by David Blixt
If no one that day recalled the words uttered by an oracle thirteen years before, could they be blamed? Indeed, was there ever blame for what the stars had ordained?
♦ ◊ ♦
“I REALLY MUST thank you again, cos,” said Mastino as he waved to his half of the crowd.
“I rather think you should practice forbearance, cos,” replied Cesco, no chink in his armour of good cheer. “You have an expectant bride who will doubtless already be disappointed in her wedding night. Restraint might prevent you from ruining it entirely.”
“But that's just what I must thank you for! Taddea is a lovely girl. Ripe, noble. Rich too. And of the purest lineage! One look and you know whose daughter she is. Pure Carrara from hair to heel. And it was you that brought us together. I will forever be in your debt.”
Turning from the crowd, Cesco bent his crooked smile upon Mastino. “O no, cos! Trust me, it is I who am in your debt. And I plan to have an epitaph like the one of Sulla Felix. Οὔτε τῶν φίλων τις αὐτὸν εὖ ποιῶν, οὔτε τῶν ἐχθρῶν κακῶς ὑπερεβάλετο.”
Mastino felt the hairs on his neck rise. His Greek was lacking, but the quote was famous enough to be familiar. 'No friend ever served me, and no enemy ever wronged me, whom I have not repaid in full.' A threat, no doubt about it.
Yet Cesco's mirth did not seem feigned, nor did it force its way through gritted teeth, as it might from any normal man. No, Cesco's untethered laughter was far more menacing than the threat itself.
And why should the boy threaten him? Mastino had saved him, dragging what was hidden into light. That he'd meant to wield it as a weapon of his vengeance – for his dead friend Fuchs, for the usurpation of his rightful place as Verona's Heir, for a hundred slights both public and private, for simply living at all – none of that meant anything. What did motives matter?
The brat needn't have gone through with this wedding. That was none of Mastino's doing. Why the Devil had Cesco forced himself to partake of this mad, laughable, shameful marriage? Cangrande would have been perfectly pleased to call it off, and Mastino would certainly have preferred to have this wedding day all to himself. What had possessed the boy to go through with it?
That was the most fearful thing about the bastard. He could not be predicted. Mastino wondered what form Cesco's revenge might take. For revenge was coming, nothing surer.
It was important, then, to be prepared.
♦ ◊ ♦
AS THE DISTANCE from the palace to the cathedral was not long enough for a proper spectacle, the triumphal procession took a round-about track, looping west to the Arena, then north to the river's edge. Here, cheered by crowds lining both banks of the river, they turned and followed the water until they reached Verona's Duomo, the Cathedral of Santa Maria Matricular.
Like the fabled entryway to San Zeno, Verona's Duomo was designed by the architect Nicholò. An austerely beautiful structure, the century and a half old cathedral had a protiro in front of the main entrance, its stubbed roof supported by pillars growing from the backs of two winged griffons. Above the door was a painted Madonna and child with the Magi and shepherds, as well as images of hunting scenes, prophets, and three stone medallions bearing the virtues of Faith, Charity, and Hope.
Behind the pillars, blind arches cascaded out, separated by half-columns of rosy stone twisting heavenwards. Each arch bore its own prophet, ten in all, while the whole church was symbolically protected by two painted paladins, Roland and Oliver, plucked from the chivalric cycles of Charlemagne. Ten prophets and two paladins, making the holy number of twelve.
There were far more than twelve Franciscans present to officiate. Bishop Francis was beaming, and his Holiness Tebaldo III had taken the trouble to groom his hirsute face. Among the many other brothers was Fra Lorenzo, who looked with a fearful eye at the proceedings, wondering if he were in part to blame.
The Benedictine and Dominican orders were represented as well. Most prominently placed were the sisters of Santa Maria in Organo, who had among their number a lady dear to one of the grooms. Suor Beatrice stood beside Abbess Verdiana. Before beginning her cloistered life, she had been Antonia Alaghieri, daughter of Dante, sister to Pietro, and combination mother, aunt, and sister to Cangrande's heir.
