by David Blixt
Tharwat must have sensed Pietro’s defeat, even in the darkness, for he stepped past his friend and started back for the cabin.
“Tharwat, no.”
The Moor did not stop.
“Al-Dhaamin.”
The steel in Pietro’s voice caused the Moor to turn. There was a tension in the air, as if the astrologer half-expected Pietro to fight him here, in the dark, in this cause.
Reaching out, Pietro laid a hand on Tharwat’s sword arm. “I’ll do it. I’m already damned. There must be some benefit to not being in God’s view. I may sin with impunity.”
“I am willing.”
“If the deed is to be done,” said Pietro, “I should do it. Anything else is cowardice.”
Tharwat signaled his assent by stepping aside. Pietro led the way back to the cabin, where the light of the taper still flickered inside. At the door, Pietro drew his sword.
Borachio must have heard some of the argument, divined by tone if not words the debate being had. The sight of Pietro with naked steel in hand did not set him pleading again. Instead he simply muttered, “Oh Christ.” He struggled against his bonds, but had no more strength in his final hour than he’d had before.
Pietro walked forward, the point of his longsword held low. So this is it. I’ve killed men in battle. I’ve fought a couple in single combat. But today I kill an unarmed man, bound hand and foot, helpless before me. Today I become a murderer.
Reaching Borachio’s side, Pietro raised his sword. The light from the taper reflected off it, sending a beam across the room. Man’s law is but reflected light from God’s law. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ sayeth the Lord. ‘Thou shalt not commit murder.’
Tharwat was correct. Nothing good came from letting this man live.
Nothing? Is that my decision to make, what a man has to offer?
But for Pietro to let him live, there had to be a benefit to Cesco. And there was none.
Through a clenched jaw Borachio said, “Send my body to Naples.”
Pietro swung the sword, hard. It bit into the wood beside Borachio’s neck, sending a shower of splinters into the air. Borachio cried out.
And stopped. He looked up and up the length of sword that rested not an inch from his shoulder. At the final moment, Pietro had taken a slight step, causing the blade to bury itself in the wooden post at Borachio’s back.
Borachio shivered, then began shaking. An acidic smell filled the room as a dark stain filled his hose. Relief and rage fought to overwhelm the man. “Bastard. Bastard.”
Pietro turned the blade, putting pressure on Borachio’s neck. “Listen to me. You are no longer your own man. Your life belongs to me. If you even set a foot out of line, I’ll give you to the Moor here.”
Pietro exited. Tharwat did not follow. But neither did he draw his sword. Instead the Moor said, “My friend has offered you life. I offer you something else.” Carefully he extracted the poisoned needle from the leather roll of deadly tools. Stepping around to Borachio’s back, he laid it gently in the palm of the uppermost bound hand. “You may choose. Life, as he offers it. Or death. There is nothing else.”
Tharwat witnessed the drunkard grasping the implied bargain. We will return. If you mean to aid us, stay alive. If not, better to die now than in the manner I will choose for you.
Tharwat took the remaining tools and departed, pausing only to blow out the taper. He didn’t look back at the angry, shamed figure in the center of the room, still affixed to the post.
Outside, Pietro had called the crookback over and was giving him instructions to feed the prisoner. When the man looked to Tharwat, the astrologer merely nodded.
They were mounted and already a mile on their way when Tharwat finally voiced the question. “Why?”
“Simple cowardice on my part.”
“You are no coward. You thought of a reason to let him live.”
“Maybe. I realized it could be useful having a maladrino in our pocket. In fact,” added Pietro, “I have an idea how we can expose Cesco’s enemy for all the world to see.”
Twenty-One
Verona
Tuesday, 23 July
1325
“I’m damned. Cesco is the Grehound?”
Morsicato was seated on a stone bench beside Pietro, across from Antonia and the Moor, both resting in the center of a walled yard belonging to the church of San Zeno. The burning summer sun beat relentlessly down upon them, and Pietro longed for the shade of the nearby arcade. But in the middle of the grassy square, they could see any approaching parishioners or clergy. As long as they kept their voices low, their words would remain private.
