Spira Mirabilis (38 page)

‘Where’s Pedro now?’ Costanzo asked.

Ferruccio pointed out the Giardino della Minerva surrounding the Asclepeion. ‘He’s in the best hands I know.’ He turned back to the brothers and the subject at hand. ‘Look, I know you are businessmen as well as patriots. Our backs are not against the wall just yet. We’ll get some help from the rest of the Black Hand – Bari, Brundisium and Taranto are as jealous of their freedom as we are.’

‘And Sybaris?’

‘What help could those cannibals be against the Grand Legion, Costanzo?’

‘Not much I suppose.’ The Sybarites were infamously
odd
. ‘But the Sicilians won’t be much use either,’ he added. ‘They’ve troubles of their own.’

‘How do you know about that?’ Ferruccio asked guardedly.

‘I still have contacts. The fishermen who work the Tyrrhenian Sea gossip with their counterparts from the Three Sicilies. Rumour – though admittedly an uncertain guide – suggests the current rebellion is centred in the Port of Syracuse.’

‘And not, as is usually the case, in the lemon plantations and vineyards. But you know this already, Doctor,’ said Guido. ‘They have petitioned you for help.’

Ferruccio did not deny it. ‘We threw off our own tyrants; we are not about to prop them up elsewhere. Anyway, the Syracusans have always stood aloof from the mainland. Let them stand alone now.’

Anyone else might think it insane that old grudges mattered more than their common enemy, but the Rasenneisi knew all too well the fierce enmity that could exist between neighbours. The City of Towers had torn itself apart daily – until Captain Giovanni had shown them another way.

‘You will find we are sceptical of everything here,’ said Ferruccio, ‘particularly civilisation. The earth regularly shakes to pieces every tall building south of the River Allia. When Nature is taking her passeggiata, a wise man doffs his cap and stands aside.’

‘Yet you ask us to stand with you.’

‘I do, Guido, most earnestly.’ He stopped short and watched as the sun sank beneath the sea, them turned back. ‘Forgive me, but I must cut our own passeggiata short this evening.’

‘You’re riding out tonight?’ said Costanzo eagerly. ‘May I come?’

Guido responded before Ferruccio could. ‘You want to get yourself captured like Salvatore? Certainly not.’

‘Your brother’s right,’ Ferruccio said, though with more sympathy. ‘You’re too important. With you two on our side, I have hope yet. We’re in your debt.’

‘You saved Pedro Vanzetti’s life, Doctor,’ said Guido with a low bow. ‘The debt is ours.’

Costanzo watched the afterglow reflecting off the clouds in silence, thinking about Salvatore, until his brother interjected, ‘
Grazie Dio
, I thought the old fool would never leave. We need to talk about how we’re going to escape.’

‘Escape? We’ve escaped to here.’

‘Yes, and while you’ve been walking Salerno’s gardens, smelling the flowers and harassing the nuns, I’ve been studying her prospects. She’s doomed. Do you know how they do business? They don’t even have a leader, Costanzo. When they need to decide something, they call an assembly, and the lowest shepherd is given the same attention as the fellow who owns the herd.’

‘You prefer dealing with tyrants?’

‘It’s certainly more efficient.’

‘And what of Gasparo? What of Salvatore? We just write them off?’

‘I don’t deny that our losses have been heavy, but doubling down never solves anything – you know that. The bottom line is that we need to get to the Grand Legion before the Grand Legion gets here.’

Costanzo was amazed. ‘Tread carefully, Guido. Our tower has already one traitor too many.’

‘Facing the truth is not treachery. Pedro Vanzetti is dying – it might be unpalatable, but that’s a fact. With our Chief Engineer gone, what is the League but an army of yesterdays?’

‘If you are so doubtful of our chances, why did you allow Salvatore to send us away from Veii?’

‘Because Grimani’s a fool. If I must be sold, I’d rather be the one negotiating the price. I know what’s worrying you. You think General Spinther won’t want to talk – but I tell you, he’s someone we can do business with. The Concordians look intimidating, but they’re nearly as desperate as these fools. Their expenses are massive – just keeping their machines in good repair and their men fed so far from the capital must be costing a large fortune,
every
day, and the further south they come, the worse it will get. They
need
us.’

