by David Blixt
And Detto had lied. The moment his uncle and Ser Alaghieri set off to one of the Carrarese palaces, Detto had raced back to a casa owned by Baptista Minola, only to find Lia shaking and Cesco vanished.
If she knows, Cesco knows, too. Unwilling, his eyes moved to the bed, still rumpled and disordered. Gorge rising, Detto turned his gaze to the window. The day had started so clear, but storm clouds were threatening.
Finished lacing her boots, Lia stood. “I need a horse.” Her voice was remarkably steady. But then, she was a remarkable woman. From a remarkable family.
Detto's own treble wasn't near as strong as hers, but he managed to say, “I'll take you.”
“I'd rather be alone.” It came out harsh.
Finally Detto looked right at her. “He'd want me to.”
Biting her lower lip, Lia nodded. “Now, please.”
Swiftly Detto led her to the nearest stable. They had to get out of Padua before she was confronted by the Scaliger. Detto could not imagine a worse scene. She had tried to kill Cangrande several times before, but never had she had such cause.
Being nephew to the great Cangrande was enough to procure them horses on a promise. Mounted, they trotted in silence out the gate and across the ancient bridge spanning the Bacchiglione river.
When the rain began, it was a mercy, filling their terrible silence with the sounds of a weeping heaven.
♦ ◊ ♦
FOR THE WHOLE of that day and most of the next, as the rains came and went, there was no sign of either Cesco or Detto. The latter, it was quickly discovered, had taken two horses and ridden off with another boy, one that did not quite match Cesco's description. Cangrande grunted when he realized who the mystery rider had to be. “One problem solved, at least. Though doubtless I will have to deal with Rienzi sometime soon.”
Loath to fan the rampant flame of rumour, it was given out that the cousins were off enjoying themselves, as teens were wont to do. To a worried Pietro, Cangrande said, “Credit the boy with his due share of ingenuity. We'll not find him until he wants to be found. He'll reappear when he chooses. Search, by all means. He won't thank you for it. You'll merely draw more attention to his absence.”
Pietro grudgingly acknowledged the truth of this. He wished for the old days, when Cesco never moved without his shadow, the Moor. But Tharwat was no longer spry enough to spy, and by now Cesco knew all the Moor's vanishing tricks.
Pietro filled the time by seeking out the famous Paduan doctor of law Bellario, engaging in a spirited debate on all manner of legal concepts. Bellario was less interested in justice than in wringing all semantic meaning from a law, whereas Pietro was more interested in the spirit of the law itself. It led to a discussion of the laws upon which all laws were based, the Ten Commandments, and the differences between the Greek, Hebrew, and Latin translations, as well as the importance of the ordering. The excellence of the conversation was almost enough to distract Pietro from worrying over Cesco's continued absence for almost five minutes at a time.
Bellario enjoyed the discourse as well, and said so. “Rarely have I had such spirited opposition outside my own family. And of them, it is only the females who show any real instinct for the Law. I have a cousin in Bellamonte who, were she a man, would make me look to my laurels. Her father, a very legal man, had ridiculous notions of marriage contracts. But he was more of my thinking – literal interpretations. Which I would think you would agree with, being the son of a poet! We will never know the author's intent beyond the written word. So it is in the written word that we must place our trust.”
“That assumes the author is infallible in his wording. Some, like my father, were. Others are not.”
“Yet if they took the trouble to write the law out, surely they put thought into the wording. Words matter, Ser Pietro.”
“On that we agree,” Pietro said.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE MORNING OF the Thirteenth of September, just three days after his triumphal entrance into Padua, Cangrande was on the balcony of a palace owned by an obscenely wealthy old rascal called Gremio, socializing with a handful of august locals. They'd begun by discussing his plan to build a magnificent palace on land owned by the exiled Scrovegni family, but had gotten bogged down in disputing the value of different regional vineyards.
“I was recently given a lesson in the history of Italian wines,” remarked Cangrande. “By a local friar, no less. Never met a man so learned in plants as Fra Lorenzo. He is an herbalist, but has French blood in his veins, and so owns a natural attraction to wine. Quite the philosopher, too. Told me that Italian wine-making was modest until the defeat of Carthage. It was Carthaginian slaves who taught the Romans how to mass-produce wine. It became such a successful industry that the Romans outlawed it anywhere outside Italy.”
