by David Blixt
The answer was unhelpful. “Quiet. The Italian's thinking.”
The Italian? That's who they sent? Drat drat drat! Unwillingly, the fugitive turned his head. Yes, there he was. The Italian, who wasn't Italian. The son of an Italian adventurer who'd taken a Scotswoman to wife. The result was this odd little man with the Italian name – Aiello, the Scot.
Aiello was frightening, despite the fact that he shouldn't be. He had a face more suited to a jester than a villain. One eye opened wider than the other, his thin beard didn't close the distance between his chin and lips. He had a frantic, frenetic energy, like a bird in a rough wind.
The Scot's restlessness made his horse skittish under him as Aiello scanned the ground. Doing the same, Benjamin saw with horror the tiny trickles of earth he'd knocked loose as he'd climbed. How had Aiello seen these traces in the dark? Was the hunter that skilled?
Slowly the Scot's head came up, tracing the path directly to Benjamin's hiding place. Their eyes met. It was a private moment, suspended in time. Benjamin could see Aiello take the time to frame the perfect words. The pause seemed to last an eternity. Then, finally, Aiello smiled. “Hello, pretty.”
Benjamin bolted. Not uphill, but back down across the path. Diving between the legs of Aiello's horse, he sprinted to the road's edge and threw himself in a flailing dive into the Savoy.
The enormous splash in the chilly water was punishing, but Benjamin scrambled like a dog upwards, trying to recall everything he'd ever known about swimming. When he broke the surface, he was already a quarter-mile downstream of his pursuers. Over the rush of the water, Benjamin heard shouts as they wheeled about to follow him. He swam with the current, traveling faster and faster away from the Alps and his chosen path. The horses would have to follow the winding road, while he only had to keep his head above the waters carrying him away from his destination. But if he was to deliver his message, he first had to remain alive.
He heard Aiello's voice far behind him, its odd lilt echoing around the silence of the hills. “Nobody rests until we have the bastard Montagu's head on a pike!”
♦ ◊ ♦
NEWS REACHED CANGRANDE that the emissary from Treviso would be arriving within the next two days. “The goose will have to wait. We're off to Illasi.” Cesco made preparations to depart, knowing full well that Suor Beatrice would use his absence as the perfect opportunity to move into his house.
Cesco was not alone in being plagued by the redoubtable Antonia. Word had come that Tharwat was returning to Vicenza, which had Pietro packing to join him. But before he could go east, he had a most uncomfortable promise to keep to his sister. He recalled something Cangrande often said. “Family is a wretched nuisance.”
Realizing the phrase was far too apt for this particular situation, he banished it from his mind.
Fifteen
ALL UNWILLING, Pietro Alaghieri set out in the pre-dawn darkness to call upon Cangrande's bastard daughter, Cesco's forbidden love, Rosalia Rienzi.
Tiberio, he corrected himself. Donna Tiberio. Rosalia Rienzi in Tiberio.
Pietro had met the girl exactly once, at her father's house, and taken no notice of her at all. Though he dreaded the coming meeting, he felt a natural curiosity as to what qualities this young woman held that had caused Cesco to craft the Pax Verona in order to marry her. Only to have that cup dashed from his lips.
Lucky, thought Pietro. What if they had married in secret? How much worse would that have been? Not that we'd have had any trouble having the marriage annulled. The one ground that will always revoke a bond is consanguinity…
Banishing those unhappy thoughts from his mind, Pietro focused on the immediate question plaguing him – what excuse to craft. He couldn't go to the girl outright. There was no possible claim of prior friendship. If he'd been going to her father's house, it would have been easy enough to ask after the rebuilding of the forge that had burned down earlier in the year. Pietro was glad enough not to have to face that particular Geyron, whose triple-heads would all have spat fire at the mention of Cesco and Cangrande.
Still, this visit required some plausible reason for calling. Making inquiries, Pietro learned that Abramo Tiberio owned a parcel of land north of the Lago di Garda that he was offering to sell. It would make perfect sense for Ser Pietro Alaghieri to be looking for a place on which to build the estate long due him. It did not guarantee an interview with Donna Tiberio, but it was all he could think of.
