The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Wafer. Cesco wanted one. He didn't like wanting anything, but he wanted one of these, badly. Leaping backwards, he kept his pole spinning in one hand while the other dropped to a pouch. Ducking, he brought the wafer to his lips and felt a blessed relief, a rush of energy and an easing of the hunger. He wondered if the sensation were real or imagined. Regardless, it felt delicious.

  “Snacking during a fight?” quizzed Salvatore.

  “I can't help it. I eat when I'm bored.” Flinging himself into a wild attack against them both, Cesco struck them each several times inside their desperate parries. When at last he backed off, they responded with equal fury, and Cesco had to keep his staff spinning hand over hand to beat away the strikes angling for his head and feet.

  “Barbarous, boorish bardasso,” taunted Cesco at Salvatore, “you wield a stick as if you've been stuck! Thrust thrust thrust, is that all you can do?”

  “Coarse, of course,” said Salvatore, not at all baited. “Not every Paduan offers themselves as targets – unlike some!” Thrusting high, he reversed his blow, coming in to sweep Cesco's legs while Hortensio jabbed for the ribs.

  Leaping over Salvatore's stave, Cesco beat aside Hortensio's attack. His landing foot caught a patch of ice on the timber and he skidded to the boat's edge, barely catching himself before toppling overboard.

  Hortensio raced forward to press the advantage, but Salvatore had his eye on the larger prize and chose to knock Hortensio off the boat from behind. The delay gave Cesco just enough time to find solid footing, so he was prepared when Salvatore's extended stave came in for another jab.

  A shout off to the side was followed by a splash and several cheers. Detto had been knocked into the water, probably by Rupert, who was among the last to remain dry.

  There was a second's silence, then someone said, “He's not coming up!”

  Parrying, Cesco darted a glance in that direction. People were looking at the spot where Detto had fallen in, which was thick with broken ice. But the area around it was not broken, merely a flat sheet. If the current under the ice had pulled him, Detto could be trapped.

  Parrying Salvatore again, Cesco was about to shout an order when he saw Detto's hand emerge, grasp Rupert by the ankle, and topple the German prince into the icy water.

  Cesco's bark of laughter was cut short by a crack across his shoulder. He hunched, making him prey to the butt end of Salvatore's staff already hooking his ankle and upending him. There was a moment of suspended time, flailing and grasping for something to hold. Then the drenching shock of the ice water as Cesco plunged beneath the surface.

  He might have expected the current under the ice to be sluggish. Quite the opposite. Water around the Ponte Pietra always roiled, and with the uppermost layer frozen, the flow beneath was even more determined. Cesco swam for the light of the gap where he had fallen, struggling against the tug of the undertow. He was just about to break the surface when something struck him in the temple. His mouth opened, expelling needed air. He clamped his jaw shut, but not before swallowing a little water. Lungs aching already, he shook his aching head and squinted. He'd slipped down under the sheet of ice, drifting away from the hole. He saw shoots of light bursting to life in other places. One appeared close, made by a stave breaking the ice, and suddenly he understood – he'd been struck by one of his friends attempting to free him by shattering the ice.

  I could stay here. Open my mouth and let go. Already he was numb, the icy daggers of the cold becoming less painful, almost warming. I could let go and thwart a whole host of prophecies. What would they think of that?

  Instead of struggling towards the now desperate men plunging into the water where he had fallen, Cesco let himself be carried off down the river. Stars, if you want me, here I am. Prove I matter. Prove I have a destiny. I won't help unless you show me.

  A passing shadow overhead told him he was now under the Ponte Pietra. He banged into something hard. Feeling around, he knew it for the pillar supporting the ancient Roman bridge. The ice above him was weaker here, imperfect. All he had to do was try.

  He didn't want to. Yet he had asked for a sign, and been given one. Not passive rescue, but a chance to survive. He found himself pushing up, hard. Ice spidered under his fingers, and with a second push he was through. His head followed and he gasped, dragging air into his fiery lungs.

