The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Now, as then, the Capitano had gifted every new knight a destrier, the necessary warhorse, as well as a palfrey, causing Pietro to wonder if Montecchio had any steeds left in his stables. In addition to horses and clothes, each new knight had received a suit of armour, a full case of weapons, two fur-lined cloaks, and a trunk filled with daily necessities from socks to wax candles. Unheard of largesse, but for Cangrande this was a standard bequest.

  Fourteen years ago, a young Pietro Alaghieri had received just such gifts. It was therefore bittersweet to behold these young men garbed in their new clothes, and Pietro couldn't resist a rueful chuckle. Gone were his days of fancy hats and expensive hose. His one sartorial quirk was his continued use of trousers, a habit he'd picked up after the thigh wound that had left him with a slight limp.

  A voice in his ear said, “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

  “That they aren't half the men we were?” Turning, Pietro clapped Mariotto Montecchio on the shoulder.

  “Exactly!” Thumping Pietro's arm, Mari turned to the youngster at his elbow. “Ser Alaghieri and I earned our knighthood. We'd already fought in a great battle and taken wounds!”

  “Yes, father.” Mari's auditor was his seven-year-old son. Romeo Montecchio had a guileless face that combined his father's smile and colouring with his mother's long lashes and limpid blue eyes. He was too comely to be real, like a figure stepped from some Giotto fresco. But he laughed readily enough, and away from his mother he seemed an able, quick-witted boy.

  “The best day of my life,” reflected Mari. “Knighthood, I came in second in the Horse Palio, won the Foot Palio, and met your mother. Honours and love – what more could a man wish?”

  Mari counts that as the best day of his life? The day he soiled his honour by betraying his best friend? I guess everyone has their own definition of honour. Which once more raised a question that had plagued Pietro for fourteen years: what was more important, honour, love, or friendship?

  As if in answer, a rough voice said, “I imagine Pietro counts the day that followed among his best.” Antony Capulletto had been standing with his back to them in the crush of bodies, waiting for Mari to depart before talking to Pietro. Stung by Mari's words, he now turned to face them. “After all, that day he enshrined himself forever in Verona's lore by fighting a duel for love and honour both.”

  Mari gazed at his former friend imperiously. “Pietro's sense of loyalty does him credit. Even when he wishes to sever a tie, he will not.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” countered Antony, a sneer on his lips.

  These were the moments Pietro hated most. Each man still counted him as their brother-in-arms, always vying for his loyalty. Fortunately there was an avenue of reminiscence that might preserve at least a veneer of harmony. “I must admit, I feel odd seeing Carrara in Verona again. I'm tempted to finish what I started that day.”

  Antony said, “He wouldn't dare take you up on it, hero that you are.”

  “We'd have to challenge him to a horse race first,” said Mari to Antony, who actually grinned in spite of himself. Pietro experienced a moment of lightness – a shared memory, one that wasn't instantly tarnished by their lost friendship.

  “You'd have to find a way to keep your saddle this time.”

  Mari looked Antony up and down. “Well, I couldn't join you in yours anymore.” Antony had bulked up greatly since their teenage years.

  “There's to be a mêlée this afternoon,” said Antony. “Afterwards we could invite Carrara to take a little ride, for old time's sake…”

  “Though, if he didn't come back, it might soil the gloss of this day,” said Mari with wistful sadness. “And Pietro worked so hard for this peace.”

  Pietro coloured. Though he was the one credited for the so-called Pax Verona, the idea had originated with his sister and been implemented by Cesco. But the fiction was important. Peace with Padua had eliminated one of the many death-sentences that lay over Pietro. After the lifting of his excommunication the previous year, only Florence now hungered for Pietro's head.

  The possibility of more personal peace made Pietro long to lunge forward, grab his two friends and cry out, This! This is what you were meant to be! Comrades, fellows, companions, friends, brothers! For a scant six months, these two had been inseparable, as close as Cesco and Detto. Then Mari had been stupid, Antony unforgiving, and the result was thirteen years of wasted time.

