The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “Detto and Lord Nogarola. I tried to effect a little reconciliation. Obviously I failed.”

  From stern, Antonia's heart swelled. He was not lost – not yet.

  Seeing her expression, Cesco snorted, turning away to stare out the window at the lowering sky. “I wonder if it wouldn't be better that the della Scala and Nogarola families had left their friendship down at the bottom of the well in the volto dei Centurioni. Friendship's Tomb, they could call it, and…”

  Antonia set down the chair she was righting. “What is it?”

  “I know where she is,” he said simply.

  “Who?”

  Shaking his head, Cesco refused to say more.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  PIETRO SLEPT THAT NIGHT in the best bed the taverner owned, which was not particularly good. At dawn he set out gifted with sausage and a stone flask of hot wine. Clearly the man hoped to soon have this famous knight for a neighbour.

  Tiberio's rustic home was nestled into a sloping hill that continued higher behind it. Approaching it, Pietro's feelings of otherworldliness only grew. The tavern-keeper hadn't exaggerated. Far from modern, this was a locale from a time past, a hard structure for a hard place. The wind whipped around stone walls that rose and rose into defensible positions. Not a castle, but neither was it a casa. This was a fortified position behind a long wall, a place where local farmers and landholders could gather when threatened. The grounds even held a small church, complete with a bell and a graveyard.

  Climbing the steep, exposed track up to the Tiberio estate, Pietro was seen long before he arrived, and was not surprised as he entered the gated yard to find himself greeted by the master of the house.

  What did surprise him was the size and shape of the man, whom he had met in passing but never truly noticed. Tiberio was a tall man in his middle fifties with a heavy paunch to his middle and a long bristling beard that jutted in all directions. His white hair was braided into a coil that almost reached his belt-line. Here, among the cold winds and snow-covered earth, he looked like Old Man Winter, wild, fierce, and awful.

  Dismounting without invitation, Pietro offered his arm. Tiberio kept his thumbs hooked on his belt. Pietro dropped his arm with more gratitude than resentment – those hands looked fit to break bricks. “Lord Tiberio, the best of the day to you. My name is Pietro Alaghieri. I hear you've got some land for sale hereabouts. I'd like to look it over.”

  Tiberio stared at him, then jerked his head down the hill. “Down there. I'll have someone show it to you.”

  Pietro nodded absently, looking around and rubbing his gloved hands together. “Brisk. Could I trouble you for a warm drink before setting out?”

  “You're here to talk to the girl,” said Tiberio roughly.

  Taken aback, Pietro blinked. “I assure you, I'm here to consider buying—”

  Tiberio laughed. “I'll bet not. Buy it or don't, as you please. Hell, if that's truly why you're here, I'll give it to you and welcome. You can be on your way.” Seeing Pietro's consternation, he bared his brown teeth. “No, that's not why you're here. You're here to bother my wife. Yes, I know all about it. I know she fell for the Greyhound's little son, who promptly threw her over. Little whoremonger. Like father, like son, I guess.”

  Pietro kept his mouth firmly shut. It made little difference to Tiberio. Words continued to pour forth from that wild beard. “I knew all about it when I married her, and I don't need you poking around in genteel ways and stirring the whole hornets' nest into the air. So piss off and tell the Greyhound and his pup to sniff asses other than ours.”

  Pietro considered doing just that. But he had promised Antonia to check on the girl. He had to at least see her. Truth is better than lies. “I'm not here for Cangrande or Francesco.”

  “The Devil you're not.”

  “The Devil has nothing to do with it. I'm here for my sister. She's a novice at the convent of Santa Maria in Organo, and she came to look fondly on Rosalia during the aftermath of the earthquake. She would be here herself, but a young nun can't travel alone on a whim. I promised her I would make certain Donna Tiberio was well. You may listen to the whole interview.”

  “Oh I may, may I?” glowered Tiberio. “Big of you.”

  “I mean, there's nothing that is not for your ears. I merely promised my sister I would check on Rosalia's welfare.”

  Tiberio continued to stare in silence, under the heavy gaze of all his household men and several serving women. At last he said, “You can have five minutes. And for that, you'll buy the land at the price I name.”