Pietro had learned long ago that houses have ears. Servants were unwitting spies, and in Verona’s close confines there was no telling who else could be listening. Needing the council of Cesco’s inner circle, Pietro had found a modicum of privacy in San Zeno. He would have preferred the interior of the church, but that far the Prior was not willing to go. In spite of his knighthood, Pietro was still anathema, and courtesy to the Scaliger only extended so far. Indeed, the Scaliger himself was excommunicated at present, barred from entering any but his own private chapel of Santa Maria Antica – though that edict had yet to be tested. Pietro supposed he was fortunate in owning a master who also laboured under Papal disapproval. Pietro’s knighthood should have been revoked the moment he lost God’s favour. His retention of the name Knight of the Mastiff meant he could demand certain concessions, such as the use of San Zeno’s yard and the entrance of al-Dhaamin within these holy confines.
Whom to invite to the meeting was almost as hard as determining a location. Antonia and Tharwat were a given. They knew every detail of Cesco’s history. But Pietro balked at Castelbarco or Bailardino. Conspirators against Mastino, yes. But they were only in Cesco’s camp out of loyalty to Cangrande. Already Bail showed unwillingness to believe ill of his brother-in-law, even when the tapestry was torn aside. So Pietro crossed them from the list.
The same went for Nico and Petruchio. Then there were Montecchio and Capulletto. There had been a time when he would have trusted both implicitly. That was before a woman had torn their friendship asunder. The worst part was that together they were a wonderful pair, a force to be reckoned with. Separately, they were lessened, diminished, their potential reduced to mundane levels. Pietro knew that if he reached out to one, the other would take umbrage. So they were both out.
That left the doctor. Certainly Morsicato had earned the right to be there. Privy to so much already, the doctor was ignorant of only one crucial fact – that Cesco was the fabled Greyhound of prophecy.
Probably, amended Pietro. With Cesco, nothing was certain.
For years Pietro had kept back this bit of information for the doctor’s safety. But Cesco’s destiny was the vital factor in divining Cangrande’s motives. Therefore the doctor had to be told.
Pietro began by reciting the prophecy of Il Veltro – not his father’s version of it, but the one Cangrande himself had declaimed so long ago:
To Italy there will come The Greyhound.
The Leopard and the Lion, who feast on our Fear,
He will vanquish with cunning and strength.
The She-Wolf, who triumphs in our Fragility,
He will chase through all the great Cities
And slay Her in Her Lair, and thus to Hell.
He will unite the land with Wit, Wisdom, and Courage,
And bring to Italy, the home of men,
A Power unknown since before the Fall of Man.
He will evanesce at the zenith of his glory.
By the setting of three suns after his Greatest Deed,
Death shall claim him.
Fame eternal shall be his, not for his Life, but his Death.
The next hushed words out of Pietro’s mouth were to the point. “First, doctor, you must know this – Cangrande is not Il Veltro. The prophecy actually refers to Cesco. We didn’t tell you to keep you safe. Cangrande’s jealousy borders rationality, and he�
��ll hate anyone who even hints that he is not the Greyhound.”
Morsicato asked Pietro to repeat his statement, and in a close whisper Pietro recited the words directly into the doctor’s ear. “Cesco is the Greyhound.”
To his credit, Morsicato did not reproach them with his exclusion from this information. He did look a little gruff, but his answer was to the point. “No wonder he hates the boy so.”
Pietro shook his head. “Hate is too easy. He pities Cesco, maybe even loves him. But his goal is control. Hence faking his own death to lure Cesco back to Verona. But there is more to that story, which we only learned last night.” Briefly, Pietro outlined everything they’d learned from Borachio.
At the end Antonia patted Pietro’s knee. “I’m glad you let him live.”
The doctor scowled at her. “I’m not. Damned poisoner!”
“Shh! Keep your voice down.” Pietro glanced at the monks, obtrusively watching from the arcade – the Moor’s presence unsettled them. Or is it me? “We need to decide what to do next.”
