by David Blixt
"How dare you!" cried Cangrande, leaping forward into the crowd. His torn doublet was gone, his shirt in tatters and his body streaked with blood. "You dare attack him? That man just risked his life while the rest of you stood by watching! Want to show how brave you are? Find the one who started this! The tall thin man in the patched cloak! I promise riches to the man that finds him, and death for the next stone thrown!"
As he spoke men in Scaligeri livery hustled the Moor away down a side street. The crowd departed quickly, though if to hunt the fugitive or to escape the Scaliger's wrath Pietro couldn't tell.
Pietro's head was still ringing from the leopard's blow, and he forced himself to sit down again on the Giurisconsulti steps. He stayed there for hours, if the pulsing in his head was any measure. He was roused by the Constable gently shaking his shoulder. "You need to go in, boy. The doctors will want a look at you."
Pietro accepted the man's help to stand. "Thanks."
"You're a damn fool, boy," said Villafranca, shaking his head. "Then again, never seen a brave man that wasn't."
Pietro cuffed at his face and noticed it wasn't sweat that came away but blood. "Where did he go?"
"Don't worry, we'll find the bastard."
"No, the other one — the Moor."
"Oh, him! Fearsome devil, isn't he? I swear, he may be a heathen, but I've rarely seen a feat like that. I'd forgotten — well, we hadn't seen him in years."
"Who is he?" persisted Pietro.
"I suppose you couldn't know, could you? They call him the Arūs, whatever that is. He's the property of Lady Katerina's personal astrologer. Damn sorcerous bastard. For all he's brave, I half wish they'd put an end to him just now. Him and his master both."
Katerina's man? Pietro glanced at the Constable. "How did you get here?"
"The same way you did. You managed it better than I did." Villafranca nodded towards his left ankle, visibly swelling. "Broken, I think. Shall we go in to see the good doctor together? Mind you, first thing Fracastoro will do is squeeze the piss out of you. Then he'll smell it, taste it. If he's really upset he'll set it out for the flies, and if they like it, well, that's when you're in real trouble."
Pietro squinted at the square. "Cangrande?"
"Searching for the kidnapper with all my men. My orders are to look after you. Don't worry. I fancy he'll find us when he's through. Let's get you to the doctor." Pietro started to protest. "Young man, neither of us is in any condition to give chase to a snail, let alone that creature. Come inside like a sane man and get drunk."
In the confused aftermath of the foiled kidnapping, Mariotto Montecchio left the Scaliger palace only to return twenty minutes later, armed with a book. Making his way through the buzzing crowds in the Piazza della Signoria, he slipped into the church of Santa Maria Antica through the small western door. Had his thoughts not been elsewhere, it might have occurred to him to wonder at the state of his soul for bringing a book called L'Inferno onto holy ground.
Closing the door on the excited revelers in the square, he looked around. It was dark in the intimate church, and he couldn't see anyone. He shook the snow off his cloak and crept forward, his boots leaving damp patches in his wake. Ahead there was a dim light where a single candle flickered. His hands on the book were shaking. He rounded the pillars, then stopped.
"Gianozza?"
The girl was kneeling, and she crossed herself before turning to him. "I thought if I was found, it better be in prayer. Then I'd just say I'd come for confession."
"What could you have to confess?"
Blushing, the girl came to take his hand. "I came here to meet you. That could be a sin."
"I'm glad you did." His face inches from hers, his breath felt very warm.
"I'm glad, too," she whispered, looking up past his eyes at the snow clinging to his handsome black hair. "You poor man. You must be frozen stiff."
"I don't think I'll ever be cold again."
"That's pretty of you to say."
He felt her breath on his cheek and closed his eyes. "So, this is courtly love."
"What?"
"Loving an unobtainable woman."
"Am I unobtainable? I thought I was brazen." For an instant her cheek was against his face. He felt the flicker of her eyelash against his skin. Then with breathtaking speed she stepped back and pulled him by the hand towards the confessional.
"What are you-?"
