The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  "Action?" Mari's eyes gleamed with excitement. "After two years surrounded by conniving priests and backstabbing courtiers, I could use a good fight."

  "Come inside," said the general, "and I'll tell you all about it! Perhaps your father can spare a few men for you to lead."

  "Of course," said Lord Montecchio. "Come inside, everyone! My servants have malmsey prepared."

  Mariotto slipped his hand into Gianozza's as the crowd of knights and soldiers streamed into the hall.

  Quite forgotten in the dispersing throng, Antonia walked across the courtyard towards the guesthouse. She would change into fresh garments before returning to the hall.

  At the steps to the guesthouse she turned. Capulletto remained alone in the mouth of the castle gate. Reaching for his horse's saddle, he removed a long silver dagger. He studied it for a long time before slipping it into his belt. With a deep breath to steel himself, he strode into the hall after his lost love and the man that had once been his friend. It brought tears to her eyes.

  "Well, that was awkward," said Ferdinando, appearing suddenly. He'd obviously returned to find her.

  She turned away, wiping a tear brusquely away. "I'll be in soon. You can taunt me then."

  Antonia was surprised to find a gentle hand on her arm. "Lady, you don't think much of me, I know. But I would be the lowest man to taunt a friend in distress."

  She turned to look up at him, wiping her eye. "By what right do you call yourself my friend?"

  He shrugged. "I make no claim. Not to sound dramatic, but in a few days I'm riding into a fight. I just wanted things to be, ah, clear. Right. Between us." Uneasily, he took her hand. "I would like to be your friend, Antonia Alaghieri."

  He was an awkward-looking fellow, short with a long neck and sloping shoulders. But handsome wasn't the world. Let Gianozza have her Mari. There were better things. Like a mind. Like a friend.

  "You are my friend, Signore Backbiter."

  He laughed and sighed at once, his smile mirroring her own.

  Thirty-One

  Vicenza

  21 May 1317

  Pietro's small company of soldiers rode up to the gates of Vicenza. In the midday heat, the guards who policed the gates watched them come. This tiny condottiere wasn't girded for battle; most of the approaching soldiers gazed at the sights of a new city.

  One of them rode up to discuss entry. He wore no armour and in the hot day his shirt under the red leather doublet was open. At his side stalked a sleek and panting greyhound. The fellow introduced himself to the guards, who formally asked the party's destination. "France, eh? Be sure to bring your own wine."

  "Hell, I'm bringing my own cook." The guards chuckled and Pietro asked, "Are the Nogarolese in residence?"

  "Yes, ser. Lord Bailardino and his family."

  "Who's the giant?" asked another of the garrison. His eyes were fixed on the massive form astride an uneasy mule. The big man was slapping his knees at some remark from his neighbour, almost falling from the mule's back. He was clearly drunk.

  Pietro scowled. "A Spanish notary who asked for protection on the journey. He's caused me a great deal of trouble." Last night he'd slipped into bed with a woman who'd also begged Pietro's protection for the trip. Not that she'd minded, but her husband wouldn't have been amused.

  "He's a right monster," muttered a guard.

  A gust of wind took the hat off the Spaniard's head. Reaching for it he fell out of his saddle again. His hair and beard were black as the night sky and his skin was deeply tanned.

  Pietro shrugged. "He speaks seven languages, he tells me."

  As the guards admitted Ser Alaghieri's band, they laughed at the swaying Spaniard. He didn't seem to notice that he was entering a city, so intent he was on his wineskin. His fellow travelers ignored him. For them it had clearly been a long ride. As they passed through San Pietro, the Spaniard called out to women passing by, his flow of vulgar language both wretched and constant, punctuated only with belches and nose-blowing. The way his mule staggered, it was clear the Spaniard had been debauching his steed as well as himself.

  Fazio trotted up to Pietro. "Let's be rid of him, eh, master? We've gotten him here safely. Let's just dump him and be done."

  Pietro nodded. "Good idea. Persig — Per — Hey, notary! Yes, you! You're here. Understand. No, look at me! This is Vicenza. Vi-cen-za! You're here!" The notary gazed blankly at him from under the brim of his frayed straw hat. "Do you understand? You can go now?"

  "But, señor, I can — mmm, heh, 'scuse please — I can serve. You need a fine notary, no?"