“They understood trade, the Romans did,” observed Gremio, eagerly inserting himself into the discussion. “Supply and demand! Cut off the supply and wait for the demand.”
“Indeed,” remarked Cangrande with an arched eyebrow. “They applied that to many industries – wine, grain, even armaments.”
Gremio blenched. The hunched old man (who'd ludicrously embraced the new style of hose that included extra fabric at the groin) had conspired during wartime to secretly buy arms from Antony Capulletto. That under-the-table dealing had nearly cost Capulletto everything, but he'd redeemed himself in the eleventh hour to retain the Scaliger's trust. Now the covetous, niggardly, wizened old Gremio hoped to assure Cangrande that he would be as good a friend in peace as he was an enemy in war. For his part, Cangrande was content to let Gremio sweat.
“What is your favourite wine, my lord?” asked Filippo da Peraga. This young noble had been one of Carrara's companions for the secret peace-making in Venice, and was eager to use the peace to climb the social ladder of the Scaliger's favour.
“Wine is like sex,” said Cangrande with an expansive smile. “The worst I ever had was wonderful. There's nothing like a good Carinena from Aragon. I developed a taste for Spanish wine some years ago, while traveling.” He smiled in private amusement. “I've sent away for wines from as far afield as Trebizond. But lately I've become partial to the local vintage made in the Greek style. Acinatico, they call it. It's made in Valpolicella – the Valley of the Cellars – created from three different kinds of grape grown along the Adige.”
Gremio clapped his hands. “I have some! Shall I—?” Cangrande waved his assent.
“Greek style?” Already Peraga sensed that Cangrande loved explaining things.
“They employ partially dried grapes. I've often said vintners should make wine from raisins, so it will be aged automatically.” Everyone laughed dutifully, Gremio hardest and longest. “Perhaps I grow nostalgic, but I think there is no finer wine than a good Veronese—” Cangrande's eyes flicked to the doorway. “Ah! You must excuse me, gentlemen. Ser Alaghieri is here, which means business. He has little interest in wine. Which is a shame, as such a methodical fellow would prove a capital wine-maker.”
Retiring downstairs into Gremio's garden, Cangrande threw back the contents of his goblet and began to refill it from the carafe he'd brought with him. “Has he been found?”
“Detto has. Turned up this morning, saddle-sore and exhausted. He got the girl back to my sister's convent in Verona. Bailardino's shouting at him right now.”
“Nothing quite as raw as the relief of a frightened father. All that frantic energy bursting forth in such an inverse manner.”
“You don't seem particularly frantic,” observed Pietro, who was. He hadn't slept but three hours these two nights.
“Because there is nothing to be done. What, shall I wear concern like a doublet, for all to see? Should I earn sympathy by displaying anxiety? No, I choose to reserve my energy until it's needed.” Cangrande sighed. “Pietro, I am truly sorry for him. For them both. Believe me, you have no idea how sorry I am that Cesco won't be marrying for love.”
Pietro's tone was flat. “Yes, I do. I've seen the charts.�
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Cangrande's face hardened. “I forget. You know all my secrets.”
That forced a laugh, one devoid of amusement. “If that were true, I'd be dead. But on top of astrology, there's the prophecy. The oracle predicted three great loves will bring Verona down.”
The Scaliger pulled a face. “If she hadn't been murdered already, I'd be tempted just for that. Everyone assumes the Capulletto-Montecchio mess to be the first love. The whole of Verona is pregnant with fear of some second great, disastrous love.”
“You don't think this is it?”
“How on earth should I know? But if it is, you'll be doing no favours bruiting it about. Not only will it shame the lad and lass – not to mention me – it will also have everyone thinking Doomsday is around the corner.” Cangrande drank. “Curious, isn't it? Loves, like deaths, do seem to come in threes. Well, for whatever reason, I am sorry for them. I almost wish…” Cangrande's voice trailed off, eyes upon a sky rubbed raw after two days of rain. Then he shook himself like a startled hound. “It leaves us with another problem. The double-wedding has been announced. Mastino to Taddea and Cesco to some mystery girl. If we cancel one, it would be a stain to the gloss of our new peace.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Pietro.
