Spira Mirabilis (37 page)

‘I know it. We considered ourselves intimate with death, but this—’ He swung the hammer. The ribs shattered like delicate ceramic. ‘When the fleet’s ready, we wish to go with you.’

‘You can’t prove anything to the dead. I’m going because I must, but I fear success is highly unlikely.’

‘What matter? By leaving, we’ll let in a new wind.’ He swung the hammer again and crushed the skull. ‘My mother wanted to make Akka into a necropolis. You stopped her, but she succeeded years ago in making her court a mausoleum, and we, who swore to protect Akka, slept as she did it. We owe you a great debt. The odds are irrelevant.’

‘Not to me. If you really want to help, there’s a way you could improve them …’

*

He said he would attend to it when this last duty was done. He would accept no help, and when he gashed himself on the splinters, he took that parting cut without complaint. When he looked for his mother’s death mask to smash it too, it was gone. Perhaps the sea had taken it.

*

Captain Khoril wasted little time celebrating the queen’s overthrow. He still had a job to do, getting the fleet ready to sail. There were rows of ships tied along the wharfs and the hands were cleaning them out, dumping the bilge-soaked straw and spoilt flour and provisioning with barrels of sweet fresh water and wine, smoked lamb and camel, bags of oranges and dried dates and figs and biscuit. The docks were a playground for the Sicarii orphans. Young Jabari was exploring the lanterns, reconnoîtring
their darkest recesses. His fear of the dark retreated whenever he carried Iscanno with him into the depths.

The bulky lanterns were physically impressive, but it was the xebecs, the galleys with which the Radinate had once dominated the Middle Sea, that caught Sofia’s eye. Those dating from that heroic era had been made seaworthy again by the borrowed arsenalotti; the more recent vessels were those that still worked the Leviathan coast – Khoril didn’t ask their captains whether their work had been trading or raiding – who had voluntarily joined the fleet. He had chased and been chased by them and had a particular respect for these canny sailors. They were another breed of Ebionite entirely, as different from the lizard-eaters as they were from the Sown. The xebecs’ chief virtue was their speed – with the weather-gage, they could outrun most ships – and the adaptability of their crews, who were rowers, sailors and soldiers as necessity dictated.

‘Ahoy, Captain!’

Khoril looked up from his logbook. ‘Welcome aboard the
Tancred
. Is this an inspection?’

‘Actually, I’m looking for Jabari. He’s purloined my son again.’

‘That little lizard-eater has been getting under my men’s feet all morning. I told him to go below and check for leaks.’ He took a dramatic breath, and Sofia prepared herself for the usual cascade of complaints; she had discovered Khoril’s chief delight was delivering bad news. ‘I’m afraid there’s little metal left to cast cannon for the xebecs.’

‘Damn,’ she said mildly.

Her lack of disappointment disappointed him. ‘Not to worry, there’s little room for cannon either side of the waterline anyway. Such nimble vessels are not designed for trading missiles.’

Sofia smiled. ‘I imagine that’s a form of warfare the Ebionites consider dull.’

‘Aye: they much prefer boarding, which is why they are packed to the rails with men who can fight like Jinn.’

‘Very good. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and find this stowaway.’

*

Below decks was another world, of confinement and creaking, pungent woods. As she walked through the empty rowing stalls she wondered yet again what would become of their venture, and whether it was foolish to go looking for a fight when they might stay here in Akka, bolster their defences and hope.

A baby’s cry interrupted her dark musings and she rushed to the sound. In the central aisle of the lower deck she found a great black shape crouched over, looking like a great hound. The patriarch had his hands tight about Jabari’s neck.

‘Get off him!’ she cried, and the patriarch released his grip – Jabari didn’t gasp for air, or move – and picked up Iscanno. He took the ornate Herod’s Sword from around his neck and pressed it to the bawling baby’s chest. He wore Catrina’s death mask, and it was her voice that spoke, ‘
It’s very simple, Contessa. Your life for his
.’

‘If I thought you’d keep your word, I’d do it in a heartbeat.’

‘
Come, child. You can trust the word of a queen
.’

‘No, you can’t.’

Sofia’s sling snapped and the mask shattered. The queen would not have hesitated, but Patriarch Chrysoberges stammered, ‘She – she took advantage of me!’

