The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “In all the years of war, they've never been raided?” asked Rupert.

  “Who would dare?” retorted Hortensio. “No one wants to incur the wrath of the Church.”

  “Uh-oh.” His twin nudged him. “That's what you shouldn't have said. Our fearless prince has that gleam in his eye…”

  Indeed he had. The spins had stopped, and everyone waited in gleeful expectation to see what mischief Cesco's fertile and agile brain invented.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Exiting the Doge's palace, Pietro spied a familiar figure, one so incongruous that he was startled into exclaiming aloud. “Detto?”

  Engaged in quiet conversation, Detto spun about, as astonished as Pietro. “Ser Alaghieri! What are you doing here?”

  “I came to offer aid to a condemned man. What brings you here? I thought you were with Cesco in Illasi.”

  As the other man bowed his departure, Detto's expression was so furtive, so guilty, that his answer was almost lost on Pietro's ears. “I had a message to deliver.”

  “To whom?”

  Detto frowned, then shook his head. “I cannot say. I'm sorry.”

  Pietro's concern doubled each second. “Does it have to do with Cesco? Is he here?”

  “He's fine,” said Detto. “I'm leaving to rejoin him in the morning.”

  “Well, come and dine with me, at least. I haven't eaten all day.” Perhaps he could sound the young man out over food.

  “Forgive me, no. I have to meet someone.” Detto hurried off, leaving Pietro disturbed in thought.

  For the man Detto had been talking to was Zanino. Dandolo's son and factor.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  AS BERTHOLD BADE the Scaliger farewell, he expressed his regret at the absence of Verona's Heir. “Ser Franz is so skilled in such delights, so inventive, I fear these revels were incomplete without him. Rupert certainly thinks him a marvel. And it was his idea I invite Tempesta!”

  If this was news to the Scaliger, he did not show it. “I'm sorry to hear you were in any way dissatisfied,” replied Cangrande with polite dismay. “Please stay, if you can! Cesco has taken himself off to entertain my army, though I imagine he's testing his mettle against theirs. You know young men, always eager for the next war, for advancement! But he'll be back soon enough, and I'm certain he would be delighted to see you eye to eye.”

  Berthold's polite smile became momentarily fixed. For forty-eight hours he had endured references to the mythical cyclops, to Odysseus, who blinded that same creature, to the Norse Odin – he'd even been forced to watch a group of players perform Oedipus Rex. He had endured it all, knowing this taunting was the price of being outmaneuvered.

  Cangrande turned to embrace Tempesta. “Guecello, my friend, I only wish you could remain longer. Verona's sole desire is to murder you – with joy! I swear, the next time we meet, I will besiege you with such sports that you'll find yourself begging for mercy.”

  Leaving his lavish rooms in the guest palace, Tempesta's gripes and pleas still ringing in his ears, Berthold told himself that the Scaliger could have whatever victories he wanted now. His day was almost over. The boy Franz was the future. And one way or another, Franz would belong to the Emperor. Rupert would see to that.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  RUPERT WAS AT THAT moment engaged in an argument over a woman. Salvatore had brought a wench to camp, and Rupert was attempting to woo her away from the Paduan. When the foolish bint refused his advances, he was incensed – he was an imperial prince! How dare she choose a nobody Paduan over him?

  The matter was settled when Salvatore volunteered to escort her from camp and expel her into the night. Rupert was gratified, and soon regretted his outburst. The two remained together, drinking and singing, late into the night, while the rest of the Rakehells enjoyed themselves in their tents with less contentious companions.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  BACK IN THE Scaligeri palace, Berthold would have been gratified to hear Cangrande's words to Castelbarco.

  “Was it deliberate, do you think? Did Cesco decamp to offer me the means to rid myself of this unwelcome embassage? Why not stay, then? He delights in thwarting me. Why invite them, then leave? Why not create a peace himself and take the credit this time? Instead he suggests a way to prevent peace from being achieved, allowing me to carry on as I planned. He even removes himself from the board so that I might carry out his design.”

