by David Blixt
“I would never spar with nobility,” said Benedick with a small, seated bow. “Simply allow me to observe-”
“Observe the feast, please, and pass the fish,” said Pietro. Though lame, it was enough to garner a few chuckles.
“If he can bear to part with it,” said the lady Beatrice. “Being so slippery, he must be a close relation.”
Benedick blinked. “Am I fish?”
“No,” said Beatrice, wrinkling her nose. “You're quite foul.”
Cangrande barked as Bailardino thumped the table. Cesco hopped up and down in his seat as though he were the five-year-old in the room. “Goosed, goosed, goosed!”
At the next table over, Petruchio turned. “Speaking of gooses, Kate,” he said, and smacked his wife lightly on her cloth-covered buttocks.
“Geese,” she corrected, her eyes swiveling after she'd settled back in her seat.
“Do they remind you of anyone?”
“Yes,” said Kate. “Of characters from Aristophanes.”
“Who?” asked Petruchio in mock dullness. “No, Kate, I mean us!”
“Perhaps. Only less boorish,” said Kate, spilling his supper into his lap.
“More cerebral, I would have said,” observed Nico da Lozzo.
“Give them time,” replied Kate.
Standing to wipe the fish carcass from his hose, Petruchio addressed the young Prince of Aragon. “Mark my words, lord, if they don't kill each other by sunrise, they're a good match.”
“Only if I never wanted another moment's peace,” retorted Benedick.
“Oh, is that the piece you coveted?” asked the lady. “That is not the impression you convey.”
“I desire peace of mind only.”
“Lacking the mind, it must be hard to find the peace.”
“Stop them, please!” cried Cangrande, wiping a tear from his eye. “Or I'll never keep the meal down.”
“I'm in danger of the same thing,” said Suor Beatrice, just realizing her namesake really did like the Paduan soldier. Her banter was a screen, and a good one.
Cangrande rose to make the rounds of other tables, pausing to needle his niece's husband once more – he rarely missed an opportunity to make Rizzardo the butt of some joke. Tonight it was for the beard Rizzardo was attempting to grow. “Your chin looks unkempt, Rizzardo! Next time you shave, try standing an inch or two closer to the blade.”
As Rizzardo attempted to laugh at being called a coward, Verde sent a glance in Mastino's direction. But her brother was deeply involved in discussion with Castelbarco's son about a new set of jousting lances he had received as a gift from Henry of Carinthia. So Verde abandoned her seat to take a place next to Giovanna and launch a discussion of the new dresses she could purchase in Paris.
Prompted, Cesco used the Scaliger's absence to prod another target. “Ser Paride! I hear you are depriving us of your company.”
Paride's joy was genuine. “I am quite excited. I've never been abroad.”
“Nor I. But you must ask Ser Alaghieri to tell you all of the best attractions of Paris. Rest assured, cos, he would never venture into a place beneath his honour. Hm. Perhaps I should go with you – like a hound, I'd sniff out the best places to dine, and the best dishes.”
“I did not know you were a gourmand, cousin,” said Paride.
“Indeed I am!” said Cesco, winking at Giovanna. “I am learning all there is to know about stews, and flesh-pots.”
Giovanna exuded resignation. “Can you help being coarse?”
“Of course not,” said Cesco, tearing a piece of bread and helping his little wife mop up the oil on her plate.
“Ser Francesco,” said Giovanna tartly. “At least in the presence of ladies, please end this nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” asked Maddelena.
Cesco winked at her. “Alas, she means I am insensible to sense. Sense-less.” Not quite getting the joke, Maddelena smiled back anyway.
From the next table, Kate raised her voice. “Has anyone else noticed that men retreat into wordplay when they have nothing to say?”
“I certainly have,” said Beatrice, looking at Benedick.
“Wordplay shows wit, an agile mind,” he replied.
“Only if the words are well-played,” observed Beatrice. “Any fool can try to be amusing, but few are.”
“Dear lady, only a fool would joust with you.”
“Dear me,” said Beatrice, “and here was I, hoping you would.”
