Spira Mirabilis (14 page)

The four men in front of her picked that moment to charge.

‘Stop!’

Yūsuf bounded over the low flames of the fire and landed with his dagger drawn. ‘Nothing holy could have survived the Sands. I know not which you are, Jinni or witch, but I will show you why Sicarii steel is feared.’

As his men drew back, Sofia risked a glance back. Up on their perch, Jabari and Iscanno were laughing together and quite ignoring the mêlée.

She snatched up one of the Sicarii daggers as Yūsuf rushed for her and their blades made blue sparks in the gloom as they clashed. Sofia made a sudden twist to break the clench, but she lost her balance as she came free. She kept her blade up, but his came down with such force that she dropped hers.

Yūsuf’s red-rimmed, sleepy eyes came alive with an animal lust as his blade shimmered in the glow of the cinders.

He struck like a scorpion, and her heightened senses felt the air being sliced and the catch of ripped silk as the blade brushed by her breast, just an eyelash away from her skin. Until now her only experience of Air Style was seeing Arik fight. It was direct where Water Style was evasive, brutal where Water Style was precise: a dance of explosive punches and sudden shifts of ground.
But now was not the time for study. It was all she could do to avoid his slashes, but she knew better than to meet them head-on and instead parried them away from her body.

Slash. Parry. And again. And again
.

Too late to block this one; avoid it.

She tilted so far back that she had to steady herself against the ground with one hand. Dexterously Yūsuf twirled his dagger. With teeth bared in triumph and both hands on the grip, he brought it down.

Sofia
pushed
, and her torso responded like a whipcord, rising towards the falling blade. Her hands met with a mighty clap.

Yūsuf’s blade was trapped in-between palms immovable as granite slabs.

His grin melted into astonishment as Sofia turned her wrists slightly. As his knife dropped, she leaped. Yūsuf had enough wit to block the roundhouse kick at the last moment, but he was on the defensive now, retreating, which was what she wanted. She lashed out, another big showy kick, and Yūsuf stepped back to avoid it – straight onto the smouldering cinders of the firepit. There was the hiss of frying flesh and an agonised screech and Yūsuf hopped backwards, lost his balance and fell on his backside. He rolled out of the circle and kept rolling until his loincloth was no longer smoking.

While Yūsuf’s howls turned to whimpers, Sofia glanced at the half-dozen men who had remained sitting. They were waiting apparently for Bakhbukh to speak. The groaning men behind her were huddled together too, and waiting for orders.

‘We can do this all night,’ she addressed Bakhbukh, ‘and maybe one of these boys will get lucky and kill me. But that will help no one except she who styles herself Queen of the Sands.’

An abashed Yūsuf took his place in the circle, and asked, ‘You would claim that title, I suppose?’

She turned to him. ‘I told you, my home is far from here. As
long as she lives, my boy is in peril. You’ve seen me fight, Yūsuf of the Sicarii. Ask yourself, do you want me
with
you or
against
you?’

Iscanno – who had been perfectly quiet through all the commotion – now began to wail hungrily, and without waiting for Yūsuf’s decision, Sofia turned her back on the circle. The men parted before her as she leaped gracefully up to Jabari’s shelf, took Iscanno and began feeding him.

Some of the Sicarii were wondering how this stranger had managed to find a lair that had been secure for generations; others were wondering how she fought so well. Yūsuf was pondering something more personal: how exactly this affected him. He wanted to order his men to rush her, but he was canny enough to know that order might not be obeyed – and how bad that would be for him. Some invisible barrier had shifted. It wasn’t her fierce determination, but the vulnerable cry of her child that had done it. A furtive glance at Bakhbukh confirmed his fear; the stubborn old fool was smiling.

‘Lo,’ Yūsuf announced with great solemnity, ‘this is a great day in our struggle with the interlopers. When even the queen’s own people turn against her, can our victory be delayed much longer? This poor woman has not the wit to demand sanctuary, nor as a
franj
has she any right to expect it, but yet I bestow it. Never let it be said that I do not reward the bearers of good news.’

He had addressed his men, but Sofia nodded her acknowledgment. She would not have to fight tonight. It was enough.

