by David Blixt
Asdente said ungrudgingly, "You are the best soldier in Italy."
"Thank you for that, Vanni. But I had a good teacher." The Capitano slapped his hands together. "Even that! Was Bailardino put in my path by the heavens to create my destiny? What if I had said no? Could I have said no?"
Asdente looked puzzled. "Why would you have wanted to?"
The Scaliger was earnest. "Because then we would know that we have a choice in our own lives. Free will."
All the men at the table sat quietly for some time, chewing upon their meals and their thoughts. At last Francesco Dandolo spoke, his voice a dreamy whisper. "Have you ever been to sea? Being Venetian, I find the best example of the power of the stars is at sea. Upon the water, the stars are both the guide and the enemy. They give the sailor a map to his destination while at the same time they stir the seas he sails on. They show the path, at the same time creating obstacles to that path."
Cangrande's eyes narrowed as he listened. "They show the prize, then strip it away."
Hoping to avert the Scaliger's curiously ill thoughts, Pietro turned to Dandolo. "The stars don't always make the seas rough, do they? Couldn't they create a smooth course just as easily? Why must they be the enemy?"
The Capitano's head swiveled. "Quite right. Why must they?"
Il Grande chose to follow an earlier thought. "Still, the choice is theirs. The stars choose which men to aid, which to oppose. What does it say about the men they befriend? Are those men more capable, or less?" His eyes met Cangrande's. "Which did they do for you, lord Capitano?"
"I don't know," replied Cangrande. "Some men would say they favor me."
"But what do you say?"
Cangrande pursed his lips. "Can a man ever know the Lord's will?"
"It would arrogance to try," observed Mussato. "His will is a mystery. Man's fate is up to God alone."
"But that denies free will," countered Dante, "a concept that the Church does allow for. A man takes active participation in deciding his own fate. Or else what's the point of living?"
Mussato leaned as far forward as his injuries allowed. "Ah, but what if he chooses a different interpretation of that fate than God intended? A man meant to be a soldier becomes a farmer. Will the stars oppose him? Will God?"
The Scaliger pointed. "What do you say, Pietro?"
Pietro hadn't realized his expression had altered so much as to draw attention, and he was too embarrassed to share his thought. "I — I don't know. I do know that my father has a very strict view on astrology."
The Scaliger threw Dante a sly glance. "I know. Soothsayers get tossed into the infernal ring reserved for fraud."
"There is a specific distinction," corrected Dante. "A soothsayer is not an astrologer, but a reader of entrails. That is superstistion. Astrology is a science, one I adhere to. But, like priests, there are good and bad astrologers. The only astrologers I condemn are the ones who try to alter the will of Heaven, or else try to curry favor by creating prophecies out of whole cloth."
"Poor Manto!" cried Bonaccolsi. "Dante, throw us a bone!"
"I did — hers."
There was some little hilarity at this remark, but Cangrande was undeterred. Clapping his hands together, he divided the air in front of him. "Where is the line, poet? As someone who finds himself accused of being a figure from a prophecy, it concerns me deeply. What separates the active interpretation you advocate from the willful disobedience you deplore — or, should I say, He deplores?"
Dante wore his best enigmatic expression. "I suppose it comes down to the will of the Lord."
The Scaliger's mocking grin grew wide as he shook his head in disgust. "As always, poet, you wax eloquent on broad themes but on specifics remain cryptically obtuse."
Dante spread his hands. "Of course, my lord. What else are poets for?"
The supper went on, course after course, and conversation wandered into easier topics, no less hotly debated. There were discussions of battle tactics, of women, of politics, of wine. The meal ended with a second fricatella, apple this time, and a vigorous debate over the fate of the Knights Templar. Their order had finally been stamped out earlier in the year by King Philip IV and his puppet pope. Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, had been sentenced to burn at the stake for heresy. Before falling to the flames he proclaimed his innocence and declared that God would be his avenger, calling down a curse upon the French king and his issue down to the thirteenth generation. His last words were a summons for both King Philip and Pope Clement to meet him at the seat of God's judgment before the year was out.
