The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) - By Aidan Harte Page 0,87

softly. ‘Remember: it’s a disgrace to die without blood on your sword.’

There were muffled sounds overhead: the footsteps stopped, words were exchanged; they heard a curse, glasses broken and crunched underfoot, a struggle – and then finally, a stampede of footsteps down the corridor to the stairs: drums rolling them into war.

Geta smashed a dozen bottles on the bottom steps. His fellow gamblers assembled behind him. The drunks had found a sudden dignity, while the sober were shaking and discovering their hitherto unknown devotion to the Madonna, just as Madame Filangeiri had. Geta pushed the most useless to either side of the door and handed them cleavers. ‘Wait till the first ones pass, then start hacking. Don’t be particular: this won’t be fencing, it’ll be butchery.’

He handed round a bottle of claret and made a speech that despite its brevity covered essentials: ‘Stop praying and pissing yourselves. We came to gamble, didn’t we? I’ve faced the hordes of Byzant and lived and by God, I’m not about to run from a rabble of ten-years-olds! Ready? Here they come. If you want to live, get chopping!’

The broken glass incapacitated the bare-foot mob’s front line, but those behind pushed forward without sympathy and the first bodies provided a damp carpet for the rest as they rushed at Geta and his crew of butchers.

No one counted the dead. Fra Norcino was not interested in reassembling the parts; he waded into the still-warm ashes of the Dolore Ostello and made relics instead. After such a reverse a more prudent – or more cynical – leader would have leavened his preaching with caution, been more vague in his condemnations, less precise in his threats – but Fra Norcino was not a cautious man. ‘O Children, the Virgin said unto Herod, What you have done to the least of these, so God shall do unto thee. She was the agent of God’s wrath. Will you be that sword?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ cried the crowds as they fought over burnt hands and charred feet.

‘Pity not your brothers and sisters; envy them. They are not fallen; they are risen! By their fiery deaths these martyrs have escaped hell. Consider their reward: consider the fire awaiting their murderers: the nobles and the engineers, the perverted and the blasphemous, idolaters of mammon, idolaters of reason. O Children—’

Geta’s once-soiled reputation shone anew after the Battle of the Brothel. Disaffected nobles flocked to his banner, though he knew these soft hands would make worthless soldiers. Decommissioned officers in the capital were rare – the legions were hard-pressed on the frontier – so instead he trawled the Depths for veterans: scarred old soldiers with elaborate beards that looked buffoonish to modern taste; gnarled elders who nursed their amputations and bottles and muttered endlessly of betrayal, of backstabbers. Cast aside after years of service, not good enough even to die for their country? They spat their grievances at Geta as if he were responsible, and he nodded and bought another round. Like Fra Norcino, he made promises: medals and women and revenge, and instead of derision in the eyes of the city, fear! It was enough to make even impotent old men stand tall.

The streets no longer welcomed the bare-footed fanciulli. Rocks were no match for quick blades in the night. Different doors were knocked upon now, and those who answered surrendered not their vanities for inspection, but their children. Those recognised as Norcino’s followers were led away into the night. The morning found boys hanging from bridges, girls floating in canals.

From his perch in the New City, Consul Corvis watched the bloody progress of Geta’s bravos through the Depths. He watched the bonfires relit by Fra Norcino’s ragged followers and he realised that in this war of all against all, the initiative had passed from the Collegio. If they were to survive, he must make peace with old rivals.

CHAPTER 43

The Gospel According to St Barabbas

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Now this Pilate pursued the Sicarii to the threshold of the Empty Quarter. The Etruscans boasted that their sword overreached the world, but that emptiness gave him pause. In the desert neither king nor emperor has dominion, but only the Wind. And Pilate hid away his cowardice saying unto his men, Come and let us leave, for surely the Ishmaelites will kill these interlopers.

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This did not come to pass. The Ishmaelites were nomads, distrustful of strangers and loyal to each other, but they respected skill and courage. They recognised the skill of the Sicarii and the courage of their leader and