CHAPTER 32
The Collegio dei Consoli was the most secure part of New City, adjoined as it was by the praetorians’ barracks. Torbidda was glad that he had arrived before the other consuls; it gave him time to interrogate Prefect Castrucco about the slain praetorians.
‘Who are these men?’
‘New recruits …’ Castrucco looked genuinely at a loss.
‘Well, they fought like Candidates.’
When Castrucco offered his resignation, Torbidda demurred. ‘Unnecessary. I placed myself at risk against your advice. Besides, at a time like this, I need good men about me.’
He left the grateful prefect at the door and entered. In the centre of the rotunda was an empty circular table. The Collegio’s many tiers reflected the Guild’s dense hierarchy. On the uppermost row, sitting in the First Apprentice’s throne, Consul Corvis was waiting. ‘Keeping my chair warm?’ Torbidda said, climbing the steps.
‘Precisely!’ Corvis was obviously surprised to see Torbidda alive, but he disguised it well. ‘So glad to see you again, First Apprentice.’
‘I was a little delayed; I feared I would be late. I’m glad we have this time to talk, Consul.’
‘Well, thank you for coming on such short notice. The convulsions in Old Town demand prompt—’
‘Please. Save the pretence till your audience arrives.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I know you tell yourself that you never achieved your full potential,’ said Torbidda. ‘You’re think it’s a simply a matter of being ruthless enough, of killing all your rivals. That’s why you’ll never climb higher than chairman of the Collegio. To wear the red, you need to be as hard on yourself as you are on your rivals. The best sacrifice most.’
The merry twinkle in Corvis’ eye went out like a candle, replaced by something sharp and cold, and his lips narrowed. ‘By that measure you are truly great. You sacrificed a whole legion.’
‘And gained something worth all twelve. The Scaligeri girl is the Handmaid Bernoulli predicted,’ Torbidda replied calmly.
‘Madmen’s predictions are debased currency these days, but if you truly believe in augury, go out to the Wastes and recruit a mendicant army.’ Corvis looked down as the consuls streamed into the chamber. ‘There is my army. You’ll need something better than threadbare prophecy to explain your inaction to them. I imagine you’d like nothing better than to snap my neck – but then you’d just be a boy in a tower, wouldn’t you?’
‘And you’d attack me openly if you were certain of your position.’
‘True, but my position grows more certain every day. Yours, on the other hand – you really think I covet the red? As chairman, I control the machinery of state, and that’s better than any colour. So enjoy it, and your throne, First Apprentice – while you still have them.’
Corvis walked down to the table. Soon the lowest rows of the amphitheatre were packed shoulder to shoulder; general assemblies were rare events and Corvis had no need to summon those eligible to put their name in the purse; rumour drew them as surely as the scent of imminent riot drew the Small People onto the streets.
Corvis cleared his throat, looked sternly around with a defiantly set jaw and said, ‘Today marks the anniversary of our nadir. A year has passed since the Twelfth Legion was destroyed. The Small People, poor sheep, had only just recovered from the burning of the Molè when they heard the dire news. We can hardly blame them for thinking it the death knell of our Re-Formation – the end of us, my friends.’
The Collegio’s executive, those consuls sitting at the round table, were stone-faced. The surrounding rungs were more demonstrative. Corvis waited until all eyes had settled on the lonely figure in red sitting in the high chair and the empty chairs either side of him.
‘But let us recall the reason we did not give in to despair in that unhappy hour: our flag was not captured. Etruria will remember the siege of Rasenna, but not as another Montaperti. Can we ever give thanks enough to Apprentice Torbidda for having the presence of mind to burn the carroccio before he fled the rout? No, there is no limit.’
He turned and looked up at Torbidda with heavy sympathy. Torbidda almost regretted not taking up Prefect Castrucco’s offer. Better surely to take his chances in a praetorian coup than to endure more of the consul’s impudent sarcasm. He let his mind roam back to the dusty shadows of the library.
