by David Blixt
“Salvatore,” said Cesco, and all eyes turned towards the Paduan.
“Cesco – I mean, Ser Francesco,” sputtered Salvatore with unaccustomed lack of calm, “you cannot think—”
“You said they had been speaking with Rupert.”
The German prince's mouth fell open. Then he laughed. “I? Hire ruffians and vagabonds? To what end? What possible cause would I have to murder Ser Bailardetto?”
“To take his place,” said Salvatore, breathing fast now. “To slip into the role of close companion to Verona's prince.”
“And thus bring him closer to the emperor,” said Pietro gravely.
Everyone edged their horses away from the German, and freed their hands, ready to draw swords should the moment call for it.
Rupert laughed again, but the bravado rang hollow – he sensed the change around him. “I didn't. Franz, I didn't do this. I couldn't – how would I have known to hire these men? How would I have known they were there?”
“We laid plans last night,” said Salvatore. “You could have sent word in the middle of the night to meet you there.”
“Going there was your suggestion,” countered Rupert. “And you talked to these men as well, it seems. I heard them talking of women and asked after local entertainments. Why did you speak to them, if not to give them orders? Why could it not have been you? Eh? Or Benedick, or any other Paduan! That makes far more sense, does it not? This was a Paduan attack, performed so near the city that was just conquered, with whose citizens Franz and his cousin have been brawling since the wedding. That is far more likely!”
It was a rare thing for a prince to have to recall who was his audience. But his speech was a mistake, uttered as it was before the Capitano da Padua. The last thing Marsilio da Carrara wanted was a rumour that this vile deed had been performed by Paduan hands. Far, far better to blame the Emperor, with whom Cangrande had a strained relationship already.
Without taking his gaze from Prince Rupert, Carrara half-turned his head towards Cesco. “Shall I arrest him?”
Through it all, Cesco had said nothing, his gaze level on Rupert. But his hands were shaking. “On what grounds? Suspicion? There is nothing resembling proof. Even if we catch the men who did it, there will be nothing, I'm sure.”
“Franz,” said Rupert in a half-laughing appeal. “We know each other. Would I do this?”
“Yes,” said Cesco. “But I don't know if you did. Still, it might be best if you rejoined your uncle for a bit. Call your servants to Padua. Lord Carrara will offer you safe conduct to Rome. And Rupert?”
Turning his horse with a vengeful tug of his reins, the German prince had to look back over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“If Detto dies, I will burn down the world of whoever did it. I will flense the meat from their bones and wring every drop of blood before their eyes. I will hunt down their family, their friends, their cities, their God, and destroy them all. Empires will fall, kingdoms will topple, and Heaven itself will weep, for all its citizens will be pushed down to Hell.”
Rupert studied him, anger mingled with disappointment and humiliation. He chose to be clever, but there was no mirth in his tone. “I thought there was no Hell.”
Cesco stared with eyes as wild as the open sea, as bright as the sun, as malevolent as an oncoming storm. “I'll make one. In the face.”
“Come, Prince Rupert,” said Carrara. “Let us see you safely out of our lands.”
Rupert continued to look at Cesco, as if searching for something. Then he laughed and shrugged before allowing himself to be escorted away.
The rest of the party rode through the Porta Altinate, with its ornate recreation of a Roman Triumphal arch. Everyone was silent, focused on getting Detto to the doctors who would determine if Cesco would need to make good that terrible threat.
But as the party emerged from beneath the arch, their number had decreased by two. Cesco had paused in the shadows, and Pietro had noticed. The young man's hands were shaking, his breathing was fast. He looked like a man in the grip of a fever. Softly, Pietro said, “Are you well?”
Cesco clearly wished to be alone, but having failed that, he reached into the pouch on his belt and consumed one of those damned wafers. “I will be. All will be well. Well well well. Speaking of wells, there's something in Verona… But that can wait. Have you sent for fork-beard? He's presided over every disaster we've had, and no one's died yet. I think he's actually a witch – it can't be his medicine, he's not that clever. Can't even diagnose his own wife. But for stabbings, he'll do.”
“I sent for him, yes.”
“Good. I'd rather not lose my only true friend in the entire world.”
