by David Blixt
The Moor was silent.
“Or should I ask about me? There are things that I should know – my mother, for one. No one will tell me anything about her, and she’s half of who I am. Then there’s astrology – you’re an astrologer, yet I’ve never seen my chart. Why is that?”
“Is that your question?”
“Oh no! At least, not yet. There’s another whole realm of queries I could make. I could have you tell me about my father – Cangrande. I listen to the stories and learn nothing. What wheels move him? How does he work? How should I approach him? What kind of man is he?”
The Moor said nothing.
“I suppose I’ll learn soon enough. No teacher like experience, eh?” He smiled at the ceiling. “You see, this is my problem. I don’t even know what questions to ask. So I suppose my question is this —” The boy rolled onto his side. “If you were to offer me a question after this one, what question should I ask?”
After a long considering pause, the Moor nodded. “It depends. Would you rather live a happy life in ignorance, or a troubled existence of knowing?”
“It’s poor manners to answer a question with a question,” replied Cesco scornfully. “Yet I will pay you in your own coin and answer your absurd query with yet another question. If I chose ignorance, could you guarantee me a happy life? Is that within your power?”
Breaking eye contact, Tharwat stood and crossed to the trestle table that yesterday had held doctor’s tools. He poured himself some water from a flagon and drank it down.
“If you must break your promise and not answer, I won’t hold it against you.” When the Moor didn’t reply, he added, “I’ll only kill you in your sleep.”
Tharwat nodded as if the boy were serious. He set his cup down. This was the room where, ten years before, he had showed the charts to Pietro Alaghieri at the behest of Cangrande’s sister, Detto’s mother. Thinking of her, the Moor turned. “When I have an answer, I shall tell you.”
“I’m all aflutter with anticipation,” said Cesco, closing his eyes. “Now I have that to look forward to. And the feast, as well. Ten days, you say?”
“Yes. There is much to be done between then and now. Try to be patient. And mend.”
♦ ◊ ♦
Ironically, Cesco’s private meeting with Giovanna preceded his public meeting with Cangrande. The Monday after Cesco’s arrival in the city, a week to the day since his poisoning, Giovanna made her call on the Nogarola house. She arrived in broad daylight for all to see, and the crowd that daily gathered to see Cesco remarked how cheerful Cangrande’s wife looked, visiting her husband’s bastard.
Inside she was greeted by servants and shown into a freshly-swept sitting room – Cesco had been moved to a real bedroom, returning this room to its usual function. When Giovanna entered, she was greeted with a splendid vision of tranquility – Cesco in the window seat, fingers dancing over the holes of a fife; Antonia in her novice’s uniform, working a hand loom; Tharwat standing placidly near the window; and Pietro, looking ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble.
Of the adults, Giovanna knew Antonia best. “Antonia, my dear girl.” She held out her hands and Antonia laid her small loom aside to rise and curtsey. Gesturing to the loom, Giovanna said, “I trust that isn’t the same piece you were working on in my service so long ago.”
“It might as well be, lady,” said Antonia awkwardly. “I’ve never been good with yarn.”
“That’s right, inks were always your specialty. Ser Alaghieri, you look well.”
“And you, lady.” Pietro bowed stiffly, recalling how often he had almost died because of her.
Making passing eye-contact with the Moor, Giovanna turned to the boy in the window. “And you must be Francesco.”
“Must I? I’d rather be someone else.”
“Quick,” said Giovanna. “Or do you rehearse your answers with your tutors?”
“I am nothing but what I am,” said Cesco unhelpfully. Still, he made a good leg to her before returning to his pipe.
“You play well.”
Cesco shook his head. “It’s not my instrument. I like to sing as I play.”
“Yet you try to master it, regardless.”
Cesco shrugged, playing on.
Tharwat cleared his throat, his usual prelude to speech. “You didn’t bring Paride.”
“They will meet soon enough.” Giovanna’s eyes were on Cesco. “I hope you will be friends.”
