by David Blixt
“Clearly you're a Veronese cat. No one would eat a cat that was insane.” Cesco elbowed him in the shoulder. “Well done.”
“I know it was well done,” said Thibault at once, his colour rising. “I don't need your patronizing airs.”
Cesco's brows rose even as his tone cooled. “Who was praising you? I was telling you how I like my meat. Well done. Go fetch me some.”
“Fetch it yourself. I'm going to wait until your arm is rested, then I'll best you too.”
“So it is my praise and admiration you're after,” mused Cesco. “You just want me on my back when I do it. But I'm not your mouse, kitty kitty, and I can't stand to hear you mewling.”
“Fight me,” insisted Thibault.
“Make it worth my while,” said Cesco, smiling sweetly, “and I might. Ah! Ruperto!”
Prince Rupert, nephew of the Holy Roman Emperor, strode aggressively into the yard, a glint in his eye, feigning fury. “You bastard of a bastard! How dare you withhold an invitation!”
Cesco bowed low. “Because I could not imagine luring you to such an event without a flourish of trumpets and a thousand trained elephants, cavorting for your amusement, your grace.”
“Bugger that,” said Rupert. “And it's you who likes absurdities, not me.”
“Naturally, being absurd myself. But you're quite mistaken, I'm not a bastard anymore. I've been made legitimate. Which means I am more legitimate than you, who was born so. I earned my legitimacy. I have it in writing from the pope!”
Rupert had something of his uncle in him, at least in complexion, with his ruddy cheeks and reddish-blond hair. But his lips were less lugubrious, and he owned a jaw like a lantern, protruding wonderfully. He also had none of his uncle's insecurities, but rather the easy air of natural nobility. Studying Cesco, he laughed. “Well, clearly I've some catching up to do. Somebody give me a damn tabard and fill my cup!”
“Fill it to overflowing!” called Cesco. “He's German, and would demand it anyway!”
“Give him drink!” cried someone. “Make him catch up!”
“Put it in my face!” shouted Rupert, pointing.
“In the face!” cheered everyone. “In the face!”
Benedick drew near to Detto, who was not too proud to rub at his hip, which would be stiff tomorrow. “That's the emperor's nephew? I thought Cangrande didn't get on with Ludwig.”
Detto grunted. “He doesn't, at all. But Cesco lived for almost two years at the imperial court.”
Benedick nodded. “And, being Cesco, he made lots of friends.”
“No, he made a lot of enemies. But because the Emperor was amused by him, everyone had to pretend to love him.”
Benedick noted the sourness in Detto's voice, and wondered at the source. There were so many options. “And is this Rupert one of the pretenders?”
Pursing his lips, Detto relented. “I don't think so. Cesco likes him well enough, and he wrote a few times about the insane schemes they hatched in Trent.” His lips twitched, and Benedick could be forgiven for thinking that Detto was jealous. He didn't know anything about bridges and oxen and cliff-climbing. Detto did not fear being supplanted in his egg-friend's love. His concern was much deeper.
Detto's eye was caught by someone staring at him from within the masses of men queuing up to fight. As soon as Detto met his eye, the fellow looked away. It was hard to say under his helmet, but there was something familiar about him. Broad-shouldered and with a decent beard coming in, he had to be seventeen or eighteen years of age. The noseguard broke up the features, but there was something about the chin and the shape of the mouth that made Detto uneasy. He decided to keep an eye on that man, and noted that his tabard was adorned with a thistle.
The day lurched on, all the combatants getting progressively more drunk. Targets became less precise, so too the parries. Several fingers were blackened with bruises, and one fellow lost a fingernail when he blocked too high and the bated blade smashed his forefinger through the gauntlet. A more serious injury happened when Salvatore nearly broke young Petruchio's jaw, and succeeded in knocking out one of his teeth. Another man had his nose flattened, and might well have lost it – he was carried off to the nearest doctor wheezing and weeping. Cesco applauded and urged the shaken nose-splitter to drink deeper.
