The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (22 page)

Like a general, Fabbro oversaw all the preparations, dictating what dishes the servants cooked, in what order, and even how. He made his wife serve the food and Maddalena pour the wine. Everything must be perfect. The idea had struck him as he returned from Tartarus that morning and seen the sun rising behind the towers on the end of town. The Irenicon, striving upwards against the land’s gradient, reflected the light so that the riverbank and bridge looked gilded.

The Mercanzia, effectively a Guild of priors, was another of Rasenna’s unplanned births. The night before every Signoria meeting, the Wool Guild met informally at Bombelli’s. Their ostensible purpose was to discuss trade, exchange information and to settle debts and disputes. In reality, discussion focused on Signoria tactics. Fabbro might have a salesman’s talent for persuasion, but the rest of the Wool Guild were poor orators. Indeed, the tiresome business of making speeches and proposing motions, seconding them and voting, struck them as highly inefficient. Obviously reason and rhetoric were inimical: a talented speaker could persuade the mob to do anything. A little block-voting made everything go quicker.

The priors of the other Guilds soon worked out they needed the Wool Guild’s vote to get anything done. The week before every Signoria meeting, Fabbro’s palazzo was besieged with visitors, and the Mercanzia came into existence to bring order to what was already happening. It was founded on the sensible
premise that if fabrics, spices and precious stones could be traded, so could votes.

‘Wait till you see the lion, my friends.’ Fabbro kissed his fingers passionately. ‘A marvel!’ He had taken every care to make sure his guests were spoiled, but still they looked somewhat discomfited.

‘It will raise Rasenna’s reputation to new heights,’ said the brewer, with a strained smile. All the credit for the statue would go to the Wool Guild – did Fabbro seriously expect the other priors to share his pleasure? The brewer’s only act of patronage was to have a mass said on the Vintners’ Guild’s saint-day, and he always haggled with the nuns over the price.

Maddalena filled the brewer’s cup. ‘Do you enjoy art, Signore Bocca?’

‘I enjoy all things of beauty, Signorina,’ he responded, and Maddalena giggled dutifully and cleared away the empty glasses. She left the courtyard with a smile and full tray which, once inside the kitchen, she thrust at a waiting servant.
‘Dio
, why must
I
play serving-wench when these sluts hide here?’

‘Nothing makes old men as pliable as the attention of a young lady with prospects.’

‘Bah. Why’s Cook cooking
lampra dotto?
That’s peasant food.’

Donna Bombelli looked up from the tray of cold meats she was preparing. ‘Because your father didn’t get rich by being stupid. A banquet’s like a battle – without clear goals it’s doomed to failure. Some feasts are intended to overawe. Tonight, we aim for intimacy. An army of servants would alienate these men. Fabbro wants them to return to their wives talking about how the Bombelli are living beyond their means.’

Maddalena raised her eyes. ‘How very subtle. And you’re dying to tell me why.’

‘It’s simple,’ Donna Bombelli said, walking out with the tray.
‘Men are never so generous as when they are being condescending.’

The conversation had moved on to the price of barrels. The brewer was complaining about dealing with coopers: ‘It’s not the wood, but the price of metal. Of course Concord’s always hogged demand, but now I can’t get iron for love nor money. If you ask me, that’s why Concord’s renewed its Europan offensive. It pleases our vanity to think they’re scared of us but really, what does Etruria offer? A country of feuding city-states with no resources other than blood, bile and water.’ He shook his head at the world’s folly. ‘Where’s that delightful daughter of yours, Donna Bombelli? Not bedtime already?’

‘Certainly not! I can go all night,’ Maddalena said as she returned with more bottles.

Fabbro waited for the ribald laughter to subside before steering the conversation towards his goal. ‘My friends, a notion struck me the other day that I must tell you about. Jacques will soon cast the lion – but should its pelt not be gold?’

‘You mean to gild the bronze?’

‘I mean to cast the beast in gold! Let it advertise our wealth as well as our taste – “Rasenna’s Golden Lion” – what would the Ariminumese think of that?’

Sceptical, even worried looks were exchanged.