Cesco lowered the pipe. “I hope so, too. Is he a friendly fellow?”
“He is. Are you?”
Cesco’s teeth flashed. “Nothing but. I am, after all, here, making music for an ancient murderess.” He returned to playing.
Giovanna’s laugh carried a note of displeasure. “My boy, I don’t know what these people have told you—”
“In primis, I am not your boy. Which is, I gather, the problem.”
“It is rude to interrupt,” she said sharply.
“Then you shouldn’t do it. Secondly, these people are all the family I have ever known. You shouldn’t scorn them, since it’s because of you that I grew up with them. Thirdly, you are here on sufferance. You are a spent force. You’ve lost and are now trying to woo the winning side. That makes you at best a supplicant, at worst a whore.”
Like lightning Giovanna moved forward, her arms raised before she knew what she was about. With Cesco reclining in the window, she could easily topple him over into the street below. It might even kill him, depending on how he landed.
Pietro bounded across the middle of the room. Tharwat came away from the wall. Antonia remained frozen in place, hands over her mouth. Only Cesco remained unmoved, a slight curl at the corners of his mouth around the pipe. He played harder, a driving tune with a quick tempo. His eyes were wide in anticipation.
Giovanna did not make the final effort. Visibly stilling herself, she instead walked to stand beside him, waving at the crowd below. Then she turned away and started towards the door.
Cesco stopped playing. “Thank you.”
She turned. “For?”
“For not murdering me. It answers my question.”
“And what question is that? My belief in your heathen’s prophecy?”
“Not at all,” said Cesco, winking at her. “I was just wondering how diluted the temper of the terrible Frederick has become. Apparently his hot blood has been tamed. Three generations ago, you wouldn’t have hesitated, and damn the consequences. But you took time to consider, to reason. Even made a good save of face at the end. And cousin Paride is two more generations removed from the great Hohenstaufen. He must be even more bloodless than you.”
No one dared speak to Giovanna in this way, not ever. As her mouth worked silently, trying to form her outrage, Cesco tossed his fife aside and leaned forward, elbows on knees, his hands clasped together to point at her. “Let me be plain. I bear you no ill will for past wrongs. But now it is more widely known that you tried to kill not only me, but Pietro here, his father, and Lord Nogarola’s wife. That leaves you in a bit of a spot. Try to interfere with me and mine, and all fingers,” he wiggled his, “will point at you. Even the great Scaliger, your husband, will not be able to stop them from seeing you hang. Though I think burning at the stake would be more appropriate, don’t you?”
Glaring at him for a moment more, Giovanna turned to Tharwat. “This is how you make peace?”
The Moor shrugged. “You insisted on an interview. There was no promise of pleasantries.”
The lady looked back to the boy. “Who are you to dare—?”
“Why wouldn’t I dare? As I think I mentioned, you are a spent force. But if it pleases you, I will accept the bloodless Paride as my page. That way he can polish my boots as I claim my birthright.”
Giovanna summoned her dignity. “Your birthright? You are a bastard, a half-blooded little pinprick!”
“Better a half-blood bastard than a bloodless bitch of no birth whatsoever.”
Giovanna’s face flushed for a
third time. The insult had many barbs, for she was in fact an illegitimate grand-daughter of an emperor. “I may not be able to murder you, but I swear I will see you destroyed!” With that, the lady swept from the room.
The moment the door was shut Pietro rounded on him. “You idiot. What were you thinking?”
Cesco retrieved his fife from the floor. “Actually, I thought it was quite gallant to allow her the final word. I had three excellent insults to hurl at her back, but I refrained. Gentlemanly.”
“Why? Why!?” Pietro slapped a timber support in frustration. “We had her contained! We had her willing to help us!”
Cesco shrugged. “I don’t want her help.” He resumed playing.
Pietro walked up to the boy and ripped the pipe away from him. “That was the most asinine—”
Cesco glared up at him. “What do you expect, keeping me cooped up in here for a week. I’m going mad!”
“That’s certain!”