  Shouts from up the river. What had been a long way off underwater seemed a ridiculously short distance now. He had barely traveled more than the length of a boat. As they hauled him up he wanted to make some smart remark, but his chattering teeth chopped off any attempt at language.

  Detto embraced him. Rupert clapped his shoulder. Salvatore arrived, bristling with concern. “Are you hurt, lord?”

  “Only my p-p-pride.” Cesco touched the spot on his temple where he'd been struck. “An-d-d-d my head-d-d.”

  “That was me,” said Salvatore, mortified. “I was trying to break the ice.”

  “Next t-t-time, no s-s-saving,” said Cesco. “Who w-won?”

  Salvatore looked abashed. “I, my lord.”

  “Then you can b-build the fire.”

  Soon the losers were huddled around a fire blazing along the riverbank, wrapped in blankets and not wanting to move more than their toes. Cesco's face felt so raw it might have been burned, but he was surprisingly cheerful, and when he spied a frightened face amid the crowd at the fire's edge, he called out. “Well m-m-met, young R-r-r-romulus, founder of R-r-rome who r-r-r-roams away from his m-minders.”

  Romeo Montecchio darted close to the shivering Cesco. “You're not hurt?”

  “Hurt? N-never. I'm just l-l-lacking Heaven's heat at present. Who's your f-friend?”

  “Benvolio,” said Romeo simply. Two years Romeo's elder, Benvolio Lenoti smiled in a free and open way.

  “Oh, r-r-right – your cousin. Benvenito's s-son?”

  Benvolio nodded as Romeo said, “Yes.” His tone was hurt.

  Seeing the sullenness, Cesco wanted to laugh. “What's the matter?”

  “You never invite me to play,” said Romeo, half-accusing, half-pouting.

  “You wanted a s-swim? We can oblige. Someone, toss him in.” Romeo took up a fighting stance, and Cesco laughed. “Where are your minders?”

  “We got away,” said Romeo proudly.

  Cesco ruffled the seven-year-old's hair. “After my own heart. But you're not yet old enough to hunt with these heartless hinds.”

  Thinking the Rakehells were laughing at him, Romeo threw off his child's coat, declaring, “I can do anything they can do, and better!” His small hands wrested the staff from Salvatore's fingers but, as he tried to spin it, he dropped it. Flushed with embarrassment, Romeo retrieved the staff and, holding it firmly, swung it at anyone around the fire who dared chuckle.

  Rising, Cesco intercepted him. “All right, all right! You don't need to prove anything to these fishy fools. Let me dry off, then I'm game for whatever you have in mind. What do you want to do?”

  Romeo's eyes brightened. “Horse race?”

  Pulling another sticky chew from his belt and eating it, Cesco made a show of thinking. “You have an unfair advantage, being part equine yourself.”

  Romeo considered. “A flight of birds?”

  “You know how to fly birds?” asked Hortensio, son of a famous falconer.

  “Of course we do,” insisted Romeo, clearly lying. “And Cesco's father has the best birds!”

  “He certainly does,” agreed Benedick, who had seen the menagerie, but might have also been thinking of the women Cangrande often had visit his rooms in the palace. His tone was salacious.

  Detto saw Cesco stiffen at the mention of birds, and the memory it provoked. “How about a different kind of hunt?”

  The eldritch air Cesco generated, the one that excited everyone near him, caused Romeo's face to light with an inner fire. “What kind?”

  Leaning close, Cesco whispered in the child's ear. Romeo's watery blue eyes grew wide as he listened. The boy's teeth fla
shed, his smile just as bewitching as Cesco's, in a completely different way. “Can we bring Benvolio?”

  “If you think he can keep up.” While Romeo ran to his cousin to share this plan, Cesco explained the idea to his companions. “A hunt. Within the city walls. No bows or edged weapons. No birds, no horses, only hounds and staves. The one who catches his prey wins my respect –” he got boos from the other Rakehells “– and fifty Veronese silver.” Cheers.

  “And the prey?” Benedick suspected the answer.

  Romeo and Benvolio came bounding up. Cesco placed a hand on their shoulders. “Me and my two friends. And Detto,” he added, sending a questioning glance at his cousin, who nodded. “Two brace of cousins.”