  “The design was yours,” said Castelbarco, who had been intimately involved in the forced entertainments of the last two days.

  “He knew what he was doing, planting that seed. 'Kill them with kindness.' But then, I should have seen it for myself. Never give them a reason to protest, nor any opportunity to talk with me in private. Murder them with manners. It's how I should have treated the Emperor when he came begging. Ah well. Live and learn. But Cesco! What is he up to?”

  Unable to follow the Scaligeri mind, Castelbarco shrugged. “Perhaps he simply doesn't want peace.”

  Arrested, Cangrande's eyes widened. Then he laughed. “What a fool I am! I thought it was about me. But no, you're absolutely correct, he's just spoiling for a fight. He has assured that Verona will go to war with Treviso. It's that simple.”

  In that moment Cangrande forgot that, with Cesco, nothing was ever simple.

  Eighteen

  The Road to Padua

  Saturday, 17 December 1328

  LEAVING LONG BEFORE DAWN, all ten abandoned their horses just a few miles south of Padua, transferring to a shoddy cart pulled by a pair of ancient horses that swayed when they stood still. Of the regular collection of Rakehells, only Paride, Thibault, and Detto were absent.

  Benedick was wishing he, too, was elsewhere at present. “What's the sport in this?” he asked again as the cart rolled tremblingly for the southeast.

  “Fooling them,” said Cesco at once.

  “Into giving alms to those in no need of them? That's un-Christian.”

  “You need them,” retorted Rupert. Benedick's poverty was a source constant of amusement to the German prince, who had never lacked funds in his life. “We could tell them we're collecting a fund for your future.”

  Benedick laughed with the rest, but it was hollow. Truth was that he had been to Correzzola before, with an empty belly and only lint in his purse. Without a horse, without a change of clothes, with only a sword, he had been forced to rely upon the generosity of the Benedictine monks at Correzzola for two whole months. They had been unfailingly kind, utterly without judgment, and it seemed poor sport to go and trick them out of aid that could be given to the deserving.

  Though there was every chance he could be recognized today, shame kept Benedick from mentioning his time there. He would have to bluff, or else confess. He didn't know which would hurt more.

  Cesco saw something in his expression that bespoke his feeling, if not its cause. “There is no shame in not being rich. I haven't earned a groat in my life, and if Rupert has ever done an honest day's labour, I'll eat his hat.”

  Rupert took genuine offence. “God gives to those He knows deserve. And those who take for themselves.”

  A chorus of voices cried, “Take it in the face!”

  Cesco wagged a finger. “Benedick here isn't cautious when it comes to the main chance. Tell them, Signore, of how you ended up with the horse of the Count of San Bonifacio.”

  Heads came up. Benedick recalled sharing that tale on the night he had met a young knight called Franz, and wished he hadn't – it was not the height of honour. Still, he dutifully told the tale of how Cangrande had tricked Marsilio da Carrara into thinking that Count Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio had betrayed the Paduan army in Vicenza. “He had dressed someone in the Count's armour to aid the Veronese hidden within the city. Carrara was convinced the Count was a traitor, and when he came across the real Count during the retreat, Carrara cut him down. He fell from the saddle, bleeding badly. There was no help to be had, so I leapt into his saddle and saved his mount. An excellent steed.” Benedick frowned. “
Come to think of it, that mount died for Carrara as well. He took it from me during the Denti uprising, and it died under him – despite my best efforts. So in effect, Carrara killed both the Count and his horse.”

  Salvatore was interested. “A great deception! Who was it in the Count's armour? And where did they get his armour in the first place?”

  “There's no harm in it now,” said Cesco. “Carrara knows. No reason the world should not. It was Ser Pietro Alaghieri, who suffers a limp similar to the Count's and so could mimic his stance in the saddle.”

  “And his armour was captured a few years earlier, at the First Battle of Vicenza,” said young Petruchio. “Father told us the tale.”

  “Often,” agreed Hortensio. “It appears the cowardly Count stripped it off and ran for his life, and Cangrande kept it safe until he needed it to amuse his enemies.”

