The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “Actually, I find myself reminded of Epictetus. 'Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest that happens.'”

  At which Cesco laughed, and laughed. “Why so I do, Pater! I take everything as it comes. Don't you?” The hashish was in strong evidence. His pupils were dark and wide, and he looked almost deranged.

  Cesco did not participate vocally in the New Year's Eve revels, but he did dance, showing off his acrobatic prowess. He only subsided to listen intently to the songs of the Virgin – as her day, January 1st, fell on a Sunday this year, it was customary to move it up a day or two. Thus December 31st was both an honouring of the Madonna and an ushering out of a very fruitful year.

  There was a play this night (using a script not tampered with by Cesco, penned by Cangrande himself) depicting the Virgin raising her troublesome child. An amusing pastiche of Cesco, who laughed aloud several times. “If only I could turn the Rakehells into birds! Can you imagine the trouble we'd get up to?”

  “No statue would be safe,” agreed Cangrande.

  Yet the talk that evening was of the ailing health of the Venetian Doge, who had declined dramatically these last weeks. The trial of the merchant Ansaldo had been his last public appearance, and he was not expected to live out the month.

  The obvious successor was Francesco Dandolo, who seemed so friendly with the Scaliger in public, contrasting the rumours of assassination plots and imprisonment of Cangrande's trusted knights. Enough of the rumours were true that those in the know did not stem the tide. It was whispered in Verona that if Dandolo were to become Doge, it would mean war with Venice.

  “Which the Scaliger will win,” crowed young Petruchio.

  His sister Evelina was dubious. “No one has ever beaten Venice at war.”

  “She has no armies,” said Hortensio.

  “Nor walls,” added his twin.

  Evelina curled her lip downwards. “She's never needed them. As long as she has water and ships, the Serenissima will remain serenely unconcerned by war.”

  “You know these Scaligeri! Between the Capitano and the Hell-Hound—”

  “Hell-Hound?” asked Vittoria, eldest of the four Bonaventura children.

  “Cesco, obviously,” retorted Evelina. She wrinkled her nose. “What a stupid name.”

  Hearing Cesco's name was enough to make Vittoria cloud up. It still stung that she had never even been considered for his bride. In public feasts of this sort, where men and women commingled, she often found herself looking at the central table and hoping the little bride would choke on her meal.

  Looking up now, she noticed that the girl was falling asleep, and that her nurse was seated in Cesco's place. “Where is the young prince?”

  Petruchio and Hortensio glanced around. “God damn him! He promised the next escapade would be ours!”

  Turning from their adult conversation, their mother finally weighed in. “He is not your plaything, nor are you his keepers. Mind yourselves, and watch your blasphemies, or I'll have your father send you to the country house to muck out the stables. Again.”

  Vittoria looked smug, the twins crestfallen, and Evelina amused. Everyone thought their mother was mad, but to her children she seemed the sanest person in the world. In their youth, their playmates had often said that Kate was 'funny, but mean'. Most adults had stories to tell of her that made her sound utterly lunatic, which they claimed arose from her Paduan heritage.

  In truth, her madness stemmed from a deep independence, a trait she tried to foster in her children, with varying degrees of success. So even when hushed, young Hortensio could not resist repeating the question. “But where is the Hell-Hound?”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE SAME QUESTION (without the irreligious title) had been asked moments earlier at the High Table. Like the Bonaventura clan, Pietro had noticed the nurse Dahna in Cesco's seat. After unsuccessfully scanning the room for signs of unsuppressed revelry, he leaned over to Castelbarco. “Where's Cesco?”

  He was answered with a shrug. “No doubt we'll hear the shouting.” With that, Castelbarco returned to the conversation on his left.

  About to call for a servant, Pietro sensed a presence at his shoulder, and Tharwat's broken voice rasped in his ear. “He has asked for us. Quietly.”

  Excusing himself, Pietro threw on cloak and gloves and followed Tharwat out into the frigid air. The Piazza dei Signori was quiet. From the sound of it the Piazza delle Erbe still had some life in it, but this square faced by three Scaliger palaces, the city hall, and the house of justice was not often frequented by the night owls of the city.

