Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “I was only made aware of your arrival in Venice this hour, and it took me some time to find you.”

  How could he have known Morsicato was in Venice? The only person he’d spoken with at length was…

  Irritatingly, the Moor knew his thoughts. “The housekeeper has been well paid to keep me informed if anyone came looking for Ser Alaghieri. That is why she kept his belongings, so that she might have an excuse to leave the company of an inquisitive guest and send word. Sadly, her message did not reach me until after you had departed the lady’s house.”

  “Where is Pietro?”

  “In the Doge’s prison.”

  “Prison?” gawped the doctor.

  “Yes. It was imperative I keep you from making official inquiries about him. His gaolers are under instructions that if anyone comes looking for him, he is to be executed at once.”

  “Executed!”

  “Please lower your voice,” said Tharwat softly. “My neighbours are inquisitive. Yes, executed. I do not know the truth of his imprisonment, only that it is quite suspicious.”

  Though Morsicato lowered his voice, it was no less urgent. “We have to free him.”

  “I was working on a plan to do just that. With you here, matters become simpler. Follow me.” Lifting the candle before him, Tharwat led the way to a single back room.

  Morsicato rose and followed. In the candlelight, the doctor could see now that Tharwat was dressed in rags. His medical eye took in a few puffing blotches on the older man’s face. The Moor had been beaten, and recently. “You’re hurt.”

  “It is nothing,” said Tharwat, gingerly seating himself on a stool. “The price of being a Moor in Venice. It has nothing at all to do with our present trouble.”

  Morsicato recalled what risk Tharwat was taking in being present in the city at all. “What is your guise these days?”

  “A blind poet. I am kicked and spit upon, but generally ignored. And I hear everything.”

  “I’m surprised the landlady was willing to work for you.”

  “She thinks she is working for a rich nobleman, and I am a mere go-between. She has made her distaste known.”

  “You say Pietro had been condemned,” said Morsicato. “For what crime?”

  “Heresy. He is an excommunicant. That is all the cause they require.”

  “Why hasn’t anyone heard of this?”

  “It is a close-held secret. I believe they do not wish to kill him, but have placed themselves in a position where they may. It is why I have not written. If the Scaliger or anyone of note were to demand his freedom, they would find out that, sadly, he had been executed that very day. I tempted fortune by asking about him myself. Fortunately, no one pays me much heed.”

  “I thought you were well loved in Venice,” said Morsicato.

  “As myself, I am known at the Doge’s court. But I thought it best to remain unknown. If I present myself to the Doge, I will be watched thereafter. This way I may move freely. I have lived this life before. It is no hardship.”

  The Moor was obviously glossing over very real dangers, all undertaken for Pietro’s sake. Morsicato wondered if the roiling in his gut was hunger or shame. “You said you were working on a rescue?”

  “Yes. The reason I was unavailable to find you sooner was that I was procuring this.” Tharwat fished into his loose shirt and handed across three small packets. Morsicato opened one, sniffing the contents. His nose was assaulted by the sweet scent of Dog’s Mercury. He hissed out a breath and dropped the packets to the floor. “I do not deal in poisons! I am no Assassin!”

  “Please doctor, lower your voice, or we shall find ourselves in the cell adjoining Pietro’s. It was my hope that I could fashion a drug that would cause illness, not death. But, as you pointed out to me some months ago, I am no expert in pharmacology. My training was in the Hashish, and in fatal poisons. With you here, we can devise a less lethal dose. Enough to sicken the guards, make them vomit their hearts out of their mouths, turn their bowels to water, long enough for us to free Ser Alaghieri.”

  That mollified Morsicato. It was not something he’d ever done, but he knew of generals who dosed the water of a besieged city. It was dishonourable to kill, but a common practice to sicken the defenders long enough to take the walls.

  His face must have betrayed him, for the Moor pressed him further. “You can make certain no one dies. If I attempt it, I may cause more injury than necessary.”

  Morsicato chewed the bit of his beard that jutted out below his lip. “Do you want a powder, or a paste?”

  “Whichever you think easiest to use. Nothing that will cause harm to the one who delivers it.”