Cesco snapped his fingers and pointed. “It's catching! Madonna Giovanna, if you wish to limit my wordplay, perhaps it would be best not to speak to me at all. That way, at least I cannot play off your words.”
“Your silence would indeed be a blessing,” said Giovanna.
Cesco opened his mouth to answer, but the requested blessing seemed ordained by the Lord. The large door in the corner of the room burst open and a messenger rushed in. “My lord!”
Cangrande said loudly, “What is it?”
“The Doge! The Doge is dead!”
This news set everyone to talking. It seemed that the night before, just hours ahead of the year 1329, Doge Soranzo had shuffled off the moorings of life and ascended to the canals of the sky.
Salvatore said in a loud, carrying voice, “What was your idea this afternoon, Ser Francesco?”
Cesco looked blankly inquiring. “I forget.”
“You suggested that, as the Scaliger is now a citizen of Venice, he should go stand for election as the next Doge.”
Across the room, Cangrande led the laughter. Feeling a stirring excitement, Pietro thought this just the kind of madcap adventure that might appeal to Cesco, an impossibly bold task that would be a slap in the face of the Venetians who had plotted so long against the people he held dear.
But Cesco merely reclined in his chair. “Sounds exhausting.”
“I quite agree,” called Cangrande. “And I'm sure the vote is being held this very moment. Besides, what greater honour could there be than owning my current title? It is far greater to be Capitano di Verona than Venetian Doge. Or at least, it soon will be,” he added with a wicked gleam.
“I'll drink to that!” said Petruchio. Finding his own cup empty, Petruchio filched a goblet from the High Table where the Scaliger had left it. As was his practice, he did not lift the rim to his lips until he had locked eyes with his beloved wife, who smiled at him as she did the same. They drank as one, holding eyes that twinkled and sparked, containing a lifetime of love.
Setting the cup aside, Petruchio cuffed his bearded chin and started to laugh – or so it seemed. The laugh quickly became a cough. His face became a mottled red. Then he keeled over and dropped to the tiled floor, dead as a stone.
Twenty-Three
Tuesday, 3 January 1329
THE DEATH OF PETRUCHIO da Bonaventura and the attempted assassination of Cangrande cast a bleak pall over the remaining days of the Christmas season. The tension was palpable as everyone wondered who had tried to poison the Scaliger. Servants were questioned, of course, along with the cook Gioco, the stewards, the vintner – everyone who might have had the chance to drop something into the cup without drawing attention. But in a room full of witnesses, no one had seen anything.
For all the shock and sadness, there was another emotion in the air – anger. This had been no natural death, and certainly no accident. Every person in the hall knew that Petruchio had lifted a drink from the Scaliger's place, that the poison which had stripped their ranks of this beloved rogue had almost claimed a far greater victim.
Whoever had done the actual poisoning, the vexing question was who was behind it? Some men recalled Cesco being poisoned upon his entrance to Verona, and so leveled the accusation at Mastino. But what would it gain him to poison his uncle now? Why not months ago, when Cesco was neither a knight nor the anointed heir? The timing made no sense.
Some accused the Paduan exiles, angry over being barred a return to their homeland. Others singled out Carrara, covetous of the top posi
tion. Still more accusing fingers pointed East, to where Francesco Dandolo had emerged victorious in the election for Venetian Doge, while others were pointed at the Visconti of Milan, suspected of attempting to poison the Emperor in just the same manner. Or was it Emperor Ludwig himself, angry at all the insults Cangrande had heaped upon him during his long stay in Italy? Hadn't his nephew already been accused of attacking a member of the Scaliger's family? And what about that Spanish prince, newly arrived and seated only a few feet from the cup?
Most of these were external threats, political ones. Yet there were some who listened to the Abbot of San Zeno when he spoke of an evil spirit possessing someone near the Greyhound's throne. Though he was not so foolhardy to offer a name, there was no doubt to whom he was referring. After all, who had been raised in the house of a man commonly believed to have walked through Hell? Who was every day attempting to undermine the recent peace by picking quarrels with Paduans? Who was seated beside the Scaliger through the meal? Most importantly, asked the Abbot, cui bono? Who stood to benefit?
