The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy)

CHAPTER 78

PUBLIC ORDINANCE

By Order of the Podesta.

Banners may only be used in workshops;

banners are prohibited in public;

NO EXCEPTIONS.

Geta’s decree was posted on the doors of the Palazzo del Popolo in Piazza Luna and Santa Maria della Vittoria in Piazza Stella and on each of the lions’ plinths. The injunction was aimed directly at Tower Scaligeri as far as Uggeri was concerned. The bandieratori guessed what his reaction would be, and they were not disappointed.

‘Flags up!’

He marched to the river with his men, all bearing flags. Standing at the decapitated lion’s plinth he tore down the decree and cast it into the Irenicon, then he silently raised his flag. On the other side of the bridge the Small People and other guilds looked on with watchful eyes.

‘Doc Bardini taught us to take up this flag. If we hadn’t, the Twelfth Legion would have destroyed Rasenna. Should we throw it down because a corrupt Signoria in thrall to a foreign dog says so?’ He looked around as if he were genuinely uncertain, then he rolled his banner across his knuckle and caught it in a combat grip. ‘Should we look for leadership from those who only care to profit themselves?’

‘No!’ the bandieratori answered as one.

‘Damn right! This Signoria taxes us without our consent. This Signoria made a noble our podesta. As long as every Rasenneisi can defend himself, Rasenna is safe. Give up that right, allow it to be taken, and Rasenna is in peril. If Geta wants my flag, he can take it from my cold, dead hands!’ He caught sight of Geta crossing the bridge. ‘Behold the man. Taking down names, Podesta? Mine’s Uggeri Galati. I’m not hiding.’

The crowd turned with malevolent intent to Geta and those who stood beside him. One of them – the Russ – grabbed Geta’s arm. ‘Podesta, no good comes of this.’

Geta threw him off, but Yuri persisted, ‘They are just throwing tantrum, like children, yes? Let them shout and wave their flags. Who harms it?’

Geta ignored him and marched forward until he was standing face to face with the first ring of bandieratori. ‘Small People, go home! As for you bandieratori, this is an illegal protest. Anyone bearing a flag is liable to be arrested.’

Dozens of flags suddenly popped up amongst the milling crowd and dangled from the windows of the surrounding towers.

‘Hear that?’ Uggeri taunted. ‘Now he says we can’t freely assemble. That’s how tyranny starts.’

Geta turned away in exasperation. Many of the condottieri were eagerly waiting for the order to advance. This fight had been a long time coming.

‘Can’t let them laugh in our faces,’ said Becket.

Geta looked at him. ‘It’s better than the alternative.’

Yuri relaxed a little, and Geta smiled slowly. ‘Keeping the peace isn’t something I have much experience with. What do you advise, Russ?’

‘He wants a fight, that boy.’ Yuri shrugged. ‘Let him talk. Let them march. They get tire soon.’

When Geta’s men retreated across the bridge, there was loud cheering, cries of Forza Rasenna! and Small People. The crowd proceeded to occupy the bridge and, when the condottieri didn’t stop them, they grew bolder and spilled into Piazza Luna to assemble in front of the Signoria.

Watching all this from behind the fortezza’s crenellations, Geta spoke seriously to his fiancée and future father-in-law. ‘Best you two stay southside tonight. Mobs do things individuals would never think of.’

‘Fine thing,’ Fabbro said bullishly, ‘a gonfaloniere afraid of those whose flag he bears! I’m going home. The day I need protection from Rasenneisi, I hope they do kill me.’

‘I’m coming with you, Papa.’

‘Your place is here.’ Fabbro took her hand and placed it in Geta’s. ‘With your betrothed.’



The dark night that followed was tense and full of wind and alarums. In spite of his bluff façade, Fabbro was shaken by the aggressiveness of the bandieratori in Piazza Stella, and he instructed the servants to allow entry to no one but family. The storm damped the enthusiasm of the demonstrators, and as Yuri had predicted, they soon returned to their towers.

In the crisp morning light, Bocca came calling at Palazzo Bombelli, eager to discuss the situation with the gonfaloniere: the brewer wanted to know when he could open his tavern again. He was surprised and somewhat alarmed to find the palazzo’s great door open and unattended. He crept in to the atrium, treading lightly and feeling like an interloper, but he felt a wave of relief as he entered the courtyard and saw Bombelli’s bulk sitting at his banco.