"I want you to read to me, Cavaliere. If I'm going to listen, I can't be looking at you. I'll never hear a word you say." She nodded him through the door reserved for the priest.
Mariotto's heart was so full he didn't even protest as she closed it behind him. She had already lit a candle and placed it in the cell. Another door slid shut, and the girl was in the penitent's chamber. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
Mariotto bit back his first three demands for repentance. "Say three Hail Marys and come kiss me."
"Oh, Father! If you can't come up with anything better than that, you'd best start reading."
Dutifully Mariotto unlocked the book and opened the binding. The frontispiece was signed by Pietro's father, inscribed to him. Turning the page, he began to recite. "Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita…."
The Constable's prediction was correct. The Scaliger returned to the palace after an hour. By now the salon-cum-infirmary was nearly empty. When Cangrande erupted into the room he found only Antony, Pietro, and Villafranca, each lying on backless couches pushed close together to ease the sharing of a bottle. The bloodied cushions under them declared the couches would never again be fit for guests. Doctors Fracastoro and Morsicato had tended their wounds and were waiting to see if more came in. Off in a corner lay Marsilio da Carrara, drunkenly spread-eagled on a daybed.
"I hope there's some wine left." Cangrande was still shirtless, but the blood had been washed off by the snow that had melted as it touched him.
The men lying prone shifted to face him, and the two doctors took him by the arms and sat him down. The Scaliger looked at Antony and Villafranca. "A matched set. With those splints, you two should be bookends."
"I'd do a better job at that than I did as constable tonight," groused Villafranca.
"Stop fretting, I'm not going to sack you."
Pietro sat up. "Did you catch him?"
Cangrande was thoroughly disgusted. "Disappeared! Completely gone. Vanished. I'm beginning to think he's a ghost."
Pietro voiced the speculations they had been sharing. "He might have had an accomplice, or a rented room."
"There's a door-to-door search going on in the entire Roman quarter. But why do I have the feeling it's not going to turn this man up? He's a magician!"
"Necromancy isn't the only explanation," observed Morsicato, poking at a slash in the Scaliger's shoulder. Fracastoro slapped Morsicato's hand — Cangrande was his patient. The Vicentine doctor withdrew, giving his fellow practitioner the fig as he did.
Villafranca said, "Many people do dislike you, lord."
"Hmph! Don't see why." At his doctor's urging, the Scaliger lay down on a free couch. As Fracastoro began to prod at him in earnest, medical tools ready at hand, the Capitano closed his eyes but didn't wince. Only when the doctor paused did he repeat his demand. "Damn you, Aventino! Aren't you going to offer me any of that foul stuff?"
"Of course, lord. I just wanted you to ask for it." Fracastoro lifted a wineskin and handed it across.
"How now, how now!" protested Antony. "That's not what you offered us!"
"You don't pay my keep," smiled the Scaliger's personal physician.
Pietro asked, "How is Cesco?"
Cangrande took a deep draught from the skin before answering. "Sleeping, I hope. He didn't seem badly hurt. A few bruises from where the bastard gripped him. Nothing more."
"And where is your shadow?" asked Villafranca of Cangrande.
"The Moor is guarding Katerina's house. He'll be there all night."
Villafranca looked angry. "I can have men placed ther
e — men who won't let them get within a mile of the boy."
"Do what you like. It will make no difference to him."
"Feh," grunted Morsicato dismissively. "The Moor. He once told me that I would travel to far-off places and make a name for myself abroad."
Cangrande glanced at the visiting doctor. "What's wrong with that?"
"I hate traveling," confided Morsicato. "I get seasick."
The Constable, nursing his pride as well as his ankle, drained the closest bottle. "Speaking as we are of prophecies, does this business have to do with the oracle, you think?"
Cangrande shrugged, then winced. Morsicato said, "I heard she was murdered. What did you do with the body?"
Villafranca said, "I hired some actors. They saw her burned."
"You should have called us," chided Morsicato, gesturing towards himself and Fracastoro.
The Constable shook his head. "She was beyond saving."
"What he's saying," interjected Fracastoro reprovingly, "is that we might have been able to tell you something about her death. Lord knows between us, we've seen enough battlefield wounds. It might have given you a clue to her murderer."
