by David Blixt
As Cesco had left the staffing of his new home entirely to Cangrande's Grand Butler, the servants were all young and energetic, eager to please the future first lady of Verona. For the last three days there had been games, crafts, and sweets, each as varied as the household could make them. Time enough for weaving and numbers when she grew older. It was vital to make the girl comfortable in this, her new home. With or without her husband's help.
In truth, the nurse was pleased that the master of the house showed no interest in his bride. Nor should he be expected to. A young man, knighted, in his middle teens – what could he possibly care for the child-bride he'd been saddled with? Best to let him live his life on the upper floor and keep the young mistress out of sight.
This game, however, required room to play. The furniture in the main hall had been cleared so the staff of six and the little girl could stagger about with blindfolds. The old hound Icarus bolted this way and that, barking and snuffling at them as they bumped into him, hands outstretched. As Dahna jumped and ducked every which way, there much was laughter, and the nurse was considering if she should allow herself to be caught by her charge or by the handsome cook called Vito when the front door opened.
Braced between the red-headed Paduan and the young Vicentine, the master of the house looked terrible. There was a pregnant moment as he stared at the gaggle of blindfolded servants racing about. Holding a handful of new snow to his head, he looked murderous, and Dahna braced herself for a savage tongue-lashing – or worse.
Then she noticed that the snow was red with his blood.
Maddelena must have felt the chill air, or else had been peeking. Ceasing her quest for the bell-clad Dahna, she pulled the muffling folds from her eyes and cried out, “You're hurt!”
“I fell,” said Cesco shortly.
Whipping their own blindfolds off, the servants abashedly fetched water and bandages for their master's wound. The amusingly-named steward Fidelio was all solicitousness. “Should we send for Doctor Morsicato?”
“No.” Cesco took a seat upon the steps as they daubed the swelling lump on his head. “He'd take an hour reforking his beard. And what would he do? Bleed me, scold me, and ask too many questions.” Thus he forestalled any questions from his staff, clearly wondering if he'd started yet another fight.
Icarus nuzzled his master's hand, and Cesco scruffed the dog's neck while his servants finished binding the wound. After a moment he glanced at his wife. “Up late, aren't you?”
Maddelena ducked her head shyly. It was Dahna who answered. “She's been having trouble sleeping. I decided to try exhausting her before bedtime.”
“Trouble sleeping?” asked Cesco, wincing slightly as the hound pressed itself against him. “Is it falling asleep that's the problem, or staying asleep?”
“Falling asleep,” replied Dahna.
Cesco sent her a look that clearly said, Let the girl answer, then repeated the question.
“Falling asleep,” answered Maddelena.
“Lucky you,” said Cesco. “My dreams wake me up. Of the two, I'd rather do without dreams.” He glanced at the bells dangling from Dahna's wrists and ankles. “You know what they say about bells?”
“No, what?” asked Maddelena.
Wincing, Cesco shook his head once. “I forget.”
Fidelio and Vito were busily restoring the furniture while two girls rushed off to heat water in case the master would like to soak his injuries, as he often did. The red-headed Benedick looked perplexed, while the master's cousin was ashen-faced and sad.
Maddelena looked at the bustle and felt obliged to explain. “We were playing.”
“Tintinnio? I used to play that at home in Ravenna, before we moved here. Drove you mad, didn't it, boy?” he added, leaning his face against the dog's head.
Maddelena's eyes went wide. He hadn't always lived here? He came from somewhere else, like her? And he used to play games?
Reading the question in her eyes, Cesco laughed. “I was a champion. I had a trick when I wore the bells that no one could ever match.”
“What trick?” the little girl asked with real urgency.
Cesco shook his head. “It's a secret.”
Placing her hands on her hips, Maddelena stomped her foot. “I'm your wife!”