Bouts became less frequent, yet lasted longer, with much more panting and the occasional rush to spew before continuing to fight, all the while holding the cup level so as not to spill. Some spilled deliberately, unable to countenance the thought of more ale.
Detto noted that the thistle-wearer was attempting to do what Thibault had wanted – face Cesco in the list. He was more subtle about it, and it was impossible to tell if anyone else had noticed. He fought now and again, always presenting himself quietly when Cesco was up for a turn. It looked like he was about to succeed when Cesco suddenly changed his mind and consented to face Thibault instead.
Cesco seemed intent on winning, right up until the moment when he threw the contents of his cup in young Capulletto's face. “Whoops. Looks like I lost.” He sauntered away, whistling.
That deliberate loss knocked Cesco out of the final eight. Four pairs in the three lists, all laughing and swinging and walking carefully with their cups. Mastino was one, Castelbarco another, with the mercenaries Yuri and Fabio on the other side. A Spaniard lined up against the thistle-wearer, who was less drunk than most. The last pair were Prince Rupert and none other than Theobaldo Capulletto, the fearsome Thibault. If anyone was worried about protocol, it didn't show. Thibault lost to Rupert, who had the advantage of a few years experience and a few inches of reach.
It might have become politically dangerous had Rupert faced Mastino, but Rupert was against Yuri, while Mastino faced the victorious thistle-wearer. Yuri won, earning him the right to face the victorious Mastino, but not before they both quaffed their full cups. Yuri swayed, lurched, and fell over, a huge smile on his face. Mastino was declared the victor, but the slaps on his back proved too much and he ended up heaving the contents of his stomach all over his retreating admirers.
Cesco knelt beside Yuri. “You did that deliberately.”
Yuri popped open an eye. “Only so I didn't do it during the fight. Christ, stop the ground from spinning, I want to get off.”
“Off the ground? Shall I carry you?”
“You couldn't manage me.”
“Truth is truth. You'll have to stand.”
“No,” said Yuri happily, “I'll stay right here, if it's all the same to you, my lord.”
“It's all the same to me,” said Cesco. “But we're heading out to reap the benefits of all our knocking. If you can't knock…”
Yuri was on his feet in a trice. “I'm up, I'm up!”
Cesco grinned. “If you're standing, you can knock first.” Putting his shoulder under Yuri's arm, he helped the mercenary up and led him away, the eyes of the thistle-wearer upon his back.
Nine
THE INVITATION WAS SURPRISING. Written in a fair hand, it was embossed with the seal of Venice and signed by Dandolo himself.
Pietro had been staring at an open book he'd been excited to purchase – a legal treatise by the Paduan Bellario, whom Pietro had met in September. But he had not been reading, instead musing on Cesco's behavior, half wishing he were young enough to partake in things like mock duels, half wishing he had enough influence to quell the more lascivious sports Cesco was reportedly engaging in.
A knock had heralded this letter. Breaking the seal, Pietro felt his flesh crawl as he read the friendly greeting:
My dearest Ser Pietro,
Would you do me the kindness of calling at the Venetian Embassy this evening? I am certain you are busy for supper. Myself, I am committed to yet another magnificent feast, this time at the expense of Lord Carrara. But if you could find your way to call after you've supped, I would be glad to impart some trifling details of mutual interest. Feel free to bring anyone of your choosing. So long as they are in your trust, they have my highes
t regard. Consider this my way of making amends for any misunderstanding between us.
Yours,
F. Dandolo
Though brief, there was much to chew upon. Dandolo was dining with Carrara? He wanted to relay something of 'mutual interest'? Pietro was to bring witnesses he could trust?
That last was a sign of good will. It was unlikely Dandolo would do anything to damage Pietro's person if there were others present. At once Pietro thought to invite Tharwat and Morsicato, but hesitated. They had once broken Pietro out of the Venetian prison. Taking them would expose them to arrest.
