The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  After Roman law failed, the city was renamed but remained a sleepy hamlet until the founding of the Benedictine camp two hundred years earlier. Over the years it had grown, the brothers branching out into all fields of production – farming, milling, crafting, brewing, baking. When the first beggars had arrived, the spirit of Christ had not failed to welcome them, but at the price of labour.

  The Rakehells arrived with no great Christian spirit, casting off the form God had given them in favour of playing at poverty. Some had created mock deformities, like a humped shoulder or an arm in a sling. Yuri dragged his foot behind him at an awkward angle.

  They were greeted with warmth and generosity, and soon any thought of mischief vanished. Here were no uptight monks in need of mockery, no declaiming abbots deserving a tweaked nose. It was a true commune, a community. The invading youths were soon fed and told to rest, and if they chose to work that afternoon, their help would be welcome.

  Benedick was instantly recognized, and made all the more welcome by the monks, to the amusement of the other Rakehells. His embarrassment was intense enough to cause him to make himself scarce, joining in the loading of wagons full of livestock bound for Venice.

  Salvatore approached Cesco, a loaf of bread under his arm and a stone bottle of ale in his hand. “Rupert was just talking to those men there,” he said, pointing to a trio of wanderers preparing to depart. “They say there's a brothel up the road, but no willing dames within the compound.”

  Cesco shrugged as he accepted the bread and tore off a hunk. He wasn't feeling particularly lusty under such a grey sky. “I'm astonished this place survived the war.”

  “Who would raze it?” asked Salvatore, seating himself on a crate full of chickens. “Not your father.”

  “Certainly not,” agreed Cesco. “I doubt he'd receive a reprieve from a second excommunication. But I meant that this place must have been over-run with the needy from Padua.”

  “They likely came, but didn't care to work for their bread.”

  Cesco arched one brow. “Are you saying Paduans are shiftless, lazy, indolent buggerers?”

  “No, that's what you're saying,” answered Salvatore. Cesco always liked trying to get a rise from him, but his calm remained unperturbed. “It's funny that Benedick should have mentioned the Count of San Bonifacio.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because this place was started by one of his forebears,” said Salvatore. “A couple centuries ago, a widow to one of the Counts bestowed this land on these monks.”

  “Really? But the Counts have traditionally been Veronese. Does this mean this is Verona's bread I'm eating, made from Veronese grain?”

  Salvatore's cheerful face broke into a grin. “It used to be, and is again, thanks to the Pax Verona.” He swallowed. “Does Detto know where we are? Will he be joining us?”

  “I left word for him,” said Cesco, in a tone that said he didn't much care. “Why?”

  Salvatore shrugged. “I heard Rupert say something about him.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Venice

  UNINTERESTED IN THE infamous trial, Bailardetto da Nogarola departed Venice, huddling in a blanket as he was ferried across to the mainland where his horse was stabled. Running his hand over Vegliantino's neck, Detto asked the stable-boy, “Did he pass a good night?”

  “All well, my lord.”

  “Good, good.” Detto loved animals, and animals loved him. It was just his nature, a strange but wonderful gift of Fortune, one he prized. Unlike some, he did not ever plan to let his gifts lay fallow.

  Detto paid the stable-boy, not too much, but not too little. He did not wish to be remembered. He was here under a false name.

  A precaution rendered almost useless last night. What was Ser Alaghieri doing in Venice? At the Doge's palace, even? He was the last person Detto was afraid he'd run into there.

  It could have been a disaster. But Detto had somehow wormed away, though Nuncle Pietro (as Cesco called him) was nobody's fool. When I get back, I'll have to say I met him. Then we can decide if we need to alter plans…

  Fretting, Detto mounted Vegliantino and rode off in the direction of Vicenza.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Vicenza

  “I AM AFRAID I have losht the chartsh,” said Donna Katerina to her guest.

  “I have recovered them,” said Tharwat, producing them. “All save one.”

  “It wassh burnt.” Katerina's eyes were full of anger. “You found him? Ish he dead?”

  “He is not, lady. He has told us all. He is no longer a threat to you. In fact, he may be a gift.”