He needed to move swiftly. After this, he had to reverse course towards Vicenza for his interview with Tharwat and Morsicato. He tried not to curse his holy sister, and mostly succeeded. Because she was correct, this journey had to be made.
But it was a hard journey to make in December. Keeping to the northbound road between Monte Baldo and Monte Lessini, his path took him up past Mori. Soon he came across the Slavini di San Marco, adjoining the village of the same name. Huge blocks of stone lay heaped in a confused pile, as though left by some monstrous child who had not tidied his toys. Pietro's father had referenced this landslip in L'Inferno, when he and Virgil were about to descend to the level of wrath:
As on the rockslide that still marks the flank
of the Adige, this side of Trent,
whether by earthquake or erosion at the base,
from the mountain-top they slid away from
the shattered boulders strew the precipice
and thus give footing to one coming down
just so was the descent down in that ravine.
This whole territory had made a huge impression on his father – perhaps because twenty-five years ago he had traveled this route as he left Italy for France. The poet had feared this landscape was the last he would ever see of his beloved Italy, and it had stayed with him ever after. As he had fashioned Virgil to speak of it:
‘High in fair Italy, at the foot of the alps
that form a border with Germany near Tyrol,
lies a lake they call Benàco.
‘By a thousand springs and more, I think, the land
between Garda, Val Camonica, and Pennino
is bathed by waters settling in that lake.
Benàco was the old name for the Lago di Garda. The passage continued on for five more stanzas, a remarkable length for such a pastoral scene. It had clearly meant a great deal to the poet.
But Dante had passed this way in Spring, when the snow-melts had the lake overflowing and the land was a verdant green. Coming in winter, it was a chill and forbidding place. The wind funneled down from the Alps, howling in Pietro's ears like the cries of the wrathful at the bottom of an infernal ravine.
It was slow going, and he spent the night at a tavern, warming fingers too numb to undo the ties of his cloak. The food was plain and fairly awful, but welcome nonetheless. He might have pressed on to the house, but had no desire to arrive after nightfall where he was not expected and likely unwelcome.
He decided to make his story resonate by trying it out on the tavern's owner. In reply, the man said, “It's good land, but wild. Like old Bramo himself. Begging your pardon, Ser.”
Pietro waved this off – he never felt comfortable receiving the deference due his station. “What can you tell me about him?”
“A hard man. Like he stepped from the old days, you know? Cares nothing for these modern times. The old ways – 'stone and steel, hearth and home, fox and hound may never roam.' Makes him a bit raw, m'lord. But fair. He'll not cheat you.”
Pietro was not fearful of that. He was afraid of being torn limb from limb.
♦ ◊ ♦
BEFORE THEIR PLANNED departure the next day, Cesco arranged for a visit to the baths beneath the Scaligeri palace. “To loosen my frozen limbs. Mens sana in corpore sano.”
Detto couldn't help saying, “Perhaps the one will lead to the other.”
“Ha! Doubtful. I'll meet you there. I have someplace to call first.”
“Where?”
“A place I'd prefer you didn't go. You'll spoil my gardening.”
Which Detto took to mean La Rosa Colta. He dressed and headed down the stairs, passing as he did the two small trunks that carried Suor Beatrice's worldly goods. She was being installed at the end of the hall on the same floor as Maddelena, her ostensible charge. The novice herself would arrive that night. Just in time for Cesco to vanish from her reach, if only for a week. They'd be back in time for Christmas.
There was singing in the streets, and mimes, and jugglers, all still plying their trades at the Scaliger's expense. It was known that Verona was rich, but even so, this constant flurry of entertainments must have been draining the city coffers. Castelbarco, in charge of the city purse, must have been counting the days until Twelfth Night and the end of these extravagances. Fortunately, Verona had investments in arms, in spice, and in wine. Come summer, all would come in and refill the depleted treasury.