  Benedick was not eager to move from the fire. “When do we go?”

  Cesco sneezed, then grinned. “We needs must warm up first. Go home, change clothes. We start at my house in thirty minutes.”

  While everyone else scattered, Benedick elected to stay by the fire. “If I'm twice your age, I'm four times those lads'. There is a limit to those I call peer.”

  “Ah, but they're wealthy,” cooed Cesco. “And of a fine house. Perhaps you should tell them a few tales, win them over. They could take care of you into your dotage.”

  Giving Cesco the fig, Benedick huddled under his blanket. Cesco and Detto walked back to the house on the via Pigna, Romeo and Benvolio prancing about in excitement, pretending to be hunted animals. Cesco started laughing. “Remind you of anyone?”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “SER PIETRO? Suor Beatrice is here to see you.”

  “Thank you, Delphinos.” Taking his brother's advice, Pietro had hired a steward, one with high commendation from Tullio d'Isola. High, but not the highest. Pietro had passed over the first two choices. He did not like being suspicious, but disliked being taken in by his naturally trusting nature even more. He had also chosen Delphinos because he was not Italian, but Greek.

  Setting aside the legal papers he had been studying, Pietro stood to greet his sister. “Where are you coming from?”

  “I went to see my confessor.”

  “Fra Lorenzo.” Pietro tried not to show his feelings, and failed.

  Antonia pulled a face. “He feels much the same towards you. He recognizes that you are a good man, but doesn't trust you.”

  “He should by now,” said Pietro. “I haven't betrayed his secret.”

  “He believes it's because he holds several of ours, and you fear if you expose him, he'll expose you in return.”

  “Fra Lorenzo is not the most trusting soul,” said Pietro. “Nor particularly forgiving, for a Christian brother.”

  “He fears exposure for his past. Your brush with the Inquisition only heightened his unease. He was certain you would offer up his name in order to save yourself.”

  “Then he doesn't know me at all.” Pietro had honestly not even considered such a thing.

  “Which is what I tell him. Give him time. He is – he means well, and has been a good friend to me.” There was something fraught in her voice, but before Pietro could frame a question she said, “When are you going to meet Tharwat?”

  “When the lord of Treviso arrives. I'd rather not see what Cangrande has in store for him. Why? Do you want to come?”

  Antonia shook her head. “I don't think I could get permission for that. But there is something that needs to be said.”

  Pietro braced himself. “Say it.”

  “Lia. As Lorenzo asked on Cesco's wedding night, where is Lia in all this? Has anyone even attempted to discover what happened to her?”

  Pietro's stomach dropped, then began to roil. “I imagine Cangrande…”

  “She's married.”

  Pietro sagged with relief. He had been afraid Antonia would say the girl was dead, murdered by her irate father. He could only imagine Cesco's reaction to that.

  “One of us should see her.”

  “Oh.” There was an expectant pause. “You know her.”

  Antonia looked mulish. “As I just mentioned, I cannot ride out of the city on a given day, Ser Pietro.”

  “What happened to the terror of Florence, the woman who made booksellers tremble?”

  Unamused, Antonia shook her head. “I am a novice in the service of the Church.”

  “I only I met her the once,” he protested. “And it's in the opposite direction of Vicenza.”

  “Should I ask Cangrande? Or Cesco?”

  Pietro raised his hands in defeat. “Very well. Before I meet with Tharwat and Morsicato, I will ride out and call on her.”

  “Thank you. In the meantime, I've had an idea. We're all worried about Cesco. I am also concerned for Detto and that little girl. Cesco's wife, I mean. I think someone should be in that house that isn't a servant. I have discussed it with Abbess Verdiana, and though she shares my qualms, she has agreed. So I'm going to offer myself as a companion to little Maddelena. I don't think Ser Cesco will be quite so rambunctious with his Auntie Imperia in the same house.”

  “An excellent idea!” said Pietro warmly, before adding, “He'll resent it.”

  “I know. But these are the dangerous months. He's so angry – not without cause. I had thought his quiet between September and the wedding was a good thing, that he was seeking understanding or even growing up a little. Now I see he was just waiting to spring into action. Do you know what he's doing?”