He stolidly hunted the solution Argenti had bade him seek, even while his hope was fading. He spent long hours crouched in niches, like the statue of some queer saint, silently watching the Molè change with the passage of the day. He used the sun to test the fidelity of its north–south axis; the east–west axis he tested the old, laborious way, with ropes. It was painful to compare the Molè’s gloom with the chaotic brightness of the Drawing Hall; the Molè treated light as a slave, corralling it to illuminate a few features but otherwise contemptuously locking it out.
The Molè threw its shadow over all Concord – but how was that colossal psychological effect achieved? He gave the time ungrudgingly, though beginning to doubt that understanding would ever come. Using triangulation, he measured the Molè’s three domes precisely; he compared the length of the nave to the width of the transept, to the height of the columns.
And slowly he began to suspect that there were hidden symmetries of proportion throughout. A governing proportion was more than an anchor to keep masons’ work harmonious; consistently employed, it was like poison in the blood. His breath quickened, like a hunter who spots his prey. There was one proportion that appeared and reappeared, the famed Etruscan ‘Golden Section’, but it did not perfectly apply to the Molè taken as a whole. It was like an unfinished sentence, or a musical scale that stopped maddeningly short of the final note – and perfection.
He felt his prey escaping. There was something else, something he was missing.
‘A year today!’ Corvis choked with emotion so patently disingenuous that Torbidda woke from memory to admire it. ‘This is a time to take stock, to ask ourselves what we have achieved since then. We must not shy from the answer: very little. This unrest in Old Town has disrupted important public works – rebuilding the Molè and digging the sea-corridor. While General Spinther has had some success on the Europan front, otherwise our project is stalling. Just this morning, the First Apprentice was attacked by nameless assassins sent by some opportunistic enemy power!’
Corvis waited for the murmurs to subside. ‘Yes! By Fortune’s grace he escaped, but what if he had not? Our ship would face this storm captainless. We have not even found someone to wear the yellow and orange – why, we have not yet begun the search! A year ago the First Apprentice asked the Collegio for time and we gave it willingly. But our patience is not inexhaustible, and that of the citizenry is at an end.’
Corvis turned again to Torbidda. ‘The question will wait no longer, First Apprentice; it is not when shall we replace your fallen comrades but with whom? Shall we begin examinations again? Find two more children, gifted as you, and hope they are as lucky. Or’ – he turned away slowly – ‘should we instead recognise the unique nature of the crises that face us and meet them with experience? Should we instead elect two colleagues from the Collegio?’ He made a sweeping gesture to the grim faces around the chamber. ‘No one’s more reluctant to break with tradition than I, but to safeguard Concord – to safeguard the Re-Formation – there is no innovation I would not try, no sacrifice we should not be willing to make.’ He finished by muttering, ‘The final decision, of course, is yours, First Apprentice.’
Torbidda stood and walked down to the floor. As he approached the table, Corvis proffered the Speaker’s Mace, but he did not take it. The whispering grew as he reached the door. There he stopped, turned around and spoke in a level voice that carried round the chamber: ‘Consuls, Concord requires loyal servants now more than ever. That’s why I propose to award General Spinther a year’s extension.’
The old consul sitting opposite Corvis said, ‘I second that motion.’
‘Thank you, Consul Scaurus,’ said Torbidda. ‘As to the other suggestion, I tell you: there shall be no more Apprentices. I am First, and Last.’
A wave of protest crashed against the door as it slammed behind him. Protest and speculation – what did it mean? When the empire most needed direction, had the First gone mad? Others, more hysterical, parsed Torbidda’s meaning differently: if there were to be no more Apprentices, then surely the time was at hand for the return of the Master. Corvis stayed standing with a resigned, regretful air and a faint smile he did his best to conceal.
‘Consuls, please! Take your seats. Clearly, the boy’s still traumatised, and who could blame him? We must give him our support, and ease some responsibility from his young shoulders until he’s ready to bear it. It would have been correct to debate the matter, but I commend to the house extending General Spinther’s command of the Ninth. The Collegio must show that it too is a friend of the army. So let us go further: the Transalpine Franks are restive, and the last thing Concord needs is an interruption in its coal and iron supplies. I propose therefore that we award command of the Tenth along with the Ninth to General Spinther, with orders to aggressively subdue the Frankish Isles.’
