CHAPTER 38
As Sofia predicted, the nuptials of Rosa Sorrento and Piers Becket were heralded in every piazza. Becket was enthusiastic about joining Rasenna’s magnates, and Polo Sorrento – though still cold to his daughter – was mollified by the new prominence his tower would gain in the transaction. The condottieri might be nothing more than foreign thugs with swords, but their ranks and military bearing created an air of legitimacy that a bodyguard of masterless bandieratori could never match. Watching how the farmer had turned humiliation to profit, the other magnates considered selling their own daughters before they were taken for free.
A great feast was prepared in Piazza Luna, with tables of meat and drink and entertainments not seen since the night the bridge opened. The ceremony itself was quickly got out of the way in the doorstep of the roofless church, while the bride’s mother nursed the baby. The crowd in Piazza Stella was oddly muted as the couple began their procession to the bridge.
They crossed in an ominous hush, and Becket looked over his shoulder at the silent, menacing crowd following them. He was relieved to pass under the guard of honour formed by his fellow captains and enter Piazza Luna, where he led his shy bride up the steps of the Palazzo del Popolo and turned to let the crowd admire them – except there was no crowd. When the guard of honour broke up, they discovered the train of followers was still occupying the bridge, and showed no sign of moving.
The father of the bride looked on in horror as his public triumph became another public disgrace. ‘Bombelli, what does this mean?’
Piers Becket, equally embarrassed, asked the same question of his commander but, like Fabbro, Levi confessed ignorance. ‘I’m going to find out though,’ he said, and grabbed Yuri. They caught up with Fabbro as he reached the bridge. The trio stood between the stone lions facing the rows of weavers and carders carrying the obscure flags of minor Guilds.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ said Fabbro, and to Sophia, ‘and it better not be you.’ Sofia wasn’t carrying the Art Bandiera flag – that would have been too provocative. She said nothing as the line behind her parted.
‘I am.’
‘Pedro!’ Fabbro sighed. ‘I’m not surprised to see Scaligeri here, but you understand what the Signoria means.’
Sofia said, ‘A law needing coercion to be enacted is a bad law.’
Fabbro ignored her. ‘Pedro, is this necessary? It’s supposed to be a happy day. Why spoil the couple’s celebration?’
Pedro was unmoved. ‘We’re supposed to celebrate the condottieri and major Guilds climbing into bed together? If the minor Guilds can’t be heard in the Signoria, they’re going to be heard here. I’m not here as an engineer. I’m here as a citizen.’
‘The point of this marriage was to prevent strife,’ Levi interjected. ‘Tell him, Sofia.’
‘I went along with it until I saw its real purpose. The Mercanzia wouldn’t have dared propose the salt tax without arms behind them. Yes, that’s right, Bombelli; I know about your little parties.’
Fabbro looked away from his godson in disgust and settled on Sofia, ‘I seem to recall you took part in a vote, Scaligeri. If this is how you act when a decision doesn’t go your way, why not burn down the Signoria and be done with it? These citizens are subject to the Signoria. We don’t rule by their consent; we rule by right. By taking part in this unseemly protest you undermine the law. Sedition’s a strong word, but I’m struggling to find a better.’
Pedro said, ‘A Signoria that rules by compulsion is no different than the old one.’
‘So those bandieratori sitting on their flags over the river, I’m supposed to ignore them? And what happens if I order the Podesta to break up this little party?’
Sofia said, ‘Don’t do it, Bombelli. My bandieratori come from the families that make up the Guilds on this bridge. I won’t stop them defending their families.’
‘What a privileged existence you live, Contessa. You take part in referenda but don’t abide by results you dislike. You goad these tower-renting fools to disrupt business, and if I attempt to remove them, you threaten to hinder me.’
‘I don’t like your tone, but that’s about the size of it,’ Sofia said.
‘Doctor Bardini schooled you well.’
‘Doc died defending Rasenna’s freedom.’
‘Yes,’ Fabbro sniffed, ‘never mind how he spent the years before that moment—’
‘Bardini paid the ultimate price,’ said Pedro, ‘as did Giovanni, as did my father. That’s why we’re here, Fabbro. Rasenna can’t be ruled by a few towers.’
‘How long do you intend to occupy the bridge?’
‘Until the tax is revoked.’
‘Pedro, she’s using you!’
‘My eyes are open. Aren’t the priors using you? They want to create a precedent. We’re here to do likewise.’
Fabbro pulled Levi back a few steps. ‘Can you break this up?’