  Unable to argue, Pietro followed Tiberio into the house.

  Happily, the interior was less raw than the outside would indicate. Pietro noted that much of the furnishings – wall hangings, cushioned chairs, pillows – were new. Tiberio had at least been kind enough to outfit his home for his bride.

  “If she doesn't want to see you, you won't force her.”

  “Last thing I would want,” answered Pietro.

  Showing Pietro into a study containing all of maybe six books, Tiberio left him – watched – while he went to fetch his wife.

  Pietro stood, back straight, hat in his hands, staring at the fire, feeling the warmth on his face. The stone fireplace was carved with five grotesque hooded heads, some with eyes closed, as if they were modeled after decapitated monks.

  The door opened behind him. Turning, Pietro felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. Steeling himself, he forced a smile. “Donna Tiberio. A pleasure to meet you.”

  Rosalia Rienzi in Tiberio glided forward across the rushes. She was dressed in a russet panel gown that covered her from neck to toe, almost swallowing her hands. Her hair was hidden, as a married woman's should be. But now that he looked for it, Pietro saw what should have been obvious to the world. Those eyes…

  Below her chin, on the exposed skin of her throat, hung a coin. The facing side held the image of the old Roman god Mercury. Pietro knew the coin well. He had found it buried in the wood of an ancient bench on the very night Cesco had come into his life. It had once hung about the neck of Pietro's loyal hound, Mercurio. When that hound had died saving Pietro and Cesco, the child had taken it as his own.

  For ten years it had been Cesco's only token, his sole superstition. And he'd given it to her. And she wore it still.

  Rosalia extended her hand for him to bend over. “We have met, Ser Alaghieri. When the forge burned, you stayed at my father's estate.” Was there a hitch when she said 'my father'?

  “Of course. It is lovely to see you again.”

  “Is it?” She crossed to one of the cushioned stools and lowered herself gracefully. “I thought the silence from Verona was a kindness. I see now that was merely neglect.”

  That cut like a knife. Taking a stool not too close to her, he said, “If my presence is unkind, it is my doing alone. No one knows I'm here, save my sister.”

  He saw her rigid expression soften a little. “How is Suor Beatrice? Is she quite recovered?”

  Pietro frowned. “Recovered? I don't know to what you're referring. Has she been ill?”

  Lia looked away. “Ah. My mistake. Please thank her for her concern, and tell her I am as well as is possible on this earth.”

  Not for the first time, Pietro sensed there was some secret his sister was hiding. But now was not the time to probe that question. “Donna Tiberio, please forgive an impertinence. Is there any other message I should make? To Fra Lorenzo, perhaps? I understand you knew him while you were in Verona.”

  “No, I have no message for anyone in Verona. But I do have a question.” Her eyes fixed upon him, and the intensity of her gaze made Pietro want to turn away. “Is he happy?”

  How blunt. How brave. What to answer? Should he lie? Would that please her? Or should he craft a non-committal reply, one that could mean anything or nothing?

  The answer was already plain upon his face. “No. He is not.”

  Leaning against the wall, Tiberio grunted. Rosalia said nothing. Her eyes were c
lear and bright. There was no look of satisfaction. There was no expression at all, as if she had traveled deep within herself.

  Pietro sat, wanting to speak further, to justify Cesco's wild actions, which she'd surely heard about. Speak of his suffering, his rage, his need for revenge. Make him less odious, less wanton.

  But in her lack of expression, Pietro saw complete understanding. More than that, he perceived a contained rage of her own. If this visit told Pietro anything, it was that her cause was even greater than Cesco's. She obviously understood every event in Verona these last months, and could even feel compassion for the one person whose pain matched her own.

  I shouldn't have come. I've poured salt in an endless wound. There's nothing here that can be healed.

  Pietro bowed his head. “I'd best go. Forgive me for disturbing your home. And congratulations on your marriage.”

  He had started for the door, which Tiberio opened, when Rosalia stood. “Ser Alaghieri. I ask one thing. That you tell no one – not even your sister – what you saw here.”

  It was as if a fist gripped his throat. “Donna Tiberio, I swear it.”

