Spira Mirabilis (42 page)

Behind the islands they were passing lay the pale coastline of northern Oltremare, to where Prince Jorge was now marching, coming home to raise an army.

‘Or just marching home,’ said Khoril, who, Sofia was beginnng to think, positively relished predicting the worst. ‘Once he passes the Bosporus and hears the cheering crowds in the hippodrome he’ll think better, mark my words.’

They passed Crete, but instead of the expected escort of well-armed
dromons, the only person watching their approach was a solitary fisherman in a kaika.

‘Your prince is as trustworthy as every other Byzantine,’ Khoril crowed, not bothering to hide his pleasure at seeing his prediction borne out.

‘Surely that fisherman,’ Fulk observed, ‘does not encounter invasions every day?’

‘I wouldn’t read too much into it,’ Khoril said. ‘I doubt he’d bat an eyelid if Neptune came up and shook his hoary locks.’

To prove his point he leaned over and saluted the little vessel. ‘Ahoy, old fellow,’ he bellowed. ‘What news?’

‘Oh, nothing of consequence,’ the fisherman replied. ‘The world is changeless, the land is barren, the sea is cruel. There’s a rebellion in Sicily, but what else is new? Veii has fallen and the Concordians march on Salerno. Some people find these events of interest, but I’m old and I lose track of who is who. Oh, there was something else – what was it? Ah yes. Young Prince Jorge says hello. He suggests you might follow me if you want a safe harbour. Good fishing.’ And without waiting for a response, he tacked about and sailed due north.

‘Some escort,’ Khoril muttered in embarrassment.

Sofia asked, ‘You’re certain about this, Fulk?’

‘We need the Byzants, that’s certain.’

‘I meant about dividing our forces.’

Khoril snorted. ‘No loss to shift ballast. Somewhere up ahead, the Moor’s waiting for us. To reach Salerno, we have to avoid or outrun him and they’re just slowing us down.’

The transports trailed behind the little kaika, their captains wary: Thessalonika’s Claw was every bit as treacherous as the Black Hand, and the old fisherman could set the pace. He sailed on, apparently indifferent to the host in his wake.

‘Good riddance, says I,’ said Khoril. ‘Flatfooted land crabs won’t be no use where we’re going.’

The hall flickered rancid yellow. The fat candles were exhausted, as was the notary. His quill had three times worn down and his last bottle of ink was all but dry. Several bottles of wine had been consumed during the course of the negotiation and the town fathers had grown loquacious as they settled into their new roles. Marsuppini warned that giving power to an inexperienced Signoria would be disastrous in a town trained to obey one voice, and the notary dutifully recorded his suggestion that ‘the best interim government would be a tetrarchy, preferably composed of men experienced in the vexatious art of management.’

Although Leto thought he could guess which three heads would shortly be joining the duke’s, he made no objection. Internal squabbles in client states were not just to be expected, but encouraged.

The notary had just blotted his final piece of paper when the hall’s great door opened suddenly.

Scaevola’s face was pale. His surcoat was splattered with blood.

‘Treachery!’ Leto had been so calm for the last hour that his sudden anger made the burghers jump.

‘Yes, General,’ Scaevola said, ‘but not Veian treachery.’

Leto pulled him closer and demanded, ‘What do you mean?’

‘An hour after you entered the city, the Moor and his crew landed in force and insisted on their right to prizes. They set about taking them, very roughly, I fear, and some of the hills resisted—’

‘And not one Concordian thought to stop them?’ His voice
might have been quiet, but no one listening could have doubted the force of his anger.

‘Well, no— That is, Lord Geta said we should join in.’

*

From the steps of Castello Grimani they could see each of Veii’s hills glowing. One was entirely ablaze; others were dotted with fires that had yet to combine. The town bell chimed away to no particular rhythm – the bellringer was trapped by a fire on a lower storey. From the top floors of the palazzi around the piazza, jewels and cameos and silverware rained down on the marauding soldiers, and carved chests worth small fortunes were smashed for the baubles within.

A horse with a burning tail sprinted round the piazza’s curve. The slain Veian soldiers, women and children who lined the piazza were an unappreciative audience. The horse’s auburn coat was slimy with sweat and foam gushed from its mouth. Its eyes were huge and rolling wildly as it crashed through the doors of the cathedral. In the apse stood a legionary with a leathern carafe in one hand and a baby, held by the ankles, in the other. His men were busy with the mother. He finished the wine, swung the infant against the cathedral’s thick pillars and went to join the sport.