Levi shook his head. ‘Only if you want a riot. You can’t win, not that way. Sofia says the bandieratori will stay clear as long as we do. I say let them cool off for the rest of the evening. They’ll get bored – and if they start anything, we’ll be in the right.’
‘We’re in the right now!’ Fabbro hissed. He swore and looked back at the other magnates, waiting expectantly at the palazzo’s steps. When he turned back to the bridge he was smiling widely. ‘Well, I’m not going to let a good feast go to waste because of a few spoilsports. Unfortunately, things cost in life. Stay here and brood if it makes you feel virtuous. Anyone who cares to join us in celebrating this happy day is welcome.’
And with that he walked back to the isolated wedding party and ordered the musicians to strike up. The celebrations that began were an odd affair, with acrobats, jugglers and puppeteers performing under baleful eyes from the bridge. The jaunty airs were ridiculous in an empty piazza. No one danced. The condottieri captains drank with the embarrassed groom, while the twice-humiliated bride, ignored by all, wept quietly to herself.
Donna Bombelli gave her a glass of warmed spice wine, then walked to the bridge with a tray.
Sofia and Pedro watched her approach with embarrassment. Instead of reproach, she tutted mildly as if they were mischievous bambini. ‘Do what you think right. Closing down the market, you’ve hit on the one tactic that might change Fabbro’s mind.’
‘Because it hits his purse.’
‘No, Sofia, because the market brings peace. My husband cares about peace more than anyone.’
‘Because he hasn’t figured out how to get rich from rioting.’
‘Girl, you’re just like him: stubborn. Well, take a drink. It’ll warm you up.’ Donna Bombelli was passing out drinks when suddenly the glass was smacked from her hand.
‘Keep your charity! You and your husband act like royalty – you’re nothing but thieves.’
‘Donna Soderini! I— I’ve been nothing but a friend to you—’
The glowering woman stamped on the broken glass. ‘Where were you when we were thrown out in the street? We’re sharing a single floor now with two families in a crooked old tower in Tartarus. And you’re going to make us pay extra for our salt? My friend Donna Bombelli’ – she spat at her feet. ‘You’ve had a good life – all your sons, your fancy daughter, your money.’ She made horns with her hands and waved them at Donna Bombelli’s belly. ‘Whatever that is, I hope it brings your husband grief. He should eat the unsalted bread the rest of us choke on.’
Donna Bombelli put her hands protectively over her belly as Pedro stepped in front of the angry woman.
‘This is nothing to do with Donna Bombelli.’
‘You’re Vanzetti’s boy! How can you of all people defend them? Your father came to grief while Fabbro Bombelli got rich.’
Donna Soderini’s embarrassed husband pulled her away before she could say more. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Maestro Vanzetti, we’re thankful for your help.’
Pedro flushed, embarrassed at the accusation, but also vexed at the disrespect shown to the woman who had been a mother to him after his father’s death. ‘Sofia, can you escort Donna Bombelli home?’
Sofia felt the mood getting ugly. She took the midwife’s hand. As they crossed the bridge, the crowd parted for her, but treated Fabbro’s wife to evil looks and whispered insults. Donna Bombelli was more shaken by Donna Soderini’s spite. ‘I never knew she felt that way.’
‘Her husband drinks. She’s looking for someone to blame.’
Piazza Stella, packed with bandieratori, was scarcely less hostile. Although they all now carried the same red banner, each borgata kept separate; only the disciplined example of the Borgata Scaligeri kept the others from flooding onto the bridge.
Uggeri tipped his cambellotto respectfully to Donna Bombelli. ‘What’s the situation, boss?’
‘Waiting to see who blinks,’ Sofia said. ‘Your job—’
‘Do nothing. I know.’
‘Keep your flag up. As long as the magnates see flags behind the Small People, they won’t push it.’
‘Levi wouldn’t let them,’ Uggeri said doubtfully.
‘Levi’s podesta; he must do what the gonfaloniere orders.’ She glanced at Donna Bombelli. ‘I know Fabbro doesn’t want violence, but the other priors … Just keep it cool, Uggeri.’
He leaned back. ‘Got it, boss.’
Sofia led Donna Bombelli back to Tower Bombelli. She was, at heart, an old-fashioned Rasenneisi – the palazzo was a place of business, a place to greet the world – but all she wanted now was the privacy of her tower. Sofia had to help her up the ladder to the first floor; towers were designed for security, not for heavily pregnant women. Since Palazzo Bombelli was finished, Fabbro’s old counting room in the tower had been used for storage. The camphor bags hanging from the roof had grown stale and dust covered the rusted scales on the old banco.
