The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  By a quirk of geography he shared a roof with his neighbor, Lord Montecchio. Cesco had once snuck into the Casa Montecchio through an unconventional portal – the death door, a sealed exit used only for the departure of those without mortal cares. He had knocked at death's door, and little Romeo had admitted him, helping steal a horse. That event had made quite an impression on little Romeo, who was ever pestering Cesco for another adventure. It had been a promise lightly made, and not yet fulfilled to the lad's satisfaction.

  The boy now waved shyly from the window of his father's house, and Cesco raised two fingers in salute. The seven-year-old's face broke into an unrestrained grin. “Have you come to steal another horse?”

  “Borrow,” corrected Cesco, clucking his tongue. “I only borrow horses. Everyone knows the Montecchi are the real horse thieves.”

  Unoffended, Romeo's eyes flashed in delight. “Voiceless, you mean? We only went hoarse a-shouting when you came a-stealing.”

  “I only came a-stealing to make you start a-shouting.”

  “Watch out, or you'll get steel for stealing.”

  “Who will give it me? You?”

  “Aye,” said little Romeo, “I.”

  Cesco threw up his hands in mock dismay. “Ai ai ai! Thy steel doth steal my steel!”

  “Better than your steel stealing our steeds! When can we ride?”

  “Whenever you like,” replied Cesco, a smile upon his lips in spite of himself. “I have no demands on my time at present.”

  “Tomorrow!”

  Cesco tilted his head sideways. “Alas, I fear I may be lashed by a legal leviathan on the morrow. But soon, Signor Romeo, we shall ride through Verona's gates as though the Devil were breathing down our necks!”

  Gianozza appeared at Romeo's window. Casting a disapproving look at Cesco, she chivvied her young son back inside.

  “You're kind to humour him,” said Benedick.

  Cesco shrugged. “There is enough unkindness for children in the world.”

  Detto had picked up on something else. “Lashed for what?”

  Cesco lifted his full cup to his puffy lip without a word. Then he frowned as someone coughed. Icarus leapt up at once and began barking, causing Cesco to wince and clutch his head.

  Detto reached out a hand and started stroking Icarus' sleek neck. Glancing at his friend, Detto saw something smouldering. A group of Paduans were sauntering along the street below, their nationality obvious from their accents and the feathers in their caps, worn over the right ear – the Guelph ear. Despite their submission to Verona, they were adamant in their support of the Pope over the Emperor.

  Laughing and cavorting in high spirits, one of them had swallowed a gulp of wine badly, the liquid clogging his throat, and was now bent over, coughing loudly to the amusement of his fellows.

  Cesco leaned over the stone rail and pointed an accusing finger. “You!”

  Bleary eyes came up. “Yes?”

  “You woke my hound! Apologize!”

  Two Paduans laughed, and one gave Cesco the fig. The rest ignored him.

  A mistake. Quicker than anyone could credit, Cesco was over the rail and sliding down a banner to drop into their midst. “You will cough your way into a coffin, signore! Za!” Kicking the cougher in the back of the knee, Cesco sent him earthwards, then ducked as the first blow came at his head.

  After a stunned pause, Benedick, Salvatore, and Detto raced to his aid, though only Salvatore imitated the trick with the banner. The other two took the stairs three at a time and burst out of doors, fists flying.

  They were swiftly joined by several more Veronese, eager to help the Greyhound's heir dispense rough justice. Dicing at a nearby tavern, Petruchio's twin sons were quick to fall in. Cangrande's two bastards, Barto and Berto, heard the uproar from where they were watching a mime and came to aid their father's heir.

  More Paduans and Veronese streamed into the wide street, and soon the city guards arrived to put a stop to the violence, quelling many combatants with staves and clubs. When it was over, Cesco invited all involved, Paduan and Veronese alike, to drink at his expense. But only the Veronese were invited to join him in his home, where no one's cup was disgraced with water.