Sofia put out his eye with another pebble, caught Iscanno before he fell and incapacitated the screaming patriarch with a downward kick that broke his leg. His howls attracted the attention of the sailors, and when they saw Jabari, they dragged Chrysoberges up to the deck and threw him into the sea, and they all cheered as the filth clotted his heavy robes and pulled him under.

Sofia stayed below in the gloom and wept. She held Iscanno
to her breast and cradled Jabari’s limp body under her arm. Ezra had warned her that the devils had not been culled. The weeds of Hell were breaking loose and there was no corner of the world to hide from them.

*

The Byzantine expeditionary force, diminished though it was, still raised a large cloud of dust. At its head was Jorge in his four-horsed chariot. Scouts rode up to tell the prince that they had a shadow, and he pulled aside to wait for the lone rider.

‘I don’t know why you’ve come, Fulk. I’ve nothing for you.’

‘Not even a sup of water? I’m parched.’ He’d managed to catch up by taking a highland route and not stopping.

Jorge threw him a canteen. ‘I don’t doubt it. Give some to your horse too.’

Jorge’s anger was directed not at him so much as Akka and the lives he had wasted coming here; Fulk recognised that. ‘We need you,’ he said quietly.

‘That is nothing to me,’ said Jorge coldly. ‘The king of lepers ought to know what to do with rotting limbs. I’m severing all ties with Akka before the infection spreads. We’ll face Concord alone.’

‘That’s a losing bet and you know it. You said the Concord-ians will attack Oltremare where it’s weakest. If they take Akka, Byzant won’t hold out for long.’

‘Akka’s reputation may have been a bluff, but Byzant’s is well-deserved. My city bestrides two seas: half the world fears it, the other envies it. We have lands from Anatolia to Dalmatia, lands through which rivers yet flow. Our walls have stood a thousand years.’

‘And within those walls there are a thousand knights as ambitious as you. When Concordian armies converge from east and west, how long before someone looking to their own future opens the gates? Crises create opportunity – that’s why you’re here
today, after all. Don’t make the mistake my mother made. Isolation is a living death. Join us, Jorge. We’re sailing for Etruria to bring the fight to the Concordians.’

‘I won half my races by letting my competitors exhaust each other. Tell me why I shouldn’t let you kill each other and take the spoils?’

‘You know the answer very well,’ Fulk said removing his mask so that Jorge might see his sincerity. ‘You don’t choose your Crusade. It chooses you. This is ours, brother.’

Isaiah 43:2

On the Origins of Concordian Gothic

If History has a shape, it is the perpetually expanding coil of the
Spira Mirabilis
. Your humble author continually returns to the Molè Bernoulliana’s moment of conception, because it too illustrates the recursive principle.
¹
Originally the Engineers’ Guild consisted of the artisans gathered to build Saint Eco’s Basilica. It began to achieve political importance only when its rolls opened to the nobility. These creative souls
²
were tired of dogma and intrigued by the Engineers’ novel notions and practical methods. Practised politicians, they fast ascended the Guild’s hierarchy.
³
Thanks to their patronage, the Guild soon received its charter.

Prominence was not an unadulterated boon. While Curial sanction gave the Engineers’ work public legitimacy, the Cardinals too began to take notice. More comfortable with received wisdom, they looked askance on the Engineers’ endless experimentation. They chastised the Guild for ‘doing naught but weighing air’, and asking questions that Aristotle and Galen had already answered.
⁴
Intimidated, the Guild pledged to limit its enquiries to mechanical
questions. Such toadying ceased soon after Girolamo Bernoulli joined the Guild. An unusually ingenious artisan, he conducted the dissections that made Guild meetings so popular with young intellectuals. Even before building his first bridge, even before the publication of his river maps, his tireless curiosity inspired.
⁵

General Spinther grimly sized up Salerno as the Golden Fleet passed by. Salerno was the only great power in the Black Hand, the only state in Etruria that had wholeheartedly fought alongside John Acuto at Tagliacozzo. Its harbour was wide and deep, but the Salernitan interest in the sea did not extend much beyond fishing and the collection of seaweed for medicinal poultices. The chaotic sprawl which was the actual city nestled in a valley defended by the Buffalo Hump Mountains, down which flowed the antique but still-impressive aqueduct.

