by David Blixt
“I think that's supposed to be my protest. Speaking of Katerina, how is she?”
“Settled at home in Vicenza, as comfortable as she can be. Face is almost healed. For the rest, as you'd expect. Angry, frustrated, weak.”
“The latter causes the former.”
“I know. Sometimes I wonder if God is punishing her.”
“For?”
“Poking about in the supernatural. That damned astrologer.”
“The fault is not in the astrologer, but in the stars themselves,” said Cangrande.
Ignoring philosophy, Bail continued in a practical vein. “Kat's still worked up over this diviner. How can such a man disappear?”
“With help. He was seen entering the Venetian embassy. He was not seen to depart, which means Dandolo smuggled him out. After being called upon by Ser Alaghieri and that damned astrologer. Did that catch your attention?”
Bail's jaw rippled. “It did. Though it might be innocent. Pietro has more honesty in him than a stack of Bibles. He might be hunting to avenge Kat's honour. He's always been soft on her. By the bye, she's insisting you ride out and talk to her. Promised I'd mention it.”
“What, and miss my own revels?”
“Do it, please. I know how things are between you two. But she's most alive when talking to you.”
“Or to Cesco.”
Bailardino scowled. “I don't want that little shit anywhere near her. He's poison. Infects everything and everyone he touches.”
Cangrande shook his head. “Whatever happened between them, Cesco didn't cause Kat's stroke. As you say, it was God's Will. Don't cast blame where it isn't earned.”
Bail pursed his lips. “Do you think it might have been this diviner? She wants to see him, badly. That could mean he was the one. She keeps saying it wasn't Cesco. But I don't see how a cripple could have hit her with such force.”
“Sometimes weakness in one limb can lead to strength in others.”
“And sometimes it just leads to more weakness,” countered Bail.
With a final wave, Cangrande turned away from the crowd. “Come! Our feast awaits.”
“At least we're eating indoors,” said Bail, blowing warmth into his knuckles. “This snow doesn't seem to be relenting.” Verona never got much more than a few dustings of snow each winter. This year it was beginning to accumulate. If it continued, the city would grind to a halt under a blanket of ice.
“I'm tempted to make a jest about Verona becoming an ice lake. But people might misinterpret and think to find Lucifer buried ass-upwards in the snow. It is Hellish cold.”
Owning no interest in poetry, Bail blew on his hands again. For the first time since his wife's stroke he was about to face Cesco, and his son. He wanted his hands ready.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE NOTABLES OF VERONA gathered for yet another fête in a season that promised a plethora of such. This banquet was held in the north end of the palace, on the second level. The need for space had finally won out, and a wall had been knocked down in the old civic building to allow the palace to expand. Of course, Cangrande had also built a new palace, known as the Palazzo Cangrande, but the one on the east side of the Piazza dei Signori remained the heart of Scaligeri life. Most of the bedrooms had been moved to the new palace, making space for offices and meeting chambers. Cangrande himself retained a bedroom in this palace, as did his Constable, the redoubtable Massimiliano da Villafranca. Notably, Giovanna had her own suite of rooms in the new building, leaving Cangrande's bed above free for whatever pleasure he chose to take.
In the olden days, the feasting hall had been below. But it had been airless and stone. This new one, converted from a meeting chamber, had huge windows along the south wall facing the public square. Four massive oak doors studded with iron opened east and west, one in each corner. Above the exterior doorframes were frescoes of the Madonna and Child – Cangrande was particularly devoted to images of the Virgin, and had built a church in her honour.
Inside, the high ceiling was ornately designed in crimson and gold geometric squares, while the walls were similarly frescoed, but with far more colour. Candelabra adorned each wall, along with banners bearing the Scaligeri ladder, eagle, and hound, all encompassed by a gilt laurel wreath. Even the stands holding the banners were carved, a clawed foot below the ubiquitous ladder.
The floor was perhaps the most impressive feat. Cangrande eschewed the straw rushes often used to carpet public chambers. His floors were bare, but rather than stone slabs or mosaic tiles, the floor of this chamber was laid in wood that shone with polish that reflected the light from the blazing candles overhead.