Cesco burst out laughing, laughing so hard he couldn't stop. He clutched his ribs in pain. “Yes! Yes, you are,” he answered at last, tears streaming down his face. “Yes you are…Fut!” Cesco leapt as a small orange kitten rubbed against his legs. His foot twitched, but he refrained from kicking it. Instead he glared at Icarus. “Fat lot of good you are. You're supposed to protect me from it, not make friends.”
Maddelena picked up her kitten, holding it close. “Icarus likes him.”
“A rank traitor. Always was a poor judge of character. Have you named it yet?”
“Could I call him Felix?” asked Maddelena softly.
“Why not? The house can use a little luck.”
Maddelena reached out to take Cesco's hand. “Come and play! Show me your trick!”
Dahna was quick to intervene. “Maddelena, he's hurt. Leave him be.”
Maddelena plucked her hand away. “Forgive me, husband.”
He answered with a wan smile. “Francesco, remember? My friends call me Cesco. The Emperor calls me Franz. The citizens of Verona call me Prince. But at home, my wife may call me whatever she pleases.”
Sensing she was not to be scolded, Maddelena returned to her plea. “Will you show me your trick?”
Leaning on his cousin, Cesco started up the stairs. “You don't want to learn any of my tricks.”
Dahna saw her charge's face become watery, the bottom lip beginning to tremble. She knew too well that the girl could work herself up into some fierce tantrums. They had to be prevented before they began, or else would last an hour.
But just as Dahna was stepping forward to offer a distraction, she saw a hard determination pass over little Maddelena's face. As she was walked up to the sleeping chamber she shared with Dahna, the little girl muttered, “I will make him want to play with me.”
ACT II
An Infinite Deal of Nothing
Ten
DAY BY DAY, Cesco's parade of public misdemeanors escalated.
On Wednesday he fell out with a Paduan for tying up his new shoes with old ribbons – “You ridicule Veronese cobblers, befouling their fine work with strings plucked from the river!”
On Thursday he took violent umbrage over another's fine beard – “You mock my poor chin, that can barely sustain the fuzz of a peach!”
On Friday he struck a Mantuan for sucking the meat from an egg – “Your slurping offends my ear as your face does mine eyes!”
Petulant, childish, often hilarious, these antics were driving the lord of Verona mad.
Fortunately, this was only an undercurrent in the flow of festivities. The marriage had launched a month-long celebration that would last past Christmas. Jousts, banquets, tourneys and tilts, plays and pageants followed one upon the next in rapid succession.
The giostre were spectacular, day after day of tilts and jousts, with men desperate to display their martial skill to the lord of Verona. Already a famous jouster, Mastino so excelled that he won the praise of both foreigners and locals. Cesco ran, but rarely seriously – he'd twist in the saddle at the last minute to duck an oncoming blow, or use his lance to vault himself over a barrier. Amusing, but hardly the stuff of valour. He seemed to be auditioning for Manuel's job, not that of a warlord.
At other sports, Cesco was much the same. In hunts, he lingered at the back, mocking the events, or else ran ahead in an animal skin to pretend to be the prey. In public contests with staves, knives, or swords, he was languid and careless. Not that he lost – more often than not, he emerged victorious. Yet the manner of victory seemed cheap, tawdry. He didn't cheat, exactly. But neither did he show his opponents respect. His insults were already passing into legend, and to receive one was fast becoming a badge of ho
nour:
“He called me a fawning, mumming, demi-rogue!”
“Well, I'm a blot of unvirtuous bean-fed horse!”
Despite his antics, or perhaps because of them, Cesco began to amass a following. Nearly every youth of standing vied for his attention and favour, and he seemed to collect them in pairs, two by two, like Noah. Two Paduans, in the persons of Benedick and Salvatore. Two Bonaventura, young Petruchio and Hortensio. Two Scaligeri, Barto and Berto. Two skilled mercenaries, Castorani and Scolari. All Cesco's boon companions.
The exception to the rule of two was an occasional member of the band of troublemakers, Thibault Capulletto. Whenever Thibault was able to slip away from his tedious studies, he attached himself to whatever game or challenge was decreed for that day.
