by David Blixt
Pietro laughed. "So that's why you called him Cane."
"Yes. But this peace will be another feather in his cap, further advancing his candidacy to become the next Doge."
"Who suggested it?"
"Everybody. Once the rain started, taking Padua became impossible. Their natural defenses were swelling, my men were tired by the race to Vicenza. It had to be peace." The Scaliger leaned his back against the stone frame of the door. "The terms were proposed by Giacomo da Carrara. He came to us yesterday with the whole thing laid out. He knew granting me Vicenza was the concession I needed. We spent the rest of the day working out the rest."
Pietro leaned forward. "How can he make terms? He's not the Podestà."
"He's a smart fellow, our Il Grande. He'll go far. There's no central authority in Padua. I think he means to change that."
"How?"
"By making himself indispensable. Like Dandolo, he's the coming man. Il Grande is now the architect of a peace that will save his city from the deadly Scaligeri. I imagine within five years he'll be fully in control of Padua."
"So you're putting in power the man charged to defeat you."
"In a way, yes."
"I got the impression the two of you were becoming friendly."
"I like him very much. His nephew, too."
Pietro chose not to remark on Marsilio. "But if you want to rule the Trevisian Mark, you'll have to take Padua eventually."
"Even if I didn't plan on making my title a reality, I'd take Padua. I have to. It is a point of honour."
"In spite of the treaty?"
"Oh no. When I attack Padua I'll be sure to have a cause juste. As in this war, I'll find some legal pretext to take them down."
"But you'll be going up against Il Grande."
"Yes."
"Whom you like."
"Yes."
"What will you do then?"
"I will grind him into the dust."
There was nothing to say to that. Feeling the gusts of wind that blew into the church through the unbarred doorway, Pietro sat thinking for a time. Finally he said in a low voice, "Lord, if we're not here to invade the city, why are we here?"
"I promised you a picnic," responded Cangrande, gesturing grandly at the remnants of their meal. "Besides, this is a beautiful church. Look at the craftsmanship! I don't doubt that when you and I are long forgotten this house of God will still be standing."
A fierce gust of wind thrust into the church, blowing out the candle by the open door. Drops of rain struck Pietro's face, stinging like nettles. He breathed in the wet night air and waited until the Scaliger had relit the candle. "Lord, you didn't answer my question."
Cangrande stood half in the door, only one side of his face illuminated by the candle. "You're like one of my mastiffs, Pietro. Once you catch the scent, you don't let go." A moment passed. "We are here to beard the She-Wolf in her den."
"You said that before."
"You know the legend?"
"Pieces of it."
Face half in shadow, the Scaliger began to recite:
To Italy there will come The Greyhound.
The Leopard and the Lion, who feast on our Fear,
He will vanquish with cunning and strength.
The She-Wolf, who triumphs in our Fragility,
He will chase through all the great Cities
And slay Her in Her Lair, and thus to Hell.
He will unite the land with Wit, Wisdom, and Courage,
And bring to Italy, the home of men,
A Power unknown since before the Fall of Man.
Cangrande shifted out of the doorway and into the room. The candle was behind him now, and he became a dark shape lit only at the edges. "That's the part that everybody knows. There is a coda, however."
He will evanesce at the zenith of his glory.
By the setting of three suns after his Greatest Deed, Death shall claim him.
Fame eternal shall be his, not for his Life, but his Death.
"Like Christ, who is so often remembered more for the manner of his death than for what he did in life. I don't know about you, Pietro Alaghieri. But for my single self, I'd rather I was remembered for my life, not my death." Walking nearer, he lowered himself onto a bench. "Your father claims I am the Greyhound predicted. He believes I am the man who will unite this Italy and restore the unity of pope and emperor."
"You are," agreed Pietro.
"I. Am. Not!" Suddenly Cangrande's hand slammed down on the bench again and again. "Pietro, I'm not. An astrologer made a chart for me when I was born. I've seen it. I even called in the great astrologer Benentendi to confirm it. I am not this mythic Greyhound."