“You can’t blame me for having a little fun!”
“Fun!” Pietro pressed his eyes shut. “You just whacked a hornet’s nest.”
“And hit the queen,” said the Moor.
Cesco looked at Tharwat. “She mentioned a prophecy. What’s that about?”
“Nothing you need to know,” said Tharwat.
“Or deserve to,” added Pietro acidly. “You clearly only use what we give you to place yourself in more danger.”
Cesco made a face. “What danger? The crowd below would have caught me.”
Antonia cut off her brother’s retort. “Pietro, wait. He’s not stupid.”
Cesco sent her a bow of his head. “Thank you.”
She frowned back. “Rash, impulsive, bordering self-destructive, but not stupid. He must have had a reason for—”
“I did. A very good one. I felt like it.”
Pietro threw the fife at the wall. “That’s not a good reason to—”
Cesco flared to life. “Well, I also thought that Detto wouldn’t like it if I was to make friends with the woman who tried to kill his mother. And maybe I don’t like the idea of befriending the woman who tried to kill you!”
There were times when they were forcibly reminded that Cesco was only eleven years old. With his command of language, with his wit and agility, it was so easy to forget. Added to that was the fact he was still not recovered from his illness.
Pietro melted. Wrapping the boy in a tight hug, he murmured, “You idiot. You little numbskull.”
Cesco did not hug Pietro back, but neither did he struggle to be free. They stood that way for some time. Finally Cesco lifted his wan face. “I saw you start when she came towards me. Do you think you could have caught me?”
“Well, we’ve had practice, Tharwat and I,” said Pietro, wiping an eye. “You almost dropped off this very balcony ten years ago.”
“Truly? O, I love my new life! I get to hear all these old stories. But let me see, I would have been about a year old…”
“Less.”
“Carelessness?”
“No, a deliberate move on your part.”
“Really? Was I being thwarted?”
Pietro considered. “Your cleverness wasn’t being recognized.”
Cesco gave a mock shiver. “Nothing worse in creation. I shall have to bend my mind to make sure it never happens again.”
Pietro sighed. “You’re off to a good beginning.”
♦ ◊ ♦
They sent Cesco to bed, and to everyone’s surprise he did not demur. Once they saw him settled, with Antonia beside him to make sure he actually did rest, the Moor plucked Pietro’s sleeve.
In the hall, out of earshot of both the boy and the novice, Tharwat whispered, “Be ready to ride tonight. We must not be followed.”
Momentarily perplexed, Pietro realized what the errand had to be. The only thing it could be. Against all his better angels, he was looking forward to it.
III
Heir Apparent
Twenty
They rode side by side through the moonlight, using every trick to lose the Scaligeri soldiers who were almost certainly following them. It was well past midnight when Tharwat and Pietro reined in before an old timber cabin to Verona’s south, beyond Paquara, close to Tomba. An appropriate title for the place, for it was certain to become one man’s tomb tonight.
As they dismounted, a shape in front of the cabin shifted. Pietro reached for his sword, but Tharwat said, “It is I.”
With a voice like Tharwat’s there was no need for a password. The shape came shuffling out of the shadows. By the light of the moon Pietro could see he was a back-bent Moor. Missing fingers from both hands, clearly much abused by life, this crookback yet owned muscles upon muscles, bulk that not even his rags could hide.
The man did not look once at Pietro. From fear or contempt, Pietro couldn’t tell. “He stopped begging to be freed yesterday,” the man told Tharwat. “Today he started pleading for me to kill him. He still drinks the water I bring, though, so he hasn’t given up hope.”
A wheedling voice came from within the cabin. “Who’s there! I can hear you talking! Please, help! Help!”
Crookback grunted. “See?”
Ignoring the yells from inside, Tharwat handed over a satchel containing fresh bread, fruit, and clear water. “I thank you. Can you remain? We may not be done here tonight.”
“I will stay as long as necessary. Tell me, does the child live?”
“He does.”
“Allahu akbar.”
