The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Warningly, Detto said, “Cesco…”

  The young knight in white paid him no heed. Squatting, he put his face close to the drunk's. “What do you think you are doing?”

  Now the drunk was truculent in his defensiveness. “What?”

  “What! Again, what! Why not 'how', or better, 'why'! Why is the key! Why is always the answer. Every question worth asking starts with a why, and a wherefore – for a wherefore must ever follow a why. For example, why do you break those nuts? Wherefore do you think you have the right?”

  With a wary smile the drunk looked around, wondering if this was some sort of joke.

  “I have given you the why and the wherefore. Now here is the 'how'. How dare you?” said Franz loudly. Under the eye of every patron both above and below, he pointed at his friend. “You see him?”

  “Yeah, I sees 'im.”

  “Do you sees what colour his eyes are?”

  The drunk blinked. “What?”

  “What what what! His eyes. What colour are they?”

  The inebriated fellow squinted at Detto in the dim light. “Brown?”

  “Wrong.” Franz's fist snapped forward with all the strength of his shoulder and hip behind it. The drunk's nose burst in a shower of blood.

  Franz rubbed his knuckles. “They're hazel.”

  The shock was palpable, and short. As one the assembled Paduans lurched forward to avenge their comrade. Stools and benches flew, tables were overturned, and the innkeeper dove through a short door behind the bar to run for help, leaving his wife swatting at the brawlers with a stout stave.

  “Verona!” laughed Franz in wild joy as the bleeding drunk threw himself forward and tackled the teen to the floor.

  Something in Franz's face completed the red-head's mental picture. He'd seen almost the same expression eleven years earlier, under a floppy hat, rallying Vicenza's troops. Whatever he called himself – Franz, Castor, Cesco – this was the Greyhound's heir.

  Oh fut.

  The few Veronese in the taverna leapt up to fight without knowing why. But they were closer to the door, far from the hayloft where the red-head was now trapped with this young lunatic.

  Detto was already on his feet, protecting his friend's right side, fending off blows and delivering his own. The red-head had seen Bailardino Nogarola in battle over the years, and this boy had inherited his father's basic frame, if not yet all the muscle. Moreover, he wasn't drunk, which couldn't be said of their opponents.

  Freeing himself from the drunk's tackle, Franz leapt over the barrel to heel someone clambering up the ladder. “Paduans are nut-suckers!” Behind him Signor Nosy barked out an unwilling laugh as he slammed someone head-first into a brick wall, then toppled him over the rail onto the crowd below.

  Surging to join in, the outraged Paduans obeyed the unspoken rule of tavern brawls – trays and stools and flagons and even food were acceptable for combat, but a naked blade was dishonourable. Everyone scrambled to ascend to the hayloft, needing to get in a blow for Padua, for honour, for fun. The two wenches on the upper level were swearing and laughing, throwing blows with the rest of them.

  A fist came winging at the young Scaliger's head. Without thinking, Ahenobarbus caught it, then grasped the assailant by the ear and bashed his head into the man next to him. Bludgeoning two more of his countrymen, the red-head twisted to fall in beside Cesco at the top of the ladder, warding off blows with the aid of a platter. Suddenly he was fighting alongside the newly-knighted, newly-wed, clearly mad prince of Verona.

  Who was singing:

  You graves of grisly ghosts

  your charge from coffins send

  From roaring rout in Pluto's costs

  you Furies up ascend.

  You trampling steeds of Hell

  come tear a woeful wight,

  Whose hapless hap no tongue can tell

  nor pen can well indict.

  I hate this loathsome life

  O Atropos draw nigh,

  Untwist the thread of mortal strife

  send death and let me die.

  As he sang he leapt high, grasping a wooden strut and swinging into a kick that scissored the air, pushing one foe forward and another back. Releasing a hand, he swung around to drive his heel into a third man's ear before dropping back onto a barrel, facing away from the fight. He grinned at Signor Nosy. “Tell me this isn't better.”

  The younger knight laughed ruefully. Elbowing a drunk in the face, he called out, “Pick a better song!”