"Oh. I'll remember in the future," said Villafranca with a belch.
"I think we know who the murderer is, in any case," said Cangrande, making a face as Fracastoro started sewing up a wound. Morsicato opened his mouth to suggest something, but a withering glance from the other doctor reduced him to watching. No one would tend Cangrande's wounds but his personal surgeon.
"The spaventapasseri," said Pietro.
"The scarecrow? That's a good name for him," agreed Cangrande. "And I believe the oracle's death was his message to us."
Pietro said, "How so?"
Villafranca told them about the oracle's head. Cangrande snorted. "An excellent contrapasso. Someone's an admirer of your father's work, Pietro."
"What's that?" asked Antony.
"The twisted head," Pietro explained, "making her face backward. That's one of my father's tortures in Hell. It's the price seers and diviners get for trying to see the future."
"So whoever killed her was making a statement about her prophecy," deduced Morsicato.
"Or has a sick sense of humour," supplied Cangrande.
"Who is this scarecrow anyway?" demanded Antony. "What did he want?"
"Who he is will take some tracking, but we have a clue. The child ripped something from around his neck. A medallion I've never seen before. As to what he wants, we'll ask him that when we find him."
The Constable ventured an opinion. "Perhaps he thought to kidnap him for ransom purposes. The Scaliger's son." If he'd expected Cangrande to rise to the bait, he was disappointed.
"Should I go join the searching parties?" asked Pietro. "I got the best look at him."
"God forbid," said Cangrande before either physician did. "Go to bed. Rest. That was a nasty clout you took. When you awaken tomorrow, come see me. Don't rush, though. I have a feeling I'll be busy." The Scaliger closed his eyes.
"What happened to the leopard?" asked Morsicato.
"Del Angelo thinks it should be destroyed. I think the animal was defending itself in a frightening circumstance and should therefore be allowed to live. We'll have it out tomorrow."
"What I don't understand," fretted Pietro, "is how he got down to the street so quickly."
"We'll look into it." The Scaliger's tired eyes half-opened. "So much has happened tonight, Pietro, that my manners have slipped. Tomorrow, remind me to thank you. Again."
Pietro flushed slightly. Antony winked at him. The Scaliger's eyes closed as Fracastoro dug his needle into the scarred and bloody back.
Morsicato had a few quiet words of advice for Pietro regarding the cuts on his forehead, which he listened to. Saying goodnight to everyone, he balanced on his crutch, preparing to go.
A pluck at his sleeve pulled him down so Antony could ask, "Where was Mari? Why didn't he help you?"
"He was talking to-" Pietro hesitated. "He was talking to your fiancée. They were across the loggia. He probably didn't realize what was happening until it was over."
Antony grunted. "Well, at least they get along. That's good news. Could you imagine it if they didn't?" He settled back, elevating his broken leg, waiting for a litter to transport him to his father's house.
Pietro exited the makeshift sickroom and crossed the hall towards the front door. He found Bailardino Nogarola there, stomping the snow off his boots. Seeing Pietro, the large man smiled tiredly. "I swear, I'm moving to Rhodes, become a Hospitaller. Too damned cold here. Glad to see you up and about, boy."
"Glad to be here, my lord," replied Pietro.
"Word is a leopard cracked your skull."
"Yes, my lord."
"Damn stupid of you to let him."
"I guess I'm just not that bright." Pietro gestured to the bandaged claw marks just over his eye.
"God's wounds! An inch lower and you'd be blind!"
"He just swatted at me. No sign of the kidnapper?"
Bailardino shook his head. "None. At least, not in the houses west of here. My men are still searching, but I promised Kat I'd check on you. Yes, you! You've got to stop risking your neck for our family. It's giving her grey hairs." He laid a beefy hand on Pietro's shoulders. "She's taken a liking to you, lad. She'd hate to see anything happen to you. As would I."
A nearby tapestry shuddered. As there was no wind in the hall to make it do so, Pietro and Bail both looked at it, their tension rising. A tiny lump in the tapestry was half hidden by shadows.
