Fires of the Faithful (41 page)

I did this
.

The bodies were my fault. I hadn’t struck a single fatal blow—personally—in the entire battle; the only attempt I’d made was my wasted shot at Niccolo. Nonetheless, every body here, every soldier or Ravenessi dead was my fault.
Lady forgive me
, I thought,
when I started this I didn’t realize so
many
would die because of me
.

In the midafternoon sun, I called over someone to help me with the body of a soldier. Michel had come to help carry bodies—I think he was trying to keep an eye on me, uncertain if his job as “bodyguard” was still required now that we’d won—and he came over to help me carry this one. It wasn’t until we were halfway to the gravel pit that I looked at the face of the man we carried. “Oh—” I gasped, and stumbled, nearly falling. “Lady’s tits. Mario.”

“Are you all right?” Michel asked. He lowered Mario’s feet and came to support me. I knelt slowly, cradling Mario’s body. I’d known he was dying—no one could survive a wound like that—but I’d managed to push it out of my mind, telling myself I’d overestimated the severity of the injury. “Mario,” I said again.

“Do you want me to get someone else to carry him?” Michel asked.

“No!” I said. “No, I’ll do it—” I looked toward the gravel pit, only a short distance away. “Michel, go get a shovel. They’ll have some in the stables.”

“Yes, Generale,” he said, scrambling back to his feet. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere, all right? Don’t try to carry him by yourself.”

Mario’s hands were warm from the sun, and his eyes were closed, his face peaceful. The red sash he’d put on to start the mutiny was stained a darker brown and black from his blood. I closed my eyes for a moment, squeezing his warm, light hand.

“Generale,” Michel’s voice said, and I opened my eyes again. He’d brought a shovel, and Giovanni.
Just
who I wanted to see.

Giovanni’s face was sober as he lifted Mario’s feet. Michel carried the shovel. “Where did you want to take him?” Giovanni asked me.

“Out of the camp,” I said. “The other side of the hill.”

Giovanni nodded, and we carried Mario’s body out of the camp. We set Mario down and I took the shovel from Michel. “I didn’t want to bury him in the mass grave,” I said. My throat was tight. I waited for Giovanni’s sarcastic response, but he only nodded.

“Do you want to get your violin?” Giovanni asked. “To play him a funeral Mass?”

I shook my head. “Mario worshipped the Lady. We can’t give him a Redentore funeral.”

We took turns digging the grave. Finally it was deep enough; we lowered the body in.

“Should we get Margherita?” Michel asked.

I shook my head. “The Book of the Lady says that a soldier should be buried by his fellows,” I said. My voice caught again. “Mario was one of us. It’s right that we do
it. Just—” I looked at Michel and Giovanni. “Don’t tell Lucia.”

“Don’t worry,” Giovanni said. “This will be between the three of us.”

We joined hands around the open grave. “From earth we come, to earth we return,” I said. My voice was shaking. “From dust we come, to dust we return. From our mothers’ wombs we come, to the Lady’s womb we return.”

“So shall it be,” Michel and Giovanni said.

We clapped our hands three times, to drive off the Maledori. “Those who walk with the Lord and the Lady in life will walk with Them in the life to come. Those who look to the Lord in life will regard Him in truth in the life to come. Those who cling to the Lady in life will be held in Her arms in the life to come.”

“So shall it be,” Michel and Giovanni said.

We clapped our hands three times again.

“Lord and Lady,” I said, and fell silent for a moment. Tradition required each of us to speak briefly, out loud to the Lord and the Lady, to tell Them why Mario’s soul deserved to be guided quickly to the life to come. My throat closed, and I bowed my head, fighting back tears.

Giovanni touched my arm gently, then raised his hands to the sky. “Lord and Lady,” he said. “Mario was Your faithful servant when anyone else would have turned away from You. I have seen many in my life who claimed to have faith, of one kind or another. I’ve met Your Fedeli, I’ve prayed in Your cathedrals. I’ve met only a few who truly believed. And Mario put them all to shame.” Giovanni paused and started to lower his arms, then changed his mind and raised them again. “Guide his soul to the life to come,” he said, “or You’re a couple of petty small-minded
deities with no respect for the best kind of man.” Giovanni lowered his arms.

“So may it be,” I said. I felt my lips twitch into a smile. I wasn’t sure what Mario would have thought of that eulogy. I hoped he’d approve.