The whole affair was forgotten until Clement dropped dead less than a month later. Pietro remembered the frantic editing, the numerous messages sent to all the hired copyists, as Dante added a prophecy of the pope's death to the nineteenth canto.
The men seated about the Capitano's supper discussed the prospects of the demise of the French monarch with surprising relish. Though all were skeptical of the Templars, not a one held a doubt as to the cause of their ultimate destruction. The Knights had fallen thanks to the greed of Roi Philippe le Bel — Philip the Fair.
Pietro listened, trying to absorb the thoughts of these great men. The whole evening had amazed him. Not just the debates, but the camaraderie. Not three days past Asdente had tried to split Cangrande's skull, but here was the Scaliger treating him like a beloved cousin. Il Grande was courteous and friendly and seemed to truly enjoy Cangrande's company. Mussato had visibly relaxed, relishing the evening as much as his injuries allowed. Even the sullen Marsilio had perked up when the talk had shifted to battles won and lost.
The only exception was the Venetian. Cangrande needled Ambassador Dandolo at every opportunity. Cheerfully, playfully, with a veneer of civility. But mercilessly.
Eventually the meal broke up. Marsilio da Carrara was the first to rise, perfunctorily asking his uncle's permission to retire. He didn't glance back as he left the hall. Asdente and Passerino headed back to the salon for a game of dice. Dandolo and Il Grande helped Mussato to his feet, from whence a bevy of servants conveyed him to his 'cell,' as Cangrande jokingly put it. No prison ever had the luxuries the Paduans were presently enjoying. The Capitano clearly believed in killing his enemies with kindness.
Cangrande was still talking to various servants when Dante approached his son. "How are you feeling, boy?"
"Fine, pater," replied Pietro, trying not to picture what was going on under the bandage on his leg.
"Good," said Dante gruffly. "Then I'm going to bed." He glanced up at his son's bare head. "The new hat?"
"Lost on the road," said Pietro.
"Mmm." With a pleased smile Dante departed.
Finished instructing the servants, Cangrande turned to Pietro. "Staying up? Then let us return to your perch on the porch."
Back under the portico, a fresh brazier beside them, Cangrande said, "You were fairly quiet tonight, Pietro."
"I didn't have much to add."
"Take it from one who knows, lying is a bad habit to fall into. You had plenty to say. And not just to Marsilio," he added wickedly.
Pietro felt his face grow warm. "I was the youngest there –"
"Marsilio only has a couple of years on you and you're infinitely better mannered. So, what was it you were thinking?"
"It — it's about — when you all were discussing the stars," said Pietro hesitantly. "You asked where the line was, between interpretation and willful disobedience. Perhaps –" He stopped short, his words inadequate to express the idea in his head. But the Scaliger was waiting. "Maybe it's a little of both. A man may not deny what the heavens have in store for him, as a sailor cannot control the waves. But he can choose what he does when the waves hit."
Cangrande seized the thought. "You mean that, though the stars may give him a map, it is up to him to follow it."
"Something like that," nodded Pietro. "But more than a map. Fate throws an obstacle in our way. We decide how to deal with it. That's our free will. We cannot
fight Fate, but we can choose our reaction to it." Grinding to a halt, he realized how stupid he sounded as he watched Cangrande kindly turning his words over and over, as though they were worth considering.
When the Scaliger spoke, his tone was musing. "A man may be master of his actions, but not his stars."
"It was just a thought, lord," added Pietro hastily.
The Scaliger looked up from his contemplation. "And a fine one, Signor Alaghieri. I wish you had spoken it at supper. That sentiment far outstrips anything said by the warriors, diplomats, and poets tonight. You are wise beyond your years."
"This surprises you?" mocked a feminine voice from behind them.
"Ah, Donna Katerina." A glimpse of his sister was all he needed for his glib demeanor to return. "No doubt he is wise, but for the desire to see me yet living."
"Age may well temper that desire." Tonight her chestnut hair was held back by a single band of black.
Pietro managed to stand awkwardly. He was graced with a brief nod before Donna Nogarola again fixed her eyes on her brother. "If you are done wallowing, I have news."
"It is arranged?"
"It is. Do you wish me to go?"