Morsicato seemed surprised. “Obvious. We go to Venice, find the house.”
“And do what? Storm in, demand to know who the man in the masque was? Even if it’s not carnevale, masques are common in Venice. Everyone who wants to go unrecognized wears one and no one thinks twice about it.”
“We could watch the house…” Even as the doctor spoke he saw the hopelessness of it. They didn’t even know for whom they’d be watching.
Pietro nodded. “The house is irrelevant, because we already know who the man in the masque was.” The others looked at him expectantly. He made a gesture with his hands, as if to say, Isn’t it obvious? “The Scaliger.”
“Cangrande?” asked Antonia, bewildered. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Who else could have known he was going to fake his own death two days before it happened?”
“If it was he,” said Tharwat, more careful than the others not to use names, “that means he hired the drunkard.”
“Yes!” hissed Pietro, glad that at least the Moor saw the obvious.
“Which means it was he who wanted the boy poisoned.”
“Yes.”
The Moor shook his head. “I doubt that.”
Pietro’s mouth hung open. “Of all people, you know what he’s—”
“What does he gain if Cesco dies? His father’s curse on his head.”
“Not if he believes in the Greyhound prophecy. He knows the boy won’t die.”
The doctor chimed in. “Even if that’s true, Tharwat’s right. It doesn’t make sense. You say the Capitano staged his death to lure the boy back to Verona. Fine. What does he gain from poisoning Cesco? Why lure him out, only to make him helpless?”
Pietro recalled Cangrande saying almost those exact words. “It might amuse him to bring the fabled Greyhound low. Show us all he’s mortal.”
Antonia shook her head. “He would have admitted it. To you, at least. Oh, maybe not right out. But he would have let you know it was he. From what you’ve told me, he wouldn’t be able to resist. Did he?”
Pietro’s silence answered that question.
“Is fecit, cui prodest,” said Tharwat softly. The man who profits does the deed. “The Capitano does not profit from this. And the drunkard said the masqued man had a Venetian dialect.”
“The Scaliger once pretended to be a Spaniard and fooled me for days. He even pretended to be a woman on the road to Ravenna! He could easily mimic a Venetian accent.”
“I don’t see the gain,” said Tharwat.
“Nor I,” said Morsicato.
Pietro was adamant. “No one else knew!”
“Surmise, not fact,” said Tharwat.
Pietro fumed. Yes, the Moor was technically correct. But the truth was so obvious! Cangrande! It has to be Cangrande!
The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but aren’t we missing the obvious name?” Everyone looked at him. “Mastino. Who stands to profit more from Cesco’s death?”
“It a point,” admitted Antonia.
Pietro shook his head. “This family – the curse of not spilling family blood weighs heavily on them. They’re indoctrinated with it from birth. You should have heard Pathino back in that cave. He was a bastard, never knew his father, yet he believed in the curse with every fibre of his being.”
Tharwat arched his brows. “That is as true for Cangrande as Mastino and Pathino. Moreso, perhaps.”
Having depended on Tharwat’s support, Pietro felt angry at being checked at each turn. When Antonia said, “We need to know more,” frustration got the better of him, and he snapped, “That goes without saying!”
“Calm down. I mean specifically about the rumour that Cangrande was dead. How did he start that rumour? And how did this masqued Venetian know about it ahead of time?”
Pietro could see the others needed logical proof. “Fine. Let’s run down the list of suspects. Mastino.”
Infuriatingly, Morsicato now reversed his position. “He couldn’t have known, or he’d’ve been better prepared to challenge the will. Cesco would never have made it to Verona.”
Pietro looked at the others. “Agreed?” They nodded. “Who else?”
“Cangrande’s wife,” said Morsicato, his voice overlapping with Antonia’s as she said, “Giovanna.”
Pietro pointed, as if dotting a name on a list. “Madonna della Scala. Certainly, she’s tried it before. Tharwat?”
