by David Blixt
Gianozza's hand slowly lowered. "Antony?"
"What are you doing out here, in this weather?" Capulletto was indignant on her behalf.
She slipped the knife into its sheath and leaned her back against the tree. "I — Antony, I heard about your challenge to Mariotto." He stiffened. "I rode out to find you, stop you. But my horse tripped. Antonia went to find help."
He removed his cloak and added it to her coverings. "You came looking for me?"
Gianozza could smell him, a raw musk, purely male. She wrinkled her nose, then looked into his eyes. "It must stop, Antony. I'll do anything you ask, but it has to end. He's your friend."
"Friends don't do what he did."
"No. People do what he did. Friends forgive."
"You don't understand."
Gianozza laid a hand on his arm. "I do. I truly do. It's my fault."
His voice choked. "I never felt anything — never felt things so much, so strong, before you. Just that one night, that one happy night — I was the best I could remember being. I was the man I always wanted to be." He turned his head upward, allowing the rain to beat on his face.
"Will you be that man if you kill Mariotto? My husband? Is that the act of a man who wants my happiness?" Antony shrugged, and she took hold of his face. "Ser Capulletto, I didn't reject you for you. I fell in love with your friend."
Antony's voice was bitter. "Of course you love him. He has everything — looks, name, friends, a kind father. He's the oldest, he won't have to scrape a living together of his brother's leavings. So of course you married him! He's got everything. And now he wants to be friends again. Friends! Well, he won't have that! He won't get me, too!"
Gianozza stepped back, only to cry out. "Oh! My ankle!" This utterly unmanned him, and he helped her to sit again on the earth. When he was kneeling beside her she said, "Antony, how much of this is really about me?"
"You don't understand." His breathing came in ragged bursts. Gianozza's own breathing was shallow, compared to the bellows his lungs had become. They were very close now.
When the kiss happened, it was as tender and soft as anything she'd ever experienced. Almost reverential, as if he feared offending her.
"I want you," he whispered in her ear. "I love you, Giulia."
She pulled back from him. "Giulia?" It was a name she had never heard herself called.
"You're my Giulia. The perfect woman." He leaned in to kiss her again. This second kiss was more passionate, and Gianozza felt herself kissing him back. Oh, what bliss! What joy! She was -
Francesca. Francesca and Paolo, the illicit lovers. The damned lovers.
Wrenching herself away she stared at him in horror. "This isn't the — no! No, Antony! Listen to me! We can — we're supposed to be friends now, that's all — "
"How now?" said Antony, frowning sharply. "What is this to you, a game? I'm serious, girl! You are all that I want in this life! You are my everything! You are my Giulia!" She pulled away from him, and for a long moment he stared at her. Then he cried, "Damn it! Does he get everything? Then give him this!" Drawing out a silver knife he gripped it tightly, tears running down his face.
What he was about to do, she never afterward could guess. She was certain he would never have harmed her, or told herself she was certain. Would he have given her the knife? Hurt himself with it?
Whatever Antony intended, she was saved from it by the sound of horses approaching. Antonia had found a group of five men, led by Benvenito. "Gianozza, are you all right?"
Gianozza gazed at Antony, who stood still in the rain looking back at her. Then he turned away. She called out, "I'm fine!"
Antony stayed long enough to ensure she was safe. Then he clambered up into the saddle and rode away. Gianozza watched him go. Just before he passed out of sight she saw his gloved fingers open, releasing the silver dagger. It fell, landing point first in the muddy earth.
Antonia was kneeling beside Gianozza. "What happened?"
"I made it worse! I made it worse! I told him not to — he's supposed to listen, to love me enough to listen-"
Antonia sighed. "What did you think would happen, Gianozza? That if you played the scene right, all would be forgiven? This isn't a play, or a poem."
Gianozza wept. Eventually they persuaded her to mount a horse. All the long ride back towards Castello Montecchio, she repeated one thought over and over. "This isn't how it was supposed to happen."
They did not see the man who'd been watching, who now came forward to take up the silver dagger.