‘The Wool Guild can afford
that?’
the farmer asked.

Fabbro looked suddenly mournful. ‘Alas, no. I’ve arranged a loan from one of my Ariminumese partners to pay for the bronze. As you can imagine, no one in the Wool Guild’s happy about it. I don’t need to tell any of you that my colleagues aren’t known for their generosity. If I had the courage to propose this finishing touch, I’d be deposed.’

‘Or exiled,’ the farmer said.

There was relieved laughter around the room and the brewer swallowed a large mouthful of wine. ‘But it
would
be lovely,’ he
said, and held up his glass to Maddalena. After glancing around to confirm the other priors were thinking along the same lines, he said, ‘What if we shared the cost? The gold – how much would it be, Fabbro? Any idea?’

Fabbro played with the plumes of his beard vaguely. ‘Oh, Madonna. I ought to have looked into that before I mentioned it – I really haven’t the faintest. Gold’s what, these days? A hundred per troy ounce?’

‘Ninety,‘ the farmer said.

‘Really? And if casting requires, say, two thousand ounces, it’ll cost, oh, one hundred and eighty thousand. The Wool Guild would still pay a third – I must insist on that – and the remainder divided between you six – why, that’s just twenty thousand each, isn’t it.’

The brewer’s face paled at the figure, then blushed as the other priors directed looks of recrimination at his big mouth. Fabbro affected not to notice. ‘It’s too expensive, certainly, but
imagine
the prestige it would bring Rasenna. We think nothing of investing in new machines, do we? And prestige is no abstract thing’ – he gestured grandly in the air – ‘for the louder Rasenna’s name rings out, the more business comes to the bridge. All Rasenna would profit, but we would profit most.’

‘But,
Madonna!
– twenty thousand!’ exclaimed the prior of the Silk Guild, a dwarfish fellow of Veian origin.

‘It just seems so intangible,’ the brewer said sheepishly, desperately trying to think of some way out. ‘Art …’ The word dangled unpleasantly from his lips.

‘Nonsense!’ Maddalena interjected. ‘This is
patronage
– a kingly act. Would you not be kings?’

‘My daughter would willingly be a princess.’ Fabbro laughed, then became sternly serious. ‘No, Maddalena, not one of these good men wishes to be more or less than a citizen of Rasenna. That is privilege enough for us all.’

The brewer stood suddenly, swaying doubtfully for a moment. ‘You’ve yet to steer us wrong, Fabbro. Let no one accuse us of short-sightedness. But let’s also remember that this will benefit
all
Rasenneisi, great and small. The Small People ought to bear some small share of this burden. The Signoria might impose an excise on some essential—’

‘Wine?’ said the farmer dryly.

‘Salt!’ said the brewer with sudden inspiration, ‘as the Ariminumese do, and the money raised goes to pay some small fraction, two-thirds, say. Then the remainder is manageable enough that the Wool Guild doesn’t have to pay extra. Split seven ways, we only pay …’ He began counting digits.

‘Eight thousand, five hundred and seventy-one,’ Fabbro said coolly, ‘and change.’

‘A pittance! The lion’s share of glory goes to us, but the pain’s distributed equitably.’

‘I’m all for equality,’ said the silk prior with a dirty laugh. As others joined in, applauding the plan, Fabbro caught the concerned look on his wife’s face. He knew he should stop this before it got too far.

‘Papa,’ said Maddalena with a girlish squeal, ‘can I unveil it?’

Fabbro looked around at his guests. They too were waiting for an answer. ‘Of course,
amore.’

Donna Bombelli and Maddalena were sitting in the courtyard under the open sky, the banquet’s ruins lying around them. The older woman had the excuse of her condition, but Maddalena was content to let the servants clear up in the morning; no sense continuing the farce when their audience had left.

‘Why’s Papa so cross? He got what he wanted.’

‘Silly girl. The
priors
got what they wanted: a share in the credit at a bargain price.’

Maddalena found a bottle with some wine left and poured herself and her mother a cup each. ‘Who cares where the money comes from?’

