Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “Just the normal kind. There’s Detto and Val’s mother, upstairs,” said Pietro, his insides roiling. “She isn’t well enough to receive you at the moment. She’s the last of her generation. There were five, three brothers and two sisters. All gone now, save Katerina.”

  “It’s no wonder they’re all dead, with such a formidable list of foes! Admittedly, most are from within the family. How very wise, to keep enemies so close. You mentioned that Mastino has three sisters. Are there any other familial names of note?”

  “One,” said Tharwat. When Pietro shot him a curious glance, he added, “Pathino.”

  “Ah.” Pietro seemed dubious. “Gregorio Pathino. Though I doubt he’s still using that name.”

  Cesco rubbed his hands together. “Ooh! He sounds a man of many parts. Tell me more.”

  “He’s Cangrande’s bastard brother, and he’s convinced he’s got a great destiny. The only way to achieve it, though, is to remove members of his family. He tried kidnapping you twice. He’s the cause of that scar beside your eye.”

  “You told me I fell!”

  “I lied. I do that sometimes.” Hearing himself, Pietro didn’t like who he was sounding like. He took a different tack. “Pathino was threatening to blind you, and his knife slipped. Honestly, Tharwat, I don’t see him as a part of this. Pathino’s claim isn’t helped by Cesco’s death. Besides, he’s labouring under the Scaligeri curse, and refuses to take the life of his kinsman. He takes it seriously. Trust me, I know.”

  The Moor did not respond. Cesco said, “Very gallant of him. I suppose my dimple was a loving buss. Did you mention a curse?”

  “There is a superstition that Cangrande’s father cursed any of his descendants who murdered each other. Sanguis meus, he said.”

  “How very Greek of him. Do I have any friends at all, or is it just we three boys against the world?”

  “We have friends. Powerful friends, and good men.” Pietro began listing names: Guglielmo del Castelbarco, Nico da Lozzo, Mariotto Montecchio, Antonio Capulletto, Petruchio da Bonaventura, and a dozen other influential lords of Verona. Still holding Val in his lap, Bailardino chimed in, speaking of the dispositions of the armies in the region, the various wars brewing, most notably the one currently raging with nearby Padua.

  Passerino Bonaccolsi’s name came up, and Bailardino confessed that no one knew where Verona’s close ally, the Lord of Mantua, was at the present time. “He was with Cangrande – in fact, it was he who sent us word the Greyhound had died.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Bearing the body back to Verona.”

  Here was a question plaguing Pietro. “How did he die?”

  The answer did nothing to quiet his nerves. “Passerino mentioned an illness, but some are saying it was poison. The only thing anyone seems sure of is that he’s dead.” Bailardino’s voice was thick, and Pietro remembered that Cangrande had been raised in this household. It must have been like losing an exceptionally gifted foster-son. How I’d feel if I lost Cesco.

  “So not only are we instigating a coup,” said that young man, his brows knit, “we are also investigating a murder. Intrigue and mystery. I like Verona already.”

  Food remained largely untouched as the discussion carried on. The younger children were mostly quiet. Though they knew most of the men mentioned, Detto and Valentino had never been privy to such adult assessments of faults and skills. Already their worlds had been shaken by this day’s revelations.

  Through it all Cesco sat perched in a large carved chair, sometimes sprawled, sometimes sitting with his feet up and his arms wrapped about his knees – he was not built to sit still or comfortably. Occasionally he posed a question, simple clarifications. The rest of the time he made absent comments, filling the air while he absorbed the information presented him.

  Tharwat waited until Pietro and Bailardino had spent themselves before speaking. “One thing not yet mentioned is the fire last night.”

  Bailardino’s head came up. “What fire?”

  “My house,” said Pietro. “Arson. It had to be an attempt on Cesco. But, fortunately, he and Detto were – out.” Pietro frowned as Cesco shot him a winning smile.

  Furious that his son had been in danger, Bailardino slammed his fist on the table. “Mastino!”

  Morsicato raised the obvious objection. “How would he know about Cesco?”

  “There’s only one way,” said Pietro, gritting his teeth. “Poco.”

