by David Blixt
Tessa shifted, easing her ankles. Looking at the worried men below, she asked, “What’s happening?”
“Another faction has arrived to take the Greyhound’s place.”
“Are they going to fight?”
“Let’s hope so. Maybe there’ll be a battle in the streets and he’ll be killed,” said Thibault, nodding to his uncle.
Tessa shied away. “Don’t say that. God wouldn’t like you to wish for a death. Even his.”
“I hate him.” It was bald fact. The Sun rises in the East. Flowers bloom in the Spring. Thibault hated his uncle. “I’ll do whatever it takes to ruin him.”
She stroked his hair again, a gesture he found almost unbearable. Almost. “I was looking forward to the feast,” she said with a sigh. “My first as lady of the house.”
Thibault stiffened. She wants to be lady of the house? She was proud of that title? “He’s lucky. I was going to spoil it for him. Somehow.”
Perhaps she realized she had wounded him, for she whispered, “We both know whose lady I should be, and whose house I should be lady of.”
“Yes.” Thibault relented, relaxing against her.
The conference in the orchard below ended, the emissaries preparing to depart with their host. Without even looking for his child-bride to bid her farewell, Antony Capulletto ordered his sword and gambeson. Then, throwing on an over-tunic to hide the quilted armour, he strode with the others through the brick tunnel and out into the street, leaving his nephew and wife to console each other in the shadows of the balcony.
Fourteen
Summoned to the house on the via da Santa Maria, Antonia found it aflutter with activity. Identifying herself, she was urgently conveyed up the stairs. It was an unfamiliar house to her. Clean and spare, it still bore the mark of Katerina Nogarola, despite her prolonged absence.
Antonia opened the indicated door, ready with a flushed smile of praise for Cesco’s magnificent, if flamboyant, performance in the piazza.
The scene that met her drained all colour from her face. Stripped to the waist, Cesco was sprawled on a daybed, propped upright by several bolsters. Morsicato knelt beside him, the doctor’s head close to the boy’s chest. Detto and Val sat ashen-faced and silent, watching.
Antonia started forward, only to be restrained by her brother. Pietro had been leaning on the wall beside the door. His fine armour removed, he wore only a loose shirt and his sole affectation, the short trousers that hid the puckered scar on his thigh. Seeing his stricken face, she said, “What’s wrong?”
“Someone in the crowd pricked him with a needle.” Pietro’s voice was a dread-filled murmur. “Poison.”
“Merciful Lord,” she whispered, instantly crossing herself and starting to pray. Her prayer was interrupted, however, when the doctor leaned back. Seeing blood all around the doctor’s lips, she gasped.
Cesco loosed a smile in her direction. “Vampiric, isn’t he? But please, continue your intercession on my behalf. Just in case the doctor’s methods are too late.”
Antonia finished her prayer. Then in her most efficient tone she said, “What can I do?”
“Prayer is the only thing. You see what modern medicine is. Leave us put our trust in God and He will see us through.” He followed with a phrase of something flowery in Arabic that Antonia could not make out. Pietro, however, winced.
Morsicato spit heavily into a basin. “Until we know what it was, we can only do some basic things. We sent for Fracastoro, and leeches are on their way from the apothecary—”
“Along with his whole shop,” added Cesco.
“Stop talking,” ordered the doctor, wiping his face and washing his mouth out with heated wine. “Conserve your strength.”
Cesco twisted to face Detto and Valentino. “In other words, I’m irritating him. Nothing worse than a loquacious corpse.” Detto attempted a smile while Val huddled close to his brother, eyes wide.
Ignoring his impatient patient, Morsicato pressed leaves into the open knife-wound. “Antonia, lads, come here. Each of you take a limb and rub it. Boys, take his feet. Lady, please sit here and take his hand. Pietro, take the other. Now rub gently, keep his humours flowing.”
“Rubbies. I’m like a puppy!” said Cesco. “Is this medical, or are you just trying to distract me so I don’t talk myself to death?”
