CHAPTER 74
It was getting dark when Jacques woke. In the half-light, he examined his wrists for a long while, then – quite calmly – dashed his head against the wall. If he had not been so weak, that blow would have been sufficient.
He woke the following day in a worse state. In front of him was a bowl of tripe stew. He looked at the stone wall, splattered with his blood, and his bandaged wrists, then back to the bowl and considered whether he had anything to live for. After a moment, he crawled forward on his elbows like a dog and lapped up the cold stew.
Next day his jailer stood before him with a fresh bowl. ‘If you had chosen to die,’ Yuri said, ‘I would have let you.’
Blankly Jacques nodded. He had nothing to live for – no name, no freedom, no hands. What kept him breathing was something else. As Yuri fed Jacques, he told him how his apprentice had been discovered, how his ankles and wrists had been smashed with Jacques’ hammer; how his chest was branded; how the letters that formed the word TRAITOR encircled the hole where his heart had been cut out; how the organ was cooking on the forge beside the body. He didn’t mention the mêlée on the bridge, or the curfew subsequently imposed. He left after cleaning Jacques’ wounds and changing his bandages.
Next day he returned with Pedro. The engineer examined his wrists and took some measurements. Jacques made a sound, the first attempt he’d made to speak: ‘—meeewhuuu?’
‘I can’t give you back your hands,’ said Pedro, ‘but I can give you something else.’
Lord Geta finished briefing the priors – they’d come to consider his advice as both impartial and indispensable. With the swagger of a gonfaloniere, he descended the steps of the Palazzo del Popolo and smiled to see who was waiting.
‘Haven’t you done well?’
He bowed. ‘I can’t take all the credit. It was your suggestion that led me to the villain.’
Maddalena rapped his arm with her fan, not playfully. ‘I didn’t mean that, stupid! That was elementary. I meant having Yuri carry out the sentence.’
‘You liked that?’
‘My dear fellow, I loved it. The good Podesta is only a standin. The magnates support him only as long as he can keep the peace. I should think his flag’s worn pretty ragged in bandieratori eyes, and that there are plenty of condottieri who’d prefer a leader less even-handed.’
‘So I understand. Personally, I don’t see why the bandieratori are still allowed such latitude. The Families are gone.’
Maddalena shuddered irritably. ‘The same reason for every foolishness in Rasenna. You can’t step on the street with soiling your shoe on some time-honoured tradition. We’re faithful to nothing here but the past.’
Geta’s eyes twinkled in amusement; he saw what was expected of him and harrumphed accordingly. ‘That must change. Now that Rasenna has both an army and an engineers’ guild, the old way will not serve. The engineers will abuse any liberty we allow them – see how Maestro Vanzetti absents himself from the Signoria, yet no one reproaches him.’
‘He’s playing nursemaid to that traitor.’
‘Currying popularity with the Small People, more like. The engineers may act like artisans, but don’t be fooled: they’re soldiers. If the army taught me anything—’
‘Besides how to gamble and whore?’
‘Besides that – it’s that soldiers need discipline. Without it, I fear Rasenna will go the way of Concord.’
Maddalena put her arm under Geta’s. ‘You don’t need to convince me. My father needs to hear these arguments. Just remember he has the same weakness as most selfish men; he can’t admit to being one. That’s why I like you, Lord Geta. You’re different.’
‘You’re too generous, Signorina.’
The crowd studiously ignored them as they walked across the bridge together. Maddalena surveyed the stalls with a proprietary air. ‘Believe me; Papa’s as nervous of Pedro Vanzetti’s intentions as the rest of the magnates. He’s just too guilty to admit it. You must form your argument in terms of what’s in Rasenna’s long-term interest. Put it like that and he’ll go along with anything.’
‘I don’t understand how such a fool got to carry Rasenna’s flag.’
‘Papa’s no fool; he’s just got a blind spot.’ Maddalena brushed away a fly dismissively. ‘The chief engineer’s father, Vettori, was Papa’s partner. He was an agitator.’
‘Like the good King Jacques,’ said Geta thoughtfully. ‘Well?’
‘Signore Vettori didn’t prosper. Papa did. Success is unforgivable to the Small People, and Pedro’s not above playing on Papa’s guilty conscience. The engineers have been granted unlimited funds with no oversight, but when a tax that doesn’t profit them is proposed, they protest. They say they’re taking the people’s side, but I’m not fooled.’
‘Hello, what’s this?’
Ahead of them the crowd abruptly parted to reveal Uggeri, flag in hand.
‘Madonna, Uggeri,’ Maddelena sighed, ‘don’t make a scene.’
‘The Signoria has charged us bandieratori to keep cut-purses off the bridge. Hands off, Geta. That’s not your property.’
‘I take it this boy is one of those over-mighty bandieratori you mentioned, Signorina? We have rock-throwing children in Concord too. I know how to deal with them.’
‘I’m no boy.’
‘You’re an impertinent dog and this young lady is unmarried; you’ve no claim.’
‘I apologise for his barking, Lord Geta.’ Maddalena glared at Uggeri. ‘He’s been off the leash since his harlot mistress fled the city in disgrace.’
‘Stand behind me, amore,’ said Geta, drawing his sword. Of course the boy had been Maddalena’s lover; she was using him to make the boy jealous. He didn’t mind – this was just what was needed.
‘You’re not a boy, eh? Then what say we settle this like men?’ He dropped his sword.
Uggeri said, ‘Suits me,’ and bowed to place his flag carefully on the ground.
Geta knew a Rasenneisi would never just drop his flag, and before Uggeri could rise, he dived at him. His weight knocked the boy over, but Uggeri punched him in the jaw and neatly rolled him over. His strong fingers locked around Geta’s gullet and squeezed.
Instead of fighting, the Concordian pulled out a short boot-dagger and pressed it to Uggeri’s neck. ‘Decide,’ he croaked. ‘Live or die. Either suits.’ A lie: the last thing Geta wanted was a dead Rasenneisi on his hands – like this anyway.
Uggeri’s rage was stronger than his prudence and he kept squeezing, even as Geta’s blade cut deeper.
Geta’s eyes darted briefly to Maddalena and he whispered, ‘Think she’ll grieve long?’
‘Don’t get yourself killed on my account.’
Her derisive laugh penetrated Uggeri’s anger and he released Geta, grabbed his flag and leapt to his feet. He was breathing hard, and looked embarrassed. ‘Next time we meet, Concordian, I’ll hold onto my flag.’
Geta bowed. ‘I look forward to it.’
Uggeri walked towards Maddalena, who stepped back nervously. ‘Lord Geta!’
Geta did nothing. If the bandieratoro hurt the Gonfaloniere’s daughter, it would only be to his advantage.
Uggeri grabbed a pair of long silk gloves from a stall and flung them at her. ‘Here. Whores are supposed to wear these.’
Maddalena regained her composure as Uggeri walked away and called, ‘That must be a new law. I don’t recall seeing them on Signorina Scaligeri.’
‘Oh, I forgot to pay,’ Uggeri said, taking out a few coins.
‘A gift, Signore, a gift,’ the terrified glove-stall owner said, but Uggeri wasn’t talking to him. He sprinkled the coins in front of Maddalena.
She slapped him, hard. ‘Stop embarrassing yourself.’
Uggeri smiled to see her angry. As he sauntered off, he said at Geta, ‘If you stick with that harpy, better watch your back.’
Geta wondered whether this was a threat or a warning. He looked at Maddalena’s murderous scowl and decided it was both.