Two elected duchies, with Duke Germano and Duchessa Arianna at their head, plus Antonio, the elected Governor of Padavia, had held out against all attempts to compromise their independence – from threats to marriage proposals, from diplomacy to assassinations. There was a natural free spirit among the people of these three cities that resisted any attempt to bring them into the di Chimici fold.
And they were linked by more than a spirit of independence. Classe and Bellezza were both on the sea and both maintained a fleet of ships to defend their coasts; Padavia was inland and did not need ships but relied heavily on the other two cities to protect its trade routes. Antonio was willing to pay some of his city’s dues to help with the upkeep of the two fleets.
‘What exactly do you think they’re up to?’ asked Fausto, taking Flavia’s silence for agreement.
‘I think the di Chimici might have forged an alliance with the Gate people,’ said Flavia slowly. ‘Rodolfo thinks so too. He hasn’t told the young Duchessa of his suspicions yet but I know he fears the worst.’
‘But wouldn’t it be madness to combine with Talia’s fiercest enemies?’ asked Fausto.
‘Some say the young Grand Duke is mad,’ said Flavia. ‘Whether it’s true, I don’t know. But if he has really done it, then those of us living on this coast are in terrible danger.’
‘It’s all very well for Fabrizio di Chimici, sitting safe inland in Giglia,’ said Fausto, agitated himself now. He had a vision of fierce sea-warriors from the east overrunning Classe and destroying its great buildings full of mosaics.
‘Those who lie down with dogs will rise with fleas,’ said Flavia bitterly. ‘He will pay a heavy price, but not before we do.’
‘So what can we do?’ asked Fausto. ‘Is there anything the Brotherhood can do to stop them?’
Fausto knew that his friend was a member of a powerful and clandestine society of people who had secret gifts. She did not talk about it much but he was aware that she had a special way of communicating with the Regent of Bellezza and others in Talia who were also members of that small band known as Stravaganti.
‘We can certainly try,’ said Flavia. ‘And, as you know, we have allies far beyond Talia who might be able to help us. It has been done before.’
Isabel was rushing from the Art room to her next lesson when she nearly tripped over the little red pouch. She picked it up, fascinated; it looked like a prop from a school play.
It was made of soft crimson velvet, held together at the top with a drawstring – just the kind of purse full of coins that someone called Roderigo would toss across the stage to someone called Valentino or something in a Shakespeare play.
Isabel hefted it in her palm. It definitely did have something inside and she couldn’t resist opening the string to see what it was. But it wasn’t coins at all; it held tiny silver squares that she recognised straight away as mosaic tiles. ‘Tesserae’ they were called, and Isabel had thought she was the only person in the school who was interested in them. Who could it possibly belong to?
The only student who came to mind was Sky Meadows, the gorgeous butterscotch-coloured boy who sat next to her in Art and was going out with a girl called Alice. Isabel heaved a huge sigh. Sky hadn’t taken any more notice of her than anyone else at Barnsbury, but she had often thought it would be nice if he did.
She dragged her mind back to the pouch of little tiles, her feet taking her in the direction of her next class without any conscious decision on her part. Sky was interested in Italian art but Renaissance sculpture was his thing; his Related Study on Donatello had been the only one with a higher mark than Isabel’s. There wasn’t time to take the pouch back to the Art room now – she would ask him about it at break. And if it wasn’t his . . . Isabel pushed the red velvet bag deep into her pocket. She supposed she’d have to show it to the Art teacher, but she found the pouch oddly appealing. It was nice just closing her hand over it in her pocket and feeling the little tesserae through the velvet. She didn’t really want to hand it over to anyone else.
Sky’s reaction to the pouch at break time was a definite improvement on past contact with him. He said it wasn’t his, but he was certainly taking notice of Isabel now.
‘You say you just found it lying near the Art room?’ he said, almost caressing the velvet, as if he knew something about it.