Below the palace, Cangrande's father had excavated the ruins of a Roman bath. Somehow the knowledge of how to run them had been lost, along with all the other knowledge that had been vanquished by the arrival of the barbarians nearly a thousand years ago. Upon becoming Capitano, one of Cangrande's first acts had been to send to the great ruins at Caldiero down the road, setting his best engineers to reconstructing the place in hopes of reviving at least a piece of Roman greatness.
They had been successful. There was no need at present for the frigidarium, but the calidarium was a popular destination for Verona's elite, where the steam made bodies almost invisible.
But first one had to undress and dip into the tepidarium to acclimatize the body to the warmth. Shirtless, Detto was just removing his boots when he spied a figure coming through the steam. He froze in mid-tug. Though the face was obscured, he knew the outline. “Fut.”
Entering the low-ceilinged room filled with ancient pillars and tiles, Bailardino stared at his son. “I was told to meet Cangrande here.”
“I was told to meet Cesco.” Detto's jaw was clenched so tight, it was hard to speak.
There was a lingering silence as the sound of rushing water and heating pumps gurgled all around them.
“You have something to say to me?” asked Bail.
“No.” Detto pulled his boot back into place and stalked from the baths, struggling back into his clothes as he pushed past his sire.
Bailardino did nothing to stop his son from departing. When Detto had gone, he sat on a bench and sighed. “Fut.”
♦ ◊ ♦
“AH, ARABIA. I should like to visit there. I am not Christian enough, it seems. I must go Crusading.”
Buthayna had known it the moment he had entered La Rosa Colta today. The young prince had eyes only for her. Sad eyes, angry, full of storms. Full of trouble.
She did not know why she felt such hesitation when considering him in her bed, his skin on hers. Inured to the bad breath, poor hygiene, fat bellies, cruel tempers, and bestial desires of men three times her age, the idea of a handsome young lord should have been a relief. Yet she found herself trembling as she took his hand and led him up the stairs.
Each room in La Rosa Colta was done up in a different style. There was an Egyptian room, and an African, as well as Greek, Roman, French, and Spanish. Usually the girls changed rooms as often as they changed their outfits.
The room assigned to Buthayna was hers alone. The girl called Arabia had sole ownership of the Arabian room. It contained grilles in geometric patterns, gauzy curtains, and hanging chalices of incense, a vulgar parody of her culture.
As she lit the tapers and set the scent wafting, he poured himself some wine. “Do you mind if we speak in your tongue? I get very little practice.”
“As my lord pleases.”
He switched to Arabic. “Wilt thou enjoy the coming holy days?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Despite not being wholly holy to thee. But thou hast beheld Christ's Mass before?”
“I have.”
“I imagine thou were a gift given many times.”
Her practiced smile was knowing. “A pleasure for all, my lord.”
“I'm sure. Shall we?” He set about disrobing in such a matter-of-fact way, she felt compelled to do the same.
Naked, men's bodies were traitors. His casual tone was belied by his obvious excitement. Yet beyond his erection, he was a series of hard planes and sinewy muscle, thin as a corded whip. She was taken aback by the number of scars on his youthful body.
As she took in his appearance, so did he hers. “Very well formed, my Arabia. Shall I bring a Crusade to thy shores?” He came close and kissed her, softly at first, then more fiercely. She twined her arms about him and pressed herself close, as if she were as hungry for his touch as for air.
But in moments her mouth was alone and she was upon her back, gazing at the ceiling in the dim light from the brazier. She tried to slither further up the bed to give him a perch, but he pulled her back to the bed's edge. Kneeling, he pressed his face between her legs. “The Devil's furrow. I'm making a study. My poor attempt to become an expert. Thine is dark and fulsome, with a proud mane like a panther's. I could almost braid it.” His voice became muffled as his mouth set to work, yet somehow he continued talking. It sounded like poetry.
Accustomed to sex, Buthayna was not immune to sensation. She felt one physical reaction she wanted to resist. But she knew she had to perform, so she arched and moaned in pleasure.
Sitting back, Cesco slapped her thigh, hard. “Stop that. Thou dost behave like a whore.”