"But — your device, the banner –"
"It's the same dog my father used. The Scaligeri hound was created for Mastino. And I am, after all, Cane Grande." He flashed a brief, heartless version of his famous smile. "But I am not Il Veltro. I do not use the title. I have no right to it. When I ride into battle, it is to fight for my city and my honour. I will fight for God, if He asks." His voice became hard. "But I will not be the tool of Fate."
Thunder rumbled overhead. In a quiet voice Pietro said, "Why are — you hardly know me."
Cangrande's true grin returned. "Can't you tell? I want you to stay. I'm a good judge of character, Pietro, and you seem like a handy man to have around. So I'm seducing you — first, I give you political confidences, then personal ones." He sipped some wine. "Your father has expressed a desire to settle in one place. Have you thought about what you're going to do once he does?"
Pietro took in a breath. Honesty deserved honesty. "I have no idea. I was meant for the Church, but now that I'm the heir I have to find another career. I don't know what."
Cangrande's lips turned up at the corners. "I'm sure we can come up with something. In the meantime you can do something for me."
"Anything, lord."
"I want you to convince your father I'm not what he thinks I am."
Pietro shook his head. "He'll have you walking on water in the next volume."
"I'd rather turn water into wine, if it comes to that." After an awkward moment, he continued quietly. "Pietro, I know what I am. A man with gifts, yes, but no better than most, and quite a bit worse than the best I have known. How can a man live life as a myth? I tell you this — if I thought that I was truly the chosen champion of the heavens, I would fight it." His voice possessed a feverish quality. "Just to see her fail, I would fight it with all my might."
Her? Though Pietro had an idea whom Cangrande meant, he chose not to comment. Instead he was about to remark that they had hardly touched the wine when he heard a horse let out a short grunt. Their mounts were tied yards from the church. In the time they had been waiting, he'd not heard them once. This horse seemed closer, just outside the door.
The Scaliger's hand edged closer to his sword — he'd heard it too. He gestured to Pietro to stay still, then stood, sword low by his side.
Someone appeared in the weak illumination of the doorframe. Covered in a hooded cloak, the figure was a full head shorter than Pietro, hunched over a bundle carried gingerly and close. There was something in the way the figure moved that reminded Pietro, inexplicably, of a Pietà.
"Donna Maria," said the Capitano, standing and leaving his sword behind. "You did not have to come yourself."
"Then we're both surprised. I certainly didn't expect you to come." The voice under the folds of the cloak carrried a strange lilt to it. Nor could Pietro place the dialect. There were hints of Paduan, but something more polished beneath. Italian did not seem to be her first tongue, though she was perfectly used to it.
Crossing to her side, Cangrande lifted one of the spare cloaks from off its peg as he passed. Seeing Pietro, the lady held up a forestalling hand. "You are not alone."
"I thought a witness might be useful. If ever you should need him, his name is Pietro Alaghieri." Pietro stood awkwardly and bowed. "You may trust him."
"I should tell you I am exp
ected elsewhere."
Cangrande bowed. "Then we will not keep you."
Reluctantly she allowed herself to be guided past Pietro to the altar, far from door and rain. The Capitano lifted the drenched cloak off of her and, tossing it aside, covered her in the folds of the dry one. By the weak candlelight Pietro glimpsed dark hair coiled tightly against the lady's head. Woven into the braids were many pearls. She didn't glance up, but Pietro didn't sense fear in her. Something else was behind her furtiveness. Her head was bent over the thing she bore in her arms. She carried it like—
Like a baby.
She was carrying a child. Now that he listened, Pietro could hear it murmuring. A baby? What was going on?
Cangrande and the woman rested themselves close to the altar, a decent space separating them. They spoke softly for only a few minutes, the Scaliger doing most of the talking. Once or twice he put a question to the woman and she answered. All the time she looked at the child in her arms.
