by David Blixt
“And if none of them are?”
“Then create one that is.” The Scaliger picked up another document. “That will be all, Ser Francesco.”
Dismissed, Cesco turned on his heel and strolled out, the two Paduans in his wake.
Outside the Domus Nova, Benedick realized that, whatever else, Cesco had been right about the soldiers' mood. The instant the young prince appeared in the Piazza dei Signori, he was cheered. Not loudly, but with wry appreciative laughter. Several men shook the Heir's hand or clapped his shoulder.
Cesco clasped his hands above his head as if he'd won some great victory. “Thank you! Thank you!”
Trailing just behind the young lord, Benedick nodded at the soldiers and citizens as if they should recognize him. These were men he had to get to know, tie himself to, share humourous stories with. That was Benedick's greatest skill – the witty story. He'd charmed more than one commander over campfires and long marches. Now he had to work on these Veronese, earn their trust and approval.
There was no time like the present. “You should have heard it! Ser Francesco walks in as if he owns the place – which he might, I suppose…”
Cesco and Salvatore listened as Benedick related the events of the previous night, embellishing the loutishness of his fellow Paduans and adding several feats of daring and phrases of insult that young Cesco had neither performed nor uttered, but sounded exceedingly well. He also made several mentions of his own participation in the brawl, and referred to Salvatore's late conversion to the cause – a slight wrapped in a compliment.
Dragging Salvatore over, Cesco clapped Benedick on the shoulder. “That's right. I have discovered two honest Paduans – three, if you count my wife. But then the young are always honest. Mendacity comes with age, like vinegar in wine. These two are the rare vintage of truth and valour. Though with one being red-headed and the other being left-handed, combined they would rival Odysseus! So what say you, friends? Shall we make these two honorary Veronese? April is a long way off, but we can visit San Zeno. You know how to swim? For Zeno, baptism required full immersion. And then fishing. Always, fishing.”
“He was another Peter?” asked Salvatore. “A fisher of men?”
“I think he just liked fish. As a holy man, we should not impute he was a lover of the Devil's furrow, which often smells of fish. Though it raises the question, are women of the sea? Are we, lovers of women, sailors?”
“Seaman?” asked Benedick lightly. He was answered with groans.
“See, men?” replied Cesco, addressing the crowd. “Though born in Padua, they are Veronese in their hearts, if not their minds. For while no Veronese mind would resort to such poor wordplay as a pun when a double-entendre was at hand, yet his heart is given only to fish, like the blessed San Zeno who fished in the Adige for followers and meals alike. O, he liked his fish, did Zeno, and who can blame him? Fish is fair, not foul, while fowl is foul, not fair. So if Signor Benedick praises the fish, not the fowl, there is nothing foul about him, and he is fishified as the most true Veronese, baptized by the patron saint of fishers. Which, in turn, means that Verona is a city of whoremongers. For though Vicentines eat all the pussies, it's the Veronese angle to hook the fish on their long and sturdy rods!”
Like the rest, Benedick was breathless with laughter. “Peace, peace! Your word play hurts my head!”
Cesco raised his eyebrows. “I took you for a lover of words.”
“A lover of talk,” opined Salvatore. “Very different.”
“Whereas you are an opportunist of cant, Salvatore! You bide your time and pounce when the target is ripe.”
Salvatore's cheerful face was mild. “What better way to hit the target?”
Cesco shook his head. “I lack your patience. I make my targets before I hit them. Sadly for poor Benedetto here, he makes such a rich target!”
Benedick rubbed his neck. “Only because I'm not rich in other ways. I can't afford five-florin-phrases.”
“That was almost flowery! But you are right, my prosaic Paduan, you are a man built for prose. Plain-talking and plain-dealing. Come, shall we dine, masters? The Paduans are buying.”
Benedick gulped. “We are?”
Cesco put an arm about his shoulders. “Of course! They've rebuilt the brothel beside the cheesemaker's, and both have dishes I've been dying to sample. I have three years of eating to catch up on, and fourteen years worth of sinning to commit. I'll give you some five-florin-phrases to redeem along the way. Allons-y!”