  The image that Pietro carried away with him as he rode down the steep track was of her standing there, side-lit by the fire, her hair hidden, her form unmistakable under the long gown.

  Donna Tiberio was several months pregnant.

  Sixteen

  AS PLANNED, while the lord of Treviso and his imperial companion approached Verona, Cesco and his Rakehells decamped for the castle of Illasi, where Otto's men were wintering. Close enough to Vicenza to enjoy a city's pleasures, yet far enough to avoid unease, the two hundred of men in Otto's command were more then amenable to a few days of winter sports.

  The mercenary army was a relatively new phenomenon in Italy. For the last two centuries, soldiers had returned from Crusading with no notion of a life outside warfare. Arriving at the ports in southern Italy, they had taken up residence there, despite mostly being German, Spanish, French, Flemish, Catalonian, or even English. Lacking employment, they had formed masnade, bands of brigands, little better than highway robbers.

  As local cities had no standing armies, it seemed wiser to pay the local masnada off. At first they paid only for 'protection'. Then they paid for an attack upon a rival city. This gave rise to the notion of a contract army. Condottiero had come to mean both 'contractor' and 'warlord-for-hire' in command of a compagnia di ventura.

  Otto the Burgundian was a condottiero. Having left his native Bruges for a Crusade that never came, he had spent three years waiting around Brindisi for ships to take him to the Holy Land. When at last he was certain no ships were coming, he took command of the soldiers of his company and decided to make up for those lost three years by extorting money from the local cities that had driven them to poverty during their stay.

  Over the last twelve years ago his reputation had grown so large that he had been invited to Lombardy to take part in the Paduan wars, on the side of Padua. But when Padua could no longer pay, Cangrande had bought his services, and Otto had never had cause to regret the alteration of allegiance. He much preferred fighting on the winning side.

  Local men like Yuri and Fabio had joined the compagnia, making up for the natural attrition in such a company. Men died, men were wounded, men retired, men ran off. Otto's company of Burgundians were now almost half Italian, many of whom were Veronese. There were also Paduans in his company, as well as Trevisians, Mantuans, Vicentines, Venetians, Pisans, Romans, Florentines – men disaffected with their lot who saw the chance for riches and fame in the military. Without a national army to join, condottieri offered escape for men who longed to do more than push a plow or scribble notes for their masters.

  Winter was always a dull time for the company. Though they were not paid during these months, as they were not fighting, Cangrande did allow them use of his land to remain and hone their skills. There were some who had wanted to travel south to warmer climes, but Otto had remained, sensing that loyalty to Verona would not go unrewarded.

  Now, as he rode into the camp alongside the Heir, Otto felt both amusement and unease. His unease stemmed from his fear that he would be dragged into the on-going battle between the boy and his sire. His amusement grew from what the boy was wearing.

  Cesco arrived at the camp in a fancy gown, his long hair braided under a caul with fake braids sticking out beneath. He also sported a black eye and several bruises, which only added to the ridiculousness of his attire. All the other Rakehells were dressed in mock-armour, save Benedick, dressed as red-wigged Guenivere. Ludicrously, neither Cesco nor Benedick had shaved.

  Detto was there, dressed as a wizard. Like Cesco, he bore marks of the scuffle. They had not passed a single word on the ride overland. Instead Cesco had spent his time baiting Otto, Detto riding silently in the back.

  Dropping from his sidesaddle perch, Cesco curtsied to the parade of soldiers. “I am Ninianna, the Lady of the Lake, and I bear a magic sword. I know many of you are practiced in tugging each other's swords, but to tug this one free you'll have to win the joust we are to hold.”

  All eyes turned to Otto, who nodded.

  “Yes yes,” said Cesco, annoyed, “we have the imprimatur of Sir Owain. Now, Galahad, Lancelot, tell them the rules.”

  Yuri and Fabio obediently began explaining the details of the joust. Meanwhile, a grin cracking the paint on his face, Cesco flounced across to Morando Bevilaqua, the best rider in the bunch. “I hear you're after my honour. But can you joust sidesaddle?” He waved a hand and another dress was produced. Yuri howled with laughter as Morando, embracing the spirit of the day, donned the offered gown.

