CHAPTER 69
On the north side of the bridge, the swordsman stood, head tilted meditatively, before the maimed lion. Everyone diverted their gaze so as not to see the Concordian or the terrible object of his study. No good could come of either. Yuri was a good man, but the Podesta of Rasenna needed cunning more than virtue. What Doc Bardini would have done, the old men said, was to publicly blame some drunken sot for this crime so that the real culprit would think himself free of suspicion. Afterwards, the Doc would have administered justice privately.
A soft voice whispered in Geta’s ear, ‘An art lover as well as a traitor?’ He spun, and captured Maddalena’s hand before she could retreat.
‘The first charge is just, but you’ll find no one more loyal than I.’
‘The First Apprentice wouldn’t agree.’
‘That shows the quality of my patriotism.’ Geta raised his head high. ‘The engineers have brought Concord’s name into disrepute with impious weapons that render knightly virtue irrelevant.’
Although Maddalena well knew that the late Captain Giovanni had those very virtues, she did not contradict Geta but listened to him with a sceptically arched brow.
‘Perhaps it’s no longer politic to say it, but nature has a hierarchy. Discard it, and you invite anarchy.’ He gestured at the subject of his scrutiny as evidence. ‘A serf cannot match a knight’s courage, but give that serf an arquebus and a handful of shot and courage is irrelevant. And what knight – or gunner, for that matter – can stand against a Wave that levels all? In my youth, I fought for glory in the legions until I realised there was no glory in serving slaves.’ Geta slowly pulled her closer and she allowed him. ‘But I needn’t tell you this, Signorina Bombelli. Your breeding speaks for itself.’
Maddalena laughed. ‘Then you’ve wax in your ears. My father’s a merchant. Bombelli blood’s common as any of these peddlers.’ She gestured at the noisy hawkers on the bridge.
‘You shock me.’ This was a lie. Fabbro’s cajoling manner obviously came from the streets, and Geta had studied in Rasenna; he knew perfectly well which families had been entitled to sit in the old Signoria. He kissed her hand. ‘If it’s true, I earnestly hope you marry up. Strange—’ He licked his lips. ‘You don’t taste common.’
Maddalena snatched her hand back and playfully slapped him. ‘You impertinent cad. I prefer my men strong and silent.’
‘As you like – it was you, however, who disturbed my ruminations.’ He clicked his heels and spun back to the defiled statue. It had been cleanly decapitated in the night. Most of the mane had come away with its head, leaving its torso a great open cavity. Around the wound, precious viscera, ribbons of gold leaf, trembled in the wind.
‘And just what are you ruminating upon?’
‘Guilt,’ he said. ‘Your father believes that poor Kitty here was desecrated by bandieratori.’
‘My father thinks with his heart. It’s what makes him a good peddler – he could persuade even you that all you need to set off your uniform is a pretty corset. But he doesn’t understand that most men are not like him. He tolerated years of condescension from the Families who took loans from him because he knew that one day he’d be looking down on them.’
‘Smart.’ Geta knew a thing or two about money-lenders.
‘Most men value pride over bread.’
‘If you’re hinting at something, I beg you, be plain. I have the most ghastly hangover this morning.’
Maddalena walked to the lion, gesturing for Geta to follow her. ‘This wasn’t an insult directed at the Signoria. See how neatly it’s been severed? It’s downright artistic.’
She turned until she was looking in the same direction as the lion, across the piazza at Palazzo Bombelli. ‘This was an insult from someone my father blunderingly offended. Somewhere there’s a trail to whoever did it; you just have to find it.’
Frowning, Geta examined the cut. It was indeed a neat job. Maddalena was halfway across the piazza when he turned back. He was admiring her suggestively undulating carriage when she looked over her shoulder and pointed skywards. He looked up and saw the grey smoke soiling the sky, and followed it to its source: Tartarus.
Becket and the other condottiere held their manacled prisoner by his forearms, pulling him along like a rabid dog to the steps of the Signoria. Geta held one end of the rope that was tied in a noose around his neck – naturally, the Concordian had taken charge. At any other time, Fabbro would have feared for the soldiers’ lives – even chained, the blacksmith was capable of pummelling them – but when Geta turned and grabbed Jacques’ arm, he flinched.
‘Behold the man, Gonfaloniere.’
Fabbro ran down the steps. Bruises, cuts and burns covered Jacques’ face and body, evidence of the great damage a few drunken soldiers could do in a few hours. ‘Lord Geta, there’s been a terrible mistake. Jacques made the lion.’
‘Infanticide’s not unheard of. We have it from his own tongue.’
‘A man will confess anything if he’s tortured.’ Yuri was angry at Geta for commandeering his men, and at his men for their willingness to follow someone who allowed them to give in to their worse impulses. ‘You’re just looking for a goat-scraper!’
‘If I were, would I pick a man like this? I assure you, he didn’t start out this docile.’
‘Then why?’
‘Testimony. If you think women are jealous, try artists. His own apprentice informed on him.’
‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘Believe it! He spat in your face; now he’s laughing at you.’ Geta snatched off Jacques’ hat. His ears were cropped, and there was an ugly circular scar incised into the flesh around his skull. ‘Believe now? These are old scars. The man’s a communard.’
‘We don’t know that!’
‘I admit it, Bombelli,’ Jacques growled.
‘Good boy. Now tell the nice man where you got those scars.’
Fabbro knew Jacques’ Herculean strength, but this task seemed too much for him. At last Jacques met his eye and he started back from the hate he saw there.
‘You asked me once if I remembered the market of Champaign. Of course I remember it! All Europa was there. We were happy and prosperous. We would have caught up with Etruria, if not for princes and kings. First they spoiled our coinage to pay for their endless wars with the Anglish – but even that wasn’t enough. They needed more, more, more. They taxed the market out of existence.’
‘They were your betters,’ said Geta, as if that settled everything.
Jacques cowered and went silent – then some ancient anger took him and he looked directly at Fabbro. ‘So we should let ourselves be ruined by them? We rebelled! That was just what the king’s men wanted, and they fell on us like wolves, filched our purses, spat in our faces and called us rebels. They set me to work in my own forge, fashioning crowns for the ringleaders. And as they crowned us, each in turn, they hailed us: Jacques le Roi! The rest died, there and then. Me, they locked away until—’
‘I don’t care about that,’ Fabbro shouted. ‘Why hurt the lion? I paid you—’
‘You lied!’ Jacques said with venom. ‘I came here because you told me Rasenna was free, a town with no kings. But you’re just a new kind of king.’
Fabbro struck him. ‘How dare you! Take this fool away.’
‘What shall we do with him?’
Fabbro looked up the steps of the Signoria, where the farmer and his peers stood looking down, judging him as he gave judgment. He wheeled around suddenly. ‘I tried to give Rasenna a symbol to unite behind. It’s going to get one.’
‘We’re behind you, Gonfaloniere,’ said the brewer stoutly.
Only Yuri protested. ‘Bombelli, you’ll make it worse. Jacques’ popular—’
‘Fine talk from a solider!’ Geta interrupted. ‘How do you punish insubordination, Russ? A spanking? Gonfaloniere, take the advice of one who’s learned the hard way: you’ll win nothing with kindness but contempt.’
Two dozen smiths, the so-called Guild of Fire, bolstered by the same mob that had protested the salt-tax, were spilling onto the bridge.
‘It’s always northsiders,’ Fabbro said disgustedly. The Morello had taught the southern towers the habit of obedience, but Bardini’s unruly spirit still possessed the north.
Whatever his misgivings, giving into the mob would be worse. Yuri ordered his condottieri to push the men back.
‘Hang the foreign dog!’ the brewer shouted.
Jacques’ head was bowed, as if he was not aware of the mania growing about him.
Fabbro looked down on the man. Jacques had betrayed him, but he took no pleasure in the thought of revenge. He was about to give the order when Geta tugged his sleeve and whispered, ‘Perhaps a degree of clemency would be wise?’
Fabbro looked at the Concordian with gratitude. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, and ignored the jeering crowd, ordering them to take the prisoner to the stables. Jacques didn’t struggle, even as the harness was fastened to his face.
The condottieri waited for Geta’s order. Geta looked to Fabbro. ‘You did the right thing, Gonfaloniere, but listen to that mob. If you spare his life, you must ensure he won’t be able to spread any more mischief.’
‘Do what you have to,’ Fabbro said in a dead voice.
Jacques’ bottom lip was clamped so that his jaw could be lowered with a screw. Now his tongue was grabbed between a pair of tongs and yanked forward. The small spiked lever turned, forcing his jaw shut again, and Jacques groaned as his tongue was pierced, thick blood spluttering from his lips.
The mess made Fabbro queasy, but the baying crowds were making it hard for him to concentrate; all he could think of was the humiliation, the ingratitude. ‘It wasn’t his tongue that destroyed the lion,’ he said at last. ‘This fellow’s no orator.’
Geta laughed. ‘That’s the idea!’
At last Jacques fought as he realised what they intended, and condottieri piled on top of him, hanging onto his limbs while others tightened the chains until he was too trussed-up to struggle.
‘Let’s do it properly,’ said Geta, and started heating a blade, ready to cauterise the wound.
Geta asked for volunteers to wield the blade, and when Becket at once backed away, muttering, ‘Not I – my life would be worthless!’ Geta realised everyone was fearful of revenge during the dark nights to come.
‘Podesta!’ he cried, ‘this is your honour.’
‘Yuri! Yuri!’ they called, in a paroxysm of relief.
Yuri took the axe in silence, as if he himself were the condemned man. Jacques started up at him, proffering his neck, his eyes eloquent: Kill me, but do not do this.
Silently pleading too, Yuri looked at Fabbro, but like the priors behind him, his jaw was set. The axe struck the ground with a ringing note and sparks flew, dying, hissing, in the heat of the blood. Before Yuri raised the axe a second time Jacques had passed out.
Geta expertly sealed and wrapped the wounds as the smell of cooking flesh filled the cell. He looked up at Yuri with a friendly wink. ‘Clean work, Podesta.’