  The man waiting for them was unexpected. Seeing Morsicato's forked beard, Pietro started forward in concern, but the doctor waved his hand. “Detto's fine. Tender on his side, but fine. Wishing he was here, let me tell you. Christmas with his mother was more of an ordeal than the stabbing.”

  “I'm glad to hear he's well,” said Pietro, blowing into his hands. “But then why—?”

  “—am I here? Summoned. Note wasn't even coded. Just told me to be at the palace on New Year's Eve. Esta was unhappy, and unwell when I left. What's he up to?”

  A voice greeted them from across the piazza. “Gentlemen! Over here!”

  The odd party of three – the limping knight, the barrel-chested doctor with the forked beard, and the one-eyed Moor – kicked up small puffs of snow as they headed for the northwest corner to the ancient well where Cangrande's will had once been hidden.

  “You came. I was worried you'd be too stupefied by the spirit of the season.” Bundled against the cold, Cesco was standing beside two iron crows, four buckets of boiling water, and a large sheet. He beckoned them onto the stone lip that ringed the ornately carved well, wide enough to fit all of them together. Pietro had a fanciful moment wondering if they were going to descend. But the heavy stone lid covering it prevented them.

  Morsicato stamped his feet, clapping his hands against the cold. “What are we doing here, boy?”

  “Honouring the Virgin Mother, I think.” Cesco handed Pietro one of the pry-bars. “Here. Help me with this.”

  With a confused look at the others, Morsicato bent to aid Cesco on his pry-bar while the Moor helped Pietro on his side. Together they laboured to raise the fitted stone slab from the well's octagonal mouth.

  “Before I went to Otto's camp, I had a thought,” said Cesco, “about one mystery.”

  “What is it?” asked Morsicato, straining.

  “We'll know as soon as we get this open. Push!”

  They obeyed, silent save for their groans and breathing. The singing from the next street felt oddly remote, other-worldly.

  “Where's Signor Benedick?” gasped Pietro. “Your other Rakehells? They could be – useful – for once.”

  Cesco wasn't yet breathing hard. “I may play the fool. Doesn't mean I am one. There's no need to share secrets with those who don't already know.” With a last effort, he and the doctor heaved their end free. “Besides, this – is a family affair.”

  They shifted the rose-marble slab past the two pillars that held the winch and down onto snow-dusted cobblestones. Cesco next lifted one of the buckets and handed it to the Moor, who began pouring the steaming water down the well. They had to knock ice from the chain before it would rise to be attached to the winch above.

  “I hope your suppers are settled,” said Cesco mirthlessly. “This will be a dirty business.”

  Pietro realized that it wasn't just ice holding the chain down. Something heavy was attached to the other end.

  “Is it the old metal box?” asked Morsicato, meaning the container for the will.

  “Too heavy for that, surely,” groaned Pietro as he got the winch working and hauled on it, dragging whatever was below up from the shadows to just below the level of their feet. Tharwat fetched a torch from a sconce around the corner. As they leaned in to see what it was, Pietro felt a ghoulish premonition.

  A body. A body, wrapped in a leather hide, bound tight.

  In
a tone so hushed it sounded reverent, Pietro asked, “Who is it?”

  Cesco's face was as expressionless as the ice. “A lady of Scotland, I imagine.”

  “Christ Jesus,” said Morsicato at the same moment Pietro murmured, “Oh Christ.”

  “I should have figured it out before. Donna Maria's final resting place, courtesy of Signor Fuchs.”

  Shivering, Pietro gazed down at the bundle in the well. “Why here?”

  “His way of giving me the fig. So much lovely symbolism This is where the body of the first Mastino was unceremoniously deposited after his murder. Also where Castelbarco hid Cangrande's will from Mastino. Contrapasso. Turnabout. Whatever you want to call it. My mother's body, hidden in plain sight. It's actually clever, in a blunt way.”

  After some debate, they tied a rope around Cesco's waist. Pietro didn't want Cesco to be the one to go down, but being the smallest and the lightest, it made the most sense.