Cangrande threw up his hands in mock horror. "What, have you tramping about in this weather, catching your death from the chill? That would never do. Bailardino would never forgive me."
"Then I owe my health to your fond feelings for my husband?"
"He raised me. I am the man I am today because of him."
"Perhaps I should thank him with a gift each year on your birthday. What should I choose?"
"A knife?"
His perfect smile was returned in kind. "My dear brother, you read my thoughts. But the knife that kills my husband would have to be sharpened on both ends, so it would cut out my heart as well."
As before, Pietro had trouble following the exchange. Their discourse was like an onion, each layer revealing another. It was impossible for an outsider to know what lay at the core. Something ugly, that was certain.
Katerina sighed. "So I am not to ride out tonight. Whatever would I do without your regard for me?"
"You shall never have to know, my sweet, for of all people, you have my fondest regard."
"So whom do you propose sending on so formidable an evening?"
"No one."
A frown passed over the lady's face. "Have you changed your mind?"
"Not at all. I do not propose sending anyone. I shall undertake the voyage myself."
The lady's disapproval was manifest. "You will be missed."
"If anyone asks, I am drunk. Or perhaps I've taken myself to pray in the chapel. Or at an orgy — in the chapel. I leave it to your imagination."
"My imagination often falls short of your reality. Nevertheless, I will play the spider and spin a web of lies for you. You should not go alone."
"Should, could, would, dear sister. I will have it my own way."
"Not if I say otherwise."
"Even then."
Their gazes locked, neither giving ground.
He didn't know where Cangrande planned to journey, nor why Donna Katerina wanted to undertake the trip herself. All he knew was he wanted to be helpful to them both. Almost before he realized it he was saying, "I'll go with you, lord."
Both Scaligeri turned and Pietro felt a frisson of unease as their eyes examined him. Still, he pressed on. "I'm well enough, and I've been going mad lying still all the time. I want to do something."
Brother and sister exchanged a look. Cangrande spoke first. "I would be glad of the company. With that said, I don't want you to worsen your injury or fall ill from a drenching. I have a long ride ahead of me. We wouldn't be back before morning. If at all," he added ominously.
"I would be honoured to aid you in any way, my lord."
"You didn't answer my question, Pietro."
"Perhaps you should ask one, then." Stepping close, Katerina laid a light hand on Pietro's sleeve. Her proximity was enough to make Pietro forget the chill rain. He could smell a hint of spiced malmsey on her breath, mixed with that wonderful lavender. "What we want to know is if you're well enough. Are you?"
"Yes, lady."
"This errand will be a secret, though its outcome will not. These events must always remain beneath the rose, as it were."
"Or herkos odonton, as the Greeks say," added Cangrande. "Within the hedge of your teeth."
Katerina examined her brother with wry disdain. "Peacock. I find the image of Cupid buying some fool's silence for a rose somehow endearing."
"And appropriate, if I am to play Cupid. But Pietro is no fool."
"No, he is not. May we trust you with this secret, Pietro?"
A secret mission! It's dangerous — dangerous enough to have the Scaliger asking about Fate and the stars. Something's happening that he's worried about. Something that's kept him from attacking Padua. This is what he's been waiting for! He's wrong, I am a fool — I doubted him!
Cangrande mistook Pietro's silence for embarrassment. "Sister, you are unworthy. Trust cannot be promised. It either is, or isn't. Twice now Signore Alaghieri has acted to my benefit. That is proof enough."
"I stand chastised." The lady removed her hand from Pietro's sleeve. "In any case, it is not my secret, is it?"
If it was a thrust, Cangrande did not parry. Pietro was beginning to notice how often her taunts — if that was truly what they were — went ignored. Instead Cangrande said, "What was it you came up with, Pietro? A man may control his actions, but not his stars."
"Actually, it was you who –"
"Tonight we shall test how fixed fate is. We shall see if the ordained comes to pass." A steely look hardened the ocean-blue eyes. "If my fate is indeed written, then the stars will see that my actions are still worthy of the Greyhound."