The brisk air was sharp enough to bite Antonia in the throat and sting her eyes. A good excuse to let fall the tears welling behind them. Why should she not cry? Did not people cry at weddings?
These last weeks Cesco had avoided Antonia in all but the most public settings. Whenever she called, he contrived to be absent, asleep, or busy with a new hawk, or sword, or horse. She understood his reticence. Two years before, Antonia had been violently and repeatedly assaulted in an attempt to separate Cesco from those that cared for him. Whenever she had given the boy comfort, she'd been punished in the most violating way. Worse, she'd never known who had done it.
Choosing to suffer in silence, Antonia had kept that horrible knowledge from her brother and Cesco. She had thought that, through confessing to her Abbess and Fra Lorenzo, she had made peace with the event. Then Cesco's fiancée had passed along a brief message saying that the man responsible was dead. Fuchs, famous jouster and erstwhile companion to Mastino, had kidnapped Cesco and tried to sell the fourteen-year-old into slavery. Cesco had escaped, but not before ending Fuchs' life.
Antonia's rage at the revelation of her assailant's identity was dwarfed by her failure to protect Cesco. She knew him well enough to fear he was claiming the responsibility, blaming himself for her plight. She wished they could agree to let the past lie, so that she could comfort his present.
Not that the present was bright. How awful, to endure cheering while your heart was breaking. Pietro had confided in her the truth about what had happened in Padua, the disastrous secret about Cesco's love. Antonia wanted to hold the boy in her arms as she'd done when he was small, absorbing his pain and rage.
But he was no more willing to share his pain than she had been to share hers. In the end, Fuchs had won – he'd driven her little boy away from her.
Not that he was so little anymore. As if adversity had thrown a lever within him, over the past two months he had grown a full two inches. He'd always lamented his lack of height. But now his Scaligeri heritage, always present in his face, was beginning to show in his stature. It made him even thinner than his usual wiry frame. His face was longer. Even the scar above right his eye looked stretched.
Thinness didn't make him look weak. Rather he seemed hard, strong. Like a Greyhound, thought Antonia with real sadness.
This was the prophecy at the heart of the strife in their lives. Attributed to the wizard Merlin, it carried an awesome prediction:
To Italy there will come The Greyhound.
The Leopard and the Lion, who feast on our Fear,
He will vanquish with cunning and strength.
The She-Wolf, who triumphs in our Fragility,
He will chase through all the great Cities
And slay Her in Her Lair, and thus to Hell.
He will unite the land with Wit, Wisdom, and Courage,
And bring to Italy, the home of men,
A Power unknown since before the Fall of Man.
These lines had inspired Antonia's father when creating the opening scene of his Commedia. In it, the character of Dante starts his journey through Hell because he is frightened by the leopard, the lion, and the she-wolf, the last of whom is said to mate with men 'until the Greyhound shall come, who'll make her die in pain.'
But there was a coda to the prophecy her father had never known:
He will evanesce at the zenith of his glory.
By the setting of three suns after his Greatest Deed,
Death shall claim him. Fame eternal shall be his,
Not for his Life, but his Death.
To her father – indeed, to the world – Cangrande was the Greyhound. He himself had believed it for years. Yet it seemed it was not the Scaliger but his heir who wa
s destined to slay the she-wolf and be remembered for his own death. Cesco would be famous for his death? Not if we can help it.
Antonia spied her younger brother in the crowd. Jacopo had returned from his studies in Florence for this day's events. Always ready with a laugh, he had sobered some in recent years, though he was still without occupation. The only member of their family to go home, he was on his way to becoming a prominent man of no substance, famous only for his father. As opposed to Pietro, who was unable to choke down his pride, and yet was already a man of real import.
Antonia also caught a glimpse of Tharwat al-Dhaamin in the crowd. Threats of violence that driven him from Verona two years ago. Yet today he was tolerated. But then, he's not as fearsome as once he was, thought Antonia, looking at the patch that covered the Moor's left eye. His shoulders had slumped and his frame diminished. He looked as if the years had finally caught up to him. Instead of fearing the dusky-skinned astrologer, the people of Verona could now pity him.
