Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Spolentino had been a disappointment. He had indeed sold the poison to Borachio, but had no idea why his shop had been chosen. He listed many of the people who had bought from him over the years, but since that list had included nobles as high as Passerino Bonaccolsi’s late brother, there was no help from that quarter. Pietro’s best hope for exposing the man behind Cesco’s poisoning now lay with this poisonous drunkard dressed in friar’s robes.

  As the quartet entered the passage, other guests greeted Pietro warmly. Antonia whiled away their slow progress in the tunnel by talking to Lorenzo about his Order, and thus covertly instructing Borachio on his role.

  After three minutes of inching forward in relative darkness, they emerged from the tunnel and gazed up at the three-story building on their right. “This is a beautiful house,” said Antonia.

  “Your brother said he’s never been here,” said Lorenzo politely, pushing back his hood and patting sweat from his forehead. “But you left Verona after he did. Did you never attend a Capulletto ball?”

  “I did, but they were still living on their country estates. Before Old Ludovico died.”

  Hand sore from successive shaking, Pietro pointed. “The fresco work is beautiful.” The walls beneath the plaster were probably brick, but covered entirely with a painted story. “Can you tell the subject?”

  “Ask Brother Lucius,” said Lorenzo unhelpfully.

  “I, ah, I don’t —” stammered Borachio.

  “David and Uriah the Hittite,” supplied Antonia. “From the second book of Samuel.”

  Pietro suppressed a groan. “Of course it is.” He saw now how the story began on their left, where a lower building, two stories tall, depicted King David on a rooftop spying on the happy couple of Uriah and his wife Bathsheba. Husband and wife were embracing by a pitcher of water, washing each other and laughing, while the jealous king looked down on them.

  The cycle continued on the wall opposite the tunnel, also only two-stories high. Here Uriah was in the forefront of the battle against the Ammonites, cut off from aid. A magnificent warrior, he fought valiantly, but there was little doubt he was finished – a figure loomed behind him, ready to stab the Hittite captain in the back.

  High in the corner of the same fresco stood David and Joab, David’s warlord. David was pointing to the field and handing Joab a note. Despite the ban on church-going, Pietro knew his bible, and easily recalled that message: ‘Set ye Uriah in the front of the battle, where the fight is the strongest: and leave ye him, that he may be wounded and die.’ The jealous king wanted the valiant soldier dead so he might marry Bathsheba himself.

  The third panel was striking, covering the wall of the house proper, a full story higher than the other two. Around windows and doors, the background was a deep and impenetrable blue. The foreground was covered with snow. Just to the left of the tall arched door in the wall, David was dragging a weeping, widowed Bathsheba towards an altar, only to find his path blocked by a haloed man on the door’s other side. This was Nathan, sent by God to rebuke David. Cleverly, the torch sconce beside the door was placed to rise out of Nathan’s hand.

  In the distant hills behind the three main figures were several smaller scenes, which Pietro knew to be the events of the parable Nathan tells David:

  There were two men in a certain city, the one rich and the other poor.

  The rich man had very many flocks and herds.

  But the poor man had nothing but one little ewe lamb, which he had bought. And he brought it up, and it grew up with him and with his children; it used to eat of his morsel, and drink from his cup, and lie in his bosom, and it was like a daughter to him.

  Now there came a traveler to the rich man, and he was unwilling to take one of his own flock or herd to prepare for the wayfarer who had come to him, but he took the poor man’s lamb, and prepared it for the man who had come to him.

  Pietro saw both men, one surrounded by sheep, the other cradling his single ewe. Further on, the rich man stealing and killing the lamb. David was angry at the thief in Nathan’s tale, until told he himself was the thief – he had plenty, and yet had stolen from a man with only one precious thing. Nathan then said that justice demanded the king’s most precious thing be sacrificed in return.

  Turning, Pietro looked up at the archway over the tunnel from which he’d just emerged. Sure enough, there was the end of the tale, with David weeping as his newborn son was taken to Heaven. Bathsheba was mourning nearby, but the artist had performed a neat trick by having her face turned towards the first frame of the cycle, thus making her seem to mourn the idyllic days with her former husband. Nathan watched the scene, crowned with God’s righteous light. Over his shoulder hovered the dead Uriah, an angelic forgiveness on his face.

