The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (27 page)

‘It’s true, Signore Sorrento, that their attempt to subdue Etruria proved more difficult than anticipated. But in Europa, Concord’s strong as ever. They have turned away from us only briefly; when they turn back, we must be ready, or we will
perish. The Ninth and Tenth legions under General Spinther have made short work of the Franks and’ – he paused for emphasis – ‘I have reports that put him in the Tyrolean Highlands a week ago.’

The chuckling abruptly stopped.

As Levi sat, Fabbro stood. ‘I do hope you pay your spies badly, Podesta. You’ve just heard that Spinther’s legions are advancing into the Dalmatian March, but the lowest bridge merchant might have told you that weeks ago. Our Ariminumese partners complain of nothing else. Even if they did not, we would know it by the inflated price of Oltremarine silks and spice.’

Levi’s embarrassment showed in his cold anger. ‘It doesn’t trouble you that our enemy has encircled the Venetian Gulf?’

‘No!’ Fabbro laughed. ‘The Concordians are racing headlong into a wall – at the end of Dalmatian March there is a little city called Byzant; you may have heard of it. The northern capital of the empire of Oltremare is impregnable. If Concord wakes that giant, so much the worse for Concord. If they go to war, all the cities of southern Etruria will profit, and the Oltremarines will be that much more disposed to do business with us to boot.’

Sofia caught Levi’s glance. As usual the status quo was winning the day. Not for the first time, she sensed the hidden hand of the Mercanzia.

The notary’s confusion as he came to the next item on the agenda drew their attention ‘A vote on the proposed … salt tax? But when was
this
proposed?’

Fabbro was already on his feet. ‘I took the liberty of amending last session’s minutes.’ He was prepared for opposition. His explanation that this was about equity, a temporary measure to share the expense of an important public monument, did little to console Sofia.

‘Let me get this straight: the priors get the glory and the Small People get to pay for it? Think they’ll accept that?’

‘When we make it law they’ll have to,’ said the brewer.

Pedro responded to Bocca. ‘Our prosperity is contingent on peace. In the old days, every tower was equally poor. Some towers are higher than others now, but they can still burn.’

As the notary struggled to restore order, the point of having a Speakers’ Mace became apparent.

The farmer shook his head contemptuously. ‘We’ve heard this communard argument from Maestro Vanzetti ever since he sold his towers. He claimed he wished to be free to concentrate on engineering, and we believed him. It’s obvious now that he only wanted to be free to look down on those who
earn
their daily bread. The Vanzetti have always been expert in telling others how to do things. All the goods we sell are taxed by the city, and all profit by our low prices. Those same few towers who pay for the Hawk’s Company’s beer pay for the engineers’ fanciful projects – and are we thanked? No. Do we complain? No. Do we ask the Small People for much? Again, no; we’re simply asking for a
contribution
– and for that temerity we’re treated to threats of being burned in our beds. Fine gratitude – fine talk in a house built on the rule of law.’

Sofia was depressed to hear that same self-serving argument that had dominated the old Signoria, but it was Pedro who responded. ‘If we ask the minor Guilds and those trades without Guilds to share this burden, they are entitled to ask for a seat in this house.’

The notary began reciting, ‘Only priors can sit in this house, and only the priors of the major Guilds can—’

‘The right to form a Guild should be the prerogative of the workers concerned,’ Pedro declared, ‘and them alone.’

The brewer started to snarl, but Fabbro pulled him down. ‘Friends, we are family, but families are not democracies.
Unhappy families have one thing in common: an excess of freedom, and inevitably it brings them ruin. Wise parents allow children to make mistakes, but a parent who lets his child destroy himself is not wise. The major Guilds do not have the vote because we are
rich
, we have the vote because we are
prudent
. Moderation is a virtue in all things, not least in governance. An excess of freedom is as bad as slavery: we must have freedom, but not too much.’ He sat down with Pedro in his sights.

Sofia kept her seat and shouted back, ‘Gonfaloniere, I heard the same argument used to deny you a seat once. You didn’t want to be taxed without a say in how it was spent. If you were right then, then you’re wrong now.’

Fabbro, furious that Sofia hadn’t bothered to stand, remembered the contempt Doc Bardini had shown the old Signoria. ‘It seems to me,
Signorina
Scaligeri sometimes forgets that Rasenna no longer owes allegiances to Count or Contessa. She has voice in this house only as prior of the Bandieratori Guild. The Scaligeri did not rule by consultation. When, I wonder, did she acquire her love of the people? Was it when she realised what she had given up? Was it when she realised that parliamentarians must
persuade
equals, not command subjects?’

‘Stick to the point, Gonfaloniere,’ the notary interjected.

‘Very well, it’s easily refuted. Signorina Scaligeri does not compare like with like. Yes, I objected to the Families’ rule: the city they ran was feuding. The city they ran was poor. The city
I
run is at peace. The city
I
run is prosperous. Enough. I don’t have to explain myself to this spoiled girl, whatever she once was. There are other matters on the agenda. Let’s vote.’

As the notary prepared to read the motion, Levi stood.

‘Podesta, you have no vote.’

‘I know that. I know nobody asked my opinion either. I’m giving it anyway. Some have argued that a wider franchise would be fairer; I don’t know about that. But there is the
practical consideration of stability. Whatever little you earn you’ll lose if there’s a revolt.’

‘Even the Small People know tax is a fact of life,’ the brewer started.