  "No," said Pietro firmly. He'd been afraid of this. "We don't need a scribe."

  "Truly?"

  "Truly, no."

  The Spaniard shrugged elaborately. "If you say, señor. Farewell."

  "Adios." Pietro watched drunken mule stumble off, its rider in search of another patsy to support his drinking.

  By the time Pietro reached the Nogarola palace, the other followers had all broken off, finding their lodgings or going about their business. Pietro brought Fazio and his thirty men to the huge double doors of Katerina and Bailardino's home. They were welcomed by servants and Pietro asked that his men be fed. He then instructed his band of soldiers to be asleep by nightfall. Since they were unaware that a battle loomed, they thought him a killjoy, but he made them swear to obey. Pietro entered the palace and was shown to a guest suite, Mercurio padding by his side.

  He was unaware he had been observed.

  Four hours later, refreshed from a bath and a nap, Pietro followed a maid into a wide reception hall on the first floor. It was just how he remembered it — the fresco of a colourful pastoral scene, the gauzy curtains framing the arched doors that led to the peristyle garden. Beyond the billowing curtains, a fountain burbled up a clear stream of water. Pietro remembered sitting on the balcony above, trying to identify the sculpted figures. Now, after two years of university study, it was obvious. Holding the vessel for the water were three muses, Calliope, Clio, and Melpomene. He reflected that, given the amount of power astrology held in this household, Urania should have been present instead.

  After days of riding, Pietro's leg was sore. Against his vanity, he was using his cane. He would need all his strength tomorrow.

  As they drew near the central garden, Mercurio watched the flowing curtains warily, as if a hare might suddenly emerge. Pietro felt the same prickling sensation at the base of his neck. He saw nothing, but felt sure he was being watched.

  His eye caught a reflected twinkle in the garden. A soft, moist pair of eyes peeking out from behind a bush. He smiled. "Hello, Cesco."

  The youth stood. He was barely the height of Pietro's thigh.

  "H'llo." Cesco's clothes were clean but had seen much darning, especially about the elbows and knees. His hair was more curled than Cangrande's and of a lighter hue, bright and blond. The ringlets had been allowed to grow long, covering the eyes that now flickered from man to hound. "Wha's his name?"

  "This is Mercurio."

  "M'curo!" The boy clapped his hands together in a demanding way. Amazingly, the dog trotted over and fell at the child's feet.

  Watching the boy scrub happily at the dog's neck, Pietro said, "You're lucky. He generally doesn't do that for anyone but me." He advanced a few paces into the garden. "You don't know it, Cesco, but we've met before. My name is Pietro. I'm looking for your mother."

  "La Donna's not here," the child said, still stroking the dog. He played for a moment with the coin dangling from Mercurio's collar, then glanced up at Pietro's head. "You don' have hat."

  It was an odd statement. "No. No, I don't." Then it struck Pietro. "Do you remember me?"

  "You don' have a hat," the child repeated.

  "You tried to play with my hat once," said Pietro, "when you were a baby. Remember?"

  "I have a toy," replied the child, holding forth a tangle of metal. One twisted piece hung from another.

  "Did your father give you that?" asked Pietro.
<
br />   "God is the father."

  Pietro blinked, then tried again. "Who gave you this?"

  "Cesco."

  "You're Cesco."

  The child made a face. "The other Cesco."

  "Oh," said Pietro, smiling.

  The boy offered the puzzle. "Do it." As Pietro walked closer, the child fixed his gaze on his limp and cane. "You're hurt."

  Pietro patted his thigh. "A long time ago. It's nothing."

  "Don't show it," advised the child. "No one will help." Cesco's light green eyes met Pietro's brown ones, and the boy pressed the puzzle into Pietro's hands.

  Pietro was far more interested in the child than the tangle of molded metal bits, but Cesco was expectant. Examining the two pieces, Pietro gave it an experimental tug. They clinked together fruitlessly. Cesco did a little dance as Pietro struggled to decipher the twists and turns necessary to free one piece from the other.

  Finally Pietro shrugged and handed the pieces back. "Can you show me?"

  Taking the pieces with both hands, the boy twisted. It was awkward, for the curves of metal were too large and unwieldy for the hands that manipulated them. Once, twice, three times the boy pulled. And suddenly the two parts were free of each other, one in each hand. He looked up at Pietro, grinning.

