by David Blixt
From his knees, the German leader called out to the Scaliger. "Der Hund! Why do you persecute us? We were only following your orders!"
Cangrande leapt from the saddle and ran over to the man, striking him across the face with the back of his hand. "My orders? To murder, to despoil, to ruin my own honour? I vowed that I wouldn't have them harmed! Who gave you these orders?" The leader of the condottiere swayed and shook his head, mumbling something. Cangrande struck him again. "Who!"
"There were written orders," protested the man around his cracked and bleeding mouth.
"Show me these orders!"
"I cannot, Der Hund! The last command on the paper was to burn it!"
"Convenient! Who brought these mythical orders?"
"A man I never before had met! But in your colours! And the orders bore your seal!"
Cangrande struck the man again, a mailed fist full in the German's face that broke teeth. The Scaliger wheeled about and remounted. There were tears in his eyes not caused by smoke. "Now I know how Ponzino felt. Passerino, Bail, bring these curs back to camp. Do not molest them further until I decide their punishment. Nico, take charge of the Calvatonesi, see to their needs. Protect your men, though, in case they try to take vengeance for this. As well they should!"
Cangrande rode off in the direction of the camp. Nico had his men open a path for the disgraced mercenaries, then issued orders for the housing and tending of the few survivors of the massacre.
Poco disobeyed those orders, though. Rather than tend to the blackened, the bleeding, the weeping, or the dazed, he found himself a fat tree to hide behind. He wasn't seen again until after the moon had passed halfway across the sky, and when at last he stumbled into his tent he was utterly, irredeemably drunk.
At dawn the construction was finished. The remaining Calvatonesi were invited to watch. Nico, furious with his disappointing page, ordered him to be present also.
In groups of twenty, the members of the condottiere were led up the wooden steps, hands bound behind them. The nooses in place, they were shoved off the low platform without even the benefit of a priest. The first to go was the German commander.
A knot of horsemen watched the suspended bodies rocking in the air, ropes creaking with each kick and twitch. In the middle of the generals and their men, Passerino watched the mercenary leader choke. "Well, he did us a favor."
The look Cangrande turned on him was dangerous. "How do you mean?"
Passerino remained brash and confident under his friend's glare. "However this happened, it will make the Cavalcabo and his Cremonese minions quail in their boots. They'll be shitting themselves to give up."
Cangrande eyed the Mantuan. "Or else make them more determined than ever to hold out. We're stretched thin on food as it is." He shook his head and resumed watching the condemned as they fought for breath, eyes bulging and faces changing colours.
Poco couldn't stand it. "Couldn't we at least help them die? Pull on their legs?"
"No," said Cangrande firmly. "They have to suffer, and more importantly be seen to suffer. We must treat them like common thieves and murderers. I will not be disobeyed. Even if this campaign is over."
His generals turned, all uttering a verbal protest. He responded angrily. "O, it would look good, wouldn't it! Even if we take Cremona without starving first, which we won't, this will be what gets the credit! Not honour. Brutality!"
"What about the note?" asked Castelbarco. "Did you discover who sent it?"
"If it even existed," said Nico.
"He insisted he'd gotten the order," said Cangrande, who'd spent the night in his tent with the mercenary leader. "Though I am loath to believe him, it remains a possibility that one of us did this."
"Someone with access to your seal," Castelbarco pointed out.
"Or a decent copy," said Bail. "You'll have to have a new one made." Cangrande nodded.
"I think he was lying," opined Passerino, spitting at the dying man twenty feet away.
"Possibly," said Cangrande. "If not, Heaven help the man who did this. My martial honour has been marred. I will not rest until the stain is expunged."
"This is a good start," said Bail. The first man had ceased to kick and was cut down, his replacement already being marched into position.
"No, Bail," said the Scaliger. "A poor one, since it shouldn't be necessary. How we win is as important as the victory itself."
They watched to the end without further comment. When the others turned to go, Nico grasped his page's arm. "Pack your bags. You're going back to your father. There's no room for coward in this army. Or for drunkards who care more for sack than for orders. In a day of dishonour, you added more shame to the tale."