Bailardino raised his eyebrows at Pietro, who lifted his crutch. "Yes," said Bail loudly, easing his sword from its scabbard. "We've all taken a real liking to you, Pietro."
Pietro moved closer and, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall beside the tapestry, he struck the lump hard.
"Ouch!" yelped the lump. From underneath the tapestry bolted little Mastino della Scala, rubbing his shoulder and looking mutinous. "Uncle Bail, put your sword away!"
Pietro lowered his crutch and shook a fist. "You've already been told. Don't spy."
Mastino glared daggers at him. "I'll fix you!" he cried, then ran through a door under the staircase.
Bailardino resheathed his weapon. "Fut. Little puke. Needs to be walloped more often." He shivered. "Damn, it's cold!"
"It must be hard, going out after the race."
"That reminds me," said Bailardino, "tell your friend Montecchio that that was the slickest move I've ever seen. And I've seen them all."
Pietro frowned. "What move?"
"What he did in the Palio. Slicker than goose shit."
"What did he do?"
"Heh. The little Capuan was going to win. Your boy knew it. So he kicks out at just the right moment and barks Capulletto right on the shins. Took him down, leaving the field clear to win." Bailardino chuckled. "Well done."
Pietro's blood was in his boots. "How do you know?"
"Damn if it wasn't me the Capuan fell on! Mind you, if I could have done it myself, I would have. Those two are just too young for me. But I put up a good race for an old coot. You have to admit that!"
"Yes," agreed Pietro absently.
"Is Cangrande in the salon? I'll go in and tell the peacock we're still holding our dicks, then I'll go over to our house and tell Kat you're unhurt. She wants to see you, by the way. Come by tomorrow, but not before noon. She's not at her best in the morning."
They bid each other goodnight, and Bail went off in the direction Pietro had come. It had been Pietro's intention to cross the Piazza della Signoria, climb the stairs to his father's room in the Domus Bladorum, and crawl into bed. Instead, tired as he was, Pietro stayed to search the Scaligeri palace. But there was no sign of Mariotto, and he drew the line at knocking on the door the Paduans' suite of rooms to ask if Gianozza was in.
At last Pietro staggered into his father's suite across the plaza. Poco was still out reveling, but Dante was writing by lantern light. "Will the light bother y
ou? The muse is upon me."
Apparently the poet had missed all the excitement — not surprising, if he was in the midst of penning new verses. He'd even failed to notice the new bandage that graced his son's forehead. Pietro grunted and simply fell into bed without removing his clothes. Within moments he was asleep.
Dante stood from his littered papers and ink and, crossing to his son's bedside, he pulled a coverlet over Pietro to keep him warm. He waited a moment, watching his son's sleeping form, then returned to his Purgatory.
Had Pietro's search extended to the chapel across from the Scaligeri palace, he would have found his quarry. The candle had lowered but was still burning bright as Mariotto reached the second circle of Hell.
I began: 'Poet, gladly would I speak
with these two that move together
and seem to be so light upon the wind.'
And he: 'Once they are nearer, you will see:
if you entreat them by the love
that leads them, they will come.'
Gianozza was an excellent audience. Every now and then she made small noises of delight that encouraged her reader to continue. The rest of the time she kept her breathing audible but not rhythmic so he could be certain she was not asleep.
Now she leaned forward in delight, pressing her face right up to the wooden partition of the confessional. "Who are they? The lovers, which? He's already mentioned Cleopatra and Paris and Tristan. Is it Lancelot and Guenivere?"
"Be patient," chided Mari. "All will be revealed." He read Dante's entreaty to the lovers floating on the wind, and their pitiable reply. When asked to tell their tale, the man groaned as the woman spoke:
'Love, quick to kindle in the gentle heart,
seized this man with the fair form
taken from me. The way of it afflicts me still.
'Love, which absolves no one beloved from loving,
seized me so strongly with his charm
that, as you see, it has not left me yet.
'Love brought us to one death.
Caïna waits for him who quenched our lives.'
