XXXVIII

The City Councillors had never felt more like impotent old men. Well, there was that one time of the mid-summer’s feast when the dancing girls had been arranged, but they had collectively vowed never to talk of that again. Apart from that evening, they had never felt more like impotent old men.

There had been a time when their word was not just law, but it was a law that was trusted and followed by the citizens of the Walled City. But that had not been for some time. The only power and authority they now held was at the Medici and Lorraines’ bequest. They had less troops in the City Guard than the two families had. They had less money in their coffers than the two families had. And they held less sway over the citizens of the city than the two families had.

It would have been good to point the blame at some city statute or some individual, and say, “That is what caused this. But we can turn it around.” But in truth they were all guilty of trading away their powers. For small favours. For gems. For spice wine. For a private dinner with the Duke or the Medici. For a pageant or a portrait or a fresco. All small vanities really.

The current Head Councillor, an elderly man called Signor Pacciani, who had particularly embarrassed himself on the night of the dancing girls, waved the slip of paper in his hand at his fellow councillors as if it were a large sword, and said, to bring them to order, “The City Guard reports the number of plague people at the gates has increased again. We must make a decision as to what is to be done.”

The men around the table looked at him, waiting for him to make a suggestion. It was his turn in the chair, after all, so all responsibility for failure should be his. The City Council rotated leadership every two months, which was ideal in better times because it allowed no one to scheme too much or demonstrate too much corruption, and it also meant that almost no decision was in the hands of a single leader as the implementation of any decision generally took more than two months. But since the plague people had arrived it seemed a good excuse for the Head Councillors never to have to make a hard decision – just wait out their turn and pass the problems to the next Head Councillor.

“What do you propose?” the man to his left, Signor Narducci, asked. When he was Head Councillor, Narducci had overseen a failed scheme to bribe the plague people to leave the city walls.

“Well perhaps we should turn the City Guard on them,” the Head Councillor said.

The men around the table made as if they were considering this, but it had already been discussed at previous meetings and they knew the idea would not work, for if the plague people resisted and they lost guardsmen they would be even more powerless to the two families than they were now. “If only we could have the two families fighting the plague people instead of amongst themselves,” a man to his right, Signor Fabbri, said.

Everyone around the table looked across at him and frowned. It was not his turn in the Head Councillor’s chair for another two months and he had no right to be making such suggestions before his turn. “Yes,” said the Head Councillor. “That would be a wonderful thing to see indeed, as would seeing the city rise up into the sky and float away to another place where there were no plague people.”

“But this city is the only place in the known world where there are no plague people,” said Narducci.

“The problem is not one of taking the city to a new place, it is one of sending the plague people to a new place,” said another man, Signor Spezi, further around the table. “Perhaps we can put them on ships and take them over the seas?” The Council frowned at him too. He would not be Head Councillor for at least six more months. “We could leave them in the ports where we trade for the spices,” he said.

“Except that we have no ships sailing due to the war between the families,” said the Head Councillor. He looked across the Council Secretary to make sure that his comment was being recorded. He smiled and turned back to the Council. “It seems to me that any solution is going to be based around finding a way to stop this escalating war between the families.”

“What do you propose?” the man to his left, Narducci, asked once more. The Head Councillor stammered a little and said, “Well. Obviously we just need to convince them to make peace.” He watched the other members of Council snigger into their beards and turned to the Council Secretary and made a small hand signal to indicate that his response should not be recorded. “What I mean is that we need to invite the members of the families to a Council meeting where we can discuss in confidence issues of the war, and what to do about the increase in plague people and decrease in the effectiveness of the spice.”

“Do you suggest we hand over all our remaining power to them?” Narducci asked. The Head Councillor made the small hand signal to the secretary again and said, “Of course not. I am suggesting that we let them know of their responsibilities to the city. We let them know that we alone cannot solve the pressing problems before us. We let them know that we need their cooperation to make the city and its citizens safe.”

The Council considered this for a time and nodded into their beards at the possibility of the idea, until Narducci again asked, “How do you propose to convince them it is in their interests to attend such a meeting?”

“A war is not good for trade,” the Head Councillor said, glaring at the man. “Any fool can see that.”

“But winning such a war would be outstandingly good for trade,” Narducci replied. “And which of the two families would not gamble on a chance to gain a monopoly – especially if they believe they can win it? Surely any fool can see that!”

The City Council leader frowned and resolved to save up some really difficult challenges to throw to Signor Narducci when it was his turn in the Head Councillor’s chair. Pacciani wanted to cry at the man, “Then what should we do?” but it was his turn to be the one to propose what to do. He folded his arms and looked down the table, hoping some divine inspiration would occur. Instead a man at his side tugged at his sleeve. He looked at him, peeved, and saw he held out a document to him. He sighed. It would be another note from the City Guard informing him that the numbers of plague people had doubled overnight. Or it would a message from the apothecaries that the spice wine had lost its effectiveness entirely and plague had broken out in the city. Or it would be a message about an uprising of those in the catacombs, which was another topic that the Council had made a collective vow never to mention.

He opened the document and read it. Then again. Then he stood and held it over his head. Not like a sword. Like a battle axe. An axe wielded by a Head Councillor who was finally able to stop the war between the families and able to restore stability to the city and power to the Council. “I have a proposal,” he said aloud. “One I think you will all find to our benefit.”