From here at least, it looked poorly defended, and that was something, but Leto would have been happier had the admiral been on deck to lend his perspective. The Moor’s maudlin singing could be heard from his quarters at all hours of the day and night. Though Charybdis had claimed only three ships in the end – a very acceptable result, in Leto’s eyes – the heartbroken admiral did not see it that way.

*

The Asclepeion had been built by the same Eleatic philosophers who had founded Salerno; those paradoxical Greeks had been duly supplanted by the Etruscans and then, after that empire fell, by a succession of invaders too numerous to list. Throughout, the Asclepeion remained. Northerners called it the Schola Salernitana, but it was more than a place of learning; it was a temple, and the famous apothecary was but one small wing.

It was homely, despite the lack of warmth and the dim light. Hanging bunches of fresh and dried herbs and flowers
swayed back and forth in the narrow currents of air let in, just enough to circulate and no more, else it would have been both too cold for Matron Trotula to work and unhealthy for her patients.

She stood now before a statue that looked much like her and cupped the flame till it could support itself against the wind. She had a wide-hipped Grecian figure and strong arms, and olive skin pockmarked by some childhood disease. Her thick, long black hair was streaked with white. Her life had not been easy, but she was not one of those who blamed the world; her face was tranquil as that of the goddess before her.

The winds invaded the apothecary as the door behind her suddenly burst open and someone called out urgently, ‘Trotula?’

‘
Dio
, Ferruccio, what a din you make!’ Her smile vanished when she saw the boy in his arms. She raced to his side and put her hand on him. ‘How long has he been sweating like that?’

‘He fell ill yesterday, got worse through the night. I got the
grosso
out of him and bled the wound – I would have stopped, but I knew I didn’t have the art to save him from those evil leeches—’

‘You’re old enough to know better than to take a Northerner through the Minturnae.’

‘No choice. Grimani’s men were pursuing us. I knew they wouldn’t risk the marshes.

She parted his eyelids and Pedro’s dilated pupils fixed on the statue and then moved to her. He started screaming. She stepped back and swept her instruments from the desktop. ‘Put him down.’

They managed to restrain his arms with the leather straps on either side – Trotula’s desk often had to double as a surgery table – before Pedro did any damage to himself.

‘You
must
save this boy,’ Ferrucio said. ‘He’s vital to the League.’

She gave him an unkind look. ‘You know I’ll do my best no matter who he is. Now go, let me work.’

‘Are you sure I cannot—?’

‘Close the door behind you!’

*

The three-tiered aqueduct was left unrepaired, like most in the south, but it was magnificent nonetheless. ‘Salerno may not be wealthy as Ariminum, but we have the sun, the wind and the sea in abundance. The Devil’s Bridge offers the best view of our treasure.’

‘Why’s it called that, Doctor?’ Guido Bombelli asked.

‘Oh, Guido,’ Costanzo scolded, ‘can’t there be any mysteries left in the world?’

‘You’re still too much the poet, little brother,’ said Guido gravely. ‘Knowledge is money.’

Anyone looking from up the Asclepeion’s gardens could have seen the three figures walking the top of the aqueduct built into the cliffs, for the setting sun cast giant shadows of them and the aqueduct against the flank of the hump-backed mountains.

Ferruccio chuckled at the sibling rivalry. ‘Well, it’s no mystery; any Salernitan child could tell you the story. Three hundred years ago, a foolish alchemist asked the devil to make him as great an architect as King Solomon. The next morning, the aqueduct had appeared and the alchemist had vanished.’

Guido exchanged a dubious look with his brother. ‘You believe that?’

The doctor chuckled. ‘Heavens, no. It’s an Etruscan aqueduct – there’s an inscription to Emperor Catiline on the keystone of every arch – but it’s a sweet story.’

‘I wonder,’ Guido said meditatively, ‘if three hundred years hence, simple folk will say the Concordians made a pact with the devil.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Ferruccio. ‘The difference is, they’d be right. Before he fell ill, your young maestro told me that the rivers in the north are turning queer. Mark my words, there’s wickedness
afoot in Concord of the like not seen since the days of Bernoulli.’