by David Blixt
As Pietro galloped away, Cangrande mounted and spurred with a joyful laugh. “Scala!”
♦ ◊ ♦
As they turned down a side street, Detto asked, “Where are we going?”
“No idea,” snapped Cesco. “I’m new here, remember?”
“Turn left ahead,” said Thibault, clinging to the horse behind him.
“No,” said Cesco.
“We’re heading for the river,” Detto called.
“Are we going to Vicenza?” asked Valentino.
“No,” said Cesco.
“I said turn left,” Thibault insisted.
“And I said no.” There was a sharpness to Cesco’s tone.
“That’s not fair!”
“Life is flawed and unrelenting.”
Reaching over Cesco’s arm, Thibault grasped for the reins. “Don’t be a pain, mon petit chat,” chided Cesco. “You’re only here, my artful hypocrite, because the fox invited you!”
“You’re not my master! Turn left!” shouted Thibault, grabbing again at the reins.
Locking his knees, Cesco jerked the back on the leather straps. The horse reared, and Thibault found himself first slipping, then toppling backwards off the horse’s rump and onto the cobblestones.
Galloping away, Cesco waved back at him. “Climb a tree, friend cat, while I search my bag of tricks!”
“What was that?” asked Detto as they turned the next corner.
“This time the fox warned the cat.”
“So, where are we going?” demanded Val.
Cesco smiled. “Detto?”
Grinning, Detto pointed. “The Montecchio house is that way.”
Twenty-Six
Keeping Mastino in view, Pietro found himself riding alongside Antony. “Just like old times.”
“I’ll murder him. I’ll murder him!” Antony turned his head. “What?”
“I said, just like old times! Who are you going to kill? Not Cesco!”
Capulletto snorted. “Hardly! He’s just being Scaligeri. His father will make good the damages. But I saw that nephew of mine tagging along on the back of the horse. Little shit. Destined for a cloister before tonight. Now. He’s. As. Good. As. Dead!”
Shaking his head, Pietro kept his gaze on Mastino, whipping his horse in mad pursuit. Mastino’s friend Fuchs was a better horseman, and knew that beating the horse wouldn’t serve.
Urging his own borrowed horse on, Pietro heard laughs and shouts all around him. Nico, Petruchio, and Bail were among the two dozen high-spirited knights and lords chasing after Cesco, Cangrande in their center, trailing Mastino and Fuchs by about a city block. He’s letting them get ahead. He wants to see what happens when Cesco and Mastino come face to face.
As Pietro knew where Cesco was heading, he did what he could to make sure the pack didn’t catch up too soon.
♦ ◊ ♦
Tharwat and Morsicato were gaining, and Cesco’s first order of business was to lose them. Seeing a shadowy lane ahead, he called low instructions to Val and Detto.
When the horse bearing the combined weight of doctor and Moor entered the same lane, it kept on through, chasing the telltale sounds of horses ahead of them. Neither saw the lone white horse down an alley with the two figures on its back, because Cesco was holding the dark saddle blanket up to hide them, the crest facing inwards.
Cesco and Val listened to their minders pass, followed moments later by another set of pursuers, Mastino in the lead. “I hope Detto leads them on a good chase,” whispered Cesco.
Val giggled. “What now?”
“Now you direct me to Montecchio’s house. Quick, before they lynch us as horse thieves.” They clopped slowly out the other end of the alley, and in just a few minutes they reached their destination.
The Casa Montecchio was on the via Pigna, close to the river, a massive bridge was visible between the buildings. Looking up at the house behind the high wall, Cesco saw light coming from an upper floor, casting shadows within. “They have stables, don’t they? I don’t see them.”
Valentino pointed. “Around that way, next to the main gate. But there’s a side door around the other way.”
“Show me.”
Passing out of sight of the river, they entered a lane beside Montecchio’s house. Reaching the indicated spot along the via Pigna, Cesco saw there were in fact two doors set into the wall. One was large enough to allow horse and rider through. The other was a short arched doorway that didn’t even reach the ground. A death door.
