Juliet & Romeo

by David Hewson

  Unreal.

  Like the day itself.

  Like the news he would soon impart to his master.

  * * *

  Romeo was lying on a hard wooden couch reading Virgil when they returned to Nico’s chambers. He cried out in joy at the sight of them, then leapt up and happily took Balthazar’s hand.

  ‘I dreamt there was good news on the way, friend. And here you are to deliver it.’

  ‘What happened in your dream, sir?’ the servant asked warily.

  Nico found wine, and downed a long draft himself before pouring some for them. He had an inkling whatever news had come from the north was not welcome.

  Romeo took a glass and grinned. ‘The nonsense you get from supping this apothecary’s magical inventions.’

  ‘Well, here’s to good ones,’ Nico said, raising a toast. ‘Though dreams come from something more than drink.’

  ‘Aye. Your fears. I dreamt I was dead and Juliet found me. Then breathed me back to life with such kisses. And so I was revived.’ He waved his cup high. ‘Turned from a corpse to a king. That’s love for you.’

  Balthazar didn’t touch a drop. Romeo hadn’t noticed. Excitedly he went on, ‘So you’ve news? Are there letters from the friar too? How are my mother and father? Most of all…’ The smile had left him. ‘How… how is my Juliet? Nothing can be wrong with the world if she is well.’

  ‘I wish I could say she was well and nothing wrong.’

  Nico pulled up three chairs and had them sit.

  ‘Speak, friend,’ Romeo begged. ‘You didn’t ride all this way for a cup of wine.’

  The young servant blinked and wouldn’t look him in the eye. ‘Your Juliet is dead, Master. I saw her bier leave the Capulet palazzo this morning destined for the crypt. Father Laurence was with the coffin…’

  Romeo reached across the table and grabbed him by the collar. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Oh, pardon me for bringing this grim news. You said it was my job…’

  The apothecary intervened. ‘Let the lad go, Romeo. We must listen. You’re sure?’

  ‘I saw the coffin on the bier! I asked one of their servants. The fat one who wanted to stick us last Monday…’

  A church bell sounded. Someone started shouting in the street: fresh pies for sale. A bluebottle buzzed round the room. The world seemed both ordinary and strange.

  ‘She can’t be dead.’ Romeo shook his head. ‘I left her well and happy. We agreed. I would come here. Work for us to be reunited. She can’t be dead. Unless…’

  Balthazar gulped at his cup and didn’t meet his eye.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Romeo demanded.

  ‘It was just gossip I heard on the street. There was talk she was to be married. To Count Paris. Today. They had musicians, feasting, all manner of things planned. And then a coffin.’

  Nico looked at them in turn. ‘Here’s what’s to be done. Balthazar. You return to Verona. See my brother. Give him a letter from me. Then ride back tomorrow with what he says. We’ll understand the full position and then consider–’

  Romeo got to his feet. ‘I’m going back there. Whatever’s happened–’

  Balthazar took his arm. ‘They will kill you! I heard those soldiers when you left. They have orders to execute you on sight, anywhere within the territory of Venice. Those men said…’ He shuddered at the horrid memory. ‘They promised they’d garrotte you. Till your eyes popped out and your tongue turned black.’

  Romeo found his jerkin and the bag he’d brought. ‘It’ll be dark by the time I get there. I can make my way into the city unseen.’ He paused, trying to think it through. ‘I’ll find her. Discover what we may do. Then…’

  ‘Then what?’ Nico asked. ‘This is madness. You risk your life for no good reason. Wait until tomorrow…’

  ‘My wife may be in a coffin! You think I have no good reason?’

  The apothecary stayed silent.

  ‘I must know.’ He put some money on the table then held out his hand. ‘This is for you, Nico. For your treasured advice and welcome friendship.’

  ‘Keep your damned coins. I’ve done nothing for it.’

  ‘Nothing yet. What Balthazar says is true. If I’m found they’ll garrotte me. In public like a tortured animal.’

  ‘Don’t go then…’

  Romeo’s eyes strayed to the bottles by them, blue and green and red. And a few pitch black with painted skulls on the side. ‘Take the money. Give me one of your black vials in return…’

  Nico’s eyes grew wide. ‘I try to save lives. Not take them.’