♦ ◊ ♦
A STREET OVER, in the Casa Nogarola, Detto stared at a fresco of geometric shapes, waiting for news of his mother. His brother Valentino had fallen asleep, head nestled into the crook of a corner seat. Detto wished he could do the same, but he was wrestling with a thing that threatened to pull him in a hundred different directions at once.
Cesco said he hit her.
For all his devotion to his cousin, Detto's love was not entirely blind. He wasn't jealous of Cesco's wit, nor of his superior horsemanship, nor his burgeoning attractiveness. A year Cesco's junior, Detto himself was handsomely dark with even features, while Cesco was just emerging from a most awkward period where his whole face seemed to be made up of eyes, nose, and lips. Even with the extra six inches Cesco had grown this year, Detto still owned more strength and size than his cousin. Cesco might be a more clever fighter, but Detto was fairly certain he was the better warrior. Cesco was selfish in battle, did not think of those around him, whereas Detto had a sense of himself in the whole, and far more discipline.
A goldfinch appeared at the window, a late flier heading south for the winter. Automatically Detto lifted a finger. The bird cocked its head, then fluttered down onto his second knuckle. Detto trilled at it, and it chirruped back. This was the special thing about Detto: his rapport with animals. Dogs followed him wherever he went, abandoning their masters to trot in Detto's wake. That he had become an excellent falconer was only partly due to his time squiring Lord Petruchio. He could woo a hare from its hole, calm a bolted horse, and, as now, charm a bird to his hand. Cesco openly envied Detto's 'animal magic'. That envy made it easy for Detto to quell any momentary burst of awe or resentment for his friend's many gifts.
Last night had not been Cesco excelling. That had been Cesco lashing out. Raw and naked, the rage that had occasionally showed itself over the years was too close to the surface now. Last night's brawl had been senseless, pointless. Something Cesco had never been. Even in the maddest escapade, there had been some reason, some cause.
He has cause to lash out at the whole world now. Was that the reason he struck my mother? Or was that pointless as well?
Truth was, Detto feared his mother. He loved his father, with whom he had an excellent rapport. But his mother was an awful figure, much more like the Scaliger. For two years he had barely seen her at all as she recovered from her stroke, and Detto was ashamed to admit he remembered those years fondly. He knew his rosy view of that time was partly due to spending it in Ravenna with Cesco. But he also wondered if those years had been a relief because he had not needed to fear his mother.
Somewhere deep within himself, Detto knew he could not trust his mother. A terrible thing, to know you cannot rely upon a parent. But she had always showed more interest in Cesco than in either of the sons of her body. Why was I never jealous of that? he wondered now. I should have been, shouldn't I? But no, I was—
Relieved, thought Detto. I was relieved that it wasn't me she was focused on. Because I never wanted her to look at me the way she looks at him. The way a hawk eyes a hare.
Footsteps above made Detto cast the goldfinch off his finger through the window. Fracastoro and Morsicato descended, followed by Detto's father. The doctors kept their voices low, but Detto heard Morsicato saying, “She needs rest, is all. We've been here before. And once someone has a stroke, they're prone to more. Whatever is broken in the brain often leads to repetition.”
Broken in the brain. Is that the cause? Is mama mad?
<
br /> Detto nudged Val, who woke with a snort, looking around as Bailardino approached his sons. “Boys, your mother will recover. Whatever bastard hit her last night, they brought on another stroke. It doesn't seem as bad as last time. She can speak, a little.”
“I'd wait to talk to her, though,” advised Morsicato quickly. “As I was telling your father, she requires rest.”
“But she'll live?” asked Val plaintively.
“She should,” said doctor Fracastoro, patting the eleven-year-old on the shoulder. “She knows the road ahead. So do you.”
“Doctor,” said Detto carefully, addressing Morsicato, “did – did she say who struck her? Was anyone with her?”
“She had a visitor, they tell me,” answered Morsicato. “A crippled diviner she'd requested to call after the revels.”
“A diviner now,” grunted Bailardino. “As if astrology weren't bad enough.”
“Could he have done it?” pressed Detto.
