by David Blixt
But Cangrande had invited Rizzardo so that he might belittle him, mock him, give him such a tongue-flaying that he could hardly stand for shame. “Thank the Virgin that it was you who took Treviso's reins, Gueccello! Can you imagine if Rizzardo here had inherited? The city would be a crater, smited by God above for pure ineptitude. Though I cannot commend you for foisting him off on me. It was most unkind. Family! Such a wretched bother.”
It was all so skillfully done, Berthold acknowledged the Scaliger's victory by announcing his intent to return to Rome. About to lose his protection, Tempesta had no choice but prepare his own departure as well, his hopes for independence utterly dashed. Killed through kindness.
The sole Veronese not laughing at Candrande's tactics was his niece Verde, who was married to Rizzardo. Talking to her brother Mastino, she could barely control her rage. “If he does not esteem Rizzardo, he could at least respect me, blood of his blood. I tell you, I am finished being punished for my husband's follies!”
Mastino was more amused than concerned. “What do you mean to do?”
Verde gritted her teeth. “Whatever I must.”
♦ ◊ ♦
“SAY, OTTO,” said Cesco, scratching his back against a tree. “Who's the best rider in the company?”
“Me,” said Otto.
“Mmm. Who after you?”
“Morando Bevilaqua.”
“Hm. And after him?”
“Yuri.”
“Mmm. I believe Morando is a sporting man.”
Otto threw a sidelong glance. “If there's enough money in it. What do you propose?”
“A race. You against Yuri, Bevilaqua against me. The winning pair to race each other.”
There was no hint of interest in Otto's expression. “The prize?”
“I don't know – enough to make it worth it, not enough to race dirty.”
Otto considered. “Winner gets his pick of the loser's horses.”
“Is that enough?” asked Cesco.
Otto shrugged. “Throw in gold if you like.”
“Agreed. What do you say?”
Otto glanced at the sky. “Hard on the horses in this weather.”
“Short course, then.”
“Not much skill in a short course.”
Cesco threw up his hands. “Then forget the whole thing! I only wanted a little diversion.”
Otto was skilled at ignoring young men's petulance. “Short course, quick turns, no saddle, hands tied.”
“Bridle?”
“Yes.”
“Spurs?”
“No.”
“Done!” Cesco beamed.
Informed, the other pair agreed at once. Both Yuri and Bevilaqua had eyes for Abastor, sleek and black and beautiful. They laid out the track while word passed through the rest of the compagnia.
All arrived in time to watch the first race between Otto and Yuri. Both were excellent riders, no more than a hair's difference between them. Otto won, just. He accepted the applause with his usual indifference, which made his men cheer all the more.
Next came Cesco and Morando Bevilaqua. Bevilaqua was twice Cesco's age, and though there was no shame in losing to a prince, he was eager to win.
The flag fell and both men kicked. Bevilaqua rode with all the tricks of an experienced rider – not dangerous, not even mean-spirited, just the common bumping and jostles. Once he 'accidentally' kicked Abastor's mouth, forcing Cesco to miss a crucial turn.
Cesco had tricks of his own. He hadn't forgotten his months of secret practice learning the skills of the jighitovka, and he'd picked up more from the acrobats at the imperial court. Without a saddle to hold him, he clung on to Abastor's side as the horse bolted under a low branch and then leapt a stone fence to regain the lead, and win.
Bevilaqua came over to congratulate him, grinning ruefully. “I don't know who's more envious, me or my horse. She wishes she had such a rider!”
The final race occurred under the eyes of Otto's whole army. Yuri dropped a flag and Cesco and Otto bolted forward, neck and neck. No tricks, no ploys, just hard riding. Otto took the same course Cesco had around the track, being clearly the shortest, so there was no difference between them as they rounded the final turn and headed towards the finish line.
In the last seconds Abastor seemed to lose wind, and Cesco sagged for a moment, allowing Otto to win by a head. They were cheered and feted. But when it came time for him to take his prize, Otto refused. “Keep your horse.”