‘That’s right,’ said Isabel, feeling embarrassed now that those brown eyes were at last fully focused on her own. ‘It’s tesserae inside,’ she added. ‘I looked. You know – little pieces for making mosaics.’
‘You’re interested in mosaics, aren’t you?’ he said. So he had paid some attention to her before.
‘Yes. I love them,’ said Isabel, feeling stupid and uncool even as she said it. But Sky didn’t seem to mind; he just nodded.
‘I’m more into sculpture myself. Don’t know much about mosaics. But don’t you think this bag or purse or whatever it is looks sort of Italian? It’s got a kind of Renaissance feel to it.’
‘Well, it made me think of the sort of Italians you get in Shakespeare plays,’ said Isabel. ‘But yes, I suppose that’s Renaissance in a way.’
She didn’t want this conversation ever to end. Sky reluctantly handed the red bag back to her. And Isabel just as reluctantly took it to the Art teacher in her dinner hour. But Ms Hellings didn’t know anything about it either. She suggested taking it to Lost Property. Isabel didn’t say she would, she just nodded as if agreeing it was a good idea. But she had already decided to keep it.
‘An alliance with the Gate people?’ said Arianna. ‘Are you sure?’
Her father shifted restlessly in his chair. ‘I would not have told you if I had not been sure,’ he said. ‘This is the most serious news we’ve had about the di Chimici since they introduced their anti-magic laws.’
They were both silent for a while, remembering how close to death by burning many of the Manoush had come in Padavia only four months ago. Since then Governor Antonio had repealed the anti-magic laws that the di Chimici had persuaded him to adopt and had abandoned that method of execution completely, believing now that it was unacceptably cruel.
‘Then what is Fabrizio thinking of?’ asked Arianna.
‘He is desperate to win over more city-states to his dead father’s idea of a republic,’ said Rodolfo. ‘If the Gate people come in force to this coast, he thinks they could overrun at least Bellezza and Classe.’
‘And then?’
‘Then he thinks that the King of the Gate people will hand them over to the di Chimici.’
‘Just like that?’ said Arianna. ‘But what would be in it for the Gate people?’
‘I imagine Fabrizio has offered him a massive sum of money,’ said Rodolfo. ‘That’s the way these alliances usually work.’
‘But why now?’ asked Arianna.
‘The di Chimici have tried diplomacy, offers of marriage and assassination, all to no avail. Bellezza, Classe, Padavia and Montemurato stand firm in the north, Romula and Cittanuova in the south. Talia is evenly balanced between di Chimici rule and independence. The Grand Duke desperately needs at least one city-state to go over to him and shift that balance in his favour.’
‘So he will unleash the Gate people on the shores of his own country,’ said Arianna, but it was not a question. She could no longer doubt that war was coming to the lagoon city from the sea.
She wished that Luciano were there. He had gone back to Padavia to spend two more terms at the University and complete his education as a Bellezzan noble worthy to be her consort. But Arianna didn’t give a fig for all that. He was already worthy as far as she was concerned. She hadn’t been Duchessa of this great city for long; it was only two and a half years since she had been an ordinary island girl, whose highest ambition had been to scull one of the black mandolas that glided along that city’s canals.
And now she wanted his counsel as much as his company. Because he had come from another world, he often had a different viewpoint on Talian matters. Although three ye
ars earlier he had known nothing of politics and diplomacy, even Rodolfo respected his opinion.
But for now she had to decide what to do without him.
‘We must speak to the Duke of Classe,’ she said at last.
Rodolfo relaxed a little. He was relieved that his daughter was thinking in this way. At the beginning of her rule, she would have turned to him and asked what to do. That was why he had been appointed Regent. No one really expected a girl of sixteen, even one as gifted as Arianna, and with her lineage, to take on the full responsibility of running such an important city as Bellezza.
But he would not always be there to help her. He wanted her to be her own woman, not dependent on him or even on Luciano in future. The ruler of Bellezza must rule, just as her mother had done before her. And Rodolfo had helped Silvia too, he remembered. And as always when he thought of Silvia, his expression softened.