By church law, the living and the dead could not use the same entrance. To that purpose, every house had a death door, and the ceremony of removing a corpse from a house required a priest and a city official. The rest of the time the door was kept firmly, religiously, superstitiously, shut.
Cesco looked around in frustration. “What’s the matter?” asked Valentino.
“No way in. We’ll have to ride around—”
Hearing voices nearby, he and Valentine froze. Listening, they found the shouts came from the far side of the wall, inside the house. The voices were calling out a single word. Val whispered in Cesco’s ear. “What are they saying?”
Cesco cupped a hand to his ear. “It sounds like – Roma?”
A small laugh quite close made them start. Dropping to the ground, Cesco pressed an ear to the short arched portal. Smiling, he knocked at Death’s door.
A startled intake of breath from the other side. “Who’s it?”
“Death,” answered Cesco conversationally. “I want to come in my door.”
A pause. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m a baby horse-thief, looking for tips.”
“You steal baby horses?”
“I’m just being funny. Really, I’m a boy hiding from grown-ups, just like you. Why don’t you let me in?”
Val’s eyes were wide. “You can’t go through a death door! It’s bad luck!”
“Luck is what you make it.” Cesco knocked again. “Who is this?”
“Not telling. Go away.”
“Look, I’m going to keep knocking until they hear me and find your hiding place.” Cesco rapped harder.
The reply was immediate. “No!”
“Then open the door.”
A sliding of wood and the death door swung wide, leading into darkness.
“A shame the cat isn’t here. Horse-theft, arson, and sacrilege all. A trinity of criminality.” Cesco started forward.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” gasped Val.
“Yet here I go. Coming?” Cesco reached out a hand, but Val recoiled in horror. “No? Suit yourself.” Val watched as Cesco slithered through Death’s Door. As soon as he was through, it was shut behind him. Val whimpered.
Inside, Cesco brushed off his hands and knees, squinting at the boy in the shadows. He couldn’t be much more than four years old. “Thank you, Master Montecchio.”
The child studied him. “That’s not a face. You’ve got a masque on.”
“Well, I’m very ugly.”
The boy frowned suspiciously until another shout from the house made him crouch low. Shushing Cesco, the boy pulled him into the deeper shadows of the walled yard. Unlike the Capulletto courtyard, this one was unadorned by paint. Cesco could smell stables close by.
“Baby horses are foals,” said the boy.
“Oh?”
“Quick!” Pulling Cesco by the arm, he raced across the yard to a fresh hiding place.
Passing through a patch of light, Cesco’s breath caught in his throat. The boy was beautiful! Even so small, everything about him was perfect. Hair so brown it was almost black, eyes as blue as the sky, a strong nose, and a proud chin just barely turned up at the end. Carrying no child-heaviness, his limbs were strong and proportioned.
Hearing Cesco’s gasp, the boy’s eyes darted furtively around. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Tell me more about horses.”
The original Montecchi clan had been horse-thieves hiding in the hills
of that name. Now respectable, their connection with equestrian endeavors hadn’t lessened. Montecchi horses were among the best in Lombardy, always fetching a good price.
The boy knew little or none of this history, of course, but horse-breeding was in his blood. He told Cesco all sorts of things he’d learned here and at their castle in the country, relating the details of a fine pony he was allowed to ride and feed and even name.
“What did you name him?”
“Nardo.”
“Is that your name?”
“No,” said the boy. “My name’s—”
“Romeo!” Two women burst from the house with candles in their hands. “Where the devil can this Romeo be?”
“Romeo! Romeo, you naughty boy, come in here this instant!”
“Romeo Romeo Romeo!” called another little boy, toddling out to follow the two women.
Pulling Cesco into the shelter of the stable wall, young Romeo pointed to a beautiful woman with just his colouring. “That’s Mama.”
The famous Gianozza, cause of the feud. “She’s very beautiful. Who’s the other woman?”
“Auntie Aurelia.”
Cesco pointed to the toddler. “And that?”
“Benvolio,” said Romeo, with an of-course-it-is sort of voice.
“Your brother?”