Startled, she couldn't help an incredulous laugh. “My lord, I am a whore.”
Fixing on something in his teeth, he worked it with his tongue. “Ah, I forget. Know, whore, I prefer honesty. If I do not please thee, do not act pleased. I will take no offence. Frankly, I am here for mine own pleasure, not for thine. That is what the coin is for. As the great Abu Bakr says, 'Intentions count in thine actions.'”
Buthayna's composure slipped a little at hearing the Prophet's companion quoted, in such a setting. But she found this bluntness strangely refreshing. “And what are thy intentions, my lord?”
“To lose myself in thee. If thou dost care to join me, welcome. But if thou wouldst rather read, I can call for more light and some books. I know the best poems.”
She stared at him in disbelief. Grinning, he started reciting a verse in French, a language she barely knew. She heard the names of God, woman, and the Devil, but very little else that made sense. As he spoke, he pressed himself inside her. Still standing, he held her legs and took himself to his climax, rocking in time with his spoken verse.
Buthayna tried to take him at his word, but habit was too ingrained, and she found herself feigning delight as he reached his zenith.
Looking down upon her, he laughed and Buthayna felt foolish. He knew she had been feigning. Collapsing beside her, he sighed happily. “I thank thee, Arabia. A most successful Crusade. I have come to batter at Jerusalem, like the great Titus. Though I left no walls wailing, I hope.”
Not understanding, she echoed him. “I thank thee, my lord.”
“Does Arabia thank the Crusader? I think not. Except for leaving her alone. Shall I depart?”
“As my lord pleases.”
“I shall be pleased to stay awhile, relishing my temporary conquest. After that, I'll return home to see what a shambles I've left behind me. It's what Crusaders do.”
Such talk was dangerous for one of her skin. “What was the poem, my lord?”
“The creation of the cunt, dug with the Devil's spade. Everything sounds beautiful in French.”
“It is most mellifluous, my lord.”
“A mellifluous malevolence, is France.” She could hear the sleep in his tone. “Perhaps I should go there. Or to Arabia – the true Arabia. Will she welcome me, do you think? Or must I pay? What coin will she ask?”
“No coin, my lord,” she said, stroking his hair in the dim red glow. “All men are free there.”
“As I am not. There is a weight that stakes me to this ground. I cannot mov
e, cannot fly, cannot die.” She felt him quiver, a stuttered breath. “We are much alike. Neither free, both at the beck and call of men not half our worth. And so very, very alone.”
Feeling daring, Buthayna at last said something not scripted for a whore, another saying of the great Abu Bakr. “ 'Solitude is better than the society of evil persons.' ”
He stiffened, and for a moment she feared what would follow. A blow? A curse? A complaint?
At last, in a voice thick with unshed tears, he asked, “And what if the evil person is the one in solitude? Is it because he did evil that he is alone?”
She attempted to reply, but before she could find words he had stood and swiftly dressed. There were no jibes now, no cocksure smiles, no disarming quotes. In moments he was gone, leaving her to tidy up herself and the room for whoever next came calling.
Buthayna finally understood the danger he posed. It was not danger to her flesh. It was danger to her soul. For there was nothing more destructive to a whore than to fall in love.
♦ ◊ ♦
DETTO WAS PACING Cesco's chamber when the master of the house returned. He heard his cousin's voice on the stairs and, when the door opened, Detto punched him full in the face. “You go too far!”
“Che cazzo!” Cesco launched himself at Detto, and the two pummeled at each other with such fury that Maddelena wept and Antonia ordered the servants to fetch buckets of water to douse the pair. Before the buckets could arrive, however, Detto stormed off and bolted himself in his room, leaving Cesco bleeding in two places and nursing a twisted wrist.
“Fut,” said Cesco thickly. Opening the window, he broke off an icicle and pressed it to his swollen lip. “Welcome to the asylum.”
“What was that about?” pressed Antonia.
“I thought it would help.”
“What?” Antonia's tone was edged as she straightened up the wreckage of the room.
