A Brightness Long Ago, page 32
And they would not accept a surrender then because the honourable brothers ruling Avegna would have to pay a very large sum to Folco for such a force, and there would be legitimate anger concerning that. And then the soldiers of that army would demand their customary privileges, the most important of which was three days’ looting in a taken city. Rosso would be a taken city.
Had any of the citizens of Rosso lived through a sack? Aldo would suggest that he didn’t recommend the experience—for them, for their wives, daughters, young sons.
Paying fairly assessed taxes was much the wiser option. Unless they had reasons to prefer crossing to the god in suffering. The Blessed Victims had done that, of course, but the victims of a city’s sack were not blessed. They were fools who died badly.
Aldo had said this many times outside many city gates.
It did not work that morning. His cousin came back and reported as much, sourly. The commune leaders had called down, courteously but firmly, that Avegna had doubled their taxes the year before. They had paid the original amounts on time, but could not sustain the increase. This resistance, as they described it, was not a rebellion of any kind, only a plea for fairness. There had been some desperation in the voice of the man who had spoken to him from above the gate, Aldo reported.
It was not Folco’s place to assess any of this. Had he been here on his own behalf, for Acorsi, he would have done so. The demanded increase might well be unfair, unmanageable. Doubling taxes tended to be.
But he was a hired soldier here, enforcing a demand by a stronger state on a weaker one. It was true that one of the Ricciardiano daughters was being married (quite well) into a powerful family in Rhodias, and her dowry would undoubtedly be costing them a great deal. Raising taxes on subject peoples tended to occur at such times. Still, not his concern.
Aldo looked angry. He wasn’t used to failure, it rankled. A good thing in a senior officer. He was also hot-tempered, not always as good. Folco shrugged, touched him on the shoulder, invited him to eat. They did, in sunshine and a brisk north wind.
“What now?” his cousin asked.
“I’ll take Gian and try something.” He had a slight headache, and the socket of his missing eye ached, which it sometimes did. On the windiest days he wore an eyepatch, but he didn’t like doing that.
“Be careful, then. I saw at least one arquebus, and crossbows on the walls.”
As expected. Those were part of his thinking, in fact.
“Of course,” was all he said. “How many men defending?”
“Real soldiers? I’d guess a hundred.”
One hundred good men could defend a walled city unless artillery was brought up and the besiegers had time. They had neither here.
He finished eating, wiped his face, went and pissed behind his tent. He came back and put on his breastplate, no helmet, no sword. He started walking towards the city, waving Gian to come. Bringing Aldo again would look weak, since his cousin had already failed. He had done this so often over the years, he thought.
There were two pikes struck into the earth some distance from the gates. His own innovation from early in his career. You had a man good at such things mark where a bowshot and an arquebus could reach. It made things safer for anyone sent to parley, even under a flag of truce.
He told Gian to stay by the farther pike and walked ahead himself.
“My lord!” Gian called. “They do have—”
He said, without looking back, “I know. I see them. They won’t hit me.”
“My lord, there will be trained—”
“Look at the banners,” he said.
It was sometimes wearying to be the only one to notice things. On the other hand, it was also why he was as successful, and as feared, as he had been for so long. It was inconsistent to lament it.
The banners above the gate, two of them, the boar crest of Rosso, were flapping briskly in a wind from the south. Down here was that breeze from the north.
He said to Gian, still not looking back, “It happens sometimes here, crossing winds, high and low, usually in autumn.”
“They might know it too, my lord.”
“No. They aren’t down here. And it is springtime. I’ll be all right.”
He walked past the two pikes, up the hill, a hand in the air to signal a desire to talk. He didn’t go right to the gates—that might mean a bullet or crossbow arrow wouldn’t need to try to account for the (false) wind. You didn’t want to make it too easy.
Just have it appear that way, if someone was foolish.
He called out, “I am Folco Cino d’Acorsi. Who speaks for Rosso?” They would be aware of who he was if they could see his eye, but he was still some distance off. It was important they know it was him.
A voice came from the walk above the gates. “I do, lord. I am Goro Calmetta, merchant of Rosso, leader of our commune. I believe you will have been told by your captain why we are doing this, and that we’ve paid Avegna the taxes assessed at the fair rate. We beseech you, in Jad’s holy name, and in simple decency, to withdraw from our city.”
An intelligent man, to affirm what they’d told Aldo, without repeating it in detail. Probably a good businessman.
“He did report this to me. You understand it is not my task to judge Avegna’s taxation of its subject cities.”
“Before Jad it is,” said Goro Calmetta. “But we will leave that. I have another thought.” He appeared to be an older man, but his voice was clear.
“I am listening,” said Folco. “But what my captain told you is truth: if you do not yield now and pay the taxes assessed, if Avegna needs to hire me to bring an investing army next year, there will be terror in Rosso. You will be destroyed.”
“But if Rosso offers itself to Acorsi, Lord Folco? What if we do that? Your reputation as an honest lord who defends his cities is known through Batiara.”
This, he had to admit, was unexpected. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been.
