by David Blixt
Voice Of The Falconer
by David Blixt
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, events, and organizations portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
English language excerpts of Dante Alighieri’s L’INFERNO, PURGATORIO, and PARADISO that appear in this novel are from, or adapted from, translations of each text by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander (Doubleday).
English language excerpts of THE BALLAD OF VERONA by Manuello Guideo are from, or adapted from, a translation by Rita Severi.
Voice Of The Falconer
Copyright © 2012 by David Blixt
eBook Edition
Cover by David Blixt
Maps by Jill Blixt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1944540036
ISBN-10: 1944540032
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In Memoriam
Jim Posante
(1946 – 2008)
Page Hamilton Hearn
(1960 – 2008)
Will Schutz
(1962 – 2009)
Artists – Mentors – Friends
“Time is for dragonflies and angels. The former live too little and the latter live too long.”
— James Thurber
For Janice, Dashiell, & Evelyn -
Signifying everything
Dramatis Personae
Maps
Induction
Prologue
ACT I - Vex Not His Ghost
ACT II - From Beyond the Grave
ACT III - Heir Apparent
ACT IV - Towering in Pride of Place
ACT V - Prisoner in Twisted Gyves
Epilogue
Postscript
Dramatis Personae
♦ a character recorded by history ◊ a character from Shakespeare
Della Scala Family of Verona
♦Francesco ‘Cangrande’ della Scala – Prince of Verona
♦Giovanna – Cangrande’s wife, great-granddaughter of Frederick II
♦ Federigo della Scala – Cangrande’s cousin
♦ Alberto II della Scala – Cangrande’s nephew, brother of Mastino
♦/◊ Mastino II della Scala – Cangrande’s nephew, brother of Alberto
♦Verde della Scala – Cangrande’s niece, sister of Alberto & Mastino
♦Caterina della Scala – Cangrande’s niece, sister of Alberto & Mastino
♦Albuina della Scala – Cangrande’s niece, sister of Alberto & Mastino
♦/◊ Francesco ‘Cesco’ della Scala – a bastard
◊Paride della Scala – son of the late Cecchino della Scala
Nogarola Family of Vicenza
♦ Antonio Nogarola II – Vicentine nobleman, elder brother to Bailardino
♦ Bailardino Nogarola – Lord of Vicenza, husband to Cangrande’s sister
♦ Katerina della Scala – sister to Cangrande, wife of Bailardino
Bailardetto ‘Detto’ Nogarola – son of Bailardino and Katerina, b. 1315
◊Valentino Nogarola – son of Bailardino and Katerina, b. 1317
Alaghieri Family of Florence
♦Pietro Alaghieri – Dante’s heir, lawyer, knight of Verona, steward of Ravenna
♦ Jacopo ‘Poco’ Alaghieri – Dante’s youngest son
♦ Antonia Alaghieri – Dante’s daughter, taking holy vows as Suor Beatrice
Carrara Family of Padua
♦ Marsilio da Carrara – Lord of Padua
♦ Niccolo da Carrara – cousin of Marsilio, brother to Ubertino
♦ Ubertino da Carrara – cousin of Marsilio, brother to Niccolo
♦ Cunizza da Carrara – sister of Marsilio
Montecchio Family of Verona
◊Romeo Mariotto ‘Mari’ Montecchio – Lord of the Montecchio family
◊Gianozza della Bella – Mari’s wife, cousin to Carrara
◊Romeo Mariotto Montecchio II – son of Mari and Gianozza
Aurelia Montecchio – sister to Mari, wife of Benvenito Lenoti
Benvenito Lenoti – knight of Verona, husband to Aurelia
◊Benvolio Lenoti – son of Benvenito and Aurelia
Capulletto Family of Verona
◊ Antonio ‘Antony’ Capulletto – Lord of the Capulletti family
◊ Arnaldo Capulletto – uncle of Antony
◊ Tessa Guarini – wife of Antony
◊ Theobaldo ‘Thibault’ Capulletto – nephew of Antonio
Supporting Characters
Abbess Verdiana – Benedictine abbess of Santa Maria in Organo
♦ Albertino Mussato – Paduan historian-poet
◊Andriolo da Verona – Capulletto’s chief groom, husband to Angelica
◊Angelica da Verona – Tessa and Thibault’s Nurse, wife to Andriolo
Aventino Fracastoro – Personal physician to Cangrande
◊Baptista Minola – Paduan noble, father of Katerina and Bianca
♦Bernardo Ervari – knight of Verona, member of the Anziani
♦ Bishop Francis – Franciscan Bishop, leader of Veronese spiritual growth
◊Fra Lorenzo – Franciscan monk with family in France
♦ Francesco Dandolo – Venetian nobleman, ambassador to Verona
♦ Guglielmo del Castelbarco – Veronese noble, Cangrande’s Armourer
♦ Guglielmo del Castelbarco II – Castelbarco’s son
Giuseppe Morsicato – Knight, Nogarola family doctor
Hortensio & Petruchio II Bonaventura – twin sons of Katerina and Petruchio
◊Katerina da Bonaventura – Paduan heiress, daughter of Baptista Minola
♦ Manoello Giudeo – Cangrande's Master of Revels
Massimiliano da Villafranca – Constable of Cangrande’s palace
♦ Nicolo da Lozzo – Paduan-born knight, changed sides to join Cangrande
Niklas Fuchs – German-born companion to Mastino della Scala
♦ Passerino Bonaccolsi – Podestà of Mantua, ally to Cangrande
◊Petruchio da Bonaventura – Veronese noble, married to Katerina
◊Shalakh – A Jew, Venetian money-lender, father of Jessica
Tharwat al-Dhaamin – Moorish master astrologer, called the Arūs
Tullio d'Isola – aged steward, Grand Butler to Cangrande
Ziliberto dell’ Angelo – Cangrande’s Master of the Hunt

City of Verona

Piazza dei Signori
Wretched me who loved a sparrow-hawk
I loved him so much that I’ll die from it:
At the sound of the bird call he was obedient,
And in no way did I feed him too much.
