The Nascenza Conspiracy (23 page)

“My brother was in a fight. Three much bigger men,” Emilia said, at the same time Petro finished up mumbling, “ … in a fight.”

“Oh no.” The woman’s eyes were so blue and her face so sweet and pure that she looked almost like a child herself. “That won’t do. Not here. Did they catch the ones who did it?” Petro shook his head. “There are so many hooligans on the road. Perhaps I might be of help? My husband is used to tracking ne’er-do-wells. He’s a city guard. Was. He’s retired, thank the gods. I never approved. Oh, the sleepless nights I had, worrying about him. For years it felt as if I never slept right, when he was out on patrol.”

“That’s very nice, signora,” said Emilia, trying to smile. “But
…
”

“I heard you talking about guards. I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping—my Berro always tells me I’m terribly nosy, but I’ve always maintained I just have good ears—but if you’re looking for a guard, and why shouldn’t you, if your poor brother was thrashed so soundly, he might be able to help. He’s good at that sort of thing, my Berro. There was an argument over a leg of mutton last night that one woman near our camp said was stolen, and goodness, did she ever raise a ruckus, going from tent to tent demanding that she have the right to search for it, and Berro
…
”

Emilia was noticeably impatient at being interrupted again. “That’s very kind,” she said, cutting her off.

“Very kind indeed,” said Petro. “For how long has your husband been retired, signora?”

“Goodness, it’s been ten years now. No, twelve. No, ten. I remember it was ten because our daughter had just turned
…
”

Ten years was good. That meant Berro had retired long before Prince Berto’s coup, so he had been loyal to King Alessandro. While the woman babbled on, Petro stared at Emilia. They’d been talking about this very issue only moments before—surely she knew what she ought to be doing. While the woman kept talking about something trivial, sounding as if she might never deplete her supply of air, Petro was right on the verge of giving up and making the suggestion himself.

Then Emilia spoke up. Her face was flushed as she asked, “Perhaps you could direct me to your good husband, friend? I have a favor to ask of him.” Petro felt like a happy father, but suppressed his beams of pride in case Emilia mistook them for gloating.

“Oh, of course, my dear,” the woman said. “I was going down to the creek, but that can wait. If you don’t mind carrying these, young man
…
” She handed Adrio a bundle of rags that she apparently had intended to launder, and then adjusted her wimple. “I’ll show you the way.”

“A moment, good woman.” Emilia leaned close to Petro so she could murmur into his ear. “I’ll meet this Berro fellow and see if I can trust him. Maybe he’ll know other former guards I could round up to supplement our forces.”

“That is an original and highly creative idea worthy of a strategic genius.”

“Don’t be smug,” she growled. “It doesn’t become you. I’ll take Adrio with me. You take Vico and see what you can find at the amphitheater, and I’ll meet you there in a little while. And, Petro … ”

“Yes?”

He expected a warning to be careful, or an unnecessary reminder for them to keep their faces hidden. Instead, however, Emilia reached out for his hand and squeezed it. “Whatever, or whoever, has convinced you that you are nothing special is wrong. Especially if you’ve done the convincing yourself.”

Petro was so astonished at her words that he could only stare at Emilia’s back as she put her hand on Adrio’s shoulder and followed the kind old woman back to her temporary home. It had been the single nicest thing she’d ever said to him. In fact, it had been the single nicest thing anyone had said to him for a very long time.

“So is she or is she not in love with you?” Vico wanted to know.

Petro had almost forgotten Vico was there, absorbing every little word. “I don’t think so,” he admitted, with both honesty and regret. “Though I’m not sure it matters.”

Vico sighed and patted Petro clumsily on the back. “You’ll get over her,” he said, sounding very much like an expert on the subject.

Making their way to the amphitheater in the very center of the valley took them several minutes. The ancient configuration of stones was older than Cassaforte itself. Some said it had been built in the world’s first years by the gods themselves. Five tiers of concentric rings opened to the sky from the round circle in the center. The rows of benches placed on the thick grasses of each level were a decidedly modern addition, but the unpolished marble out of which the structure was built was smooth and white from the sun and wind. It almost looked as if the valley had been created around it rather than the other way around.

