CHAPTER 82
‘If this tower is not sheltering outlaws, how do you explain the rumours?’
After the night of black towers, every Rasenneisi finally understood the truth: that the bandieratori, for all the mayhem they caused, had kept citizens good neighbours. Before that night, it was understood that one who used his tongue to lie about his countrymen would have the offending organ cut out. Now there was no recourse when Geta’s men came knocking. If it took just a whisper to knock down an enemy’s tower, who would not whisper?
The Mercanzia met secretly. They were stunned and frightened by the massacre they had authorised, and belatedly realised that in letting Geta destroy Rasenna’s fighting stock, they had surrendered the reins of power. Perhaps, they whispered, Geta didn’t realise how vulnerable they were now – he certainly wasn’t acting any different. Collectively, they agreed to maintain a strong front – but on hearing that Geta’s new wife was pregnant, each prior rushed separately to be the first to congratulate the royal couple: like shepherds, they paid homage; like kings, they bore gifts.
And in the Palazzo del Popolo, they listened with new attentiveness to the podesta’s counsel. Peace with Concord – why not? It was better than the alternative.
Deep below Rasenna’s cautious streets, the tunnels were alive. Uggeri was exhausted by his explorations by the time he returned to the base Pedro had set up, and the generator’s light hurt his eyes. ‘Madonna!’ he said, ‘I’ve travelled leagues. How deep does it go?’
‘I don’t know – but we can get to either side of the river,’ Pedro said.
Uggeri swigged some water and said, ‘Okay. It’s important we know our territory. I’m going back. Don’t wait up.’
‘No,’ Pedro said firmly, ‘you haven’t eaten all day and you’re too important to let yourself get sick. Sit and eat.’
Gruffly, Uggeri assented, concealing behind his grave demeanour the sheer joy he felt at having a foe worthy to test his mettle. Even with the stench of sulphur, the taste of burned dust and wool in his mouth, the boiling blood and sweat still raw, Uggeri rejoiced: in Geta he had found an adversary who would fight to the death.
Pedro told Uggeri the plan as he ate.
‘Even if possible,’ Uggeri said incredulously, ‘what good would it do? When Concord’s legions arrive they can throw up a pontoon in a day—’
‘—that’s even more vulnerable. Don’t you remember how slow everything was before the bridge? If we separate north and south, we force Geta to pick which side he wants to protect. We can tie up resources, make travel difficult. We won’t win this with one blow in a single day. We’ll win it step by step, day by day.’
‘Or blow ourselves up.’
‘It’s worth the risk. Geta isn’t expecting it—’
‘—so he’ll overreact. I get it: the worse he acts, the more people will join us. But, Pedro, it’s Giovanni’s bridge.’
‘It’s ours. It saved Rasenna once by bringing us together; we can save Rasenna now by destroying it. Don’t be sentimental.’ Pedro spoke boldly because it was necessary, but really, he shared Uggeri’s doubts. It felt like sacrilege.
‘You’re right,’ Uggeri said, ‘whatever’s necessary now, we can’t hesitate. But let’s make sure we blow up more than a bridge.’
Just before dawn the baptistery bell rang out over the river. The clock tower delicately chimed its answer. Where the river ended and land begun was lost in the mist that had invaded Piazza Luna. Only the red banner of the Palazzo del Popolo interrupted the pervasive whiteness. Two grey guards stood at the entrance of the fortezza.
‘What’s that?’
‘Tranquillo, kid,’ said the older, a veteran. ‘I don’t see anything.’
‘There, look!’
Sure enough, a figure was crossing from the mouth of the bridge, tottering first left and then right, as if drunk.
‘Probably got up enough courage to give us a right old talking-to.’
‘This ought to be good.’ They waited, chuckling together in anticipation. The night-watch was dull, and one of its few diversions was slapping drunks sober. The drunk was closer now, and he suddenly straightened up and produced a flag-stick that had been concealed in the silhouette of his body. The banner unfurled and they had time only to register that it was black before he came running towards them. They fumbled for their weapons, but the gap closed too soon.
The condottiere on the last watch of the night stretched himself and yawned, still groggy from last night’s drinking. Every night since the raid had been a celebration. He slid open the spy hole. ‘Mornin’ lads—’
He slammed it shut and leaned against the door as he rebolted it, breathing fast, trying to master his panic. He rang the bell hanging beside the door. Condottieri were used to quick mobilisation, but the first to answer the call to arms was Geta. Others soon appeared, tucking their nightshirts into their trousers.