‘Counting money all night’s a capital way to ruin your eyesight.’ He walked cheerfully up and slapped Fabbro’s shoulder. ‘Nothing can buy that back – unh!’

Bombelli’s head lolled back. Pushed into his eyes were two Concordian pennies and a bandieratori dagger pinned a large promissory cheque to his chest. On it was scrawled a single word: TRAITOR.

The brewer backed away, too scared to scream. The sensible thing would be to quietly alert the Podesta, but on his way out Bocca tripped over the butler’s body. It was the last straw. He scrambled to his feet and ran across the bridge screaming, ‘Assassins!’

By the time Geta arrived the palazzo had been thoroughly ransacked and the treasures of the workshop stolen. The looters fled from the condottieri, spreading their madness all over the northern city. Pedro was working on the orphanage when the riot erupted, and when he heard what the spark had been, he threw down his tools – the Sisters could defend themselves better than most bandieratori, and his engineers had nothing to interest a mob – that and a lingering suspicion would kept them safe. As he ran to Palazzo Bombelli he saw the chaos and entered the gutted palazzo in trepidation. It was impossible. How could Fabbro Bombelli be still? He of all people? His Godfather had been the one person alive when Rasenna was at its deadest. There was no force able to affect so great a change.

But there he was.

Pedro was surprised that the first thought that struck him was that Fabbro had become remarkably fat. In life he had never seemed so ponderous. Carefully, Pedro removed the pennies and closed his staring eyes.

‘You’ve come to rob us too?’

Maddalena’s hair was streaked and wet, her skin glistened with sweat, her glaring eyes were ringed with dark shadows. She stalked around the banco, looking at him like a rabid animal, hatefully, fearfully.

‘Maddalena, I’m so sorry.’

‘What for? You’ve sought this all along.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘That knife is Uggeri’s.’

‘You can’t be su—’

‘And you helped put it there! Out of my house! Get out! Get out!’



Uggeri found the mood in Piazza Stella dangerously festive. The gonfaloniere was the city’s flag-bearer, and until someone else took up that flag, there was no law. The north smouldered and the south sank into silence. Geta’s men were discreet, at least, forbidden to venture over the river. Some northern magnates fled across the bridge, valuing their lives more than their towers; the most prescient had already made plans for this day and moved their assets south immediately. Those who hadn’t, and who didn’t fancy donating their life savings to the Small People, barricaded their tower doors and hired flags to protect them. Though the loyalty of these masterless bandieratori was questionable, the magnates gambled it would never be put to the test – and it was a good bet, for the mob was looking for easy loot and soon moved on to undefended towers.

Scaligeri Borgata did not take part in the mayhem, but neither did they quell it.



Pedro discovered Uggeri obstinately looking down on the revels from Doc Bardini’s old perch on Tower Scaligeri. ‘You think Sofia would be happy with this?’ he asked. ‘If you don’t put a stop to it, Geta will. And he’ll be justified.’

‘Let him try. The magnates have been profiting off our sweat for too long. Why shouldn’t the Small People have some fun?’

‘This is not fun. This is chaos.’ Pedro didn’t mention Maddalena, though both men understood this was about her. Uggeri kept his back turned. Pedro began to climb down the ladder, then he stopped and pointed at the mountains to the north. Somewhere in those snowy crags was the pass of Montaperti. ‘The Concordians will come soon, you realise? All you’re doing is making their job easier.’

Uggeri looked at him silently.

‘Damn it! Say something! I know you did for Jacques’ apprentice, but surely it wasn’t you who killed Fabbro? At least tell me that.’

Uggeri stood slowly. ‘Leave it at that, Vanzetti, if you want to get to the bottom of this tower using your legs.’

As Pedro hurried back to Tartarus he saw that there was no looting in the old Bardini territories, and that the Sisters had kept the peace around the baptistery and orphanage.

Sister Carmella was helping the novices hold their nerve. Isabella had a pale, unearthly look.

Pedro noticed the purple bruise on her arm. ‘Who gave you that?’

‘A sinner. Listen to me, Pedro, even if civil war doesn’t break out today, it will soon.’

