Juliet & Romeo

by David Hewson

  ‘My hips! You wish to marry me for my hips?’

  The fond smile fell. There was a cold glint in his eye she hadn’t seen before. ‘You said you were of a practical bent. I thought you’d appreciate that in another. Without a family a nobleman of my standing is a creature of no importance. Just dust to come and nothing left behind after two thousand years of glory.’

  She stood up and glanced around the garden. A place she adored. She couldn’t wait to leave it. ‘I am grateful for your time and interest,’ she said, holding out the gold ring he’d taken from his dead mother. ‘But my finger’s too small and this too large. It’ll never fit, sir.’

  He took the thing, no smile on his face. ‘It will, my girl. I’ll make it.’

  Then, without a backward glance, he was gone, marching up the stone steps into the palazzo. Those last words of his had an implicit meaning, a threat she couldn’t miss for all the world.

  A while she stayed there, thinking of what Nurse might be up to in the Piazza Erbe. Wondering how she and Romeo might break free from this present peril. Paris was right in one respect: most brides never knew their husbands. Never had any say about the man with whom they were supposed to spend the rest of their lives. That was the way of things, as her mother would insist. But the way of things was there to be questioned. This was fourteen hundred and ninety-nine.

  ‘No one owns me but myself,’ Juliet whispered in the garden.

  Not even Romeo, she thought. We are equal or this isn’t love at all.

  The storm had to be weathered. Finally she dragged herself back inside. Her father was grim-faced at the dining table, a cup of wine before him. He rarely drank this early. Paris was gone. Her mother bustled in and took her into the hall.

  ‘Have you seen Tybalt?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘He’s been storming round the city making threats all morning. Your father’s worried he may do something rash. They had a terrible row.’

  ‘I am not my cousin’s keeper.’

  ‘Not even keeper of yourself! You promised me you’d be at least polite to Count Paris.’

  ‘I was. Did he say otherwise?’

  Her mother glanced towards the table where Luca Capulet sat staring at his wine. ‘He didn’t say anything at all. Your father’s going to talk to him again this afternoon. Love, love…’

  Juliet barely heard her. There was a picture in her head. The stone front of her golden balcony, the figures there coming alive. Bacchus, leaping, grasping, thrusting his way towards the naked nymph below him.

  ‘Daughter. There will be a wedding. Believe me.’

  ‘Truly… I do,’ Juliet said then placed a brief and tender kiss upon her mother’s cheek.

  * * *

  The threat of pestilence was now public. Soldiers had begun hammering posters to the arcade walls of the Piazza Erbe, warning of restrictions ordered that day by Escalus on behalf of his Venetian masters. Reports of plague cases had now spread beyond Vicenza and Soave. There was a suspected death in Mozzecane to the south on the way to Mantua. Everyone knew what that meant. Verona was built like a fortress, with the miniature castles of families like the Capulets and Montagues inside. It was easy for Escalus and his forces to seal the city completely, allowing people to arrive and leave only through a single route, the bridge that ran from the side of Cangrande’s castle across the Adige to open land north of the river.

  From midday all other bridges would be closed and no one allowed in or out without written proof they had prior business or the approval of the authorities.

  A burly infantryman was nailing one of the notices to a pillar by the Arco della Costa. A dingy, curving whale’s rib, or some would have it the bone of a monster, hung beneath the arch and had for as long as any could remember. The locals said it would stay there until a man who’d never told a lie walked beneath.

  Mercutio nudged Benvolio, looked up at the whale’s rib and said, ‘I’ll never touch another drop of drink again. Oh look! It hasn’t moved an inch.’

  Benvolio laughed. ‘As if you’ve never told a lie before. How is the head?’

  Mercutio had a hangover and wanted the world to know. ‘It’s the kind that makes you pray for death. Anything for relief.’

  Stay there, Benvolio told him, then went into the apothecary shop by the arch and returned with their trademark remedy, a green potion: iron and seaweed and herbs in a leather cup.

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ Mercutio grumbled.

  ‘No. Worse. So next time you get invited into a grandee’s palazzo you behave with a little more decorum and try to stay half sober.’

  It was a night though. They both agreed on that. Mercutio had arrived back at his quarters in the castle so late the soldiers hadn’t wanted to let him in.