Pietro was unable to hear their hushed words, nor was he meant to. Trying not to look like he was eavesdropping, Pietro continued to fidget, running his hands over the bench under him. His fingers encountered a thing protruding from the wood. Absently he began prying at whatever it was. The wood was old and after a few seconds the object came away in his hand. Examining it by feel alone, it felt like a disc, large, round, and flat.
Surreptitiously he lifted it to the light, keeping it low by his side. On one side there was an impression of a laurel wreath with the word PAX over it. Turning it over in his fingers he saw a helmet with wings, but it took some scraping with his nails to uncover the word at the top.
MERCVRIO.
Lightning struck a mile away, illuminating the church with bizarre shadows behind their heads. As the accompanying thunder rolled overhead, the baby began to cry. The lady made a shushing noise as she removed the satchel holding it from around her neck. She seemed to be favoring one arm, as if sore. Hugging the child to her breast, she crooned some soft words meant for the infant alone. Kissing the bundled babe, she passed it over to Cangrande's waiting embrace.
The Scaliger had to raise his voice to be heard over the still-rolling thunder. "Has he received baptism?"
"He has."
"And christening?"
"He has. His name is –"
"I know what his name was. He will have to go through it again."
"Fine." Standing, the lady produced a sealed letter. "All you need is here."
The Capitano tucked the letter away inside his doublet. Abruptly the lady turned and strode the length of the chapel, passing Pietro. She lifted her soaked hooded cloak from where it lay, dropping the thick dry one the Scaliger had given her.
From the altar Cangrande said, "What will you do?"
As she turned her head Pietro thought he could just make out the colour of her eyes as the candlelight flickered across them. They were a shade so dark as to almost be black. "I? I shall disappear. But I will be watching."
"If you ever need—"
She almost laughed as she cut across him. "I shall not come to you."
"He will be well guarded. Always, Maria. You have my word."
The lady's hand swept over her face in a violent motion. Pietro realized she was scrubbing away tears. He looked away from her, busied himself by tucking the coin into his purse. She did not deserve to be stared at in her grief.
There was a swirling of the layers of her skirts, then she was gone.
Pietro stared into the darkness. This can't be it. Tell me this wasn't our secret mission. Recalling a piece of conversation he'd heard between Cangrande and Katerina, he leapt to the obvious conclusion. A by-blow! A bastard! The battle, his wounds, Mari and Antony's daring, Nogarola's lost arm, so many dead — all for this? This daring and dangerous midnight invasion of Padua through a storm that could still murder them on the return, not to take the city, but to collect the Scaliger's illegitimate son! All this talk of just cause, of Fate, bad luck, the stars, his grand plans, all sacrificed on this altar of pride or — what? Blood? The need for a son, even one from the wrong side of the sheets? Pietro was aghast. How could he?
Unable to hide his incredulity, Pietro said, "This is why you didn't invade Padua."
Back near the altar, Cangrande stood beneath the large stone cross, the wriggling bundle in his arms. "Shhh." Looking down into the face hidden in the folds of the bundle, his visage was shadowed from the light. "Yes."
Pietro could hardly draw breath. "Why?"
"This was more important. Come and see."
Rising, Pietro limped over to the altar. Cangrande lifted the covering from the child's face, and Pietro looked down at the fine cheekbones, the fair hair, the perfect chin. There could be no doubt. This child was a Scaligeri.
The Scaliger shifted the bundle into the candlelight, allowing them both to see the boy's open eyes. Though he was fussily opening and closing his mouth like a baby bird, he stared back wide and unafraid, his eyes two orbs of brilliant, startling green.
"I am sacrificing nothing, Pietro. I am doing only what is necessary. Trust me."
Smothering his disbelief and indignation, Pietro bowed his head. "I do, lord."
"Thank you." Cangrande turned the child towards him, staring into those vivid eyes. He let out a long breath. "O sanguis meus. What adventures lie ahead. God forgive me."