  “How?” demanded the lady, hating her supine position, her utter helplessness.

  “His is a true gift. Stronger than mine, for that art. He may be able, in the future, to take my role. When I have gone.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Not yet. But one must plan.”

  “Indeed. What do you want?”

  “Permission to let him travel freely with me, that I may instruct him.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “He will not reveal publicly that you tried to have the boy murdered. He will keep his silence.”

  “And the lady Maria? You will sshtop looking for her?”

  Tharwat shook his head. “It is too late for that. Her name is known. It is only a matter of time.”

  “You musht not look for her.” Katerina struggled to sit up, intent on relaying the importance of her words. “It will be ruin!”

  “Whose ruin?”

  But that she refused to answer. Just as she refused to allow the diviner freedom. “I will tell Bail he attacked me, that I wassh too afraid to shpeak. He will be hunted and killed!”

  Shaking his head sadly, Tharwat rose to go. “He may be hunted. But he will live longer than either of us, lady.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Venice

  PIETRO MOVED ALONG the wall of watchers inside the Doge's great chamber. The Council of Ten was present as witnesses, as well as a dozen clerks and judges. Everyone was morbidly curious in seeing justice done – and what that justice would look like.

  A place was made for him. Almost against his will, he took it. The man to his left he only knew in passing, having met him at the peace talks in August. On his right was Francesco Dandolo.

  “Ser Alaghieri,” said Dandolo in low greeting. “How good of you to come. I was not aware you knew the principals in this case.”

  “I don't.” Cangrande had always kept his use of Shalakh secret, and Pietro had done the same. As far as Ansaldo went, it was the truth. “I heard of the case, and came to offer my aid.”

  “You are a good man. Did our most undivine friend reveal anything of use?”

  “I understand he was perfectly truthful,” said Pietro carefully. “Whether it was of any use, I cannot yet say.” He did not like being indebted to someone who had once imprisoned him and tried to murder Cesco. But so far he had no reason to complain of Dandolo's behavior. He resisted asking after Zanino. Direct questions would yield him nothing.

  “I am glad to hear Girolamo was not dishonest in his confession,” said Dandolo. “Though I worry about his accuracy. He predicted acquittal, but I don't see much hope for the merchant.”

  The Doge was shaking young Baldassare's hand and introducing him to both the plaintiff and the defendant. Pietro noted that the reports of the Doge's ailment were under-rated. He looked hollow, almost like a fruit that had been carved from within. He was rotting, and barely present. A healthy man might have had the strength to guide this trial to a happy conclusion. But it looked as if Soranzo was barely here in flesh, and not at all in spirit.

  To the condemned man, Baldassare said, “Do you confess the bond?”

  Antonio Ansaldo was dressed in simple hose, a loose shirt and vest, and boots, every inch the condemned man ready to meet his end. Chin high, he nodded. “I do.”

  Baldassare frowned. “Then the Jew must be merciful.”

  “On what compuls
ion must I?” insisted Shalakh angrily. “Tell me that.”

  Baldassare launched into a fine speech on the nature of mercy, of how it originated with God, and it was man's duty, if he sought mercy from above, to show it below. Pietro wished he had it written down, for it was excellent, all the moreso for being extempore. He felt the first stirrings of hope.

  The Hebrew remained unmoved. “The Christian Lord is a God of mercy. But great Jehovah, the Lord of my people, is a God of justice. Let my deeds fall upon my head. I crave the penalty and forfeit of my bond.”

  Baldassare gestured to Ansaldo. “Is he unable to discharge the money?”

  Ansaldo's friend Bassanio bolted forward from the watchers. “I have twice the sum here. If that's not enough, I promise to pay ten times so much! Or my own flesh – take my hands, my head, my heart! If he refuses that, then he is not interested in justice, but revenge. I beg that you force this devil to accept payment. Bend the law, do a great right by doing a little wrong.”

  Baldassare shook his youthful head. “It cannot be. If the state breaks a law once, it is broken forever. The law is based on precedent, and from that little breaking many more will rush in and shatter the thing that keeps all men secure. It cannot be.”

