding.’

  If there had been any chance that Fabbro might unbend at that moment it disappeared. ‘I’ve been threatened by bandieratori before. They don’t frighten me. Flags can be easily bought.’

  ‘Towers can easily burn.’

  His face hardened. ‘Best leave, boy, before you go from insubordination to treason.’

  Wine, as unusual, was served at the meeting of the Mercanzia, but such were the times that Fabbro was forced to open a second crate.

  Polo Sorrento was no orator, but anger made him eloquent. ‘War. War. War. I’ve heard of nothing else, ever since the siege, but I’ve yet to see a single drop of blood spilled. You don’t hear them gossiping in the street about the blockade, but it’s costing everyone here. We can’t get wool from Europa, not by land, and now that the Concordians have Ariminumese ships patrolling the Gulf of Avignon on their behalf, not by sea either. Ariminum was our doorway to the east and now it’s shut. Costs are rising. We must lower wages or raise taxes but we know how the Small People will react. We’re in it together, as long as times are good, as long as they get everything at yesterday’s price, as long as we deficiente make up the difference.’ He held his hands out like a beggar. ‘I’m just a simple farmer so someone explain it to me: we’re being impoverished by a war that hasn’t started, that we can’t win, that we don’t want. War brings ruin, they say. Well, this peace is ruining me, and the entire wool guild besides. We need a real peace or a real war. This counterfeit is worse than either.’

  When the rumble of agreement subsided, Fabbro turned to his prospective son-in-law. ‘What do you say, Lord Geta?’

  ‘I know you are suffering, but bad as it is you’ll remember this peace fondly when war does come,’ Geta said. ‘I hate to say it but your Chief Engineer and Podesta are right about one thing – you can’t avoid war, and like it or not, it’s a war you cannot possibly win. The arithmetic doesn’t require a Guild Hall education: you’ve too few men. You defeated a legion, by the Madonna’s grace. Concord never expected Rasenna to have competent engineers, but a surprise only works once. Can you defeat two legions? Three? Five? If you seek honourable deaths, stay the course, my friends.’ Geta paused and the sound of wine being gulped was like a chorus of frogs.

  ‘But, if you would not be martyrs, there is an alternative.’

  ‘Please, Lord Geta,’ the farmer said irritably, ‘we wish to live, obviously. I have a new grandson to care for, and my colleagues have similar dependants. What must we do?’

  ‘Understand your enemy. Engineers are not passionate men. Revenge means nothing to them. If they can retake Rasenna without a fight, they will. Think back. Was Concord’s yoke so onerous? Times were bad, but was that because of the Tribute or the Families? I know the engineers; they know me. I can negotiate a just, lasting peace. I can ensure that there is no garrison, which would only become a flashpoint anyway. But I cannot do it without your support.’

  The brewer stood and declared formally, ‘I move to elect Lord Geta Podesta.’

  ‘Sit down, idiota,’ Fabbro said testily. ‘This isn’t the Signoria.’

  Pedro and Uggeri – who had Sofia’s seat – sat in isolation with Yuri on the other side of the chamber. ‘Maybe they will awards me medal?’ the Russ said dryly.

  Pedro locked eyes with his godfather across the empty Speaker’s Circle. Fabbro broke away first. The purse was handed round the chamber. Each man had a black and a white pebble. When it came back to Fabbro he added his white pebble and tipped out the contents into a silver tray. Two black pebbles in a mound of white.

  ‘Captain Yuri, the Signoria thanks you for your services,’ Fabbro said. ‘You are dismissed. I hereby appoint Lord Geta Podesta of Rasenna, with all attendant privileges and powers. May the Madonna’s cloak shield him.’

  The door opened, and Geta strode in, going straight towards Yuri. The Russ had seen his fate coming, but still he was slightly dazed. He stood to attention, handed Geta the baton and marched out with dignity, fol
lowed by Uggeri.

