by David Blixt
“Your honour, it was just after noon. My father and I had supped at home, and we were walking from our house, past San Matteo, towards the Porta Altinate when there was a commotion behind us. Some brats were pelting our servants with clods of earth. It was silly, but a nuisance, so my father sent me back to take care of it. But the brats had been paid to create a distraction—”
“Your honour!” objected the advocate. “How does the witness know the boys were paid?”
“Signor Dente, do you have any proof that they were paid?”
“They told me,” said the witness. “Later, when I was beating them for their part in it.”
“Your honour,” said the advocate, “the confession of a beaten child is worthless! He’ll say anything to stop the beating!”
“He also showed me the coin he had been given. It was fresh from the new mint, no wear at all.”
“That’s hardly proof, my lord judge! The child could have stolen it!”
“Your point is taken, advocate. The witness may continue.”
It was just after dawn and already the heat was rising. In the witness box, Vitaliano Dente was fanning himself, and several of the lawyers had begun loosening their gowns.
At the head of the room, Special Consul Ser Pietro Alaghieri sat refusing to make any concession to the weather. His deep crimson gonella remained laced, the long cap remained straight on his head, its tail trailing down over his right shoulder.
This was the fourth case Pietro had heard in the last three days. He’d wanted to whet Justice’s wheel a little to test his mettle before taking up a case he had a stake in.
The arrival of a judge from Verona had been hailed as long overdue, and on his first day Pietro had created a sensation by ordering the drawing of lots to see which case would be heard first. Usually matters were heard in order of social status. At once he was popular with the people, less so with nobility.
Two of the first three had been local matters, the other a Trevisian exile looking to have justice for his dead son, killed while being evicted from their estates. Pietro dealt with each of these with quick, decisive judgments, pleasing both plaintiffs and defendants with his alacrity, if not the decision itself. Most men had to wait weeks while the judge weighed the various bribes in offer – what was worth more, that bag of gold, or that parcel of land? Did the plaintiff’s cow still give milk? Was an interest in the defendant’s wool business enough to warrant an acquittal?
But Pietro did not even entertain the offer of a bribe, causing him to be both admired and reviled. Admired by the poorer people who always lost such cases, reviled by the lawyers now forced to practice actual law. After only three days in the judge’s throne, Pietro was feeling virtuous.
Until this morning. Dente had drawn the proper coloured stone from the water jug, so his case had to be heard. Pietro suspected Dente of bribing the clerk, but it didn’t matter. The witnesses had been ready, and Pietro had begun the proceedings.
Owning qualms about condemning a man in absentia – even Marsilio da Carrara – Consul Pietro had done what he could as a sop to his conscience. He’d appointed one of the brightest lawyers in Vicenza to represent Carrara’s interests (something he was not, by law, required to do), and the man was doing his work splendidly. This was no show trial – or, if it was, it didn’t look like one. Pietro was giving the defender a great deal of leeway, more than he afforded the plaintiffs. Gaining a confession through torture was standard practice, and therefore one obtained through a common beating must be accepted as well. But Pietro had listened to the lawyer’s objection, and promised to take it into consideration.
Vitaliano Dente continued the tale of his father’s murder. “Well, I ran back up the street to stop the clods of earth from flying. Our servants were all hiding their heads or chasing the kids. I had just got ahold of one of them when I turned and saw my father. He was being held by three men, all the servants of Ubertino da Carrara—”
“How do you know this?” demanded the defending advocate.
“They were wearing Ubertino’s livery—”
“Which they could have stolen!”
“— and Ubertino was with them,” finished Vitaliano.
The defending advocate opened his mouth, thought better of what he had to say, and resumed his seat. Pietro said, “Go on.”
“Ubertino and his right hand, Tartaro da Lendinara, faced my father. Tartaro handed Ubertino a knife and—” Vitaliano’s jaw became tense as he forced out the words, “— and yerked him.”
“Where?”
“Here, under the ribs,” said Vitaliano, pointing to the left side of his own chest.
“You saw this with your own eyes?”
“I did,” said Vitaliano.
“When did this happen?” asked Pietro.