That was wounding. “I'm your friend.”
Cesco looked Pietro dead in the eye. “I mean, the only person who has never lied to me.”
♦ ◊ ♦
HAVING BEEN CALLED from Vicenza to tend the lad he'd known since birth, Morsicato shouldered past the Paduan doctors who had, in fact, done excellent work. He produced his signature cure for such injuries, the maggots that Pietro remembered all too well. They had once preserved his leg from infection, and therefore amputation, so he welcomed the shuddering memory in the hope that Detto would live long enough to enjoy the fruits of their labours.
With the doctor came the astrologer. As soon as he could, Pietro took Tharwat aside and explained the traces he had seen.
The Moor was grave. “Do you suspect Girolamo of complicity in this?”
Pietro frowned. “The more I think of it, the more reasons I find not to suspect him. He was in Venice the night before, whereas these other men were in Correzzola. Someone bandaged Detto's wound after the attack. I think Girolamo found him, and tried to save him. But why leave Venice at all? Did you send for him?”
“No. I failed to procure the lady's guarantee of his safety. And if it is as you say, if he did preserve Detto's life, why run?”
“Girolamo was at the Nogarola house when Katerina had her stroke. He was once hired to murder Cesco. Seeing Detto in the snow, seeing the family crest on his person, he must have known how bad it would appear to us all. He would have considered himself ripe for hanging if he remained. Certainly Bailardino would not have waited for the law, but strung him up on the spot.”
“So I think,” said Tharwat.
Pietro started to speak, then stopped. The astrologer had been leading him on to the right conclusion – a maddening habit, especially in one who told fortunes. “Can you find him?”
The Moor shook his head. “My skill is not in the pendulum. I cannot find lost things, or it would not have taken me so long to find Pathino, or Donna d'Amabilio. But he will appear.” He refrained from adding, 'When the stars decree.' He knew Pietro's feelings about astrology.
Morsicato emerged from the sickroom after several hours to give them news. Detto was not dead – the wound had not been mortal – but had lost a great deal of blood. Had it not been for the rough bandage, he would have died in the snow. “Though I think the cold helped. Cold slows the flow of blood, so as bad as it was to be out there bleeding, had it been summer, he'd've been dead before we ever found him.”
One positive outcome was that Bailardino now had a worthy excuse to forget his anger at his firstborn. He arrived in Padua at noon, the stains of travel marking him from heel to hip. Bursting into the sickroom, he knelt by the bed and gently brushed his son's hair. Cesco, who had barely left his cousin's side, moved now, letting the father in. In fact he left the room, forcing Bailardino to hunt him down in the palace for the inevitable confrontation.
Bail asked the same questions Pietro had posed, and though he asked in a louder voice and used more colourful terms, the answers were no more enlightening. Indeed, it took a great deal of convincing and talking to the other Rakehells before Bail was convinced it hadn't happened on some mad escapade. When Rupert's name came up, Bail set out to hunt down the German princeling, only to find that his target had already departed. Rupert had known better than to linger
.
“Well, that's the Emperor sorted,” said Petruchio Bonaventura, who had ridden with Bailardino to see that his own sons were safe. “The Scaliger put on such a display of hospitality that one-eyed Berthold had to admit defeat. If this was Ludwig's other plan, it has rebounded quite badly.”
Cangrande had come as well, riding at a breakneck pace across the snowy ground to see his nephew. While Bail looked to his son, the Scaliger joined Carrara in organizing the hunt for the attackers. But they had vanished into the unwalled maze that was Venice, and the northbound lone rider had crossed a stream, and the tracks had vanished. Pietro did not mention the cripple.
Bail remained by his son's side, and Cesco quietly took up station across from him. After a time spent gazing at the young man they both loved, Bail said, “Thank you for trying. The baths, I mean. I assume that was you.”
Unimpressed by the earlier accusations hurled his way, Cesco's voice was flat. “That must have hurt to say.”
“More than you know,” grunted Bail.
“It hurts him,” said Cesco simply. “Whatever else you think of me, I don't want him hurt.”
“You struck my wife.” Bail waited, but when no answer came, he said, “You offer no excuse?”