  Bailardino and Morsicato turned to stare. Antonia spoke up, a pleading note in her voice. “You don’t think our own brother —”

  “Antonia, we’ve always laughed at how bad he is with secrets. This is the big one. I’m willing to bet a year of my life that the moment Cangrande was dead, Poco was blabbing everything he knows to Alblivious. Which is as good as telling Mastino to his face. I think our brother has gone over to the enemy.”

  Morsicato shook his head. “I’ll wager your one year against five of mine that it was Giovanna. We already know arson is not beyond her.”

  “Mastino is in her way as well,” objected Pietro. “He would have been poisoned or stabbed already. Why remove Cesco when there are so many other obstacles in Paride’s path?”

  “Because she plans to have Mastino blamed for Cesco’s death?” mused the doctor. “That would remove them both at once, leaving only Alblivious, who doesn’t count.”

  That gave Pietro pause. It certainly sounded like a Scaligeri stratagem. They debated the finer points as they returned to the atrium, carrying the wine with them. Then the time for speculation was behind them. Now was the moment to discuss plans.

  Morsicato immediately voiced his opinion that they should remain in Vicenza, amass support from the safety of the Nogarola palace. Pietro disagreed. “We’d be ceding the battlefield from the start.” Bailardino concurred. As the doctor lapsed into a sulky silence, Pietro said, “So the question is how we enter Verona.”

  There was no doubt in Bailardino’s mind. “At the head of an army. What choice do we have?”

  “We could go in as we are – the boy, the Moor, the doctor, and myself.”

  “And me!” cried Bailardino, Detto, and Val all at once. It was worth a chuckle, despite the tension. Like father, like sons.

  “What about the women?” asked Morsicato uneasily. “Esta will stay behind, but..?” He glanced sideways.

  “Thank you for remembering me,” said Antonia tartly. Pietro had to smile – he hadn’t heard that tone from her since she’d left for the nunnery. “I’m coming too. I swore an oath.”

  Pietro shook his head. “Bad enough we have to take Cesco into danger. If I thought for a second the city would declare for him sight-unseen, I’d leave him here with you.”

  “You could try,” observed Cesco.

  Pietro carried on, gazing at his sister. “You should remain here.”

  Jaw set in an all-too-familiar jut, Antonia looked just like their father. “Should. Won’t.”

  Pietro turned to the other men at the table for support. The Moor merely shrugged. “You may attempt to keep her from coming. You may even succeed, if you’re willing to employ force against a woman.”

  Pietro let the matter rest for the moment. “The question stands – at the head of an army, or alone and unheralded?”

  The doctor scrubbed his bald pate. “Alone? You’d be mad. Mastino will have us all whisked off and murdered. What could we gain?”

  “The element of surprise.”

  “It is just what Cangrande would have done,” observed Tharwat.

  Silence followed that remark. Pietro knew his own thoughts, and he tried to weigh the reactions of the others. The doctor thought any march to Verona was too dangerous. Bailardino wouldn’t be comfortable without an army at his back. Tharwat seemed to lean towards the surprise entrance. Antonia was stubbornly determined to be with them, whatever course they chose. Valentino was just excited to be here. Detto looked pensive.

  And the center of their enterprise? Cesco w
as playing with a blade of grass, his whole attention on tying it into a knot.

  “What about you, Francesco? What do you think?”

  The boy looked up. “You mean I have a say?”

  “Oh God, no!” cried the doctor. “You’re asking him if he wants to be straightforward and dull, or sneaky and dramatic. That’s like asking fire if it wants to burn in a hearth or consume a city. He’ll choose to go down in a blaze of glory!”

  Cesco wiggled his eyebrows under his fell of curling hair. “How colourful, doctor! We’ll make a poet of you yet. But as to burning calmly or being a raging inferno – why not both?” The boy spoke for just a few minutes.

  “See, Ser Dottore?” said Pietro when the boy had finished. “He likes to surprise us as well as our enemies.”

  “Damned clever!” Bailardino ruffled Cesco’s hair. “I’ll send a message to Mastino tonight, asking for an escort. Hopefully he’ll send Alberto.”