  Pietro stared at the painted faces with a sick feeling in his stomach. Uriah wore the unmistakable visage of the master of the house, Antony Capulletto himself. The wicked David bore the face of Mariotto Montecchio. And Bathsheba was a perfect rendering of Gianozza della Bella. Or rather, Gianozza Montecchio, once Antony’s betrothed, now Mari’s wife of ten years.

  Most disturbingly, the saintly Nathan wore Pietro’s own face – the straight brown hair, the sharp cheekbones and the slightly flat chin below the crooked smile. There was even the slightest hint of lameness on Nathan’s right side.

  “Oh dear Lord!” Pietro exclaimed as his idealized likeness gazed sternly down upon him.

  Antonia snickered, and even Lorenzo had to smile. “It seems Capulletto has declared you his champion for all eternity.”

  Pietro closed his eyes, thinking back. When Mariotto had secretly married Antony’s bride-to-be, Antony had suffered a broken leg and was unable to properly challenge his former friend to a duel. It was Pietro who’d thrown down the gauntlet in his place, though not to fight Mariotto. Pietro had wanted to draw out the bride’s cousin, Marsilio de Carrara. It had worked the way he wanted, and he’d fought in Verona’s famous Arena, surviving only by intercession.

  Lorenzo was speaking again. “…had a minor hand in it. I was asked by the Prior, as a favour to Ser Capulletto, to mix some red ochre for the – what’s it called, the sinopia?”

  “Yes,” said Antonia absently, eyeing the majestic expanse of fresco. “Named after Sinope, a town on the Black Sea that’s known for its red pigments.” Pietro shot his sister a quizzing glance. “I’ve had a fair amount of truck with artists and painters.” Lorenzo turned to stare at her. “For illustrating manuscripts!”

  “Ah.” Chastened, Lorenzo grinned ruefully. “Forgive me. Though ordained, I am still of a sinful mind.”

  “Me, too.” Borachio did not look at all abashed.

  Antonia said something low in Latin that Pietro missed. He turned back to the tallest wall. “The snowy night at least is apt.” It had been snowing during his duel in the Arena.

  “God’s light is even moreso,” said Antonia. “Look at it closely.”

  Hidden in the rays of light from heaven were thin golden rungs, just like the rungs of the ladder in the Scaligeri crest. As Pietro had been fighting for justice in Cangrande’s court, so Nathan was issuing divine retribution in the name of God.

  “What poor sap did he get to paint this?” asked Pietro with a snort.

  “Maestro Giotto himself, of course!” The answer came from Antony Capulletto, merrily elbowing other guests from his path. Their host was bedecked in a sumptuous robe full of geometric shapes trimmed in gold on black. On a smaller man it would have looked ridiculous, but Antony had both the height and the breadth to pull it off. As ever, his sandy hair was tousled, as if he’d just woken and slapped it into place.

  “How now, how now!” Antony’s greeting was loud enough for the world to hear. “Pietro Alaghieri, my dear friend, guardian to the Scaliger’s heir, welcome to my house! I’ve had to wait so long for you to visit. And Antonia! More beautiful than ever – please tell me that you’re not still planning on joining the Order?”

  “I am, yes.” Antonia received his welc
oming kiss with grace. “It will soon be Suor Beatrice.”

  Antony shook his head. “God’s gain is a loss to all lusty men, I guess.” He frowned at Lorenzo and Borachio. “Forgive me, Brothers. I don’t recall your name on the invitation list.”

  “They are my chaperones,” explained Antonia quickly. “Brothers and sister in Christ, you know.”

  “Ah.” Antony eyed Lorenzo in distaste, but to his credit welcomed the holy man. “And this brother? I don’t recall —”

  “He’s newly arrived in Verona,” said Lorenzo. Pietro was glad to see the friar pick up his cue without prompting. “May I introduce Brother Lucius, late of Naples.”

  “An honour,” said Borachio, bowing from the waist and steepling his hands.