  Returning from church, the party containing his little wife was waylaid by the steward and wisely decided to retire to the guest lodgings where her father was staying instead. The revels lasted late into the night, and Icarus was encouraged to bark as often as he pleased.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “YOU CANNOT FIND HIM?” asked the lady in her sickbed.

  “Not for lack of trying,” answered Bailardino soothingly. “He's probably frightened he will be blamed, and so has fled the city.”

  “No,” said Katerina urgently. “No, he took sshomething he will want to profit from.”

  Bail's nose was still red, and one eye was blackened. It made his grimace more fearsome. “He stole?”

  “He did,” said Katerina, closing her eyes. “Paper. Paper that ish of no import. Not now. But find him. Find him for me.”

  Bail tried, but the crippled diviner was nowhere to be found.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THAT BAIL COULD NOT discover so memorable a person was surprising. More surprising still was his present location – at the door of the fine casa that housed the Venetian Embassy. Purchased three years ago, when Ambassador Dandolo became understandably wary of entrusting his person to the Scaligeri guest palace, it was both exceedingly elegant and convenient, owning a very Venetian exit – a door leading to a covered porch with moorings for a boat along the edge of the Adige. A prudent precaution.

  Ambassador Francesco Dandolo half-listened to his wife's description of a tapestry she had bought that morning while he considered what he had set in motion three days earlier, on the eve of the wedding. He was not used to doubting his choices. But this one was fraught. Could it be a trick? Could it not be a trick?

  It was a risk he would not have taken were it not for Cangrande. A man whose ambition stretched the sides of the world. Under Dandolo's advice, Venice had offered him the citizenship so that any deed he performed could be said to honour Venice.

  So long as those deeds are not against Venice. The coming war with Treviso, which Cangrande would doubtless win, would remove the last check on Verona's power. With all of Northern Italy united under him, there was no telling what this upstart dog could achieve, where his sword might point next. South, to Florence, Pisa, and Rome? North, to the Empire? West, towards Torino? Or east, towards Venice? The man was like a king of old, an Alexander, who wished to conquer for conquering's sake. He was not a man of business, of sense. Such men could be predicted. Upon such men the world depended. Men like Dandolo.

  Venice could not allow Verona to dominate the Feltro. Past plots had failed. Worse, they had been detected.

  That was our mistake, thought Dandolo with clear-eyed criticism. By making moves against him, we elevated him. Venice is best when she does not acknowledge her foes. The wolf is never troubled by the sheep. But when a giant tries to swat a fly, the fly feels important.

  The great irony was that, had Venice done nothing, the Scaliger might well have fallen. These Scaligeri had no worse foes than their own kin. The war between Cangrande, Katerina, Giovanna, Mastino, and little Cesco might well have ruined them all without outside machinations. It was an interesting notion, one that pleased the classicist within him. As Homer had put it: 'Men are so quick to blame the gods, for they say that we devise their misery. But they themselves – in their depravity – design grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.'

  Then had come this offer from within the Scaliger's own ranks. It had been tried before. Bonaccolsi had failed, and been punished for it. He was dead, his family crushed, his name extinguished from the rolls of history. All because he had dared to oppose Cangrande, who was as ruthless in private as he was genial in public. A worthy foe. If a man is measured by the quality of his enemies, I am a great man indeed. But then, so is he.

&n
bsp; Dandolo did not fear for his own person. But he did fear what the Scaliger could do to his reputation. Which is why he had waited months to decide the question that irritated his intestines the way a grain of sand rubbed at an oyster. He could only pray for a pearl.

  To act, or not to act. That was the crux of it. Cangrande was a threat to Venice. With the Doge ailing and Dandolo all but assured elevation to that noble office, his reputation would be set by the next few years of his life. His decisions now mattered.

  Odd that, of all things, a diviner should have given him the final push. No, that was giving too much credit. Dandolo's mind had been made up already. He needed no plumb on a string to decide him, only to spur him on. After all, if he failed in this, it was only money. As Virgil had said, Fate always finds a way.