Arriving in turn, the knights dismounted, their horses led away. There was young Detto, looking as crushed as a hound that's lost its master. Not far behind him, Antonia saw her older brother step out of his stirrup and onto the cobbled stones. Pietro met her eye, sharing her misery. There was nothing for it but to plunge ahead with this travesty of matrimony.
Next to dismount were Cangrande and Carrara. The first time she had seen Marsilio da Carrara, thirteen years before, he'd been engaged in a duel with her brother, so she had little liking for him. But it was the smiling and waving Cangrande who received the bulk of her ire. It was his fault, of course, that Cesco had been brought to Verona too early. His fault that Cesco had been tasked past enduring. His fault that Cesco's heart was now a wreckage, perhaps beyond salvage.
If his heart was in tatters, Cesco certainly did not show it. Halting just behind the Capitano, the young bridegroom waved and grinned as if he were the victor of some great battle.
Antonia had to tamp down her revulsion at the sight of Mastino, dismounting beside Cesco. She was certain he had known of Fuchs' crimes, condoned them, perhaps even ordered them. Bile rose in her throat as she imagined him laughing as Fuchs shared how she had fought, cried, tried to strike back. It was an un-Christian thought, but if it were ever in Antonia's power to do Mastino ill, she would welcome the chance.
Waving and blowing kisses, Cesco and Mastino climbed the three short stairs to the church doors. Antonia could almost have touched Cesco as he passed. He offered her a smile, but the same smile greeted to the other sisters. Nothing personal, nothing real.
The main duty of the clergy was to witness the oaths exchanged and verify that neither couple had an unacceptable degree of consanguinity. This last task had Antonia feeling quite ill, but Cesco showed only humble delight as he received his blessing from the Bishop.
At a signal, the doors of the Duomo opened. From within the great cathedral emerged the bridal party, with the families of both girls dressed in lavish splendour. Cesco's future father-in-law appeared to have already been drinking, for there was a sloppy smile plastered across his face.
Children emerged, bearing the precious Venetian bridal chalices. Antonia half-willed one of them to trip, break the glass vessel, and so curse the marriage. Alas, both children were lamentably sure-footed.
The music reached a fevered pitch, heralding the arrival of the brides. Heavily veiled, they were dressed in matching cloth of silver and black, save for the single ribbon of blue to indicate their purity. Antonia saw the one adorning Cesco's bride-to-be and wanted to scream.
Mastino greeted his intended. On the arm of her cousin, Taddea da Carrara allowed her hand to pass to her new master, who kissed the proffered wrist and stepped close to lift the veil, displaying his bride to the people of Verona.
Had she been beautiful, it would have been perfect. But she carried the too-tight face of her famous father, the late Il Grande da Carrara. Her whole head was longer front to back than it was tall, making her short-chinned and hawkishly-nosed. In her father, the features had made him stern and serious, and in the daughter the effect was just the same. The smile on her face seemed strained and out of place. Still, she had been expertly painted, and she had one attribute eternal to beauty – youth.
All eyes turned to Cesco as he stepped forward to greet his own bride. She was holding shyly back just inside the cathedral doors, balking at this, the ultimate moment. But Cesco knelt before her and said something Antonia could not hear. His bride laughed in spite of herself. Standing, Cesco held out his hand. She slipped her fingers into his and together they stepped forward for the crowd's roar of approval.
Reaching across, Cesco lifted her veil. The masses cheered, and many were the sighs of aww and how precious from the combined citizens of Padua and Verona.
If youth was the measure of a bride's beauty, Cesco's betrothed was the fairest in the land.
She was all of five years old.
Two
Padua
Two Months Earlier
DETTO RACED AHEAD of Cangrande and Ser Alaghieri to the room where he'd left Cesco and his love Lia just hours before, embracing like the lovers they were. Wrenching open the door, he saw only Lia, dressing herself in men's garb.
“Where's Cesco?” The words caught in Detto's throat, and he had trouble looking at her.