Pietro asked the same question, though in a different way. Certain of Cesco's innocence, Pietro wondered if the attempt had been aimed at removing both Cangrande and Cesco at once.
Was the attempt even genuine? Though his opinion of the Scaliger had softened of late, Pietro instinctively questioned the convenience of his being away from the table when the poison arrived. But Cangrande could hardly have known Petruchio would lift the cup, nor imagine anyone would drink his own wine – no one else would have had the audacity. It came as a painful relief to decide that Cangrande could not be blamed for this. Probably.
Another danger occurred to Pietro. What if it became known that Cesco had been dosed with poisons these last three years in order to build his immunity? Wouldn't that lead to more suspicion? Pietro had never imagined that a practice done to protect the boy could someday be used to attack the man.
Hurried back to Verona to examine Petruchio's body, Morsicato concurred with Fracastoro as to the nature of the poison. “Hemlock. Simple and swift. Though it had to be a strong dose,” the doctor added. “His breathing stopped almost at once.”
Checking to be certain they were not overheard, Pietro asked, “Would Cesco's immunity have saved him?”
“I doubt it.” Morsicato scrubbed his face with his hands. “Here's hoping we never find out.” With that dark thought, he mounted to return home to his wife, still ailing. Which made Pietro wonder again about poisons.
Suspicion grew, not only in his mind, but in the minds of every man he met. It was as though the poison had seeped into everyone's brain, turning their thoughts against themselves. All of Verona was envenomed, and there would be no cure until the city had someone to definitively blame.
Inside the palace and the Domus Nova frank discussions of potential assassins were held hourly. Yet there was one name no one uttered, or even thought of, until Cangrande called Pietro to his private suite on the top floor of the palace.
Shutting the door, Cangrande escorted Pietro to a closed window on the opposite side of the room and gave him mulled wine. He waited for Pietro to drink, and Pietro wondered if he was being tested somehow. Pietro sipped.
Cangrande nodded, then sat and took a long draught of his own. He then met Pietro's anxious eyes and said the name. “Rosalia Rienzi.”
Breath escaped Pietro in a rush. Rosalia! Detto had mentioned her trying to murder the Scaliger on several occasions in the past. Surely she had an even stronger reason now. “You have proof?”
Cangrande shook his head. “Not even an ounce. I'm far from convinced it was her. But you are the only man with whom I can discuss the possibility. I know you have seen her. Drink up, and tell me your thoughts.”
The drink had not been a test. It had been meant kindly, fortifying Pietro for an unwelcome conversation. But wine did not steady Pietro's nerves, only dulled them. He set the drink aside. “If you know I saw her, you must know what I do.”
A furrow appeared between Cangrande's angelic blue eyes. “I know only that she married Old Bramo and disappeared behind his walls.”
Pietro wrestled. He had sworn an oath. More, Cangrande was the last person she would want to know her secret. How awful. Here was a man who should be rejoicing at the coming birth of his own grandchild. Only that this was a double-grandchild, born of his two children, in incest. Pietro imagined it being born dead, deformed, demented, or monstrous.
Pietro shook his head. It is not my secret to tell.
Aloud, he said, “I do not think she had anything to do with the poison.”
“Is that wishful thinking, or a reasoned response?” Cangrande waited, but Pietro did not answer. “I could call her to court, under some pretext. Twelfth Night. The Palio.”
Pietro blanched. The notion of Cangrande summoning Donna Tiberio was awful, and her answer would be worse. She might obey, and so shame them all. “You don't want to do that.”
Cangrande raised his brows. “So there is some secret, and the girl made the knight swear an oath to keep it. The secret is not petty, and will come out if she comes here. Tell me this – is she in contact with Cesco?”
“No,” said Pietro with an absolute certainty.
Nodding, Cangrande said nothing for a time, mulling it over. It did not take long for his active brain to reach the obvious conclusion. Wincing, he spied unwilling confirmation in Pietro's too-expressive face. “Worse and worse. The poor child.” The way it was said, Pietro had no notion which child he pitied.
