The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (30 page)

On the palazzo steps, Fabbro was surrounded by the priors who, to a man, urged breaking up the protest. He told them it was madness.

‘But we have to pay for the gold somehow!’ said the brewer indignantly.

Fabbro had hoped one of them would suggest paying for it; instead they kept repeating that simple fairness demanded that the expense should be shared equally. ‘After all, the lion
must
be gold, and the tax will apply to us as much as them.’

‘It may be harder to bear for some,’ Fabbro said, concentrating now on the condottieri captains circling poor Becket. A few drinks on, they were getting rowdy too.

‘You know who you sound like, Bombelli? Vanzetti’s boy,’ the brewer said. ‘Every bit the communard his father was. If that were my boy— ’

‘What, Bocca? What would you do? At least Pedro has convictions. All you have is greed and an unearned sense of entitlement. You got rich selling beer to soldiers; any fool could have done as much.’

‘Now hold on – I never said I wouldn’t pay my share. That’s not the point any more. It’s about the Signoria’s standing. If we give in on this, we’ll never be listened to again.’

As the others affirmed the brewer’s sentiments, Fabbro cursed himself for not listening to his wife, for at last he saw that there were agreements to which he had not been party; the salt tax had not been a spontaneous idea. The priors
wanted
a confrontation. He had an overwhelming desire to be back in Tower Bombelli with his family and away from these vulgar, ambitious curs.

‘I’ll pay for the gold! There’s no one need for anyone to dip into their purse, and no need for the tax.’

The priors were speechless for a space. Then Polo began, ‘But Fabbro—’

‘But nothing! Podesta, come with me.’

As they walked to the bridge, Fabbro told Levi his decision.

‘Bravo,’ Levi said mildly. ‘Let’s break the good news.’

The good daughter keeping vigil
was a tiresome pose to maintain. Maddalena reasoned that she might as well get some use out
of her gown. She paraded between the fires of Piazza Stella and the hungry eyes of the bandieratori until she found Uggeri in a dark corner. He was sharing a paper purse of warm chestnuts with Carmella.

The novice blushed when Maddalena approached, as though caught in some scandalous tryst.

‘Sister? Shouldn’t you be ministering to the dauntless heroes on the bridge?’

Carmella curtseyed and left, and Maddalena turned with a wide grin to Uggeri. ‘Why, Signore Galati, I knew you were a villain but I never took you for a corruptor of young virtue.’

Uggeri could have explained that their relationship was innocent – Carmella’s tower had been next to Tower Galati while her family had lived – but he knew better than to rise to Maddalena’s bait. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.

‘Hard at it.
I’m
in the way, of course. Only the Contessa can do anything! If there’s an emergency I suppose Pedro Vanzetti can rig up a pulley system.’

‘You hate anyone else being the centre of attention.’

‘I just hate being bored. I was looking forward to a fun night instead of this hysteria. I don’t suppose your men could do without your scowl for a couple of minutes? With all these excitable fellows around, I need an escort back to the palazzo.’

‘… that all?’

‘The servants are in the tower hovering around the Contessa – she likes extra attention too – so there’s no one around to help me get out of this thing.’ She took his hand and pulled it to her waist. ‘It is
awfully
constricting.’

After a moment’s consideration, Uggeri cleared his throat. ‘Allow me to show you home, Signorina.’

Pedro turned to the crowd with a big smile. ‘We’ve won!’ Cheers mingled with cries of
Viva il Popolo!
and
Forza Rasenna!

Fabbro addressed them. ‘Friends, the food’s getting cold and the condottieri are making short work of the wine. You’d better help them, fast!’

Another cheer, and the congestion on the bridge suddenly cleared itself. As the crowds invaded Piazza Luna, the disgusted wedding party retreated to the fortezza. Levi and Yuri took care to herd the condottieri with them. Humiliations like this could swiftly blossom into violence.

Fabbro let them stream past him. He couldn’t face joining either party, the feckless would-be rebels or his venal colleagues.

‘Thank you, Gonfaloniere,’ said Pedro, standing next to him.

Fabbro tousled his dark hair fondly. ‘You only use my title when you’re mad at me.’

‘Thank you, Fabbro.’

‘Di nada.’
Fabbro walked briskly over the empty bridge, feeling some measure of contentment that tomorrow it would be full of merchants instead of malcontents. When he reached the other side he saw the final plinth wasn’t empty any more. There sat an effigy of a fat bearded merchant dressed in scarlet with coins tied around his sleeves. It was burning. He felt laughing eyes all around, waiting for his reaction. He marched on, affecting unconcern, but the portent slowed his step and when he reached the ladder of Tower Bombelli, he froze. What if, up these rungs and behind that door, was an irrefutable fact that would destroy his happiness? Must he climb up? Must he open it? Could he delay the revelation, alter it somehow by not acknowledging it, or maybe negotiate some reprieve? It was childish, yet the thought kept his foot fused to the first rung. He might have stayed on the threshold until the sun rose, but for the soft voice he heard calling his name. He willed himself to open the door.

His old counting room resembled the aftermath of a raid, with tearful faces and blood-stained clothes. His mouth opened and he sneezed once, twice.

