Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “I also said you cannot lie to us. We have to know. What did you tell Mastino, and when?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything!”

  Antonia glanced over at Pietro, hovering at the near side of the desk, shaking with anger. Shrugging, she let go of Poco. Pietro started forward.

  “No! I swear! Alberto and I are friends, and we joked once. Only once! I never told him anything!”

  Pietro’s voice was deadly calm. “Tell me this joke.”

  “I only said that – that maybe he shouldn’t be so sure that he and his brother would inherit everything. That – that there was a chance Cangrande had a kid somewhere.” Quickly he added, “I mean, everyone knows about how he got around! He was a real dog. There was that thing with that countess, that time! But that’s all I said! How could I know they were going to find out about Cesco?”

  Pietro closed his eyes, steeling himself while Antonia answered. “You gave them the hint. Did it never occur to you they might check into your family and friends to see what you knew?”

  “You don’t know it was them! Alberto laughed it off!”

  Heaving a sigh, Pietro placed both hands on the desk. Head hanging, he said, “Jacopo, you’re my brother, and I’ll always love you. But however long it takes for Cesco to mend, don’t come back to this house for twice as long. If he dies, God help you.”

  Jacopo tilted his head. “What’s this all about? Mend from what?”

  “Listen to the important part, Poco. Leave. Now.”

  “This isn’t your house!” retorted Jacopo.

  “You think Nogarola will want you here?” said Pietro. “You’re lucky I’m not off to tell Tharwat. He’d have that head off your shoulders. Or maybe Morsicato’ll mix you up a matching poison.”

  “What poison? What are you talking about? I’m your brother!”

  “And that’s why I’m telling you to get out. Your life won’t be safe here as long as Cesco’s ill. In time, they might forget. I won’t.”

  “Antonia, what’s—?”

  “Someone poisoned Cesco today, in the street,” said Antonia dully. “He’s barely surviving.”

  “That’s a secret, by the way,” said Pietro. “Try to keep it inside your teeth. And don’t look so surprised. By now you have to know what they’re like.”

  Jacopo stuck out two open palms. “I didn’t know – I didn’t think…”

  “You never do.” Pietro shared a look with Antonia. “I’m going to check on Cesco. Make sure he leaves.”

  Antonia was glad Pietro had vented his anger when he had, because she knew him well. By tomorrow his fury would be replaced with a weary sadness. Poco was their little brother. They always forgave him in the end.

  As Pietro exited the room, Jacopo said, “I swear, they had no idea! I mean, I never told them anything real, I was just joking around…” Antonia made to leave as well. “Well, can I at least see Cesco? I’m his uncle, too – I mean, I was his—”

  From the door, Antonia looked back. “Poco, if you’re still here in ten minutes, I’ll tell the Moor myself.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  At that moment the Moor was sitting in a large domicile several streets to the north-west, staring at an amazingly frescoed wall, done in the new fashion of geometric shapes, diamonds within squares of alternating colour. An unusual choice for decoration, eschewing family, religious, or mythological themes for anonymous designs that took an expensive skill to replicate. Anonymity was prudent for the resident of this house, who was not the owner. However, it was hard to do away with the trappings of wealth.

  Odd, the effect art could have. Tharwat felt an unusual nostalgia for his youth. He’d seen walls like this, long ago. As always, the West was decades behind the East in terms of culture. But then, that particular culture had been eradicated, which led to the obvious question – how advanced could a people have been if they no longer existed?

  He had a long time to ponder the question. The wait was not unexpected, and he made no sign of anxiousness. When Giovanna da Svevia finally did enter, she found him entirely composed.

  Rising, he bowed. “My lady.”

  “We have never been introduced,” Cangrande’s widow said in flawless Greek.

  “An error I am here to correct.”

  “I am gratified.” She waved him to a seat. Dressed in the purest white, the colour of mourning, her face was hidden behind a lace veil. Taking a seat opposite him, she waved a servant to pour them refreshment. “It is a fruit-wine. I hope it will not compromise your standing with your god to share it with me.”