It was the dregs of the campaigning season, and in any other year, the legionaries’ boots would be keeping the dust from settling on the Europan Front as they patrolled Concord’s northern borders. The dying days of summer would resound with the cheering clash of arms and the evenings would echo to the groan of anguished barbarians. Instead, the only quarrels were the musical contests of those larks that had not found mates.

Though Europa was silent, there was no question of leaving the Rhine Lands unoccupied, lest the Frankish tribes forget their squabbles and regain territory dearly bought with Concordian blood. The mines had never been more important; since the Rasenneisi had demonstrated the military use of annunciators, a new model, designed expressly for aerial bombardment, had been rolling off Concord’s assembly lines by the hundreds. Without a steady flow of metal to the capital, that torrent would slow to a trickle.

There was another reason – beside iron – to protect their flanks: a second front would doom all hope of success in the coming campaign in Etruria. The prospect of a large Byzantine push worried Leto much more than Frankish raids, though his concerns had lessened after his spies discovered why the armies on the eastern side of the Dalmatian March had been so abnormally courteous of late. Apparently, Prince Andronikos had done Concord the enormous favour of getting himself killed in some sordid adventure in the border territories. The purple throne remained empty, though there were several contenders circling.
Until a new prince was established, Leto could safely turn his back to finish his great project, the conquest of Etruria. Even so, he persuaded the First Apprentice to leave three legions behind. The other six were combined into one great host.

The columns marched by Concord without stopping for honours or respite – other than the Praetorian Guard, only a small unit of reserves was permitted into the capital – and halted at Rasenna.

Many of the legionaries had lost friends in the last siege of the City of Towers, and they were looking forward to seeing the red flags lining its battlements dragged though the muck; that would be sweet indeed. They waited for the order to begin the investment, confident in their strength. It was true, these battlements were the same ones that had rebuffed the Twelfth – but that was two years ago, and the Grand Legion was not commanded by a fool.

Anticipation pervaded the ranks but the order never came. Instead, Leto rode up to the north wall holding the green banner of Concord. He stopped within arrow-range and waited. Presently, a small hidden door beside the main gate creaked open and a man in a gaudy uniform emerged carrying a Rasenneisi banner. He marched up to the general and saluted.

‘I received your invitation,’ said Leto. ‘You always land on your feet, don’t you?’

Geta bowed in acknowledgment. ‘That’s what soldiers do.’

‘And traitors.’

Geta threw his head back and laughed. ‘You were sharpening a pike for me. I’d no choice but to leave Concord. You’ll be glad that I sought exile here. I’ve become terribly popular with the natives.’

‘Is that down to your charm or the silver you stole before you left?’

‘Equal, I’d say – anyway, it was money well spent. You don’t
want to be stuck here, fighting a beaten city, do you? Not with summer marching on, not when there’s a real challenge, like Veii, waiting for you. I can grant you safe passage south and all I ask is to be confirmed in my position.’

‘Town drunk?’

Geta merrily shook his banner. ‘Gonfaloniere, silly.’

‘So, you’ll grant me safe passage bought with my silver?
Madonna
, but you have gall. Here’s my counter: surrender Rasenna as you promised in your letter, and I’ll consider letting you keep your head, never mind your job.’

‘Don’t test me, Spinther. You know what I’m liable to do when pushed into a corner.’

‘You’re already in a corner. You’re not
universally
popular with the natives, are you? Certainly not with the sons of Fabbro Bombelli. They’ve declared your election fraudulent.’

‘It was fairly bought. My erstwhile brothers-in-law are exiled, so their opinions are irrelevant. They are contesting our late gonfaloniere’s estate with my wife too, but that’s a tedious family matter. I took office with the Signoria’s consent. Doing so without civil war was no easy matter.’

‘I’m sure, but perception matters. You bought this hovel’s poor excuse for a government, but the Bombelli’s endless credit moulds opinion everywhere south of the Irenicon. Rightfully or not, you and your gentle wife are seen as usurpers. You’ve no choice but to work for me.’

Geta lowered his banner with amiable resignation. ‘True enough.’

Leto watched as the battlement banners lowered in emulation and were replaced with Concordian blue. When he looked back he saw something even more satisfying: Geta kneeling, his head bowed, his hands held up in supplication. ‘The City of Towers is yours. Treat her gently.’

