The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) - By Aidan Harte Page 0,85
all around. Actors, buffoons, tooth-pullers and quacks freely roamed the streets. The Collegio of old would never have allowed such scoundrels entry. But the Collegio of late was a fair reflection of the wider Guild: indecisive and divided.
Most scandalous of all were the processions of Fraticelli everywhere. No one could remember the first time they saw Fra Norcino; how long had he been around – months? Years? He had become a familiar sight, wandering the Depths like a lost child chased by the rattling stones of city boys, beaten by soldiers for warning strangers to repent before the imminent arrival of … something. He was just another desperate face in the crowd: tolerated, like the Mouth of Truth. No one could possibly take him seriously. Everyone laughed at the old maids who, after hearing Fra Norcino talk, became anxious for their souls and broke off the heels of their shoes and waddled home to smash their mirrors. But anyone who makes promises in senseless times finds an audience. Fra Norcino promised bereaved parents their children, and orphans parents. He promised remission and absolution, indulgence and youth, and it was madness to believe – so they forgot their sanity and followed him.
As he walked on hurriedly, Geta heard a droning noise, interrupted intermittently by savage wailing and ecstatic moans. It conjured up the drear masses his pious relatives had dragged him to as a child. But those illegal gatherings had been held in attics and basements, never out in the open. Geta had survived battles and duels and not much gave him pause, but this – the echoes of outlawed devotion – this made him shiver.
He peeked out into the square, and found himself involuntarily drawing back at the size of the crowd. As Fra Norcino’s oratory grew increasingly seditious, so his audience swelled from dozens to hundreds. Now their attention was entirely focused on the blind Fraticelli perched like an anchorite of old on the stone pillar, the Umbilicus Urbi, the official centre of the Concordian Empire, the point from where all measurements started.
‘Surely no man could have burned the Molè?’ The voice was unpleasant, reminding Geta of a soldier’s roar-strained squawking after battle. Could that appalling wreck of a man truly be the notorious Fra Norcino?
‘Only God!’ they screamed. ‘God! God!’
‘Aye, surely – for if God is master of this world, then surely it was God. The engineers gave ye an idol to worship, that impious tower, and in a single night He threw it down.’
‘O Woe, He is jealous!’
‘Consider the fate of the city of vice – consider Iram and Gomorrah and Jericho. Consider Jerusalem! For make no mistake, Concord is a new Jerusalem. As God visited destruction on the city of Solomon, so he visited it on the city of Bernoulli. Solomon built his temple by enslaving the wind, just as Bernoulli enslaved your spirits. The Babylonians broke Solomon’s temple because they had learned the awful truth: that all towers offend God. Solomon had his Jinn and Bernoulli had his engineers. Our temple mount is empty, my children, but you must complete God’s work. Tear down every tower! This time the Jinn are not buried beneath the mountain. They are within us!’
‘Cast it out!’ they chanted.
‘Only when vanity is exorcised, Children, will Concord be a city of God. Only then will He grant us victory!’ The timbre of his voice was harsh – his violent screaming had scraped the cords ragged – but the pain behind the hoarseness wrought the crowd’s enthusiasm into passion. ‘Our enemies’ blood will flow: the Rasenneisi, the Ariminumese, the Veians, all the dogs of the south, aye, even the cannibals of the Black Hand. Yea, there will be new rivers. Then we shall cross the Middle Sea to complete our work in Oltremare. We shall slaughter the schismatics and the apostates together, we shall make holy the land again and rebuild the true Temple—’
Geta had heard enough. He turned and hurried away. He had an appointment at the Dolore Ostello and he did not fancy being about when this sermon reached its climax.
The circling children carried flagellant whips and they used them on the crowd’s backs, turning the circle every faster, increasing the pressure at the grinding centre, who pushed and swayed around the pillar, groaning with animal passion, mirroring the wild undulations of the preacher’s voice. Those around the base climbed on top of one another to get closer, to touch Fra Norcino, though they achieved little except to injure one