In the vestibule outside the Collegio, Prefect Castrucco and his men were keeping back the petitioners. Torbidda spotted a familiar face amongst the crush.
‘Prefect, earlier today you offered me your sword.’
The praetorian grinned greedily. ‘Yes, First Apprentice?’
‘Have your men surround the next man I approach,’ he said. ‘Do it quietly.’
The withered old man stared at Torbidda like one seeing a ghost, then when Torbidda abruptly turned and approached him, he looked about in alarm, as if assessing the possibility of flight.
‘Grand Selector, it’s been too long. You appear to have fallen on rough times.’ Since the state of emergency had been announced a year ago, Guild Hall classes had been suspended. Flaccus, unemployed and homeless, was a shell of his former robust self.
‘Ah, we are all reduced, Cadet Sixty.’
‘You’ll address the First Apprentice correctly,’ Castrucco snarled.
Flaccus stiffened and glanced around and saw he was surrounded by praetorians. He smiled wanly. ‘But he’s not First Apprentice. He’s just the last.’
Torbidda stopped Castrucco from striking Flaccus. ‘It’s all right, Prefect. The Grand Selector and I are old friends.’
‘Corvis will soon get things in hand,’ Flaccus said defiantly. ‘There’ll be a proper election and Concord will return to normalcy. The Apprentices have failed Concord.’
‘You failed us. The Contessa of Rasenna defeated the First Apprentice in hand-to-hand combat.’
‘Nonsense. Rasenneisi workshops don’t teach Water Style any more.’
‘Nevertheless, she knew it, and at a higher level than you ever taught. Your arrogance left us unready.’
‘As I heard it, the Apprentices abandoned the Twelfth Legion to its fate. You want someone to blame. I know how good you are at deceiving others, but don’t deceive yourself.’
‘You’re right, Flaccus. I am looking for someone to blame. This morning I was attacked by rogue praetorians who had Water Style training. Do you know anything about it?’
Flaccus paled, but said, ‘Only that it’s a tragedy for Concord that they weren’t successful.’
‘Prefect, take this dog to the barracks and see if you can’t bring him to heel. Be creative.’
Torbidda let his mind wander as he made his way back, not to the tower but to the Guild Halls. He knew these winding paths well: the arches, vaulted roofs and pillars, the niches that afforded hiding places – occasionally from selectors, more often from fellow Cadets. To hear his footsteps alone was a strange novelty, however. The Guild Halls were cavernous without Cadets, but even untrained hands were needed when the ship of state was sinking.
Was it really sinking, though? During his lifetime the empire had grown; that decade-long run of success had made Corvis and all the rest of them forget how much they gambled on each throw. He had no frame of reference to answer the question on which his life depended, but curiously, he was not worried about the consul’s machinations. A greater problem preoccupied him.
He handled it cautiously, fearing that that it might crumble like ash. Many of the library’s volumes were so old that his touch was the final insult. Tremellius could take all the precautions he liked; the fire consuming these pages was Time and nothing would stop its progress. The volume was a loosely bound collection of preparatory studies for the Molè; the hand was Bernoulli’s. As Torbidda studied it, he realised that many of the designs were for another great edifice, a Molè that never was, almost double the size of Concord’s Molè. Torbidda assumed it had been abandoned because of the cost.
In the corner of one drawing, he spotted a tiny scribbled note in a distinctive spidery hand. He took out his dagger and polished it in his sleeve and studied the equations in the blade’s reflection. He had seen other examples of Bernoulli’s transcription; he normally recorded his calculations in a precise, crystalline manner, the numbers falling like notes on a scale. But this was blotted, convoluted, halting, speculative, like a mediocre Cadet’s first attempts at Wave Theory, until finally it petered out into multiple question marks and crossed-out numbers. At the end this afterthought was scribbled in frustration: ‘The preceding being an attempt, alas unsuccessful, to describe an engine most fanciful, one that requireth a most singular fuel: the Blood of the Lamb. The formula is elusive, though I feel it is possible. Return to this, time allowing …’
Torbidda locked the door behind him. The Drawing Hall was empty, but it had always been that way; that was why he loved it. The praetorians’ ambition, the rhetoric of the Collegio, the convulsions of Old Town, all fell silent in here. He had taken the largest desk for himself and the crisp light streaming in the window fell upon the vast sheet pinned to it. As he stood there, examining it critically, he found he was still carrying the balled-up page of equations. It didn’t really surprise him that he had clenched his fist all day; he had never been able to let go of a problem until he had solved it. He unrolled it, straightened out the creases and began systematically checking the measurements of his drawing against the bizarre results that were coming out in the formulae. The inconsistency was here somewhere. He just had to find it.
