by David Hewson
‘And you’d have demanded Tybalt’s neck if matters were the other way round?’ Montague asked. ‘Tell me, Luca. Does your wrath lean one way only?’
For an answer he got nothing more than a low and ugly curse. Francesca Montague took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her damp eyes. Bianca Capulet watched from across the room then said, ‘Two deaths are enough, surely. A little compassion and understanding–’
Escalus shuffled his eye patch and turned that steely look of his on each man in turn. ‘Capulet and Montague. Your two houses bring nothing but violence to this city. Perhaps I should hang the pair of you instead.’
‘Perhaps,’ Montague agreed. ‘If I may take my son’s place in the noose I’ll do it. And pay any fine you choose to levy. He’s young. A poet in his head. Not a warrior. Nor a murderer.’ He looked at the couple opposite. ‘We must bring this pointless vendetta to an end.’
‘You should have thought that through when you started it!’ Capulet bellowed.
‘Thought of what?’ his own wife asked, by his side. ‘That we might lose a nephew? Them a son? And Escalus here a relative of his own?’
‘A foolish distant one,’ the marshal said. ‘Mercutio brought trouble on himself in Venice. The young are never happy. They see the rising of the sun as treachery and its setting as a slight. Yet he is dead. And so is Tybalt, slain by Romeo. One has paid the price. The other…?’
‘Take me,’ Montague begged. ‘Take all I own, sir. But let my dear misguided son live.’
The day was dying beyond the window. No horses moved upon the bridge. Verona was locked behind its own walls. A place secure, as tight in the marshal’s grip as he could make it.
‘The law allows for self-defence,’ Escalus announced. ‘I cannot hang a man who acts to save his own life.’ He turned his one good eye on the Montagues. ‘Especially when he has parents who may contribute generously to the army’s coffers.’
Andrea Montague sighed. His wife wept. Luca Capulet swore bitterly beneath his breath.
The marshal reached for his pen and some parchment.
‘Nor need I tolerate him in this city. A poet, you say? Then I’ll give him Dante’s sentence. I banish him on pain of death. If he sets foot inside the territory of our dear Republic after tomorrow he shall suffer summary execution. No trial. No pleading. No chance of mercy.’
‘Thank you,’ Francesca Capulet whispered.
‘I haven’t finished. You will pay a fine of one month’s revenue of your business. In gold and coin to my treasury this very night. Romeo will spend his last hours here in the company of the friars of San Francesco al Corso. Your church, I believe.’
‘You send a foul murderer to a monastery?’ Capulet cried. ‘If–’
Escalus turned on him. ‘Silence. Or, by God, you’ll be the next to feel my wrath!’
‘Again these bastards cheat me…’
The marshal chose to ignore that. ‘Pray your son learns some lessons from the holy men there. Once you pay the fine I will issue orders for the gate.’
‘May we see him?’ his mother asked.
‘Not here in Verona. Find him wherever the youth fetches up. He’ll have until nine in the morning to present himself and take a horse hence. Where I care not. Only that he’s gone. If he tarries a minute too long then…’
He reached across the desk, grasped Cangrande’s dusty sword and banged the pommel hard on the table like a judge delivering sentence.
‘I am done. And so are you.’ His one eye roamed over the men. ‘I cannot heal this rift between your houses. Only you can do that. A handshake today would be a start. Will you oblige me?’
‘Aye, Marshal,’ Andrea Montague murmured, misty-eyed. ‘That I will.’
He stood up, hand trembling as he held it out.
‘Over my slain nephew’s body,’ Capulet grumbled. ‘You call this justice?’
‘I called it,’ Escalus growled. ‘And I am marshal here. So justice it must be.’
‘Then we’re robbed once more! Come, woman!’ he roared and dragged his wife with him from the room.
* * *
The soldiers who took Romeo from the castle to San Francesco al Corso told him nothing. At the monastery they handed an order from Escalus to an anxious Friar Laurence and waited as he read it.
The sergeant nodded at Romeo when the brother was finished.