  Both the ambassador's musings and his wife's recitation were interrupted by a knocking below. When he heard his steward say, “Take alms and be gone,” Dandolo doubted it was anything to interest him. He was mildly surprised when, a minute on, his steward tapped on the door. “Yes?”

  “There is a man to see you. The diviner of the other night. He asks for another audience.”

  As his wife clapped in delight, Dandolo arched a patrician eyebrow. “Has he a new bauble to try? Or is it a premonition? By all means, show him in. No, my dear, you stay here and wait for your delivery – I'll see him downstairs.”

  Dandolo was not one to enjoy coincidence. He had just been thinking of the man, and he appears? Was that, too, part of the diviner's art? Was all of this an attempt by the Scaliger to entrap him into some mischief? He certainly employed such creatures – the Moor, for example.

  Or was this simply another huckster interested in the patronage of a future doge? Very likely. Certainly, if he were here for any sordid purpose, he wouldn't have come in daylight to the front door. The embassy was doubtless under observation, as Cangrande was whenever he came to Venice. We'd be imbeciles not to spy on each other.

  He met the man in the spacious room on the ground floor used for such audiences. No one could see in these windows from the street, and the walls and doors were thick.

  He had forgotten how awful the man's face was to behold, and sight of it made Dandolo want to look elsewhere. He did not, fixing the uninjured eye with his gaze.

  The diviner made as good a bow as he was able. Whatever else, the man was not faking his disability. Powerful in his upper body, he was twisted in his hips, with one leg withered and turned inwards.

  Dandolo clasped his hands behind his back, majestic in his heavy fur-lined robe. “Girolamo, is it not?”

  “It is, my lord. You are kind to remember it.”

  “You made an impression.”

  “I hope it was my art, not my face, that did so.”

  Wit, or resentment? “It was both.”

  The man's lip curled downwards as he plucked his cowl forward. Resentment, then.

  “Have you come to ply your trade again? My wife is upstairs.”

  “No, my lord. I have come—” The man broke off, glancing at the steward who showed no sign of leaving. Nor did Dandolo dismiss him. Understanding he was not to have a private audience with the Venetian ambassador, Girolamo's face contorted to match his body as he framed his remarks. “The other night you asked if I had always been a diviner. I told you I was not.”

  “You said the gift came after your injuries, I recall.”

  “Yes. But I did not say what my employment had been prior to my taking up the pendulum.” His thick Bergamo accent did nothing to aid his discourse. Fortunately, he was taking his time, choosing every word carefully. “Before I discovered my gift, I did such work as a man might not wish to admit. I have lived with thieves and scoundrels. I was one myself. As you see, I paid the price.”

  “A fearful one. A mark of Cain, is it?”

  “Yes,” admitted Girolamo. “I was a criminal. I engaged in crimes. I was on my way to such a crime when I was felled. Pure happenstance, or divine justice, I have never known. But as I lay recovering, the power of the diviner awakened within me. Before that, I was one such a highborn lord as yourself should never have admitted into your presence.”

  “I assume there is a reason you are telling me this now. I doubt you wish to confess your past crimes at this late date.”

  “But I do,” said Girolamo. “To one, at least. But I am afraid that I will be silenced before I can speak of it.”

  “Does this crime have to do with Venice?”

  “No, my lord. It involves Verona, and Padua. A great lady, and a noble child. Fourteen years ago.”

  It was not difficult to guess the identity of the child. “Does this tale revolve around Verona's Heir?”

  “It does.”

  “I see. And the lady?”

  “Donna Katerina della Scala.”

  “Who was burgled the other night, struck and sent into a stroke,” supplied the steward.

  The eye in the sunken socket was fixed on Dandolo. “I was there. I was the one who called for help. I did not strike her.”

  “But you know who did.”

  “Yes. But it is not for that reason I am here.”

  Dandolo studied the man. “You are seeking protection.”

  “And justice.”

  Dandolo considered, then made up his mind. “Pray, sit down.”

  The story was plain enough, and the better for being so. Yet it was incredible. Part of it was surely true. Another part could be confirmed easily enough. Less damaging than it might have been, and a very long time ago, now. Still, the lady had wanted it concealed. What did she fear, if his story came to light?

