by David Blixt
Federigo saw Andriolo’s attention go at once towards the edge of the fine wooden bed just to Federigo’s back. Craning his neck, Federigo saw that the corners had fine solid squares of wood supporting them.
Cesco stepped away as Andriolo grasped the chair and twisted it around. Again Federigo struggled futilely against his bonds. The massive groom took hold of Federigo’s flailing head and leaned close. “For Susanna.” Then he drove the base of Federigo’s neck down towards the hard corner of the bed.
Federigo felt a sharp pain, then nothing. Nothing at all. He could still see, still hear, but it was as if he were floating. Nothing held him down.
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. As the groom laid his broken body on the ground, chair and all, Federigo tried to speak. His mouth might have moved, but no sound issued from it beside a strange gurgle. That was the moment he knew his life was over.
Cesco knelt down to gaze into Federigo’s dying face.
You did it, thought Federigo, trying to communicate with his eyes alone. You killed me. Sanguis Meus, boy. Blood of my blood. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t by your own hand. You’ve invoked the curse!
As light faded, Federigo could see from the expression in those wide green eyes that the boy understood all this. And did not care.
Removing the bloody cloth from Federigo’s slack mouth, Cesco murmured softly, “You are a sore and sorry ass.”
♦ ◊ ♦
It was another hour before they found Federigo’s cooling body. Cangrande had come upstairs in the company of Castelbarco and Bailardino. Still without a course, their intent was to question Federigo further in hope that his answers would light their way.
Unlocking the door, the room was just the same as the Scaliger had left it, but for the chair on the floor and the immobile figure in it. There was a pool of liquid where the dead man’s bowels had loosened.
Morsicato was called at once to study the dead man. “He must have struggled to free himself and hit his head.” His tone was dubious, though, and the look he gave to Pietro bespoke his doubts.
Yet Pietro knew Federigo had been alive when Cangrande had locked the door, and there was no other way into the room. This unlikely explanation had to be the truth.
“Perhaps this was deliberate self-slaughter,” suggested Castelbarco.
“I doubt that Federigo took his own life,” said the Scaliger woodenly. “He was too much the survivor. He even murdered a child to prolong his existence.”
“But to stop a family scandal? Spare us the wars ahead? Mightn’t he have—?”
“This was definitely not to benefit us,” said Katerina, taking in the scene from the doorway. “An act of defiance, perhaps. A final statement of contempt.”
Cangrande rose from beside his cousin’s corpse. “Or it could be as the doctor says, and he fell the wrong way in his struggles to be free. Whatever the cause, this has solved our troubles.”
“For the moment,” he added.
♦ ◊ ♦
Cesco did not join Andriolo on his return to the stables, rope coiled over his arm. Instead he waited on the L-shaped rooftop for Detto to return from distracting the guards. He appeared just before the body was found, grinning all over his face.
“What did you tell them?” asked Cesco, helping him drop from this end of the balcony onto the roof a floor below.
“I said I was looking for you,” beamed Detto, “and that they had to help me find you before you did something rash. They searched high and low, then ordered me home. They’ll swear you weren’t anywhere in the tower when Federigo was… when it happened.” His face was frightened and eager. “Did it happen?”
“Did what happen?” When Detto frowned, Cesco said, “What you do not know cannot hurt you. If there is a curse, let it fall on my head, not yours. You are, after all, of Scaligeri blood as well. Come on. Let’s get back to the palace and wait for the inevitable tongue-lashing for all my idiotic risk-taking.”
They crept to the short stairs on the roof, meaning to hop the wall. Suddenly a figure stepped out from beneath one of the supporting arches. The stars caught the ice-blond hair in a seeming halo, but the reflected light from the dagger was more arresting.
Cesco sounded more resigned than wary. “Ah, Monsignor Ratcatcher! How well you can see.”
“You got her killed,” hissed Thibault. “It was your fault!”
For once Cesco’s face was empty. “It’s true that if I hadn’t come, she might still be alive. But we’ll never know, will we?”