  The young prince obeyed, taking up a martial air now famous across the Feltro:

  Indeed a crown

  Verona wears,

  This trumpet blown

  This deed declares!

  Signor Nosy joined in:

  Warhorse and charger,

  Fighting man, banner,

  Cuirass and sword,

  All a-charging!

  Betraying his homeland, Ahenobarbus burst into song as well:

  Hear the tramp, tramp,

  Foot soldiers stamp.

  Tramp tramp tramp tramp tramp!

  Hear how they go!

  The hayloft was an excellent defensible position, with only the ladder to barrier with their bodies. Ducking hard hunks of bread hurled up at them, they slapped and tweaked those who attempted to climb while struggling against the dozen or so at their backs.

  One industrious Paduan below thought to use the pulley, but Cesco added his weight to the rope and the man hit his head on the beam before plummeting back into the crowd.

  Ahenobarbus was about to punch the man clambering up onto the loft from someone's shoulders when that man immediately turned and kicked his human-ladder in the face. It was the fellow with the slate eyes from below. He joined in on their side, taking up position on the red-head's left. “You're mad to join us!”

  “I like long odds!” called slate-eyes, catching a blow on his forearm and butting his attacker with his forehead. His accent was Paduan – another turncoat, but without the shabbiness of appearance that Ahenobarbus owned. Perhaps he was seeking another kind of favour. Bardasso, thought Ahenobarbus uncharitably.

  Slate-eyes quickly proved himself capable, knowing not to hit with his fist but with elbows and knees. He was swift and devious, fighting left-handed. Even in extremis his face was mild and cheerful. With his help, they were able to dispatch the last of those above while fending off the assault from below.

  Franz appeared at the red-head's side. “Well done, maestro! Give these scholars a lesson in brawling!”

  Ahenobarbus called out, “What are Veronese?”

  “What?” demanded Franz, ducking.

  “Venessiani gran signori, Padovani gran dottori, Visentini magna gatti… what about the Veronese?”

  Franz burst with mirth. “Veronesi tutti matti!”

  Venetians are great lords, Paduans great scholars, Vicentines eat cats, and Veronese are all crazy!

  “Truth is truth!”

  Just then the taverna door burst open to allow a flood of gold-and-azure-clad soldiers. Cangrande had ordered his militia to keep these kinds of brawls to a minimum. Had these militiamen been solely Veronese, they might have fallen in on the side of the outnumbered locals. But the foresighted Scaliger had brought in Mantuans, Paduans, and Vicentines to help police this celebration. Hence, as they pummeled their way into the old barn, they struck everyone indiscriminately.

  Ahenobarbus saw them coming. “We should scarper.”

  In obvious agreement, Detto turned to the high window over his shoulder. Leaping into the wooden beams, he threw it wide. “Come on!” Slate-eyes started to retreat from the balcony's edge.

  Ignoring them all, Franz continued to slam the bloodied nutcracker's head against a barrel, only to be knocked down by a blow to his own head. He shook himself, lashed out with a foot, and said, “Not leaving!!” Whisking off his cloak, he used it to wrap an incoming blow, kicking his assailant through its muffling folds.

  One leg into the open air, Detto wavered,
then climbed down from the window and leapt back into the fray. The red-headed Paduan shared a look with his slate-eyed countryman, and they too returned to protecting the young maniac's backs.

  By the time the militiamen had the main floor quelled, the quartet on the hayloft were battered and bloodied, but grinning. Staves forced them back from the edge as the guards clambered up the ladder. Ahenobarbus and slate-eyes stepped back, hands in the air, but Franz and Signor Nosy fought them as well, only subsiding after receiving several blows more damaging than all the punches they had endured.

  The room was a shambles. Men with broken heads or limbs were being carried and chivvied out of doors. The victorious quartet sank to the planks side-by-side, Franz's arm wrapped around his cousin's shoulder as they all coughed and clutched their ribs, giggling when they found the air.

  “O, good idea,” gasped Ahenobarbus.

  “Idea,” repeated Franz, then retched.

  “Don't puke on me!” groaned Signor Nosy, kicking him away.