It sounded strange, coming from the easy going Nico. Another man might have shown more compassion for a youth facing his first real taste of warfare. Certainly, if applied to, the Capitano would overrule the dismissal.
But Jacopo didn't care. He'd already decided that his brief career as a soldier was over.
Milazzo, Sicily
7 March 1316
"Signore Ignazzio? The wine stands by you."
The astrologer's mind was elsewhere as he fingered the medallion's twisting cross, touching upon each remaining pearl. Hearing himself addressed, he roused himself and passed the fine glass carafe to the regent of Sicily. It never did to keep a king waiting, even a vassal king. Frederick III was king outright of the island of Sicily and ruled its surrounding lands for his brother, King James II of Aragon. That Frederick was only the second of that name to rule Sicily was a touch confusing to Ignazzio, but he didn't bother asking. He had other business on his mind.
Yesterday the king had ordered the arrest of certain bankers, despite what it had done to the local financial markets. Ignazzio and the Moor had been allowed the night and morning to question them. In return, Ignazzio had spent the better part of the day going over the king-regent's star chart, reinterpreting it in light of recent world events. Frederick was a practical man, and such men often disdained astrology. But this king seemed to feel that any information gained was worth something.
The sky was red by the time the reading was through, and the king was pleased enough to invite Ignazzio to join him in a cup of wine. The cup had become a bottle, the bottle two. Now, as the king-regent refilled his glass he said, "I begin to think you have spies in Palermo. You have described me down to the last wisp of hair on my head. But it seems you spent more time telling me about myself than what awaits me."
"Your majesty, astrology is as much the art of seeing who we are as of where we are going." It was a favorite phrase of Ignazzio's, learned at the foot of his master.
"Mmmm." King Frederick was a lean man, with angular features and dark skin — not Moorish dark, but indicative of a life spent outdoors. His hair was indeed thinning, but he retained a youthful vigour. It showed when he spoke, waving his arms before him to saw the air. "It seems a cheat. But still, it must open many doors at court. I mean, here you are, alone with a king."
Of course, they weren't truly alone. Servants hovered somewhere behind them. The Moor was among them. It was awkward, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least here the Moor did not stand out in any way.
Frederick resumed gesticulating. "I'm fascinated by your travels. You must visit many far off lands. What other princes have you shared wine with?"
Understanding dawned. It was not the reading of the charts but the passing on of news that would repay Frederick's hospitality. Well, Ignazzio wasn't averse to spending the evening singing for his supper. He only wished they could have gotten to this point sooner and spared him the afternoon hunched over parchment. "As you know, recently I called upon your brother the King of Aragon in Zaragoza."
"Lovely city."
"Before that, Theodoro and I were in England. Before that, France. A year ago we were in Venice."
"Well traveled. It is something I sometimes miss. I got around more in my younger days. So tell me, what—"
Just then Frederick's eleven-year-old son Pedro, tousle-haired and smiling, had come in to be presented and to kiss his father goodnight. With him came a darker child, younger and just as handsome, if a bit leaner. He was introduced only as Juan.
"I'm raising them together," said the regent-king to Ignazzio. "Heir and bastard. That way there will never be a hint of enmity between them."
"Wise. But then, I already knew it."
"My chart?"
"My spies."
Laughing heartily, the king sent his two sons off to bed. In truth, Ignazzio wasn't sure of the wisdom in pairing those boys. Seeing them together made his fingers itch, and he had to force himself not to ask their respective dates of birth.
The regent clapped his hands together. "Where were we?"
"I was about to tell you of my travels." Taking a modest sip of wine, Ignazzio tried to separate news and gossip. "Beginning at the far corner of the earth, some Scottish barbarian named Edward the Bruce has just accepted the Irish crown from Ireland's nobles, so he is now able to add king to his title. His brother Robert has already declared himself King of Scotland."
"So there is a Scottish king?" laughed Frederick. "That must have the English beside themselves!"