  To act, or do nothing. Here was another opportunity to act, gifted as upon a platter. Unable to see the outcome, Dandolo mistrusted overturning rocks when they might conceal adders.

  And yet, the chance to bring down the Heir…

  In the desperation of his confinement three years before, Pietro Alaghieri had revealed one very interesting fact: Cangrande was not the Greyhound of prophecy. It was the boy, now a married man and a knight. If Cangrande had risen so high without the backing of Fate, how much higher would this boy rise? Would it not be better to crush him now, like an unhatched serpent in the shell? Or was there a middle path? A way to let these Scaligeri destroy themselves?

  Yes. Better, by far, to let them wrangle than to soil his own hands on this business. To his guest he said, “Do you trust me? Does your divination extend that far?”

  The man hesitated, then said, “Of course, my lord. I place myself at your mercy.”

  “Then I will ask you to tell your story to one other, and we shall let him decide how best to deal with it. He is a man intimately interested in justice, and knows all the parties involved. I shall send for him. In the meantime, if you are willing, you might even while away an hour amusing my wife with more displays of your art. I am engaged for supper, but I will ask this man to step around late tonight. Tomorrow, before dawn, we will send you to Venice.”

  As Girolamo murmured his thanks, Dandolo turned to his steward, issuing orders. Perhaps Fate had indeed found a way.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CANGRANDE CHOSE TO deal with Cesco's latest misbehavior publicly, in the judicial square beside the Giurisconsulti. Rousing them from their cups, he so chastised the young knights that rumours began to fly of Paduan favouritism. Cesco took an especially hard tongue-lashing, to which he made no reply, standing with his chin held high, staring stoically forward.

  Immediately following, Pietro made a private appeal. Dressed in his lawyer's robes, he tried to be as understanding as possible, begging Cesco not to let recent events blight his ascending star. Pietro made the case that pointless violence would not aid Cesco's cause. Nor would it salve his pain.

  Cesco listened politely, smiled sweetly, and agreed with everything his foster-father said, then sauntered off whistling to join Detto, the Bonaventura twins, Cangrande's two unlegitimized sons, and those two Paduans who had inexplicably attached themselves to Cesco's tr
ain.

  Watching him go, Pietro knew he had achieved nothing. Well, I wanted him to stir from his torpor. Be careful what you pray for. The answer may be yes.

  Sure enough, the next day Cesco was at it again, stirring up trouble over imagined slights and preposterous causes. Cangrande threw his hands into the air and raged about the palace, quite aware of his impotence. Short of throwing the boy in prison, and half the young men of the city with him, there was nothing to be done.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  MASTINO WAS LATE rising that day, having again explored his wedded bed after a rather arduous amorous session the night before. More than pleasure – and thankfully, despite her looks, it was a pleasure – he had a duty to perform. His aim was to get Taddea pregnant as soon as humanly possible. Cesco was Cangrande's heir, but would have no heir of his own for several years to come. If anything should happen to the little shit, Mastino would be next in line, and any child of his after him. Oh, there was Alberto, of course. But no one could think of elevating Mastino's brother to Capitano, at least not alone. It was good to know that his elder brother was no obstacle to Mastino's own advancement.

  No, it was vital that Taddea have a child, and soon. If Mastino's only advantage was age, he meant to use it. It did not hurt that Cesco was making such an ass of himself. But after his performance during the summer's earthquake, the city was willing to overlook much. And as his idiocy was rooted in Veronese patriotism, the people were choosing to be charmed. He had that Scaligeri magic Cangrande had made famous – the cheerful willfulness that excused even the poorest behavior. If he defecated in the street, the stupid plebs would put the result on a pedestal and praise its shape and colour.

  Eventually, though, the effect would pall. When that time came, Mastino had to be sure that he presented a sober alternative to the wild and unreliable bastard. To that end, he had to be out of the house each day, doing knightly deeds, looking every inch the prince.