Cangrande shrugged. “The only thing I can. Find another bride for him.”
“No need for that!”
They turned to behold Cesco entering the garden, a saunter in his step, a carefree smiled plastered across his face. “Morning, my lord. Morning, Nuncle. Never you fear, I've taken care of matters, and smartly too. I'm sure you'll approve.” Taking a full goblet from Cangrande, Cesco echoed the Scaliger by quaffing it off at once.
Staring past the bravado, Pietro tried to see into the boy's mind. He seemed – relaxed. The ever-abundant energy was absent, replaced by something more languid. He looked as though he hadn't a care in the world.
Cangrande showed no sign of concern whatsoever. “The prodigious prodigal. It is good to see you whole.”
“What, should I have torn out my eyes and thrown myself from the city gates to wander the barren wastes of the Feltro for three years? I have better things to do.”
“Indeed. Greek style suits grapes better than you. When you say you've taken care of it..?”
Cesco wiped the wine from his lips with two fingers, pinching and flicking the drops away. “Well, as you wisely observed just now, the weddings have been announced. It would damage my new peace to call one off.”
Pietro noted 'my new peace,' but he was more concerned for what Cesco had in mind. “You're not marrying—”
Cesco cut sharply across his foster-father. “I'm delighted to announce my betrothal to Maddelena, youngest daughter of Pietro de Rossi. Not only a pillar of the Paduan community and close ally of the Carrarese, but my lord Pietro's brother Rolando is the current ruler of Parma. In many ways,my lord, he will remind you of yourself in your youth. Just twenty-five, and already podestà. As I am quite accustomed to calling a man named Pietro 'father,' it all fits swimmingly. I've just returned from his casa here in the city. He came to witness your happy advent, with no inkling he'd be so blessed as to join the Scaligeri clan. Needless to say, he is overcome with joy at the match. He even overlooked my birth, since Ser Alaghieri so successfully lobbied to have me legitimized.” Bowing ironically to Pietro, Cesco smacked his lips. “Thirsty working, this matrimony.” He held out his goblet.
Cangrande hesitated before refilling the proffered vessel. “A trifle young, isn't she?”
“A shade, perhaps.” Cesco's eyes were a cloudy green, the pale ring around them dull. Pietro wondered if the boy had been indulging in something stronger than wine. Damn you, Tharwat. Aloud, Pietro asked, “How young?”
“Not yet a woman,” said Cangrande.
Cesco clucked his tongue. “Tch. She has not seen the change of six summers, true. But her lineage is impeccable. The spitting image of her father.”
The target was unmistakable, but Cangrande showed no sign of being hit. “A commendably clear-eyed solution. All three Rossi brothers are young, ambitious, and capable. And they are, by tradition, Guelph.”
“A foot in the enemy camp. It was a choice between them and the Lupi clan. The symmetry was appealing – the Greyhound's heir married to the daughter of a wolf. But they had no eligible maidens at hand. Alas.”
And Rossi sounds like Rienzi, thought Pietro with depressed admiration. If there's any hint of the story going around, everyone will think the name was garbled along the way. How can he think so clear, when his heart is shattered?
Cangrande was looking more and more pleased. “The Rossi will certainly do. With one of theirs wed to my heir, they'll dedicate themselves to building Verona for your children. Not that I expect any children for years. You'll treat her well?”
“But of course! This is like adopting a child instead of making one. With your help, I'll set up a suitable household for her. I, however, hope to fill the intervening time perfecting the sweet arts of war. We'll begin with Treviso. I was reading Josephus' account of the siege of Jerusalem, and I was thinking we might learn something from the way Titus placed his legions—”
“Wait a moment. There is something I must say.” Cangrande placed a hand on his heir's shoulder. “Cesco, you have no idea how truly sorry I am.”
Cesco slipped neatly out from beneath that weighty hand. “The Scaliger, sorry? Whatever for? I hope I get around half as well at your age. But I can hardly blame you for adultery. Without it, I should not exist myself. I too was conceived on the wrong side of the sheets. If anything, she has the better claim, being my elder.”