Now he’s ascended to new heights,
Much higher than he ever used to –
Next he’s seated in a garden
And another has him in her power.
My hawk, that I nourished,
I made him carry a golden bell,
For I was the boldest at hunting –
Now you’re as free as the sea,
Having broken your bands, escaping
When you were caught in your own hunt.
- Anonymous late 13th century Poetess
…O, for a falconer’s voice
to lure this tassle-gentle back again!
- Juliet
Romeo & Juliet, act II scene ii
Prologue
Friday, 12 July 1325
“The Greyhound is dead!”
The news spread quickly, an inferno of desperate tidings. The great man had been traveling in haste to Vicenza – always Vicenza! – to head off yet another Paduan attack when he had taken suddenly ill and died.
All over Italy, Guelphs rejoiced the demise of their nemesis. In Padua the bells rung as if in victory, Treviso breathed a sigh of relief, and in Venice shares in shipping rose dramatically. Those cities embraced or conquered by him looked around at a world reshaped and wondered what would befall.
Within an hour of the news’ arrival in Verona, the inevitable crowd had congregated outside the Scaliger palace in the Piazza dei Signori, hundreds of men staring upwards for a sign, a signal. A savior.
On the north side of that same piazza, in the Giurisconsulti, the fourteen-member city council shouted in fierce debate. “Why not hold free elections?”
“Because we have no idea who will step into the void!”
“The people will only vote for a della Scala!”
“Then we must decide which family members should be allowed to run.”
There were pitifully few choices. The ideal candidate, Cecchino della Scala, was dead, killed in a tournament mishap last February. There remained three nominees, none suitable, none of age.
“The damn fool! Never saw past his own delusions of grandeur, never took the elementary precaution of making a will!”
“Especially after Ponte Corbo, you’d have thought—”
“Shut your mouths,” snapped Guglielmo del Castelbarco the elder, a senior member of this council. “We have work.”
“Yes,” agreed Bernardo Ervari, an efficient functionary and Castelbarco’s friend. “First we must confirm his death. I’ve sent couriers and priests. The next thing we must do—”
“—is contact his wife, in Munich,” finished a tough, broad-shouldered fellow in a wine-stained doublet. His suggestion was met with covert smiles. New to the council, Petruchio Bonaventura was a man known for his wife as much as himself.
Castelbarco nodded as though that had been his intent. In truth, there was another message to send first, one he alone could write. For his fellows were mistaken. There was a will.
“Actually, Bonaventura, I say we let her live in blissful ignorance.” When heads turned his way, the short-statured knight called Nico da Lozzo opened his hands. “Fut! We all know what she’ll say. But Paride’s only ten years old. There’s no chance the people will accept him.”
“The people will accept whomever we tell them to,” observed a clean-shaven man in the miter of a Bishop and the cassock of a Franciscan.
Castelbarco tested those waters. “You’d nominate a child, your Excellency? The Church would endorse one so young?”
“It’s a more palatable option than—”
“Even knowing,” interjected Nico da Lozzo pointedly, “who would be pulling his strings?”
Out of the ensuing silence, the ruddy-faced Petruchio suddenly laughed through his unkempt beard. “At least the bride-thief and the cradle-robber aren’t here to add to our dilemma. I for one can do without the bickering.”
Their chuckles of agreement were suddenly drowned out by a roar that shook the walls. Bolting from their stools, the Anziani of Verona raced outside, praying it was all a mistake, hoping against hope to see the Greyhound restored to life.
Instead they reached the steps outside to discover the question of succession unpalatably resolved for them.
On the balcony of the new Scaliger palace stood three men, each as different as family resemblance allowed. The first was a whippet-thin man of middle years and middle height. Federigo della Scala, grandnephew to the first Scaliger to rule the city, shook his knobby hands above his head as if he had just won the Palio, the summer sun highlighting the silver in his hair.