Who else could he trust? Antonia, certainly. Poco, perhaps. His family. No one else. Definitely not Cangrande. And not Cesco, who was too unpredictable to be trusted. That thought made Pietro's heart ache.
Pietro decided on a split company. One friend, one relation. For the friend, he chose Tharwat, who knew Dandolo and could better judge his intentions. The Venetian might be less apt to lie in the presence of an astrologer. For the relation he surprised himself by choosing his brother. Antonia's hatred of Dandolo was vitriolic. Besides, Poco was close to hand, staying in Pietro's home.
He sent a note around to Tharwat, then called up the stairs to his brother. “Poco! We're going out! Dress, and wear a sword.”
♦ ◊ ♦
THE GRANDEST BORDELLO in Verona, La Rosa Colta – literally 'The Plucked Rose' – had collapsed in the late summer earthquake. From that moment, it was a race to see which was rebuilt first, the roof of the city's Duomo or the entire whorehouse. The Duomo won, but only because its foundations had been sounder.
But then, there was a healthy relationship between the Church and whores. Mother Church had ever turned a blind eye to brothels, considering them a necessary evil, a way for men to pay the Devil his due without turning to rape or sodomy. Often the Bishop of Verona would hold a special service for the town's whores, absolving them of their sins in return for their 'civic contributions'. In this, he quoted the recently-sainted Thomas Aquinas: 'If prostitution were to be suppressed, careless lusts would overthrow society.'
This did not prevent these ladies from being targets of scorn and the occasional campaign of outrage. But as the Scaliger himself was known to frequent La Rosa Colta, no one dared inveigh too heavily against the women within.
With so many foreigners coming to town, it was a matter of good monetary sense that The Plucked Rose should be finished before wedding celebrations got underway. The best artisans and craftsmen had been rushed in to complete the work before the start of November. The end result was an architectural marvel. Windows of thick glass that allowed light but not sight, set in Arabian arches. Cheery cherrywood doors at street-level and similar grilles in the windows above. Multiple exits, should an irate wife come calling. The entirety was set behind a masterful fresco of flowers fresh with morning dew that looked for all the world like the parts of women that were usually covered.
With a rebuilt and expanded whorehouse came the need for an expanded clientele. Which meant finding new attractions. Willing dames were never a problem – there were always fallen young women who balked at a cloistered life. Some girls were sold by their families in their youth and raised to be whores, receiving training as an apprentice might in a guild. Some were widows of all ages in need of money, food, and shelter. Some were stolen from their beds in far off lands and sold into this life.
Such a one was Buthayna Warda. In her tender years, she had been the fairest dame in her village of Dahab, a seaside stop for the camel-riders and traders who trekked there from deeper Egypt. One of the traders, noting her beauty, tried to purchase her as his wife. Refused, he took her anyway. After enjoying her body, he had sold her to a Genoan slaver who specialized in whores. She had been fourteen years old.
That was two years past. In those twenty-four months she had learned much of the world, and lost much of herself. She no longer even had her own name. Warda meant 'guardian' in German, so was discarded at once. She might have thought Buthayna a fit name for her enforced profession, but as it was not a fit name for an Italian tongue, she was christened Arabia.
The name, she realized too late, was a curse. Prized for her exotic beauty – dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes – she was reviled for what she represented. While there were some who admired the East, many more feared and abhorred it. Some men sank to their knees to profess her their muse, their goddess, their wonder. Others would take delight in degrading her, in literally ravaging “all of Arabia”.
That she was valuable she knew. Sold from Genoa to Pisa to Verona, each house grander than the last, her duties became less onerous, her rewards more rich. Knowing her life and comfort depended upon being a successful bedmate, she focused on that task and tried to think not at all of the life she might have lived but for the lust of one evil man. Thought was not her friend. Nor was memory. There was only the present.
Buthayna was newly arrived at La Rosa Colta, only here these last three weeks. The novelty for her was that this house was overseen, not by men, but by two women, Madonna Rapida and Madonna Troppo. Of the two, Buthayna liked Rapida best, a short woman with stringy waves of black hair liberally mixed with grey. Her wide eyes crinkled with humour and her mouth had a full set of teeth. She often complained of shortness of breath, and if she lifted her arms too high, her hands would begin to shake.