  The body was badly decayed, and lay far below the water line. A seam of the leather wrapping had burst, leaking bits of the corpse into the water. Cesco had to dive again and again into icy liquid that contained floating pieces of his mother. Though he tried, the bones would not hold to each other. In the end he had to bring her loose parts up piece by piece. He also retrieved as much of her clothing as he could identify. He vomited once, and his hands had surely lost their feeling, but he refused to come up until he was finished.

  Wrapping the dead woman's remains in the sheet Cesco had brought, the ghoulish quartet retired to Pietro's house. Cesco rightly did not want Maddelena to see the remains of her mother-in-law.

  Evidently summoned as well, Antonia was waiting for them with food and drink. While Cesco went to bathe, Pietro, Tharwat, and Morsicato took the corpse to the cellar. Here, like Cangrande's baths, remnants of old Roman pillars rose from the floor, making it feel almost stately.

  A table was brought, and the remains placed upon it. “We should be doing this in a church,” said Antonia.

  “Time enough for churches,” said Morsicato. “Give me more light, will you?”

  When Cesco entered the cellar, he found his mother's body laid out and wrapped in a clean sheet. “She looks small. Diminished in death. That's worth remembering.”

  “Cesco,” said Pietro. “We are so sorry. We-”

  “You didn't know. You only did what you thought was best. You were only thinking of me. Yes, I know it by heart.” Cesco turned to Tharwat, standing near the wall on the room's far side. “I need to think of a new quest for you. How about a piece of the true cross? Or maybe an impression of Prester John's foot?”

  “Cesco,” said Pietro earnestly. “This might not be the moment, but we've learned something about her. Her name was Donna Maria d'Amabilio.”

  “A-mab-lio? Ah. M-A-B.” Cesco had been shown the coded message in August.

  “It's time we told you about the cripple.” Pietro explained what Girolamo had told them, about the house they had found, and about his presence at the scene of Detto's assault.

  “So you think he saved Detto's life? The first practical application of star-gazing I've heard of. I should trade you in, Tharwat, like a tired horse. We can put you to stud, if you like.”

  “We must find Girolamo first,” said Tharwat, unoffended.

  The crippled diviner was of less interest to Pietro than the question of Cesco's mother, now present. “We know enough now to send to England and trace her movements.”

  “What does it matter?” Cesco took in their confused faces. “I'm honestly asking. What does it matter?”

  “We owe it to her,” said Pietro.

  “The dead have no debts.”

  “The living do,” countered Pietro.

  “Well, as her heir, I absolve you of this one. Fuchs is dead.”

  “What about her message to you? We think it's a warning against Mastino.”

  Cesco raised his brows dramatically. “I hardly need warning about him, do I?”

  “What if Mastino was, in fact, behind it?”

  “Then let God punish him,” said Cesco mildly.

  “You don't believe in God,” said Antonia.

  It was the first time those words had been spoken aloud. They hovered for a long time in the cellar air.

  “But you do,” said Cesco at last. “You believe in Divine Retribution. Shouldn't we just leave Mastino to God?”

  “The Lord works through Man,” said Pietro.

  “Then He's doing a pretty awful job. Besides, isn't the tale of your cripple proof enough of the power of Divine Retribution and Mercy? He planned to murder a child, he was punished, he has sought forgiveness, and has been gifted with the Sight. Not that the Church approves of such things,” he added.

  Tharwat started to speak. “Girolamo—”

  “—doesn't know anything about my mother. He knows about her house. He knows something damaging to Detto's mother. I'd like to see him shut up, for Detto's sake. But all that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. As far as my mother goes, he's told us all he knows.” Cesco looked towards the corpse, wrapped in repose. “Her story is ended. I'm leaving. There are too many ghosts here.”

  Antonia realized the young knight was not talking about his mother. Cesco and Lia had used this house as a rendezvous. It could hold no good memories for him now. She said, “Cesco, wait. Pietro, tell him. He needs to know she's all right. Give him that balm.”

  Pietro did not like it, but she had forced his hand. “Cesco – before the attack on Detto, I went to see Rosalia.”