‘This criminal’s in your care tonight. No visitors. Not his family even. If he hops it my orders are to kill him on the instant.’ A bitter sneer then. ‘Murdering little villain. If it had been up to me I’d have his head off and stuck it on a spike over the bridge right now.’
Laurence nodded then pointed out that it wasn’t up to the sergeant at all.
‘We’ll leave him to God and you then,’ the soldier said curtly. He winked at Romeo. ‘Oh please, lad. Do us all a favour and leg it from this holy place. All the trouble we’re dealing with right now. Plague and wars and God knows what else. And what do you do? Start a street fight and stick some stupid Capulet kid in the guts.’
‘Capulet? Laurence asked.
‘Tybalt,’ the sergeant said. ‘The merchant’s nephew. Escalus lost his own blood in all this savagery, too.’
Laurence crossed himself. ‘Come, Romeo. Inside.’
The sergeant fetched Romeo a kick along the way then patted his sword. ‘If I catch you anywhere but on your way out of town tomorrow morning I’ll take great pleasure in splitting you in two with this good blade. Then drink a long toast to a happier world right after.’
‘I believe you’ve made your point,’ the friar told him. ‘Several times over. Now if you will…?’
He shuffled off cursing into the dark.
‘What news?’ Romeo asked, watching him read the marshal’s letter once more. ‘What does Escalus want to do with me?’
‘A gentler judgement than you might have had. He’ll let you live, but banished. Like Dante. You must never return home again. On pain of immediate death.’
‘This cannot be…’
He showed him the order. The family was to suffer a heavy fine. Romeo would be confined to the monastery until morning then expected to present himself before the castle bridge before nine. There his family would provide a horse and he’d be told to take himself from the territory of the Republic before midday.
‘Be patient, son. This earth of ours is broad and wide and you’ve not seen a portion of it.’
‘Patient? There’s no world outside this city. Only purgatory, torture and hell. Banishment’s a worse punishment than death. If Escalus had any mercy he’d hang me now. He’s just cutting off my head off with a golden axe and smiling at the stroke that murders me. How dare…?’
‘Sit down, you ungrateful child!’ the friar ordered.
The sound of his anger, something he’d never heard in all the long years he’d known the man, silenced Romeo. He did as he was told. Laurence fetched two cups of wine. Not as good as the rare vintage with which they’d celebrated the wedding that afternoon. But suitable enough for a wake, he said.
‘You killed a man and for that our law demands your life. Escalus has put that to one side and turned the black word “death” to “banishment”. This is mercy if only you could see it.’
‘If I’d not slain Tybalt he’d have killed me.’
Yet, Laurence pointed out, Romeo never told them that. They both knew why. Too many questions in the heat of the moment and a greater secret might have emerged.
‘So what am I to do?’
Laurence went to his desk and scrawled out a brief letter. Romeo watched. It appeared to be in Greek, a language unknown to him.
‘This,’ the friar said, ‘is for my brother Nico in Mantua. Outside the Republic, but a few hours’ ride away. He’s an apothecary there. A good man, if a touch disputatious. We are…’ He sighed. ‘Very different. But of the same mind in some things. He will give you a bed for the night. An introduction to the court there. Take it…’
Romeo didn’t move.
‘Your opportunities are limited,’ Laurence pleaded. ‘The alternative is to wander this dangerous land alone and find your own place in it. Or a new grave somewhere. Take it!’
He did and asked, ‘What else?’
‘What else? Be quiet. Be good. Be sensible. Prove to the court of Mantua you’re the decent lad we all know. Then, in a week, a month or two, we’ll petition Escalus once more. I’ll tell him you acted to defend yourself. That you deserve a second chance. A pardon. Permission to return here and become the worthy citizen you were before.’
Romeo said nothing.
‘Balthazar – the valet who comes with you for confession sometimes – he’s to arrange your horse for the morning. The boy lives outside the city but works within the walls. Does he have a warrant to cross the bridge when Escalus closes the gates to the rest of us?’
‘I believe so.’
‘He’s a trustworthy soul?’
‘Yes, but–’
‘Then he can be our conduit to you in Mantua. Juliet’s and mine. When there’s news he’ll bring it. For God’s sake, Romeo… speak!’
