Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Pietro watched Mastino’s reaction to that. A slight relaxing, nothing more. He was a Scaliger, he kept his thoughts to himself. It should be the family motto.

  Castelbarco continued. “To my two nephews by my beloved sister Katerina and her husband the noble Bailardino da Nogarola, those christened Bailardetto and Valentino, one twentieth of my liquid wealth and my castles at Schio and Illasi, to be bestowed the year of their respective majorities.” There followed several more minor relations, all men, some legitimate, some not, to whom he left gold or silver, but no land. Often one of his favourite horses, hawks, or hounds accompanied the bequest. Federigo della Scala was among these names, and the crowd noted his apparent lack of interest in his good fortune.

  Cangrande’s wife Giovanna was dealt with lavishly. Then the will reached his sibling. “To my beloved sister Katerina I bestow my favourite riding crop and my personal copy of the play Ecerinis, with revisions by a second author. To my brother-in-law Bailardino I leave his pick of my hawks and a sum ten times Katerina’s dowry, in recompense of services rendered to my family, and my everlasting thanks to a friend.”

  Listening to the words beneath the words, Pietro resisted smiling at this final wry jab Cangrande had given his sister, the last gasp of an antagonism that now stretched beyond the grave.

  More minor bequests. Most names Pietro recognized – Passerino Bonaccolsi and Nico da Lozzo made out rather well. But as yet the vast bulk of Cangrande’s wealth was left untouched. A few unknown names came up, and it was generally assumed that these were Cangrande’s low bastards, littered about the Feltro – two boys and four girls. These, though, were just the ones he acknowledged. There were undoubtedly many more.

  Two names were as yet remarkable by their absence. They remained unspoken until Castelbarco reached the second-to-last paragraph.

  “To my brother Alboino’s first son, my cherished nephew Alberto, I do bequeath an annuity of seven thousand gold florins, one-third of my remaining hounds, and the entire contents of my wine cellar.”

  A roar of laughter as all eyes turned to see Alberto blush. In spite of his current predicament, he grinned widely. He thought it as funny as they, and the crowd loved him all the more for it.

  “To his sisters, my nieces Albuina, Verde, and Caterina…” A fine sum for each girl, leaving them even greater heiresses than they already were. Verde was married long since, but Caterina was just fourteen, Albuina a year younger, both being raised in a distant convent. This new wealth would make them the most sought-after brides in Lombardy.

  Castelbarco now reached the name all had waited to hear. “To my nephew Mastino…” Several heads turned to watch the man in the Houndshelm, expecting him to receive an incredible bounty. “…to him I bequeath my castles at Valdagno and Badia, two-tenths of my entire fortune, and my second-best sword, in the knowledge that he will always be ready to raise it to Verona’s greater glory.”

  A massive intake of breath became a rumbling mutter. High on the balcony, Mastino did not move a muscle.

  Castelbarco held up a hand, but had to wait for a full two minutes before the noise dimmed enough for him to be heard. In his best carrying voice he read aloud the last bequest. “To my acknowledged heir bearing my own name, Francesco della Scala, raised in the custody of Ser Pietro Alaghieri, Knight of the Mastiff, I leave the residue of my wealth and all my remaining lands and bastions, as well as all my hereditary titles and rights. To him I hand my best sword, and with it the standard of the della Scala line, and crave all my clients and followers to do him honour and serve him well, all to the greater glory of God and His garden on Earth, Verona. Amen.”

  Shock beyond measure. The crowd erupted, babbling, shouting, exclaiming their amazement. Some were laughing – their beloved Capitano had played one last trick on them!

  “Mastino della Scala!” Castelbarco shouted, repeating the name until his voice could carry up to the balcony. “Mastino della Scala! Do you acknowledge this to be the testament of your uncle, our lord Cangrande, il Capitano di Verona, and will you abide by the terms of his will?”

  Face invisible under the Houndshelm, Mastino said, “Where is this heir?”

  Heads turned expectantly, first to Castelbarco, then gazing around at the assembled knights for a charismatic giant in whom could be seen the figure of his sire. But there was no sign. “He is safe, and within the walls of this city. He awaits your pleasure.”