“You killed her!” insisted Thibault.
“So you want to fight me?”
“Yes!” said Thibault, keeping his voice low so the adults in the house wouldn’t interfere. “To prove I’m no coward!”
“Prove to whom?” asked Cesco tiredly. “I’m certainly convinced. You are no coward. A fool? Yes, definitely. But no coward.”
“It’s your fault she died!”
“You keep saying that,” answered Cesco in scorn, “as if it might become true. We both know what happened up there, mouse-breath. The more you mew, the guiltier you sound. Now put the knife away. I am not going to fight you, but I have some friendly advice to offer, one rancorous child to another.”
Thibault did not lower his blade. “What’s that?”
“If you intend to ruin your uncle, at least be wise about it. You’re lucky his in-laws are such obvious suspects, otherwise he’d be on you in a heartbeat. If you’re mistreated now, how would everyone react to the knowledge that Federigo wouldn’t have even been in the house without you?”
Thibault blanched. “What – what are you talking about?”
“The question is, what were you talking about the night of our little scuffle? I may have been a little worse for wear by evening’s end, but I had eyes enough to see you and Passerino tucked into a corner of the yard below. Was he chatting you up? Did you happen to mention how you hated your uncle? Did Passerino offer to help you ruin him? Did you pass him some incriminating papers? Are you the cause of the blackmail that brought Federigo to your door?”
Thibault was shaking. “You can’t prove that!”
“Nor would I want to. There’s no point. I get nothing from exposing you. Not even satisfaction. I only wanted to say this: be wary, oh King of Cats. You have just used one of your lives. Don’t waste the rest. You may need them someday.” With a bow, Cesco leapt up and climbed over the wall. Detto followed, leaving Thibault quaking with fearful wrath.
♦ ◊ ♦
At Cangrande’s request, Pietro stood with the Capitano at the door to Santa Maria Antica as the litter bearing Federigo’s body arrived, having traveled through Capulletto’s death door and across the night to the family chapel. The servants departed, leaving the two men alone.
“Come inside,” said Cangrande, crossing the threshold to the Scaligeri chapel. “We can speak in private.”
“I cannot,” said Pietro.
“I respect your piety. But this is a private chapel. It will not offend God if you enter at the invitation of the chapel’s owner.”
Pietro considered. Cesco had turned up safely in the palace and now had both Tharwat and Morsicato sitting watch over him. If this was a ploy or trap, the boy would be safe. Pietro entered.
At once he smelled the familiar incense, the expensive candles. Bands of light-coloured marble made up the walls and pillars, while high windows provided ventilation. He knew this chapel well, had prayed here the morning of his knighting. It was here Cesco had been baptized.
Pietro went through the rituals he had missed, touching the font, crossing himself, genuflecting, and praying for a time. Then he joined Cangrande beside the altar where Federigo had been laid out.
“In a way I pity him,” said the Scaliger. “He played his game and lost.”
“But instead of accepting the consequences,” said Pietro, voice full of meaning, “he injured a child for no reason other than that he was afraid.”
Cangrande heaved a sigh. “You insist o
n drawing parallels that do not apply. I have not lost, nor have I murdered the boy. I may treat him roughly, but as you now know, I have not tried to kill him or even place him in harm’s way. Few people could claim as much – not even my darling sister.”
“Allow him to be someone else’s squire. You’ve had your fun.”
Cangrande shook his head with a blossoming smile. “O no! I’m not done taming my little hawk. Besides, who could I give him to? Not you! You won’t be here long enough to teach him more than to pack.”
“Yes,” said Pietro bitterly, “I’ve noticed the Paduan sword you placed over my head.”
“I placed?” asked Cangrande with convincing surprise.
“You ordered Nico to make sure I fought.”
Cangrande had the good grace to look chagrinned. “Told you that, did he?”