“Cousin.”
“Ah. What happens if they catch you?”
Romeo covered his bottom with both hands. “Nothing.”
Cesco tried not to laugh. “I don’t see your father. Is he home?” Romeo nodded. “Good. Now listen. I’m playing a kind of game of hide and seek myself. Do you know about the big party tonight?”
Romeo’s mouth turned down. “Papa doesn’t get to go. It’s not fair!”
“I agree, it isn’t fair. I want your papa to go. But I don’t think he’d go to a party uninvited – he’s too good of a man, isn’t he?” Romeo nodded. “But what would happen if he thought his horse had been stolen? He’d have to chase it, wouldn’t he? And if it ended up at the party, he’d have to go too, wouldn’t he?”
“You’re taking a horse to a party?” Romeo sounded awed.
“It’s only fair. The one I was riding came from the party. I need to take one back. What do you say? Do you think you could help me take a horse?”
Romeo frowned. “You could be trying to take a horse for keeps. I showed Benvolio a bird’s nest and he kept it.”
“That dirty Benvolio,” said Cesco, shaking a fist.
“Will you bring it back?”
“Yes.”
“How do I know?”
“By taking a leap of faith, little Romeo. I promise, I won’t do anything to hurt your father, or you.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
Romeo’s voice pressed him urgently. “Swear.”
“I swear.” Cesco made the sign of the cross. “In the name of my father.”
Stealing his hand into Cesco’s, the little boy pulled him into the stable. A minute later they were guiding a fine stallion out of a stall, a halter in its mouth. “Don’t you want a saddle?”
“Saddles are for sissies,” said Cesco, making Romeo laugh. “I will take this rope, though. And this too.” He lifted an object from its slot on the wall and tucked it into his belt. “Now, when I go, you have to raise a ruckus and say you were hiding from a horse-thief. Just give me a head-start, then make lots of noise and get your father to come after me.”
“And you’ll get my Papa into the party?”
“I’ll try my hardest.”
Romeo’s eyes were endlessly deep. “Can I come too?”
A wicked grin crossed Cesco’s face as he considered. But he shook his head. “Not this time. When you’re older, I’ll take you to a party too, I promise.”
Mollified, Romeo helped open the tall door as quietly as possible. Valentino was still waiting on the other side. Cesco grinned at him. “See? Death in, birth out. We’ve given birth to a horse.”
“I think Detto’s coming this way,” said Val urgently. “I heard the chase.”
“Good.” Stepping on a barrel, Cesco leapt to the horse’s back. The horse whinnied, and a sudden shout from across the yard told them they’d been seen. “Now, Romeo, holler for all you’re worth. I’ll see you later.”
“Remember, you promised!”
Cesco winked. “Someday an adventure all our own. Now get going!”
Romeo leapt into the light, pointing. “Thieves! Thieves!”
“Romeo? Romeo! Get away from them!”
Cesco and Val rode off, Romeo shouting after him. “There they go! They’re getting away! Thieves! Papa, they’ve got your best horse! Go after them, go after!”
Bolting back towards the river, Cesco and Val almost collided with Detto, still leading the spare horse behind him. “Perfect timing! Jump!” Without hesitation Detto leapt from his tired horse, landing across the rump of Cesco’s fresh one. The three boys raced off. “We’re not very good at this business.”
“What business?” asked Detto, trying to find his balance to sit.
“Horse thieving! We had four, now we have two, though this one is probably worth those two put together. How are you?”
“I saw Mastino pass Tharwat and the doctor.”
“With blood in his eye, I’m sure. Let’s turn that blood into mud.” Leaning close to the horse’s bare neck, Cesco veered down a path to the damp banks of the Adige. It was a steep incline, but both horses performed admirably. Cesco patted his mount’s neck. “Good boy!”
The river’s bank had a brick wall that separating it from the road above, and they raced between wall and water, across a narrow strip of gravelly earth. The river was low, creating a shoulder just wide enough for four horses abreast.