“But you won!” protested Cesco.
“I don't like charity,” groused Otto.
As they were out of general hearing, Cesco ducked his head. “I did it for me, not you. Treviso is coming, and I want the respect of the men, but not so much that they resent me. Help me by taking the damn horse.”
Otto studied Cesco for a long moment, his face betraying nothing. “The men are impressed enough. Keep your horse. With it all tricked-out, I couldn't satisfy it. Like bedding Cleopatra – after Caesar, who can compare?”
Cesco grinned. “Why, Otto – that was positively loquacious!”
The Burgundian's expression did not change at all. “Don't tell.”
♦ ◊ ♦
IT WAS NEARLY thirty miles from Vicenza to Venice by the main road. Pietro stopped in Padua for the night, something he could not have safely done just six months earlier. He dined with Petruchio's father-in-law, the cheerful Baptista Minola. Returned to his home now that order was restored, he was concerned for his grandsons Petruchio and Hortensio. “These sports they indulge in with the young prince – they sound dangerous.” Pietro did his level best to assuage the old man's fears, refraining from voicing his own.
Arriving in Venice at noon the next day, Pietro wondered what he was doing here? Venice had judges and lawyers aplenty. Any meddling he did would hurt his chances of tracing Cesco's mother.
But it was like a physical pull, the tug of action. He needed to come to the aid of this man, so unjustly imprisoned and likely to receive an even more unjust end. Pietro wondered if it made him a good man, as Tharwat said, or a fool? A man can be more than one thing.
He considered going first to the Yellow Crescent, but rejected the notion almost at once. He was not deluded enough to think he had the means to dissuade Shalakh from this grotesque revenge. Instead he turned towards the gaol, which stood beneath the Doge's palace. A place he knew intimately.
To his surprise, he was admitted. As he descended into the basement, he felt his knees quake. He had spent three months as a prisoner in this place. He felt flooded by an irrational fear, as if the stones, remembering him, would swallow him up and reclaim the man who had gotten away.
Antonio Ansaldo's cell was nicer than Pietro's had been. He was permitted light, heat, blankets, bed, even books. Certainly rats would not trouble this man. Pietro quelled a stab of resentment, telling himself that no one should have to endure what he had.
Ansaldo was also allowed visitors. At the moment he was enjoying the company of a lean, provocative man with an odd style of hair, balding in front and long in back. Introductions were made. Pietro shook Ansaldo's hand, then greeted the lean man, who was called Salerio.
The latter said, “Forgive me, Ser Alaghieri, if I seem ungracious, but why are you here?”
Pietro's answer was bald. “I came to offer whatever assistance I can provide. If money will help, that I'll give and gladly. If you require legal advice, I have acted as a judge in Vicenza and argued cases successfully before the Papal Court.”
Rather than answer, Salerio turned to Ansaldo, pointing at Pietro. “You see? Here's a man unknown to you, yet willing to plead your case. Word is that the Doge himself has sent to the famous Paduan Bellario to argue on your behalf! They're all willing to fight! Why aren't you?”
“I have offered Shalakh gold.” Ansaldo's voice was calm, almost serene. “He wants my life. There is nothing at law to say he cannot have it.”
“Bassanio arrives tonight!” exclaimed Salerio. “What kind of a welc
ome is this, to discover his closest friend willing to die for a debt incurred in his name!”
For the first time, Ansaldo looked alive. “Was he successful? Did he win the lady's hand?”
Astonished and frustrated at once, Salerio said, “Not only her hand but her love! He writes that they are married, and he could not be more joyful in her. And you mean to soil the gloss of their marriage by going willingly to this yellow devil's revenge?”
But Ansaldo merely smiled. “If Bassanio is happy, my life is a fair price. Ser Alaghieri, sit, please. Talk to me about your father. I've never read his Commedia, and it seems now I will never find the time.”
It was a strange afternoon, with Salerio urging Ansaldo to fight, while the condemned man plied Pietro with questions of poetry, especially on the structure of the sonnet. For his part, Pietro tried several times to address the matter at hand, only to find himself skillfully deflected. It was as if the merchant wanted to die.