“Yes. Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m willing to take my chances here. Where else am I supposed to go? I’m under a death sentence in both Florence and Venice, with a price on my head. Meanwhile you’re threatening to turn me over to Carrara.”
“Admirably summed up. Alas, I needs must add another straw to your load. One that, in all seriousness, is not of my bale. It is wheat plucked from the chaff of circumstance.”
Pietro steeled himself. “Go on.”
“Thanks to the intercession of our Ravennese friend, Lord Guido Novello, the Bolognese have for years been willing to overlook your status as a Florentine exile. I think you may find them reconsidering this at present. With Mantua nipping at their heels, they need to solidify their standing with their friend and ally to the south. They won’t go so far as to hand Pietro di Dante over to the Florentines for execution – they like you too much. But—”
“—but I can’t go back to Bologna,” said Pietro hollowly.
“I’m afraid not.” Cangrande was almost sympathetic. “Rather than a university degree at law, you must be satisfied with a universal degree in practicality. Both Lombardy and Tuscany are rife with danger for you. What is an Alaghieri to do? I advise a little trip further afield.”
Cangrande passed something over, and Pietro found himself holding a packet of papers bound up in a leather satchel. “These are?”
“Documents I had Tullio draw up just now. Travel orders, with guarantees of safe conduct.”
“To where?”
“Why, to Avignon!” said the Scaliger triumphantly. “I hope your feet are quite healed, though you’ll spend a fair amount of time on your knees as well. It took some mighty persuading and not a little bit of bribery, but the papal court has consented to hear an appeal of your excommunication. You will have to grovel a bit, say some nauseating things, but I think you’ll find them kindly disposed towards your plight. And mine,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Pietro knew the Scaliger far too well to believe the final addition to be anything but deliberate. “Yours?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? You are going as my representative, to have my own status returned to that of the saved, rather than damned. You will plead for us both, as our cases are now linked.”
“Linked how?”
Cangrande smiled pleasantly. “I have informed the papal court that while you were in Ravenna, you were still acting under my orders as a Knight of the Mastiff. I have said that it was as my delegate that you refused to over-tax the Ravennese. The fact that you were entrusted with my heir proves this beyond all doubt.”
“Thus making my cause your own. Either I get us both reinstated, or neither of us are saved.”
“Quite. It also has the added benefit of making me beloved in Ravenna.”
“Glad to be of help,” said Pietro with a bitter laugh.
“Oh, there’s something more in it for you. By removing the interdiction, you will effectively end the Venetian death sentence. They only condemned you for being a heretic. No more heresy, no more charges.”
“Speaking of Venice and Dandolo, what do you plan to do about them?”
Cangrande glowed with dark amusement. “In due time, I will unleash Cesco on them.”
That elicited a wry smile from Pietro. Yet, with the Scaliger’s grip tightening on him once more, he felt the need to strike back. As it happened, the perfect weapon was at hand. “I have a fact for you that you’re not going to like.”
“I’m certain of that! Your face, my puppy, is like a book. If you mean to beguile juries and advocates, you’d best learn not to let your looks put on your purposes. What is it you have to impart that I will be so unhappy to hear?”
“Bonaccolsi was responsible for Ponte Corbo. Those were his men, supplied not to aid Padua but to kill you.”
Cangrande stood in silence, perhaps recalling that day when he had broken, when he had fled the field of battle. Yet when he spoke, his voice held no trace of that defeat. “Thank you, Ser Alaghieri. I did not know quite what a debt I owed my dear Passerino.”
“What does it say, my lord, when even your best friend on this earth wants you dead?”
“I don’t know what it says to you. To me it says that I am on the way to being another Caesar. But, unlike the great Julius, I plan to listen to the auguries.”
“Does that make Cesco Augustus?”
“Unlikely! He has the mind, but lacks the patience.”
Pietro looked down at the papers in his hand. “Why is it that whenever we meet, you’re sending me into exile?”
“You’re far too pretty. I can’t be trusted around you.”