  "How did you do it?" asked Pietro, bending low.

  Before the smiling child could respond, another voice echoed across the walled garden. "Cesco, don't bore Pietro. He's had a long journey."

  At Katerina's words the sun vanished from the boy's face. What remained was light reflected from some inner source, carefully hidden. Cesco dropped the puzzle and walked straight-backed to Donna Katerina's side. He did not take her hand, but waited close to her, gazing at Pietro. The dog Mercurio followed, standing by his side.

  Katerina was as beautiful as ever. If her hair was pulled in a more austere fashion than of yore, it only served to outline her fine cheeks and mouth. Her latest pregnancy was just beginning to show in the folds of her dress. A faint dappling of grey was appearing around her temples, neatly disappearing into the blond streaks in her chestnut hair.

  Pietro greeted her by sweeping into a full bow, refusing to use the cane at all. "Domina."

  "Cavaliere." She matched his formality by reaching out a hand for him to kiss. His lips brushed her wrist. "You are more handsome than ever. You will be joining Bailardino and me for supper? I am looking forward to adult conversation." Cesco's head came around at those words. Katerina took no note. "We have a guest staying here, but he sent a maid to inform us that he is unwell. And you remember Morsicato? He's asked to examine your leg, but I suspect it was just to hear the gossip from Bologna. I've invited him to dinner, which should spare you a prodding."

  "I don't mind the prodding. He saved my leg. He probably wants to hear about the latest in the science of autopsy. But who is your ailing guest?"

  Katerina scowled. "No one of consequence — though he would disagree. A very rich banker called Pathino, from Treviso. He wants to set up some sort of business here and is wooing Bail."

  "He'd do better to woo you," said Pietro.

  "How gallant!" Katerina extended an arm. "Shall we retire to the sitting room until supper? You must tell me all about Ravenna, and then we must plot to get you back in my brother's good graces." She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "I'm pleased he chose you to defend the city. Surely this means your exile must be nearly over."

  Together they exited the garden. The moment they were gone, Cesco and Mercurio began chasing each other around the fountain. Suddenly Mercurio growled. Cesco looked down to see what was the problem, then followed the dog's gaze up and up to a little ledge high above. There, luxuriously stretching out its paws, rested an orange and white cat.

  Cesco shivered. Lifting a small stone he pitched it at the cat. Usually his aim was perfect, but he'd thrown in a hurry and so missed the feline's head by a couple inches. The creature leapt to its feet. Just as a second missile was launched, the cat sprang up through a high window and disappeared, the dog barking after it.

  "Cesco?" came Donna's voice from behind him.

  He froze. He knew he wasn't supposed to fight the cats. But he still said, "Cat."

  "Leave them alone. They're survivors." She withdrew back behind the curtain, where the knight with the hurt leg asked, "He doesn't like cats?"

  "He loathes them. Nothing gets him angry like a cat. We try to keep them out of the palace, but they like it here. He thinks they taunt him."

  Cesco remained behind, this time watching until they were well out of sight behind the curtains. There was a rumble of deep, raspy words, and Cesco knew that the dark man was greeting the adults. Cesco didn't know why but the dark man scared him a little. He tried to spend a lot of time with the dark man to find out why.

  Making sure the cat was really gone, Cesco retrieved the pieces of his puzzle. After brushing the garden dirt from their metal limbs, he went to the fountain. Last month he'd found a spot under the lip of this sculpture, a crevice that made a tiny invisible shelf. His stubby fingers fitted the puzzle inside, wedging it tightly so there was no way it would come loose. Other prized possessions rested in this secret chamber as well. He wanted to keep them safe until his brother Detto was old enough to share them.

  The hound began to bark. Cesco glanced around the garden. No one had seen him hide the toy. But the dog was insistent. Cesco followed Mercurio to a small bush. Lying under the shrubbery was a wax tablet with some numbers inscribed upon it. Frowning all over his little face, Cesco gazed at it.

  "It's a puzzle," he whispered to the hound. The dog snuffed once. "For me, not you, silly." Cesco played with the numbers in his head. A puzzle! He decided to hide it until after supper. Then, when he solved the puzzle, he'd show it to Detto. It was never too early to teach Detto the fun of puzzles.