He would have relished running the scoundrel through, but
instead he dismounted and held out his hand. ‘On behalf of the First Apprentice of Concord, I accept your surrender.’ Geta rose grinning from his knees and stood looking down on Leto. ‘Glad you’ve decided to be the bigger man.’

‘Thank Torbidda, not me. I wished to make an example of Rasenna – and you. He would not hear of unnecessary delay.’

‘I’m happy wisdom prevailed,’ Geta said equably as he signalled to the walls, ‘but heartbroken to stand so low in your eyes. I shall endeavour to rise.’

Leto watched impatiently as the heavy gate slowly lifted. ‘Just give me a bed and I’ll be on my way.’

Geta turned back and said awkwardly, ‘Our gate is open, but I advise not entering till tomorrow.’

Leto’s scowl deepened. ‘Why?’

‘No trickery,’ Geta protested. ‘It’s just that things are never simple in the City of Towers. Before I routed my opposition, they managed to destroy that splendid bridge we had built. Stay calm – it’s a problem your engineers can swiftly solve. Look at it as practise for the coming campaign. They’ll have a pontoon ready by morning; you’ll march over and on your way.’

Leto slowly exhaled. ‘Fine, but we’ll bivouac within the walls tonight.’

‘That might be unwise—’

‘How’s that?’ snapped Leto, thoroughly frustrated.

‘The north side of Rasenna wasn’t for sale, so I was forced to pursue a scorched-earth strategy.’

‘So it lacks amenities. Do these men look like they’re used to soft sheets?’

Geta could feign only so much humility. ‘Yes, I know what a tough lot your legionaries are. I’m more worried about our pest infestation.’

Leto sighed. He’d been expecting something like this. ‘The opposition’s gone underground?’

‘Literally. If the legionaries were to find themselves under attack in the night, I fear that that they’d—’

‘—leave the other half ruined too. I daresay you’re right. If I send my pontonniers to ford the Irenicon, can you at least guarantee their safety? Or is that asking too much?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Fine then,’ said Leto remounting. ‘Next time you capture a city, Geta—’

‘Yes, General?’

‘
Capture it
, will you?’

*

The ladder creaked as Pedro climbed and he marvelled at the thought that he’d raced up these rungs as a small boy. Lifting the trapdoor, he found himself looking at a lead-lined hammer about to drop.

‘Jacques, it’s me!’

The maimed giant lowered his arm and glanced around. Uggeri was standing at the window, looking down towards the river. ‘How did you find me?’

‘A guess. There’s no better view of Piazza Luna than Tower Vanzetti.’

Flocks of shining annunciators flew back and forth over the Irenicon trailing strong silver filaments that sparkled like dewdoused silk. The deep foundations of Rasenna’s bridge hadn’t been fully destroyed in the explosion and the engineers were making use of them to bolster their pontoon.

‘What’re you up to?’

‘Just thinking about the old days. This is where you made the Golden Lion banner for the Doc, remember?’

Pedro refused to be distracted. ‘The old days. I remember the first time you came here. You broke my nose and thrashed the place.’

‘You didn’t beg. I admired you for that. It’s hard to be brave,
but breaking things? That’s easy. I miss it, if I’m honest. Jacques here used to create wondrous things with his hands. Then they were cut off. The tools you gave him aren’t fit for making things, but that’s not what times like these call for. You put us in this position, Vanzetti. If you lost the nerve to fight, I’m sorry but—’

‘I sent your men home.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ Uggeri picked up a small mirror and flashed a signal. It was not returned, neither from the topside positions nor from the alleyways surrounding the piazza. He smashed the mirror on the floor and shouted, ‘What gives you the right—?’

‘—to stop you destroying Rasenna? I’m gonfaloniere, in the absence of a legitimate Signoria, anyway’ – he took a breath – ‘and you’re my podesta. That means you can’t just break things when you feel like it. You need to think.’

‘I have done. The more of Geta’s cronies we kill, the less power he has. All we have to do is keep up the pressure.’

Pedro sighed. ‘Geta doesn’t
need
Rasenneisi support any more. He has Concord’s. The Grand Legion is here. We’re done.’

‘You want us to run off to Veii like whipped dogs.’ said Uggeri. ‘Our fathers weren’t alike, you know. Yours was a decent skin, mine was a cur. But they both died fighting for Rasenna’s freedom. What would they say if they could hear you?’