Cesco shrugged. “Reasons. But no, no excuse.”
Pulling a face, Bail seemed to seek out some excuse on his own. “She does like to meddle. Her and those damn charts. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been tempted over the years.” Fixing Cesco with a hard stare, Bail said, “Don't do it again.”
“I can't imagine another reason so compelling.”
Bailardino's brow remained furrowed in a manner foreign to his genial face. “You're harder than people think.”
“Like the forged blade, I've been hammered into my present shape.”
They were looking at each other, and so missed the first signs until they heard a voice, weak, from between them. “C—cia—”
Bail and Cesco both leaned close. “Yes, Detto? What is it?”
His eyes shut, his senses still absent, Detto mumbled, “Cianfa dove fia rimaso?”
Dropping his head onto the bed beside his friend, Cesco began to laugh. He wanted to dance. Instead he went to find the doctors, who were never around when good things happened.
♦ ◊ ♦
WHEN DETTO WOKE clear-eyed for the first time on Tuesday morning, he accepted his father's presence without comment. Though knighted, he was still a boy, and needed his father in times of stress. His father, and his best friend. He asked for Cesco, who was with the Scaliger but came at a run.
Pausing at the door, he entered the room with a saunter and dropped onto a stool, shaking his head in disgust. “You didn't even capture a wolf.”
“Capture one?” repeated Detto, a weak smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “I called them to keep me warm until my egg-friend arrived.”
“That was your mistake, riding alone. Death came calling when I wasn't there. But it turns out we had it backwards. You're Castor, I'm Pollux.”
“I don't feel immortal,” said Detto, wincing.
“You should. You're the hero, and I'm destined to be the forgotten one.”
“You did this to me on purpose,” said Detto.
“I did,” agreed Cesco. “Just to win the Palio.”
“Next time, try a bribe.”
Listening, Bail approved of this banter. But he could not long resist asking the important questions. “Who attacked you, lad? Tell me, so I can kill them.”
Detto gave the best description he could. Three men, all hooded. Not soldiers, just men. “They killed Vegliantino, who couldn't run because he was lame.”
“Caltrops,” said Cesco, referring to the wicked spikes that had littered the road. “They lamed a couple of our horses as well.”
Detto began to weep at the loss of his horse, and they spent time complimenting the animal, Bail promising to buy the finest steed Montecchio owned to replace it. The expense of emotion sent Detto back to unconsciousness, and he slept the rest of the day.
On Wednesday Morsicato said they could move him, if carefully. As they bundled Detto into a covered wagon, Cangrande ordered an escort of the best knights Padua had to offer for the short trip up the road to Vicenza. The Rakehells joined, and the enforced silence on the journey felt like a funeral procession. They all were hoping someone would attack, but no one did, though many peasants came out to line the road to doff their caps in respect, which only added to the funereal air.
Rebelling, Cesco started to sing. The words were known to all the Rakehells by now, and they sang with gusto of the Devil crafting the privatest part of Eve.
“Damn,” said Cangrande, laughing. “I'm going to have to hire a hundred more men to guard Verona's streets.”
“To protect Cesco?” asked Pietro.
“To protect Verona from Cesco.”
“He'll stay by Detto's bed, surely.” Detto had remained at Cesco's side when Cesco was poisoned, and Pietro could not imagine Cesco doing anything else.
Cangrande disagreed. “He would, if Detto were in Verona. But think of with whom Detto will doubtless be sharing a room. I do not envision Cesco subjecting himself to that.”
His words proved true. Cesco saw his best friend into the doors of the Nogarola palace, but did not cross the threshold into the chamber on the upper level where a second bed had been placed. Morsicato now had both his patients in one room, where Katerina could watch her son convalesce. “It might even motivate her recovery,” the doctor had told the frantic Bailardino.
Valentino came to stay, accompanied by his new friend Proteus. With the whole household buzzing, Cesco declared it no place for the Rakehells, and they decamped without paying their respects to their fallen comrade. The journey had been hard, and he was fast asleep, aided by the doctor's potions. So Cesco was not forced to face Detto's mother, a relief to all save perhaps the lady herself, who doubtless had something to say.