‘Mount up!’ Geta shouted, pushing the guard aside and unbolting the door. The sun was coming up, but he did not need it to see the Palazzo del Popolo across the piazza. Flames licked out of its windows and the clock tower glowed from the spiralling inferno within. Geta walked forwards a few steps, then spun around. The nightwatchmen still stood either side of the door. ‘Why are you two just standing—?’ he began, but stopped abruptly as he saw they wept blood. Then he noticed that their bodies dangled an inch above the ground, from ropes tied to the cressets above the door.
Geta dashed back inside, found his charger and mounted up. ‘Avanti!’ he cried as he led a dozen men through the gate into the piazza. They rode three abreast, and the clatter of hoofs on cobblestones echoed over the roar of the fire. Up ahead, a black figure holding a bottle stuffed with a burning rag backed away from the palazzo. In a fluid practised motion, Geta released his reins, slowed his horse with his legs, reached for his arquebus and whipped out the weapon. He took aim, snapped the flint and fired. The figure in the distance spun where he stood, but did not fall; instead, he ran limping for the bridge, and when he reached the lions, threw down his bottle. It exploded, leaving a rather feeble line of fire at the bridge entrance.
The recoil had knocked Geta out of the saddle, but he sat up laughing. ‘There – clipped the bastard!’ he shouted. ‘On, lads! Ride him down!’ Other riders leapt over Geta, swords drawn, prey in sight and the scent of blood in their nostrils. Their trained destriers effortlessly leapt the fire and thundered onto the bridge.
As Geta remounted, he glanced at what remained of the Palazzo del Popolo. The clock tower struck its final hour, then tumbled with a great groan of cracking metal and the muffled dusty pops of bricks exploding from the heat and pressure. Geta considered himself something of an expert when it came to arson; he realised that it needed more than a few oil bottles to set that blaze. This had taken time. He thought of the night-watch’s eyes so carefully removed and without thought, slowed his horse to a standstill. A second wave of cavalry rode by, hastening to the bridge, and Geta looked at the other side of the bridge. The fleeing figure was escaping into Piazza Stella, his limp miraculously cured.
‘Get off the bridge!’ Geta roared. ‘It’s a trap!’
Some already halfway across heard the warning and turned around, and Geta realised his mistake. ‘No!’ he screamed, ‘keep going!’
They turned again in confusion, more running into them even as others turned back, causing total mayhem.
Cursing all fools, Geta pulled his horse about and jammed his spurs in its haunches mercilessly—
First there was a patterning drumroll, barely perceptible, except for the soles of the feet, the fingertips.
Pah-Pah-Pah-Pah-Pah-Pah
Then came a world-rolling pounding, like a wave breaking overhead.
OOOoooommmmm
The bridge suddenly turned black, its graceful arch silhouetted by the synchronised explosions around the supporting pillars, glowing yellow as the flames licked greedily around it. Bits of horse and men and lumps that could have been either slowly floated upwards before raining down in sizzling blobs that congealed in greasy pools on the river surface. White glowing stones that had been balustrades, pillars and archways hurtled up into the sky and tumbled beside the stars.
The explosives had been tightly packed at either end of the bridge and now the arch appeared to expand for a moment, even as its components came apart, before losing cohesion, sending great boulders crashing into the piazzas on either side, smashing cobblestones into pebbles. There was a rapid pat pat pat as the three lions that had survived the Wave and years under the Irenicon vanished and the stones, all that was left of the huge beasts, rained down into the river with serpentine hisses, their individual splashes lost in the majestically billowing steam clouds.
Then … it was gone.
Rasenna was bisected once more. The last few years were exposed as an impossible, aberrant dream, now dissipating just like the ringing echo of the explosion, fading away and leaving the roar of the Irenicon unchallenged. The few disorientated riders who made it across to Piazza Stella were felled by arrows and rocks and banners, then finished off by a giant death-dealing figure with hammers in place of hands.
Geta had been thrown off his horse again, this time by the explosion. He landed badly and was knocked unconscious, but he was lucky: he was far enough away to avoid the heaviest of the falling debris.
When he awoke, he was covered in grey dust that streaked black where the water streamed from his eyes. He limped back, but headed not to the fortezza but to the adjoining stable. The doors swung open. He stepped inside and found all the cells were open and empty, as was the trapdoor to the cellar, where the Hawk’s Company’s powder reserves had been stored.
Those condottieri who saw Geta emerge couldn’t understand why he looked so merry. How could he explain to men to whom war was only a profession? This was why he’d come back to Rasenna. Mayhem was home here.