  “I'm sure they were amused,” said Salvatore.

  Cesco elbowed the Paduan genially. “Now now! The war is over! Inferior as you Paduans proved, we new-made allies can combine to defeat the true dolts of the world, the Germans!”

  Both Paduans and Rupert all howled and the wrestling began, shaking the cart. Cesco ended pinned beneath Benedick and Rupert, one sitting on his head, the other punching him repeatedly in the ribs, just as they entered the unwalled confines of the monastery of Correzzola.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Venice

  AFTER AN UNSETTLING night's sleep, full of that same dream again, Pietro woke early and dressed in his formal lawyer's robes of deep green, then set out for the Doge's palace. It was a chill morning, with mist rising from his mouth and his toes aching inside his boots.

  There was already a crowd, one that filled all of the Piazza San Marco, and Pietro was barred from entering the palace by the sheer weight of the masses. Bells rang in the massive Basilica di San Marco, which abutted the Doge's palace. Pietro had heard those bells often during his time in the cells, and taken comfort from them. He noted that the one still had that slight tremor to its cast that kept it ringing after its fellows, a lone vibration when the rest had stilled.

  The arcade fronting the palace was thronged. Looking up, Pietro saw the Venetian nobility in the loggia overlooking the piazza. Dandolo was there. I wonder if he is glad he is not yet Doge – this would be a terrible decision to make. Save the man, or save the law. Pietro knew that laws mattered more than men, because without law men were no more than beasts. But when the law was put to such perverse use, what good was it?

  Sight of Dandolo brought to mind the conference between Detto and Zanino. Pietro tried to convince himself it was benign. He failed.

  Pietro was edging around to try a different path when he felt a shift. Every pair of eyes on the loggia turned towards the water. The crowd below grew still, and though there were no shouts now, the rumble of voices was far more menacing, almost like a growl.

  A foreboding conveyance was being punted towards them from the Yellow Crescent. Gondolas were usually brightly coloured, reflecting hues of houses and classical tales. This gondola was sleek and black as an ebon night, as though Death itself were carrying its main passenger.

  Charon on this Ship of Shadows was Shalakh. He stood in the boat's center, flanked by palace guards sent to escort him to his appointment with Venetian justice. Pietro had expected Shalakh to seem smaller since the brutal betrayal of his daughter, but quite the reverse. The man was full of a fire that made him fearsome. The boat arrived at the Piazzetta and the money-lender alighted onto the stone steps leading up to the Piazza San Marco. Though silent, the hostile gaze of the crowd abused the money-lender's clothes, his gait, his features. Shalakh paid them no mind, focused only on the doors to the Palazzo Ducale. He entered, and they were slammed shut behind him.

  The crowd did not know what to do – wait or disperse? Surely it would not take much time. One way or another, it would be over quickly.

  Pietro made his way through the masses, his lawyer's robes causing less deference than his knight's garb and sword would have. He was close to the doors when he spied one of Ansaldo's friends, the one with the interchangeable name. “Solanio!” called Pietro, hoping he got it right.

  He had. Turning, the man angled to meet Pietro just in front of the doors. “Ser Alaghieri. Has it started?”

  “Shalakh just arrived. Where are you coming from?”

  “The road. A letter from Bellario arrived last night.”

  “Is he here?” asked Pietro with hope, looking over the heads of the crowd for the familiar Paduan face.

  “Alas, no. He could not come. Sick, he writes. He has sent another doctor of law from Rome, with a letter of recommendation.” Solanio did not sound particularly impressed, even as he waved his hand. There, just behind him, was a young fellow in green robes, accompanied by another youth in the red tunic and brown hood of a law clerk. They could have hardly had more than forty years between them. And that one was a doctor of law?

  Bowing, Pietro offered his name. The young fellow did the same. “Baldassare da Romano. This is my clerk, Nerio. It is an honour to meet you, Ser Pietro. I must congratulate you on crafting the recent peace. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.”

  “You are very kind. I hope we shall see some peace made here today.”