It was the first time Pietro had ever heard that particular title pass the Capitano's lips. Of all the names the Scaliger owned, the Greyhound was perhaps his most revered. It was unsettling, therefore, to hear him utter it with such loathing.
TWELVE
Pietro cracked the door to his father's room. Dante and Poco were both asleep. Pietro crept as best he could to a trunk in the corner, imagining the picture he made, a limping thief with a crutch. Opening the trunk was so noisy he gave up on secrecy and went for speed.
Sure enough, Poco sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for breeches." To prove his point he held up the trousers he'd found in the dim brazier light.
"Why?"
"I'm going riding." Telling Poco the truth was the best way to make him disbelieve it.
"Is this about your stupid leg?"
"Shut up."
"Did you ask father if you could wear his breeches?"
"No, Poco," said Pietro, using the name his brother hated. "But if you want to wake him, I'll wait."
Poco gave Pietro the fig and rolled over. Leaving the room bearing the breeches in hand, Pietro stopped off in a shadowed hall to struggle into the unfamiliar apparel. Looking down, he was pleased to see they hid his wound entirely. Boots back in place, he picked up his crutch and followed the directions Donna Katerina had given him. On the ground floor there was a panel covered by a tapestry of a pastoral scene. Opening the panel, Pietro discovered a staircase spiraling down. With a hand on the wall to steady himself, he hobbled down to the bottom. It smelled dank and musty here, and Pietro had to bat at his nose to keep from sneezing. Thankfully Cangrande had left a lighted candle behind him, so Pietro didn't have to navigate it in total darkness.
In three minutes he was at the tunnel's end facing a solid wall. He felt for the catch and after several tries found it, opening a sliding wooden panel. Immediately he smelled the wet straw of a stable. He slipped through the panel and closed it behind him.
The place was deserted except for Cangrande and two saddled horses. Both horses were remarkably dark-coloured. Hearing Pietro's step disturbing the straw, the Scaliger turned. "That was quick. A
ny trouble?"
"No, lord."
"Good. I hope you don't mind, I've chosen your horse for you." While the Capitano's horse was a huge ebony beast, Pietro's was a rust-brown palfrey, a short-legged, long-bodied horse that had a gentle amble for a gait. It was a fine-looking young thing, obviously just broken to the saddle. Pietro ran a hand over its neck. The muscles under the dark coat rippled.
The choice of horse was solicitous. Palfreys weren't as fast as other horses, but the smooth ride they afforded made them suitable mounts for the wounded or aged, who also might have difficulty mounting a taller horse.
The Capitano had laid two extra cloaks across the necks of both horses. The cloaks covered broadsword sheaths strapped tightly to both saddles. A good one-handed sword was in place on Pietro's, but Cangrande's sheath stood empty.
Not for long. From his hip Cangrande drew the hereditary sword of the della Scala clan. It wasn't a particularly fancy or attractive weapon. It bore no jewels or ornate carvings, and the wooden grip was only long enough for one hand. Bound with thin iron wire, the grip ran between a gilt pommel and a guard decorated with a small metal triangle. A deep groove ran down in the center of either side of the double-edged blade, measuring about twice the length of the Scaliger's forearm. It shone as he lifted it from its scabbard and fitted it in the sheath on the saddle.
Pietro lifted the cloak on his own mount and discovered in addition to a sword a long, thick dagger. "Should we have shields? Helmets?"
"No, but put this on." Cangrande handed Pietro a quilted black gambeson. "Real armour would slow us down as well as give us away. We want to look like unfortunate travelers." As Pietro laced the gambeson in place, Cangrande produced two huge sagum cloaks, scarves, and a pair of wide-brimmed hats to keep them dry. "Now please don't be offended, Pietro, but I'm tying a lead from my horse to yours. The last thing we need is to lose each other in this tempest, and where we're going calling out would be — unadvisable." Curious and excited, Pietro said it was fine with him. "May I also suggest, in deference to your injury, that you ride like an Arab. Or half an Arab. Put your left foot in the stirrup, but tuck your right knee around the saddlehorn. Here, allow me to get you situated. Hup! Good, now cover your injury with the cloaks. Excellent. Hopefully that will stay dry. Does it hurt?"