  “My god is your god, lady. There is only one Lord in heaven.”

  “And his name is Allah,” she finished the prayer, amused. “Praise be unto him. Tell me, were you able to practice your faith in Ravenna.”

  “In my own fashion,” he said, receiving the cup and sipping it.

  Watching him, she smiled. “You are a trusting man. Or have you divined it is free of poison?”

  “Death holds no awe for me. I have lived long enough. I am here for the life of another.”

  Holding his eyes, she lifted her veil and drank. Gesturing to the fresco, she said, “Do you like it? In Antioch, in my youth, this was the style.”

  “I have never been to Antioch. But it makes me reflect on my childhood as well – much further removed than yours, I am sure.”

  Giovanna accepted the social nicety. In truth, she was not so much younger than he. Her marriage to Cangrande had come late in her life, a political match to a prodigy barely in his majority.

  So far he’d found the interview interesting. Her choice of language tested him, while at the same time excluding her Italian servants from their conversation. Her mention of Ravenna was deliberate, but had many possible meanings. Similarly, the mention of poison. So far she had hinted, but admitted nothing.

  “Forgive me for prying,” she said now, “but whatever is the matter with your voice?”

  Tharwat removed the scarf from his throat. “An injury almost as ancient as I am.”

  She examined the bubbled scars that ringed his neck with evident appreciation. “Tut. How terrible. I hope the man who caused it is dead.”

  “It was many men, and yes, they are no longer living.”

  “Did they die by your hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you believe in revenge.”

  “I believe in the stars,” said Tharwat al-Dhaamin. “And I grieve for your recent loss.”

  “Do you? How kind. Perhaps if he had been less conscious of your art, he might have lived longer.”

  “A man cannot deny his stars.”

  “A point he would have debated. In fact, that debate surely was the ultimate cause of his death, whatever the mortal event was.”

  “If you blame me, I am here to atone. With my life, if necessary. But before I die, I have a message for you.”

  “From my husband, perhaps? Can you commune with the dead?”

  “After a fashion. The message is this – I have, at the late Scaliger’s behest, made many charts over the years. One concerns you.”

  “I have seen my own star map,” said the lady with amusement. “Nothing you have to say can impress me.”

  “I have seen it as well,” said the Moor in his painful voice. “But it is not your chart I am here to discuss. It belongs to your charge. Young Paride.”

  Giovanna’s face retained its tranquilly amused expression. The only gauge to her reaction was the length of the pause. “Paride?”

  “The moment he was born, Cangrande had the local experts create charts, the great Benentendi among them. I have compiled them into a master and studied it carefully.”

  “You are here to say he has a great future before him. I am gratified, but I knew it already.”

  “He has a distinguished life in store for him,” agreed Tharwat. “But sadly short. He will not wed, and will have no heirs. He will not be Capitano. He will not be emperor. He will not be another Frederick. You must set those hopes
aside. Your line is finished.”

  Now her anger was visible. “Am I to believe you? You, who stand to gain if he steps aside.”

  “I gain nothing in any event. My stars are set.”

  “Your charge, then. You dash my nephew’s hopes to gain advancement for your whore-spawn?”

  “I do not lie. If there was a fault in my dealings with your late husband, it was an unwillingness to dissemble.”

  “If you are so bound to the truth, tell me what is so very special about this bastard you wish to elevate above the descendant of Frederick II. Will he be Capitano, and emperor in turn? Will he change tacks and become pope? What great destiny lies before him?”

  “Would that I could say,” replied the Moor. “Unlike young master Paride, Francesco’s stars are in dispute. There were many portents at his birth, and too little observance of them. Two stars fell, but no one can say with accuracy which was the dominant.”

  “Cunning,” said Giovanna. “And false.”