  ‘Mind you,’ he added. ‘I wasn’t the only chap out on the tiles. If there’s anyone who needs reminding about his decorum it’s Romeo. Where the hell is he? Went round his place first thing to see if he was all right. Seems he got home dead late, left right early. His mother’s not best pleased. You know what I think?’

  ‘I soon will,’ Benvolio answered with a sigh.

  ‘I reckon he was sniffing round that Rosaline after all. She’s tormenting him. Driving the poor soul mad. That’s the truth of it.’

  The soldier left to put up another poster along the arcade. Mercutio read the order out loud, then groaned. ‘Brilliant. That means we’re stuck in this dump until some pompous civil servant in Venice decides otherwise. Shame. I was thinking of taking a break. Getting bad-tempered around here. There’ll be blood on the cobbles if they keep people cooped up too long.’

  Benvolio had been up early too, asking questions, seeking answers. There was an awkward, unpredictable air about the city he didn’t like. As to the travel ban… he doubted that would last. Mozzecane had suffered an outbreak of infection two weeks before. No one had died. The illness seemed to have disappeared of its own will. The fatality that caused the authorities concern was probably, he thought, simply a re-emergence of that more benign ailment, perhaps affecting someone who was already frail.

  ‘I’ve worse news. Old man Capulet’s kicked out his nephew Tybalt. There was some kind of argument at the banquet last night. The little thug’s roaming Verona saying he’s going to take it out on Romeo for stepping through their door in the first place. He wants a fight. A duel. He left a note demanding it at Romeo’s place this morning.’

  ‘What?’

  Benvolio pulled a letter out of his trousers. ‘I managed to get hold of the thing before his parents saw.’

  Mercutio groaned, wiped his sweating forehead, threw the cup to the ground and leaned against the stone buttress.

  ‘What is it?’ Benvolio wondered.

  ‘What is it? Tybalt? Are you serious? Romeo’s dead already. Even if that buxom whore Rosaline hasn’t taken his life the Prince of Cats will do it for him. Ye gods…’

  ‘They can’t fight,’ Benvolio said. ‘It won’t happen. Your uncle Escalus forbids it.’

  ‘Sod that. You can’t turn down a duel. Where’s the honour? And Tybalt…’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘If he looks like he’s running away that’s when you watch out. I’ve seen that evil bastard fight. He’s short on skill but fast and dirty, as wicked as any fellow alive. I tell you. Romeo’s a dead man. Unless he wants to take the coward’s option and flee.’

  Benvolio tapped a finger on the poster.

  ‘Oh.’ Mercutio slapped his cheek and winced. ‘Forgot. In that case he’d best pick his shroud ’cos sure as anything he’ll be wearing it before the day is out.’ He stuck a finger in his ear and twirled it. ‘Shame really. All that stupid poetry apart, I rather like him. And–’

  Quiet, Benvolio ordered. There Romeo was, striding through the market as if looking for someone. He seemed bright and cheery. Nothing like the miserable, lovelorn creature of the day before. Benvolio waved. Romeo waved back then, as if this was a second thought, came ov
er and shook their hands.

  ‘Enjoy the party?’ Mercutio wondered.

  Romeo thought for a moment and said, ‘Very much. Didn’t we go through that last night?’

  ‘Last night I was three sheets to the wind in case you didn’t notice. Way things are going I’m planning to be in much the same state shortly. What with the news–’

  ‘The plague,’ Benvolio interrupted.

  ‘And plenty else besides. I heard you didn’t go home last night, Romeo. Went to bounce the mattress with Rosaline, did you? In the circumstances I hope so.’

  Benvolio waved him into silence, and succeeded for once.

  ‘No,’ Romeo said. ‘I didn’t. I’d rather not–’

  Mercutio wasn’t even listening. He was looking back into the market where a large woman was pushing through the crowd towards them.

  ‘Oh my God! Will you look at the face on that? She’s coming over here by the look of it.’ He nudged Romeo with his elbow. ‘This isn’t your new true love, is it, mate? I’ve got to say… the sight of her’s doing my hangover no good whatsoever.’