  For some reason the young prince found this hysterically funny. In the middle of vomiting up copious amounts of wine, he managed to spew more liquid from his nose. He aimed over the edge, and those below howled as the regurgitated nastiness pelted their heads and shoulders.

  The red-head felt around his mouth with his tongue. His teeth were all accounted for, so he felt free to grin. “You are, both of you, mad.”

  Franz cuffed his mouth with his forearm. “I told you – tutti matti!”

  The militiamen were questioning the innkeeper, who had returned to survey the wreckage of his establishment. He pointed a furious finger at the young man whose feet were kicking idly over the edge of the hayloft. “Them! They started this!”

  Signor Nosy threw up his hands. “Me? What did I do?”

  “They were your eyes,” observed Franz. Both he and Ahenobarbus burst into laughter.

  A militiaman on the hayloft hauled Franz up by the scruff of his neck. Without moving to intervene, slate-eyes said, “Best handle him with care.”

  “Who the devil are you?” challenged the head militiaman from below.

  “It's not who I am that matters. That's the Scaliger's heir you've got there.”

  “By the hair,” said Franz, which started both teens on a fresh laughing spurt.

  Over the murmurs of the vanquished, the lead militiaman crossed closer. “What did you say?”

  Ahenobarbus took over answering. “That's Francesco della Scala, married this morning to Lord Carrara's cousin, and bannerman in the mêlée today. That's his cousin, Bailardetto Nogarola, also knighted today.”

  Clutching his broken nose, the nutcracker appeared from behind a barrel. “You're lying.”

  “Yes, lying,” chuckled Franz. “Throw me in the gaol.” He then doubled over to spew the final contents of his stomach forth, forcing the militiaman below to jump backwards as the liquid splashed his boots.

  Some were eyeing Signor Nosy's knightly attire and Franz's soiled white clothes. His cloak removed, the Scaligeri ladder was plainly embroidered on the back of the instigator's doublet.

  “Merda,” said the militia leader, a Mantuan.

  “He starteb ib,” said the Paduan nutcracker in a nasally whine. “We didn'b dnow – how coulb we dnow?”

  “By using your eyes,” said the red-head. I should have known the moment I saw him.

  “What the hell is he doing out here?” asked one militiaman of another.

  “And on his wedding night!” added one of the brawlers.

  Sensing it might be politic to come to the prince's defence, the lead militiaman snapped, “Remember who his bride is?”

  Things quickly became more formal. The lead guard ascended to examine the two teens closely, taking in Ahenobarbus as well. “You're with them?”

  A moment of hesitation was relieved when Franz – or rather, Cesco – said, “No one is with me. They're all against me.”

  “He's with us,” said Signor Nosy, né Detto.

  The guard nodded once. Sotto voce, he said, “Get him home.”

  “Home is where the heart is,” said Cesco, enunciating carefully over his split lip.

  “And where is that?” asked Ahenobarbus.

  “If you find out, please let me know. I've lost my hart.”

  Detto winced, but Ahenobarbus heard the strain of a familiar tune. “Oh-ho! Soured for love?”

  “Figs,” said Cesco. “Just a poor hunter.”

  “Here was I, thinking I was saving the Greyhound's heir. Some dog you turned out to be. No teeth, but lots of wag.”

  Cesco glanced up. “A witty Paduan! A rare breed indeed!”

  “I have wit enough not to pick fights for no reason.”

  “But not enough to stay away when they start,” observed slate-eyes.

  “A hit!” cried Cesco. “And from the quiet corner to boot!”

  Having invested his evening, Ahenobarbus was not well pleased to have to share with this last-minute joiner. “I have a soft spot for soft heads.” He helped Detto to his feet. “Here, let me take them. Innkeep, I'm sure if you present the matter at the palace, you'll be well compensated.”

  Slate-eyes cast his cool gaze over the brawlers below. “The rest of you – I'd keep my mouths shut.”

  The leader of the militia gave this Paduan a hard glare. “And what's your name?”

  “I'm Salvatore da Battaglia.”

  “Battaglia?” said the Heir, amused. “No wonder you're quick to join a fight.”

  Salvatore offered a humble bow, his cheerful face expanding with his smile. “Quick to end one, my lord.”