‘Maybe. Wherever Sofia is can’t be this bad.’

‘I pray you’re right. However this madness ends, the Concordians will shortly arrive at the gate in greater numbers than before, and they will find Rasenneisi at each other’s throats.’

‘Maybe I can—?’

‘No, you need to stop thinking like an engineer and start thinking like a fugitive.’ She looked around to her flock. ‘We all do.’



Piers Becket did not smile. Glee would have been inappropriate in front of the Gonfaloniere’s mourning daughter. ‘You’re Podesta, Lord Geta. You must restore order.’

The Concordian held Maddalena in his arms as she wept. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being a fool, Becket? If we venture south, Uggeri will take it as a challenge and riot will turn to war.’

‘Is last thing we need with legions on march,’ said Yuri. The giant was subdued after Fabbro’s death, but he was impressed that Geta was keeping a level head.

‘I don’t know what we can do,’ said Geta, ‘but we can’t sit here and let the mayhem spread across the river.’

‘We go talk,’ said Yuri. He held out his hand to Geta. ‘I stand with you.’

‘Sure, talk,’ Becket scoffed, ‘Ask them if they’ll put Bombelli’s gold back. I’m sure they’ll oblige.’

Yuri picked up Becket and flattened him against the wall, a giant forearm across his chest. ‘You so hungry for blood, I give you taste.’

‘Yuri, put him down,’ Geta said, strapping on his belt. ‘He’s just frightened – we all are. Becket, get the company ready to come north in strength. Madonna willing, it won’t be necessary, but who knows what control that boy has over the situation?’ He kissed Maddalena. ‘If I don’t come back, leave Rasenna – go south. Salerno’s strong. It’ll probably be the last to fall.’

‘You’ll come back,’ she said. She shot a warning look at Yuri. ‘Make sure.’

Yuri saluted. ‘Yes, Signorina!’

The unlikely pair mounted up and rode out of the fortezza’s gate together. Instead of swords, each carried the red banner of Rasenna. They rode slowly onto the bridge and stopped halfway across. The bandieratori of the northern towers were assembled in Piazza Stella, each company separate from the next. The heads of the bandieratori towers stepped out and Uggeri, acting head of the guild, led them onto the bridge, flags up. Yuri dismounted and Geta followed suit. Towers either side of the river watched the bandieratori approach and come to a halt in front of the condottieri.

Uggeri glanced at Yuri with silent reproach, then barked at Geta, ‘Who gave you the right to carry that banner?’

‘The Gonfaloniere of Rasenna, when he made me Podesta.’

‘Bombelli’s dead,’ said Uggeri.

‘Wash your hands afterwards?’

Uggeri’s flag spun; the tip hovered an inch from Geta’s chin. The Concordian didn’t budge. ‘If I came to fight, you’d know all about it by now.’

‘Tranquillo.’ Yuri slowly pushed Uggeri’s flag away. ‘Whoever’s responsible, Bombelli is dead, but law is not. Uggeri, what’s happening – this! – is wrong. I know you know. Sofia, she would not allowed it.’

‘And you know she wouldn’t have allowed this thief into Rasenna, not in a million years.’

Geta glared at the boy. ‘I don’t need to steal anything.’

‘Is done!’ Yuri roared. ‘Sofia put trust in you – in your sense. Levi did same to me. Geta was elected Podesta fair and also square.’

‘How could that Signoria do anything fair? He stole that too.’

Geta said through gritted teeth, ‘What are you, boy? Reformer or revolutionary? You don’t change people’s minds by assassination.’

‘You dirty—’ Uggeri stopped, remembering what Pedro had said. Sofia wouldn’t have put her pride above Rasenna’s security. ‘Look: if I get my people indoors, we’re not going back to the old Signoria. The Signoria has to be like the red banner, for all Rasenneisi.’

‘I’ll keep my men north,’ said Geta.

Yuri smiled. ‘Good then. Let’s get everyone tucked up in beds, and tomorrow—’

‘Tomorrow you had better have some ideas on how to give the Small People what they want, or I’ll lead the bandieratori across the Irenicon and take it. I’ve seen the condottieri fight on a battlefield, but the street’s our natural terrain.’