“Allahu akbar,” echoed Tharwat, heading for the cabin door. As Pietro followed, the crookback returned to his post, breaking the bread off between his teeth.
When they opened the door the shouting stopped. There was no light within, and they were silhouetted by the moon over their shoulders. There came a soft groan from the darkness, followed by a curse. “No no no – stay back, you heathen fiend!”
Tharwat struck a flint. Sparks danced in the air like little stars, but not far enough to illuminate the room. Again the rasp of the flint. This time the taper caught and light stretched out towards the corners of the cabin, not quite reaching the back wall.
In the middle of the room a burly man was bound to a central support beam. Thickly built, the poisoner was trussed like a holiday pig. Days of struggle against his bonds had torn his clothes, and there was blood on the ropes. Obviously the Moor and his friend outside were too expert in their knots. There were signs of abuse from the Moor’s previous interrogation, but no permanent damage.
Yet.
Taking in the new face, the poisoner’s eyes lit with hope. “Who’re you?” The beard looked like a sickly ferret stretched across his jaw, and speech gave the illusion that the ferret was writhing. “Please, I beg you, get me out of this and anything you want, it’s yours! I swear!”
Laying his sword close to hand, Pietro squatted down before their prisoner. “No need for oaths you don’t intend to keep. You’ll give me everything I want, now. Then we’ll see about freeing you.”
The man threw a nervous glance at Tharwat as the Moor unbuckled his massive falchion and laid it on the floor. The villain was now bracketed by swords. “Please – I have a family, they can ransom me.”
“That’s good. Start there. What’s your name? Where are you from?”
“My name is Danno, my family’s from Napoli. But no one calls me Danno.”
“What do they call you?”
“Borachio.” The man lifted his chin as he said it, proud of being a drunkard. Or, more likely, his ability to imbibe.
“Well, Borachio, my friend and I have questions. You’d best answer them truthfully.”
“I told him what the poison was,” protested Borachio weakly.
“And we thank you. Now, who hired you?”
Borachio shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Removing a sickle-shaped knife from inside his doublet, Tharwat held it gently against the drunkard’s cheek. “For every lie, you lose a finger.”
Like a pig smelling bacon, Borachio began to sweat. “I swear, I don’t—” Tharwat moved around to where Borachio’s hands were tied. “No! Wait! It was in Venice – two men in masques dragged me to a casa.”
“What kind of masques?”
“Those ones that cover the whole face.”
“Bauta masques.”
“Yes! They put me in a chair and bound me to it. They left, and I heard a voice. There was a screen – you know, one of those metal screens that courtesans use.”
As Tharwat stepped back into view, Pietro said, “Was it a courtesan who spoke?”
“No, a man. Please, may I have a drink?” Pietro nodded to Tharwat, who brought a stoup of water from a bucket. Borachio grimaced. “I said something to drink, not something to wash in.”
Cheeky, for a prisoner. Still, Pietro decided it couldn’t hurt to let the fellow slake his thirst. In fact, it might help. But not yet. “I have some wine in my saddlebags. But you must earn it. Tell me about the man.”
Borachio shot the Moor a nervous glance. “I don’t know anything about him. Really! I told you, I couldn’t see him, he was sitting behind the screen!”
“If the screen had holes, you must have been able to see something.”
“Only that he was in a masque, too. There was very little light, one candle near me.”
“How was he dressed?”
“I tell you, I couldn’t see!”
“What about his voice? You could hear him well enough.”
“I don’t know, he was a posh. He spoke too well, you know?”
“Like me?”
“Better.”
“So definitely noble?”
The drunkard clung to that word. “Oh yes. Yes, noble.”
“Was the accent Venetian? Veronese? Paduan? Was he even Italian?”
“Venetian, I think. Yeah, I’m sure he was Venetian. Please, may I have that drink?” Pietro stood, and Borachio cried out, “No, please! Don’t leave me alone with that monster!” Another wordless communication between Pietro and the Moor, and Tharwat exited the cabin.