  “Ha! Welcome, Ser Salvatore, knight of the battle. And you, Ahenobarbus? What name did your mother give you?”

  “She never called me anything, my lord. She had little time for me. My father, either. But my uncle was a good Christian soul, and had me baptized.”

  “And what name did your noble uncle bestow upon you?”

  The red-head made a mocking half-bow. “Benedick, my lord. I am Signor Benedick, of Padua.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  UNDER AN ESCORT of city guards, they headed towards Cesco's new house on the via Pigna. The mirthful quartet were reliving the fight when a figure stepped from the shadows into their path. A massive Moor, dressed all in blacks and greys, with a sword upon his back and a patch on his eye.

  Benedick and Salvatore's feet jumped back even as their hands jumped to their swords. “Jesuchristo!”

  The two young princes were unmoved. Cesco pursed his lips in a sour expression. “Ah, as foretold, Death has come to claim me. Where is your pale horse?”

  Seeing them in the light of a nearby hanging brazier, the Moor's brow furrowed. His voice grated like a metal spoon against a bowl. “Were you attacked?”

  Cesco shrugged. “More attacking than attacked.”

  “Tutti matti,” murmured Benedick.

  The Moor was grave. “We were looking for you.”

  “Men's eyes were made to look,” answered Cesco lightly. “Yours especially were shaped, it seems, to look only for me. Perhaps if I remove the other, I will become invisible.”

  “It was not you, in fact, that I was seeking.” The Moor fixed his one eye on the other prince. “Bailardetto, you should go home at once. I'm so very sorry.”

  Arrested, Detto blinked. Cesco raised his eyebrows. “For what crime?”

  “Donna Katerina,” answered the Moor. “She's had another stroke.”

  Seven

  Sunday, 27 November 1328

  IT WAS LATE MORNING when Pietro arose, head aching fit to burst from an excess of wine. His house was quiet, but the street outside was bustling with life, music, and more. Recalling that the revels would continue all the way into the New Year, he groaned. I don't know if I'll survive.

  This house was still vaguely unfamiliar to Pietro. Having purchased it months earlier, he had not furnished it himself, leaving the choice of tapestries, chairs, desks, and even his bed to the ever-willing Tullio d'Isola
, so practiced in serving the Scaligeri that furnishing a house was the work of an afternoon. The unfortunate result was that, though he had paid for everything, nothing felt like it belonged to him – essentially making him a guest in his own home.

  But his clothes were certainly his, well-tailored farsettos, fine tunics, and his habitual trousers rather than the conventional hose. Of late he'd invested in excellent boots, and had made the mistake of wearing a new pair for the wedding. Today the balls of his feet roared in anger, and his heels felt as sore as his stomach.

  Dressing for Sunday services, he pulled on an older pair and ventured down the stairs, feeling wobbly. Food. I need food. And water.

  In the kitchens he was surprised to find his brother already up and about. “Morning!” chirped Poco.

  “Morning,” groaned Pietro dully, pouring himself a cup of water and draining it. “You're more alive than I am.”

  Poco grinned. “I have more experience, and more determined entrails. Any sign of Cesco?”

  Pietro grunted. “Tharwat sent a note just before dawn saying he'd finally gone home.”

  “And Donna Katerina?”

  Pietro felt a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with drink. But after last night, he had given himself permission not to rush to her side. “Morsicato will let us know when he has a prognosis.”

  “Any notion who did it?” The state of the room and the bruise on the lady's cheek had caused Bail to roar about intruders, thieves using the revels as opportunity to ransack noble homes. Surprised, they had struck the lady of the house as they fled, causing her current pitiable condition.

  Pietro did not give voice to his own suspicions. “She was discovered by a cripple she had invited to the house – a diviner. He says he heard voices, then found her on the floor and raised the alarum.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “Not so far. He was definitely there by her wish. The room was ransacked. But she hasn't awakened to tell us what happened.”

  “Christ. Heaven help the bastard when they find him. Bailardino will tear him limb from limb.”

  “Mm.” Pietro's mind was on his conversation with the lady at the feast. If I had gone home with her…