"Actually, most men seemed more concerned with the trouble closer to home. When I was in London most everyone was talking about Edward II's continuing troubles with some earl –"
"Lancaster," supplied the king.
"Yes, and the rest of the Lords Ordainers."
"Well, they're the ones who truly rule," said Frederick, opening his hands expansively. "That has been going on, and will continue. But what of France? Is the new king dead yet? Has the curse struck him down?"
Ignazzio did not laugh at curses, though for the king he managed a feeble smile. "Not yet. But already there are riots and fighting in the streets. Examinations of the treasury found it bare, and inquests into the state of the finances led to the hanging of many of his father's advisors. To alleviate his finances, Louis has married the daughter of the king of Hungary. I hear they are expecting a son."
From there he expanded upon the news from Norway about a new kind of forge, from Bruges about the wool trade.
"Fascinating," said Frederick flatly. "What about Spain?"
Of course the regent already knew about the Spanish king's nephew assembling an army, ostensibly to attack Granada. At the last moment, however, the army had changed course in favor of an unauthorized attack on the frontier stronghold of Tiscar. "But," added Ignazzio, "the king is said to be much more disturbed by news from Egypt."
Frederick looked suddenly serious. "Which is?"
"Sultan Muhammad al-Nasir has finally completed his mad canal, dug between Alexandria and the Nile."
"Good God!" The king-regent stroked his chin for several thoughtful second. "So he must really be serious about trading in the Mediterranean!"
"Yes. At least your brother and the King of Spain think so. The canal reportedly took one hundred thousand men five years to dig."
This last snippet of news was clearly of real value to Frederick. The king relaxed, and the next flurry of questions was less urgent. Ignazzio assumed that he had sung enough for his supper.
The king wasn't so rude, though, as to dismiss him at once. They discussed trends in art, like a new painter in Sienna everyone was raving over. He was called Simone Martini, and he had just finished a work entitled La Maesta, an image of the Madonna and child. Already Martini was being compared to Giotto.
"From what I hear," ventured Ignazzio, "it is a comparison that makes Maestro Giotto laugh in despair."
"Truly? I have never seen Giotto's work. Have you visited the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua?"
"No, but I have seen some of his brilliance displayed in Verona. In fact," Ignazzio added, "I heard recently that the maestro has returned to paint an exterior fresco depicting the poet Dante and his patron, the Scaliger."
"That's too bad!" said the king, shaking his head and throwing up his hands in lighthearted dismay. "Exterior frescoes never last. But at least it will erode a little of this Cangrande. There has already been too much talk of this man, this so-called Greyhound. Ever since he humbled the Paduans we hear of little else. And that business in Calvatone last fall — disgraceful! Besides, we Sicilians feel a kinship for the Paduans. It was their man Antonio who came here to become a saint. You must visit his sanctuary before you leave us."
"I shall," vowed Ignazzio. He always made a point of visiting holy sites and churches. Too many men looked upon his art as witchcraft, devilry, and he worked hard to counteract such impressions.
Spurred by the empty carafe of wine, the regent soon brought the evening to a close. "I hope you learned all you needed from those pesky bankers."
"All they had to give," said Ignazzio, feigning sadness. "Alas, it was no aid."
"I am sorry to hear it. Do you think they were holding back? Shall I put them to the torture?"
Ignazzio thought of the Moor hovering over his shoulders as he put his questions to the little staff of clerks and couriers. "No, I think they honestly knew nothing of interest."
It was bad form to lie to a king. But he'd done far worse.
"Sad, sad," said Frederick. "But just as well. It never does to torture men today you may be borrowing money from tomorrow. Well, there are always the Jews. Thank you for sharing your learning with me. You may go."
"Your majesty." Ignazzio bowed his way out of the royal presence, then retrieved the patient Moor.
In another half an hour they were riding together out of the castle of Milazzo, their saddlebags full and their faces grim. But Ignazzio didn't angle his horse towards the town gates. Instead he headed down a slope towards the seashore. "Just a quick stop at the cave of San Antonio," he explained. "I'll bend a knee, remount, and we can still reach Messina by morning."