  ‘If you won’t do as I ask I’ll go to one of the others on the rotonda and ask there. I doubt they’ll have your scruples.’

  Balthazar shook his head and went to the door to look out on Mantua’s Piazza Erbe. The light was waning. It would be dark before they got close to Verona’s walls.

  ‘The plague rules are over,’ he said. ‘The stable man I left my horse with told me. He’d heard it from a messenger. You may take my papers and get free entrance so long as no one recognises you. I can talk my own way in.’

  Romeo reached out for the nearest empty black vial and thrust it at the apothecary. ‘I won’t take it unless I have to. But I’m not going to die like a dog in the street. How long will you need?’

  Nico looked at his collection of compounds, the jars and ornate bottles of mixtures from all over the known world. ‘Give me a few minutes. I had a farmer order some poison for the morning. You’ll take a letter for my brother, too.’

  ‘In Greek, I imagine.’

  ‘You imagine right,’ Nico muttered and scribbled it out there and then. The potion took a little while and he grew more taciturn by the minute.

  He wouldn’t come down to the street to see them go.

  ‘Live, Romeo,’ he said, taking him by shoulder when they reached the door. ‘It’s hard sometimes. But I’ve seen much more of the alternative than you and I know this: if you breathe there’s hope. Stop and…’

  The older man shrugged and wouldn’t go on.

  Balthazar broke the awkward silence between them. ‘We need to be moving. The later the hour, the warier the guards.’

  The sun was down behind square. Night was slowly stealing towards Mantua. Two fresh horses beneath them, Romeo and Balthazar found the straight road north.

  * * *

  An hour after sunset, the weather began to change. Thick clouds tumbled down the Alps to Garda, caught the strong westerly wind building from Milan then gathered in squally clusters against the moonlit sky. It was dark by the time Friar John tramped wearily back over the Cangrande bridge. The same guards who’d taunted him the night before were there.

  ‘You got chickenpox, then?’ the sergeant called and that made the others laugh. ‘’Cos if that’s the case I’m turning you back, boy.’ The man came and blocked his path.

  ‘No, sir. I had it when I was a child. No chickenpox. No plague. Nothing that should prevent my return to Verona.’

  ‘What happened to your mule?’ one of the soldiers asked. ‘Them saddle bags packed with medicine?’

  And letters too, John thought.

  ‘Stolen. By vagabonds. I merely set out on my orders, thinking I was doing a good turn for my fellow men.’ He took his hands out of his pockets and made a gesture: nothing left. ‘And for that here’s my reward.’

  ‘Aww.’ The sergeant patted him on his head. ‘Poor lad. He’s learned the world’s a hard old place. Specially if you go out there with nowt but a lame nag and a bible by your side.’

  One of the men came up and nudged his arm. ‘Best thing you can do is chuck away that habit and sign up with us, son. More fun to be had soldiering than hanging round a monastery, that’s for sure.’

  ‘We get girls,’ the third soldier said with a sly and lascivious wink. ‘Well, sometimes anyway. It has been known to happen.’

  John gestured at the gate. ‘Perhaps I will. First I must talk to my master, Friar Laurence. May I?’

  They threw a
few more jocular insults in his direction then waved him through. Feet aching, exhausted, hungry, thirsty, he made his way to San Francesco al Corso. Laurence was in his cell, fast asleep on his cot.

  ‘What ho, my brother,’ John said loudly then found himself some wine and slumped into a chair. The steady patter of rain began outside. An owl hooted close by, as if offended.

  Laurence came to, rubbing his eyes. ‘I hear the voice of Friar John. So soon back from Mantua? What did Romeo say? Do you have a letter from him?’

  The wine was welcome.

  ‘For pity’s sake, speak, son.’

  ‘Of what? Of pestilence that turns out to be chickenpox? Of saddlebags that contain deceit and trickery alongside medicine for a plague that never was? Of passing my precious robes to a murderer to wear in my place?’

  Laurence took a deep breath.

  ‘Tell me,’ he ordered.