It was late evening when more visitors arrived, stains of travel still on their persons. Asnaldo arose at once to throw his arms about a tall man with dark hair and a strong chin. “Bassanio! I wish you all joy of your marriage!”
“Joy?” cried Bassanio, clutching his friend close. “How can I feel joy seeing you in this place for a debt that is mine. You took on this wretched loan so I might have the means to woo. I should be in here, not you!”
“Your wife would not approve of that, I think,” said Ansaldo, smiling.
Two other men were introduced, Gratiano and Solanio. They pleaded with Pietro to argue Ansaldo's case in spite of his wishes. “If Bellario does not come, I will,” he promised them.
“You said you had done business with the Jew,” answered Ansaldo. “I do not want you put in a position that hurts your interests.”
“Justice is more important than personal interest.” From another man it would have sounded pompous, and Pietro felt like an idiot saying it. But the others seemed to accept his earnest intent.
Ansaldo was earnest only in his questioning of Bassanio, cajoling from him a detailed description of his wooing of the maid of Bellamonte. They heard of her beauty, of her biting wit, of her description of her previous suitors, mocking them all. “If I had not loved her image, I would have loved her for her mind – how she made me laugh! But after several days of talk, it was time to face the test, the trial set down by her late father. If I had delayed any longer, I could not have borne it, the uncertainty. She felt much the same, but was fearful, lest I should choose poorly and be banished forever from her sight.”
“Little chance of that.” Gratiano grinned. “The fix was in.”
“Fix?” asked Ansaldo.
“There was no fix,” growled Bassanio.
“She was determined he would be her husband,” Gratiano explained to the others, “so she helped him with the riddle of the caskets.”
“I would have guessed correctly in any case!” protested Bassanio.
Gratiano shook his head. “What, and insult her?”
“What was the riddle?” asked Pietro, wondering if here was a suitable distraction for Cesco.
“Three caskets, one of gold, one of silver, and one of lead. The task was to guess which one contained her image.”
“I guessed correctly,” mumbled Bassanio mulishly. “Without her help.”
Gratiano barked out a laugh. “It surely didn't hurt that, while you were making up your mind, she sang a song whose every line ended in a rhyme for 'lead'!”
While the others joined in laughter, Bassanio protested, “I wasn't even listening to the song!”
“So you find your maid leaden?” chided Salerio.
“A base metal for Base-anio,” teased Gratiano.
“Women always enjoy being called base,” agreed Solanio.
Ansaldo waved them off. “If Bassanio says he guessed on his own, he did. Do not question him.”
It came to Pietro that he did not much like Bassanio, or indeed any of Ansaldo's friends. But they were devoted enough to him, and spent a good portion of the evening abusing the Jew in terms that had Pietro frowning. Verona had a thriving Hebrew population, and he had too much experience of individual Jews to credit stories of well-poisoning or of using of lepers to spread disease among Christian lands. Yes, Shalakh was behaving as a devil now, and had always been abrasive in all his dealings with Pietro. But a race should not be judged by a single representative. Nor was it fair to condemn them for excelling in the one occupation they were allowed under the law, that of usury.
Ansaldo himself was vitriolic in his hatred of Jews. Which made Pietro wonder how he had ever permitted himself to fall into the power of a man he clearly despised. He had taken out a loan on his friend's behalf, giving his body as surety for Bassanio's happiness. Watching the two men now, a suspicion began to form.
At last the gaoler came, politely requesting the visitors to depart. Bassanio protested, but Ansaldo told his friend to leave. “My fate awaits me.”
“I'll be there tomorrow,” said Bassanio at once. “I promise you, I won't let him harm you. If I have to kill the Jew myself, I'll do it and gladly.”
“You won't!” declared Ansaldo at once. “You will not die for me. I am not afraid of what tomorrow brings.” He seemed to relent. “But I will be happy to see you there. Come, and bear witness. I ask nothing more.”