Michel raised his hands to the sky. “Lord and Lady,” he said. “Mario was the bravest man I ever met. I’d been afraid of the battle I knew was coming—even though I was training to fight in it, and training other people to fight in it, I was afraid that when it came right down to the actual battle I’d panic and run away. But Mario stood up and put on a sash like ours, and I knew I could fight. I could fight because
he
could fight, and he was turning away from everything he’d ever known. I was fighting for survival, but he was fighting because he believed in us—how could I not live up to that?” Michel paused. “So You’d better take his soul.” He looked as if he was going to continue, but thought the better of it and lowered his arms.

“So may it be,” Giovanni and I said.

It was my turn. I raised my arms again. “Lord and Lady,” I said. “Mario was the truest man I ever met. He joined our cause because he believed in us—and because he believed in
You
. His faith in You drove him to stand against slavery; his faith in You made him turn against his commander. You were dearer to him than his life. But I’m not going to ask You to take his soul.” My voice broke. “You can give him back to us. We wouldn’t refuse.”

“So may it be,” Giovanni and Michel said.

We were silent for several minutes. Then I said, “Mario, return to the womb of the Lady.” We shoveled the dirt over his body, filling in the grave.

That was all there was to the funeral service. “Are you ready to go back?” Giovanni asked.

“I have another prayer to say,” I said, so Giovanni and Michel both bowed their heads and waited.

I knelt and drew a cross in the mound of dirt. “God,” I said. “Mario was not a Redentore. He believed in and loved the Lord and the Lady as Lucia believes in You. But Mario gave his life for Arianna because he loved her. He died like Gèsu to save someone else. There’s a line from The Journey that I’ve heard a few times: ‘There is no greater love than that of the one who gives his life for his friend.’ ” I took a deep breath. “I’ve heard people say that You turn Your back on those who lack God’s seal. Well, if You turn Your back on Mario, You’re a small-minded deity with no respect for the best kind of man.” I took out Bella’s cross and kissed it. “I have faith that You see beyond the form of worship to the faith and love below. Grant Your Light and Your peace to Mario. B’shem Arka, v’barah, v’nehora kadosha.”

“Amen,” Mario and Giovanni said.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I think I’d like to be alone for a little while.”

•  •  •

Mario died because of me. He gave his life to save Arianna, but he died
because of me
. I wept by his grave for a long time. There would be more fighting from here—I knew that. People would look to me to lead it. But all I could think of was all the people who had
died
. I didn’t want any more deaths on my soul.

I stared at Mario’s grave. I remembered him saying, “I don’t want to die,” his face sad and frightened like a child’s. Well, he had died anyway. What now? I stared down, remembering the last grave I’d dug, when I’d worked alone to bury my family. Could I bear to dig any more graves? What if I just walked away?

What would Mario say, if he were here? I closed my eyes, imagining Mario’s gentle face.
Honor my memory
, he would say, that was easy enough.
Honor my sacrifice by not wasting it. Honor my life by showing the courage I showed, by doing
what’s right
even when it’s terrifying. Honor my memory by leading this struggle, if it’s truly the right thing to do. Bear this burden by being the best leader you can, and knowing that many more would lie dead today, had anyone else led this battle
.

I stood up. “Good-bye, Mario,” I said, and brushed the dirt to erase the cross I’d drawn. “Thank you.”

When I returned to Ravenna, all the bodies had been buried, all the injured moved indoors. The keep’s contents had been largely emptied. I wasn’t sure what the Ravenessi were planning to do with the furniture; as far as I knew, no one was taking up permanent residence here, and the beds didn’t look portable.

I decided to visit my troops, and made a tour of the stables, the granary, and the armory. The Lupi responded enthusiastically when they saw me; I shook everyone’s hand, told them they’d done a fine job, assured them there’d be more fighting if they were interested, and moved on.

As evening fell, Margherita lit a bonfire in the piazza. It was Midsummer’s Eve; I’d forgotten. Only a few families had decamped; most seemed inclined to stay with the festivities for a while yet. Margherita started to lead an almost Redentore-style dance in the piazza, and I realized suddenly that I had left my violin lying on the hill next to Lucia, where we had slept last night. In a panic, I ran to find it—of course, it was gone.
Lady’s tits, Lady’s tits
, I thought as I ran to Rafi’s tent—not there either.
How could I be so stupid? What am I going to do? Where am I going to get another one?
Maybe Lucia had taken it with her, left it somewhere. I went looking for Lucia.