  “And I’ll send instructions to Castelbarco,” said Pietro. There was no question now. The boy’s plan was sound, and everyone had a part to play. If Bailardino looked slightly bewildered, the other adults merely gazed on in knowing satisfaction.

  The group broke up. Morsicato ascended the stairs to look in on the lady of the house, and Bailardino went off to arrange for messengers to Verona. Antonia was deputed to take the boys to their rooms for rest against the morrow.

  At the curtains Cesco turned and fixed both Pietro and Tharwat with his gaze. “Don’t talk about me behind my back.”

  “We wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Studying them both, Cesco’s face grew grave. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to be, and I can be it.” With that, he disappeared through the door.

  When he was gone, Pietro took a drink of watered wine. “Did your hackles rise when he mentioned Il Veltro?” He spoke softly. In a Scaligeri household, walls had ears.

  “As if someone had stepped upon my grave.”

  “I for one thank God he’s dead. Mastino and Giovanna both to deal with is bad enough. That rivalry would have killed one of them.”

  “You heard him. He suspects we’ve held something back.”

  “He’s right, of course. Damn him. But how could we tell him? Look what it did to Cangrande.”

  “Then we are agreed.”

  Pietro shook his head. “One more secret to keep.”

  The Moor moved off to watch the boys through the night, leaving Pietro alone with his thoughts.

  I’m just like Cangrande, playing games.

  But his game is played, said an internal voice that sounded much like his father. A new game begins tomorrow.

  Yet Pietro was uneasy. It was a game that Cangrande set the pieces for.

  II

  From Beyond the Grave

  Ten

  Verona

  Monday, 15 July

  1325

  The approach of an armed party set bells pealing, calling citizen defenders to join their professional counterparts on the ramparts. Tools were abandoned in the fields, washing by the river, as men and women fled for the sheltering protection of Verona’s walls. Before the banners were even visible, the whole of Verona knew they were being descended upon.

  A dozen fancies poured in a thousand ears, some dismissed, some believed. The fearful said it was the Paduans striking while Verona was vulnerable. The hopeful claimed it was their lord restored to life, returning to take the reins of their frightened city. Whispers said the new co-captain Alberto della Scala had been seen riding out of the city at dawn, accompanied by his boon companion, Jacopo Alaghieri. To gather the army? To flee the city? To take a holiday? No one knew.

  When the Nogarola eagle came into view, the populace breathed a collective sigh of relief. All was well. Bailardino Nogarola was a stalwart friend of Verona. Citizens returned to their fields and their wash, leaving the formal opening of the gates to the professional soldiers.

  In his son’s manor on the city’s north side, Guglielmo del Castelbarco completed his preparations. For the last twelve hours he had eluded Mastino’s repeated summons by staying with friends and relations, nowhere longer than an hour or two. At midnight he’d received written instructions from Ser Alaghieri. Reading the note over again, he wondered if Alaghieri knew what the devil he was about. True, the fellow had more than average sense, but these instructions smacked of foolhardiness. Still, there was nothing for it but issue his invitations and hope that Alaghieri, ironically a Knight of the Mastiff, was not baiting the bear too close.

  In Cangrande’s palace, Tullio d’Isola mentally framed his resignation as he assisted Mastino to dress. The co-captain had chosen light armour for the occasion, as befitted a public audience with a friendly general before an emissary of Venice. His polished cuirass gleamed whenever it touched the light.

  But the young Mastiff waved away his usual helmet. “I want the Houndshelm.”

  With a severe bow, Tullio retracted Mastino’s gilt nightmare and walked to where Cangrande’s formal helmet rested on a T-shaped frame. Made of steel skinned with gold, the Houndshelm fitted entirely over the head in the German fashion, having no cheek pieces to open. The faceplate came to a point at the chin, above which there were holes about the mouth and nose for breathing. One long slit ran across the eyes, creating an inhuman visage.

  What made the helmet famous was the massive snarling hound’s head that crowned the wearer, silver wings extending from the sides. A display of wealth and power, with a nod to myth and prophecy.

  Tullio’s late master had once disdained such displays. Cangrande’s original helmet had been plain steel, with that same hound’s head looking far more ferocious for its lack of ornamentation. But his master’s tastes had changed these last few years. Only the fascination for the greyhound remained the same.