“The seventeenth of June. Four days after the feast of Sant’Antonio.”
“What has happened since then?”
“Ubertino and Tartaro were banished from Padua, and their heirs to the third degree.”
“By whom?” asked Pietro.
“By the podestà, Napoleone Beccadello of Bologna.”
“My lord consul,” said the defending advocate, standing, “we are not here to dispute these events. Detestable as it was, the murder of Guglielmo Dente has already been addressed by a Paduan court of law. As the witness freely admits, the men responsible have been exiled from their homeland, their property forfeit to the state. I cannot understand why we are wasting your honour’s time with this.”
“My lord,” said a voice from the other side of the aisle, “if you’ll allow me to call another witness, I will show that this foul murder was planned by the whole Carrara family, not just Ubertino.” The voice was smooth, and quite rehearsed. It emanated from Paolo Dente, natural half-brother to the deceased and the man with whom Cangrande wished to conspire. Built like a spindly chair, too thin by half, he had a cocky half-smile and a glint of righteous indignation in his eye.
“This is a matter for the Paduan courts!” declared the defense.
Pietro nodded. “The advocate for the defense makes a good argument. Why have you brought charges before this tribunal? Why not raise these charges in Padua?”
“We are appealing to the justice of the Imperial Vicar of the Trevisian Mark,” said Paolo. “We tried to bring our case before the representatives of Heinrich of Corinthia, but they told us they couldn’t be bothered.”
That’s probably true. The German garrison in Padua was there as a defense against Cangrande, nothing more. “Call your witness.”
Nico da Lozzo sat in the gallery looking bored. Around him were men Pietro had come to know this last week, the Maltraversi of Castelnuovo and the Schinelli of Rovolon, Nico’s kinsmen, former Paduans who had defected with him years ago.
There was another oddly familiar face in the crowd today, a man in Franciscan friar’s robes. Pietro was sure he had never seen the old man before, yet this face was reminiscent of one he knew. Who was it that this man reminded him of?
Paolo Dente cleared the matter up when he said, “Abbot Gualpertino, will you come and give testimony?”
Gualpertino Mussato! Brother of the poet laureate of Padua. Pietro knew Mussato, having once fought against him in battle and dined with him after. His ecclesiastic brother was more renowned for his skill at swinging a mace than reciting holy writ.
When the holy man took his place before Pietro, Dente asked, “Father, what light can you shed on the death of Guglielmo Dente? Were you present for it?”
“I was not.” For a poet’s brother, his speaking style was remarkably blunt. “I was at Innsbruck, as were all the other Paduan leaders. Except the Carrarese, who remained behind.”
“Why were you at Innsbruck?” asked Dente.
“I was part of a Paduan delegation sent to beg aid of Heinrich of Corinthia. I was sent on that errand by the Podestà of Padua, Napoleone Beccadello. He has since told me that he sent us all on the orders of Marsilio da Carrara.”
; Dente feigned shock. “Why did the Podestà obey an order from a common citizen?”
“Marsilio da Carrara is no common citizen. At the death of his uncle, he inherited great riches and even greater power. He wields massive influence. There are many Paduans more loyal to him than to our current German overlords. There are only a few men in Padua willing to oppose him, most of whom were sent on the delegation to Innsbruck. Guglielmo Dente was not. His was the loudest voice raised against the Carrarese family, and he was deliberately kept in Padua in order that he might be murdered.”
“How do you know this?” demanded the defense.
“Because Podestà Beccadello wept as he confessed. As a man as well as a penitent. I don’t mean to imply he was a willing party to this murder. He was Carrara’s tool. Beccedello told me in no uncertain terms that Marsilio da Carrara sent the rest of us away so that Guglielmo Dente might be murdered when his friends were absent.”
The defense made an impassioned argument, pointing out yet again that the murderers had already received justice. But Dente argued that, by exiling Ubertino and Tartaro, Paduan law had missed the organizer of the plan: Marsilio. “For Lord Carrara is wily. He used his cousin to remove a rival, then used that deed to banish the cousin from Padua. It is my family’s wish to have a judgment at law against everyone involved in this foul act!”