‘Friar. Her father will try to marry her to this count… Paris. Is that… possible?’
Laurence went to his desk and retrieved the contract they’d signed that afternoon. No witnesses save him. A legal paper but…
‘I told you all this. Both of you. I’m a humble friar. This is just ink on parchment. You haven’t even spent a night with your bride. All Luca Capulet need do is set a lawyer upon the matter and–’
‘How long?’
The friar shrugged. ‘Go to Mantua. Impress the court there. Have them send good reports of you to Escalus. With a little luck and effort on your part we can have you back here, married in the sight of all, soon enough…’
There was a rap at the door. Laurence told Romeo to retreat to the dark corner. Perhaps the Capulets were organising retribution of their own. But it was Nurse there complaining about the long walk through dark and unwelcoming streets.
‘Romeo, sir?’ she said, short of breath from the hurried effort. ‘My mistress sends me…’
He came out of the shadows. ‘Juliet? How is she?’
The woman took off her mob cap and looked around. ‘Confused. As are we all. A little frightened. And full of tears.’
‘She thinks me a murderer.’
‘And why do you reckon that is? She thinks you her husband, too. What others say makes no difference it seems.’
‘Then tell her–’
‘Oh no!’ the woman cried. ‘That’s for you, lad. You must come to her. This is her wedding night. Whatever you’ve done. Whatever comes next. You know the way, my mistress says. To her bedroom. To her heart. Then find it by midnight or else–’
The friar came and stood between them. ‘This is too dangerous, Romeo. You heard the guards. Stay here. Be safe. Leave for Mantua in the morning. I’ll send word as we’ve agreed.’
‘Safe? What’s safe to me? I cannot–’
The woman tapped Laurence’s shoulder. ‘He may walk with me, Friar. If anyone asks I’ll say he’s my idiot son. Nice to look at but soft in the head.’ She nodded at him. ‘Not that far from the truth if I’m honest. As to the morning, lad… that’s up to you.’
Romeo looked at the friar. ‘One night. Then our marriage is surely real.’
‘Not to her father. That can never happen now. I was a fool to listen to you in the first place.’
‘Brother Laurence. I must go.’
There was no dissuading him. Laurence saw that. Romeo downed his wine and made to leave.
‘The letter,’ Laurence said, holding out the parchment. ‘For my brother, Nico, remember? He has a stall in the market in the old Rotonda of San Lorenzo. Find him there. Give him this. Take Balthazar into your confidence in the morning. With God’s help all will turn out well.’
Romeo took the message then held out his hand. ‘You’ve been kinder to me than ever I deserved.’
‘But kindness sometimes kills,’ the friar said and they shook. ‘Be patient. Remember what I said? They that run too fast and never think…’
There was a grim and pessimistic tone to his voice at that moment. An uncharacteristic one.
‘I recall you never finished the sentence.’
‘Then I’ll do it now. They fall.’
* * *
Luca Capulet got back to the palazzo still furious at Escalus, the Montagues, the world. The place was in disorder. The servants were weeping for Tybalt, out of duty not love. Juliet had locked herself in her room. She was badly shaken by her cousin’s murder, or so her mother thought. Nurse was nowhere to be seen. This infuriated Capulet too: it was that woman’s job to see to their daughter when she was in one of her moods. Words would be had on that front before long.
But first he drank. Not Garganega wine this time but the spirit the farmers made from pomace, the leaves and stems and seeds left behind after the pressing of the grapes, fermented then distilled into a strong, clear, fiery spirit. Capulet had an arrangement with a group of farmers in Bassano, sixty miles away in the foothills of the lower Alps behind Vicenza. They made this spirit there and called it grappa. It was cheap and strong, and coarser men loved it. Capulet, too, at times like this. Bassano was quiet and bucolic, nothing like Verona with its schemes and feuds and pompous military masters. He’d taken a lover there once, a decade before, a beautiful, accommodating courtesan with a house overlooking the river Brenta. The grappa was to blame, or so he told himself. Perhaps it was time to go back and find out.