In the cave they heard distant hoofbeats. At first Pathino grinned. "I'm sorry, Ser Alaghieri, but I'm afraid the Count won't let you walk alive from this place. Perhaps if you beg."
The sound multiplied. Four or more horses trampled the earth not far away.
"Was he bringing friends?" asked Pietro.
"He could have brought some Paduans with him," protested Pathino feebly.
"And have them kill him when they learned this whole enterprise was a feint for him to kidnap a Veronese child? I doubt it." Pietro stood up. "It's time."
Immediately Pathino leapt to his feet, dragging the child up with him. "Don't!"
"You know what I think? I think the Count has been captured, and in exchange for his life he's given them you." Pietro reached out an open hand. "Give up now and I won't let them hang you." Subtly he edged his left foot closer to the protruding half-burnt stick. Mercurio's eyes were open now, though his whimpers were too soft for Pathino to hear.
Pathino glanced wildly about, then smiled again as the hoofbeats rode back the way they had come. Pathino's relief brought back his awful version of Cangrande's smile. "You won't let them hang me? How generous. But I think it's time I do something about you, Count or no." He brandished the knife.
Pietro made a show of sagging. His next move would have to be bootless, and he'd pay for it later — if he survived.
Now.
Pietro stepped into the fire. With the flat of his foot he kicked the half-burnt stick through the air towards the spaventapasseri. Pathino's hands flew up to ward off the flaming embers, and Cesco dropped to the ground and rolled away. Cursing, Pathino grabbed, his fingers clutching only air. Dagger in hand he turned on Pietro, still across the fire pit.
Pietro shouted, "Mercurio! Avanti!"
The great greyhound rose from the pool of its own blood and threw itself through the flames. The long mouth clamped down hard on Pathino's left hand in a spray of blood. The bastard Scaliger screamed as the weight of the dog yanked his arm down. The hound pulled, driving his teeth in with a savage growl.
Pathino plunged his long thin dagger into the hound, piercing its eye. Mercurio's jaw went slack and the greyhound fell to the earth without a rattling whisper.
From somewhere in the darkness a young voice screamed, "M'cur-o!"
Pietro had already scooped up his sword and was running around the fire pit. Pathino freed his blade from the dead dog and lashed out at Pietro's face. Taking the slash across the back of his hand, Pietro heard the next cut whistle past his ear. He rolled, putting distance between himself and Pathino. Leaping to his feet, he twisted around to lunge at his enemy.
Only Pathino wasn't there. The bastard was running to his horse, tethered just a few feet away. He slashed the leather ties and clambered into the saddle.
Sword raised, bellowing like the devil himself, Pietro limped towards the horse. But he was too slow. Pathino kicked and the beast jumped. His scalp brushed the ceiling of the cave where it dipped low, pushing through the dangling roots of the giant tree above. Then he was around the fire, angling towards the cave's exit.
Pathino had forgotten the tripwire. The horse's forelegs caught it, sending both Pathino and his mount headlong into the muck. Struggling to free himself of the flailing horse, the firelight exaggerated his scarecrow figure into a grotesque form in the shadows on the cave walls.
Pietro jumped the tripwire and splashed after him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cesco, free
of his bonds, running towards the dead dog.
A flash of reflected firelight brought his attention back to Pathino. He still held the miseracordia and he swung it wildly. Pietro's sword had a better reach, though. He thrust with it and Pathino had to leap backward in the knee-high water, scrabbling to keep his feet.
"Damn you!" cried Pathino, turning and racing for the mouth of the tunnel. Pietro slogged after as best he could, knowing that it was hopeless. He was too slow. Pathino would be free in moments.
Behind him came a splashing sound. Pietro threw a glance over his shoulder. Cesco was in the water, chasing Pathino too. Turning back, Pietro saw that Pathino had stopped in the tunnel.
Cangrande's bastard brother gave his pursuers a look of wild delight. His left hand came up, grasping something, then yanked down hard.
Pietro paused as he heard a horrible sound from above. Wooden beams hidden in the roof just above the doorway shifted. They creaked and groaned for a moment, the noise they made sounding like earthen screams of agony.
Then the beams fell.