  The nurse saw him, then nodded and marched across. For the market she’d picked a long dress that looked as if it had been made out of coarse dyed sacking, with a white mob cap to cover her straggly grey hair.

  ‘Stand in the shade, Missus,’ Mercutio said the moment she turned up. ‘Do the sun and the rest of us a favour. Perhaps we can find a bag for that head of yours.’

  She turned a brief acerbic smile on him. Then said to Romeo, ‘I like your friend, young Montague. He’s funny, isn’t he? May we have a quiet word?’

  ‘A quiet word!’ Mercutio cried. ‘She’s touting for custom. Ask if she’s got a little sister, by little I mean a quarter her size. And don’t pay much either ’cos you’re following in the footsteps of an entire army. I’d put money on it.’

  The woman marched up, grabbed his collar and shoved him hard against the wall. ‘I’ve eaten up little minnows like you whole, sonny, then spat ’em out bones and all. Now bugger off out of here the pair of you. I’ve business with your better.’

  ‘You’re hurting my throat, Madam. Moreover we have news to impart to our dear friend Romeo.’

  ‘Tell him later. Let’s have a good old pinch at these instead.’

  Her right hand fell clutching at his britches. A high-pitched scream followed, one that attracted some curious looks from the stalls beyond the arch.

  ‘Cheerio, little fellow,’ Nurse said, then let go with a final squeeze.

  Mercutio yelped and took the hint. Benvolio touched his cap and followed him into the crowd.

  ‘Nice company you keep, lover boy.’

  ‘They’re better for the knowing.’

  ‘Well, I suspect I’m going to be denied that pleasure.’ She folded her flabby arms and took a good look at him. ‘So my young lady plans to dump a count, a nobleman with great holdings and a fine position, all for the likes of you?’

  ‘It’s her choice. I will make her happy.’

  The woman didn’t look convinced. ‘If you’re leading her up the garden path you’ll have me to answer to. What I threatened for your friend I’ll do to you for real. Then hand ’em back pickled. Juliet’s my sweet girl. I’ve nursed her since she was tiny. Brightest, most beautiful young thing I’ve ever known and–’

  ‘Lady, lady.’

  She looked at him askance. ‘I’m a servant. Don’t lady me.’

  ‘If Juliet sent you she loves you, too. You know her. Do you think she’d ask this lightly? That she’s a foolish girl who’d send you here on a whim?’

  ‘No.’ She frowned. ‘That lass is as bright as any creature alive.’

  ‘Then if you can’t trust me… trust her.’ He took her leathery hand. ‘We’re meant for one another. All shall be well. Today we’ll be married. Tonight, the houses of Capulet and Montague will be as one.’

  She glanced around the market. ‘My little girl thinks you have a good heart. As if that’s all a man needs in this life.’ There was the tramp of heavy feet, the clank of metal. A group of soldiers, chain metal jackets, swords by their sides, marched through the stalls pushing to one side everyone in their way. ‘This town’s in a funny mood. Weather’s too hot. People too damned grouchy. Days like this that sun beats down on you forever and folk forget their manners. Rain, that’s what we need. Only idiots are minded to riot or turn murderous when they’re wet.’ She leaned forward and bent towards his ear. ‘You two must take care.’

  ‘I will. As you’ve taken care of her since she was an infant.’

  If this woman went back to the palazzo and reported ill of him to Luca Capulet there’d be no wedding, no future for either of them. Only a bleak loneliness for him, and chains for her.

  ‘Speak of this to no one, I beg you. Tell Juliet to leave the house for confession this afternoon at two. I’ll meet her at San Francesco al Corso. There we’ll both confess… our love for one another. The friar will marry us. Tonight we’ll be man and wife. Here…’ He reached into his pocket and held out some coins. ‘Take this for your pains.’

  She scowled at him and didn’t move a finger. ‘Money? You think I’m doing this for cash? Keep it! Truly. Not a penny. It’s for my lovely girl’s sake I come here.’

  ‘This is nothing less than you deserve. You risk your master’s displeasure.’

  ‘I’m Luca Capulet’s property. I risk that every day, with every breath I take.’

  There was a brief sly shadow in her face. Then she seized the coins. ‘You’re right though. I am owed. I’ll make sure she’s there. This afternoon at San Francesco. You do your duty. I’ll do mine.’