While the Concordians indulged themselves, the Moor’s men took a more focused approach – this, after all, was their business. They had already cordoned off one quarter of the piazza into two separate pens for slaves and horses.

‘You look ridiculous, Azizi.’

‘I bow to you, General, in military matters. Not in fashion.’ Around the Moor’s neck were rows of pearls and jewels and his shoulders were draped with a fur-lined cape, luxurious as a bishop’s. His fingers were laden with as many rings as fit.

Before Leto could say more, the Moor cupped his ear. ‘Hark!’

Leto was confused, but then he heard the silence as the fires
reached the belfry and the ringer finally let go. Then came the bell’s death-cry: a repeated, discordant clanging as it plummeted through floor after floor, sending sparks out of the tower’s windows like cannon-shot. The bell struck the earth with a magnificent
duhoonong!!
and every Veian still alive to hear it knew that summer was over, that tomorrow the slaves working the Cagligarian mines would be their own children.

It told Leto something else entirely: it was too late to salvage this mess – but perhaps it might be for the best. The Moor was still grieving the loss of his beautiful ensign and it was better that he vented his spleen on these wretches and satisfied his greed with these scraps.

The real prize won this day was ownership of the Cagligarian Isles. Leto marched away, meditating more happily upon that, until he came upon something sprawled on the steps of the Castello that once again upset his tranquillity.

‘Geta—’

‘None other!’ The swordsman leaped to his feet and clicked his heels. He was drunk, and incredibly pleased with his prize: a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat with an ostrich feather that bounced along to his drunken swaying. He gestured at the Moor’s assembly line in disgust and declared, ‘That’s no way to enjoy a sack! Time enough for that in the morning. Drink?’ When Leto demurred, he wagged a finger. ‘I’m disappointed, young man. I thought we were making progress after our heart-to-heart.’

‘I blame the Moor no more than I would blame a wolf for savaging livestock, but you—‘ Leto was trying hard to rein in his fury; it would get him nowhere. ‘
You
are a Concordian officer.’

‘You expect me
not
to kick a fellow when he’s down? I’m only human, dear boy.’

‘Veii
surrendered
. Displaying leniency would have encouraged other towns to quit. We’ve just given them a reason to fight us to the death—’

‘Your trouble, Spinther, is that you want everyone to like you.’

‘Not
everyone
… I promise you this: when we go south, you’ll be the vanguard.’

‘Spare me your sanctimony. You meant to do to Veii over years what we did in a night.’

‘You’re a short-sighted fool, Geta – how are we supposed to winter in a ravaged town?’

‘Oh, we’ll find enough to get by, don’t you worry.’

Leto noticed the town fathers had emerged from the chamber and were now huddled together on the steps. They were staring, speechless, at their ruined city, until at last their putative leader piped up, ‘General Spinther, this doesn’t change our agreement, does it? We’re still in charge … aren’t we?’

‘I take it,’ said Geta to Leto, ‘that these – hm –
patriots
are the new government? My good fellows, your names will be listed in the Annals and remembered for ever. I congratulate you.’ He bowed low, sweeping his hat from his head, and brushing Marsuppini with the ostrich feather. ‘May your rule usher in a new era of peace. Mind you, after tonight I daresay anything will be an improvement—’

His voice faded away as an ominous creaking followed by a sharp report like the death-crack of a great tree heralded the final seconds of Veii’s great bell tower before it crashed into the piazza, demolishing the pirates’ pens and setting people and horses running madly for freedom. The Moor hurled oaths as his men chased after them.

Geta threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘Serves them bloody well right!’ he bellowed.

There was nothing else to do, so Leto joined him.

Marsuppini cleared his throat awkwardly.

‘Hello,’ said Geta, ‘looks like the father of his country has something to tell us.’

*

The prisoner looked up as a key rattled in the lock. He heard Marsuppini speaking rapidly: ‘Our first act after overthrowing the tyrant, besides removing his head, was to release the victims of his oppression.’

The prisoner groaned as his cell was flooded with early-morning light.

