“decorate” the Molè, like lice infesting some noble beast’s skin. Those who carved them gladly tumbled them during the Re-Formation – heady times. This cemetery of saints are the ones who got away.’
Flaccus breathed out and suddenly struck the sculpture’s torso with a flat palm. The impact echoed around the vaulted roof and when it dissipated, there was a growing sound of fracture. The sculpture cracked into thirds and the head, torso and fist-gripping-dagger smashed as they hit the floor separately.
‘A rock’s destiny is the same as ours: to be dust. I merely helped it achieve that potential.’
The impression the demonstration had made on the Candidates swiftly dispelled; the Grand Selector was too obviously pleased with himself.
‘How?’ said Agrippina.
‘It’s hard to explain.’ He pursed his lips. ‘See, Time has a direction: after night comes morning. The Etruscans, clever buggers they were, created a martial art that harnessed that flow. It’s what made them so strong.’
‘Yet their empire fell,’ said Torbidda, looking at the broken statue.
There was a flicker of displeasure before Flaccus composed himself and returned to his Sage-like pose. ‘Well, night follows morning, doesn’t it? When the darkness fell, the Curia managed to hold onto a mangled version of Water Style, but it was as degraded as their Hebrew. Eventually it too was forgotten. Then, from the ashes, two powers rose up. Our war with the Rasenneisi ebbed and flowed for a generation, until he was born.’
‘Bernoulli,’ said one of the Candidates reverently.
Agrippina rolled her eyes.
‘Bernoulli,’ repeated Flaccus in a stage-whisper. ‘He rescued Concord from darkness and Water Style from the mystics.’
‘How?’ Agrippina asked again.
Flaccus cleared his throat. ‘By returning to first principles, I suppose. He interrogated the element itself until it confessed its secrets.’
Torbidda looked around uneasily, but none of them had been in Varro’s class the day of the incident. Flaccus led them deeper into the chamber and stopped in a space surrounded by five water-worn columns. In the centre was a puddle fed by a steady barrage of drips from the ceiling and leaks pouring down the columns. He turned before their footsteps had finished echoing.
‘Anyone know where we are now?’
Torbidda said, ‘Under the main canal?’
‘That’s right,’ Flaccus said, again slightly annoyed. ‘You can’t hear it, but it’s there, like a great wind.’ He pointed to the roof. ‘When you’ve learned more you’ll feel it in your bones. Now, do as I do. Do not disturb the water.’
He entered the circle and where he stepped, ripples did not spread out. ‘If you fight against it, your energy dissipates in thousand directions. Go with it—’
He slammed his foot down suddenly and the puddle exploded into a thousand floating drops. A Candidate with a toe in the puddle went flying back into a pillar; the rest were buffeted by a momentary gale-force wind. Just as suddenly, the drops rained down around Flaccus.
Do as I do.
A simple, effective method. The only drawback to the repetitious exercises that ate through the morning was that the Candidates never got to explore alternatives, or make mistakes. Flaccus corrected faults so intolerantly that it became difficult to do the most elementary things. But despite their teacher’s limitations, these children knew how to learn. By the first day’s end, the canal’s water was barely audible; within a week, it roared.
Each day they practised, each session extending as their stamina improved. The enervated Candidates at the high table in the refectory were a diverting spectacle for first- and second-years. The regular absence of two of the Candidates was remarked upon.
They worked until Agrippina gave in to exhaustion, then Torbidda continued alone. He had most to learn, so he practised longest, rising early, working till late. Agrippina confessed that she could hardly relate to old friends any more, and Torbidda sympathised. He saw Leto rarely, and when they met it was as if years had passed in the interval. Leto was excelling in Military Applications, but Torbidda could muster little enthusiasm for his tales of siege and stratagem.
The more he practised, the louder the current became. It drowned out the din of ordinary life. A shadow had slipped between his eyes and the world; it made everything that had once seemed important fade to grey. Torbidda knew that Candidacy entailed sacrifice, and he had resigned himself to seeing his other studies suffer, but instead he excelled as never before. Impossible problems were effortlessly solved, new connections made, the paradoxes of Bernoullian Wave Theory no longer benumbed him. He understood with new depth. How was unclear, and