  John did, everything from the inn to the woman in it. How he’d opened the letters, found one beyond him, the other, to Romeo, too strange to believe.

  ‘I did not put on this habit to become a messenger to murderers. Nor to be part of whatever game it is you play.’

  ‘Quiet, boy! Oh, sweet Jesus…’

  John stayed silent. He’d never heard the older man curse.

  Laurence struggled to his feet, stretching from the slumber. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘We?’ John asked. ‘In the morning I’ll shrug off this robe and find my own way in the world. All the years I’ve spent here…’

  ‘You were an orphan, lad! Destitute. It was either that or beggary.’

  John finished his water and glared at him. ‘I’d rather be a beggar than a fraud. How could you play these games?’

  ‘Because they demanded it! Because…’ That bloody day in Otranto would never desert him, nor the guilt it left behind. ‘I thought it might bring them happiness and end the idiotic violence between Capulet and Montague. Now…’ He looked around the cell, with its bottles and potions. ‘I realise I’m nothing more than a fool, too unworldly for these tangled designs.’

  The young friar got up to go. Laurence came and put out a hand to stay him. ‘The girl. Juliet. She’s not dead. She’s trapped inside that crypt, drugged, asleep. I thought the letter you bore would have brought Romeo to her and the two of them could flee.’

  John stared at him, appalled. ‘Not dead?’

  ‘It was a trick. To allow Romeo to get her out of the city unseen.’

  ‘It won’t now. Will it?’

  ‘No. But sometime soon she’ll wake.’

  ‘Oh, Lord…’ John whispered.

  ‘In that dread place. Alone. What have I done?’

  Laurence got up and opened the door. The rain was coming steadily down. The clouds blacked out most of the moon. John joined him.

  ‘It’s night. They lock it up, Laurence.’

  ‘I know. I need a crowbar and a torch. If I can get her out of there and back here…’ He looked around the little cell again and sighed. ‘I’ve already done enough to put my neck in a noose. There’s no call to add your name to the charge sheet. If you can just find me the means–’

  ‘We will do it.’ John gripped his shoulder, looked him in the eye. They were equals then. It was the first time. ‘Together.’

  ‘You don’t need…’

  ‘There are tools in the huts by the garden. I’ll get them.’

  Ten minutes later they reached the cemetery and the chapel at the end of the long drive, flanked by tall cedars. There was a single gate for entry and high walls to keep out robbers seeking any gold or gems that might be buried with the dead. The thought of her, a girl of sixteen, waking there alone filled both men with horror.

  Laurence strode up to the gates. They were closed, as he expected, but two men, tall and burly, swords out and eagle-eyed, stood there.

  ‘Excuse me, sirs,’ he said as he hid the crowbar beneath his grey habit. ‘This is a place for grief and mourning. Not arms.’

  ‘And who the hell might you be?’ the first one demanded.

  ‘Friars from San Francesco al Corso,’ John told him. ‘Here to do our work. If we’re allowed.’

  ‘Work?’ the man asked, waving his blade in front of them. ‘No one buries folk after dark, do they? This bloody city amazes me sometimes. Stinking rainy night and all people want to do is visit a cemetery.’

  ‘Please…’ Laurence looked around him. There was no other way into the little chapel and the crypt beneath. ‘Sirs. We have duties…’

  ‘Aye! And we’ve got duties too. To our master who visits his lost bride. That’s what happens when you fall for a girl around here. He should have stuck to Florence.’

  The two friars glanced at one another.

  ‘Your master?’ Laurence asked.

  ‘Count Paris. A great and noble man who thought this day to be his joyous wedding and instead comes to scatter flowers on his sweetheart’s cold corpse.’

  There was a light in the chapel. A torch. A figure moving there, close to the altar.

  ‘We could comfort him,’ Laurence whispered.

  The man sneered. ‘Not the way he is right now. No one could. Be off, little men. Before your arses feel a slap of this blade.’

  Friar Laurence nodded weakly. ‘Very well, sirs. Come, John.’

  The young friar didn’t move. ‘But…’

  ‘Come! Come! We’ve no place here. These… gentlemen say so.’

  There was a roll of thunder somewhere up in the hills.