  In the door, Cesco gazed at him with no expression at all. “And?”

  “She is well.”

  Wincing, Cesco pointed at the corpse. “She was, too. But we took her from the well, and must find her a grave. It shows the cost of meddling. Leave her be. One dead female relation is enough.” He bowed his head to the still figure on the table. “Mo chridh.” With that, he exited.

  Tharwat followed, leaving the others in the flickering light of the cellar. Antonia squeezed her folded arms. “We should have talked to him. About the hashish, if nothing else.”

  “He cannot be abusing it,” said Morsicato with certainty. “The new wafers we've devised would put him to sleep before he could over-indulge.”

  “Did you see his eyes?” asked Antonia.

  “Drink,” answered Morsicato with certainty. “It cannot be hashish.”

  Antonia was unswayed. “Then we should have confronted him about the drink! You don't live with him. He's like his father, there's always a goblet in his hand. But he's fourteen, not forty. He shouldn't be drunk at all!”

  Pietro laid a hand on her arm. “He would not have heard us. Not tonight. Tonight was about his mother.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he said, “Take comfort in this – when he needed help, he came to us.”

  Outside the bells were ringing. The new year had started.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  FALLING IN STEP beside Cesco on the street, Tharwat was silent.

  “What?” demanded Cesco. “A new chart? A new drug? A new life?”

  Tharwat kept his breath even. “If it becomes too much, there is an option.”

  “Death is always an option,” retorted Cesco. Even that brought a frown to his lips. No one but Detto knew that he had once called Lia by the name of Death.

  “Travel. Nothing frees the mind and the spirit like escaping the site of trouble. I have a letter from a friend. He is called Battuta. He has repeated his invitation to join him as he explores Arabia. It is an option.”

  “First Cangrande, now you. Everyone wants rid of me. Leaving is admitting defeat. How little you all know me.”

  Cesco increased his pace, and Tharwat let him go.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN LA ROSA COLTA, Buthayna waited, and was not disappointed. But Cesco seemed uninterested in lovemaking. Instead they sat in darkness together, his back to her front, naked under a blanket, while he drank and recited lines from Dante, from Ovid, from other poets he did not trouble
to name. Only one she knew, for it was in her own tongue:

  Now the New Year reviving old Desires,

  The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,

  Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough

  Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

  She held him as he wept. Only when the tears were done did he turn and enfold her into a more ardent embrace. Whatever it was that troubled him, it was her duty to give him solace.

  To her dismay, it was also her desire.

  Twenty-Two

  Sunday, 1 January 1329

  FOR THE PEOPLE OF VERONA, the first day of January was something special. While the rest of the world carried on in the year 1328 until Easter, the Veronese calendar was yoked to the old Roman way. Hence the ushering in of 1329, a year everyone predicted would bring great things – victory over Treviso, newfound power and wealth for Verona, and all the blessings prosperity could bestow.

  At noon Pietro called at Cesco's house, Poco in tow, nominally to escort their sister to the feast, but really to draw Cesco into a discussion of publishing. They were somewhat successful, getting the names of a couple texts they might look into, until he realized what they were up to and told them they'd make more money just publishing translations of Catullus.

  “Who?” asked Maddelena.

  “He wrote about girls, but in Latin, so they can't read it.”

  “That's not fair!” objected Maddelena.

  “It isn't, is it?” agreed Cesco. “But Nuncle Poco can fix it. No one better. He likes girls.”

  A large group of servants bustled about them. Progress was slow – Maddelena had eschewed a carriage, determined to walk all six blocks. So Cesco had left Abastor behind, holding his wife's hand to keep her from slipping on the icy stones.

  Some Rakehells arrived to act as an escort. Benedick walked on Maddelena's other side, and Salvatore behind, ready to catch the little bride if she fell. Berto and Barto were discussing a hawk their father had just purchased.

  At the center of the party was Detto. Arriving in Verona with his father for the celebrations, he'd come straight to Cesco's house on the via Pigna. He moved slowly, like someone five times his age. But he was upright, and his colour was excellent.