  Antony spared the disguised drunkard barely a glance. “What a terrific fortnight! Cangrande alive, his son and heir here and safe, and my dear friend Pietro returned to Verona at last. Any one of them deserves a feast, let alone all! Now tell me truly, what do you think of my fresco?”

  “It’s – breathtaking, Antony.” Before Antony could press further, Pietro added, “You say Giotto painted it? I thought he was too busy in Florence these days to take outside commissions.”

  “Well… I might have overshot myself. I mean to say, Giotto designed it. I met him some years ago, and he agreed to a commission. He did the interior walls of Verona’s palace, remember? But he sent his godson and his best student to actually oversee the painting. Still, the designs and colours are pure Giotto!”

  “His godson?” asked Pietro.

  “Boy called Taddeo Gaddi. But, I assure you, this is Giotto’s work. You recognize the story?”

  Antonia came to her brother’s rescue. “I’m surprised you chose a Biblical story. The new style is market scenes and city life. I hear it’s all the rage in Avignon.”

  “That’s no surprise,” said Lorenzo with feeling. “The French have no sense of true piety, God rot their hides.”

  Pietro said nothing. If Lorenzo’s own disguise included a vocal hatred of all things French, it was no business of his.

  Antony was nodding vigourously. “Your holy fervor serves you well! The next time Cangrande dies, we’ll call you to perform the last rites!” Antony burst out laughing, Pietro and Antonia chuckled dutifully, while Lorenzo crossed himself and said, “God forbid. Now, if you will pardon me, my lord, I’d like to look at your garden – your olive trees are doing better than mine. Come, Brother Lucius.”

  Clearly Lorenzo wanted out of this engagement, which suited Pietro to the ground. The plan was for him to keep Borachio out of the way until the moment of truth.

  As the bemused Friar and his captive wandered off, their host rubbed his palms together. “So, Pietro, where is your protégé? Tell me he’s not still ill!”

  “He’ll be here shortly,” Pietro assured him. “He likes to make an entrance.”

  “Like his father! Well, while we wait there are introductions to make. Let’s see. Pietro, you’ve never met my father’s brother. He came from Capua just after us. Then there’s my brother-in-law and his wife – they’re over there near the wine. Yes, what is it?” Antony snapped at a young girl plucking his sleeve. Pietro assumed that this was someone’s daughter until he noticed her swollen belly.

  “My lord husband, the musicians have arrived.”

  “Very good.” Antony hesitated, then said gruffly, “Pietro, Antonia, this is my wife, Tessa.”

  Trying not to be shocked, Pietro bent into a full bow. “Pietro Alaghieri, at your service. Allow me to name my sister, who is studying Orders in Ravenna. She was born Antonia di Dante, but now she is Suor Beatrice.”

  Eyes bulging at this incongruous husband and wife, Antonia hid her wonder by dropping into a curtsy. “My lady Capulletto.”

  “You are most welcome, both of you.” The girl’s status as lady of the house was displayed by the ring of keys that hung awkwardly over her giant belly. “I’ve heard my husband speak of you often, with great fondness.”

  Pietro had heard of the marriage, of course, clucking his tongue and tut-tutting like everyone else. Facing the living girl, pregnancy overwhelming her delicate body, it was far less amusing. Not that this was the youngest marriage ever consummated. But that didn’t keep Pietro’s skin from crawling as he imagined the wedding night.

  Forcing himself to speak, Pietro congratulated the couple on their impending happiness. Capulletto nodded. “A girl, the old women tell me. Not that I’m disappointed. Not at all. Plenty of time for a boy, isn’t there?”

  An abundance of time, thought Pietro, if she survives the birth.

  “She’s of the best family,” Antony continued, patting his wife on the head. “I mentioned my in-laws, Tessa’s brother. He’s been plagued with girls as well. What were their names?”

  “Lucia, Olivia, and Rosaline,” said Tessa without inflection.

  “Girls! Fortunate for me that the Guarini throw so many females. They practically begged me to take this one off their hands. And she’ll grow to be a beauty, I know it.”

  “Wasn’t she engaged to your nephew?” asked Pietro.

  “Why be a princess when you can be a queen? Isn’t that right, girl?”