‘Shall we involve Silvia?’ Arianna asked, as if she had read his thoughts.
And as if equally telepathic, Silvia, Rodolfo’s wife and Arianna’s mother, was announced and entered Arianna’s private room. It had been hers until the assassination attempt which most Bellezzans believed to have succeeded. Only a few people knew that it was not Silvia who had died in the explosion in the Glass Room and that she still lived, under the guise of being the Regent’s second wife.
Now her gaze swept round the little parlour, resting briefly on the door to the secret passage that led to Rodolfo’s palazzo. She could have come that way herself but lately she had been seen as more of a public figure, accompanying her husband and the young Duchessa on more state occasions. Silvia wanted the people of Bellezza to get used to her presence.
‘You two seem very serious,’ she said.
Arianna took off the silk mask she had been wearing when the footman announced Signora Rossi. In her own family, she often abandoned the convention that all Bellezzan women over sixteen went masked until their marriage.
Silvia saw that her daughter’s face was indeed drawn with worry. She glanced quickly at her husband.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Not bad news from Padavia?’
‘No,’ said Rodolfo. ‘Luciano is well, as far as we know. The bad news comes from further afield.’
Isabel had often thought about going to Ravenna. It had played a big part in her mosaic research. Though she loved the Roman floors she had seen at Fishbourne and Verulamium, she longed to see the golden walls in the churches that she knew only from photographs. There was something about mosaic technique that spoke to her and she loved the way it could endure for thousands of years, unlike painting. Even sculpture was vulnerable, leaving statues missing noses, arms or anything else that stuck out.
Now she lay in her bed holding the mysterious little velvet bag with its silver tesserae and thought about seeing the real thing: the fishes, birds, flowers and gorgeous clothes of the wall mosaics of Ravenna. But just as she was dropping off to sleep a thought wandered across her fading consciousness. Nobody made silver tesserae; they would tarnish. To get the silver effect you had to use white gold. And then she was lost to sleep.
Isabel woke up soaking wet. At least she thought she had and then she realised she must still be asleep. She was standing up to her waist in not very warm water in some sort of, well, some sort of bath, she supposed. It was eight-sided and marble-clad. Isabel recognised where she was: it was in the Baptistery of the cathedral in Ravenna. She looked up and saw the dome above her head but there was something not quite right about it.
There were the twelve apostles, and Jesus being baptised by Saint John, just as she had often seen them in reproductions, with the tiled water rippling blue and white across the lower half of Christ’s body. But instead of having a gold background there and on all the walls surrounding the bath, it was all set against silver.
What an amazing thing the human mind is, thought Isabel, even as she believed herself to be asleep and dreaming. I was thinking of silver tesserae and here I am surrounded by them.
But then she began to feel uncomfortably wet and hitched herself up on to the flat side of the bath. Her loose pyjama bottoms clung unpleasantly to her legs. She had never had such a realistic dream and was wondering how to get out of it when she heard a sound. Up till that moment she had believed the Baptistery to be empty apart from herself but now the wooden door swung open, letting more light into the room than the round arched windows had and illuminating the dazzling silver images.
A woman came in and stopped when she saw Isabel sitting wetly on the side of the bath. Then she said the oddest thing.
‘Ah, so you’ve arrived. We’d better find you a towel.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Isabel, getting the strangest feeling that this wasn’t a dream after all.
‘I’m your Stravagante,’ said the woman. ‘And I’m glad to say that you are mine. We really need you here in Classe.’
Chapter 2
A Diplomatic Gift
Isabel squelched out into the sunlight, feeling soggy and bemused. She couldn’t remember ever getting wet in a dream before. The incomprehensible woman who had seemed to be expecting her walked her briskly to a house near the Baptistery and opened the front door. Isabel noticed that she didn’t use a key; wherever this was, they didn’t seem to worry about crime.