She did speak to her brother, if briefly. He emerged from the sickroom looking troubled.
Before the main party mounted for the ride to Verona, Morsicato offered Cesco a pouch. He made sure to scowl as he did, though the face he turned to Pietro was far lighter. “We've cracked it. A sure way to be certain he doesn't over-indulge.”
“Yes?”
“I've laced each one with extract of poppy, much more than was in it before. If he takes more than two, he'll be asleep in no time.” Morsicato walked off, chuckling to himself. But Pietro was less certain of this plan. He imagined Cesco in some crisis, falling asleep when he most needed wakefulness. Still, slumber was preferable to constant brawls and madcap escapades.
For the whole ride back to Verona, Cesco spent his time beside Salvatore, who spoke with uncommon feeling about Rupert's perfidy. Himself, Cesco was more phlegmatic. “It's Detto's own fault. He should not have been out alone. Ah well. The Rakehells have lost two members. That means I'm drinking for three. Come on, sluggards! Last one to La Rosa Colta buys the wine!” And he kicked Abastor into a gallop.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE WHOLE OF VERONA had heard about Detto, of course. But the citizens seemed not to take it seriously. Those Rakehells were bound to get themselves injured, and he wasn't dead, was he? He was young and strong, he'd be up and around by Twelfth Night. No need to douse the candles and end the carols.
By now Antonia was firmly ensconced in Cesco's house on the via Pigna, insinuating herself into the daily routines. Having used Maddelena as her excuse to move in, she hadn't expected to actually enjoy spending time with the girl. Not naturally maternal, she had always looked upon her role in raising Cesco as unique, because of his own uniqueness. She appreciated Detto for his good influence on Cesco, but never much cared for him until he became old enough to be a person in his own right.
To suddenly again be part of a five-year-old's life was fascinating. Was it because Maddelena was a girl? Was it age and experience that made Antonia appreciate the child's company? Was it simple nostal
gia? Though clever, the girl was not at all like Cesco – not a prodigy, just a sweet girl thrust into unfamiliar circumstances.
The smart choice the household had made was to treat her as a child, and not lady of the house. Too much power invested early would skew the girl's personality. Instead the goal was to set her up more as a sister than a wife to Cesco. In that, Antonia found herself in whole-hearted agreement. He had always needed a sister.
The ill consequence, of course, was a lack of husbandly responsibility on Cesco's part. Had the girl been older, she could have insisted on formal dinners, on running the household, on managing the finances. All of those things might have curbed Cesco's more wild impulses. So, instead of a wife, it was time for Auntie Imperia to step in and try to arrange things.
For the last week she had worked with Dahna to create a new routine for Maddelena – Bible verses in the morning to learn to read and write, walks at mid-day, weaving after a nap, then supper and bed. These were interspersed with board games and some other physical activity, different each day. Maddelena was eager to ride her pony, so that was kept as a treat should all her other lessons be complete.
Maddelena was excited for Christmas, as her parents were coming back to visit her, bringing her sisters and some more of her belongings that had been left behind. And she was to have a new dress, with panels, just like a real lady. Antonia had to smother a laugh at that, as well as at a dozen other things the child said.
Pietro arrived before Cesco, who had gone directly to the whorehouse. Glossing over that fact, Pietro quickly related everything, including the detail of the cripple that he had kept back from everyone except Morsicato and Tharwat. “I'll tell Poco tonight. Have you seen him?”
“Every day,” answered Antonia. “He has a whole house full of copyists starting work. The Scaliger was only too happy to approve the project, and he smoothed things over with the guilds, who were unimpressed with so many of their best artisans being hired away to craft books. They don't see the profit in it.”
“There may not be any,” said Pietro. “There aren't that many actual libraries, and most of them are in monasteries. Though the Church can certainly afford books. What we've been talking about is copying obscure manuscripts, not popular ones. Things that were lost – poetry, letters, philosophical tracts, scientific treatises. The smattering of Virgil and Homer and more, the plays that were preserved in the corners of the Roman Empire when Rome fell – those things have changed our world. It's like we're all waking up from a bad dream. Imagine if we were at the heart of that reawakening.”