  While they made introductions, Solanio explained who they were to the palace guards. The doors opened to admit them, and Solanio raced ahead to announce their arrival.

  Pietro kept stride with the young lawyer. “You are from Rome?”

  “I am,” said Baldassare.

  “I was in Rome during the Emperor's stay. Forgive me for saying so, you are very young.”

  “A fault that time will mend,” said the youth without embarrassment.

  “I meant no insult. Merely that I'm surprised no one introduced me to such a prodigy while I was there.”

  Baldassare made no answer to that, instead asking, “Do you plan to plead for the defence?”

  “I have offered, if Bellario did not come.” There was a moment of awkwardness.

  “Well,” said Baldassare at last, “he did not come. I will defer to you, if you wish, as my elder.”

  “Do you know any of the parties involved?” asked Pietro.

  “I know neither the plaintiff nor the defendant. I have never laid eyes upon either.”

  “Whereas I have a prior relationship with one. It might be grounds for accusations of bias. I just want to be certain Signor Ansaldo receives the best defence possible.”

  “I'm sure you could be impartial,” said Baldassare.

  “Even the appearance of impropriety that concerns me. Also, I have spoken to Signor Antonio, and would be hamstrung by a conversation we had from presenting a defence that could remove the threat of death from his head.” Baldassare cocked his head at that. “A quirk of Venetian law. I can say no more. I don't want you to be hindered as I am. Did Bellario give you any instructions?”

  “Do you know him?” asked Baldassare.

  “I do, both in person and through his writings.”

  “Then you will likely know what his advice was,” said Baldassare with a smile that dimpled like a boy's. It was not reassuring.

  “Yes,” said Pietro. “Literal interpretation. Find the hole in the wording.”

  “Precisely,” said Baldassare. “Dottore Bellario is devoted to the language of contracts and law. He says the answer is in the contract, and justice will only be perceived to occur if the contract is honoured.”

  “I haven't seen the contract,” said Pietro.

  “Nor have I. But I hope to.”

  Pietro pursed his lips. “Would you think me impertinent if I asked to see Bellario's letter of recommendation?”

  “Not at all. Nerio?”

  The dark-haired clerk produced the letter from a bundle in his arms. It bore Bellario's mark, but was not sealed. Pietro scanned it, and saw that Bellario did indeed recommend this youth in the most glowing terms. One line made Pietro smile: 'I
beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation; for I never knew so young a body with so old a head.' Pietro could almost hear the Paduan saying it.

  Running footsteps, wooden heels clicking on marble, then Solanio appeared from around a corner and came skidding to a halt before them. “The Doge is asking for Antonio's representatives.” His eyes appealed to Pietro. Baldassare looked to him as well.

  Pietro considered. Though a lawyer, he was not as devoted as some of his brethren to the practice of parsing each syllable of a contract, each line of a law. That was Bellario's field, and clearly this young fellow was cut from the same cloth. Perhaps that was the approach this situation demanded. For if it was legal, the bond must be honoured. The law mattered more than the man.

  Returning Bellario's letter, Pietro motioned to the clerk. “Present that to the Doge at once, young Nerio. I shall speak to your master for a moment, then we shall be along.” As Nerio went with Solanio in the direction of the main chamber, Pietro turned to Baldassare. “I will be there, should you need support. As a last resort, there is a clause we can invoke. But it would mean breaking my word to the accused. I would prefer not to do that. So this man's life is in your hands. You must see that his blood is not spilled.”

  Baldassare bowed. “You honour me with your trust, Ser Alaghieri.”

  Together they walked towards the trial where the merchant's fate would be decided. The decision made, Pietro fretted. But surely Doge Soranzo would prevent an execution! And Shalakh was not irrational, he would see sense before the ultimate moment. No amount of money was worth a man's life.

  But this was not a matter of money. This was about revenge. And no man seeking revenge was rational.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Correzzola

  THE SETTLEMENT WAS ANCIENT, known in Roman times as Civitas, a term that meant many things. One definition was the union of the Roman and the Sabine people as members of a single society. Whereas Cicero had defined it as a body of people, united by law.