  “A Daniel!” cried Shalakh, amazed and overjoyed. “A Daniel come to judgment! O wise young judge, how I honour you!”

  Baldassare held out his hand. “Let me see this bond.” Shalakh offered it willingly, and the young Roman studied it. “Master Shalakh, you will not accept ten times what is set down here as payment?”

  “An oath, an oath,” said Shalakh. “I have an oath in Heaven. I will not perjure my soul.” Pietro wondered if he meant Antonio's oath to pay in flesh, or his own oath to exact revenge.

  Baldassare looked up from the paper. “Then the bond is forfeit. Lawfully this Jew may claim a pound of flesh, to be cut by him near the merchant's heart. But Jew, be merciful. Take your money and let me tear up this bond.”

  “When it is paid in full, according to the law,” said Shalakh smugly. He was breathing hard, his gaze fixed on the prisoner.

  For his part, Ansaldo wanted this over. “I beg the court to offer judgment.”

  All eyes were upon the young Roman lawyer, who faced Ansaldo and said simply, “Then prepare your bosom for his knife.”

  Again Shalakh cried his delight, drowning out the mutters of disbelief and horror from the watching court. “O noble judge! O excellent young man!”

  Dandolo leaned close. “This is who Bellario sent?”

  Pietro shook his head. “He's following the law.”

  “I was foolishly confident this would not happen,” answered Dandolo. “Our friend Girolamo foretold an acquittal. Had he not gone, I would reprimand him.”

  “Gone?” Pietro felt a chill that had nothing to do with the proceedings.

  “This morning, I'm told. I confess I was concerned I had been duped. He had been so fearful for his safety. But perhaps he did not trust my word. Did you speak to him?”

  “No,” said Pietro. When he'd arrived, he'd not felt instantly compelled to seek out the crippled diviner. Now he wished he had.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  GIROLAMO WAS A SLOW traveler under the best conditions. No longer built for riding, he was already aching from the contorted posture a saddle required of him.

  But the pendulum had nearly flayed the skin from his fingers in the middle of the night as he tried to predict coming events, demanding he leave Venice at once. It frightened him, leaving the protective skirts of Francesco Dandolo. But what the pendulum was doing frightened him more. Ever since he'd met the Moor, his talent seemed to be more powerful, more demanding. He felt the swing of the small marble teardrop even when he was not holding the chain.

  It was a grey day, heavy with the promise of yet more snow. He had tried to stay to the road, but the pendulum had pulled him off of it, southwards over land he had never seen. Not Padua, then. Somewhere else.

  He heard the hoofbeats before he saw them, and had enough time to take cover under a thick clump of evergreens, the kind known as Graveyard Cypresses. But it wasn't the name of the trees that had Girolamo clutching his reins. His pricking thumb told him this was danger. It was also why he was here. Under the cover of the trees, the diviner fingered the knife at his belt, waiting to strike.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “IF YOU HAVE any words to offer, Ser Alaghieri,” said Dandolo, “this is the moment.”

  It was indeed. Shalakh had produced a dagger, a strange blade, one forged not straight but rather flowing like waves. The Jew now jiggled the weapon between a cutting grip and a stabbing one, trying to decide how best to rend Ansaldo's flesh.

  Frowning, Pietro decided to act. Stepping away from the wall, he tugged at the clerk Nerio's sleeve. When the young man turned, Pietro snatched the fellow's stylus and quickly carved a few words in the wax tablet. He then nodded urgently towards Baldassare, and Nerio quickly moved forward to show the message to his master.

  Baldassare was telling Shalakh to order a doctor present to stop the bleeding, but the Jew pointed out that the bond carried no such stipulation.

  Nerio held the tablet out, and the Roman jurist read the words Pietro had written: Venice is a city where crimes of love are forgiven. It was as far as he could go without breaking his word.

  Frowning, the young lawyer gazed at Pietro, then turned to Ansaldo. “Merchant, do you have any final words?”

  “I am prepared.” Antonio turned to his friend. “Bassanio, give me your hand. Don't look so sad! This is a happy fortune. I'm saved from growing old in poverty. Do me one favour – commend me to your wife. Tell her of me, speak me fair. Let her judge that her husband was not much loved in Venice. Don't grieve.” He grinned with wry sadness. “I pay this debt with all my heart.”