He was hardly alone. Young men aged thirteen to thirty flocked to spend the treasure of their time with this foolish prince who would, one day, be master of Verona. Most of them would turn up in the pre-dawn light on the via Pigna and wait for Cesco to emerge with their trial of the day. Then, when all were exhausted and flushed with drink and exertion, those not in need of a doctor's care would return to carouse until the small hours, when they were turned out and forced to seek the confines of a tavern or a brothel.
There were exceptions to this growing cluster of young hot-heads. Though he competed in the official public events, Mastino took no part in the revels that followed, feeling no desire to be eclipsed. Alblivious refrained because his brother told him to. Castelbarco the younger also abstained, spending more of his time with Mastino, whom he had known all his life and whom he admired for his sobriety. In this, he was not alone.
Valentino da Nogarola was torn, but fear of his father's disapproval kept him from joining his brother in familial exile. Though furious, Detto's father had stopped short of disowning his eldest son. Bail had always been soft-hearted.
Cangrande had never suffered that flaw, yet he did not check his heir as he might have done. Instead he tried to engage the young knight in matters of state, calling him to be present during councils or audiences. Obedient to the summons, Cesco would lounge near the back making vulgar remarks of incredible invention, or singing bawdy songs to himself.
Leaving one of these sessions, he was plucked by the sleeve by Tullio d'Isola, Cangrande's long-suffering Grand Butler. Expecting to be called back for a rebuke, he was surprised when the aged fellow inquired politely, “I wish to be sure your household staff is meeting your needs, my lord.”
Relaxing, Cesco nodded. “Indeed, try as I might, I can find no faults at all. They are expertly chosen. Though perhaps the cook is a shade too handsome. My wife's nurse can hardly keep her eyes off him.”
Tullio nodded gravely. “It was, my lord, a strike against him. But Vito is a wizard among the pots. He was being courted by Donna Giovanna herself, but I managed to acquire him for you. I think he hopes one day to take Giorgio's place in the palace.”
“Only if he ages poorly,” said Cesco. “Otherwise he'll be spending too much time fending off females to preside over the palace pots. Just this week he introduced me to pine nut brittle. Why have I never eaten this before?”
“Too sweet for the Scaliger's taste,” answered Tullio.
“Perhaps he has too much sweet already. I shall try to offer him some sour.”
Tullio's expression did not alter in the slightest, but his very blankness was a sign. The Grand Butler was quite devoted to his master.
Cesco laughed. “Fear not! Now, I haven't seen the Arūs of late. Has he called?”
“I have not seen him, my lord,” said the Grand Butler. “Shall I send someone to seek him?”
“No. They're already busy looking for this famous crippled diviner. I wish I had seen him. He sounds monstrous. A matched pair, he and Tharwat. East and West, night and day, the stars and the pendulum. Oh hum. I suppose I shall have to chivvy myself.”
“My lord?” asked Tullio politely.
“I was expecting to be reminded of an oath. But the Moor has let me down, as was ordained. So I must force myself to ask you this: where I might find master Paride? I must keep a promise I never made to let him suckle at my teat.”
“I believe he is in the palace, taking lessons.”
Leaving the Domus Nova, Cesco crossed the Piazza dei Signoria and entered the palace. Three tall steps, a turn, and up the long staircase with the frescoed deeds of valour of his family, from first to last. It was amazing to see how much art had changed in just thirty years. Giotto's influence. People looked less like ideals, more like people. Flaws were evident, and skin-colour was more natural. But it was the matter of perspective that seemed to have gained the most ground. Bodies today had the right proportions, and things vanished over the horizon just as they did in life. He knew it was a matter of style, not talent. But he missed the grotesque shapes of men and horses in the old paintings.
He strolled down the long arcade on the second level, mullioned windows on each side. Servants and councilors bowed to him, and he took churlish satisfaction in not acknowledging them. He had more important things to do. More important, because they had no importance.
A heavy wooden door led to the chamber where, two years earlier, he had been given lessons at letters. Sure enough, there was his little cousin, dutifully copying out phrases from Latin into courtly French.