  Mastino threw up his hands in a show of amazement. “Does he hide? If he is who you say he is, I am his kin – he has nothing to fear from me! He claims to be the heir of Cangrande della Scala, and yet he cowers behind scribbled words and armed men? Is that the way the heir of the Greyhound honours his father?”

  “We are here to represent him, lord.” It was a feeble answer. Though the heir’s representatives included several great men, it was significant to all present that this purported heir was not here in person.

  Sensing another shift in the crowd, Mastino leaned forward on the stone railing. “I refute your claims! This is a feeble attempt to wrest control of the city from the rightful leaders, elected by the people, for the people! How dare you make unsubstantiated claims, throw the city into chaos during this time of unrest and bereavement! Paduans march on our cities! We are besieged on all sides, and while you prate and scheme, Verona will fall! How dare you? Have you no civic pride?”

  It was a good show, the beginning of an excellent speech. Pietro had to put an end to it. Standing in his stirrups, he threw off his helmet. “Mastino della Scala! What do you know of civic pride? Down here are men who have fought and bled to preserve this city! Where are your wounds? What scars do you bear from battles in Verona’s name? I, Pietro Alaghieri, Knight of the True Mastiff, that first Scaliger who fought for this city, demand an answer!”

  Again the mob was all aflutter, this time in admiration. Excommunication be damned, Ser Alaghieri was a Veronese hero. When he had been Mastino’s age he’d taken a near-crippling wound in the city’s service. And he was right about Veronese heroes! Antonio Nogarola had lost his arm that same day. Bailardino had fought in the front lines of every major battle of the last twenty years, Castelbarco not far behind. Both bore the scars to prove it. Whereas young Mastino had yet to win a name as a soldier.

  Seizing the initiative, Pietro pressed on. “Your blessed uncle, my friend, the Lord of Verona, placed a child in my care eight years ago, charging me to raise him and prepare him for his duty, away from envious eyes and secret plots.” This deliberately stirred memories of attempts on the child’s life, one in this very square. “I bring with me a document written in the Scaliger’s own hand, fixed with his own seal, testifying that the child I have raised is blood of his blood, his sole legal heir!”

  The Mastiff snarled. “And where is this pretty baby? How well could you have raised this mythical child if he refuses to come and claim his right? Perhaps, Ser Alaghieri, you have switched the boy for one of your own!”

  Pietro fixed his eyes on Mastino. “Your uncle placed his trust in me, in Lord Nogarola, and Lord Castelbarco. It is significant that he did not enlighten you. Perhaps you should be less free with your tongue.”

  It was an incredible insult. Duels had been fought over far, far less. But Mastino’s heated response was lost in a sudden thunderous applause. The sound eminated from the Giurisconsulti, the building in which most of the legal wrangling in the city took place. All heads turned as the doors were thrown wide and Verona’s City Council, the Anziani, minus only five members, came roaring out into the square. In their midst was Antonia Alaghieri.

  “And what is this?” demanded Mastino in a mockingly beleaguered voice. “Some new claimant? Is there a great-aunt who wants to be Capitano?”

  Those who heard him laughed. But the majority of citizens watched as the representative of Verona’s wise men stood on the steps and raised his hands for silence. “We city elders have listened to the reading of the will, and studied another document placed in our possession.” Ber
nardo Ervari held up a small twist of paper. “We have authenticated it, and now we call upon you all to bear witness to our judgment. The youth placed in the care of Ser Alaghieri and his family is, indeed, the heir of Cangrande!”

  Pietro watched as Mastino digested their ploy. While they had wrangled in front of the crowd, Cesco’s bona fides had been verified by the Anziani, called into secret session by Castelbarco’s friend Ervari. With the Veronese army, the Vicentine army, several nobles, and the whole of the Anziani behind him, Cesco’s faction had in an hour created a base of power that would be hard to crack.

  Hard, but not impossible. There was still that most powerful of deciding bodies – the public. Mastino took a steadying breath, then launched his attack. “So the Anziani wish to support a child, a mere boy who bears a regal name he has not earned. Ser Alaghieri speaks of blood shed for Verona. This invisible heir, this child, has not seen Verona with his eyes since he was in swaddling clothes! What kind of loyalty could he have to this city, our city? He is no Veronese!”