  Pedro watched Geta as he hefted the baton in his fist. ‘Signori, I’m honoured. I consider this a homecoming. In Rasenna I learned the art of war. My first lesson wasn’t demonstrated by my workshop maestro but rather by the birds of the air.’ He smiled, looking around the bewildered faces of the magnates, and finally settled on Pedro. ‘I mean, of course, those audacious cuckoos who nest in the towers. They grow big as their siblings languish. They betray the fools that nurtured them. The Madonna has always watched over the City of Towers. I believe she brought me here to give you a timely warning. The Signoria has a duty to protect the people from monopolistic practice. You, who have so lately thrown off the tyranny of the Families, be mindful not to nurture another. The engineers have far too much power to be allowed the independence afforded other guilds. Engineers are weapons. To let a weapon decide how it’s used is not merely bad policy, it’s suicidal. If there’s a lesson to the Concordian Re-formation, that’s it. Therefore I move the Engineers’ Guild be broken up and that engineers be hereafter considered part of the Guild of Fire, with similar status to, oh, blacksmiths for example; no longer should they have a seat in this house.’

  Pedro didn’t even wait for the pebbles to be counted.

  CHAPTER 78

  PUBLIC ORDINANCE

  By Order of the Podesta.

  Banners may only be used in workshops;

  banners are prohibited in public;

  NO EXCEPTIONS.

  Geta’s decree was posted on the doors of the Palazzo del Popolo in Piazza Luna and Santa Maria della Vittoria in Piazza Stella and on each of the lions’ plinths. The injunction was aimed directly at Tower Scaligeri as far as Uggeri was concerned. The bandieratori guessed what his reaction would be, and they were not disappointed.

  ‘Flags up!’

  He marched to the river with his men, all bearing flags. Standing at the decapitated lion’s plinth he tore down the decree and cast it into the Irenicon, then he silently raised his flag. On the other side of the bridge the Small People and other guilds looked on with watchful eyes.

  ‘Doc Bardini taught us to take up this flag. If we hadn’t, the Twelfth Legion would have destroyed Rasenna. Should we throw it down because a corrupt Signoria in thrall to a foreign dog says so?’ He looked around as if he were genuinely uncertain, then he rolled his banner across his knuckle and caught it in a combat grip. ‘Should we look for leadership from those who only care to profit themselves?’

  ‘No!’ the bandieratori answered as one.

  ‘Damn right! This Signoria taxes us without our consent. This Signoria made a noble our podesta. As long as every Rasenneisi can defend himself, Rasenna is safe. Give up that right, allow it to be taken, and Rasenna is in peril. If Geta wants my flag, he can take it from my cold, dead hands!’ He caught sight of Geta crossing the bridge. ‘Behold the man. Taking down names, Podesta? Mine’s Uggeri Galati. I’m not hiding.’

  The crowd turned with malevolent intent to Geta and those who stood beside him. One of them – the Russ – grabbed Geta’s arm. ‘Podesta, no good comes of this.’

  Geta threw him off, but Yuri persisted, ‘They are just throwing tantrum, like children, yes? Let them shout and wave their flags. Who harms it?’

  Geta ignored him and marched forward until he was standing face to face with the first ring of bandieratori. ‘Small People, go home! As for you bandieratori, this is an illegal protest. Anyone bearing a flag is liable to be arrested.’

  Dozens of flags suddenly popped up amongst the milling crowd and dangled from the windows of the surrounding towers.

  ‘Hear that?’ Uggeri taunted. ‘Now he says we can’t freely assemble. That’s how tyranny starts.’

  Geta turned away in exasperation. Many of the condottieri were eagerly waiting for the order to advance. This fight had been a long time coming.

  ‘Can’t let them laugh in our faces,’ said Becket.

  Geta looked at him. ‘It’s better than the alternative.’

  Yuri relaxed a little, and Geta smiled slowly. ‘Keeping the peace isn’t something I have much experience with. What do you advise, Russ?’

  ‘He wants a fight, that boy.’ Yuri shrugged. ‘Let him talk. Let them march. They get tire soon.’

  When Geta’s men retreated across the bridge, there was loud cheering, cries of Forza Rasenna! and Small People. The crowd proceeded to occupy the bridge and, when the condottieri didn’t stop them, they grew bolder and spilled into Piazza Luna to assemble in front of the Signoria.

  Watching all this from behind the fortezza’s crenellations, Geta spoke seriously to his fiancée and future father-in-law. ‘Best you two stay southside tonight. Mobs do things individuals would never think of.’

  ‘Fine thing,’ Fabbro said bullishly, ‘a gonfaloniere afraid of those whose flag he bears! I’m going home. The day I need protection from Rasenneisi, I hope they do kill me.’

  ‘I’m coming with you, Papa.’

  ‘Your place is here.’ Fabbro took her hand and placed it in Geta’s. ‘With your betrothed.’