Pietro took extra time considering the evidence. He had to be certain his own prejudices were not swaying him. But according to the law, Abbot Gualpertino’s testimony was absolutely damning. He returned his decision before noon. Marsilio da Carrara was guilty of the murder of Guglielmo Dente.
♦ ◊ ♦
“We needed this,” said Gualpertino candidly. “There has to be some justification at law, some pretext, no matter how slight, for us to overthrow Carrara.”
“Even if it’s Cangrande’s law that gives it,” added Nico da Lozzo with a grin. “Delivered by an excommunicant judge at that.”
Nico, the abbot, the two Dente, and Pietro were all sharing a flagon of wine in Nico’s Vicenzan house. It struck Pietro as vaguely improper for a judge to drink with the plaintiffs of a case he’d just decided, but there were certainly no rules against it.
In response to Nico’s wry smile, Gualpertino shrugged. “The irony isn’t lost on me. But I would endure more than accusations of hypocrisy to see Padua whole again.”
“Blame our fellow Paduans,” said Nico. “It’s not the foreign wars, it’s the in-fighting!”
Having endured several days of it, Pietro was in no mood to hear yet another of Nico’s dissections on Paduan politics. To the abbot he said, “And the fact that the judgment came from me won’t taint it?”
Gualpertino patted Pietro’s shoulder in a fatherly way. “In some eyes, perhaps. But you have a reputation for being scrupulously honest – even your excommunication is spoken of well. You have no idea how much the Ravennese admire you for standing up to the pope for them. And in Bologna your name is uttered with high regard. My brother says what your father was to poetry, you will be to the law.” Seeing Pietro’s embarrassed flush, the abbot did him the favour of tempering his praise. “Your only flaw is that you share your father’s love of the Greyhound!”
This was truer than the abbot knew. Unable to hint at that secret, Pietro said, “Who doesn’t love Cangrande?”
“Anyone who has read my brother’s play,” replied Gualpertino enthusiastically. “If they have the wit to see the warning.”
“Play?” asked Nico.
“Ecerinis,” said Pietro.
The abbot was visibly pleased. “You know it?”
“I heard about it. But when I went to purchase a copy—”
“— it wasn’t there. Yes, your beloved Cangrande suppressed it. Or rather, he bought all the copies he could find. We don’t know it for a fact, but we suspect him of having them destroyed.”
Pietro hadn’t heard that. “But he promised to pay for it to be produced! I was there!”
“Oh, he did! A stickler for his word, your Capitano. But he hired a troupe of actors known for their skill in comedy, not drama. A crew of patches, clowns and fools all. And he had it performed in a closed court, for my brother and a few Veronese only. A gesture of spite, but it paid Albertino a greater compliment than he knew. The Scaliger fears this play. Such is the might of the playwright’s pen! It can raise fools and bring low princes!”
“Where is your brother now?” asked Pietro.
“Still in Innsbruck. I hurried back after the murder, but he stayed to finish what is indeed a vital chore – the removal of these Germans from our midst. Or at least the cessation of their taxes. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to thank him personally for his kind letter at the death of my father.”
“I know Albertino viewed it as a great loss. It’s a miracle that your father was allowed to finish his great epic.”
Giving a non-committal nod, Pietro changed the subject. “Tell me, how does a fierce Paduan patriot come to conspire with Verona against his countrymen?”
“I’m not conspiring with Verona. I’m here with a Florentine judge, a wayward son, and two honest and true Paduans. I don’t see the tyrant of Verona anywhere.”
“Because you choose not to,” said Nico wickedly, pricked by the wayward son comment.
“I am a true Paduan. We do not believe in rule by one man, be he emperor, king, or capitano. The fact that Il Grande da Carrara was ever elected to such a post is a disgrace. And he was a far better man than his nephew, who in turn is far superior to his cousins. This is the problem with heredity in a nutshell – there’s no telling what the next generation will bring!” The abbot flexed his beefy hands, reaching for the sky. “I mean to fight with every ounce of my strength until Padua is once again in charge of herself, ruled by a council, and free from the spectre of war!”