  Tears of rage and despair stood shimmering in Bassanio's eyes. “Antonio, I love my wife with all my heart. But my wife, my life, all the world means nothing compared to my friendship with you. I would sacrifice them all willingly to this devil to save you.”

  Baldassare looked grave, almost angry. “Your wife would give you little thanks for that, if she were here.”

  Gratiano made a vow similar to Bassanio's, and Nerio muttered something under his breath.

  Shalakh seemed to agree with the lawyer and his clerk. “Christians make terrible husbands. My daughter married one. Much joy may she have of him. Come, we trifle time! The sentence.”

  As Ansaldo was brought forward, his breast bared, Pietro tried to catch Baldassare's eye. Surely the youth understood the message. Ansaldo's declaration was as close to a statement of love as one man had ever made for another. Whatever shame would come, was it worth dying to avoid it? Perhaps the youthful lawyer thought so. Certainly he was frowning, eyes downcast, unseeing, at the bond in his hand.

  Shalakh had settled on a grip, and held the knife upwards, like a man about to carve a carcass. The steel rippled in the light from the high windows, reflecting upwards. In the shimmering glow it cast, the Jew looked quite demented in his delight.

  Baldassare was still looking at the bond. “A pound of Signor Ansaldo's flesh is yours, Jew. The law demands it, and the court grants it.”

  “Most rightful judge,” said Shalakh in a low tone, approaching Antonio.

  “And you must cut this flesh from his breast, next to his heart. The law allows it, and the court grants it.”

  Pietro was horrified. The young lawyer suddenly seemed as eager as the Jew for Ansaldo to die.

  “Most learned judge,” hissed Shalakh. “You hear the sentence. Prepare.”

  The knife went up, the point threatening. Pietro could bear it no longer. He opened his mouth…

  “Tarry a little,” said Baldassare, gazing down at the bond in his hands. There was a moment, a terrible moment, when he seemed to decide something. Then he raised his gaze to meet the Jew's. “This contract says nothing about blood. The words are expressly 'a pound of flesh'. So take it. But if you shed a drop of hi
s blood, your life, lands, and goods will, by the law of Venice, be confiscate to the state.”

  Shouts from all around. At once the loud Gratiano began baiting Shalakh. “O upright judge! Mark, Jew. O learned judge!”

  Shalakh looked ashen. “Is that the law?”

  “We can show you the statute. You are so hungry for justice, we shall see you get more than you asked for.”

  Shalakh hesitated, the knife trembling in his hand. He could strike, and have his revenge, at the cost of his life. Was the price too high?

  At last he lowered the knife. “Fine. Pay the money and let the Christian go.”

  Bassanio started forward, but Baldassare waved him off. “You refused the money, several times. You demanded the forfeit named in the bond. So – take it. And see you take nothing more or less than one exact pound of his flesh. We'll have it weighed, and if it tips the scales by the estimation of a hair, your life, lands, and goods all belong to Venice.”

  “A Daniel! A second Daniel,” cried Gratiano in jubilant mockery. Pietro wished he wouldn't, but understood the man's relief. He shared it.

  Shalakh said, “Give me my principal, and let me go.”

  “I have it here,” said Bassanio, offering his purse.

  Baldassare intervened. “He has refused it in open court. He shall have justice, and his bond.”

  “Not even my principal?” asked Shalakh over Gratiano's crowing.

  “Nothing,” said Baldassare, “but what's in the bond. Take it at your peril.”

  Pietro had to stifle a laugh of amazement. The youth was not only brilliant, but brilliantly hard.

  Shalakh threw his knife to the ground. “Keep it, and may it plague him. I'll stay no longer.” He turned to leave, but Baldassare gestured to the guards to block his path.

  “Tarry, Jew. The law has yet another hold on you. The laws of Venice decree that if any non-citizen attempts to take the life of a citizen, the injured party may seize one half his goods. The other half goes to the coffers of the Serenissima, and the offender's life depends on the mercy of the state. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Doge.”