“He's the one who called for help,” said Fracastoro, taking up the tale. “He said he heard arguing in the next room, and only went to help when he heard the blow. He did not know with whom she'd argued.”
Bail frowned at his son. “Do you know who it was?”
Detto shook his head. “I'm just asking-”
Bailardino's face grew red. “Fut! That little bastard! He hit your mother, didn't he? Didn't he?”
Morsicato laid a calming hand on his lord's arm. “Bail, keep your voice low…”
But Bailardino was incapable of hearing anything at that moment. “Your cousin came here last night and struck her, didn't he? That's why she says she doesn't know who hit her. Of course she'd lie to protect him. Did he strike her, then ransack the place to make it look like a robbery? Answer me, boy!”
Detto ducked his head. “He said something, just before the brawl—”
Bail hauled his son up by the shoulders. “You knew!?! You knew, and didn't avenge her honour? What kind of knight are you? What kind of son?!”
Confused, Valentino said, “Cesco hit mama?”
“I didn't say that!” answered Detto quickly.
“That bastard!” roared Bailardino, releasing Detto to shake his fists at the walls. “Hitting a woman! An ill woman, a woman who has been like a mother to him! Not even Cangrande in all his anger… Fut!” Whirling, he pointed a shaking finger at Detto. “I'm telling you, stay away from him from now on!”
Detto's own sense of grievance swelled within him. “You can't tell me what to do!”
“Oh yes I can! I'm your father!”
“I'm a knight!”
“Knight or not, you're not so big that I can't wallop you!”
Detto squared himself. “I'd like to see you try it!”
Bail in a rage was a frightening sight. For all his geniality, he was a terror on the battlefield. Valentino backed up a pace while the two doctors looked on helplessly. “You let that bastard strike your mother!”
“I wasn't there! But I'm sure he had good cause,” added Detto desperately.
Bailardino purpled. “Cause! What cause is there to strike a woman? What cause is there to hit your mother that you could ever approve? Tell me! Tell me what excuses this! Tell me what could make you take his side, after this!” Detto said nothing. “I'm waiting! Answer me! That incestuous little toad strikes your mother and you don't even..!”
“Don't you call him that!” roared Detto.
“Shut your insolent mouth, boy! I'm the master of this house, not you! As long as you bear my name you'll defend this family's honour! God, I have to say this? What kind of son are you?”
“One who's sick of the games this family plays! Of course Cesco's angry! I'm angry! You hate it too, I know you do – the secrets, the lies, the games! It's all the Scaligeri do! I'm terrified because I'm half Scaliger myself!”
“What,” sneered Bailardino, “do you want to marry a sister, too? Pity I wasn't out siring bastards! Then you and your friend could both have a lust for incest!”
Detto punched his father in the face.
Too astonished to move, Morsicato, Fracastoro, and Valentino stared. Bailardino himself seemed more shocked by the deed than the pain.
“There!” shouted Detto. “You and mama are a matched set!”
Bailardino pinched his nose. His fingers came away bloody. “Get out,” he said softly. “Get out, now.”
“Gladly!” cried Detto, wishing he wasn't saying it even as the word passed the hedge of his teeth. He turned to go.
Morsicato restrained him. “Detto, calm down!”
“Lord Nogarola,” said Fracastoro in his best doctor voice.
“Detto, Papa…” pleaded Valentino.
Pushing Morsicato off him, Detto started for the door. “I'm going to Cesco's!”
That stirred Bailardino to a rage. The blood smearing the lower half of his face made him all the more frightening. “I'll disown you! I mean it! You stay away from him!”
Detto turned in defiance. “Do it. I dare you. Disown me.” With that Detto stalked from his family's house, half-afraid his father would take him at his word.
Upstairs, Donna Katerina lay in her sickbed and listened. Another woman might have wept. But Detto's mother remained still, unable to move her left side, her bruised jaw senseless of the injury. Abjuring both her physical and emotional pain, she turned matters over and over. For her mind felt no different.
The fault was hers. Hers, and the diviner's. She had received worse blows in her life. It was the fear of exposure – that, and the fear of what might happen should Cesco ever learn the truth. Now that it was done, now that he could not go back – no. He could not learn of it now. She would not permit it.