“Who are they?”

They stood on the uppermost ring of stone, poised over the amphitheater’s southern lip. When Vico pointed down the incline, Petro automatically assumed that he’d spotted Brother Narciso or Simon Jacobuci or another of the loyalists below. But no, the boy was pointing to the stadium’s center, where gray-hooded pilgrims were bringing large pine-tree trunks to the blazing ceremonial bonfire. The conflagration was large and tall, thanks to how the fresh fuel was arranged in a pyramid shape. Each log required several people to maneuver it onto the blaze. In the carefully planned pattern, the logs pointed up to the heavens and caused the herb-scented flames to dance higher into the air.

The timing and choreography necessary to add timber to the bonfire was so impressive that for a moment Petro forgot to answer Vico’s question. “Do you mean on the tapestries?” he asked, pointed at the area where an immovable stone altar sat behind the bonfire. Even at the not inconsiderable distance at which they stood, the two tapestries flanking the altar were clearly visible. “Why, that’s Muro and Lena. The twin gods.” Petro paused to give Vico a curious look. “You know who Muro and Lena are, don’t you?”

The expression on Vico’s face was very much that of the prince. “My uncle says that religion is the false comfort of the unwashed masses.” He considered the statement for a moment. “Though perhaps I ought not to believe everything my uncle says. Said.”

The stands from which the tapestries unfurled stood a good two stories high, and Petro could scarcely imagine the sheer number of stitches that must have gone into their creation. On the left, the long fabric caught the profile of smiling Muro striding with his hounds at his heels, as if spied through a narrow window. Lena’s serious face adorned the tapestry on the right, as she studied a book in her lap while a white stag slept at her feet.

“It’s up to you,” he told the boy. “There’s no law stating that one has to believe in the gods.”

“And all these people?” Vico nodded at the rows upon rows of people crowded into the amphitheater. From where they stood, all that was really visible were dozens upon dozens of hunched shoulders and hoods over heads, occasionally varied by women from the city who hid themselves beneath wimples, like the retired guard’s wife. “Are they being forced to throw their offerings to the gods so that your country might prevail over lesser nations?”

The words coming from the little boy’s mouth were so formal that Petro had to pretend to cough in order to cover up his laughter. “No,” he finally said. “People are here because they want to be. They’ve given up the comfort of their homes and everything that’s familiar to them and taken to the road. They’ve come to pay their respect to the gods because they want to thank them for everything they’ve been given. Not because they want to prevail over lesser nations.” That concept echoed curiously of Vereinigtelände.

“You came here because you wanted to?” Vico asked.

It was such an odd question. Petro hadn’t wanted to make this pilgrimage at all when Elder Catarre announced that he must. He’d resented every shrine and every prayer during the first half of the journey. Since Campobasso, however, he seemed to have been compelled in the direction of this sacred place. It seemed natural and right that he be here, to help prevent whatever disaster was being planned. He’d had ample opportunity to go home, to return to safety. He’d taken none of them.

“Yes,” he said, his voice steady and firm. “I wanted to come.”

“Boys, boys.” Petro felt a hand on his shoulder guiding him to the side. “Make way, please, make way.” A broad-shouldered man in a priest’s cassock pulled them both to the edge of the stairway that they had been blocking. The moment the path was clear, a procession of similarly clad figures began trooping down to the bonfire. In each hand they carried metal buckets that made a slight tinkling sound with every step. They must have been officials of some sort, because unlike most people that Petro had observed in the last few hours, they wore identical, skull-faced masks, just like those that the people in Cassaforte city wore for the Midsummer revels. Petro wished he’d thought to bring his—a mask would have solved the problem of keeping his face hidden. “Charms for tonight,” explained the gentleman who’d pulled them aside. “Are you lads ready for the big celebration?”

Vico asked, “What does one have to do to be ready, other than simply show up?”