The second man, only eighteen years old, was by far the largest of the trio. Oft mocked for his shambling gait, he was nevertheless well liked thanks to his liberal purse and generous smile. Alberto della Scala, called Alblivious by those who knew him.
The third man atop the Palazzo Nova stood apart from his cousin and brother, right at the lip of the balcony. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile. Darker of hair than the others, his face owned a handsome leanness. Flashing in the late afternoon sun, his eyes were a blue so dark as to be mistaken for black. Named for the first Scaligeri ruler, he looked down from the palace built by his namesake that was now, by the power of the people’s cheers, his.
Mastino della Scala. Sixteen years old last month. No one mocked him. Not ever.
The Greyhound was dead.
Long live the Mastiff.
I
Vex Not His Ghost
One
Ravenna
Saturday, 13 July
1325
Just as Giotto was ambivalent about his O – what could be simpler? – so the stars regarded the boy. Far below their winks and capricious tricks of fate, mortal men made the grave error of taking him at face value.
Corrado certainly did. In a side room of the church of the Frati Minori, he was standing with his back to the door, measuring a stone slab with his forearm, when a voice said, “He was shorter than that.”
Corrado jumped and spun round, sweat breaking across his brow. But the intruder was just a boy, hardly as high as Corrado’s breastbone. Backlit by the slanting sun, a few golden curls among the chestnut caught the light.
“Laid out, he measured five feet, six inches, but he stooped, so he seemed even shorter. That is what you’re trying to decide, isn’t it?” The boy strolled into the mausoleum, and Corrado saw with disgust that the lad was too pretty by half. Except for the eyes. They were unsettling, dancing green flecked with gold, a pale blue ring around them. Full of mirth, full of mischief.
Corrado shook a fist. “Beat it, brat, or I’ll beat you.”
Shrugging, the imp smiled, his mouth curling like an artist’s afterthought. The angelic perfection was marred only by a small scar beside the right eye. “Only trying to help. He was my grandfather, you see.”
Oh damn. Corrado had been told there were relatives living in the city, but hadn’t expected them to come visiting the body in the middle of the day. He stepped forward, fist high. “I said get out of it!”
Skipping backward on his heels, the boy laughed as if Corrado were a motley fool dancing for his amusement. “As you wish.” With a sweeping bow the boy vanished back into the sunlight, whistling as he went.
Listening as the whistle slowly faded, Corrado wiped the sweat from his eyes and muttered a blasphemous curse. Best get this done and go. Church parishioners were hard at prayer or gossip, and most of the friars were engaged in tedious holy affairs. But the little bastard could tattle, bringing his elders back with awkward questions.
Still, the boy’s information had been helpful. Knowing the size of the body, Corrado simply measured the slab covering the sarcophagus, two-thirds the thickness of his forearm. That done, he could do the calculations back at the inn.
Crossing beneath the side chapel’s huge wrought-iron candelabra, Corrado retreated into the church proper. To ward off suspicion he genuflected and pretended to pray. The Franciscans in their silly hoods went about their business, paying no attention to another scruffy pilgrim. A minute later he was out the door, dropping a copper coin into the devotion box as he passed. He was a satisfied man. The tomb was easily reached, accessible only from the main church, not through the monastery.
Which was a stroke of luck, as he’d been hired to rob it.
♦ ◊ ♦
Taking care not to be followed, Corrado made his way to the Red Griffin Inn. Two miles outside the city walls, it was sparsely populated, with just a few drunkards on the ground floor, and no women except for a fat old wench with arms the size of tree-trunks who brought the ale and threw out any troublemakers.
Four armed men sat with their backs to the far wall. One pretended to doze, th
e others diced on a scarred wooden table. They didn’t signal to him, but each one caught his ostentatious rubbing of his nose. The job was on.
Ordering a stoup of wine, Corrado ascended the side stairs to the inn’s finest room and knocked.
“Entra!”
The room was well-appointed, with heavy tapestries and a carpet in place of rushes. The large windows were thrown wide to admit the midday sun, bright light illuminating the dust motes floating on the hot, oppressively still air.
Beside one enormous window, the room’s lone occupant was sprawled across a chair and foot-stool. Fully dressed in a fine doublet, light shirt, expensive hose, and tall leather boots, he was reading from some book and eating olives from a bowl. His sole concession to the heat was a hand-fan, very like a lady’s.
As Corrado closed the door behind him, the man kicked the foot-stool across, transferring his feet to the windowsill. “You sweat like a pig, man. Or is it something else? Tell me you weren’t seen.”
Sitting, Corrado decided not to mention the child. “No.”
“Good.” Dipping into the olives again, the fellow made no offer to share. “Your report?”
“The slab is six and a half feet long, two and a half wide, and eight inches deep. It looks to be fitted, which means an extension inside, probably another two or three inches. It needs all six of us.”
The dandy spat a pit out the open window and daintily wiped his lips. “Five, you mean.”
“You’re not coming?”
The question was evidently amusing. “Do I look like a hired hand?”
Corrado scratched his head. “I’m not sure we can do it with less. Can I—?”
“May I.” The correction was casual, automatic.