“It’s a stimulant of sorts. An old witch once told me that she kept a poisoned man alive by keeping his blood flowing in just this way.”
Cesco’s eyes, limpid and unfocused, were unnaturally bright. “A witch? Did she put a curse on you? Is that how you lost your hair?”
“I’ll get her to put a curse on your tongue so that it shrivels to a crisp,” retorted the doctor in spite of himself.
“Don’t waste your silver. It may befall yet.”
“How did this happen?” asked Antonia, rubbing at Cesco’s clammy and cold skin. “I didn’t see anything.”
Cesco shrugged, still smiling. “A hand clapped my shoulder in the crowd, harder than need be, just hard enough to disguise the needle jabbing me.” Wincing, his smile became fixed, determined.
“Bastards,” growled Detto, a horrible whimper in the back of his voice. He looked as bloodless as his friend, but far more frightened.
“I found the needle and plucked it out – the good doctor has it in his urine jar over there.” Cesco nodded vaguely to a trestle table where all of Morsicato’s tools had been hurriedly laid out.
“He cut himself to release the tainted blood,” said Morsicato. “Smart. Probably saved his life.”
“A compliment from the doctor? I must be in real peril.” Shivering, Cesco closed his eyes. “I also did it to let my enemies know that I was aware of their tactics. Whichever of them did this.”
“I bet it was Mastino,” said Detto.
“Or Giovanna,” said Pietro. “She’s back in the city.”
Antonia knew why her brother was adding to Cesco’s worries. The boy liked nothing more than a challenge. If they kept him thinking, he might have a better chance.
“Either way,” replied Cesco, “it explains why Mastino wouldn’t let me in. He recognized my self-mutilation for what it was. I’m sure he’ll agree to the meeting tomorrow – he expects me to be dead by then. He’s really quite capable,” laughed Cesco, shivering again. “Whoever did this, the plan was enacted quickly, with a minimum of fuss. I’d hate to die before I see if it works.”
“You’re not going to die,” said Pietro, rubbing the small hand vigourously. “It’s not in the stars.”
“You sound like my shadow.”
Antonia raised her head in an unspoken question. Pietro answered her aloud. “Not here. I assume he saw who it was, and is tracking him.”
“For revenge?”
Cesco shook his head slightly. “Baldy here has to know what the poison was. I imagine the Arûs presently has my would-be murderer in a locked room somewhere and is beating the living daylights out of him for an answer.”
“I wish I could be the one to do it,” said Detto fiercely.
Cesco playfully kicked at his friend – or tried to. His leg hardly twitched. “I promise I’ll get myself poisoned again someday, and you can be the one to save me.” Detto looked like he might cry, but bravely bit back his sob and kept rubbing Cesco’s right foot.
The amused patient turned back to Antonia. “You see, the only other way to know what the poison was is to wait and see what form it takes – what symptoms I have.” He swallowed. “Like all the spit that’s in my mouth.”
The doctor produced a little clay bowl. “Don’t swallow it. Spit into this.” Cesco obeyed, and the doctor stepped away, reappearing with a jug and a shallow cup, which he handed to Antonia. “Each time he spits, make him drink this.”
“Is it wine?” asked Cesco hopefully.
“Water and vinegar.” Cesco made a rude sound, then coughed. Antonia realized he had been getting progressively worse since she entered the room – his pupils had dilated to twice their norm
al size, making his eyes look black, not green.
“Doctor,” said Pietro hesitantly, “I don’t want to leave him, but there are things that must be done. I mean, nothing’s more important, but…”
“But just in case I do survive to see the sun,” said Cesco, “it would be good to put me on Verona’s throne as well. Go. Tell my noble supporters what’s happening – and inform them to prepare to flee if I do expire. Give them my thanks.” His words were becoming thick. He raised his head to spit again into the bowl, wincing as he did so.
Morsicato and Pietro stepped away to confer. With a last look at the patient, Pietro exited. As the doctor returned, Cesco said, “I think you should know, medicus meus, my head hurts.”