Revolted at this badinage inside a chapel, Pietro said, “I read Mussato’s play. There’s a line that sticks in my head. Something the mother said – ‘Secrets will out.’”
At the mention of Ecerinis, Cangrande’s face closed. “I remember it well.”
“It’s true, you know. Cesco will learn the truth soon enough.”
Cangrande studied the large cross suspended before the wall. “What truth? In this life we are often faced with facts, but rarely with truths. Let alone the truth.”
“The truth about who he is.”
Expecting an eruption, or scorn, or an angry laugh, Pietro was not prepared for the naked thing that emerged and spread across Cangrande’s features. “Who is he, Pietro? Tell me, who is he? Do you know? Do I?” The long-fingered hands came up to scrub across the Scaliger’s face. “He is himself. What he is cannot be known from a star-chart or a prophecy. ‘A man may control his actions, but not his stars,’ remember? Destiny is only known in the fullness of time. If even then.”
Though suspicious of Cangrande’s skill at play-acting, Pietro could not help but be moved. Again he recalled Abbot Gualpertino’s words. “No man is just one thing,”
Cangrande turned to face him, a keen look in his eye. “Just so. A great warrior may be a poor father or a worse husband. A respectable cleric might hide a youthful crime in a lifetime of good deeds. Most often a man is remembered for the evils he commits. But there is no man who ever lived that did nothing worthwhile through the course of his life.”
Pietro glanced at the corpse stretched before them. “What will he be remembered for, do you think?”
“If I have anything to say, for his magnificent defense of the city, years ago.” Cangrande paused. “I think I owe Passerino and Dandolo a kindness. They have softened your opinion of me, a little.”
“Have they?”
“You once believed I was a god, a mythic figure. Then I allowed you to see my feet of clay – yes, allowed, Pietro. Ever since that day, you have deemed me a monster. But now you behold me as a monster in a world of monsters, and you are beginning to wonder which is the lesser evil?”
“Better the devil I know.”
“Just so. Who knows? Perhaps someday we will meet as equals. Friends, even. I hope for no less.” The nakedness vanished, replaced by something more controlled, less animal. “Come along and say farewell to our lad. I will grant you both this one night of fellowship before you depart on your mission. For tonight, you may make believe he is your son.” Cangrande’s eyes narrowe
d. “Tomorrow, he’s mine.”
Before leaving the chapel, Pietro received Cangrande’s permission to pray.
Epilogue
Illasi
Thursday, 21 November
1325
“Careful now,” warned the Scaliger, his breath misting in the morning air. “Many men have gone to great lengths to keep my heir alive. It would be a shame to return with him bled out like a hoisted carcass.”
“Nag nag nag. I’m not frightened of a pretty girl like this.”
“Perhaps not. But you should be respectful. Especially of the pretty ones.”
They stood together in the predawn light on a grassy sward, far from any city or hamlet. With them was Cesco’s hawk, who felt the excitement of her master even if she couldn’t see his luminous green eyes. As ever, Cesco was fidgeting, hence the rebuke. But his left arm was unusually still, held perfectly rigid as his little hawk perched upon it, fanning her wings and bating slightly. She wanted the blindfold removed so that she might soar, fly free.
Cesco slipped the jess off the loop on the long glove and stroked the bird’s head once. His fingers stopped at the knot on the leather blindfold. He clicked his tongue twice, the signal to the bird that food was near.
Then, without properly warning the bird, Cesco yanked the blindfold off and threw his arm high.
Cangrande started forward. “No!”
“I know what I’m doing!” cried Cesco, ducking as one of the flailing pounces whisked by his left eye.
The bird shrieked, startled at the sudden freedom. She flapped frantically at the air as Cesco snatched his arm away, removing the perch from under the pounces. Falling, she almost hit the ground. But she beat hard and at the ultimate moment caught an updraft. Spreading her majestic wings, she took flight.
Cangrande cuffed the boy on the ear. “What did you think you were doing? You’ve spent weeks building her trust. Why scare her that way?”
