CHAPTER 21
When Tower Bombelli proved unequal to his growing operation, Fabbro Bombelli built a new workshop which looked exactly like a great palazzo. Rasenna’s new gonfaloniere insisted it was no such thing, but it had all the characteristics: thick uncompromising walls to keep the poor at bay, an atrium where petitioners could wait and a capacious courtyard lined with olive trees in large red pots with a fountain bubbling away in the centre.
Here Fabbro held court, dealing with supplicants and clients in the morning, conducting civic business in the evening. He’d never been slim, but he had grown even larger in the year since the siege was repulsed. Now he sat drumming his fingers impatiently on his dark banco, which was carved from agar-wood imported at great cost from Oltremare. Its rich, oily scent had come to be associated with debt by a great many Rasenneisi, and with evasion by others.
‘If not now, when?’ said Levi.
‘I don’t know, Podesta, but not now,’ the gonfaloniere said without looking up. ‘Too much to do.’
‘I took this job on the understanding that I would be listened to. All I find myself doing is answered for the condottieri.’
‘Perhaps if their conduct was—’
‘It’s no worse than any army!’ His voice echoed around the courtyard, upsetting the nesting doves, and Fabbro looked up. Levi apologised. He was used to that.
On the map before Fabbro were coins of different currencies, which he moved around cautiously, trying different combinations. They represented the various sons and cousins Fabbro had dispatched as agents to the cities of Etruria and the frontier towns of Europa. As gonfaloniere, his proper place was across the river in the Palazzo del Popolo, but Fabbro was rich and few will tell a rich man how to conduct himself, and certainly not Fabbro’s debtors, a group that included all the priors of all the major Guilds.
Levi was also indebted to the gonfaloniere, for now Rasenna’s Signoria paid the Hawk’s Company’s wages. Levi was still the scarecrow who had first visited Rasenna two years ago, but he moved a bit slower these days. He was still learning to swim in the waters of the city’s politics. Like Fabbro, he carried dual responsibilities: in his case, Podesta of Rasenna and General of the Hawk’s Company. He had sought neither position, and their contradictions had worn him even thinner.
‘John Acuto always said Fortune’s not a lady to keep waiting,’ said Levi. ‘We’ll not have an opportunity so perfect. Concord’s in disarray: its nobility are restive and its engineers are panicked and virtually leaderless. No Apprentices have been elected to replace the two who died here and the last remaining is just a boy. Our enemy’s tower is tottering.’
‘Towers don’t fall easy,’ Fabbro said. ‘Take that from a Rasenneisi.’
‘Not if they’re tackled brick by brick – but a strong wind can perform prodigies. I have personal experience of that.’
Bandieratori kept Rasenna free of pickpockets, but the rogue castellans of the surrounding countryside were thieves on a greater scale. These self-styled barons might be pale shadows of the men Count Scaligeri had subdued half a century ago, but their newly-invented tolls were having a chilling effect on trade. In this case, Fabbro hadn’t needed persuading to use Rasenna’s new army to ‘free’ the contato, and Levi’s men had done a thorough job.
‘The South’s waiting for Rasenna to show leadership, an honour we earned by striking the first blow.’
‘If we’re so well regarded, why did no one accept your invitation to a summit?’ Fabbro scoffed.
‘Because those Ariminumese dogs refused to take part!’
‘Aye, they’re too busy making money. If you ask me, those dogs have the right idea. Waiting for Etrurians to agree is like waiting for a woman to be silent. Why should Ariminum be the only town to profit from Concord’s troubles?’
‘Because it won’t be long before some strongman wrests the baton from this boy and Concord’s legions are ordered back from Europa. Then the small gains we’ve made will be for nothing.’
Fabbro was once known for his imperturbability, but the stresses of power had chaned that. Hearing sound profits being denigrated was too much. ‘Rasenna’s gains may seem petty to you, but they pay your wage! You’ve managed to keep your men in check, I’ll give you that, but I doubt they’d be so docile if we didn’t buy their beer every night.’
Levi ignored the slight. ‘Another reason to take action. Give us something to do!’
Fabbro looked glumly down at the map as another voice interrupted, ‘You don’t give orders to Papa!’
Levi sighed and turned around. ‘Good afternoon, Maddalena.’
A slim girl of sixteen waltzed in the courtyard. Her scarlet satin dress was gracefully tailored to cling to the sharp dips and peaks of her figure. The long sleeves ended in dangerously swinging large green gems. She had a small, elvish nose, wide eyes that could speak across a crowded room and a wide, brazen mouth that was generally set in a pout. For an Etrurian her skin was pale – Maddalena’s battleground was the gloomy underworld of wives and daughters who wielded gossip as generals used disinformation and bartered long intrigues and brief alliances – but even so, her cheeks blazed and dulled with her humour. As Maddalena passed by to sit on her father’s banco, she smacked Levi’s neck with her fan, and not playfully either. She pushed Fabbro’s money piles aside and took up a Concordian coin.
‘That’s Signorina Bombelli to you. You take liberties, telling poor Papa what he must and mustn’t do. You’re a soldier and a foreigner. Rasenna is yet a republic. We shall keep our independence.’
‘Until it’s taken. As podesta, I am obliged to advise on military matters.’
‘Tactical matters. If we want to capture a convoy, the Signoria will consult you. In matters of strategy, your opinion is neither desired nor competent.’
Fabbro sank in his seat. ‘Maddalena, please—’
‘No! You’re too soft, Papa. These condottieri like to bully townsmen. We’ve let them live within our walls, given them their daily bread, and now they presume to dictate terms—’
‘That’s enough!’ said Fabbro and turned to Levi. ‘I hear you Podesta, just – just let me think on it.’