  “Rebelling,” said Pietro simply.

  “Against what?”

  “Whatever's at hand,” lamented Pietro. “Which is why he won't appreciate a novice coming to live in his house.”

  “I don't care if he appreciates me. We have to find a way to divert his energy, not keep on with these brawls and pranks. He was so quiet before the wedding. What was he doing, do you know?”

  “He was at the Duomo – or rather at the monastery attached to it. For a time I was afraid he was going to become a monk.” Realizing to whom he was speaking, he gave a crooked smile. “Forgive me, Suora. There is no higher calling, I am sure.”

  Antonia waved this off. “What was he doing?”

  “Reading. When he broke his leg a couple years ago, the Scaliger sent him to the monks to catalogue their books. Evidently some of those old papers caught his eye. He was there nearly every day in October and November, reading. I asked the monks about it. They said he was looking at copies of Greek and Roman manuscripts they had not even been through yet.”

  “Could it be Virgil? Or a lost play?”

  “The monks didn't know, and I haven't asked Cesco.”

  “Is he becoming a bibliomancer?”

  “That wouldn't be the worst thing. Wander the world hunting rare books, building Verona up into a new Library of Alexandria – that would be a feat worthy the Greyhound.”

  “A new age of Man. Perhaps we can help him find that road.”

  “How?”

  “By buying books. I still know some collectors.”

  “What about copyists?”

  Antonia frowned. “You want to become a publisher?”

  “It keeps with the family business. But I wasn't thinking of myself.”

  Antonia's jaw dropped. “I can't! It would be a conflict of interest, not to mention disloyal, undercutting the work the sisters are doing—”

  “Believe it or not, I wasn't thinking of you, either. We owe Poco something.”

  “Still angry, is he?”

  “Furious. This might be a balm, and secure him an income. I'll provide the capital, you can give him the connections.”

  Antonia nodded decisively. “And Cesco can choose the works to be copied. I like it. We'll have to approach them both in just the right way.”

  “I'll handle Poco. As for Cesco, I was actually hoping he might start writing. He has the skill.”

  “That would be a blessing,” said Antonia.

  “I was also thinking of using this symposium Cangrande roped me into doing tomorrow to draw Cesco out. The Commedia worked a miracle after Father's death.”


  “You think it can do so a second time?”

  “We'll find something,” said Pietro with determination. “If I have to lie, cajole, cheat, or trick him into his old self, I'll do it. One thing I've learned – when pushed, I can fight as dirty as the Scaligeri.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “MADDELENA!” SNAPPED DAHNA in that sharp tone adults have that chills children to the bone. “Come away from the window. You'll catch your death!”

  Dutifully the child turned away from the thick, imperfect glass and returned to the balls of string she was untangling. But she kept listening. At the passing of every horse, every carriage, every group of men, Maddelena would race to the window and look. For all the frustrations of disappointments, once a day there was joy. Francesco would come home, poke his head in the nursery, speak funny words, swear at her cat, then kiss her once on the forehead before heading to off to his rooms. It was something her father had never done, nor her siblings, and Maddelena liked the attention.

  Today she'd heard him come inside around mid-day, but he hadn't stopped in to visit, only change his clothes. She heard that he'd been swimming. She couldn't wait until she was old enough to go play in the streets with Francesco and his friends. She wanted to learn to swim. Francesco would teach her. Francesco was better than anybody at everything. There wasn't anything Maddelena's husband couldn't do, and she was proud when he picked her up and teased her, calling her wife.

  Maddelena felt so foolish now when she thought about before the wedding. She'd cried and cried, protesting she didn't want to leave her toys, her house, her nurse. It was Francesco who had knelt down and stuck his head under the table and told her she could bring all her toys, and her nurse too. As for her house, it was really her father's house, whereas if she got married she'd have her own house and she'd only have to share it with Francesco and his friends. She could go visit her father in Parma whenever she liked, or her sisters in Padua, and she could have friends come and stay with her, and have a cook of her own to make whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.