Not now. This was a moment to drown himself in drink and let the fire of that rough liquor stoke the blaze inside.
Tybalt was dead, murdered by a Montague. The lad he’d never loved. That had been impossible ever since the snarling, vicious creature had come into his household. Still, he was a Capulet, his dead brother’s son. Child of a troubled woman who’d resisted all efforts to implant her into the family.
He thought of their last argument, the night before. ‘If I’d been firmer from the outset…’ Luca Capulet told himself. ‘If I’d been the stern father I should have been to the boy, instead of listening to my wife and tolerating his tempers and his demands…’
Households were like small armies. They ran on hierarchies and rules, on orders to be followed without question. Men understood that implicitly. It was women who brought weakness into the equation, pleading for a compassion that only led to disobedience, for a lazy indulgence that brought mutiny and shame.
‘Learn your lesson,’ he muttered and took a gulp of the harsh spirit. It burst in his mouth, pain and pleasure in one. ‘Only a fool makes the same mistake twice.’
There was another rebel in this household, even closer to his blood. He loved the child, for all their rows and the loss that came from heading a family without a son and heir. That was why he indulged her capricious nature, the resolute disobedience, the casual contempt she showed him on occasion.
What was it Escalus had said?
The young are never happy. They see the rising of the sun as treachery and its setting as a slight.
They were the only true words the miserable old bastard had uttered. Banging Cangrande’s sword on the table like that. Capulet swore beneath his breath. His wife had vanished. The servants had left him alone with a flagon of drink, a cup and all his burning anger.
‘They must be broken,’ he declared, smelling the grappa fumes rising from his throat. ‘They shall be too.’
He walked down into the kitchen. Pietro was the only one there, stuffing his face as usual.
‘Take my food out of your mouth, boy,’ Capulet ordered and watched him sputter on some cold goose. ‘What word is there from Count Paris?’
‘Nothing. Not since he left the house this morning.’
Then he picked up the wing in front of him and gnawed on it again.
Insolence. It was everywhere.
Capulet didn’t strike his servants often. Perhaps not enough. He marched over, slap
ped the boy hard around the head. The meat skittered across the kitchen as Pietro uttered a surprised and high-pitched yelp.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the boy pleaded. ‘And may I say… I am sorry for your loss also.’
‘My loss? My loss? Insolent brat. I should take my whip to you. What does a creature like you care for this household? We’re just coins in your pocket and a scarlet feather in your cap. Don’t try and fool me otherwise.’
Capulet went to where they kept the drink and gazed at the rows of bottles and flasks. ‘Go to Paris,’ he said, without bothering to look at the boy cowering behind him. ‘Tell him I wish his presence here tonight. To raise a toast to our joint venture.’
Pietro whined something that sounded like a question. Capulet grabbed a flask and turned to stare at him. ‘What?’
‘Is that all I’m supposed to tell him? I mean… it’s late. There’s bad feeling out there on them streets. If I may give him better cause…’
‘Tell him that should he come to see me this night the prize he desires is his for the taking. No further arguments. No more equivocation. He may have it for himself two days hence. Tomorrow we observe a wake. After that a wedding.’
Pietro gulped.
‘A wedding?’
‘That’s what I said. Same food. Same drink. Same… guests for all I care. Go!’
The boy ran out then, scampering into the warm, dark night.
* * *
Half an hour later, close to the Capulet palazzo, as he scuttled along the Porta Leoni next to the nurse, Romeo saw Paris and the servant Pietro heading in the same direction. He sank into the doorway of a butchers, cap down on his head. Nurse waited a few houses along. The count seemed too preoccupied to notice anything. He went into the palazzo courtyard, followed by the servant.
Without another word, Nurse vanished inside. Romeo skirted the side wall until he found the gate into the garden. It was open. Half-running, he was through. The ground was fresh from the storm but the old grapevine beside her balcony had mostly escaped the downpour. Heart ready to burst, he climbed it slowly, carefully, in the light of the moon and stars. By the time he got there, Juliet was waiting for him, forewarned by the nurse.