  Morsicato looked healthy, though his face bore more lines and his forked beard was salted with white. Greeting Pietro warmly, the first words out of his mouth were, "I hear you've got a woman professor! Tell me everything!"

  Pietro laughed aloud. "I should have known! Yes, the mysterious Novella d'Andrea. She teaches from behind a curtain, lest we poor students lose our focus."

  "So no one's ever seen her?"

  "Not as far as I know. I haven't, anyway. But there are scads who claim they have."

  "O, why oh why didn't they have female professors when I went to school?" The doctor linked his arm into Pietro's. "Come, let's in to dinner, and you can tell me everything that's happening in the scandalous world of higher knowledge!"

  On the way in to dinner, Pietro met little Bailardetto, just being put to bed. Less than two years old, walking well and talking a little, Detto was certainly his father's son — same black hair, same strong face. He was a regular baby, no less wonderful for the lack of Cesco's brilliance. Pietro was surprised to realize he liked children. He'd never really thought about it before.

  Dinner was pleasant. Pietro was surprised that Cesco was allowed to eat at their table. The boy was quiet, though, eating and staring off into space. He did perk up a bit as Pietro described for Morsicato an autopsy he'd attended. But then the talk turned to politics and he vanished behind his eyes again.

  Pietro began the subject change by asking, "Do you think Frederick will be declared emperor?"

  Bailardino shrugged. "No one knows."

  This was the great event that had occurred in Verona during their absence. Just two months ago the Scaliger had come to a momentous decision, finally choosing which imperial rival to back. The Scaliger deemed Frederick the Handsome of Bavaria to have a better claim than Ludwig the Bavarian, so on the sixteenth of March, Cangrande della Scala had formally pledged his allegiance — and his armies — to Frederic.

  "There's a candidate no one has mentioned as yet," said Morsicato slyly.

  "Not Cangrande?" asked Pietro.

  Bailardino laughed. "No no no. He means the Duke of Vienna, the reluctant Vincentio."

  "Oh."
r />   Katerina said, "I didn't get the sense that he is reluctant. From what I hear he's a shrewd administrator, and rather manipulative for one so young. He just doesn't like the pomp of office."

  Her husband shrugged. "In spite of his Italian nickname, he's a good German candidate, with a distant relation to the throne. He could pursue it."

  Talk shifted to the war Cangrande was waging, then to news from France, which brought the conversation around to the return of Mariotto. Pietro said, "I know Aurelia's getting married, but to whom?"

  Bailardino frowned. "I'm not sure, to tell the truth."

  Katerina slapped at her husband. "Then you're not paying attention. His name is Ser Benvenito Lenoti, and he is as handsome as he is brave."

  "That doesn't mean much, unless he's uncommonly daring. Wait — Lenoti. Isn't he the tilter? Well, he's assured himself of a lifetime of good horses."

  "M'I be 'cused?" asked Cesco, pushing his platter of half-eaten fruit away.

  Katerina considered. "Finish the apples and you may." Cesco shoved a handful of apple slices into his mouth, hopped down from his seat, and ran from the room. "Finish them!" called Katerina after him. "Don't let me find spewed apple bits in the halls!"

  The men were all laughing. "Oh, yes! It's all funny until the roof falls in. He's up to something," she added, motioning for a maid to follow him.

  "Kat, let him alone!" sighed Bailardino.

  "You'll be sorry when the palace burns down around your ears."

  Pietro said, "And how is Cangrande's namesake?"

  Katerina pursed her lips. "If I say he's brilliant, it will only be a mother's opinion. The same if I call him a trial. Perhaps the doctor has a more objective assessment."

  A bemused look crossed Morsicato's face, making his forked beard jut out at an odd angle. "Well, he's active. I'm always bandaging up his scrapes, setting a sprain. Loves to whack me with his little wooden sword."

  "Me too," said Bail, mournfully rubbing his backside.

  "He took to riding like he was born to it — swimming as well. And I think he's reading now. But he seems to best enjoy fiddling with machines and things, seeing how they work. Donna Katerina has this horizontal loom with foot pedals. Cesco took the thing apart when no one was looking, then watched as it was reassembled — thought it a tremendous joke."