  Uncomfortable with this unwonted amity, Antony was first to give in to his baser self. “Don't worry, peacock. I would never act to ruin a friend's great day. Besides, you could hardly challenge a close kinsman.”

  Mari's face hardened. He addressed Pietro. “It must have been difficult for your boy, taking a child to wife. At least it was a political match, forced on him. I can't imagine he'd take a bride so young by choice.” A jab at Antony's young bride, who had been eleven at the time of their marriage. Mariotto didn't know that that marriage, too, had been made under duress.

  Pietro closed his eyes. I should have known. These wounds are too well-tended. Even were they not, trust once lost is almost impossible to regain.

  Mouth open to retort, Antony was cut off by a small voice. “Lord Capulletto? I beg your pardon, my lord, but it is an honour to meet you at last.” The speaker was young Romeo, who was making a perfect leg. “I hear reports of you from my father's friends, and he's often told me of your exploits together. I'm sorry I have not had the chance to meet you before now.”

  It was quite a speech for a seven-year-old. Antony was caught short by this unfeigned politeness. Or perhaps it was that Romeo gazed at him with Gianozza's eyes.

  Romeo pressed on. “I should also say, my mother speaks quite highly of you. She often laments that you do not call upon us.”

  Just like that, the moment was broken. Antony's face contorted and he brushed past the boy, plunging himself into the crowd.

  Young Romeo's face crumpled, his lip beginning to quaver. “I only told the truth.”

  “I'm sure you did,” answered Pietro kindly.

  “Then why did he—?”

  “Because he's an ass,” said Mariotto, adding in a mutter, “Rude to my son…”

  Pietro rested a hand on young Romeo's shoulder. “You did nothing wrong. Some hurts just go too deep.”

  Romeo continued to look weepy. Pietro reminded himself of something his sister had once told him – that Gianozza was determined to raise her son to truly feel. Whatever that meant.

  Mari took a dim view of his son's high emotions. “Romeo! Stop it. Now. What do we ask ourselves?”

  “ 'Is this worth crying over?' ” parroted Romeo, trying hard to steel himself.

  “Quite right. Are you hurt? Are you dying? Is someone you love dying? No. Then cure yourself of this.”

  “Mother says—”

  Mariotto knelt. “I know what your mother says. Listen to what I'm saying. Is this the person you want to be? Your feelings do you credit, but does crying solve anything?”

  “No.”

  “Does it help anything?”

  “No.”

  “Then it's an indulgence, isn't it?”

  Romeo ducked his head. “Yes.”

  Mari pressed his son close, ruffling the boy's fine dark hair. “I applaud your attempt to make peace. But Lord Capulletto is trapped in the amber of his feelings. He lets emotion rule him. Do you want to be like him?”

  “No,” said Romeo, squirming uncomfortably.

  “Good.” Mariotto rose. “Go play with Benvolio. I'll see you at the knighting ceremony.”

  Relieved, Romeo disappeared into the crowd to look for his cousin.

  Tempting as it was to point out that the boy would not exist had not Mariotto let his emotions rule him, Pietro refrained, saying instead, “You were very patient. More than my father would have been.”

  Mariotto returned him a rueful gaze. “If I thought I could beat it out of him, I would. I've never met a child as self-judging. I hope he toughens up. He's got a
brain, and a good arm. And on a horse… well, he's a Montecchio. But I worry all the same.” Looking to where Gianozza stood chattering with her Carrara relations, Mari excused himself.

  The crowd was still enormous, everyone enjoying conversation, in no rush at all. Sick at heart, Pietro had no interest in small talk. His path to the main doors blocked, Pietro looked for another egress, and spied a door to the north that no one was using. It would be a longer exit, traveling as it did through the ancient church that had stood here before the rise of the Duomo. But better that than more uncomfortable congratulations. He made his escape.

  Once through, the noise lessened, and Pietro felt relief as he made his way across a floor mosaiced with flowery geometric shapes. There was comfort in such images. So often art depicted a story fraught with meaning – Biblical, classical, local. It was pleasant to look down and see the careful repetition of patterns, of shapes that held no message, nothing to interpret or digest. It simply was what it appeared to be. Something should be.