It was an old trick, designed by the ancient horse thieves to seal off the cave in times of trouble. In desperation, they could leave their stolen mounts and hide all evidence. But now it worked too well. The heavy rainfall had softened the earthen roof above. Almost half of the cave shifted, then came crashing down.
Down upon Pietro and Cesco.
Reaching the open air, Pathino looked about him and cursed. He'd hoped that Alaghieri had left his horse hobbled right outside the cave, but there was no sign of it. "Of all the damned…"
Damned. Yes, that was the right word. He was damned. He had hoped that only the entrance to the cave would fall. But now he had broken the one rule of his family. He'd killed his father's blood kin. He would certainly burn in Hell.
Stumbling down the path, away from the collapsed cave and into the forest, Pathino tried to orient himself so that he was traveling north, but without the sun it was difficult.
After ten minutes of walking, he heard hoofbeats. Ducking behind a tree and clambering up into the low branches, Pathino held his thin knife white-knuckled in his grip as he waited for the rider.
A lone horseman approached. Obviously a noble, with a fine beast and delicate tabard. Pathino had grown up in these parts, he recognized the Montecchio crest. He climbed higher in the branches just as the knight turned towards the cave. The mounted man's face under the cheek pieces was hidden. That worked for Pathino, as did the rain. With the water hitting the metal shell, the rider didn't hear the snapping twigs above him as Pathino dropped, landing hard on the rump of the horse. The rider cried out and began to turn. Wrapping his left arm over the rider's neck, Pathino slid the knife's point into the man's right armpit, just where the front and back plates gapped. The rider's life ended with a gasp.
Pathino struggled to free his dagger, then tossed the corpse from the saddle, fighting to remove the feet from upturned stirrups that dragged the body along with the cantering horse. Done, he turned north and rode for Schio. In an hour he would turn east for Treviso. It was only twenty miles from Treviso to Venice. From the great port he could take ship for anywhere in the world. For now that he was damned, what did it matter where he went?
Yet — yet he wasn't through. He was the Greyhound, he felt it in his bones. With or without the boy, he would carry out the plans he and the Count had made. He would redeem the blood that flowed through his veins, and in so doing, he would redeem himself before God.
The boy's death, though regrettable, meant nothing in the end.
Thirty-Eight
It was an hour before sunset and Mariotto's men were riding yet again along the river bank looking for a sign, any sign. They were all tired, huddling under their capes and hoods for protection from the rain that was obliterating any traces that Pietro may have left.
Mariotto was doing his best to hide his fatigue as he pushed his men further. He shared the fear that their quest was hopeless, but refused to be the first to turn back. His thoughts were so focused on home and hearth that when he heard the noise he didn't register it as important. Then slowly he became conscious of a sound different from rain and river and horses and trees in the wind. They were voices. A man's and a woman's, to be precise, issuing orders loudly. Gesturing to his men, Mariotto set out to find the sound's source.
As they rode, the voices grew in number and in volume. Mariotto's troop arrived at a clearing high on a hill. There were several Scaligeri soldiers about, their armour discarded, their arms tossed aside as they knelt around the base of a toppled tree. The tree didn't so much look fallen as sunken, held aloft by branches stuck on other trees.
In the midst of the diggers knelt the Capitano, using his breastplate to scoop up and toss aside clods of damp soil. Others were doing the same. Standing at one side was the Scaliger's sister, still clad in male attire. By the way her weight shifted back and forth it was clear she wanted to dig, but was withholding herself in favor of her physical superiors.
Dismounting, Mari made his way carefully along the slippery slope to the lady's side. "Donna, what news?"
Cheeks flushed and lips tight, Katerina said, "Mariotto! Thank God! This is the cave, isn't it? Your brother-in-law gave directions. Bonifacio hinted that Cesco and Detto were under the earth." She gestured to the base of the hill. "We arrived to find the cave collapsed. They're buried in there. We're trying to dig them out!"
It took Mariotto only a moment of thinking before he cried, "What a fool I am! It's perfect! But do we know that this is what Bonifacio's hint…?"
"There are traces in the part of the tunnel uncollapsed. Hoofprints. Pietro's shirt, boots, and cane. They were here — and they were buried. The position of the tree, look at it. It fell in the last couple of hours, the side leaning away from the rain is still soaked."