The diviner could ruin everything. She had to see him.
When her husband cautiously cracked the door to check on her, she tried to produce a smile. Ugly and lopsided, to be sure, but she had to soothe Bail as best she could. He could not go to war against the boy. The boy would surely win. He couldn't not. He was the Greyhound.
“It wassh not Ceshco,” slurred the lady out of the right side of her mouth.
Bail remained mulishly in the doorway, a damp cloth at his bleeding nose. “You wouldn't tell me if it was.”
“It wassh not him.” She could see that Bail did not believe her. “Come here.”
Reluctantly he obeyed, dropping into a seat. “You heard?”
“Who didn't?” she answered. “Detto ish young, and confushed.”
“It's Cesco I want to throttle. Oh, deny it all you like. He confessed it to Detto. Cangrande was never like this.” Katerina snorted at that, and Bail relented a little. “Wild to be sure, and insolent. But never – never vicious.”
“Thish ish my brother you're talking about?”
The remark did not elicit the laugh she had hoped for. “I know you two sparred – but he never hit you! He wouldn't have dared! How can Cesco be so much worse than he was?”
“My brother wassh never in love,” said Donna Katerina. “Now lisshten, there is sshomething I want you to do for me.”
Eight
THE TROUBLE WITH THE PADUANS seemed likely to die out of its own accord until a second brawl broke out the following day, this time in the open street.
Sitting on an outdoor balcony with Detto, Benedick and Salvatore, Cesco scruffed the neck of one of his pack, a fine old greyhound called Icarus that had been part of Ser Alaghieri's household in Ravenna. The dog had insisted on coming out today and was now sprawled, eyes closed, basking in the rays of his master's attention.
Banners lined the streets, cracking in the wind funneling between the buildings. Each long cloth was alternately emblazoned with the crests of Verona, Padua, Vicenza, and Mantua. All bore the Scaligeri ladder and hound.
Beneath the banners, the city remained crowded – the lowest estimate of foreigners was at well over five thousand. The mobs were so massive that rich and poor visitors had to encamp themselves in arcades, or put up tents in city squares. The Arena's a
rched tunnels were a fashionable place to sleep, something that hadn't been done in over a hundred years.
All around them the ongoing revels were in full force. Laughter and singing came from all corners. But the party on the balcony was subdued, drinking watered wine and passing irrelevant talk. Cesco drew out Benedick and Salvatore for personal information, but without urgency. Benedick had a lost mother, which Cesco admitted to mirroring, and Salvatore a sister, which Cesco also obliquely admitted. “Would I had married to gain me more a sister than a wife.”
Frowning at that, Detto nursed the knuckles he'd split on his father's teeth. Everyone had heard about the falling out between Lord Nogarola and his eldest son, but his arrival at Cesco's casa had gone unremarked by Cesco, an unusual show of tact. Staggering home stinking of sex and wine, he had merely accepted his cousin's presence as if there was naught amiss with the world.
Cesco's little wife had dutifully attended church this morning with her family, as if her circumstances were unchanged. Cesco felt no pressing need to join her, so the quartet lounged on the balcony of his new abode, a fine mansion along the via Pigna, just a few blocks north of the Piazza dei Signori and within a stone's throw of the Duomo. He had been offered the mansion that had once belonged to Federigo della Scala, but Cesco had declined, owning no desire to inhabit the home of a man he'd help kill.
“It's not superstition,” he insisted to Detto. “Just poor taste.”
Instead, his new abode was a three-story casa that was easily fortified, with a massive arch to a courtyard and a private stable. The large white stones clashed with the faux crenellations so popular these days. “Like a crown on an albino pig,” Cesco had observed. The interior twisted and turned, having been converted from older buildings into a single residence.
The middle floor was reserved for his wife and her nurse, leaving the highest level for Cesco to haunt. Among the amenities were rose marble floors bearing the Scaligeri crest in white, frescoed images of the deaths of Iphigenia and Hector, and a long balcony that ran the length of the building, overlooking the street below.