Cangrande rose to refill his goblet. “What you say – or rather, don't say – it doesn't help matters. If the girl is with child, then she has all the more reason to hate me.”
“How would she even arrange it, from so far away?” Careful not to confirm the pregnancy, Pietro did not deny it either.
“It could be done. Remember, she is a Scaliger. Damn.” Cangrande shook his head. “So small a thing…”
It took Pietro a moment to puzzle out Cangrande's meaning. Then, as if he were looking at a stone thrown into a still pond, Pietro saw the ripple of consequence, a chain of events that would drown all they had laboured to build. If Lia came, her pregnancy would be known. Were it known, either Lia or, more likely, Cesco would betray something to reveal the child as his. That might amuse the masses, proving no more than Tiberio to be a cuckold, unless someone were to remember that Cangrande had once slept with the girl's mother.
The pregnancy of Cangrande's daughter by Cesco was enough of a scandal that, even were he willing, the Bishop would not be able to cover it up. Instead the Abbot of San Zeno and the rest of the priests would seize upon this as proof that Cesco was damned – or perhaps claim it was the cause of his madness. In true Dominican fashion, they would attempt to remove the root of the evil. In this case, the girl. Cangrande's father had burned heretics in the Arena. It could easily happen again. And Cangrande would be helpless to prevent it, or risk losing the new protection of being back in God's sight. Were he to lose salvation a second time, there would be no reprieve, and therefore no larger ambitions. The Holy Roman Emperor might be able to appoint a new pope to crown him, but Cangrande could not. There was no ascent up the ladder of his ambition if this were known.
The rush of understanding was breathtaking – Pietro literally did not breathe for several moments as the whole series of events played out before his eyes. His heart was beating too fast, his head pounding fit to burst. Was this what it was like, to be a Scaliger? To have a mind that played the game on such a grand scale, with consequences foreseen before the first piece moved? It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal parts.
Cangrande would not have the protection of the Emperor, who despised him, nor of his allies, whom he had conquered. In his mind's eye Pietro watched Venice join Padua and Treviso in confronting Verona, with Pisa, Mantua, and Lucca to the south taking up arms and Florence egging them on with funds and material. So swiftly the wheel could turn. Verona, ascending, would be ground into dust.
All be
cause of an angry, pregnant girl.
“You cannot call her to Verona,” said Pietro.
“And if it is her?”
“Send her a message, if you must. Or order Tiberio to take her away. To France, to Spain, somewhere. England! Send Tiberio to the English Court to find the truth of what Aiello says.”
In spite of himself, Cangrande smiled. “Tiberio at a foreign court. I'd pay the price of admission. But it's winter. Do you propose to send a pregnant girl over the Alps at this time of year? Unless you mean that to solve the problem,” added the Scaliger with an arched eyebrow.
Shocked, Pietro opened his mouth to say no, then realized how convenient a miscarriage would be. Surely God would prevent such a child from being born. Unless the priests were correct, and the Devil was at work here.
It was only a short leap from miscarriage to the potion women took to relieve themselves of unwanted pregnancies. “If you call her to Verona, she will think it is to murder her child.”
“Only if she believes you have broken your vow – which you just have, by the way. But if I call everyone – her father, her brother, Tiberio, and all the other distant landholders in my domains – there will be no cause for outright suspicion.” He frowned in concentration. “That means Twelfth Night is too soon. The Palio, then.”
“She'll be close to her time by March.”
“Better the news of her pregnancy comes out now, I think. We will make a show of congratulating Tiberio on his coming heir, and gift him with a title or something. It also allows us to control the shock to Cesco's system. Not that he shows so much concern for us. But he is young, and angry. Almost as angry as I was at his age.”
“The difference is that you had something to fight for. He has something to fight against.”
“So clearly the poet's son. Ser Alaghieri, you are a master of the epigram. I should keep you on retainer for pithy sayings. 'A man may control his actions, if not his stars.' 'You had something to fight for, he against.' You sum up the world so well.”
Pietro was not to be diverted. “Do not call her to Verona, my lord. She did not try to murder you.”