Cangrande opened his mouth, but Cesco waved him off. “No no, I beg you, let us employ the proverb of gilt, glimmering silence. There is nothing more to say, is there?” In spite of the crooked smile and jaunty tone, Cesco's gaze was blistering. “Besides, there's a great deal to be done. Wars and weddings to wage, wagers to win, wenches to woo, leaving woes to wither in the womb. So let's be about it, hop hop. 'Be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only.' First, if you are free this hour, sans any random Paduan wives to seduce, Maddelena's father wishes to fix the contract. Try not to sleep with the mother until after the ceremony.”
Cangrande barked out a laugh. “Serves me right for feeling sorry for you! Do you care about anything at all?”
Smiling still, Cesco answered with a single, deliberate, “No.”
Cangrande nodded slowly. “Good for you. It makes everything easier. Lead me on.”
The matched duo departed side-by-side, leaving Pietro feeling cold in the bright autumn sun.
♦ ◊ ♦
THAT NIGHT, PIETRO had sought out the two men he trusted most. Upon a time, he would have imagined those roles to be claimed by the pair he'd been knighted with, ridden into battle beside, shared wounds with – Capulletto and Montecchio. But their mutual estrangement had estranged him as well, and while his eight year exile to Ravenna had not cooled their individual friendships, it was two other men with whom Pietro had shared a much more difficult battle – the raising of Cesco.
One was a grumbling, grizzled, bald, fork-bearded Italian shaped like a barrel. The jourdan hanging on a cord about his neck marked him as a physician. Ser Dottore Giuseppe Morsicato, knight, surgeon, and private physician to the Nogarola family. His gruff practicality and open querulousness made him a poor dissembler. Being too honest himself, Pietro appreciated someone he knew wouldn't lie to him. They had shared much.
But not as much as Pietro had shared with the Moor. Tall and dark-skinned, the old man had ancient scars about his throat, and more recent ones about his hands and ankles. It was these that prevented him from following the boy as he had in years gone by. These, and his missing eye, the sewn gap covered with a patch. He was also missing several teeth on one side. All these newer insults to his flesh had been inflicted just last year, while he and Pietro were in France, facing peril not just of the body, but of the soul.
Tharwa
t al-Dhaamin was one man Pietro was certain would always be there to help in a crisis. Which was strange, as the Moor was the last living member of the order of Hashashins – Assassins.
Looking at the mismatched pair, the blunt doctor and the crippled assassin, Pietro realized how odd were his choice of intimates. Almost as odd as being an honoured guest in a palace belonging to a man he'd once fought a duel with, a man who'd given Pietro a deep, puckered scar on his thigh that still ached when he ran. But Cesco had arranged this peace so completely that Marsilio da Carrara was forced to honour Ser Pietro Alaghieri, much as it might stick in the Paduan's gullet.
Dismissing the servants, the trio sat in Carrara's guest suite, pouring their own wine and snacking on cheese and Golden Morsels. Already informed of Cesco's ill-fated romance, Pietro now related to them news of the betrothal to the Rossi girl.
“Good God!” sputtered Morsicato. “Five years old?”
“Keep your voice down, for God's sake.” Pietro cast a glance at the door.
“Five?” repeated Morsicato, his hush not hiding his outrage. “That's worse than Capulletto!”
Antony Capulletto had married an eleven-year-old. Only Pietro and Cangrande knew that Antony had been blackmailed into it by the girl's relations, who had learned of his arms deal with Padua. Secrets upon secrets.
“It is closest to the chart we feared,” rumbled the Moor in his broken voice. “The darkest fate.” Though known around the world by many names, in almost every guise Tharwat was a respected astrologer. He had made charts for many people – and for Cesco, many charts.
Pietro stubbornly shook his head. “It could still be the middle path. The twin stars, crossing in the sky.” At the hour of Cesco's birth, there had been reports of stars falling in the sky. Several reports described one star, and a single report described the opposite. Each affected Cesco's fate, one for the better, one for the worse. It had been Pietro who had suggested there might have been two stars, both good and ill.
