to summon. This tolling was to say farewell.
The soldiers massing at the Porta Romana heard that first note. Somehow it broke through the cries of the sergeants and officers trying to dress their lines, silencing even these men for a moment. Then the other towers of Siena struck up and the whole world seemed to vibrate; the nearest one to them, at the Basilica dei Servi, was a riotous medley of high and deep. With the world thus filled again with noise, the marshalling could continue, halberds used to straighten the ranks, batons to push and cajole. Banners unfurled over each company, French, Sienese and mercenary. They would march out with full honours. Arms had not defeated them, only the cruellest, most effective of old enemies – hunger and disease.
Behind the ordered ranks of soldiery, in the pell-mell of prepared flight, that first metal cry from the Tower made every one of the Sienese patriots turn and face back into the city. Many had eyes closed, some fruitlessly trying to stem tears, others as if they could trap time, hold it in the bell’s note, stay for ever like this, enfolded in their city’s voice. But the rest of the city’s chimes, the discordancy of three hundred bells, brought them back to their present need, to the urgency of imminent exile. Those who were leaving, those to be left behind, wept, begged, prayed. Many just fought to maintain their position, their grip on their meagre possessions.
Haakon too had turned back when the bell struck, to desperately scan the surge for a shaggy blond head. Erik had gone in search of the Fuggers, father and daughter, and had not returned. Jean was looking relentlessly forward, focused on the gates ahead. When they opened, he was determined to keep his little party pressed as close as possible to the armoured French ranks, for there would be people beyond them who might not respect the truce. Sienese exiles, enemies of the republic, hated many of those who were about to leave and would seek revenge. In the end, all wars were civil wars. He had seen the aftermath of enough sieges to know that.
He looked across the little cart, across the sleeping form of Beck, to Anne. He tried to give her a smile, but it would not form, just as no moisture would relieve his mouth. She smiled at him though, then returned her attention to her mother. Whatever cordial she’d given Beck was working; she lay inert, untroubled by the tolling of bells.
‘She’ll need more water. There is a fountain in that side street.’
Anne was darting through the crowd before Jean could stop her. He had taken a step forward when a huge hand gripped his arm.
‘Jean! There he is!’
Jean looked back. He did not have the Norseman’s height, but even he could see Erik’s distinctive head ploughing through the mêlée.
‘Are they with him?’
‘I only see Erik. And my son looks concerned.’
Erik’s story was spurted out in a moment. ‘We have searched everywhere. I think the whole of the Scorpion Contrada is in the streets looking for her. The Fugger leads them. I must join him.’
The boy turned back. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I found it, Father.’ Reaching into his scimitars’ sling, he produced a third weapon from it. It lay in its fraying scabbard, a square-tipped edge poking through at one end, the green leather of the grip peeling off, rust around the apple-sized pommel.
‘You nearly left it, Jean.’ Haakon beamed, offering the sword across. ‘How can you be an executioner without a sword?’
Jean looked down, looked quickly away, back to the gate.
‘Oh.’ His voice was flat. ‘Throw it in the cart.’
‘I go.’ Erik was wheeling away.
‘And I will go with you.’ Haakon started forward.
‘Haakon!’ Jean’s voice was sharp, commanding, and it halted the Norwegian. ‘The gates will open any moment. I cannot push the cart by myself, I wouldn’t make it halfway to Montalcino. And we cannot stay. De Monluc is right; our lives are in danger.’
He had managed
The soldiers massing at the Porta Romana heard that first note. Somehow it broke through the cries of the sergeants and officers trying to dress their lines, silencing even these men for a moment. Then the other towers of Siena struck up and the whole world seemed to vibrate; the nearest one to them, at the Basilica dei Servi, was a riotous medley of high and deep. With the world thus filled again with noise, the marshalling could continue, halberds used to straighten the ranks, batons to push and cajole. Banners unfurled over each company, French, Sienese and mercenary. They would march out with full honours. Arms had not defeated them, only the cruellest, most effective of old enemies – hunger and disease.
Behind the ordered ranks of soldiery, in the pell-mell of prepared flight, that first metal cry from the Tower made every one of the Sienese patriots turn and face back into the city. Many had eyes closed, some fruitlessly trying to stem tears, others as if they could trap time, hold it in the bell’s note, stay for ever like this, enfolded in their city’s voice. But the rest of the city’s chimes, the discordancy of three hundred bells, brought them back to their present need, to the urgency of imminent exile. Those who were leaving, those to be left behind, wept, begged, prayed. Many just fought to maintain their position, their grip on their meagre possessions.
Haakon too had turned back when the bell struck, to desperately scan the surge for a shaggy blond head. Erik had gone in search of the Fuggers, father and daughter, and had not returned. Jean was looking relentlessly forward, focused on the gates ahead. When they opened, he was determined to keep his little party pressed as close as possible to the armoured French ranks, for there would be people beyond them who might not respect the truce. Sienese exiles, enemies of the republic, hated many of those who were about to leave and would seek revenge. In the end, all wars were civil wars. He had seen the aftermath of enough sieges to know that.
He looked across the little cart, across the sleeping form of Beck, to Anne. He tried to give her a smile, but it would not form, just as no moisture would relieve his mouth. She smiled at him though, then returned her attention to her mother. Whatever cordial she’d given Beck was working; she lay inert, untroubled by the tolling of bells.
‘She’ll need more water. There is a fountain in that side street.’
Anne was darting through the crowd before Jean could stop her. He had taken a step forward when a huge hand gripped his arm.
‘Jean! There he is!’
Jean looked back. He did not have the Norseman’s height, but even he could see Erik’s distinctive head ploughing through the mêlée.
‘Are they with him?’
‘I only see Erik. And my son looks concerned.’
Erik’s story was spurted out in a moment. ‘We have searched everywhere. I think the whole of the Scorpion Contrada is in the streets looking for her. The Fugger leads them. I must join him.’
The boy turned back. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I found it, Father.’ Reaching into his scimitars’ sling, he produced a third weapon from it. It lay in its fraying scabbard, a square-tipped edge poking through at one end, the green leather of the grip peeling off, rust around the apple-sized pommel.
‘You nearly left it, Jean.’ Haakon beamed, offering the sword across. ‘How can you be an executioner without a sword?’
Jean looked down, looked quickly away, back to the gate.
‘Oh.’ His voice was flat. ‘Throw it in the cart.’
‘I go.’ Erik was wheeling away.
‘And I will go with you.’ Haakon started forward.
‘Haakon!’ Jean’s voice was sharp, commanding, and it halted the Norwegian. ‘The gates will open any moment. I cannot push the cart by myself, I wouldn’t make it halfway to Montalcino. And we cannot stay. De Monluc is right; our lives are in danger.’
He had managed
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