Rafi’s hospital was in the keep; he’d taken over most of the first floor. Lucia knelt next to a woman with a wound so severe I was stunned that she was still alive. I waited for a moment, and Lucia looked up.

“My violin,” I whispered.

Lucia smiled. “Took you this long to go looking, did it?” She patted the hand of the woman she’d been sitting with, and rose to come over near me. Lucia walked stiffly, like she’d been kneeling for a long time. “It’s fine. I left it with Rafi, and he put it in Teleso’s study, with the Lupi guarding there. It’s probably still sitting on the chair in the corner by the desk.”

“Thank you,” I said. I lowered my eyes and glanced toward the woman Lucia had been sitting with. She had taken a bad wound from one of the bolts, and would not live much longer. I realized with a shock that it was Elettra—the Redentore woman with the sick child Lucia had prayed for. “It’s odd, Lucia—I feel very useless just now.”

“Come pray with me,” she said. “Just for a minute. It would comfort Elettra.”

I allowed Lucia to draw me to the woman’s side and knelt down. Lucia pulled a loop of ribbon from around her neck; it held a tiny vial. “Holy oil,” she said. “You know how to pray for healing?”

“Not really,” I said. Was she going to try to get me to do the full ritual? “I saw you do it once, that’s all.”

“Improvise, then,” she said. “Go on. Elettra knows you’re here.”

Elettra moaned softly, and I tentatively took her hand. It was cold and damp, and I held it for a moment, trying to warm it with my own. “Elettra, daughter of …” I didn’t know her parents’ names. “Elettra, daughter of God.” I dabbed some of the oil onto my finger from the bottle
Lucia had given me, and drew an X on Elettra’s forehead, then kissed it; it was hot under my lips, like the dust of Ravenna at midday. I drew an X on her hands, her feet, and over her heart, then clasped her hands and closed my eyes. “Refuya, Arka,” I sang. “Refuya, Gèsu.” A tiny thread of the energy I felt as I played the Dance That Turned the Storm came through me, and instead of sending it into the earth under my feet, I tried to send it through my hands, into Elettra’s body. I imagined her wounds closing, color returning to her cheeks, hope returning to her eyes. For just a moment, with my eyes closed, I could almost believe it was true.

Elettra moaned again, as the last notes of the song died away, and I opened my eyes to see her wound unchanged. I told myself that I wasn’t really disappointed; what did I expect? I shook my head and squeezed her hands gently, then detached myself. “I think I should go.”

Lucia caught my sleeve briefly. “I’ve been in here, Eliana, so I haven’t heard what’s going on—do you know if Mario—”

“Mario is dead,” I said.

Lucia nodded, her face grieved but serene. “What’s next?” she said. “Do we take on the Circle?”

I sat back on my heels. “Lady’s tits, I hope not,” I said. “We can defeat a demoralized pack of soldiers with eight-to-one odds when half of them mutiny and the other half run like hell. Do
you
think we’re ready to take on the Circle?”

“What, then?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll think of something.” Elettra moaned again, and Lucia glanced back toward her. “I think I’ll go down to Teleso’s study,” I said. “I should get my violin.”

•  •  •

Giovanni was alone in the study. He’d barred the door; I had to bang on it to get him to let me in. “Is working alone a good idea?” I asked.

Giovanni gave me a defensive look. “The Lupi wanted to go join the party. I didn’t see any harm in that. I barricaded the secret door, too,” he said, and pointed at the chair he’d shoved in front of it.

“You’re assuming that’s the only secret door.”

“What kind of idiot would build all his secret passages leading to the same room?”

“Teleso vanished without a trace,” I said. “And we still don’t know how. Have you found anything of interest?”

“Teleso’s hit list,” he said, waving a piece of paper at me. I took it and looked at it. I’d seen the list before. Beneto and Jesca’s names, circled and then checked off. Lucia’s name, circled. My name had been added to the bottom, and circled. I snorted.

“I’ve also found demonstrable evidence that Teleso was embezzling,” Giovanni said. “Pocketing part of the money that was supposed to feed the Ravenessi and his men. He was doing a clumsy job of it, too. My father taught me some bookkeeping. I never took to it, but even I could spot Teleso’s number-juggling.”