He heard Gian behind him make a sound. He didn’t look back. Much of this was about one’s manner, it was a performance.
It was also, appealing as the offer might be, impossible. He protected Acorsi and the towns subject to it with his mercenaries, and he could pay those men because of commissions such as this one (and, rather more, the current one from Firenta). A mercenary would be forgiven for changing sides a few times—they had all done that—but not for robbing the city-state that had hired him. If he claimed Rosso he’d be stealing it from Avegna.
Besides which, the Ricciardiano brothers were his friends, since they were young together. Not the best of friends, but there had never been any ill will, even when he’d declined to marry their sister in favour of Macera and Caterina.
Tempting, however. Almost absurdly tempting. Rosso was not on the sea (he still needed a port) but it had a straight road to the coast and a village harbour they used for smaller craft.
No, he thought. Cannot be done. Not unless a great deal changes.
And in that moment, on that thought, someone was foolish.
A bolt from a crossbow hit the earth three paces to his right—because someone did try to adjust for the wind from up on the wall. The wind that wasn’t blowing down here.
With some regret—because the image of controlling Rosso from Acorsi, the revenue, some access to the sea, the enhanced stature, lingered—Folco lifted a hand and pointed at the gate and let his voice carry menace now, which was a thing he could do.
“How dare you! You have sealed your fate with that treachery! What man does such a thing?”
“It was not ordered, lord! It was not!” Goro Calmetta’s tone was vivid with fear.
“And I should believe this? You are Jad-cursed violators of a truce!”
“We are not! It was one foolish person!”
Foolish was what he’d been hoping for. There did tend to be one or two such men in moments like this.
“Then give him to me.”
A silence. Then, “He is the son of one of our commune leaders. He is . . . he’s just a boy, lord!”
Desperation now. As if Calmetta knew what was coming.
And it was coming. Folco had done this, too, before. With variations, but pointing towards the same end.
“Boys can kill men, Signore Calmetta. You know it. They can also destroy their cities.”
“It was not ordered!”
“Ah. Not ordered. And if I had died, it would have eased my city and family to know that?”
“My lord, truly, I can truly . . .” Calmetta’s voice trailed off.
There was a stillness in the world in the morning light. He saw bees among the flowers.
He walked forward a few more paces. They needed to see him do that. He was coming for them.
“Here is what will now happen. The man who loosed that arrow will be thrown from the wall. Immediately. The gates will be opened and you will collect and send out, before the sun sets and we all withdraw to our prayers, the taxes owing to Avegna. All the taxes, Signore Calmetta. It will be counted, by us and by them, I assure you. Then I will go away from here and you will not be harmed. I undertake it, on my oath. Failing this, the commune of Rosso will be attacked next spring by an army far larger than this one, with weapons of assault, and we will not accept a surrender. We will destroy you, signore. With cannons or by siege. You will have heard of the pillaging that follows, perhaps some of you have survived a siege somewhere, somehow. The famine. You will end up eating parchment and books, you will boil the heads of drums to eat, after all the rats have been devoured. You will eat each other before the end. Do not invite it upon your city and your children.”
He’d always had a good, strong voice, and he knew how to use it, make it implacable, convincing.
As it happened, what he was saying was also true. If he did have to come back, it would be to sack this city, and three days of looting was the rule in their time. Not one he loved, but you lived with the codes of war as well as those of peace, and an army needed to be kept loyal.
He heard other voices above the gate. Urgency, anger, fear, which was as it ought to be.
“My lord Folco,” Calmetta called down, “one moment, I beg. If you please!”
“A moment is all,” he shouted back. “Then I turn and leave here, and you know I will return.”
He waited.
“Lord,” Gian said quietly behind him, “you should step farther back and—”
“No,” he said, still not turning. “Not now. Cross your arms, legs wide. Look angry.”
“I am angry, my lord,” Gian said.
Wind in the banners, the scent of wildflowers, white clouds moving, the rising sun. A sweet time of year in so many ways. Then Calmetta’s voice again: “My lord, we have decided it is . . . proper to pay the assessed taxes. We will send emissaries to Avegna to discuss the amount going forward.”
“Good,” he said. “Now the man who loosed an arrow. Throw him down. Do it. Your city depends on it.”
“My lord, can you not see a way to—”
“No,” he said. “I cannot.”
It mattered. He might wish it otherwise, but he lived in a dangerous world and had not survived so long without taking measures such as this. It was necessary to send a message about what happened if Folco d’Acorsi was attacked—or even resisted. A message not just for Rosso. It was for the world, their part of it. What happened here this morning would be known everywhere, soon enough.
“He is a boy, lord! Truly. And he—”
“Do you want me back? I gave you two conditions. One for Avegna, one for myself. Meet them both, Signore Calmetta, and call yourselves fortunate when you pray tonight.”
Raised voices again, fierce dispute. He could imagine. Nonetheless . . .
Nonetheless.
He took a brief, professional satisfaction but no pleasure when he saw a man thrown over the wall to plummet, screaming and spinning, into the ditch below. He might be alive, Folco thought.