Pietro Alaghieri took in the chamber with appreciation. In the light and heat of this room, the faces were familiar. Most were friendly – Petruchio and his Kate; Castelbarco and his wife and grown son; Nico da Lozzo. There, at one end of a table, were Mariotto and Gianozza, seated opposite Abbot Giuseppe, another of the many Scaligeri bastards of the previous generation who had taken the cowl and prospered. At the other side of the hall were Antony and his heavily pregnant wife Tessa, facing the Bishop of Verona, a genial man called Francis. Montecchio and Capulletto were seated as far from each other as decorum allowed, with holy men to muzzle them, removed from the center of power as punishment for their never-ending (though happily bloodless) feud.
Places at the High Table were reserved for family and close Scaligeri friends. Pietro was among these, seated just three chairs away from Cangrande's throne. Morsicato was absent tonight, still tending to Donna Katerina in Vicenza. Tharwat and Poco had yet to return from Padua, though they had sent a note assuring Pietro they had found the house and were making inquiries. He tried not to feel excitement over what they might find. His face was too expressive, gave away too much.
But his guilelessness was nothing compared to Alberto della Scala's genial obliviousness, which had earned him the nickname Alblivious. Seated on Pietro's right, he was the cheerful barrier between Pietro and Mastino, who was naming people for his new wife Taddea. Beyond them sat Cangrande's niece Verde and her semi-disgraced husband Rizzardo. I wonder what they think of being so far removed from the center of the table?
At the moment, Rizzardo was complaining to a servant in an angry whisper. “Find me another!”
“Forgive me, signore. We have no other chairs with high backs.”
“Then trade with someone less senior in rank!”
The servant was rescued by Tullio d'Isola. “My lord Rizzardo. Is there a problem?”
“You can explain why I have been given a woman's chair,” hissed Rizzardo. Pietro saw this was true. Men had high-backed chairs, but Rizzardo's bore the lower back of a woman's seat.
“I regret,” said Tullio with an incline of his head, “all other suitable chairs are employed at the Scaliger's will. He cannot insult his other guests. He hoped that you, being family, would endure the inconvenience with your customary understanding.”
Rizzardo opened his mouth to bark a nasty response, but Verde laid a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Tullio. We shall, as you say, endure.” Her expression, however, did not convey understanding.
Of course, the heart of the feast was reserved for Cangrande and Cesco, with their wives flanking them. Like Cangrande, Cesco and Maddelena had not yet arrived. Beside the Scaliger's empty throne sat Giovanna, looking grave – she did not appear pleased to hear the latest adventures Paride had partaken in that morning. Unaware of her disapproval, he chatted away about the contest that had left him with a bruised chin that must have made his wide smile painful.
Next to Paride were two empty seats. One was clearly for Bailardino. But Katerina wasn't coming – had they miscounted chairs?
It's for Detto, realized Pietro. Seating him beside his estranged father – that should make for an entertaining meal.
Beyond Detto's place sat Valentino, looking miserable. Forever second lute to his brother, he had turned inwards, to books and study. Fitting for a second son. His father notwithstanding, it was
rare that anyone other than the firstborn should become a lord – Bailardino eclipsing his elder brother was entirely due to his marriage with Katerina della Scala. And his one-armed brother had hardly suffered – for twenty years he'd been married to the Countess da Fogliano, and when he was not tending Vicenza for his little brother he was holding his wife's lands for Cangrande.
Though knighted, Val did not seem destined for war the way his father, uncle, and brother were. A second son himself, Pietro felt for young Valentino, just twelve years old. He hoped the boy would find his level, not have one forced upon him. When his own elder brother had died, Pietro had been ill-prepared to become his father's heir. If something happened to Detto, it would be hard on Val.
And if something happened to me? Poco would inherit. Not as terrible today as once it was. Poco's right, though. I should marry, have a son of my own. Because however much I wish it, Cesco is not my heir.
Think of the Devil and he appears. Cesco entered, followed by Detto, Prince Rupert, young Petruchio and Hortensio, the two Paduans, the two bastards, and the rest of his cohort.
