by David Blixt
Borachio stared earnestly into Pietro’s face, his breathing laboured, his face lathered with sweat. Quickly he said, “Ser, you’re a gentleman, I can see it. You won’t let him hurt me?” Pietro said nothing. “Come on, friend. At least loosen the ropes on my arms. I can’t feel my fingers, they’re so tight. I’m unarmed, I’m starving, I’m no threat to anybody!”
Pietro stared, studying Borachio’s face. He’d expected to find someone evil, a man with a visibly twisted soul. Someone like Pathino. This big lout appeared completely normal, a fine drinking companion, maybe even a stout soldier once upon a time. Callow, to be sure. He wasn’t even devious in his attempt to escape.
Yet he had poisoned a child. That simple fact identified him as lacking a soul. That fact also made it easy for Pietro to ignore his pleas. There was no mercy here.
Pietro thought of a new question. “What day did this happen?”
Borachio had to think. “What day is it now?”
“Monday.”
“Well, this was either a Tuesday or a Wednesday. I never go to the Paradiso Trovato on a weekend – they’re an unsavoury lot, despite the name, y’see?” Pietro waited, and Borachio quickly went back to his calculations. “I think I remember drinking an honourific. Some priest. He said it was a feast day, and we had to drink seven healths.”
“The Feast of the Seven Martyrs. That was Wednesday the Tenth. Are you absolutely sure?”
“Dead certain. I mean – yes. Always remember an honourific.”
Twelve days past. Two whole days before anyone heard that Cangrande was dead. Meaning Cangrande had lied, it had been him behind the poisoning. No one else knew. And I believed him! Again!
Tharwat returned. Taking the stone bottle, Pietro removed the stopper and held it to Borachio’s lips. “Drink up. And then, like a true drunkard, spill your guts. Or he will.” Tharwat again fingered his sickle-shaped knife.
Borachio gulped at the wine, slobbering some down his front, drinking without pause until Pietro pulled the stone bottle away. He sighed with relief. “Thank you. You are a good Christian.”
Pietro set the bottle aside. “Now tell me, why did this masqued man choose you?”
Borachio got the crafty look drunks get when they’re embarrassed. “I honestly don’t know.”
Pietro backhanded him, putting his shoulder into the blow. Lip bleeding, Borachio simply looked up at Pietro as if to say, Is that all you’ve got? Clearly the man had taken more than a few beatings in his life.
“Tharwat, our friend here was complaining that he couldn’t feel his fingers. Test that statement.”
Now Borachio squirmed. “No!”
“Why did he choose you?”
“He – he knew about a crime I had been a part of, dammit! He had evidence. He said that if I refused to do what he asked, the two men would take me to gaol and have me executed that very night. If I did what he said, the evidence would disappear.”
“So you agreed.”
“Yes.”
“To kill a child.”
“What else could I do! Ever try to negotiate while you’re tied to a chair? He wouldn’t listen a whit. Said I would be doing my country a great service, and saving my skin besides.”
“Your country? What does Napoli gain if—”
“I think he meant Venice,” said Borachio simply. “Please, can you let me go now? That’s all I know.”
“Hardly,” said Pietro. “What were his instructions. Exactly.”
Borachio’s brow furrowed in concentration. “He told me to go to Mantua, find an apothecary there named Spolentino. I was to buy a poison. The worst possible, the most deadly. Then I was to come to Verona and wait.”
“For what?”
“For anyone claiming to be Cangrande’s son.”
Pietro exchanged a quick glance with Tharwat. “Go on.”
Borachio shrugged. “I did it, just like he said. I went to Spolentino’s shop, bought the poison, then came to Verona. I got a room and I waited. Every day I loitered in the square, listening for news.”
“Then your target arrived.”
“Yes.” Borachio’s sweat reached new proportions as he came to the most dangerous part of his tale – dangerous for him. “So I did what I was told. Worked my way through the crowd and pricked him. You understand, yes? I had no choice!”