  Morsicato was still chewing, but thoughtfully. “Powder, then. We just have to be sure we don’t inhale it.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Rising, Tharwat began preparations to depart.

  “It won’t be ready for a few hours,” protested Morsicato.

  “Take as much time as you require. I have an errand, one that will take the better part of a day. Please, once your task is finished, stay within doors. No one will come knocking. Despite its appearance, this room is clean. There is food. Use the window for your nightsoil, it faces the water. I will return tomorrow, late.”

  In utter consternation, Morsicato put his hands on his hips. “Where are you going?”

  The Moor sighed. “I can get us both into the palace. But I do not think either you or I could enter the kitchens. We require a master of pranks. And I do not think he will be averse to a brief holiday from the Scaliger’s care, do you?”

  Forty-Three

  Mantua

  Saturday, 9 November

  1325

  The wedding feast for Lord Passerino Bonaccolsi and Ailisa d’Este was a lavish affair. “Not much by Veronese standards,” confided the groom to his best man. “But it will do, don’t you think?”

  “Rather,” replied Cangrande wryly, looking at the banquet being laid out on table after table in the open square. Horses were making the entrée, bearing wagons heaped with meats, cheeses, breads, fish, and the inevitable Golden Morsels.

  The ceremony had been equally lavish. Ailisa’s brothers, delighted with the match and newly swimming in funds, had spared no expense. Ferrara and Mantua were now united in blood as well as politics, much the way Vicenza and Verona were tied by the union of Cangrande’s sister to Bailardino Nogarola. And, as Cangrande had told Cesco, there were ties between Verona, Ferrara, and Mantua – Cangrande’s sister had been married into both the families being united this day.

  The guests cheerfully settled in to feast. Castelbarco wasn’t present – he was in charge of Verona in Cangrande’s absence – but Nico da Lozzo was there, free of any suspicion of having taken part in the Paduan uprising. Montecchio and Capulletto were both in attendance, though without their wives – a blessing, as Antony mooning over Mari’s wife had long ago ceased to be amusing. As an additional precaution, they were seated far apart from one another.

  In fact, there were no Veronese wives in attendance. Petruchio Bonaventura had left his Katerina at home with their children, and Bailardino had likewise left his Katerina in Vicenza. The moment these celebrations were finished, the men were off to war. So the wedding feast was a noticeably masculine affair.

  Alblivious was laughing with Jacopo Alaghieri, while Mastino sat in the corner with Fuchs. The young Mastiff felt a growing excitement about the coming battle. Of all the jibes thrown at him back in July, one had been painfully on the mark – he had never been in a serious battle. Worse, he’d been made a fool on horseback by the imp, leading to knowing looks and whispers about his lack of martial prowess.

  For this reason Mastino had decided not to challenge the child directly – there was no honour in besting a boy – but instead throw himself into war. When not otherwise engaged, he and Fuchs had spent the last three months training, riding, jousting, sparring. If there was an uprising Cangrande needed put down, Mastino was the first to volunteer. Never allowed to lead
such an effort, under the orders of such men as Castelbarco, Bonaventura, or Nogarola, he learned much.

  Skirmishes and strikes were not battles, however. The coming battle would be his first, and while the little bastard carried the great man’s spurs, Mastino would be in the thick of it, building his reputation. All of which put him in fairly good cheer during the feast.

  Cesco was buoyant as well, reunited with Detto at last. Both squires stood dutifully behind their masters, Cesco at the head table, Detto at a further one. But Bailardino kept gesturing his son over to tease him, and Petruchio didn’t seem much to care, so Detto finally fell in beside his friend to share whispered jokes and stories.

  “You know,” said Cangrande to Passerino as he quaffed yet another cup of wine, “I feel rather useless. Time was the best man would watch the horses and hold off the girl’s family while the groom stole her away.”

  “Yes,” replied Passerino, chucking his new wife under the chin, “we are quite civilized these days.”

  “I don’t know,” said Rainaldo d’Este, the bride’s brother. “I like the idea of fighting the girl’s relations. It would spice up an otherwise boring day.”

  “Since you are those relations,” said Cangrande, “you’d be fighting yourself.”

  “At last!” cried Rainaldo. “A battle I can win!”