  “It is the truth, but also irrelevant.” The Moor set his cup aside. “Only one point is of interest to you. Paride’s chart shows their fates are intertwined. Not their lives, but their deaths. The demise of one will lead to the death of the other.”

  The lady stared, then stood and crossed to the far side of the room. After a time she loosed a laugh. “A very convenient prophecy!”

  “Madam.” He stood and reached into his shirt. At once her steward drew a long dagger, but Tharwat merely produced a scroll. “This is a chart with the certainties of Cesco’s life mapped out. I have removed all that is in dispute. I bring this as a gift. I am sure, despite your words, that you have a chart for Paride in your possession. You know what I have said of him to be true. Have your astrologer compare his data with mine. If he has any skill, he will tell you the same. I cannot say when, nor where. Nor can I say which will die first. It may be that Paride’s death will lead to Cesco’s. I tell you frankly, it is the only reason he is still breathing this night.” She turned a startled face to him. “Do you think the poisoning of my charge would have no consequences? I tell you, if Cesco dies from this, Paride will follow within the change of the moon. It does not matter where you hide him. He will die. If not by my hand, by another’s. It is in his stars.”

  “I do not take threats kindly.”

  “Nor do I. Years ago you tried with all your might to murder this boy, yet he still lives. Now you risk your own chosen heir, and for what? For a future you know to be less than—”

  “Stellar?” she asked mockingly.

  “Less than you hope. Best, I think, to let him live his life. The alternative is to force him to a premature death in the name of your family. It will do you no honour. It will bring only disgrace.”

  The lady no longer watched him, but rather averted her gaze as he watched her. “You realize that, if it is as you say, by saying Paride’s life will be short, you are dooming Cesco to the same.”

  “Yes.” It was a humbling point, the worse because it was not as clear as he had made it seem. Always with Cesco there were inconsistencies. But he had not lied, strictly speaking.

  “I will think about what you say. But if I relent and leave your Cesco unmolested, he will have to make an oath.”

  “I cannot speak for him.”

  “Nevertheless, this is the price of my forbearance. Whatever fate brings him in terms of fame, he must share it with my great-nephew. If the bastard’s star is ascendant, I will affix Paride to it as to the tail of a comet.”

  “If he survives, I will speak to him.”

  “I will wish an interview as well.”

  “That I can promise.”

  “If he survives,” she added.

  “If that.”

  “You may go.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality.” Leaving the star-chart on the low table, Tharwat bowed and turned to go.

  At the door, her voice stopped him. “You have made it a point to be full of truth this evening. Allow me to return the compliment. You say your young ward is poisoned. I swear to you, in the name of your god and my own, in the name of my bloodline, that I had nothing to do with it. Poison may be a woman’s weapon, but not one I have ever employed. Look for the culprit elsewhere.”

  Bowing again, Tharwat departed the villa, considering.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Near dawn, Pietro returned to the sickroom from yet another conference with Bailardino. He was struck by an irony – ten years ago, in this very room, he’d first learned of the prophecy regarding Cesco. That Cesco was the Greyhound. Right here he’d pledged himself to protecting the boy. A task at which he had spectacularly failed.

  The night had been trial for everyone. Each had taken turns ministering to Cesco for as long as they could endure. Since returning from his mysterious errand, the Moor hadn’t stirred from beside the boy’s legs, where his hands worked to keep the circulation flowing. Valentino was curled in a ball in a far corner, asleep. Detto lay on a pile of rushes after finally nodding off himself. The doctors spoke in tired whispers to a few of Fracastoro’s more promising students, summoned to aid them.

  The boy in the bed appeared to have lost weight overnight. Under the mop of damp curls his face was bloodless. Dark circles hung from his eyes, and his cheeks were sunken and pinched above the swollen jaw. He had been strapped down to restrain him from flailing as fresh waves of pain consumed him.

  Antonia sat on the stool that had been her perch throughout, a book in her lap. Reading aloud in a determined voice, she tried to reach the mind of the invalid whose limp form was tied down to the daybed.