“Where?” None of Morsicato’s usual gruffness or cynicism was evident by look or tone. He seemed calm, detached – a fact that frightened Antonia more than anything else.
Cesco considered. “All over, but distinctly in the back. And my jaw. My jaw is going numb. I don’t know how much longer I can talk.” When the doctor took up the boy’s free arm to start rubbing, Cesco clucked his tongue. “What, no rebuke? No cutting remark? I’m appalled. Am I to die without that razor-like wit slicing me to the last? You could have said, ‘A blessing on us all,’ or, ‘Tell me when you can’t.’ Something! I refuse to die without at least practicing my cunning.”
“Idiot boy.” Up close the doctor’s eyes were damp, but his voice was clear. “You were supposed to stay with the Anziani, not be carried through the throng. You were lucky not to get a knife in the ribs.”
Cesco’s laugh was a feeble wheeze. “I beg to discuss your definition of luck.”
♦ ◊ ♦
Downstairs, Pietro gave instructions to Bailardino’s servants, specifically ordering them not to tell anyone of the young master’s illness.
“My lord,” said one, “there have been several callers. Ser Capulletto and Ser Montecchio have both sent pages, each asking for a few minutes of your time. The guildsmen are lurking in the streets at the back of the house, asking to know what the young master’s policies will be —”
Pietro cut across him. “We don’t have time for any of them, so do your best to politely brush them off. Meantime we must find some way of communicating with the Giurisconsulti that won’t be traced. I suppose the Anziani are in council with Bailardino and the rest?”
“Yes, and they, too, have requested your presence —”
Pietro waved a hand in annoyance. “Tell them I’m greeting old friends, and tell the callers I’m with the Anziani. That will purchase us an hour or two. Then have whoever you send to the City Council whisper in Bail’s ear – no, his absence would be talked about. Have his brother join us. Move!”
Pietro was scribbling down notes to order his thoughts – one of his father’s habits – when Aventino Fracastoro arrived. The famous doctor immediately started to ask about the rumours he’d heard about a coup, about ten years of mystery and intrigue. Pietro interrupted him harshly. “There’s no time. Cangrande’s heir has been poisoned, we don’t know what kind, we’re trying to find out. He’s upstairs, with Morsicato.”
Fracastoro became professional. “Was the poison ingested?”
“He was stung with something barbed. A needle.”
The elderly physician to three Scaligeri lords said no more but lifted the hem of his gonella and raced up the stairs, his urine glass thumping against his chest. Pietro watched him go, hoping this man would carry a miraculous cure with him, fearing he would be as helpless as Morsicato.
It’s your fault, said the judging voice of Dante that lived inside Pietro’s skull. You should have been with him the whole time. You should have had more guards around him. You should have known!
Pietro returned to his scribblings, trying desperately to engage his mind in the many necessary tasks at hand. All he wanted was to be upstairs holding that boy’s hand. No, I want to be wherever Tharwat is, beating the living Christ out of the poisoner. But his sense of duty to his friends as well as his ward made him write out plans and contingencies. If Cesco didn’t die, there were a hundred things that had to be looked after.
And if he does? Hating himself for even considering the possibility, Pietro knew he owed it to his friends to see that none of them were hanged or beheaded for his folly. For his father’s voice spoke true: This mess was entirely his own fault.
♦ ◊ ♦
Upstairs, the two doctors removed themselves to the table of instruments to confer. “The wound at his neck?” asked Fracastoro.
“He did that himself, to stop the poison.”
“Smart lad. Do you have this needle?”
From the tools Morsicato grasped a pair of tweezers and carefully lifted the deadly instrument from the phial on the trestle. Fracastoro sniffed at it. “Foul. You’ve ordered leeches?”
“Should be here any minute.”
“Well, it can’t be a simple poison, it’s working too fast.”
“A compound,” agreed Morsicato. “Should we bleed him, do you think?”
“I do. But not too much – we must keep him awake. If he sleeps, we lose him. We need to know what kind of poison was used.”
“That’s being attended to,” said Morsicato grimly.
By the bed, Antonia lifted Cesco’s sweat-sopped head. “What did you think you were doing?”