Geta was about to retort, but Yuri pulled him back. ‘Let us gets through one night in peace. Tomorrow we talk with flags down and cooler heads.’



Rasenna lay in exhausted silence that night. The natural reaction to the riot would have been brutal reprisal, but instead, there was a plea for peace, and the mob assented, storing their loot in safe nooks before going back to their towers. It was always surprising how quickly crowded piazzi could empty. Uggeri studied those Rasenneisi left on the streets. The bonds uniting bandieratori were frayed; spurning the Signoria would mean returning to the old way, tower against tower. He was a simple fighter, but he knew his heart’s dark byways as well as he knew Rasenna’s alleyways and rooftops. There was a throbbing within him that wanted that, that yearned to test itself in the bloody mayhem Sofia and the Doc had grown up in. And since Maddalena chose Geta it had grown so much stronger.

The virile roll and snap of tower banners as the swallows returned home for the evening was the only sound competing with the roar of the Irenicon. Uggeri listened to the night, thinking how easy it would be to give in, easy as making a fist. The moon hid behind dark clouds and a light mist wreathed the balustrades of the bridge so that the river’s roar was without origin. Uggeri unclenched his fist and rubbed his eyes. Sofia and the Doc had risen above that base temptation. He could do no less.



Across the river, Geta and Becket were waiting by the fortezza’s entrance. Yuri trotted across the piazza, returning from a patrol of the southside streets.

Geta walked to him and patted his horse’s flank. ‘Well?’

‘All quiet. Northside too, by the looks. Let’s hope it keeps.’

‘Let’s hope,’ said Geta. He unhooked the girth of the saddle, put one hand under Yuri’s boot and with the other shoved. The loose saddle slid sideways to the ground, carrying Yuri’s massive bulk with it. His head struck the cobblestones with an audible crack!

Becket rushed forward, drawing his sword, and thrust it at the fallen giant. Yuri grabbed the blade in his fist and held it there as he got to his feet. His other hand shot forward and tightened round Becket’s neck. The smaller man punched pointlessly and Yuri squeezed tighter – then released him as a bloody rapier-point poked cleanly through his chest. The giant dropped wordlessly to his knees. Geta pulled his head back and cut left to right, working deep, like a butcher. The hapless Becket was doused by the spurting arterial spray.

‘Madonna wept. All that juice.’ Geta shook his head. ‘Drag this deficiente inside and get them ready. Five minutes.’ He glanced at the sky. The moon was still demurely shrouded, and from a window above, Maddalena was watching. ‘Amore! Did you see—?’

‘I miss nothing,’ she said, and shot him with an imaginary crossbow. Geta mimed pulling the quarrel from his chest. ‘I know it,’ he said, returning fire with blown kisses.



They wore long black cloaks and spread out in prearranged formation after they crossed the bridge. The southside bandieratori had been given the choice to join the condottieri; to the south’s eternal shame, only a few chose death. The traitors were charged with creating a topside perimeter around the bandieratori towers. Geta had fuel catchments – dry straw, wool, oil and black powder – already prepared and stashed northside and now his condottieri used the venerable cap-a-pie technique: as the tower base was set burning, brands were simultaneously thrown through upper windows and onto the rooftops.

The preponderance of black cloaks climbed the ‘healthy hills’. Geta expected most resistance in the old Bardini highlands, and Workshop Scaligeri was besieged as it burned. The students who rolled out, coughing and gasping for breath, were quickly dispatched, regardless of age. Bandieratori skill meant nothing in the inferno within: the flames consumed flags and flesh indiscriminately.

Uggeri and the fastest of his old decina escaped by the adjoining corridor to Tower Scaligeri before it collapsed. The lower storeys were already burning, so they climbed, blinded and choked by smoke, knowing every misstep would be fatal. The survivors burst out onto the rooftop, gasping for air. Tower Scaligeri was the highest vantage point in Rasenna. Uggeri batted out the flames licking at the edge of his flag and looked around at Geta’s revenge.

The burning towers overpowered the night. Across the river, the few towers that had refused to collaborate had already collapsed into smouldering heaps. Here on the northside, the air was thick with whirling ash. Bandieratori leapt hopelessly from towers, or were thrown, or fell to their deaths. There were few options besides burning; but Uggeri’s men did not panic. They looked to their capo to decide their fate.