  Pietro listened to the words. They belonged to her father’s epic:

  …Then, making the figs with both his thumbs,

  the thief raised up his fists and cried:

  ‘Take that, God! It’s aimed at you!’...

  Raised in Pietro’s household with the old poet puttering about, little Cesco was well-aquatinted with the verses, which might be comforting. But Pietro wondered in what dreamland the boy wandered, and if the images of demons, fiery rivers, and unspeakable torments were really helping.

  Sitting beside his foster son, Pietro laid a hand on the boy’s upper arm, following the Moor’s example of rubbing gently on the exposed skin above the bandages and restraints. The doctors continued to whisper on the far side of the room. Otherwise all was silent except for Antonia’s voice:

  …I knew none of them, yet it happened

  as often happens by some chance,

  one had cause to speak another’s name,

  asking: ‘What’s become of Cianfa?’…

  It was so slight that at first no one noticed. Then Pietro held up a hand, stopping Antonia mid-sentence. The doctors moved closer.

  In the bed, the painfully swollen jaw was moving. The throat moved, swallowing involuntarily. The mouth moved again.

  “Cianfa…” came the strangled voice. “…dove fia…” Then he sighed, not as one in pain, but as one relaxing from pain.

  Pietro made way for Morsicato, who checked the patient’s mouth, pulse and breathing. The excited stillness woke Detto and brought him tentatively towards the bed. He looked fearfully from face to face, trying to discern an answer without breaking this magical silence.

  Morsicato stood back, letting his compeer in to second his judgments. They whispered briefly back and forth, nodding. It had been Morsicato’s plan to use a second dose of deadly poison to cure the boy, so his was the honour of making the final pronouncement:

  “He will live.”

  Seventeen

  Verona

  Tuesday, 16 July

  1325

  “You cannot go,” the voice said again and again. Perhaps it was more than one voice. It seemed to change in tone and intensity. “You can hardly walk,” said the voice, low and gruff. “You have to rest,” said the voice, soft and tremulous.

  Being voices, they had no hands and so couldn’t keep him from rising. How his fingers moved, his arms, his legs, he didn�
�t care to know, so long as they did. He fumbled at the basin but didn’t fall over as he washed his neck. He pulled at the loose gown he wore and dropped it to the floor. No, to the rushes. Be specific. Modesty was beyond him – nothing was real anyway, least of all his boyish body.

  There followed disjointed images with a single voice coming from many throats, saying over and over, “You can’t go.” Those words were drowned out by a single, insistent voice inside his pounding head that said he must.

  “It’s the second dose of poison, it’s acting as a stimulant. He wants to be up, awake—”

  “I’ll stop this.”

  “No, don’t fight him. He could hurt himself struggling—”

  “He can’t do this, can he?”

  He didn’t remember dressing, but when he looked down his feet were shod. “Nice shoes,” he muttered. Be specific, earn the right. “Boots.” His arms were encased in a marigold doublet. Beneath it, rough silk touched his chest and shoulders. He took one wobbling step, then another. Still the voice protested, only now it was becoming more distinct. “You cannot allow him to go. He could die!” He could swear he knew that voice. It sounded like his mother’s.

  I’ve never met my mother. “I have no mother,” he said angrily.

  Everybody has a mother. Why are you so angry? These voices in his head were going to hold him back.

  I won’t let them. He reached the top of the stairs and, without waiting to find his balance, started down.

  “Oh Christ! Catch him!”

  The next thing he knew he was floating, face up towards the painted ceiling. “Light as a feather,” he laughed. In moments he was on his feet again and the voice was arguing with itself. He giggled.

  “What the devil are you doing?” the voice demanded of itself. “He can’t be allowed—”

  “Tell him that!” the voice growled back.

  “He’s got to go, if only to be seen. Otherwise we’re all dead.”

  “Bail’s right. There are already rumours about poisoning—”