Pietro was staring a hole through the man’s head. It was Tharwat who acted. Standing, he reached into the satchel on his shoulder, removing a leather roll of small tools. Borachio didn’t need the Moor to unfurl it to know what it was. “Noo, nooooo!”
Tharwat rummaged carefully through the poisoner’s instruments and withdrew a long hollow metal tube. “You had this. Why didn’t you use it? Answer!”
Borachio was shaking with dread. “Boy was too short. Couldn’t get a shot through the crowd. Had to get closer. I’m sorry!”
“So you used this.” Tharwat lifted a needle. It looked like it had a dirty end.
Borachio quailed, looked away, refused to answer.
Pietro’s voice sounded like it belonged to a complete stranger. “You’ve only heard what it can do. We’ve seen it. Worse than you can imagine. Worse than losing a finger or two. And you did it to a child. A child.”
“What do you want from me? I’ve told you everything!”
“Not quite. Describe the house.”
“What? Oh. Ah, well, I couldn’t see too good. The men jumped me as I left the alehouse. They pinioned my arms and threw me into a gondola. One shoved a masque over my face, but he pulled it low so I couldn’t see out of it – the eyeholes were at my nose. Then one held a knife in my back and the other rowed.”
Tharwat spoke. “Name the alehouse.”
“I told him already, the Paradiso Trovato.”
“The quarter?”
“Dorsoduro, west side.”
“Say which way they rowed, and for how long.”
“East, maybe? Yes, east. For about ten minutes.”
“Rowed, not punted?”
“No, you’re right, he punted.”
Pietro scowled. “That kind of mistake invites a pinprick.”
“No! I didn’t think – I didn’t remember – I was drunk at the time, dammit!” As if that explained away everything, including the attempt on Cesco.
Pietro said, “Go on about the house.”
“We stopped, they pulled me out. But they jostled me enough that they didn’t notice when I shrugged the masque into place so I could see a little. There was a wall of pink flowers in bloom outside it. Not a few, a full wall. I could smell them over the river stink.”
“What else about the casa?”
“It was three stories, well kept. The shutters were fancy, kind of oriental. And there was a carving of a three-headed man over the door.”
“Describe it,” rasped Tharwat.
“Like one of those Commedia-Tragedia masques – laughing on one side, crying on the other. But the middle face was the strange one. It was screaming, like it was crazy angry. Laughing and crying at the same time, you know?”
Borachio surveyed the faces of his captors and decided he might have earned another slug of wine. Anticipating the request, Pietro lifted the stone bottle to his lips and held it there while the drunkard lapped. He had to pull it away before it was entirely drained. To be without wine was to lose their best enticement.
“Thank you,” gasped Borachio.
“You’re welcome. Now what was the crime?”
“What?”
“The crime you committed, the one the Venetian was blackmailing you with. What was it?”
Borachio’s face squinched into a ball. “You want me to tell you? How does that help me?”
“It keeps you alive a little longer.”
Drink made Borachio argumentative. “You’re going to kill me anyway. I know that. So do it. Do it and have done!”
All this kneeling was straining Pietro’s bad leg. He stood. “Borachio, use whatever passes for your brains. The only
reason we have to keep you alive is to use you to hunt down this mysterious Venetian. You can lead me to the house, you can recognize his voice. As long as you’re useful, you can live. But I have to know you won’t run or betray me. I can already have you hanged for attempted murder and possession of illegal poisons. But to control you, I have to know what the other man has on you. And,” added Pietro, “if we know the crime, we can learn who betrayed you. One of your fellow criminals must have sold you out. If we discover who did that, we can follow the chain to the man who threatened you, and eliminate him. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.”
That speech had the drunkard furrowing his brow for a long time. Finally deciding he had nothing to lose, Borachio told his tale:
“I used to work under a condotta commanded by Lord Castracane of Pisa. You’ve heard of him, yes? We helped him oust that fool Uguccione della Faggiuola.”
“The late Lord Faggiuola was a friend of mine,” said Pietro coolly.