  Holding it in his aged hands, Tullio found himself unable to place the helm on Mastino’s head. There passed several strained seconds. Then Niklas Fuchs stepped in, taking the awesome mantle from Tullio’s reluctant fingers and ceremoniously lowering it into place.

  “Heavy,” grunted Mastino, fingers deftly working the chinstraps.

  “As is all authority, my lord.” Fuchs’ accent betrayed his origin on the far side of the Alps. “But it suits you.”

  The worst part, Tullio saw, was that this was true. The helmet might have been made for Mastino. Not so magnificent as the helmet’s last owner, but proportioned as one’s thoughts would wish a man. Well-formed, with fine shoulders, sturdy legs, and long strong fingers, he cut a fine figure as he crossed to the balcony and prepared to receive Bailardino Nogarola’s oath of fealty.

  Ever since the first great della Scala had been murdered in the company of Bailardino’s father, the stars of the two families had been intertwined. The place of the murders was visible from the balcony, an alley on the corner the Piazza dei Signori, called the volto dei Centurioni. The two men had been surrounded and stabbed multiple times, their bodies quickly concealed in an old well, scant feet away. The motive was the revival of a long dead ideal, the Veronese Commune, but all that resulted was the election of another della Scala. There was no lever on earth that could remove this family from Verona.

  The cheering in the streets grew louder as the Nogarola party appeared. As Mastino emerged into the sunlight the cheers became deafening. The two lords hailed each other, Nogarola below on his horse, the young Scaliger above, standing on the palace’s small front balcony in sparkling splendour. The populace went wild.

  Even as the ovation continued, those with politic savvy realized something was amiss. Nogarola, under his battle-scarred helmet, hadn’t moved to bow, and certainly not to kneel.

  Nogarola himself seemed diminished, smaller than his usual boisterous self, even under the unseasonable cloak. The keener-eyed of the Anziani noticed the absence of Mastino’s brother, who had ridden out that morning to meet Nogarola on the road. Moreover, where was Guglielmo del Castelbarco? Occasion demanded his presence.

  The cheering died, a
nd still Nogarola did not dismount. Awkward silence became agonizing tension. Even the crowd began to feel it.

  Finally Mastino spoke. “Cousin Nogarola, welcome to Verona! We have seen so much history together, our two families and our two cities, that a bond exists between us greater than nationality, civic pride, or blood! It is only fitting that as the wheel turns, we renew our pledges to each other…” He continued on, his address aimed more at the citizens than Nogarola. It wasn’t their first taste of his oratory – he’d spoken from this very balcony two days earlier. He was not his uncle. Not witty, nor wry, nor ribald. No, Mastino was plain-spoken, invoking Verona’s great past and greater destiny, drawing the crowd into a surge of patriotism.

  As he concluded, the masses turned their expectant eyes on Nogarola.

  Who remained on his horse.

  Had it been Cangrande facing this quiet insolence, he would have made a jest. Mastino’s dignity was not so secure. In growing anger, he snapped his fingers at his men escorting Nogarola. Instantly the reins of Nogarola’s horse were seized and they started to lead him away. The crowd muttered, uncertain and not a little angry.

  The sudden movement of his horse seemed to spur Nogarola, who raised his head and shouted, “Nephew, I fear you mistake!”

  Mastino stood stiffly upright. “I? Mistake?”

  “Yes! You mistake both yourself, and me!” A gloved right hand came up, the helmet was removed. The rider’s stature and odd immobility was instantly explained. This was not Bailardino. The man in the saddle was Antonio Nogarola, his missing arm disguised by the bulky cloak. “I’m afraid my brother had business elsewhere. He asked me to pay our family’s respects in his stead.”

  Short of lying on his deathbed, there was no possible excuse for Bailardino’s absence that was not an insult. Mastino opened his mouth to rage, accuse, curse, but Fuchs quickly stepped close and whispered in his ear. Mastino nodded, causing the Houndshelm to bob. “We’ve heard your city has been sorely tried once more. Is he chasing Paduans? Fighting the fire?”