“Gone.” Lacing up the masculine doublet, Lia's fingers shook. Her breathing was ragged. For a moment Detto thought there had been some row, some lucky, wonderful break between the lovers. Then he saw his own horror reflected in her face. She knows. Somehow, she knows.
They'd met only a handful of times, Detto and Rosalia Rienzi. For most of those meetings, she'd been disguised as a boy. That had held true last night, as they'd traveled from Verona to Padua, two lads on a midnight ride.
Detto had just recently been entrusted with this, Cesco's closest secret. As the true architect of the peace between Verona and Padua, Cesco had claimed the right to marry where he liked. Typical Cesco, he had chosen a girl who had threatened to kill him on several occasions, once holding a knife to his throat.
Detto was still young enough to be resentful of his best friend's new fascination with the opposite sex. But, seeing the pair together, Detto could only applaud the change in his friend. Less acid, more humour. More bark, less bite. It had all seemed so right. Just hours ago, Detto had left Lia and Cesco looking as joyful as any couple on the eve of their wedding.
Then Detto had told Cangrande the girl's name, and it had all gone wrong. Dragged into a side chamber of the great palace of Padua's bishop, set aside for the Scaliger's use, Cangrande had pressed him again for the girl's name.
“R-Rienzi,” Detto had stuttered. “Rosalia Rienzi.”
The Scaliger spoke as if at war. “Where is he, Detto?”
“What's the matter?” demanded Detto in return, unwilling to betray his friend, even to his famous and fearsome uncle.
“Where is he?!”
“You're scaring the boy.” Concerned, Ser Alaghieri had followed them. “And me, for that matter. What's wrong?”
Cangrande was brusque. “Cesco cannot marry the Rienzi girl.”
Stunned, it was on the tip of Detto's tongue to shout, You promised! But Cangrande's look of utter anguish checked him. This was not cruelty. This was something else.
Ser Alaghieri didn't see it. “You promised him his choice.”
“He cannot marry this girl.” Cangrande's emphasis was full of unspoken import.
Ser Alaghieri frowned in puzzlement. Then his eyes widened. “You bastard.”
Cangrande's gaze would have made paper curl. “Bastard is indeed the word of the hour.”
Detto looked back and forth between them. “What? What?”
Without taking his eyes from Cangrande, Ser Alaghieri spoke. “He's saying, Detto, that the Church will forbid this marriage. That God has forbidden it. That even the idea is sinful.”
Enraged on Cesco's behalf, Detto could not understand. “Why si
nful?”
“Because,” said Ser Alaghieri through gritted teeth, “this Rienzi girl isn't a Rienzi at all. She's a bastard.”
“But how would Uncle Francesco know…?” The floor fell away from Detto's feet. He felt sick. “Oh.”
“Thank you, Pietro,” remarked Cangrande. “I was attempting to shield him. Not that it will be secret long. But I was hoping to spare Detto here the shame of this. If I can, I'll spare Cesco and the girl as well. Let them think I've gone back on my word. Let them blame me.”
Not even when Cesco had lain at death's door, poison running through his veins, had Ser Alaghieri seemed so sick at heart. “You are to blame.”
“Then let them blame me in a way that absolves them of this sin. Can we agree on that? Detto, say nothing of this to anyone. Let it be me. I'll be the unpredictable, unreliable Scaliger once more. Tell everyone I've forbidden the marriage because of Rienzi's loathing for me. I'll say I need the boy to make a political match to some Paduan girl. Pietro, we must keep this quiet and hope no one remembers I once had a dalliance with Rienzi's wife.”
Pietro nodded in mute assent, but Detto was still struggling with the thought. “So that's why she wanted to kill you. Because her father hated you. But she didn't know why.”
“Tried to kill who? Me?”
“Yes,” said Detto. “It was Lia who attacked you in the snow after you went to the forge two years ago, and she tried again in Trent – that was why the bridge fell, we were chasing her and stirred up trouble. She was trying to murder you to please her father.”
“Not realizing she was angling to become a female Oedipus. Naturally Cesco chooses a girl who wants me dead. A fine choice of brides.” Cangrande looked too sick to be amused. He leaned close to Detto. “Now – where is he?”