‘I don’t feel like climbing any more steps, Sofia.’
‘You all right? You’ve gone pale.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, I’m not a— Oh! Sofia, oh!’
She sat down clumsily on a pile of silks, smiling as if she’d been caught in a lie. ‘It’s coming!’
Sofia grabbed her hand and kissed it. She cleared a space on the floor, piled up some wool bags and covered them with fabric to create a little nest for Donna Bombelli to rest in. She laid her down gently and started tearing linen strips. ‘I expect Fabbro will make me pay for these?’
Donna Bombelli laughed. ‘Only if it’s a girl.’
‘Where’s Maddalena?’
Donna Bombelli pointed upstairs. ‘Nobody told her the banquet’s been cancelled. She’s probably still getting ready. She likes to make an entrance.’
Sofia bounded up the ladder, lifted the trapdoor that led to the central stairway and shouted. From a few stories up, a pale, pretty face appeared, ‘What do you want?’
‘Maddalena, get down here.’
‘Excuse me, I—’
‘It’s your mother!’
‘It’s time? Oh, of all the nights!’
Maddalena marched down the stairs, pushing one servant ahead of her while another followed, fiddling with her elaborately coiled hairdo. She was dressed sumptuously in a yellow gown inlaid with tiny ivory buttons. She swished her dress experimentally as she climbed down, crying aloud, ‘Better not be another false start, Mama!’
When she reached the last step, she recoiled at the scene. She pulled her gown away from the floor. ‘Mama, what a mess! Is that natural?’
Sofia kept tearing linens as she said briskly, ‘Maddalena, find your father, tell him what’s happening. You, Francesca, go to the baptistery and fetch Sister Isabella.’
‘But we haven’t even thought of a name yet, have we, Mama?’
‘For once, don’t make a scene,’ Sofia hissed. She turned to the other servant. ‘Angela, fetch three basins of water from the cisterns and heat them. Then clean this up, and keep cleaning if you have to.’
Donna Bombelli called Sofia’s name like a frightened sleeper. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I’m here.’
The hand pouring the water was shaking. All day Isabella had tried to ignore the stone in her gut. She looked up at the window, but there was no comfort there; its rich colours had turned to mud in the gloom. The new crack – was it getting wider? The sun was obscured by clouds, which would not disperse, despite the northern wind. The water before her was quite clear, but she felt an aversion to it as though it were poison. Dismissing her fancies, she began to breathe deeply, then she dived.
This time was different.
The way was blocked by a boiling dark sun, as large as the ocean. In panic, she turned and swam away with all her strength and surfaced in the chapel’s dull light with a horrified gasp.
She caught her breath and tried to understand what that thing was. It was a wickedness beyond words – the very hunger of famine, the sickness of pestilence. When Sofia had agreed to be the Lord’s Handmaid, a seed of divinity had been planted in her vulnerable mortal womb, and now, somewhere, another power was gestating, growing like a canker.
A small, snaking movement in the glass caught her attention: a scarlet cloud in the water, swelling with writhing hunger until it filled the glass with a diluted pink that turned swiftly into a syrupy red. It spilled over the lip and onto the table, and with a nauseated cry, Isabella kicked against the leg.
A novice appeared at the door of the chapel. ‘Reverend Mother?’
‘Carmella, the blood! The blood!’
‘Blood? Where?’
Isabella looked down. The shards of broken glass were lying in a puddle of water. ‘I’ll clean up the glass,’ said Carmella, giving her an odd look, ‘You’re needed urgently at Tower Bombelli.’
Maddalena tried barging her way onto the bridge and was surprised to be rudely pushed back by the wives and daughters of carders and pullers who usually showed such deference. ‘How dare you? Get your dirty hands off me!’ she cried, and when she realised her threats were ineffective, she strode away in a fury and crossed Piazza Stella to the corner where Borgata Scaligeri had raised its flag.
‘You, boy! Uggeri, isn’t it? I need to see my father. Those sheep-shearing sluts won’t let me through!’
‘Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.’
‘My mother’s giving birth – shall we push it back in?’
Uggeri took the news gravely. ‘Merda.’
‘“Congratulations” is more traditional, you uncouth dog,’ Maddalena said sweetly.
‘Where’s Sofia?’