  Paris’s men pulled their jerkins around them and grumbled as they tried to take shelter against the cemetery wall.

  ‘Away with you!’ the first one cried. ‘Bugger off somewhere and have a good pray.’

  The sky opened as they retreated back to the lane. Sweeping, gusting rain came down, drenching them. The two raced beneath the thick branches of a chestnut tree beside the path. John swept his cloak round Laurence to give the older man some protection against the downpour.

  ‘If that poor girl wakes…’

  ‘I am aware of this,’ Laurence snapped.

  ‘We cannot stay here, either. Not if there’s lightning on the way. So what…?’

  A forking flash broke from the cloud across the river and sent two dazzling spears down towards the water. The burst was so bright Laurence’s eyes hurt at the power. The sky rocked with thunder. John tried to tug him from their perilous position beneath the tree.

  ‘No further,’ Laurence said. ‘We wait. We watch. There’s nothing else to do.’

  * * *

  Cold, she felt. Cold and frightened, lost in a darkness that ran forever, no stone clocks in it, no deathly martyrs whispering in her ear. She couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t even feel herself breathe. But she could taste the steely compound running through her veins and, with its spiky power, hear so clearly… rain running down the sodden walls, rats scuttling across the stones, the low and surly growls of distant thunder.

  A day, Friar Laurence had said. And then she’d wake. But even he was vague, perhaps more than he’d allowed himself to show.

  With all the strength she could muster she willed herself to move a single finger. Then an eyelid. Nothing happened and all that effort did was stir her racing imagination even further until it began to build a fearful picture of that small, dark subterranean room Laurence had shown her.

  The damp, worn limestone. The tiny chamber in the earth into which a line of tracery windows had allowed a little of the evening sun. That time there’d been two plain wooden coffins stacked to one side, next to the stone slabs where she surely lay.

  Perhaps there were corpses close by. A gory rag from Tybalt’s shroud. A pool of blood from dead Mercutio. Whispers of fading ghosts.

  The smell…

  Damp and incense. Bodies and decay. She thought she might go mad before she woke, then meet him screaming, never fit to be sane again.

  Romeo. Where are you?

  The picture of him in her raging memory was wron
g somehow. Indistinct and hazy, as if he was the one who toyed with death, not her.

  Romeo…

  Another refrain came then, one that seemed to wish to haunt her through this never-ending nightmare.

  I am me and only me and I am me and only…

  She knew what it meant now and the realisation chilled her. Perhaps he was dead already. And if so, it was her challenge, her burden to go on.

  Then there were new sounds, a sign of hope perhaps. Footsteps, distant, echoing, from the chapel above. Loud and restless pacing. After that a voice too indistinct to recognise though it sounded rough and furious, rent with a sorrowful despair.

  Romeo, she whispered. Come for me. Do not be angry. For it was your violence that put me here, just as much as did your love.

  Then the voice sounded again, clearer this time. Too hard and old for him.

  ‘Wife,’ a half-drunk Paris bellowed. ‘Where is my wife?’

  * * *

  The plague rules were abandoned. So Romeo and Balthazar had approached by the shorter, easier route, through the southern gate of the city where the guards were too drunk and lazy to step outside their huts into the pouring rain. Waved through, they were in the heart of the city within minutes, leaving their horses at a stable near the arena.

  Hoods up against the weather and recognition, they walked on until they found the cemetery. Two heavily-built men were guarding the locked iron gate. Balthazar went ahead and spoke to them, then reported back their threats and orders.

  ‘They’re villains by the looks of them. They say no one’s allowed in till daylight. They’ll stop any man who tries to cross them.’

  ‘Why?’ Romeo wondered, as they hid beneath a tree.

  ‘They won’t say. Perhaps if we went to your father’s…’

  Romeo grabbed him by the jacket. ‘I must see her!’

  ‘So you say. But what can we do? Not fight these men for sure. Your father’s a wise man. He’ll know how to proceed.’

  ‘I know myself! I’m not a child. I’ll break in somehow. Find a window…’

  The two guards were watching from the gate. The nearest yelled, ‘Oi! You two. Didn’t you get the message? We don’t want you lurking round here. Now bugger off.’