They did not know each other well, Paride and Cesco. It was not a result of coldness or hostility. For the first year, Cesco had been kept busy by his hawking. The second year he'd spent at the imperial court. And since his return, he had been – distracted.
Add to that the fact that Paride, nearly two years Cesco's junior, was just a little too nice. Painfully, perfectly polite. Also the great-nephew of Cangrande's wife, Cesco's avowed enemy. Years earlier, that lady had colluded to exterminate her husband's heir. Threatened with exposure, she had extracted a vow from Tharwat on Cesco's behalf. On the night of the wedding, as Detto had raced off to his mother's bedside, the Moor had related his conversation with the lady, reminding Cesco of his obligation to admit Paride to his inner circle.
Never one to be told what to do, this was an obligation that amused Cesco. Besides, according to the stars, Paride's life was linked to his. Poor Paride.
Walking into the room, Cesco rapped his little cousin on the pate. “Oi. What do you have planned today?”
Rubbing his scalp, Paride looked cautious. “Tutors all the morning, a ride this afternoon to look over my mother's holdings in the south.”
“Skive off.”
“I can't.”
“You can. You just won't.”
“To do what?”
“Play,” said Cesco innocently.
Paride realized the date. “It's race day!”
Since his return from the imperial court earlier that year, Cesco had been holding races on alternate Fridays of each month in preparation for the Palio, the traditional dual contest peculiar to Verona, held the first weekend of Lent. March would be Cesco's first time riding in the Palio, and he meant to emerge victorious.
In answer to Paride's excited statement, Cesco grinned. “Indeed it is. Being the first Friday of the month, it's a horse race. But this time we're not racing through the city. We're going up.”
“Up? Where?”
“Re Theodorico.” This was the local name for the Hill of San Pietro. Nine hundred years earlier, the Visigoth ruler Theodoric held northern Italy, and while his capital had been in Ravenna, his favourite city had been Verona. It was said you could see his sleeping form in the shape of the hill that rose above the city, across the Adige. “I'm feeling classical. Besides, the city is too jammed with people to race through. So we're heading to the Hill of San Pietro and holding a chariot-race.”
Paride's eyes were wide. “A chariot race! And you want me?”
“Who do you think is going to pull the chariots? Come along, you booby! No one likes someone who always does as they're told!”
“If I go with you, I'm doing what you tell me.
”
“Fine. Don't come with me. I'll pull my own chariot.”
Grinning, Paride left his books and inks behind and ventured out into the brisk air by his cousin's side.
As the ride into the hills took two hours, it was noon before the racing began in earnest. It was a thrilling day, with horses pelting between trees on the hillside and the newly-made chariots slewing dangerously behind them. They were one-person affairs, on two wheels, modeled after classical art. Because no one had any experience riding them, there were no advantages. Several people were thrown clear, and there were many sprains and bruises, even a few broken bones. They were lucky to have avoided broken necks – Barto was gravely injured when a wheel hit a jutting rock and he was tossed into the air to land hard on that very same rock. Cesco himself was nearly killed as the traces snapped, sending the chariot skewing sideways into a tree.
They took a break, and no one was anxious to remount those deathtraps. “No wonder Colosseum races were exciting,” opined Hortensio. “Death could snatch anyone.”
“Can you imagine being at the siege of Troy and fighting on the back of one of those?” marveled Rupert, who had nearly slipped from the back of his chariot and been dragged, something his uncle the Holy Roman Emperor would not have enjoyed.
“In battle they had two,” said Yuri, massaging a strain in his arm. “One to steer and one to fight.”
“No, there was just one,” said Salvatore.
“Were you there?” demanded Yuri.
“Yes,” replied Salvatore in his flat affect. “I'm twelve hundred years old, under a witch's curse, doomed to talk to fools.”
“Ignobly doomed,” said Fabio.
“Truth is truth,” chimed Paride, picking up the cant.
“In the face,” added Cesco.