Unable to argue with her reasoning, Mari volunteered to help. As he stripped off his armour he asked, "Where can we best be of service?"
Katerina looked at her brother, already knee-deep in a hole he and twenty knights had made. "Start in the tunnel. We began here to provide us with more room — there's nowhere to throw the excess dirt down there. But if your men set up a relay, tossing the rubble outside, you might have better luck."
Mariotto touched his hand to his forehead and ran skidding down the mud-strewn hill, one hand on the felled tree for balance. Behind him the tree's roots angled towards the black and grey sky, twisting like fingers reaching for God.
He and two of his men plunged into the dark tunnel. A torch was lit, and by its light they used breastplates to stab, then cup the fallen earth, passing them back through a line of men to be tossed aside at the tunnel's mouth. Soon they had a rhythm going, and they could sing, grunt, and chant in time to their labours.
After considerable time Mariotto emerged to let someone take his place at the head of the chain. Rubbing his aching arms, he let the rain fall over his hands to cleanse them. He wished the storm would abate. By now the cellars of Castello Montecchio would be flooded, and the chicken coops, and the kennels. He would listen again to his father's declaration that this was the year they'd dig the drainage ditch, as he had each time the summer rains came. Mari hadn't realized how much he'd missed home and family.
He kept stretching out his arms, working the life back into them, and as he did he walked, looking over his father's land. His land. He was almost out of earshot of the digging when he decided to turn back.
The wind changed direction just then, and the rain's force eased just a fraction. In that moment a noise came to Mariotto's ears, a gentle mewing like a that of a cat crying. Picking up a tree limb, Mariotto followed the sound, straining his ears over the cries of men and the fall of rain. Was that something shifting behind that tree? Was it-?
A horse. Pietro's palfrey, well hidden and tied to a tree. Huddled under a cloak beneath the horse was a tiny figure.
Mariotto ran over and lifted the cloak's edge. A terrified toddler, too small to be Cangrande's
bastard, looked out at him with red-rimmed eyes. Mariotto laid his sword aside and crouched down. "Hello there. You must be Detto. We haven't met yet. My name's Mari."
Luigi Capulletto stood looking at the chance fate had granted him. Dared he take it?
Spurring away from his brother, he'd then concealed himself in the trees and watched his brother pass him in turn. Luigi had been convinced that Antony had an idea of where the children were — he'd been too quiet, too remote, not his usual gregarious self. It was just like Antony to bait Luigi into leaving so that he could have the honour of saving Cangrande's son all to himself. So Luigi had followed his hated brother.
But the fool hadn't found the child. He'd found the girl instead. To Luigi's intense pleasure, he saw his brother's rejection at her hands. After everyone had left, Luigi had retrieved the silver dagger with Mari's name etched into it. At the time he hadn't known why he did it. Now it was clear. He would ruin his brother once and for all.
Bending down, he began to work the dagger into place.
Filthy, weary, Cangrande stood flexing his arms, his eyes on the pool of water that was filling the pit his men were frantically digging. There were hissing torches and covered lanterns all about, and more men arriving every minute, bringing with them pickaxes, spades, and dogs. Beside him was his sister. Their combined attention was so intent on the earth being shifted, the buckets of water being removed from the crater, the incredible slowness of it all, that they didn't notice a young man slip up beside them. "Madonna Nogarola? I think this young fellow belongs to you."
"Mama!" The toddler threw himself towards her, careless of his injured arm. Exhausted with fear, he collapsed against his mother's chest.
Heads came up from the pit. In a ringing voice Mari quickly explained. All the joyful mother could manage was, "Thank you, Mariotto. Thank you!"
This fresh success gave them all heart to continue at breakneck pace. Cangrande embraced Mariotto, just as covered in muck as himself. "Good God, Mari, you look like you just climbed out of your own grave. Good work. Perhaps in our haste we have overlooked some other clues out in the brush. Could you take a few of the more tired men and search the woods hereabouts? We can keep at the digging." The Capitano gestured to the fresh reserves just arriving.