  Genuflecting to the saints resting under their rose-marbled tombs, Pietro came to an open-air courtyard between old and new buildings. On some impulse he strolled into the original church, which somehow felt more real than the grand edifice at his back. Simpler. Christ had been a simple man, and while it was fitting for his followers to raise great buildings in his name,

  Pietro could not help but think that the son of God would have appreciated the humble austerity of this place of worship. Brick and layered stone, with ordinary white-washing to lighten them. Plain wooden benches. The light was wonderful, streaming in from high windows rather than tapers.

  In the center stood the great octagonal baptismal font. Pietro had always admired this piece. Made from a single piece of marble, the craftsmanship was incredible, the carved panels telling the story of Christ's early life across its eight sides. So often Christ was depicted on the cross, or dead. But, though miraculous, it was not the manner of Christ's death that mattered. Rather, it was his life.

  “Shall we baptize you? Make you a true son of Verona?”

  Pietro did not need to turn. “No, Madonna. I have been baptized already.”

  “But not for years.” Katerina della Scala came to stand beside him, looking down at the magnificent basin. “It isn't tempting to start again? Take a new name? What would you choose?”

  “I am content with my own name, thank you.”

  “Of course you are. Pietro, petrus, the rock. You alone remain firm in a changing world. So what brings you here? A little early to be thinking of christening any children from today's union. Or do you, against all rumour, have one of your own on the way? Shall I congratulate you?”

  Holding his temper, Pietro said, “I was waiting for the crowd to thin.”

  “And contemplating the parallels, no doubt, between the younger groom and Our Savior. Let's see – here is the Annunciation. I was not present, of course, but I imagine angels descended to proclaim the coming of Il Veltro. The visit to Mary – or Maria, as it happens. Apt. His birth, the shepherds. Briolotto's work is rude, but evocative. Ah, but here are the Magi – do you not think Tharwat would make an excellent Magus? And the good doctor Morsicato looks quite Oriental, with his forked beard. And you for a third. Did you bring the myrrh?”

  Pietro pointed to the next panel. “Herod, ordering the massacre of the innocents.”

  “Tsk. How dreadful, to order a child's death. Oh,” cried Katerina in feigned shock, “you mean to make a comparison. Well, my brother is always saying I long to be a man. Were I a man, I think I'd quite like to be king. Ah, here is an event we both were present for – the baptism of our little savior.”

  Pietro had indeed been there when Cesco was given his name, one different from the one bestowed by his mother. That name was lost with her, another secret taken to her grave.

  Talking with Katerina always tired him. The lady obviously desired to share her victory. But Pietro was not Cangrande, uninterested in scoring points to be tallied after death. He cared more for the living boy than any fantastical prophecy.

  “Clearly, I am intruding. I shall leave you in peace, lady.” Pietro bowed, leaving Katerina in amused disappointment as he stepped out into the brisk air.

  His groom was waiting in the wide yard, still crushingly occupied. As Pietro mounted, his horse sidled into another man's steed. “I crave your pardon.”

  “But of course,” replied a thickly accented voice. It belonged to the grizzled foreigner who had held a place of honour equal to Pietro's own. Like the Moor, he had a sewn eye, but he disdained the patch, letting all the world see the puckered scar that sagged into empty socket.

  Pietro introduced himself, and the man did likewise. “Berthold von Neifen, Count of Marstetten, Imperial Vicar of Italy. And Ser Pietro Alaghieri needs no pardon from me. How did you like the wedding?”

  “I appreciated its speed,” said Pietro truthfully.

  Berthold grunted. “I imagine Prince Franz feels the same.” Franz was the emperor's pet name for Cesco. “For a young man, there is more excitement to be had in the coming hours.”

  This was very true. The real draw of the afternoon was the great mêlée, a contest between two fully armed and armoured forces, each trying to capture the other's colours.