  “You are so right!” agreed a youthful voice. “What kind of loyalty could I have to Verona, this canker on the arse of Italia!”

  Pietro gasped along with the rest of the crowd as they traced the sound of this new voice to its owner. The boy was lounging casually on the steps of the Giurisconsulti. “I want nothing to do with this godless city of whores, thieves, and sodomites!” he declared, throwing a hideous wink in Pietro’s direction.

  O dear God, but I hate that boy.

  Twelve

  Castelbarco’s teeth were clenched as he whispered, “I take it this wasn’t part of the plan.”

  Pietro could only shake his head. “I should have known Cesco wouldn’t stick to any arrangement. Even his own.”

  “We’re all dead men,” moaned Bail sotto voce.

  They may as well have spoken aloud. All attention was focused on the boy, who now made a rude face and continued, pitching his voice high to carry through the square. “I am proud not to be Veronese! If what I see before me is evidence of the true spirit of Verona, I’m relieved I wasn’t raised here. If you, the citizens of this pestilent blight of Lombardy, can be swayed by words – mere words, paltry, hollow, meaningless words – then this is indeed the foulest pit of Creation, worthy of Dante’s Inferno! How dare you! You have all knelt to this man.” From the foot of the steps, Cesco pointed to Mastino, high above across the square. “You’ve sworn to follow him for all your days! How dare you contemplate a change of allegiance? Is he a will-maker’s ape? Is a Veronese’s oath so scorned, so worthless, that it melts away with the slightest gust of wind?”

  Moving to high ground, he halted on the top step of the Giurisconsulti. “I am a child, untested, unknown. This great lord, so many years my senior, has taken up the mantle of my sire – and where was I? Suckling at my nurse’s teat!”

  There was a single laugh from someone in the crowd. Cesco pointed to the amused man, egging him on. “Yes, I’m a baby – indeed, I am what he called me, a pretty baby! Perhaps I have a taste for boys – since I’m surely not old enough to like women!” Laughter began to spread. “No, if you are able to set aside your faith in one leader and exchange him for another on the basis of mere words – words! – then Verona is not the city I was taught she was!”

  Cesco turned in a slow circle, peering at the buildings. “What a strange place! Is Verona a horse that, mid-charge, changes the rider in the saddle? O fickle bastion of pride, where is the honour in that?” He suddenly spied Castelbarco and company. “How dare you, you elders of the city, how dare you raise a hand to put a weak child in the place of the noble and magnificent Mastiff? Do you wish to control the city – and the city’s money! – by using a mere babe to your foul ends? Am I your Paduan bardasso, your butt-boy, that you can hold me up and use me to hoodwink the good people of this city into reneging on their chosen oaths?”

  Cesco bounded down the steps and into the crowd. The people parted, confused, listening, unsure what was happening. “The great Mastino is quite correct! I am a child! How do you know that I am the true son of your beloved Lord of Verona? What proof have you seen?” He threw up his hands. “NONE! None at all! You have heard only words! Pretty words, fine words, but words words words! Words prove nothing! Perhaps I have my father’s eye, perhaps his chin – but he was a great man, a warrior of great renown! Now, he might have earned his fame at a younger age than I – for as you all know and I learned only this morning, he was knighted at the age of six. But how could you see that man in me? Puny me, a weakling, short for my age, not able even to carry a man’s sword!” Cesco shook his head of chestnut curls, the blond streaks catching the midday sun. “No, citizens of Verona, I say NO! Whatever they tell you, do not be deceived! Whatever they say, do not believe them! If you, the citizens of this august city, allow yourselves to be swayed by words, then you are nothing but whores and fools who follow a promise of a primrose bed! How could I, a child, lead you, the people of a great and noble city, a city destined to be the grandest of all the world, a city that will bring about a new age of man!”

  All at once people began cheering. Breathless, Pietro was startled into a smile. Base and noble alike were grinning. Completely aware now that they were being played upon, it was so well done they could not bring themselves to object.

  Suddenly Pietro saw Tharwat. The Moor had appeared on the far end of the street, his height catching Pietro’s attention. He raised his left hand. The sinister hand. The signal that Cangrande’s wife Giovanna was in the city. Cesco was in danger.

  But they couldn’t whisk him away now! Damn! Pietro started scanning the crowd of jubilant faces for something, anything that posed a threat.