“A crowd – enjoys spectacle, auntie. I gave them one.” He paused while Antonia poured some more liquid down his throat. “Euch! Foul stuff. I think the doctor’s – trying to poison me. But anyway, auntie – grandfather used to say that people are contrary by nature. So I knew that if I told them why – I couldn’t be their Capitano, they would immediately start arguing why I should.”
“And you added that last piece to the will,” said Antonia. “If they accepted that was genuine, they had to accept that you were, too.”
“I’m not sure they thought it through that far,” admitted Cesco feebly, “but it certainly made me into their champion.”
“You’re brilliant,” said Detto admiringly.
“Mmm. My light seems to be fading.”
Morsicato approached. “Antonia, girl, move aside. We’re going to bleed him.”
“Thirsty again, doctor?” asked Cesco. No one laughed.
Antonia stood away as the bearded man placed yet another bowl by the bed and laid a cloth over Cesco’s arm. He then used a lancet to pierce Cesco’s vein. Val looked away, but Detto did not.
Suddenly there was a thunder of feet on the stairs outside, and the door burst open. Pietro held himself upright in the doorframe. “Doctors – Tharwat’s back.”
Cesco grinned. “Always knew you were – faking that leg wound.”
Morsicato looked to his fellow doctor. “Will you take over? This will be the news we were waiting for.”
As Fracastoro took up the lancet and cloth, Pietro said, “Bring a bandage.” With a fearful look at Cesco, he turned and retreated back down the stairs, leaning on the wall for support. Running up the stairs had clearly hurt. Morsicato exited as well, closing the door behind him.
Cesco blinked and coughed, but was unable to spit the excess of bile in his mouth. “I guess – we’ll soon know,” he mumbled.
“Be still, child,” said Antonia, moving around him to rub his other arm.
“Just not – too still.”
Val leaned over towards his brother and whispered, “What’s wrong with Ser Alaghieri’s leg?”
“An old wound. He got it the same day uncle Antonio lost his arm. He can’t run well.”
“Our own Achilles,” muttered Cesco. “I wonder, then, who that makes me?”
♦ ◊ ♦
At the bottom of the stairs the Moor was leaning against the wall, one arm hanging loosely at his side. He and Pietro were talking in quick short bursts.
“Dead?”
“No, but he won’t escape. I have his bag of weapons.”
“Good. But—?” Pietro gestured at the Moor’s arm.
“A knife. Unvenomed,” said al-Dhaamin. “I hope.”
“Is it bad?”
“Hardly anything. A waste of time binding it.”
“Did he have a name for us?”
“Nothing definitive. We will question him further. I thought it more important to return with details of this foul, hideous venom.”
Pietro’s flesh crawled. Whatever the poison was, if it was enough to turn the Moor’s stomach, it was no ordinary concoction.
Morsicato arrived, and Pietro moved aside so the doctor could cut away the sleeve and start dressing the Moor’s arm. “What did you learn?”
Tharwat didn’t waste any words in telling everything he had discovered about the ingredients of the poison.
“Dear Christ,” murmured Pietro.
“This man says this mixture was left sealed in a container in a dung heap for two weeks, and doused with sesame oil to bind it. A large dose would kill a grown man within a day, perhaps two.”
“He’s not a grown man, he’s a child!” raged Pietro. Hearing the note of pleading in his voice, he wondered to whom it was directed.
Tharwat was grim. “Let us pray the dose was small.”
Pietro turned to the doctor. “What can you do?”
“Nothing more until the herbs arrive. If he’d swallowed it, we could force him to vomit it up, but as he was stung, it’s already in his blood. That’s both good and bad. It means it’s affecting him faster, but it’s also less potent. Poison ingested is the most destructive. There.”
Finished working on the Moor, the doctor felt a leather bag pressed into his hand. “The man’s tools,” said Tharwat. “Nothing’s broken.”
“Thank you.” Starting up the stairs, Morsicato paused to look back. “The man’s not dead?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
♦ ◊ ♦