“Oh. Uh, sorry. Brave soldier. Well, things settled down in Pisa and us boys decided to go into business for ourselves. I was chosen as the condottiero, and we came to Venice to see what wars were in the offing. I was a fool, though, and quarreled with one of my officers.”
“Over what?”
Borachio’s face became a masque, half amused, half sad. “There was this girl…”
Pietro could hear Cesco’s sarcastic voice saying, There always is.
“Anna. Little, dark hair, perfect nipples. She was engaged to this officer, Andreasio he was called, but fell for me. So she threw him over. Andreasio was furious. I paid him a bonus to recompense him, but that just made him angrier.”
“He didn’t like to be thought of as another Pander, I guess.”
Borachio shrugged. “Whatever. So the wicked bastard puts a plan into motion to ruin me. He hires some local bint to dress like my Anna, then he gets a couple other officers drunk. This whore meets them dressed as my love, and this officer and she, they make a scene. Like a little play. All over each other. Damned bitch earned her fee right there in the back of the alehouse! Rot her!”
Borachio was beginning not to relate the tale so much as relive it, the anger in his voice doing battle with the tears in his eyes. “Word got back to me that same night. The officers told me what they had seen with their own eyes. Of course, they’d been drunk. But I believed them. I believed my Anna was untrue. Can you believe it? What a fool!”
“Your crime,” said Pietro softly.
“My crime? My crime was that I killed her! I went to her rooms, had my way with her as she sobbed and wept and cried, said it was a pack of lies. That just made me angrier. I didn’t mean to do it, but I hated her lying to me, and I broke her pretty neck.” Borachio’s voice was level now, relating facts, despite the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I did that. To her. Me.”
“What happened next?”
“Andreasio was waiting outside the room. He’d watched me go in, listened to the whole thing. When he was sure she was dead, he called to me. Blocked the door first – he knew I wanted to kill him, too. Through the door he told me what he’d done. That she’d been true. That I’d killed her over a lie. And that the law would have my head if they found out.” Borachio sagged. “He offered me an escape. Said he wouldn’t turn me in. All I had to do was sign the leadership of the condotta over to him, then disappear, and my name would never be linked with Anna’s death.”
A heavy silence. Borachio seemed unable to finish the tale, so Pietro did it for him. “You took his offer.”
“Aye, I did. Gave up position, percentage, and pension. And I’ve been in that hellhole ever since.”
“Is that why you turned to drink?” The question earned him a reproving look from Tharwat. Pietro knew why, but he couldn’t help asking it.
Borachio looked up in surprise, then laughed. “That would be a good story. But no, I’ve always been Borachio. Probably the reason I ended up in this pig-sty of a fix in the first place.”
Pietro asked a more pertinent question. “How did you make a living?”
“A little bodyguard work, a little crowd management here and there. Muscle, a quick club, and the stink eye.”
“Any of your employers know your history?”
“Only my war record. All they needed.”
“Could they have checked with Andreasio for your references?”
“Could have, but I doubt it. Not the kind of job you need references for. Either you look like a man who can crack skulls or you don’t, you know?”
“Is this Andreasio still in Venice?”
“He shipped off. Hope he drowned.”
“You and Anna weren’t married, were you?”
Borachio shook his head sadly. “Not yet.”
Pietro and Tharwat asked a few more questions, probing certain areas further. But if Borachio responded, the answers were clearly inventions, attempts at pleasing his captors. When Tharwat threatened the needle the false answers dried up, leaving nothing at all. Borachio had spilled all he knew. His kind of evil was craven, easily turned. There was no loyalty in him. He switched masters as easily as he drew breath. Or downed a drink.
Pietro was glad they hadn’t needed the implements in the satchel. The thought of torturing a man, even a man as deserving as this one, turned Pietro sick at heart. I’m too soft for this life.
After giving the poisoner the last of the wine, Pietro and Tharwat lifted up their swords and started for the exit. Borachio called after them. “Wait! You’re not just going to leave me here, are you?”
“We’ll be back,” assured Pietro.