As the others took their leave, Pietro told the gaoler to give him five minutes more. “I have legal advice I must impart.”
Remembering Ser Alaghieri from his time here, the gaoler consented – he had once given rough treatment to this knight, and was clearly uncomfortable facing someone he had kicked when down.
Alone with Ansaldo, Pietro chose his words carefully. “Signor Antonio, I spy one hope. There is a defence no one mentioned. One that can exempt you from all penalty from this bond.”
Ansaldo looked up in milder surprise than one would expect from a drowning man thrown a rope. “What is that?”
“There is a law unique to Venice, one that excuses a man from all deeds. Not a blanket of immunity, but a mitigating factor. If proven, it renders a man legally out of his senses. If we could prove you were out of your senses when you signed that bond, the Doge would have reason enough to nullify it.”
“Out of my senses,” repeated Ansaldo softly. “I think I know the law you mean.”
“In Venice, a man is less culpable for a crime if he commits the crime for love.”
“For love,” repeated Ansaldo. “How would that apply to me?”
Pietro said nothing, waiting for the merchant to meet his gaze. When at last he did, the Venetian's eyes were pools of unshed tears. “Is it so obvious?”
“I don't think any of your friends know, if that's what you mean,” said Pietro. “Sometimes outside eyes are able to see what familiar ones are blind to. It was obvious to me.”
The tears remained unfalling. The lip trembled. “What good will it do, to speak? It would humiliate him, possibly even repulse him.”
“You'd rather die than speak the truth?”
“I'd rather go to my death knowing I have his good will and friendship than live with his disgust and disdain.” And from that position the merchant of Venice could not be budged.
As the gaoler returned, Pietro made one last attempt. “Will you at least let me represent you?”
“Only if you vow never to mention what we just discussed, now or after my death. Otherwise I will have you barred from the proceedings.”
Though shaking his head, Pietro gave his word. He left the cells in a deep despair. How terrible to love, and not be able to say so.
Is that not like Cesco and Lia? Like my own feelings for Donna Katerina? How could God allow such feelings to grow?
It struck Pietro that all the sorrows of the world came from men loving where they should not.
♦ ◊ ♦
“WHAT SHALL WE DO tomorrow?” queried Salvatore at the camp in Illasi.
“Anything but drink,” said Cesco, wh
ose head was swimming. After the race he had tried to match Yuri cup for cup, and had ended in spewing, much to the amusement of the mercenaries.
“Are there diversions to be had?” asked Rupert.
“Detto would know,” said Berto. “He's from these parts. Where is he?”
“In Vicenza, I imagine,” said Cesco dismissively. “Paying his filial respects.”
“Detto?” said Barto, cuffing Berto on the ear. “Why ask him, when we have two Paduans sitting right here. What about it, Benedick? Salvatore? Where is the best sport hereabouts? What deviltry can we get into?”
Benedick and Salvatore exchanged glances. “The Euganei Hills offer good hunting,” suggested Benedick.
“Been hunting,” said Cesco, eyes closed. “Next!”
“There are also several ancient spas up there,” offered Salvatore. “The Terme Euganee. We could try to get one working…”
Cesco opened his eyes to stop the world spinning. “That's work, not play. Next!”
“We could sneak into the Citadella's walls,” offered Benedick, referring to a walled city that had been a thorn in Verona's paw all through the war.
Fixing his eyes on a branch, Cesco practiced shallow breathing. “And do what, raise the ladder and hound banner? It already flies. There is no joy conquering people who wish to be conquered. Next!”
“What about Correzzola?” asked Salvatore.
“Where?” asked Rupert.
“The Benedictine court at Correzzola,” supplied Benedick, a little unwillingly.
“Sport? Benedictines?” Rupert was dubious.
“What they've built there is nothing short of miraculous. A whole community devoted to the poor. Farming, vintning, bread making, even horse breeding – all performed by the poor, for their own benefit. Some learn a trade to take into the world, some live there forever, working for their keep.”