  At last. A few hours and it would be done.

  ‘Commend me to your mistress.’

  ‘As if you need that. Count Paris… I’m warning you. He’s a big important man. Maybe not as fetching as you but a lot more powerful. Bent on having her and he’s the kind of fellow who likes getting what he wants. Juliet’s father’s with him, too.’

  ‘Your point?’

  The woman laughed at him. ‘The young. You just don’t see things, do you? I told Juliet straight before I came here. Paris is a better bet than you and always will be. Secure, rich, got houses here and there. That’s what a wife needs. Love’s a fine thing but it don’t put bread on your table or fine dresses in your wardrobe.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  The coins went into the pocket of her copious skirt. ‘You’d better. What I’m saying is… take this lass of mine today or you’ve lost her. And maybe that’ll be for the best. Let God decide. He usually does.’

  The troop of infantrymen came back, feet stamping, swords slapping against chain mail. Some of the market men were yelling at them for interrupting their trade. Romeo thought about what she’d said: rain would be welcome. The day was too hot and feverish. A thunderstorm might be on the way, one brief cataclysm and then relief.

  The woman turned to go. He reached out and stopped her.

  ‘Madam. I beg you. Don’t betray us.’

  There was a sudden vicious look in her beady eyes.

  ‘Don’t betray yourself, lad,’ she snapped back. ‘That seems more likely to me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to–’

  ‘Farewell then. I’ll commend you to my lady as you asked.’

  She waddled off, pushing people out of the way as easily as the burly infantrymen.

  On the far side of the Piazza Erbe he saw a hand waving. Benvolio and Mercutio were there, by a stall that sold bread and meat and beer.

  The Torre dei Lamberti chimed noon. Two hours to waste. He couldn’t face going home, trying to avoid the inquisitive questions there. His father was an easy-going man in most things, provided they didn’t involve the Capulets. His mother never would let go.

  So he wandered out into the piazza and felt the sudden harsh heat of the sun fall upon him like a furnace newly opened.

  * * *

  ‘Love,’ Mercutio said, munching on a rib of pork as Romeo t
urned up. ‘I do know what it is. The beastly thing explains my present plight.’

  Benvolio knew he was supposed to ask. ‘Your present plight being?’

  ‘Stuck between heaven and hell wondering which way Queen Mab’s going to drag me.’

  Tell us then, Romeo said, and Mercutio did. Of a Venetian girl called Filomena Mocenigo who lived in a palace on the Grand Canal. He was a student of navigation, destined for the Republic’s merchant fleet, spending hours among the charts in the nautical college next door in Dorsoduro. The pair of them flirted then fell in love. A chaste romance soon turned into a secret, passionate affair conducted behind the closed curtains of gondola cabins and in the gardens of any mansion or convent they could enter of an evening.

  ‘She had these sparkling eyes that never left you. Long dark hair. A face like an angel. Voice, too, sweet and high. The most perfect princess. I’ll never see a lovelier pair of tits in my life.’

  With a miserable grunt he threw the pork bone into the gutter. A few puffs of black cloud had appeared in the July sky.

  Benvolio knew he wanted the obvious question: what happened?

  With a laugh Mercutio looked at the two of them. ‘Provincial boys. You haven’t a clue. Think this little vendetta between Capulets and Montagues is something? In Venice we do things proper. Wasn’t that long ago we chopped off the head of the Doge himself, on the stairs of his palace, just for getting up the snouts of the wrong folk in town. Hanged ten of his pals out in Saint Mark’s Square, britches down around their ankles–’

  ‘What happened?’ Romeo repeated, feeling the minutes pass like hours.

  ‘Answer’s there in the name. Mocenigo. Venice has got the Golden Book. If you’re noble enough to be in it – and the Mocenigo lot surely are – you’ve won a ticket for everything. Government. Money. Trade. And you marry within your own circle, don’t you? If you didn’t you’d have all that nasty common blood circulating round your precious veins. My lot used to be fishermen until they signed up to lose life and limb for the Doge’s navy. Our sort aren’t supposed to dally with the aristocracy. I was lucky to get off with a whipping.’