‘Cavolo!
Shut the door!’ Sofia boomed, and turned back to her patient. Behind her Fabbro saw his wife’s face, horribly pale, with intermittent pink splashes.

‘She’s bleeding …’ Fabbro whispered, feeling the freeze again.

‘It’s a popped vein. It happens. Come closer, man.’

Fabbro knelt beside his wife and sneezed again; there was pepper dust everywhere. A midwife’s husband knew it was a bad sign when labour had to be induced, and still worse when those means failed. ‘I’m here,
amore
,’ he whispered. ‘I’m here.’

‘Fabbro?’ Donna Bombelli spoke like one waking. ‘Promise me something.’

‘Anything!’

‘Find Maddalena a husband.’

Fabbro replied with forced hilarity, ‘There’s time for that yet – she’s still a girl.’

His wife ignored his babble. ‘Find a
good
man, Fabbro. Without one she’ll ruin herself. So long as he’s good, it doesn’t matter if he’s poor.’

She was too delirious to see her husband wince.

‘I’ll write to our sons and insist they send portraits of a dozen eligible bachelors with their monthly accounts. How’s that? We’ll sift through them together and – if that fails – why, I’ll jump on a horse like the old days to search the length and breadth of Etruria and haul them back for your inspection.’

‘I’m with you, Fabbro, no matter what happens …’ The inexpressive mask suddenly crumpled into a spasm of anguish.

‘You should go now’ – Sofia pulled Fabbro firmly by the arm – ‘but stay close.’

He rose to his feet like a much older man and backed away, ‘Thank you, Contessa. Thank you.’ His head bumped a low-hanging spice bag and he stumbled into a stack of silver plates.
Neither Sofia nor his wife noticed; they were back in the constrained world of effort and endurance.

He stepped out into the dawn’s light blinking stupidly and climbed down the ladder. His feet instinctively carried him to his palazzo. A lamp-candle was lit in the hallway. The servants were standing vigil at Tower Bombelli – his wife was a popular mistress – or over in Piazza Luna, enjoying the party. So who was here? What was that noise from the central courtyard? Theft was rare in Rasenna, but flags had grown slack of late. He picked up the small Herod’s Sword that hung inside the door and left the lamp behind, the better to surprise them. The noise became clearer, groans and grunts – lifting something – his money-chest?

A woman’s scream –
Maddalena!
Fabbro ran into the courtyard, forgetting stealth or caution.

Writhing on top of a bandieratori was his daughter. Her yellow dress covered them both, but their occupation was obvious. The boy reacted first, his head turning, his hand reaching for his flag at the same time. Maddalena shrieked in mortification and leapt behind the banco, leaving the boy exposed. He pulled his britches up and moved before Fabbro could take another step. He ran at one of the courtyard pillars, then up it, grabbing the low-hanging Bombelli banner and with it swinging to the second-storey balcony. He lobbed his flag onto the roof above and followed it with a catlike leap. He scampered over the roof and leapt into the darkness without looking back.

In the courtyard below Fabbro stood before his weeping daughter. ‘In my
workshop!
On my
banco!
You let others tend to your mother as you tend to your lust with the son of a lowlife like Hog Galati!’ He raised the sword.

‘Papa, no!’

‘Don’t “Papa” me—’ In a kind of daze he threw down the blade,
grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. ‘Your mother’s right. I’ve been too soft with you.’

Sofia’s hands were shaking when she came out of Tower Bombelli. The sun was up over the river, the pink light over Piazza Stella throwing long shadows of those revellers who hadn’t yet gone home. She hugged her hands under her arms to stop them shaking and stopped before the small Madonna perched in an alcove on the side-street. It was an oddly humble statue for the richest family in Rasenna. Was it Bombelli’s studied humility, a sentimental attachment to the old style, or just apathy?

The servant Sofia had sent returned with her master trailing after her like a captured prisoner. Fabbro went to the ladder’s base and looked pleadingly at Sofia.

‘I’m sorry.’ She couldn’t meet his eyes.

Rung by rung, Fabbro climbed the ladder and pushed the door open. The long emptiness was filled by the swallows’ shrill songs amongst the morning towers. Fabbro reappeared at the door, stumble-falling down the steps like a drunkard. ‘Why did you cut her?’ he asked with wounded outrage.

‘She begged me!’ Sofia wept. ‘She knew she wasn’t going to make it. The baby’s only hope was—’

With dull eyes Fabbro wandered away from Sofia’s explanations: ‘It –
he
must have been dead all the time. It was a boy, Signore Bombelli. I’m sorry—’

He disappeared into the maze of alleyways.

‘The Contessa
regrets
. What consolation!’ Sofia turned to find Maddalena stumbling towards the tower. Her gown was torn at the shoulder and her face covered in ugly bruises. Her left eye was black and the other one was completely shut by the swelling.

‘Maddalena – who did this to you?’

‘As if you don’t know! Papa – you sent him – you want to
destroy the Bombelli family. We’re in charge now and
you
can’t stand it. And now you’ve murdered Mama.’

‘I loved your mother.’

‘Do Rasenna a favour and keep your love to yourself. It’s poison.’

Maddalena glared at the weeping servants. ‘Get up there and start scrubbing!’