  At the moment the only threat was Mastino, aware he was losing his grip on the masses. “Cousin Francesco! I hear what you say, and I applaud you for not letting yourself become the tool of these avaricious men! Truly, Scaligeri blood must run through your veins! Come up here, cousin, let us embrace!”

  Alone in a wide circle made by the crowd, Cesco bowed his head. “You do me too much honour, my lord! You call me cousin, but you must know – all of you must know – I was born on the wrong side of the blanket! Yes, perhaps Cangrande was my father, but my mother is unknown – even to me! Who knows, in the hot night after some battle, what woman was brought to his tents to ease his tense mind? Perhaps she was a common whore. Or worse, a Paduan!” Peals of laughter. “No, great one, I dare not contaminate you with the filth of my birth!”

  Mastino was grim, having to play through this farce. “Filth? You say you are the son of the great Cangrande, yet you dare call our late lord, my beloved uncle, filth!”

  Cesco’s ashamed head bowed even lower. “I claim to be no such thing! It is these men,” he pointed, “these wicked men, who try to abuse the great people of Verona into believing that I am what I am not! Until yesterday I was told I was the nephew of Ser Alaghieri! All my life I have been lied to! Never was I told the truth of my heritage, never even told my true name! Standing here before you now, I cannot claim the great mantle they place upon my shoulders! I am not worthy!” He spun about and held out a demanding hand to Castelbarco. “Let me see this so-called will!”

  Castelbarco blinked twice. He’d listened in horror, wondering if the child’s antics were going to get him torn to pieces by an angry mob. Now he knew he would be lynched if he did not hand the paper over to this monstrous infant.

  Receiving it, Cesco made a show of reading the will. Suddenly he let loose a cry of surprise. Running through the crowd, he leapt up onto the lip of the well in the volto dei Centurioni where he waved the paper over his head. “They lie! My lord, my friends, they lie!”

  The crowd reared in shock, none moreso than the conspirators, chilled in spite of the sun directly overhead.

  “They lie to you, my lord,” Cesco called to Mastino, now on the far side of the square opposite him. “And to you, cives Veronae! All of you! They lie!”

  Mastino managed to not play along
. But he didn’t have to. Cries of ‘what lie?’ and ‘read the will!’ were taken up from all quarters as eight hundred citizens pressed to hear, with more outside the square demanding to know what was happening.

  Cesco waved the paper again. “There is another bequest! Oh, that I were Veronese! But they don’t want you to know it, friends! They don’t want you to hear it! They’re afraid that, if you remembered your love of him, you might tear them to pieces for their cupidity! If you remembered how much my father loved you, how deep went his civic pride, you could not tolerate these avaricious men who try to fob off a mere child on you!”

  “Read it!” came the cry from ten score voices at once. “Read it!”

  “I cannot!” Tears shining on his face, his voice cracked. “How can I? I am not worthy! They say I am his son, but you don’t know me! Even I don’t know who I am! They tell you who I am, but those are just words! But these words, these here, they are direct from the great man! Only a great man could possibly have written this last bequest! Oh, if only I’d known him! Father!” Throwing his hands skyward, Cesco’s whole body shook as if filled with great emotion, tears pouring down his face.

  We should have charged admission, thought Pietro in chagrin. What Verona may have gained, the stage has lost. Now we can only hope that he can lead the herd to where they need to go without over-playing his role.

  Mastino was shouting, but over the thunder of the masses he could not be heard. The whole crowd was chanting, bleating, urging Cesco to read the last bequest. “Read the will! Read the will!”

  Holding the parchment out away from his body, as if begging someone else to take up this burden, Cesco finally raised his hands in surrender. “If you insist! But brace yourselves, citizens of Verona. If you are the men I believe you to be, this will break your hearts!” He raised the parchment to eye-level. “And to the people of Verona, that glorious jewel in the crown of Italy, I bequeath a further tenth of my fortune to be distributed to every man of woman born, and endow a yearly festival of sports and games to honour the city of my birth, whose humble and faithful son I have always been.” Lowering the paper, he made a show of gazing at the mob. “You see? This was the man! This was Verona’s true son! This was Cangrande! This was the Greyhound!!”