‘Tartarus,’ Uggeri said simply. ‘Get to Tartarus. Pedro’ll know what to do.’

The nearest tower to Tower Scaligeri was Tower Cammertoni. Its roof was thronged with waiting condottieri.

‘Get ready, men,’ Becket shouted as he saw the bandieratori preparing to jump.

‘Go together,’ Uggeri ordered, ‘and some will break through.’ Not waiting for objections, he jumped, and whether it was loyalty or desperation, all followed. Uggeri landed fighting, his flagstick immediately pushing the nearest swordsman into others behind. Uggeri saw one of his decina land straight onto a waiting sword; the bandieratoro fell over the side, but he dragged his murderer with him. As the rest landed, Becket’s men fell back.

‘Go! I’ll hold them.’ Uggeri pushed into the centre while hiding his body behind his flag, drawing in swords, then crashing his stick down to disarm them.

His bandieratori leapt from Tower Cammertoni and spread out, each taking a separate path across the rooftops. Soon Becket’s men were down to four, but Uggeri’s flag had been sliced into rags. He kept them at bay with his stick, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold so many swordsmen for long. He circled until their backs were to the burning Tower Scaligeri, listening to the small explosions as the fire consumed each floor.

‘You’ll never have Rasenna as long as one of us lives,’ he shouted.

‘Look around. The bandieratori are finished,’ said Becket gaily.

Something seemed to break within Uggeri and he threw his tattered stick away. ‘All right, damn you! I’ll come quietly.’ Then, ‘What’s so funny?’

‘We’re not taking prisoners.’

A rumbling shudder filled the air. ‘I guess I knew that,’ Uggeri said, and with a silent prayer, he stepped back into nothingness.

He dropped vertically down the side of the tower, and caught the Cammertoni flag. Up above, he heard Tower Scaligeri moving with a great grinding noise, slowly tilting towards Tower Cammertoni, gathering speed … until Becket and his men were crushed as the towers annihilated each other.

Hot stone rained down on Uggeri and he felt the shadow of death’s wing fall on him. All at once fear was absent. He did something he’d never before attempted.

He let go.

And fell.

For ever. The stars above meshed with the sparks and the beams of fire that were once towers. Two burning flags sailed by him, entwined and writhing like dying dragons. This was what Sofia had tried to show him, the peace at the heart of the fight – the wonder of it. He only regretted discovering it too late.

He crashed into a roof, and the tiles gave way beneath him. A moment of darkness was followed by an unexpectedly soft landing, and surprise—

—he was alive! He’d landed in an abandoned weaver’s attic and was practically entombed in yellow dust. The wool he rested on was damp, sticky and rotten, but it had saved his life. No time to thank the Madonna. Through the hole in the roof he could see Tower Scaligeri had caused a domino collapse, and to judge from the thunder, it was happening all over the northside.

Sparks and embers fell through the hole and the attic began to fill with a thick, noxious smoke. He attempted to sit up but the wool clung to him until it felt like drowning. He held his breath and fell to the ground as he pulled himself free. He crawled along the floorboards, searching, but there was nothing there, just roiling, creamy smoke that cut his lungs like broken glass. He collapsed coughing, and his flailing hand came to rest on the stick of an old combat flag. He closed his fist around it and opened his eyes. Through the tears and smoke he could see the banner was black. Imagine Doc Bardini allowing himself to die choking like a dog and unavenged – never! Uggeri picked himself up and searched until he found the trapdoor. With strength failing, he dragged it open and all but fell down the ladder.

He was dizzy and bruised and bleeding, but he was alive! A surge of ecstasy lifted him to his feet. He opened the workshop’s front door a crack: Piazza Stella was full of condottieri. At the back of the workshop was another door. He kicked it open, flag ready.

The alleyway was empty.

The glowing orange sky proclaimed that the topside was a dead zone for bandieratori. Sparks drifted amongst the stars as darkness once more descended on the streets, this time as a cloud of smoke and dust. The screaming continued over a steady percussive rumbling, interrupted by periodic explosive impacts. The bellows of falling towers pushed a river of scalding air through the alleys. He ignored the hair-singeing heat and ran to Tartarus.





Aidan Harte's books