“Gian?” he said. “Deal with him?” And added, “They will not harm you.”
“I know, lord,” said Gian.
He walked past Folco towards the city. He went down out of sight into the ditch. He came up a moment later. He cleaned then sheathed his sword, not hurrying. He walked back.
“How young?” Folco asked.
“Old enough,” Gian said.
* * *
• • •
THEY STARTED TOWARDS the tents and the camp. Folco was thinking of how they’d deal with the tax wagons when they came out. They would be coming now, of course they would. They’d killed one of their children already.
He didn’t really need to count the money, but he’d said they would. He’d report a sum to the Ricciardiano brothers, to ensure that what arrived was what set out, but he wouldn’t escort it. Rosso could get its wagons to Avegna without him, they had enough soldiers to guard them. He’d send a pair of messengers ahead to report success. This had gone more smoothly, he thought, than one might have expected. You could be grateful for fools sometimes.
Then, walking back to camp, he saw that two men had arrived and were waiting for him. You could see how tired they were. Their horses, behind them, were exhausted, heads low. They’d have ridden through the night, then. A bad sign. They came from home, he knew both men, they were part of Caterina’s guard.
And it was in this way, when he reached them, that Folco learned what had happened in Macera, the uprising and who had died there. One person, especially. And within his head—or it might have been his heart—her name began tolling, very much like a bell.
CHAPTER XIII
The supporting army of Firenta, led by Ariberti Boriforte and accompanied by the city’s administrative supervisor, who happened to be (unexpectedly, for everyone, including himself) Piero Sardi’s younger son, moved slowly south. Bischio was only a few days’ ride if one had good horses, but they were going to take longer.
This had everything to do with the ordnance this smaller force was bringing. The heaviest cannons required sixteen to twenty-four oxen each to pull, even on dry roads, and spring roads were seldom dry. Oxen pulling cannon were never to be associated with speed.
The cannons were, however, very much a part of taking cities. You could conduct a long siege, with its problems of feeding and supplying your army while starving the enemy inside the walls, or you could try to smash through those walls with your artillery and the colossal stone balls they were also bringing. These, too, needed wagons, oxen, men to supervise.
There was nothing compelling about this part of warfare. One lumbered along, the cavalry bored and impatient, the engineers and gunners worried and short-tempered. Even in a mild spring the mood of such a force was seldom cheerful—much less so if they knew, as this one did, that facing them at Bischio would be a defending army led by Teobaldo Monticola.
It remained unclear how Bischio had managed to pay the sum Monticola would surely be levying for his services. There were rumours, but there always were.
On a brisk, windy day that force led by Boriforte, twelve hundred strong, reached a place on the road south where a smaller road forked west a short distance towards the city of Dondi.
It was late in the afternoon of what had been a difficult day. The difficulty having to do, as usual, with the gun carts and the animals, on a road that was no better than most of the roads in Batiara.
A commander needed to be able to deal with this, and Boriforte congratulated himself that he was as capable as anyone . . . but he hated this work.
He wanted to be raiding with his best horse and his cavalry. Cutting down enemies, setting fire to farmhouses and barns, seizing goods and food—and women. The things you became a soldier to do! Always remembering that commanders had first pick of everything, which was only as it should be.
They hadn’t raided and burned anything yet. They’d been in lands offering allegiance to Firenta. Only now, near Dondi, had they reached countryside Bischio claimed. Most of the territory owing taxes to Bischio lay south and west of it, not this way, towards Firenta.
In other words, there had been no pleasures or rewards at all thus far, and when they met Folco and the main part of the army, Boriforte’s ability to make decisions, claim things for himself, would—well, it would be gone, vanished. It wouldn’t exist.
It could make a man of spirit angry and looking for trouble towards evening on a spring day.
* * *
That same afternoon, inside Dondi (which had guards on the wall-walk now, at all hours), Jelena finished a day’s work in her treatment room. She put on a cloak and went for a walk in the sunshine and breeze. She was one of those who felt reduced, constrained if she had not been outdoors at some point in a day, and springtime made her restless.
Dondi wasn’t large. Inside the walls you couldn’t wander far, and with the threat of war you weren’t supposed to leave the city at all. People did go out, of course. Jelena was one of those. No Firentine force had yet been reported.
On the western side of the city was their smaller gate; farmers from that side came in with market goods in the mornings. The city’s secondary market was on that side. Dondi opened that gate briefly, closed it until the market closed, then let the vendors go back out. Men on the wall kept watch. The hope was that the Firentines would just pass them by. There was no extreme confidence that this would happen.
Jelena joined the last of the farmers with their carts and went out with them, walking towards the setting sun. She knew a way to get back in after the gate was closed. One of her patients (a man with a rash she’d eased) had told her about it. There were almost always ways in and out of towns and cities.
It was liberating, it was wonderful, to get outside, even amid fears. She’d never lived in a walled place before. It mattered to her to be able to leave and come back by her own choice. The fear was real, however.