It was just like the bridge competition: there was no problem so hard that constant pressure would not crack it. Labor Vincit Omnia. He would just wear it down. He smiled to himself at the thought that where Bernoulli had failed he would succeed. As he did so he caught sight of his reflection in the giant mirrors. The red he wore curved and danced on its warped surface like a flame.
A glass dome protected the lantern’s flame from the full force of the winds. He had to shout to make himself heard over its howling. ‘I found Bernoulli’s final journal, First Apprentice.’
Argenti didn’t look away from the stars. ‘You have questions.’
‘It’s babble. Was he mad?’
Argenti fixed Torbidda with his cold stare. ‘To the Curia, his work was incomprehensible from the first. What does that demonstrate, his insanity or their inadequacy?’ Without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘Do you know how many chief architects the Molè had? How many mosaicists, sculptors, painters worked on her? How many lives were spent in its construction. Thousands, Torbidda: a small war. And today we remember the name of only one Proto Magister.’
‘Please,’ Torbidda said, ‘help me understand.’
The First Apprentice regarded him sadly. ‘Ah, if it were that easy! If one wants to reach the heavens, there is no map. Night after night you must study the stars and give them time to study you. When you are ready, if the stars judge you worthy, they will reveal their secrets. It is like the dawn of a thousand suns. I would not rob you of it, even if I could.’
He was so tired of evasion. ‘Another riddle!’
‘Yes, and one that only the worthy can solve. The Molè is well proportioned, logical and precise as Heaven, but there is another side to both, chaotic and mad.’
‘The beast.’
‘What I did not understand for the longest time was that they are reflections of one another. If you are worthy, illumination will come.’ He turned away, once more looking raptly up at the heavens. ‘Leave me now. I have my study too.’
Though Argenti had since drowned in the Irenicon, Torbidda believed he now understood his purpose. In making Torbidda puzzle out the Molè’s mechanics, by letting him discover the truth – that the pit beneath it was the real wonder – Argenti sought to inspire the same intellectual reverence that he felt when he looked at the stars, all so that when the time came, Torbidda would lie upon the sacrificial altar, humbled and gratified to be a part of this wonderful enterprise.
It might have worked, too. The pit’s secret was humbling in its grand implications. Man prefers the lie, Varro had told them. The secret was hidden within a great deception. The keystone of Wave Theory was that a space could be designed to amplify other qualities beside sound. A structure with the correct proportions could create, capture and distil the essence of pain. That was how the Wave worked. But the truth was, that world-shattering hammer was just a by-product; the greater part of the groans and weeping that the pit’s turning produced was sustenance for the sleeper lying dormant at its heart. The pit was a chrysalis where the soul of its creator could hibernate through the winter of death. The al-Buni test, the selections, Candidacy, Conclave – they were all rituals designed to distract from the truth: that the Guild was a machine with a secret purpose, to ensure that the perfect vessel would be obediently waiting when the terrible spring came.
It had all worked perfectly – all but the last detail. Torbidda did not want to be a vessel.
‘Although changed, I shall arise the same,’ he said, looking over the drawing. He had laboured over it since he had returned from Rasenna with the knowledge that the Handmaid was amongst them. The regret he felt for the Molè’s passing was dwarfed by his ambition to show that old ghost who was the greater architect – and not just Bernoulli, but Hiram and Nimrod too, all of those ghosts. He would show the world a tower greater than the Molè, greater than Babel’s – and this time God would be powerless to knock it down, for the mortar that bound its bricks together would be God’s own blood.