The man pulled back his hood a bit and peered at them in astonishment. A shock of wispy russet curls surrounded his friendly face, and he seemed a nice enough fellow of obviously good country stock. “Why, my boy, there’s prayers to be said, and chants to be made, all in readiness for the High Rites at sunset.”

“I’ve nothing to pray for.”

“This is my younger brother,” Petro explained hastily, borrowing one of Emilia’s fibs. “We’ve never been here before.” The man nodded in understanding, not seeming to notice the difference in Petro’s and Vico’s accents.

Then the priest gasped and backed away slightly. “I beg your pardon!” he apologized immediately, ashamed of his reaction. “It’s just that your face—well, the gods welcome the deformed, too.”

“He’s not deformed,” Vico informed him gravely. “He was attacked by a badger.”

The man ruffled the top of Vico’s hood playfully, causing the boy to reach up and hold the fabric tight so that the man would stop. “A badger! Terrible. Simply terrible. If you’ve not been here before, remember that when you step past this point, keep your voices to a whisper and your cowls up. It’s only respectful. But don’t say you’ve nothing to pray for, son. There’s always much to pray for.”

“Such as?” Vico asked, genuinely interested. The last three of the figures bearing buckets of charms passed by and Petro caught a glimpse of the moon charms within, glinting in the midday sun. The procession carried hundreds upon hundreds of the folded and sealed crescents in their hands.

“Pray for peace,” suggested the man. He folded his hands across his midsection. “Pray for prosperity. Pray for your family. Pray for those who have departed from us over the last year. Put yourself in a prayerful state of mind, however, and reflect. You’ll find yourself the better for it. Are you from Cassaforte city?”

“My brother is of the official delegation from the insulas,” said Vico, before Petro could stop him. “He’s very important.”

Before Petro could decide whether to panic over having his identity bandied about so openly, or relish the obvious affection and hero-worship of Vico’s announcement, the man threw his hands in the air. “Ah! The delegates from the insulas!” he said so loudly that several of those in prayerful positions turned to shush him. “We had thought you were lost, or perhaps had decided not to come. Not that the insulas have ever failed us in the past. When did you arrive? Where is Sister Beatrize? We were in the Insula of the Children of Muro together, many, many years ago. Perhaps she has mentioned me? Brother Ioannus? I am one of several priests who help to preside over the event.”

Suddenly Petro was grateful for Vico’s slip of the tongue. “Ioannus?” he said heartily, pretending he’d heard it before. “Surely not the Ioannus whose first name is, oh, what was it
…
”

The man fell for the bait. “Oliviero! Yes!”

“Oliviero Ioannus!” exclaimed Petro in agreement.

“So Sister Beatrize did mention me!”

“No,” admitted Petro. He felt slightly guilty for lying so blatantly, but considering the reason, he felt the gods would not mind, even on so sacred ground. “Sister Beatrize was replaced at the last moment. She was not our escort on this trip.” The man’s eyebrows shot into the air. “Brother Narciso brought us.”

“Narciso?”

“Sclavo Narciso? Have you seen him here? Do you know him?”

To Petro’s disappointment, Oliviero shook his head. “I know of the Narcisos, of course. Net makers. There was a girl in my year at the insula when I was a lad. Serena Narciso. Always putting on airs, that one. Never did like her.” He wrinkled his nose, then winked. “I suppose it would be bad form of me to talk about your elders, though, wouldn’t it? Good thing I wasn’t, eh? Well! Come see your seats for the Rites.”

Without any further ado, Oliviero Ioannus pulled forward his hood and nimbly began walking down the crumbling steps in the direction of the bonfire. Vico and Petro had to scramble to keep up with him.

“Seats?” asked Petro, once they were back at his side, only to be immediately shushed by those in prayer nearby.

Brother Ioannus landed with a thud on the floor of the second tier. He didn’t lessen his pace at all. In a whisper, he said, “The pilgrims from the insulas are always among our most highly honored guests. Of course you would receive seating to reflect that. Right by the altar,” he explained, gesturing ahead.