Guido saw his arguments weren’t convincing Costanzo and started getting irritated. ‘And just listen to yourself:
our
chances? You can’t judge an investment’s prospects if you’re emotionally involved, you
know
that. Our father taught you your letters and he taught me to read exchange rates tables. While you were off composing rhapsodies on the glories of autumnal trees and virginal bosoms, I was advancing my education. Events have now completed it. As our business has expanded, so the margin for error has narrowed; one misplaced dot could blow away the Bombelli fortune like a feather in a gale.’

‘This isn’t an investment,’ said Costanzo slowly. ‘It’s our family honour.’

‘And what could be more dishonourable for our banco than to
be ruptured by a bet any novice could tell was a long shot? You and I control the family’s assets in Etruria; we are in an excellent position to seek amnesty, with honourable terms.’

Costanzo grabbed him by the lapels and pushed him right to the edge of the cliff. He held him there, the murderous fall looming up at him.

‘Are you mad?’ Guido shouted.

Costanzo held him there. ‘I may be, and a rash and injudicious poet to boot, but at least I am not a dog. Let me put this in terms you’ll understand, Brother. When it comes to honour, the Bombelli Family is in the red. I aim to
clear
our debts, not compound them. If I hear another whisper of this, I’ll write you off myself.’

*

The patient was sleeping. Matron Trotula undid the straps one at a time and applied an oily balm to his wrists. He had worn the skin raw with his struggles. After damping his forehead again, she went to relight the candles that had lost their constant quarrel with the wind.

When she turned back, he was sitting up and staring, as if mesmerised by the statue.

‘What do you see?’ she asked gently.

Pedro looked at her doubtfully. ‘I’m hallucinating.’

‘Here’s how this works: I do the diagnosing and you get better. What do you see on the statue, Pedro?’

‘… snakes—’

‘Many?’

‘No, but it was crawling with them when I was brought in and so was your …’ He trailed off and she sat beside him, blocking his view of the statue.

‘Drink this.’

The steaming pink concoction smelled of apple and wormwood. She mumbled a sing-song prayer as he drank it. It made
his eyes water but it cleared his head. He did not enquire about the aftertaste of blood that coated his tongue. She took the empty glass from him and went back to her counter. He watched her back, paying particular attention to her hair – he remembered clearly the writhing snakes, but he saw now they were just white streaks. Slowly, he looked over to the statue and breathed a sigh of relief. They were gone too.

More at ease now, he examined the chamber: a simple domed vault built from red bricks and supported by thick columns, around which wound carved snakes. The whistling wind carried the scents of fresh herbs and blooming flowers from the garden, along with the distant sound of melodic chanting.

The roof was decorated with a mosaic depicting a snake coiling around an upright rod; underneath was the motto, in Low Etruscan:
Eadem Mutata Resurgo
. Pedro was satisfied: his fevered mind must have seen this and dreamed the snakes into reality. He rubbed his aching neck – and felt a string; when he pulled it out from his bedshirt he found a small pouch hanging from it. He sniffed it. Lavender mingled with the smell of old cinders and ash. There was something else, something that rattled.

‘Don’t open it.’

He dropped the pouch with a guilty look and Trotula sat again beside him and started praying again, moving her callused hands over him.

‘With respect, Matron, I think I need to worry more about malaria than the Evil Eye—’

‘Is that so? Doctor Ferruccio tell me you’re quite the engineer. Some Black Handers consider engineering Concordian sorcery—’

‘Because they don’t understand it.’

‘Exactly. And what do you understand of our traditions? The Eye isn’t something cast upon us by jealous neighbours and hunchbacks, it’s something we put upon ourselves. Who is
Uggeri? You’ve been cursing him all night – that’s when you’re not begging his forgiveness.’

Pedro lay back, looking sombre. ‘He’s someone I left behind. He wanted to stay, but I shouldn’t have let him.’

‘I see. How do you feel?’

‘Better, I think – unless I’m imagining that singing too?’

‘No, that’s real,’ she said with a laugh. ‘This is a school of sorts and the first thing we learn is how to sing together.’

This beautiful place was far removed from the privations of the butteri trail. He was beginning to remember a little of the journey across the Minturnae – at least the part before he’d been attacked by the leech.

‘From what I saw of your menfolk, setting bones would be more useful—’ He checked himself and apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be— What I meant was, thank you for helping me.’