Levi bowed. ‘That’s all I ask, Gonfaloniere.’
‘Push, Rosa!’ ordered Sofia. The girl obliged as well as she could, grunting with the strain. She had gone beyond words an hour ago.
Sofia feared her strength was almost exhausted. She was a pretty thing, but her delicate features were brutally compressed with the effort. Beads of sweat stood out on her red skin and spit foamed through her clenched teeth, reminding Sofia of a racehorse coming towards the last flag. The rhythm of her huffing breath filled the stuffy little room, and Sofia found she and Donna Bombelli were falling into the same urgent rhythm, as if all three were delivering together.
Donna Bombelli held Rosa’s hand and wiped her brow. She herself was heavy with child; in just two months she would be in the same position herself. Rosa’s cheeks ballooned like a pipe player’s, but at last the baby’s head breached. Sofia quickly cleared the mucus from its mouth and nose, then ran a finger behind the baby’s neck to check the cord hadn’t wound around it.
‘Now,’ Donna Bombelli whispered, ‘one last time, amore.’
Sofia yelled, ‘Push!’ and Rosa’s face went the hysterical red of bellow-blown embers. After a long pause she grunted loudly with release and the rest came out easily enough. The midwives exchanged a quick look of relief and Sofia deftly turned the baby upside down and slapped its back.
‘Mmnwaaaaaaahh!’
The newborn’s first cry filled the room and echoed at every level of Sofia’s being. She had heard this sound, vital like nothing else, many times this spring, and every time it shocked her. She cradled the baby, wiping its face again to study its colour and breathing. It was a raw but healthy pink, and its little ribcage swelled with surprising power. When she laid a hand on its chest the baby grabbed her finger. ‘Strong grip, Rosa!’
‘And a boy,’ said Donna Bombelli. ‘His father will be proud.’
The girl’s tired, ecstatic smile wilted and she rolled her head into the pillow to muffle her sobs. Sofia handed the child to Donna Bombelli. ‘Give him to her when she stops crying.’
A waft of fresh air and light entered the room as Sofia opened the door and let herself out.
On the other side of the stairway, Polo Sorrento was sitting in the open window, looking down at the traders on the Irenicon bridge. Polo had once been an unsuccessful wool merchant, but he was known now as the farmer despite his soft hands. After the Castellans’ towers were torched, he’d bought the vacant land cheap and leased it to the smallholders whose produce filled the bridge market every morning.
Tower Sorrento was just one of the pale new towers lately sprung up in Rasenna. South of the Irenicon they clustered around Tower Vanzetti; on the north side they surrounded Tower Bombelli. Thanks to Rasenna’s new breed of engineers, they stood upright in a way that made the old-timers shake their heads – the old towers defied everything, including gravity, and a distinctive curve or tilt used to be prized by owners. The new towers were stouter, too, more akin to palazzi. Height regulations had been relaxed, and those who could not afford to start afresh built superfluous storeys until Rasenna’s skyline was almost as crowded as the narrow streets below.
Polo turned languidly to face Sofia. ‘Contessa.’
‘It’s just Signorina Scaligeri now, you know that.’
He nodded without interest and said flatly, ‘Is it done?’
‘Done? We weren’t cooking goulash, Signore. You have a strong, healthy grandson!’
Polo shook his head at such childish naïveté. ‘How could I have a grandson? My daughter’s unmarried.’
Sofia acted as if she hadn’t heard. ‘Rosa was good in there. The boy’s got a real bandieratori grip. Congratulations.’
‘For what, raising a whore?’
Inside, the baby’s scream was a determined bawl of life; outside, there was another small shake of the head. ‘No, I have no grandson. Instead, I have a problem – or rather, the city does, until the orphanage is built for this deluge of bastards. I shall place it on the steps of the Palazzo del Popolo. Perhaps some nameless childless family will take it home before it starves, perhaps not. They can throw it in the Irenicon for all I care.’
Sofia grabbed his collar and as he flinched away from her bloody hands she said fiercely, ‘Dog! Your daughter gives you a strong boy and all you think of is your name? I remember when the Sorrentos were the Morellos’ crawling manservants.’
‘And I remember when you were still Contessa. You don’t command here any more.’
Sofia slapped him, and Polo flinched so violently that his head struck the wall. Her knuckles slammed into his nose and he sank onto the windowledge, groaning. He wiped his nose, his blood now mingled with his daughter’s.
Still holding his collar Sofia tipped him until he was leaning precariously out of the window. She ignored his screams and shouted into the wind, ‘I’m still part of the Signoria, so jumped-up dogs like you still have to listen to me.’ She pointed to the dust rising from the construction site beyond the river. ‘The orphanage will be ready soon enough. You’re right: we must do something about all the new bastards. But why stop there? We ought to consider the old ones.’
She tilted him still further until he could see the Sorrento family banner dangling from the tower’s top storey, moving lazily in the breeze. Sofia felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around to see Donna Bombelli’s alarmed face.
She winked and turned back. ‘Well, Farmer?’ she said gruffly. ‘May I congratulate you on your grandson?’
‘Yes!’ His voice weak against the wind. ‘Yes! Thank you!’
Sofia pulled him up and out of the window embrasure. He attempted to stand, but lost his footing and tumbled down a few steps until he managed to stop himself. Sofia watched as he pulled himself to his feet and rearranged himself. He fixed her with a vindictive stare. ‘Very well, Contessa: I’ll give the whore and it a roof and bread, but don’t ask for love.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sofia said. ‘I don’t believe in miracles any more.’