  “One you can’t lose, as least,” replied Cangrande.

  “I wonder what our friend Carrara thinks of this match,” said Bail idly. “The Paduans can’t be pleased that Verona, Vicenza, Mantua, and Ferrara are drawing even closer together.”

  Passerino shook his head. “He’s still counting his lucky stars he’s among the living. That coup nearly did away with him!”

  All innocence, Nico chimed in. “I wish it had! Now, if I’d been there…”

  Passerino popped a Golden Morsel in his mouth. “From what I hear, he was warned. Dente must’ve had a spy in his camp.”

  “Or else Carrara is just a prudent man,” observed Cangrande. “His paranoia doesn’t mean there aren’t people after his head.”

  Nico lifted a cup. “True enough!”

  Cangrande drained his own cup and held it out to be refilled, but Cesco missed the signal, busy snickering with Detto. The Scaliger had to turn in his seat and cough. “You have something you’d rather be doing?”

  “Training my hawk,” said Cesco lightly, pouring the wine. He winked at Bonaccolsi. “I’ve been getting such expert instruction, I’m hungry – to try it on her, I mean. She’s almost ready to air.”

  “Your first bird?” asked Rainaldo d’Este. “And how is she coming along?”

  “Wonderfully!” enthused Cesco. “She’s still in flack, but we’re beyond the darkened room and the partial starving. We’re venturing into the city at night to get her used to strange sounds and smells.”

  “He hasn’t even named her yet,” observed Cangrande.

  “Make certain you praise her excessively.” Rainaldo turned to his new brother-in-law. “Women need constant praising.”

  Bonaccolsi stroked his wife’s hair. “You’re very pretty.”

  Blushing, Ailisa giggled, and Rainaldo laughed in triumph. “See?”

  Cangrande used the opportunity to wave Cesco away before he became the focus in the conversation. To Cangrande’s great consternation, Cesco had become the fascination of the entire Mantuan court. By day the boy performed acrobatic feats that defied the Devil, while at night he provided heart-wrenching music, capping off each performance with a string of cantos from Dante’s Commedia in so perfect an imitation of the poet that those who’d known him laughed and wept at once.

  Obeying Cangrande’s dismissive wave, Cesco returned to stand beside Detto. Rainaldo d’Este turned to Cangrande and jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the boy. “You know, my grandfather had himself legitimized by the papacy.”

  “My sister could not have married him else.”

  “I’m saying, why don’t you do the same for your son? Apply to Avignon, have him declared legitimate!”

  Many heads turned, and Cangrande made certain to speak loudly enough for every eavesdropper to hear. “Firstly, there is the matter of the mother. She is presently anonymous, and wishes to remain so. The Pope will not likely grant Cesco legitimacy without me supplying her name. Secondly, the present Pope is no partisan of mine, I don’t think he’d be interested in accommodating an excommunicant. And finally,” Cangrande leaned back placidly under the sea of stares, “I am quite content the way things stand.”

  “Well I’m not,” said Passerino, standing. “There’s too much wine on the table, and not enough in me. I’m going to make room for more.”

  Cangrande rose as well, meaning Cesco had to follow, hoping the Capitano wouldn’t ask his squire to unlace the points for him.

  Thankfully, he did no such thing. At the side of a bridge, the two men paused. Cesco stayed a good distance back. Being who he was, Cangrande was through with his business and relacing before Passerino had even begun to make a splash. “See you back there!”

  “Leave some wine for me, you old drunk!” Waving over his shoulder, Passerino almost lost his balance.

  It was only two city blocks back to the festivities, but before Cangrande and Cesco reached the well-lit square, they saw a figure emerge from the shadows of a wall. “My lord?”

  “Antony!” Cangrande clapped Capulletto on the shoulder. “How do you like Mantua?”

  “Lovely,” answered Antony shortly, a furrow across his brow. “My lord, there’s something I wish to speak to you about—”

  “Can it possibly wait? My head is swimming a bit, and the only cure is to flood it with more wine.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Well, if it can’t wait, it can’t wait,” sighed the Scaliger. “Tell me the worst!”