“Hear hear!” cried Dente.
Nico applauded. “Oh, Abbot, how I have missed your sermons. Patavinitas above all! But, sadly, this isn’t to the point.”
Dente nodded. “He’s right. Abbot, we’ve got what we wanted. Carrara is condemned at law. Will you and your brother now join us?”
“It depends,” said the abbot, “on the date you choose for your uprising. Albertino doesn’t travel as quickly as once he did.”
Pietro had been at the battle where Albertino Mussato had broken what seemed like every bone in his body, trampled by a horse. The fact that he had lived at all was a miracle, let alone his retention of all his limbs. Bailardino’s brother had lost an arm that day.
“He doesn’t have to be there,” said Vitaliano Dente. “All we need is his support when it’s over.”
“That, you’ll have,” said the abbot with certainty.
Nico leaned forward eagerly. “Who else will be in this?”
“Marco Forzate and Traverso Dalesmanini. They’ve been in voluntary exile for six years, but they still have pull in the city. And the son of my late friend, Maccaruffo da Maccaruffi.”
“An old friend of Cangrande’s as well,” observed Nico, smiling still.
The abbot shrugged. “I have friends my brother would not like. No man is just one thing.”
“Here’s the real question,” said Paolo Dente. “Does Cangrande mean to help us? I don’t mean to say this little tribunal hasn’t given us an air of legitimacy, and we appreciate it. But it can’t be all he sent you here for. There’s an offer.”
Nico looked cagy. “I believe there might be.”
“Before we hear the carrot,” said abbot Gualpertino, “I need to hear the stick. If he’s asking to be our overlord, we don’t want his aid. We already have one bleeding us dry.”
“He wants what you want,” answered Nico. “The removal of all Heinrich’s men.”
The abbot was unimpressed. “So that he might more easily overwhelm us. What else?”
“Nothing,” said Nico airily, then amended, “Well, not nothing. It’s a trifle, hardly worth mentioning.”
“Please mentio
n it.”
“He would like me to be restored to the rolls of Paduan citizens, and given a place on the city council.”
“Hmph!” snorted the abbot. “I can’t say we’ve missed you all that much! And how clever! Cangrande nominates his puppet to the Anziani!”
Nico’s eternal smile became a shade darker. “Now Abbot. One thing you must know about me by now – have I ever followed anyone’s advice but my own? Cangrande knows it, and still thinks me smart enough to see that the war between our two cities must end. It can’t last forever! Right now Padua is losing. Don’t you think it would be helpful to have someone around who can treat with the Greyhound?”
“It’s a small enough price,” said Paolo Dente to the abbot. He gave Nico a sidelong glance. “Provided that he’s offering us real help.”
Gualpertino nodded. “Very well. What is your master willing to offer?”
“As much money as you need and as many arms as you can carry. But no men.”
Paolo and Vitaliano looked angry, but Gualpertino nodded. “That is as it should be. This is a Paduan matter. There can’t be a mass of Veronese pouring in. This needs to appear as it is – a civil revolt against the Carrarese. If foreigners and exiles begin to threaten the walls, the Germans will come to Carrara’s defense. Whereas if this is an internal uprising, they’ll stand on the walls and watch. That means, Ser Nicolo, you cannot be a part of this.”
“Oh, you’re not keeping us out of this fight!” laughed Nico with a dismissive wave.
“You can’t—!”
“Don’t waste your breath, abbot. You’re not your brother, men don’t flock to hear you express a fart. And don’t look so bothered! We won’t ruin your uprising. We’ll wear, I don’t know, fake beards or something. But nothing will stop us from wiping Carrara’s eye. Aren’t I right, Ser Alaghieri?”
Without warning Pietro was confronted with the unexpected. Go into battle? It had been years, but there was no denying that he was far better trained for it today than he had been then.
No, it wasn’t the risk to his life that gave him pause. If anyone learns that I was among the attackers, Cangrande will disavow me. He will swear that he gave no Veronese knight permission to attack Padua during the truce. And it’s even true. Nico is disobeying a direct order. He just doesn’t care. And he doesn’t have nearly as much at stake as I do.