And it wasn’t as if there was nothing worth stealing. It was the most luxurious home Isabel had ever been in. And she saw straight away that there was an armed guard just behind the door, so perhaps the woman wasn’t casual about thieves after all. She hurried Isabel up the stairs to a bedroom where a wood fire was burning in the grate and ordered her to undress.
Then she bustled around with towels and clothes and made Isabel rub herself dry and change into a very old-fashioned dress. Her pyjamas were hung over a wooden rail in front of the fire and then the woman hurried her back down the stairs into a warm and elegant living room, summoning a servant on the way and ordering hot chocolate.
At no point did she consult Isabel about what she wanted; she just gave her instructions. But once they were sitting in front of the living-room fire and Isabel was sipping a ridiculously rich drink that was just like melted bitter chocolate with warm milk swirled in, the woman looked at her properly.
‘I’m Flavia,’ she said. ‘What is your name?’
Isabel told her but she was beginning to feel very uneasy.
‘Isabella,’ said Flavia, looking satisfied. ‘That is a good Talian name.’
Isabel put her cup down.
‘I’m sorry but I haven’t understood anything you’ve said to me since I got here. And where is here, anyway?’
‘Classe,’ said Flavia. ‘The City of Ships. Though some people call it the Painted City.’
‘But it’s mosaic, not paint,’ said Isabel, remembering the dome of the Baptistery.
‘You know about our mosaics?’ asked Flavia.
‘Well, no, not these ones. These are silver and the ones I learned about were gold.’
‘I’ve heard about that. They say that in your world it is silver that turns black, not gold, as it does here.’
‘What do you mean, “in my world”? What world is this?’ said Isabel. And felt foolish as she said it. Part of her wanted to shake herself out of this dream, and part was fascinated and wondering what Flavia would say or do next. She looked down at the green dress she was wearing and saw that it and the woman’s clothing were like something from a play. And that made her think of the bag of tesserae. Where was it? Hadn’t she been holding it when she went to sleep?
*
The Duke of Classe was a worried man. Germano Mariano was an elected duke and he had been ruler of his city for nearly forty years. In that time it had grown in prosperity, through its position on the coast and trading with other countries. And patrons of art came from all over Talia to see its mosaics and commission floors or walls for their own houses. Piracy had always been a problem, but that came with the territory if your city had a harbour where ships brought
their luxury cargoes.
The latest news was different. A messenger had come from Bellezza with an urgent request from its young Duchessa. She wanted to visit him and that was unusual in itself. Apart from state visits, rulers did not usually meet person to person; their business was conducted through ambassadors.
He had a good idea what it was about; his own scouts had been bringing worrying news of a build-up in the fleet of the Gate people for some time. Germano sighed; he was tired. He had thought about yielding up the duchy and calling an election. Most dukes were elected for life but there was always a possibility of retirement.
But he felt that would be dishonourable if his city was in some new danger. Germano’s children were grown-up and leading busy lives and showed no interest in politics and he had no idea who might stand for election as the next duke. Perhaps a younger person would be a good idea? He simply didn’t know, but the thought of retiring to a farm outside the city with his wife, Anna, was very appealing.
Germano straightened his surcoat. The Duchessa and her father, the Regent of Bellezza, would be arriving at any minute and he had ordered the finest quarters in his palazzo prepared for their visitors. His wife was still inspecting the rooms when he heard the sound of carriage wheels in the cobbled street. Interested, he stood at the window and saw descend first a tall, stooped figure in black and then a young, masked woman who could only be the Duchessa.
But what caught his breath was a large black-spotted cat that leapt down from the carriage after her and stretched its long front paws then yawned, showing its sharp white teeth.
*
A few roads away from the Ducal Palace, Flavia was trying to explain to Isabel that she was not actually dreaming but had stravagated to a parallel world.
‘Other Barnsbury students?’ said Isabel stupidly. ‘You’re kidding. Who?’
‘There is one called Georgia, another called Sky and a third called Matt,’ said Flavia, counting off on her fingers. ‘Oh, and Luciano, who used to be called Lucien and, in a way, the one you would know as Nicholas Duke.’