Outside, Tharwat nodded to the crookbacked Moor, then continued walking until they were well out of earshot of the cabin. Stopping under the leaves of a young oak, Pietro said dryly, “We should tell Cesco that his lack of stature saved him from the blowpipe. He might stop grousing about his height.”
Tharwat was in no mood for jests. “We have learned all he knows. What shall we do with him?”
“He’s guilty of attempted murder.”
“Yes.”
“Do we want that to get out, is the question.”
“Yes.”
They didn’t want it to get out. A rumour about an illness that looked like poison was quite different from a case at law, charging the poisoner and demanding his confession and execution. It was a matter of unforeseeable consequences. Best not left to chance.
But Pietro didn’t want to let go of the law just yet. There had to be a legal solution to Borachio. “We caught him in possession of poison. That alone is enough to see him hanged.”
“True.”
Damn you, Tharwat, argue with me! “But even if we bring him up on charges, he’ll have a chance to defend himself, speak, and he could say everything he knows.”
“That is so.”
The Moor was being too passive, and Pietro’s frustration got the better of him. “Just say it. You think we should kill him.”
“Are you saying you do not?”
“No, that’s not it. But—”
“You wanted him dead when he was a thing, a poisoner, a murderer of children. But now that you’ve met him, seen him with your own eyes, you think he is a man, worthy of man’s laws.”
“He is!”
“He is not. He is still a thing, a poisoner, a murderer of children. That he did not succeed does not negate his intent, or his deed. You do not need to know what moves a man’s soul to judge his actions.”
“You mean I shouldn’t have asked the cause of his drinking? I wanted to know him better.”
“Immaterial to the matter at hand. It was sympathetic of you.”
“You mean pathetic.”
“I am not Cesco. Nor am I Cangrande. I say what I mean. But you have fallen into a trap. He is no longer worthy of death. It is no longer justice. You see it as murder. You have stepped into his boots. Only, had you been in his boots from the start, you would not have committed this deed. A man’s deeds are what there is to judge him by.�
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“You just said his intent was as important.”
“You are a good lawyer, you have caught me in a contradiction. I confess it. Now, admit this – if Cesco were dead, you’d have chopped off his head before we left that room. No?”
Pietro considered a moment before giving a grudging answer. “Probably.”
“But what if Cesco is permanently damaged by this? It is possible – such a shock to a young body, I know what it can do. It never leaves.”
Pietro couldn’t see them now, but could easily conjure the image of the scars around Tharwat’s throat. Bubbly, like burn scars, but stretched so the discolouration became a great swath of pain around the whole neck. He had never thought about the stretching before, but now he realized that if a child had been tortured, the surviving adult would bear scars just like al-Dhaamin’s. A child…
The Moor continued. “He is a criminal several times over. We’d be doing justice.”
“We can’t take the law into our own hands! Dammit, I’m a knight and a lawyer. I cannot betray those ideals.”
“Not even for Cesco?”
Pietro sucked in a breath. “I would murder to save Cesco’s life. But that’s not the circumstance we’re in. This is revenge, pure and simple. Vengeance isn’t for me to mete out.”
“Ser Alaghieri, nothing good comes from letting him live. The deed need not be done by you. Or even witnessed. Step down the road a ways. I will join you soon.”
Pietro shook his head. “That’s worse than doing it myself. I would still be complicit.”
“I do not subscribe to the ancient Greek idea of transference. The blood is only on the hands of the man who does the deed.”
“There have been cases at law that disagree.”
“That law is to prevent future crimes as much as—”
“—as get justice for the dead, yes,” finished Pietro. “Two men stop a traveler, meaning to kill him for his purse. The nearer strikes the blow. The other man isn’t guilty?”
“Philosophy,” rasped Tharwat. “Impractical. He must die. The rest is noise.”
“Law is not noise!” said Pietro, a little too loudly. He moderated his tone. “Without the law, it is murder.”
Tharwat remained unmoving, unspeaking. The argument, as far as he was concerned, had ended. Wanting to continue, Pietro saw the futility of it. Tharwat was correct. Nothing good came from letting Borachio live.