  “Well, my lord—”

  Capulletto was cut off by the arrival of Passerino, still fiddling with his wedding finery as he stumbled back. “Now what are you two talking about? He’s not proposing another marriage alliance, is he? It’s all he talks about! Is that it, Antony? Has my wedding made you hear little bells for your daughter and this lad here?” Passerino pointed at Cesco.

  “No.” Antony began to retreat, looking guilty.

  “No?” pressed Passerino. “Then it probably has to do with Montecchio’s bride. O Antony! You mustn’t bore us with the tales of your affairs! In love, remember, audi, vide, tace. Come on, let’s get back to the feast!” He threw one arm around Capulletto’s shoulders and dragged him back to the square.

  “I wonder where Lord Bonaccolsi studied,” murmured Cesco.

  Cangrande turned to smile. “Because he got the quote wrong?”

  “He cut it short, at least. And it’s most definitely not a reference to love.”

  Cangrande closed his eyes to recite. “Audi, vide, tace, si tu vis vivere. Hear, see, be silent, if you wish to be alive. Interesting. I suppose it as easily refers to love as to war. After all,” said Cangrande with a wink, “they are two sides to the same coin.”

  “So you keep telling me. I am perfectly patient to discover the truth.”

  They returned to the square to find several men on their feet, and many more looking anxious. It didn’t take long to see why. Capulletto was shaking a fist at Montecchio and shouting. Montecchio, for his part, looked equal parts surprised and enraged.

  “I don’t know what you think I did,” Mariotto was saying, his hands held wide, “but I didn’t do it!”

  “That’s just the kind of answer I’d expect from such a noted coward!” sneered Antony.

  Mariotto coloured. “Coward?!”

  “Montecchio, you couldn’t guard a woman’s virtue in a house of Greek actors!”

  “O Christ,” sighed Petruchio to the heavens. “Here they go!”

  As Cangrande waded through the crowd, Cesco stepped nearer to Detto. “What happened?”

  “No idea! One minute everything was light and fun. The next, Capulletto was claiming tha
t Montecchio had bumped him or something. I didn’t see it, but he’s making quite a fuss.”

  “I can see that.” Cesco enjoyed the sight of Capulletto spewing venom and Montecchio protesting his valour.

  “I’ve never shied away from fighting! Unlike some I could mention!” Montecchio was being restrained by Benvenito Lenoti.

  “Then why are your men always at the back of the fighting? You don’t see the Scaliger cowering behind the front lines! He’s always in the lead, his best men acting as his personal bodyguard! And those men are going to be mine, you toad. The house of Capulletto knows more of valour than any Montecchi!”

  Shaking off the hands of his brother-in-law, Mariotto flourished the dagger that still carried a hunk of his dinner meat. “My lord Cangrande, I demand the right to shove those words down his throat!”

  Cangrande’s answer was frigid. “Though in Mantua, Veronese law applies. Duels are forbidden, as you both have cause to know.”

  “Then I request the right to prove him a liar! I crave the honour of being your personal guard during the battle!”

  “That, you shall have,” said Cangrande impatiently. “If it will get you both to stand down and stop spoiling Lord Bonaccolsi’s nuptials!”

  Glaring at each other, both men subsided. Capulletto was drawn off by Nico da Lozzo to get drunk, while Petruchio sat and bent a sympathetic ear to Mariotto’s justifiable complaints. For the Mantuans and the Ferrarese, it was the height of the evening’s entertainments, and the feast soon began to pall.

  Sensing this, Rainaldo d’Este turned to Cangrande. “My lord Capitano, this feast needs a bit of livening. Why don’t you send that boy of yours to fetch his lute and play for us?”

  Unable to deny the request, Cangrande sent Cesco back to their rooms to fetch his instrument. With Petruchio and Benvenito tending Montecchio’s wounded ego, Detto took a chance and followed in Cesco’s wake.

  They raced each other up the steps and through the hall, Cesco losing only because Detto shoved him at the last moment into a wall. Detto’s victory dance was stopped by a retaliatory shove that sent him sprawling across one of the beds, and a wrestling contest ensued, both boys employing what they’d learned – Cesco from Cangrande, Detto from Petruchio’s rough-and-tumble sons.