Free Irenicon by Aidan Harte

around the Speakers’ Chamber.
    On his right, the heads of southern Families encircled this year’s gonfaloniere, speaking in whispers. The notary wondered if Quintus Morello appreciated the irony of being gonfaloniere of a town that no longer possessed a banner. Doubtful, he decided, and, sighing more profoundly, he turned to his left, where Bardini’s unruly and noisy allies lounged. A reluctant parliamentarian, the Doctor sat toward the back and spoke only when called upon, and even then under protest.
    The notary’s family members were not artisans or fighters: they were literate. That skill was little valued today, but there had been a golden age when Rasenna’s swift heralds had daily ridden forth carrying Count Scaligeri’s words—strong words elegantly inscribed—to all Etruria. Then his family members had carried their humpbacks as proudly as other families carried banners. That age was gone.
    The Doctor was early. Today was certainly unusual. The assembly watched as he led the Concordian engineer to the center. While the seated areas were covered, the Speakers’ circle was open to the elements, the shattered dome creating an accidental but perfect spotlight for orators. The notary was disappointed at the hush caused by the foreigner’s arrival. He particularly enjoyed banging his gavel.
    The Doctor effortlessly took the Speakers’ mace from the notary and set his sights on Quintus Morello, as if preparing to hurl the dense metal orb. He gave the gonfaloniere a nod before handing it to Giovanni.
    Sofia and Gaetano ignored their Concordian charges while they caught up. They hadn’t spoken for months, since the escalation, and both were relieved that it was still possible.
    “Does every Concordian have a genealogy instead of a surname?” Sofia said.
    “All except engineers, I suppose. Speaking of which—?”
    “He’s all right. Got salt for a Concordian.”
    “I wasn’t asking what he’s like. Why’s he here?”
    “As if you don’t know.”
    “I don’t,” Gaetano protested.
    She wanted to believe him. It would be a relief if her old friend was kept from intrigue or, still better, avoided it.
    “He’s going to build a bridge, Tano.”
    Gaetano whistled. “Madonna!”
    Sofia nodded.
    They were silent, thinking what it meant for Rasenna, for them; they had always avoided each other on the streets—with a real bridge, that wouldn’t be possible.
    “Remember when I used to come over here?”
    Gaetano smiled. “Sure—you used to beat me up.”
    “Just to make you chase me.”
    They laughed together, reminiscing about crossing the rooftops, not hunting, just running for the fun of it, innocent of the arguments below. When Gaetano’s uncle died, all that stopped and Gaetano became workshop maestro. Sofia knew from her closeness to the Doctor what power does: it stunts; to be constant is to be static. Gaetano remained that boy on the roof, catching his breath, while she ran farther every year.
    “We have to grow up sometime,” Sofia said with a smile she did not feel.
    The Concordian boys were engaged in a dance of their own. Deciding who had higher status was complicated, and Valerius took the steps more seriously than his rival did. He circled warily, probing Marcus’s defense with small talk about cousins and titles.
    “I’ve heard of everyone, but I’ve never heard of you. You can’t be anyone important.”
    Marcus laughed. “That’s reasonable, I suppose. Well, what matter? We’re all nobodies now.”
    “Speak for yourself. My father’s general of the Twelfth Legion.”
    “Really? That is impressive!”
    “We Luparelli have adapted to the times.”
    “He studied in Rasenna too? That’s why I was sent here too, to get a good posting.”
    Valerius drew himself up. “May the best men win.”
    “No need to be like that. There are twelve legions.”
    “Child, everything is a competition.”
    Having enjoyed a genteel upbringing, Marcus had no idea how to deal with this