  Tessa smiled dutifully, a smile that changed to something more vibrant as her eyes fixed on something across the yard. Following her gaze, Pietro spied a blond boy about Cesco’s age, strutting about with a wooden practice sword on his hip.

  Antony saw him, too, and scowled. “Tessa, go tell my nephew that he’s to get to the kitchen, or else. He knows he’s not allowed to mingle with the guests tonight.”

  Tessa was off at once, rushing through the crowd to guide the young man out of sight.

  “Sorry about that,” said Antony. “Little monster has been up to all kinds of mischief today. He’s on probation.”

  “A shame he won’t be here,” said Pietro. “Cesco doesn’t know anyone his own age from Verona. They could be friends.”

  Ignoring that suggestion, Antony stepped close. “Speaking of Cangrande’s boy – Cesco, do you call him? Good name. I was wondering, do you have any plans for him to marry? Because, let me tell you, there’s one thing that would earn him the love and respect of the city, and that’s to be betrothed to a true daughter of Verona —”

  Seeing where this was headed, Pietro broke in. “Antony, nothing would please me more, but I think it’s up to the Capitano now, don’t you?”

  “You can still put in a good word. I mean, you’ve been his guardian, haven’t you? And let me tell you, there are a lot of men shitting themselves in envy. We all thought the old boy hated you. Turns out you’re his favourite! You’re going to have lots of marriage offers yourself. In fact, if I weren’t certain that Cangrande will accept my little girl for his son, I’d say wait ten years and I’d marry her to you. You could be my son!” Antony laughed, grasping a goblet off a passing tray.

  There was nothing Pietro could conceivably say to that. Antonia pretended a cough, then said, “I’m going to find Lorenzo and Lucius. They’re my chaperones, after all.”

  Once she was out of earshot, Antony frowned. “Since when did she need chaperones? I remember when she was the terror of copyists and booksellers, stalking around the city as if she owned it!”

  “She’s a novice in orders. As such she has to be with a member of the church whenever possible. It’s a matter of form.” It rang rather hollow, but since Capulletto was at least one sheet to the wind already, it held up. In truth, Antonia was keeping an eye on Borachio. “Are you too busy playing host to give me a tour?”

  “Not at all, not at all. Delighted!” Antony pointed off to the left side of the yard. “There are my offices – not that you should believe those vicious rumours about simony,” he added darkly. “I just advise people what to do with their money, I never lend. Well, I do, but never with interest.”

  Well, never with more than twenty percent interest, thought an amused Pietro, who knew far more about Antony’s business dealings than the
other would find comfortable.

  Antony described the guest house along the East, then led the way through the door along the South wall of the yard into the house proper. “This house belonged to the old Capelletto clan, which is why we bought it when we inherited the name.”

  Inherited? The way it was said, Pietro knew it had been repeated so often Antony now believed it himself.

  “But it wasn’t large enough for my father,” continued Antony, “so he bought the building next door and knocked out all the walls. We now own one of Verona’s forty-eight towers!”

  They passed through the ground floor, which was set up for the feast. Benches lined the walls while tables destined to be laden with food surrounded a central pillar. Off to the right was a door from which emanated the smells of a sumptuous feast. This was a little unusual – kitchens were often higher up so the smoke and smells wouldn’t filter through the whole house. They must have excellent ventilation.

  He followed Antony up a trio of stairs to a short landing, then an L-shaped staircase to the first floor. Reaching the top, they emerged into a bright room with rose-marble pillars holding up a wood and plaster ceiling. It was empty of people at the moment, so Pietro could see the dazzling tapestries hanging over the ochre-coloured walls. Elegant three-lobed windows spilled light from both sides, meaning this floor was higher than the house next door.

  Passing more benches and stools, with trestles along the walls to hold the food, they came to a little sitting area on the far side, to the right of the stairs. It was reached through an archway bracketed by twin rose pillars, and here the wooden floor changed to a marble chessboard pattern of white-rose and pink-rose. “The receiving room, with a parlor for ladies to enjoy over there.”

  “There’s a lot of light.” Pietro gestured to a nearby tapestry. “I can make out every detail.”

  Antony beamed. “Fresh from Florence – oh, that’s right! I meant to ask. Are they still after your head?”