There are moments in the lives of men that impress themselves on the witnesses, coming back in dreams, both sleeping and waking. In years to come, the details of the battle at Vicenza would be half remembered, half imagined in exaggerated glory. But this moment, the Scaligeri lord standing beneath the old stone cross in a dank and humble church and looking into the child's eyes — this moment would haunt Pietro the rest of his nights.
"What is his name?"
For the first time since viewing the child, the Scaliger pursed his lips in a thin smile. "He will be called Francesco."
THIRTEEN
Florence
25 December 1314
Three months saw the effect of the Paduan defeat at Vicenza reaching many places. In Venice, Ambassador Dandolo returned and made his report to the newly formed Council of Ten. While relating many trade secrets he had bought while staying in Vicenza, he expressed his concern that should Verona ever renew hostilities and win, the Serenissima would be in jeopardy. He was heeded, and at his advice steps were taken against the day Cangrande should grow too powerful.
In Padua, Il Grande had a parade thrown in his honour. It was generally agreed that his skilled diplomacy had saved the city. At the same time his nephew Marsilio was being talked about as the flower of Paduan honour, and his tales of Verona's latest bastard kept his friends enthralled.
Indeed, it was not the war's end but the bastard that had people talking. The official story was that the Scaliger's sister, the beautiful and lively Katerina Nogarola, had adopted a child. One day she was another barren wife, the next she was foster mother to a boy not six months old.
Returning home to find a baby in his wife's arms, her husband had taken it well enough. Lord Nogarola was said to be fond of the infant in an avuncular way — which, if the rumours were true, was precisely the relationship. The gossips denied that it was his own bastard adopted by his wife. Why? Because the night before the child appeared, the Greyhound had vanished entirely from the palace. The next morning his servants had found his discarded clothes, soaked completely through.
Many people delighted in the news, and most of these were friendly with Verona. Cangrande's enemies sighed in bemusement, reconciling themselves that yet another Scaligeri was being bred to torment them. They took comfort was in imagining what the Scaliger's wife had to say about it.
But at the end of November, one event removed all other news from prominence. With a suddenness that unnerved everyone in Europe, news come from the royal court in France. The curse of Jacques de Molay, the last of the Knights Templar, had come true. King Philip the Fair, ruler of France, maker and breaker of popes,
scourge of Paris, was dead.
As Dante's sons packed the effects of their Lucca lodgings for the move to Verona, the poet received a letter from his friend Enguerrand of the locality of Coucy in Picardy. The facts as Enguerrand related them were quite in the realm of the supernatural. King Philip had suffered no accidents or injuries to his person since falling from his horse some weeks earlier. A man in his prime, he suddenly dropped to his knees on a bright November day and began to foam about the mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then he pitched forward and screamed. And screamed. Still screaming, he was taken to bed and there he stayed until he left the mortal world. De Coucy related to Dante that the king was unable to utter words, though many were the final phrases attributed to him. Enguerrand closed his letter by adding:
It will be a matter of future history whether or not Jacques de Molay's curse upon the King's line down to the thirteenth generation comes true. Though I feel in my bones it will.
The ripples this stone cast in the international pond were wild and unpredictable. King Philip had been brother-in-law to the heiress of the Latin Empire of Constantinople. He had been connected by blood and commerce to the kings of Naples and Hungary. The kings of England and Minorca had been his vassals. After the English defeat last summer at Bannockburn, Philip had allied himself with the new Scottish king, called the Bruce. In fact, his political alliances had reached as far as the mystic Orient. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, the moment his death became known, men everywhere looked for ways to profit from it.
In Italy, the cause célèbre was the return of the pope to Rome. With the French king dead, it was suddenly possible, even likely. Thus it was the topic of the Christmas sermon in Florence, delivered by the visiting Cardinal Deacon Giacomo Gaetani Stefaneschi, who purchased Grace by spending a great deal of his sermon praising the life of Pope Celestine V. His Latin was scholarly and beautiful to hear.