‘Few towers are rich as ours. With good fortune comes responsibility. People expect us to share our wealth through charity and patronage.’

‘Why should we squander our money?’

‘Oh hush! I’m talking
pennies
, girl. It doesn’t break the banco and it buys the love of our fellow citizen, it’s a sound investment. Your father understands that, but those other charlatans …’

‘That dreadful brewer.’ Maddalena made a sour face. ‘I can still smell him.’

‘They think they got rich by their own wits. They think they don’t owe anyone anything. Fabbro was making money before you could pick it up off the streets.’

‘Yes, yes, and I should be grateful for my wonderful papa. I believe you’ve told me this bedtime story. So what’s a little pinch? It won’t be much for each tower, and the Small People will take more pride in the lion than anyone. They eat up that kind of vulgarity.’

‘A little means a lot to them. Since the Signoria shut down the other mints, everything’s that much more expensive. We don’t see it, Maddalena, but the Small People are living hand to mouth. You should have heard Donna Soderini the other day—’

‘Glad I didn’t! Those people … Mama, don’t be such a worrier!’

She looked up at the stars. ‘You’d do well to worry. You’re Fabbro Bombelli’s daughter. Our tower stands tall and a little discretion wouldn’t be amiss.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know
what
you’re talking about.’

‘You may have secrets from your papa, but nothing’s hidden from your mama.’

‘I don’t recall you telling your sons to be discreet. I could tell you stories that would curl the hairs on your chin. Why don’t you pluck them, incidentally? Is there a rule somewhere that midwifes have to look like—’

‘Don’t be naïve! It’s different for boys. How would it look, the Gonfaloniere’s
unmarried
daughter carrying one of these around?’ She patted her stomach.

Maddalena kicked her legs in the air and laughed. ‘We’d make a pretty pair, wouldn’t we? Anyway, I’m not like those dull-witted sluts. I’m in control. I know how to stop before it goes too far.’

‘That’s the trouble,
amore:
when it gets that far, you won’t want to stop.’ Donna Bombelli abruptly lurched forward as if grabbing for something. ‘Uhh oh!’

‘Is it time?’ Maddalena jumped up fearfully. ‘What’ll I do? Shall I get Papa?’

‘Get Sofia!’

Maddalena tripped over a stool and scrambled to her feet. She was just on her way out when Donna Bombelli called, ‘Stop, Maddalena – it’s not coming. I don’t know— I thought it was.’

Maddalena sauntered back. ‘You look
bad
, Mama. You shouldn’t be up this late drinking. You’d think you’d be used to having babies after all those boys.’

‘You were the worst.’

‘At least you’re not getting sick in the street, like Saint Sofia.’ She tittered, ‘Perhaps you should’ve had this chat with your
other
daughter. No, of course not – nobody ever thinks ill of the Contessa.’

‘Maddalena …’

The Maxims of Bernoulli
, collected by
Count Titus Tremellius Pomptinus

Another wasted night. Torbidda laid down his quill with a sigh. He rubbed his brow and picked up the metallic egg that now served as a paperweight. Its brass skin reflected the small amount of light in the study. After the Molè’s destruction, Argenti had commandeered the Selectors’ Tower. Flaccus had not been pleased, but he could hardly refuse the three Apprentices. Now, after returning from Rasenna alone, Torbidda had it to himself. The egg served also to remind Torbidda of his disgrace, of which its late inventor – the traitor Giovanni Bernoulli – had been the cause. Not that any reminder was necessary; not a day passed without some slight or encroachment on his powers from the party of Consul Corvis. This latest was just one more.

‘Prefect Castrucco, if Corvis calls a meeting, who am I to demur?’

On the other side of the desk the praetorian prefect adopted what he considered a paternal expression; his battle-brutalised features made the effect rather sinister. ‘You are the First Apprentice of Concord! My oath is to you, not any consul.’ He put his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, as if enemies were all about them. ‘This sword is yours. Say the word and I’ll accompany you
into
the Collegio with my men and any dog that presumes to give you another order we shall leave in pieces on the floor. A show of force, lad! What say you?’