Madonna Troppo was younger and brasher, with a false head of red hair that did not match her colouring. But her chest was so utterly impressive it seemed to arrive in a room minutes before the woman herself. Atop a still-slender waist and rounded hips, she was a disproportionate fever-dream of the feminine form.
Under the ministrations of these two women, business thrived. They were not indiscriminate takers of coin, only admitting men of substance and discernment. A relief. Buthayna's first day of work had only involved two men, neither of whom smelled bad and who had left gifts of coin for her when they departed. Since then, it had been much the same. In her unoccupied time, she kept to a corner of the great chamber on the ground floor, watching and learning.
The great chamber was wide, with carved pillars supporting a frescoed ceiling. This was not a place for dalliance, but for social camaraderie. Not every man wished to be abed the moment he entered. There was gambling, with drinks and meats and sweets. There were even books, most containing graphic drawings to accompany their most graphic descriptions.
Buthayna was pretending to read one such book when trouble entered, bruised and singing at the crest of a great tide of men. How she knew he was trouble, she could not say. She felt a frisson, a premonition.
He was young and thin – almost unhealthily thin – with a crop of curling brown hair and the first hatching of stubble upon his cheek and chin. Strong nose, strong lips, strong brows, each apart were good, but had not yet grown together into a whole.
His eyes dominated the face. Green as a sickly-calm sky before a disastrous storm, they stood out wide and large, devouring the whole world and returning nothing but wry disdain.
“Don't forget to knock,” called green-eyed trouble to the throng behind him, who all laughed.
“O ho,” cried Madonna Rapida, spying the mob of bruised and drunken men all reeking of sweat and ale. “Who is this that comes swaggering in like a lion before his pride?”
“Hush you, and check your eyes,” cried Madonna Troppo. “That's no lion, but a great hound that comes to view a field of hares and hinds.”
The young man – clearly someone of great importance – answered with an elaborate bow. “As long as the hinds are not hairy, I will chase them to the bosom of the earth.”
“O Jesu, my lord the prince!” cried Rapida in mock dismay. She curtsied deeply. “You are most welcome, my lord.”
“I hope I shall be. My head is swimming, and I can hardly stand.”
Troppo clucked her tongue. “Then turn yourself right around, for standing is required in this house.”
“I am pleased to be thrown out, for I'd never stand to be a
guest in a place that desires me.”
“But this is a domicile of desire, my lord,” said Rapida. “All men have tastes, and dogs too. And you'll be pleased, lord prince. There's not a hair on the hares here that doesn't belong there. And apart from us, there's not a bit of hare that's hoar.”
The princeling burst into laughter. “A witty whore is nothing hoar! But peace, before I spend all my stamina in tilting against your titillating wits. I've been battered in the lists already. I came for a different sport.”
“Tilt all you like,” said Madonna Troppo. “We have bucklers to deflect your lance.”
While Buthayna's knowledge of Italian had of necessity grown these last two years, she was finding it difficult to pierce the local accent and locate the words underneath, let alone the meaning. She saw rather than understood the introductions that were made amid the badinage and cleverness.
Knowing she might get the cane across her shins for not rising demurely and greeting the two dozen men entering, she obeyed her premonition, holding her book high and remaining where she was.
It was no use. Trouble approached her, smiling. “What do you read, lady?”
Buthayna flushed. “I do not know, my lord. I read for the pictures.”
“May I?” He twitched it from her fingers. “Ah! Catullus. Marvelous.” Turning, he sang out, and the others reluctantly wrenched their eyes from the half-covered women. “An ode to – what is your name?”
Buthayna flushed. “Arabia, my lord.”
“Ha! Unlikely. What was thy name before?”
It took her a moment to realize he was not speaking Italian, but a form of Arabic. “Buthayna, my lord,” she answered in the same tongue.