A cry from behind meant the hunters had spied them. Some angled down the path to the bank, hot in pursuit. Higher up, Mastino and Fuchs were flanking them on the road, making good progress. In another minute they would pull ahead, then find a place to descend and cut them off.
“Come and get it, little doggie. Detto, take the reins. Take this too. Don’t drop it. Val – watch it, I’m coming over!” Hitching his legs under him, he leapt from the back of his horse, racing full tilt over gravel and mud, to land neatly just behind Valentino.
Val was growing tired – the strain of managing a full-sized courser was too much for an eight year-old. But the saddle was big enough for them both, so he could lean back and rest for a moment as Cesco took the reins. He was surprised when Cesco thrust something into his hand. “Loop this around the saddlehorn and hold it tight!”
It was the end of a rope, stolen from Montecchio’s stable. The other end was in Detto’s hand. Fatigue forgotten, Val tittered in excitement as he obeyed.
♦ ◊ ♦
Taking a cue from Mastino, Pietro kept to the road, his eyes fixed on the horses sending up sprays of mud on the riverbank. It took someone shouting in his ear to gain his attention.
“Pietro! Pietro! What the devil is going on?” Mariotto Montecchio rode beside him on a magnificent mount that put Pietro’s borrowed one to shame.
“Cangrande’s son! He’s out to prove how daring he is!”
“By stealing my best horse?”
“Not just yours! That’s Cangrande’s horse he’s on now!”
Anger subsiding, Montecchio let out a rueful laugh. “He must have half the city after him!”
Cangrande and Capulletto hadn’t taken the river route either. Seeing Mariotto, Antony snarled. “What’s he doing here?”
“Cesco stole his horse,” explained Pietro.
“Good for Cesco!” cried Antony with real pleasure.
Ignoring his former friend, Mariotto pointed. “Look! Mastino’s got him!”
Below, Mastino and Fuchs were descending to the muddy bank in front of the young fugitives, cutting off their escape. Mastino and Fuchs charged, and the four horses drove together like matched pairs of giustani on a tilting yard. Unlike jousters, no one bore lanc
es, but Pietro saw a shimmer of metal in Fuchs’ hand. Cold dread gripped him. “Cesco, look out!”
♦ ◊ ♦
Below, Cesco called out, “Good morrow, cos!”
Mastino shouted back an unmistakable insult, raised fist ready to smash down as they passed. Detto was riding south along the wall, while Cesco and Val’s horse would thread the needle between Mastino and Fuchs, nearest the water.
Like the teeth of a water-wheel, the horses came together. The instant they did, three things happened at once:
Fuchs swung his blade, forcing Valentino to duck.
The rope between Val and Detto went taut.
Cesco moved.
The most dramatic result was evidenced by Mastino’s cry of surprise as, fist raised to strike, he was lifted out of his seat as though by an invisible lance. Dropping to the gravelly muck, he was dragged backwards by the rope between Detto and Val’s horses.
“Detto! Detto!” cried Val.
Laughing, Detto heard his brother’s frantic shout. “What is it?”
Val turned to stare behind him. “Cesco’s gone!”
♦ ◊ ♦
To Pietro’s relief, the boys let Mastino go after a few yards. But his relief was shattered when he saw there was one less boy on Cangrande’s horse. Did Cesco fall off? Is he hurt? Pietro scanned the riverbank for a body. Cangrande, Mariotto, and Antony did the same.
Tharwat and Morsicato arrived. The doctor was panting. “What’s happening?”
Pietro shook his head fractionally. “I can’t see—”
Antony pointed. “What – there, is that..?”
“Yes! Look!” Mariotto was pointing at Fuch’s horse, still galloping full tilt. A small figure hung from the saddle on the underbelly of the beast.
“Oh dear God,” murmured Pietro.
“He’ll be trampled!” cried Morsicato. “We have to stop—”
“Too late!” Cangrande leaned eagerly forward to watch.
♦ ◊ ♦
Hanging upside-down from Fuchs’ stirrup, Cesco braced his feet against the horse’s belly. The mud that spattered up into his face was nearly blinding. The kicking foot in the stirrup was especially unhelpful.