  Lists were constructed with practiced ease, and the day descended into dangerous hilarity. Jousting sidesaddle was insane, but soon all men wished to have a go, and there were many broken heads and arms by the end of the day.

  Soon the winter camp of Cangrande's best mercenary army was utterly debauched, for Cesco had ordered a wagon of women to follow them, and for the whole next day they switched from re-enacting the French legends of Arthur to re-inventing the mad revels of the Saturnalia in ancient Rome under Nero.

  Already in a foul mood, Detto had little taste for such things. He was enough of a romantic to want to love a woman, like the poets said, and he was self-aware enough to know he would not respect himself if he succumbed to the fleshly pleasures just for the sake of pleasure itself. It seemed his time in Ser Alaghieri's household had placed more of a stamp on his soul than on Cesco's. Or perhaps he simply hadn't lost as much.

  Striding through the camp filled with singing and shouts in both masculine and feminine registers, Detto waited until he was certain his absence would not be remarked upon, then mounted his horse and rode out of the camp, alone. In spite of his anger, he had a task to perform.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  STILL SHAKEN from his visit to the Tiberio estate, Pietro arrived at Morsicato's house in Vicenza for a conference of what he considered Cesco's inner circle. Tharwat was present, and Pietro shook him by the hand as he stamped the snow off his feet. “Have you ever seen the like?”

  “Not in the Feltro,” replied Tharwat.

  Their host ushered them into his study. “You'll have to forgive Esta for not tending to us. She's feeling poorly.”

  “Again?” asked Pietro. “I'm so sorry.”

  “Her stomach plagues her at times, but she's well enough.” After returning from Ravenna, Morsicato's wife had suffered from some unknown but debilitating illness that kept her husband occupied, to the detriment of his profession. Suspiciously, the illness had vanished when Cesco had gone off to the Imperial Court. Pietro often wondered if the nurse or someone in the household – a cook perhaps – was on a second paylist belonging to Cangrande, Mastino, or the like. He'd voiced his concerns, and Morsicato had investigated. But there was no sign that the staff was anything other than what they seemed.

  “It looks to be chronic, not poison. At least, it's not in the food they prepare for her
. I've been eating what she eats, and I'm fine.” The doctor did not sound pleased. He'd have preferred poison to some mysterious disease he could not identify.

  As the trio convened over wine, bread, and cheese, Pietro inquired after Donna Katerina's health. “She's resting comfortably,” said Morsicato, wrinkling his nose at the cheese he'd found hanging from a hook in his kitchen. “The lady knows what lies ahead, and she's frustrated not to be past this point already.”

  Once they were settled, Pietro said, “We have several matters to discuss. Tharwat, you've told Morsicato what you discovered in Padua? Good, then maybe we should start by hearing what you learned in Venice.”

  “Very little,” said Tharwat in his low rasp. “The Jew is not feeling helpful towards anyone since his daughter's flight.”

  The Jew in question was a money-lender called Shalakh who had often done business with Cangrande. He had been mildly helpful in the past, disbursing the secret monies for Cesco's upkeep during their years in Ravenna. At the end of August he had given them the name of the bank in England where Cesco's mother had lodged her money.

  That same day Shalakh's daughter had run off with a gentile. His loss had been Cesco's gain – in the search for the missing girl, Cesco had been rescued from the clutches of the villainous Fuchs. An accident of timing, but a happy one, for Cesco if not for Shalakh.

  Now, it seemed, Shalakh's thirst for vengeance was preventing him from aiding them further. “He is obsessed with a lawsuit he is bringing against a merchant who was somehow involved in his daughter's flight. He would not see me for several days, and when he did he said he knew nothing of the purchase of the house in Padua. He is lying,” said Tharwat baldly. “I invoked the name Amabilio and saw a flicker of recognition. But he claimed not to remember it. He is hurt, angry, and taking his revenge against anyone who crosses his path.”

  “Like someone else we know,” observed Pietro.

  Morsicato was more attentive. “Wait – is this the merchant we saw that day? Antonio something.”