  The dark night that followed was tense and full of wind and alarums. In spite of his bluff façade, Fabbro was shaken by the aggressiveness of the bandieratori in Piazza Stella, and he instructed the servants to allow entry to no one but family. The storm damped the enthusiasm of the demonstrators, and as Yuri had predicted, they soon returned to their towers.

  In the crisp morning light, Bocca came calling at Palazzo Bombelli, eager to discuss the situation with the gonfaloniere: the brewer wanted to know when he could open his tavern again. He was surprised and somewhat alarmed to find the palazzo’s great door open and unattended. He crept in to the atrium, treading lightly and feeling like an interloper, but he felt a wave of relief as he entered the courtyard and saw Bombelli’s bulk sitting at his banco.

  ‘Counting money all night’s a capital way to ruin your eyesight.’ He walked cheerfully up and slapped Fabbro’s shoulder. ‘Nothing can buy that back – unh!’

  Bombelli’s head lolled back. Pushed into his eyes were two Concordian pennies and a bandieratori dagger pinned a large promissory cheque to his chest. On it was scrawled a single word: TRAITOR.

  The brewer backed away, too scared to scream. The sensible thing would be to quietly alert the Podesta, but on his way out Bocca tripped over the butler’s body. It was the last straw. He scrambled to his feet and ran across the bridge screaming, ‘Assassins!’

  By the time Geta arrived the palazzo had been thoroughly ransacked and the treasures of the workshop stolen. The looters fled from the condottieri, spreading their madness all over the northern city. Pedro was working on the orphanage when the riot erupted, and when he heard what the spark had been, he threw down his tools – the Sisters could defend themselves better than most bandieratori, and his engineers had nothing to interest a mob – that and a lingering suspicion would kept them safe. As he ran to Palazzo Bombelli he saw the chaos and entered the gutted palazzo in trepidation. It was impossible. How could Fabbro Bombelli be still? He of all people? His Godfather had been the one person alive when Rasenna was at its deadest. There was no force able to affect so great a change.

  But there he was.

  Pedro was surprised that the first thought that struck him was that Fabbro had become remarkably fat. In life he had never seemed so ponderous. Carefully, Pedro removed the pennies and closed his staring eyes.

  ‘You’ve come to rob us too?’

  Maddalena’s hair was streaked and wet, her skin glistened with sweat, her glaring eyes were ringed with dark shadows. She stalked around the banco, looking at him like a rabid animal, hatefully, fearfully.

  ‘Maddalena, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What for? You’ve sought this all along.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘That knife is Uggeri’s.’

  ‘You can’t be su—’

  ‘And you helped put it there! Out of my house! Get out! Get out!’

  Uggeri found the mood in
Piazza Stella dangerously festive. The gonfaloniere was the city’s flag-bearer, and until someone else took up that flag, there was no law. The north smouldered and the south sank into silence. Geta’s men were discreet, at least, forbidden to venture over the river. Some northern magnates fled across the bridge, valuing their lives more than their towers; the most prescient had already made plans for this day and moved their assets south immediately. Those who hadn’t, and who didn’t fancy donating their life savings to the Small People, barricaded their tower doors and hired flags to protect them. Though the loyalty of these masterless bandieratori was questionable, the magnates gambled it would never be put to the test – and it was a good bet, for the mob was looking for easy loot and soon moved on to undefended towers.

  Scaligeri Borgata did not take part in the mayhem, but neither did they quell it.

  Pedro discovered Uggeri obstinately looking down on the revels from Doc Bardini’s old perch on Tower Scaligeri. ‘You think Sofia would be happy with this?’ he asked. ‘If you don’t put a stop to it, Geta will. And he’ll be justified.’

  ‘Let him try. The magnates have been profiting off our sweat for too long. Why shouldn’t the Small People have some fun?’

  ‘This is not fun. This is chaos.’ Pedro didn’t mention Maddalena, though both men understood this was about her. Uggeri kept his back turned. Pedro began to climb down the ladder, then he stopped and pointed at the mountains to the north. Somewhere in those snowy crags was the pass of Montaperti. ‘The Concordians will come soon, you realise? All you’re doing is making their job easier.’

  Uggeri looked at him silently.

  ‘Damn it! Say something! I know you did for Jacques’ apprentice, but surely it wasn’t you who killed Fabbro? At least tell me that.’

  Uggeri stood slowly. ‘Leave it at that, Vanzetti, if you want to get to the bottom of this tower using your legs.’