‘That’s true,’ Levi admitted, ‘but they also know the less of it, the better. And if you insist on raising a new tax, I’d hope it was going to pay for something more useful than this—’

‘Like defence I suppose,’ said Fabbro crossly. ‘The Hawk’s Company is quite enough of a drain as it is. Be seated, Podesta.’

The notary called for the vote and the Wool Guild’s cascade of ayes led the way.

After the meeting, Pedro caught up with Sofia on the bridge. ‘Sofia, wait up! I’m sorry. I should have told you I went to Concord.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone!’

‘My gonfaloniere ordered me to survey the canal; what was I to do?

‘Refuse! Some people still don’t understand that we survived the siege because we had Giovanni, but I know you do. You not only endangered yourself playing spy, you endangered Rasenna.’

‘I admit it was risky – that doesn’t mean the canal’s a bad idea. The rest of the priors are greedy dogs, but Fabbro’s no fool. Levi’s proved that patriotic arguments don’t move the Ariminumese. We can’t afford to be irrational now of all times. Giovanni never was—’ Pedro stopped himself as soon as he saw Sofia’s reaction. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—’

‘No, maybe you’re right,’ Sofia said. ‘I’m just a little tired today.’

She left him standing there and crossed the bridge and Piazza Stella slowly. She climbed the slope of the healthy hills, and then Tower Scaligeri’s stairway. By the time she reached her chamber she was breathing hard. A month ago she could navigate
Rasenna’s rooftops without breaking a sweat; now she was earthbound. As soon as she closed the door behind her she threw herself on the bed, pouring her tears on the pillow.

What was
wrong
with her? Pedro might very well be right: she was angry with Fabbro, but that was nothing unusual. Rather than persuasion, he always liked to present the Signoria with a fait accompli. The only thing unusual was that this time, Pedro had gone along with it. She touched her stomach protectively as she raised her head and looked out the window. The sun gleamed on the golden angel on the locker. What else did she expect? The
buio
waiting for her to tell her it had all been a terrible mistake? She wondered sometimes if it had been a dream, but the as-yet imperceptible swell of her belly said otherwise.

The Gospel According to
St Barabbas

New understanding brought new focus. As Isabella’s Water Style improved, so did her ability to teach her novices and they improved together. Whatever danger the Handmaid faced, the Sisterhood would be ready to help her.

Isabella sat crosslegged on the chapel floor. The stained glass bathed her in warm light, red and yellow interwoven with slivers of blues and purples. In front of her on the small low table sat the glass. Heavy beads trembled on its rim and on the young nun’s forehead. When she inhaled, the surface of the water swelled; when she exhaled, it sagged. Concave … convex … Her hooded eyes watched the centre gain mass, growing round, rising, a drip forming upside down. She huffed like a weight-lifter, her cheeks swollen and red.

‘Madonna!’

Attaining greater height, the swelling became a sphere, and now the glass it floated above began to tremble. There was a high-pitched
crack!
and a lattice of jagged lines interrupted the surface of the glass. The unseen arrow loosed.

‘Ahhh!’
Isabella covered her face as shards flew around the room. The water spilled onto the floor. She stood and composed herself, looking contritely at the cracked stained glass. From its fractured tapestry, the Madonna looked serenely at the impatiently hovering angel. ‘I’m trying. Give me strength.’

In the sun-kissed enclosed garden, the ranks of the sisterhood practised Water Style. There were more than a dozen of them now. They wore white linen gowns with short, practical
sleeves. Some were orphans like Isabella, but most were new mothers whose children had died and who had been turned out by their families for disgracing their towers. It might strike outsiders as odd that the novices were older than their Mother Superior, but not them. They knew what Isabella was capable of.

‘Enough! Let’s see you apply what you’ve learned. Prevent me from entering the baptistery.’

The hitherto synchronised dance became a series of individual sets, faster but still graceful. Isabella was a dark silhouette among the fluttering white; the elaborately long sleeves of her habit stretched after her as her lithe body tumbled in the air, moving across the courtyard like a darting bird, her feet touching earth only momentarily. Graceful as the novices were, they looked clumsy trying to catch her. It wasn’t a question of speed, but of fluidity. Her winding route between the novices was preordained as a river’s course. She had almost reached the end of the courtyard when a hard-eyed figure leapt out from the doorway. Instantly reacting, Isabella kicked the edge of the door to propel herself backwards, twisting so that she landed upright.

The novice fell to the ground with a grunt.

Isabella stood in the doorway and held out a helping hand. ‘Good effort, Carmella.’

The novice stood on her own. ‘Not good enough.’

‘You’ll get there,’ said Isabella, then to the group, ‘just like the rest of you. Back to it. Another hour.’

Isabella turned her back on Carmella and walked into the coolness of the baptistery. The novice stared after her with a mixture of admiration and resentment. Carmella hadn’t lost her family in a burn-out, or been disgraced like the others. She was one of the orphans created in the siege; Rasenna’s hour of glory was her nadir. She was the type of hard-knuckled girl one
found in the bandieratori towers: proud, with endless reserves of wrath.

Isabella had to stand on tip-toe to look down into the baptismal font. With a dancer’s grace she leapt and seated herself on the edge of the dark water. There was little light to reflect except certain golden gleamings from the walls, the brightest point the tip of the Herod’s Sword hanging over the font. Isabella involuntarily shivered as she beheld the sacred symbol. Rasenneisi parents held their babes beneath it, that they might became one with He who had died prematurely from an imprudent excess of love.