"It's well we hurry." Most emotions were lost in the effort to scrape sound from the man's injured throat, but the clip of the words indicated urgency.
"I know, I know. But I promised the king."
"A promise he likely had no intention of holding you to."
"A promise before God nonetheless. Do you disapprove?"
"Of course not. I am envious. I have not practiced my devotion in a long, long time."
That gave Ignazzio pause. He knew that the Moor was adept at the Christian style of prayer, but that it was not the faith he had been born into. "After Messina we could—"
The Moor was curt. "After Messina we shall be voyaging to Padua. You saw the symbol."
"Symbols," corrected Ignazzio. The arrested bankers had drawn them copies of the seals on their orders for gold. One was strange to Ignazzio, though not to Theodoro. The other was the Scaliger's own. "Once again someone is using Cangrande's seal to work against him."
"True. But that is not for us to investigate. We must watch the man the other seal belongs to."
Which meant there was no time to waste indulging the Moor's envy. Ignazzio was certain his companion gleaned more danger in the information at hand than he himself could see. What did they know so far? In Venice they had learned that a man fitting the scarecrow's description had received a handsome sum, drawn on a famous bank with offices in Bruges and Sicily. With that information, they decided to head north and see if they could trace the scarecrow via the bank's branch in Bruges.
During the journey north, luck had blown a small favor their way. Ignazzio had made it his habit to show the medallion that little Cesco had snatched from around the kidnapper's neck to every jeweler and smith he could find. Perhaps someone could at least identify the kind of pearl. But in Antwerp a silversmith said he thought the workmanship looked English. So after a fruitless interview in Bruges, they had pressed on to London. There they had the misfortune of being taken for Scottish sympathizers, which at least told them the medallion was Scottish, not English. They had been forced to flee back across the Channel to France, leaving them with the choice of sneaking up into Scotland by ship and risk
ing capture, or journeying south to Sicily to the other branch of the bank. Ignazzio had been for the former, but Theodoro hadn't wished to chance their fate to the whims of the seas. Which brought them to today, and the image of two seals. One was unmistakably the Scaliger's. The other? The Moor certainly knew. Had Ignazzio ever seen it before? He was sure he hadn't. So then, whose was it? Dying to ask, he fought to restrain himself.
But then he realized Theodoro had already given him a clue. They were heading for Padua, which meant the seal's owner was a Paduan. Or resided there.
Glancing over at the Moor, lit now by the stars and the occasional torches in the street, Ignazzio said, "When can you tell me his name?"
"When we are gone from this place."
Ignazzio nodded. "All the more reason to pray to San Antonio for a safe journey." With that the astrologer kicked his heels, urging his mount down the cobbled decline.
Milazzo was not so much a town as a seaside getaway for the wealthy. Situated on a bluff just north of the road between Palermo and the city of Messina, its only true claim of notoriety was in being the place where San Antonio was shipwrecked a hundred years before. The Patron of Lost Things, the Poor, and Travelers, Antonio held the distinction of receiving the second quickest ordination as saint in church history, a mere 352 days. The holy man who held the record, ironically, was a Veronese. Always Verona and Padua, vying for dominance.
San Antonio's cave was at the bottom of the bay, far below the castle. The bluff the town was built upon was known as the Head of Milazzo. If that were literally true, the cave would have been the nose, with the mouth opening out onto the rich blue water.
The cave could only be reached on foot, by a panoramic stair cut into the stone facing. Ignazzio dismounted at the plateau leading to the stairs and began tying the lead of his mount to a spindly tree.
The Moor was gazing at the starlit water and the small vessels bobbing along the quay. "It may be prudent, this time of day, to sell our mounts and hire a fisherman's boat for the night."
Ignazzio was pleased by the notion — he had no desire to risk the lonely ride to Messina. He handed his horse's reins to the Moor. "Excellent. I shall meet you here."