On Cesco's back, riding him like a horse, was his little wife, her hair frosted with snow. Slinging her to the ground, Cesco took a moment to dust it off, a sight that touched Pietro's heart.
They wended their way through the tables, one long and four short, like an E with an extra tine. Cesco paused beside Mariotto and Gianozza. Donna Montecchio leapt up to kiss the little princess while Cesco shook Mariotto's arm. Mariotto said, “How is the horse?”
“Truly magnificent!” said Cesco, beaming. Mariotto's wedding gift had been a hot-blooded courser. The term 'hot-blooded' came from the fact that its father was a rather fine Arabian stallion Mariotto had purchased to cover his mares. From their ignominious origins as horse-thieves, the Montecchi had proven time and again their instincts for horseflesh.
Visibly pleased, Mari said, “Romeo wants me to tell you he picked it.”
Cesco's smile grew. “I'll be sure to return the compliment as soon as he's old enough.”
“Be careful! His mother won't want him cavorting with your band of merry rakehells.”
“Rakehells!” cried Cesco. “Lord Montecchio, I believe you have just christened us! Do you hear that, Detto? Hortensio?” Picking up a bowl of water, he splashed it at the brothers Bonaventura. “I baptize you in the name of God's favourite, Lucifer. Henceforth, we shall be called the Rakehells!”
“O Christ,” groaned Mariotto. “Well, at least you have a horse coloured for the place. Have you named him?”
“I call him Abastor.” Hearing the name, Pietro frowned but said nothing.
Young Petruchio and Hortensio fell in beside their parents and their siblings, two sisters called Evelina and Vittoria. Vittoria was misty-eyed as she gazed at Cesco, and almost burst into sobs as he sent her a wink. Had he not known better, Pietro might have suspected the young prince of bedding Petruchio's firstborn. But that romance was all in the girl's head, and had to run its course. He hoped the arrival at their table of the two Paduans, Benedick and Salvatore, would distract her. Neither seemed promising in their purses, but they were at least pleasant.
Cangrande sauntered in with Bailardino, and they too worked their way up the hall, greeting men and wives. Bail embraced Pietro with one of his fierce bear-hugs – the man had lost none of his strength. As Bail moved down the table to his place, Pietro noted that Detto had switched seats with Val. So much for rapprochement.
The High Table was a literal as well as a figurative name. On the one side the seats were set higher, allowing Cangrande and those sitting with him to have a view of the whole room. Eyes traveling across the feasting hall, Pietro was startled to spy a pair he did not know. Clearly a father and son, though the son was not yet a man – a squire's age, perhaps.
Greeting the Scaliger, Pietro inclined his head. “Who is that?”
Cangrande followed his gaze. “Ah, our new friend from Naples! Don Antonio Laurito di Napoli. He has come north to root himself in our fair city, bringing a sizable fortune with him.”
“Don?” said Pietro, puzzled.
“You've clearly never been to Napoli. There's a sizable collection of Spanish merchants there, and since the Sicilian Vespers, several have ennobled themselves.”
The Sicilian Vespers was the name for a series of assassinations fifty years before on the island of Sicily, when the people had murdered the French-bred nobles belonging to King Charles, throwing the island into war. The king of Aragon had stepped in, and his heirs had ruled Sicily ever since.
“Not desirous of having their throats slashed, they have eschewed the term Signor, and especially Monsieur, instead styling themselves as Dons. Hence Don Laurito.”
“Will he still use it?” asked Pietro. “You say he means to plant himself here.”
“It's my understanding. He's made a sizable investment in a home and land. And he's brought his son. That's him, sitting beside his father. Proteus is his name.”
“Proteus?” said Cesco, arriving to seat his little wife and himself between Cangrande and Pietro. “I believe I'm jealous. He has a better name than all of us. Downright mythical.” He snapped his fingers. “What was the name my mother gave me?”
Cangrande arched an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“I don't mean to insult the noble name of Francis,” Cesco assured him. “But during one meeting with my mother, she called me something. Ser Alaghieri, surely you recall.”