‘
Niente
. My work is simple, really. It’s about maintaining harmony and restoring it when it is absent.’ She took his hand. ‘I’ll be frank with you: this is but a lull. The worst is coming and you’ll need all your strength to fight it. If your spirit is lost in the past, you
will
lose. I will give you what I can to prepare you, but you must match your strength – your
full
strength – against it.’

He stared at her. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Do you imagine we have studied the humours for centuries and learned nothing? I am a
maghe
, not a tooth-puller. I treat maladies of the spirit.’ She saw he had more questions, and said firmly, ‘Close your eyes and rest while you can. You may not sleep properly for days once you leave us.’

She did not mention that she would not be sleeping either. The unguents and vapours she was preparing were not just for him. However strong, his spirit alone could not win this fight, and if he lost, she would be lost too.

Black-topped Vesuvius was only twenty miles north of Salerno, but the prevailing winds blew its ash-clouds out to sea. The Ariminumese fleet passed through foul-smelling mists of hot steam and prayed for the evil nipple that smoked so tirelessly and continually belched glowing boulders to stay its wrath. The Moor remained sequestered in his quarters. The closer they got to Veii, the tenser Leto became. A surprise attack was out of the question – it was impossible that such a large fleet could escape attention. Ideally, the Veians would come out to meet them in force … but he knew that was unlikely.

His pessimistic expectations were confirmed when they approached the Albulian Estuary and the Veians promptly returned to their moorings and declined to meet them. A cursory look was enough to see the siege had made little progress – he had been right to bring the fleet round to break the stalemate. Torbidda must see that – he
must
.

The Moor at last appeared on deck. He looked grizzled and shaken, but he immediately banished Leto’s doubts by neatly blockading the estuary.

Satisfied that all was in hand, Leto took a small barque and sailed north to coordinate the final push with his officers. Volsinii, the town he’d chosen for his base, was a sombre, religious place, home in the main to fishermen and salt-harvesters. He barely recognised the town when he landed – or rather, he recognised it all too well. It had turned into any garrison town,
with every soldier drunk and every woman turned whore – and everyone getting what they could while they could.

He was deeply annoyed to hear singing when he approached the command tent, and even more annoyed that no one challenged him. He would have words with Scaevola about this laxity.

‘Gangway!’ cried a familiar voice, and the tent flap was ripped open. Before he could jump aside, his boots were covered in warm vomit.

‘Well met, General!’ Geta wiped the slobber from his mouth. ‘You discover me, as usual, at a disadvantage. Someday, I will surprise you.’

Leto, disgusted, brushed past him and entered the tent. The circle of officers sitting around the desk hastily removed the wine glasses staining the map before them, staggered to their feet and saluted.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Leto frostily, handing his gloves to a drunken squire. He caught Scaevola’s eye and was not surprised that he was the only officer sober. The quartermaster, immune to Geta’s charms, wore a told-you-so smirk. He was looking forward to watching his beloved general rain down dishonourable discharges and demotions. The last thing he expected to hear was: ‘Scaevola, report.’

The quartermaster searched amidst his documents while the other officers looked down in embarrassment. ‘Let’s see – well, we were making good progress on the earthen ramp, but then, shortly after you left for Concord, a plague broke out in the north.’

‘I already know about that.’

‘Oh, you
do
?’ said Geta as he re-entered the tent.

‘And though its virulence appears to have limited its spread,’ Scaevola continued, ‘it has disturbed our supply chain.’

‘You’ll be delighted to know Rasenna survived it,’ Geta remarked sarcastically.

‘While remedying those issues,’ Scaevola went on, ‘the locals have been most accommodating – some of them rather too accommodating. There’s been outbreak of Roland’s Horn. I’ve sent for medical supplies from Concord, but they are delayed.’

‘On the sunny side of the ledger,’ Geta interrupted, ‘I’m here, and I’ve brought my Hawks along.’

‘A pack of drunks led by a whoremaster. Our enemies must be quaking,’ said Leto. ‘Go on, Scaevola.’

‘Lord Geta’s reinforcements, welcome though they are, have added to the strain on supplies, so I’ve been organising foraging parties,’ Scaevola added hastily. ‘What else? An emissary from Syracuse has arrived.’