‘Madonna, you really have no tact, have you? Elbow-deep in my mother! Do you want me to draw a picture?’
‘Merda,’ Uggeri repeated, then, ‘Stay here!’ He marched to the bridge and the crowd parted before him. A ripple of excitement passed as he crossed the Irenicon.
Over in Piazza Luna, Yuri could see over the heads of the crowd. He nudged Levi. ‘Flag on the bridge, chief.’
‘What idiot? Where’s Sofia?’
‘It’s probably the Scaligeri bitch herself,’ said Piers Becket.
Yuri grabbed him by the collar and lifted him closer. ‘You’re lucky it’s your marrying day. Otherways we see how well you outswim buio with breaked legs.’
Just then a bottle flew from the bridge and crashed at the steps of Palazzo del Popolo, where Fabbro stood surrounded by the priors.
Levi walked to the line. ‘No more of that now.’
But the excitement grew as Uggeri got closer, and though Pedro tried to stop them, the crowd began to surge forwards against Levi and Yuri. Other captains came forward to back them up and soon it was a pushing match, with the condottieri shouting, ‘Back! Back!’ and the crowd instinctively reacting to the force by pushing just as hard in return.
Levi shouted over the other voices, ‘Stop pushing, everyone,’ and a more authoritative voice within the crowd echoed his: Uggeri. The heaving stopped, and they came face to face.
‘What the devil are you thinking?’ Levi shouted.
‘Where’s Sofia?’ Pedro shouted back.
‘Donna Bombelli is having her baby—’
Pedro’s face registered joy, then frustration. ‘Levi, tell Fabbro and tell him Sofia’s with her. Come on, Uggeri.’
The heaving stopped after Uggeri left, but with the captains now face to face with the front line, the tension could only mount. When Fabbro tried to pass through, he found it impossible.
‘For the love of decency, I need to be with my wife!’
‘We can force a way through, Gonfaloniere,’ said Becket with excitement.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Fabbro snapped, and Levi silently thanked the Madonna that the gonfaloniere wasn’t a typical Rasenneisi.
So they waited and listened to the Torre dell’ Orologo count the hours’ passage. Fires blossomed in both piazzas as evening drew on and the strong men on either side of the bridge kept warm with drink and braggadocio while the Small People shivered and huddled together in the darkness and listened to the unceasing bellow of the Irenicon beneath their feet.
Sister Isabella, her face wan and fearful, came from Tower Bombelli to help the other Sisters on the bridge handing out roast chestnuts and warm drinks. A little girl was crying, and her mother was struggling to distract her from the night’s icy grip. Isabella hummed a melody to sooth her, the River’s Song, and soon other voices joined in. In Piazza Luna, the brewer stomped his feet to blot out the sound.
‘How long are we going to let this farce go on? Know how we look, Bombelli? Weak,’ he said. ‘We look weak.’
Fabbro stared at the lights of Tower Bombelli across the river. ‘Idiota, we are weak. We’ve just broken Rasenna in two again.’
The music carried to Tower Bombelli.
‘Remember the night the bridge opened?’ said Donna Bombelli. ‘You looked beautiful, just like your mother. She was brave like you, Sofia. She crossed the river when everyone else was too scared.’
‘Brave?’ Sofia laughed mirthlessly. ‘If you only knew.’
‘Don’t be scared. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.’
Sofia looked around in alarm, but the servants were both asleep.
‘How—’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not obvious yet but I’d be sore incompetent not to recognise the signs.’
‘It’s not what you think.’ Sofia reddened.
‘I know. You’re no fool. Whoever you gave yourself to, he loves you.’
Sofia didn’t argue. She could see Donna Bombelli floating in and out of consciousness. ‘Wake up. Are you still in pain?’
‘No …’ Her breath was slow and deep and far apart, but her eyes became suddenly lucid. ‘Sofia, you’re midwife enough to know the trouble I’m in.’
‘Don’t say that!’
The stillness about her was growing. ‘It’s true, and you know it. Promise me something …’
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!’
She turned back to Sofia and screamed, ‘I told you to go!’ She clumsily lifted the Madonna from the alcove and threw it with a roar of hate. Sofia didn’t have to duck; it smashed harmlessly against the cobblestones. ‘The Scaligeri are a plague on Rasenna. How many Waves must come before we realise!’
Sofia backed away from the hysterical girl, but her screams echoed in the piazza.
‘You’ll only be happy when we all drown. Wake up, Rasenna, save yourself! Wake up!’