Pietro did. Since the age of three, Cesco had sported a single piece of jewelry, a talisman of sorts, an old Roman coin Pietro had found bearing the word PAX on one side. On the reverse was an image of the god Mercury. When Cesco had met his mother three years previously, she had commented on it:
“Mercurio. He suits you, my boy.”
“True, I am light on my feet, even without the wings. But sadly all accounts have him tall, and I fear I shall never grow to great heights.”
“The little Mercury, then. Mercutio.”
She had owned a peculiar lilt to her voice, one that Pietro had never heard before or since. In addition to Mercutio, she'd called him strange words – uirisg and mo chridh.
Struck by the memory of a woman they now knew was murdered, the woman whose house Poco and Tharwat were now investigating, Pietro noted that the thong by which the coin had hung was absent from around Cesco's neck. Frowning curiously, he spoke the name aloud. “Mercutio.”
“Mercutio?” Maddelena wrinkled her little nose. “That's a funny name!”
“It is, isn't it?” Cesco threw a mocking glare at Cangrande. “Why couldn't you have named me that?”
“Clearly I was remiss,” replied Cangrande. “Certainly it suits your current moodiness. Intemperate as you are clever, your mood shifts as if carried by golden wings. But we never know, when naming a child, what he will become.”
“Do you not think that the name shapes the man? Pietro here is as stolid as the saint whose name he bears, the rock of faith and duty. My little Maddelena here is named for one of Christ's followers, who was purged of evil spirits. You yourself shed Francesco to become Cane Grande, larger than life.”
“And you? What does Cesco signify?”
“An attempt to create a diminished version of your forgotten self.”
“No wonder you long for another name. But alas, so long as you are my heir, you must bear mine. Diminished or no.”
“If I renounce your throne, oh mighty one, may I choose my own name?”
“Certainly. Though I fail to see the value in that exchange. What's in a name? Call a sword a spade and it will cleave as deep. Names do not change a thing's nature.”
“My father wouldn't agree,” said Pietro, hoping to shift the conversation to less combative ground. “When Antony's family took up the mantle of Capulletto, Father foresaw the renewal of the old feud. He talked of numerology. Names have as much power as the stars.”
Cesco groaned. “O excellent. Another unseen element trying to control me.”
“Nothing is controlling you, boy,” said Cangrande.
“Not for lack of trying,” retorted Cesco. “I wonder how much Tharwat knows of numerology.”
Cangrande snapped his fingers. “Ah! Speaking of Tharwat and Spanish Dons, I have news for him. Pietro, where is he? I expected to see him here tonight.”
Was there an edge in the question? “He was called from the city, by his art. Shall I convey a message?”
“It is hardly urgent. I learned in a letter today that Don Pedro of Aragon is to call this month in Verona.”
Pietro brightened. “I know he visited Tharwat in August.”
“On matters of astrology, or a social call?”
“I don't know,” said Pietro. “Perhaps both.”
Cesco's interest was piqued. “How does a Spanish prince know our beloved Moor? Did he predict doom for him as well?”
Gently, gently. “I think Tharwat once met his father, King Frederick. But as I understand it, Don Pedro came to Italy in search of a wife.”
Cesco clutched Maddelena's shoulders. “He can't have mine!” Everyone laughed except the girl. Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she tugged at Cesco's sleeve. Bending over so she could whisper in his ear, he nodded, then waved for her nurse, standing along the wall with other servants. Dahna scurried forward, took the little girl by the hand, and they disappeared through a door cleverly concealed in the wall behind them. Clearly nature called.
Pietro said softly, “You are very kind to your wife.”
Cesco raised his brows in surprise. “Should I beat her? She's a little young. Though I hear Lord Bonaventura has novel ideas about training a wife…”
“I'm simply noting you can control yourself when you choose.”
Cesco filched a Golden Morsel from a passing tray. “In all of Verona, she is the only innocent. I am sure one day she will scheme and plot like the rest of us. But at the moment she is exactly what she seems. I value that. And she deserves no ill will.”
“Whereas I do?”
“We all do,” said Cesco.
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