“No.” The Moor was firm. When both Antonia and Morsicato began to argue, he said, “I believe her when she says she had nothing to do with it. Though, after his last performance, she might be thinking of it now.”
“But she’s the obvious person to benefit,” protested Antonia. “If Cesco died, Paride would be next in line—”
“After Mastino, Alberto, and Federigo,” completed Pietro. “That’s too many bodies to climb over. She had better chances at law, and in court there were greater threats than a bastard son. Who does that leave?”
“Pathino?” suggested Antonia.
Pietro resisted a shiver. Gregorio Pathino had played a part in many nightmares these last ten years. Thankfully Tharwat answered that. “Even if he knew that Cesco was alive, how would he know about the fake death?”
“That goes for everyone,” said Pietro. “Which brings us back to Cangrande—”
“Wait,” said Antonia. “Wait. Clearly the Venetian didn’t know where Cesco was, or else he would have attacked him in Ravenna. No?”
“That’s right,” said Pietro, the first real doubt coming home.
“Unless,” said Morsicato, snapping his fingers, “the villain wanted Cesco killed just as he came to light.”
“Who benefits from that?” asked Tharwat.
“Cangrande’s enemies. Kill the heir just as he rears his head. Someone knew this was about bringing Cesco to Verona, and wanted to stop it. What if – what if this was less about the boy and more about hurting the Scaliger?”
“Scaligeri, you mean,” said the Moor. “All of them.”
It was a new thought, and Morsicato diagnosed it as he would an unknown disease. “We naturally focus on the boy. But what if he’s only a part of it? This could have been aimed at Cangrande – the whole family, maybe.”
Antonia frowned. “Which means they’re all in danger. Do we warn them?”
“Do we warn him, you mean,” said Pietro.
“Yes.”
Stubbornly Pietro shook his head. “I’m still not convinced he wasn’t behind it. It could have easily been him behind the screen. The man was seated, so as not to give away his height…”
Antonia was his equal in stubbornness. “I cannot accept it. It doesn’t make sense.”
Pietro threw a glance at Tharwat, hoping for eleventh hour support. The Moor inclined his head. “Anything is possible. But knowing the workings of his mind, I do not think it likely.”
“Fine. How about this – we investigate the events around his fake death without talking to him dire
ctly. We can do that, surely.”
“It would be easier to ask him.”
“And if it was him behind the screen? He’ll know that we can link him to Borachio, and who knows what he’ll do then.”
“Have us killed,” said Morsicato at once.
“Or removed some other way, yes.”
“What’s your solution, then?” demanded Antonia. “Kill him?”
“Before he kills us,” said Pietro. “Yes.”
The others stared at him. Antonia and Morsicato clearly thought he was mad. Tharwat was unreadable.
“Kill Cang– kill him?” gasped Antonia.
“Yes.”
“Last night you refused to commit murder,” said Tharwat.
“I also said I would murder to protect the boy. The drunkard is no longer a threat. He is.” Pietro wanted to press his point further, but refrained. They had all the same pieces he did, they could reach their conclusions.
The Moor spoke first. “If it was he, then I agree.”
The doctor was chewing his beard. “Me too. If.”
Antonia was staring at her brother as if she had never seen him. “I didn’t know you would ever break the law.”
“I would risk everything, even my immortal soul, for my family.”
That was it, of course. Cesco was their child. No matter who his birth father was, they had raised him. They were the ones who loved him.
Antonia was a long time in giving her assent, but at last she nodded. Then, just as Pietro was about to ask how they go about it, she said, “If we can prove it.”
“You want proof? Fine. I have an idea.”
Quickly he outlined the plan he had conceived the night before. Antonia looked dubious, but Tharwat was brisk. “It is a good plan. One way or another we will be certain, and may proceed from there. But it must be done in public. Someplace away from the court.”
“Capulletto’s ball,” said Morsicato at once. “Cangrande will be there, and we can confront him away from his guards.”
“Risky timing,” said Pietro. “But better than trying at the palace or on the street.”