Marsuppini continued, ‘That’s when we found the Rasenneisi banker. My colleagues were all for setting him free, but I thought it best to keep him here till—’

‘Be quiet,’ said Leto as they entered the dark, ill-smelling chamber. He took one look at the man in shackles with frank amazement, then shouted at Marsuppini, ‘Remove these shackles at once! Don’t you know who this is? Signore Bombelli, forgive me. Had I known Duke Grimani had imprisoned you, I would have doubled my efforts to unseat him. The scoundrel was obviously holding you in reserve as a bargaining chip. I see he treated you ill. If it’s any consolation, he will trouble you no longer.’

Salvatore rubbed his wrists. ‘It is not, and apologies are unnecessary. War is no respecter of persons. Why should I be singled out?’ His tone was nonchalant, but he eyed Geta coldly.

‘Because you are singular, sir – I had some dealings with your brother Guido when I was stationed on the northern frontier, but the head of the Tower Bombelli is someone I would like to consider a friend. I speak not merely for myself, you understand, but for Concord.’

‘Do you now? Correct me then, but didn’t that base-looking fellow standing next to you declare himself head of the Bombelli Family? He bases his claim, if I am not mistaken, on his dishonourable association with my sister.’

Geta bowed in acknowledgement. ‘Forgive me, dear brother-in-law, but for once you are misinformed. I wish we had met in happier circumstances, before such jealous whispers reached your ears. I am honoured to call myself a Bombelli – that much
is true – but I do not dispute your authority.’ He fell solemnly to one knee. ‘Pray, not for my sake but for Maddalena’s, let us be reconciled.’

Salvatore had been denied water for too long. His spittle didn’t reach its target.

Geta looked up, grinning. ‘Perhaps other considerations will sway you then. You’re known as a man with a talent for keeping track of things, a prudent judge of good and bad investments. I daresay that even buried in this cell you know the way the war’s going. Rasenna, Ariminum, now Veii – detect a pattern? The towers of Etruria are tumbling. Isn’t yours stronger for an infusion of Concordian blood?’

‘I’d sooner see it fall.
Madonna
, you have a nerve to ask that after murdering my father – don’t bother to deny it – and making a whore of my sister.’

‘Maddalena,’ said Geta proudly, ‘makes her own decisions.’

‘That she does. I judge by your smile that her latest crime has not yet reached
your
ears.’

Leto glanced nervously at Geta.

‘I thought all Etruria knew,’ said Salvatore with satisfaction. ‘She’s made a cuckold of you – and her poor bastard child, whoever sired it, has paid the ultimate price for her sins.’

‘Enough of this!’ Leto grabbed Geta’s sword-hand and made him step back before turning back to the cell door. ‘Salvatore, you’re a businessman. I’m an Engineer. We both know that allowing emotion to infect calculation is foolish. While other bancos let themselves be tumbled by the winds of speculation, you have increased your family’s fortune by discipline and prudent diversification. Show that prudence now, and if that quick-boiling Rasenneisi blood impedes you, consider this: were you to suddenly lose your head, the Bombelli family would get a new one. Perhaps one that—’

‘Guido would not prove false – if he did, my brothers would
no longer consider him Bombelli; he would be a stranger to us like Maddalena.’

Geta whistled. ‘They are a stubborn breed, these Rasenneisi.’

Leto sighed. ‘I’m sorry you take this attitude, truly sorry. Please excuse me. Come, Marsuppini. You don’t need to see this.’

After the door closed, Geta wearily pulled out his sword. ‘Family get-togethers are such grief.’

The Peoples of the Black Hand: A Bestiary

Salernitan perversity is a product of circumstance. After the fall of the Etruscans, Salerno was ruled by a succession of tyrants,
⁸
as were so many Etrurian states, but when Crusading fervour swept over Etruria, Salerno took a unique turn. They repudiated all kings and declared they would rule themselves. Many peoples have aspired to be free, but what makes the Salernitans unique is the commitment they have shown to that aspiration.

Understanding that hitherto, every democracy had been rent first by faction and then overturned by oligarchy, they resolved to devise a way of life that would protect them from corruption. According to the histories, this Gordian knot was cut by the philosopher Fra Copho.
⁹
He recognised the paradox at the heart of civilisation: that the city ennobles and corrupts men. His solution was as elegant as it was severe: every man of Salerno would henceforth spend the greater part of his life in self-imposed exile.