  “Prince Rupert is there already, eager to ride into the fray. Ah, to be young and invincible,” sighed Berthold, who was nearer forty than thirty. “I understand young Franz was injured in the last great tourney here, before he began his sojourn with his majesty the emperor.”

  Pietro opened his gloved palms. “I wouldn't know. I was in France at the time.”

  “Of course,” said Berthold, politely acknowledging Pietro's trials before the pope. “Fra Bonagratia is a great admirer of yours. As is his grace the emperor, who honours you not only for bringing such worthy men as Bonagratia and the English Occam into his sphere, but also for your influence on young Franz, who is as beloved at court as his father is mistrusted.”

  “Still?” asked Pietro before he could catch himself. Cesco had betrayed the emperor's trust by trying to prevent Ludwig from burning Cangrande's forge, a petty blow from a petty man.

  “His grace understands the pull of a powerful father.” Berthold blinked his single eye. Or was it a wink? “He looks forward to Franz attaining his majority and, in due time, his full rights in Verona.”

  The message was unmistakable. Ludwig would wait for the day Cesco was made Capitano before elevating the city to its rightful place in the empire.

  Berthold returned to his former theme. “But I am surprised you are not participating! What are you, thirty, thirty-one? In your prime!”

  Pietro bowed his head. “You are kind. But so many souls are desperate to enter, and the new knights are to be given places of prominence. It seems churlish to take away a younger man's chance at glory.”

  “Especially since your own glory has been earned by necessity, in the trials of true combat. Like a man's should be,” added Berthold approvingly. “Come, shall we go?”

  As they rode, Berthold recounted tourneys he had seen and contested. Pietro listened with only half an ear. His mind was on the mêlée, praying it would shake Cesco out of his doldrums.

  In the wake of that horrible morning in Padua, Pietro had been fearful of some desperate, self-imposed trial, a wild act of daring like those Cesco had performed in the past. But for two whole months Cangrande's heir had been tame, almost docile. Diligent in study, determined in knightly drills, obedient in company, languid in private. Rather than spar verbally or physically with his elders as was his wont, he'd spent his free hours reading in the nearby monastery. After fourteen years of constant surprise, Pietro felt more frightened by Cesco's placid normalcy than he'd ever been by any madcap flight of daring, and felt a perverse desire for Cesco to do something scold-worthy.

  First they would have to reach the site. “Follow me, my lord.” Abandoning the main street, Pietro led the way down a route known to locals, the via Pigna – 'pinec
one street', so named for the Roman statue of a pinecone adorning the entrance. Mariotto lived on this street, and now so did Cesco, with a house purchased for him and his little bride.

  That was too absurd to think about, so Pietro pressed on, wending his way like a native through seeming cul-de-sacs and shadowed tunnels until he arrived at the great Arena of Verona.

  Sight of it brought back so many memories – races, duels, prophecies, plays. But with this morning's nightmare still fresh in his brain, Pietro was reminded of his father's poetic dream in Purgatorio. Clutched by a giant eagle, Dante had been carried into the air:

  Then it seemed to me that after wheeling awhile

  it plunged down terrible as lightning,

  and carried me straight to the sphere of fire.

  There it seemed that it and I were both aflame,

  and the imagined burning was so hot

  my sleep was broken and gave way.

  Some took the eagle literally, but Pietro knew it was a metaphor for Divine Grace. The fires of the sun were purgative – hence Purgatorio, a place where the soul was purged of sin. The penitent was meant to come out stronger on the other side.

  Pietro could only hope this would be true for Cesco. So far, he had not yet emerged from the fire.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “MOVE ASIDE, YOU LOT!” A guard in Scaligeri livery used the shaft of his halberd to hold off a section of the crowd. Gapers of every nationality pushed back, not to mention beggars looking for a shower of gold from the famously open-handed Capitano. “This path is reserved for the great nobles of Verona, who do not need to be bothered by such as you. Back. Back!”

  Among the jostling throng was a hooded figure with crooked shoulders and a fierce limp. Everyone who caught his sunken eye flinched and many made a sign to ward off evil.