by David Blixt
“On the contrary, she tried to murder me several times already.”
“But not with poison. Not now.”
“We shall see. I like all the players on the board, you know that. I like to see their eyes.”
A statement that reminded them both of Petruchio, who was to be buried the next day. He had died with his eyes locked on, not an enemy, but the love of his life.
Sensing the Scaliger's intent was to end the interview, Pietro held up a hand. “There is something else.” There had been no time to speak of it, but it had to be addressed. “We found her. Donna Maria. She was in the well in the volto dei Centurioni.”
Pietro watched that information sink below Cangrande's surface. “Fuchs.”
“We think so. She's been there some time, Morsicato says.”
“Does he say how she died?”
“No way to know.”
“And Cesco knows?”
“He's the one who figured it out.”
Cangrande shook his head. “How much damage can he take? Even I was not so tasked.”
“If you ask me, it's a wonder Mastino is still alive. Fuchs was his cats-paw.”
“A point never far from my mind. Cesco is not normally known for his restraint. I worry what it portends.” Cangrande shook his head as a wet dog might. The light caught the first traces of silver at his temples. “But that's for the future. We must bury Petruchio, and it seems the lady as well.”
“Her birth name would help,” said Pietro, probing.
Cangrande smiled, if sadly. “Why, don't you have enough already? Bury her, by all means. But there will be no headstone.”
“Why? What does it matter who she was?”
“Exactly. It doesn't.” Cangrande looked gravely at Pietro. “It will not help him to know. Trust me.”
Pietro departed. Though unable to speak of the thing uppermost in his mind, he did not want to be alone. Antonia was living at Cesco's house. Morsicato was with Esta in Vicenza. Tharwat was still making his inquiries in Padua. This left only Poco, staying in Pietro's house. He could trust his brother, at least. Cold comfort on a cold night.
As Pietro trudged home, he resented the silence. It felt unnatural. The snowfall was again heavy, the night bitterly cold, colder than anyone could ever remember. It hurt to breathe.
He remembered Cesco's own laboured breathing three summers past. It remained the most horrible sound he'd ever heard. Which made Pietro think again of Petruchio's final moment. An airless death, with no chance to even utter last words. Horrific. A bad death.
At least it hadn't lingered. As the great Julius Caesar had once remarked, 'What matters the manner of death, so long as it's quick?' In a world that esteemed a Good Death – in battle, in the saddle, sword in hand – it seemed to Pietro that how a man died mattered less than when. There was nothing more awful than a soul lost before his time.
♦ ◊ ♦
Wednesday, 4 January 1329
PETRUCHIO'S FUNERAL WAS massively attended. The Lord of Bonaventura was one of the most beloved figures in Veronese life, always ready to offer a wager, a jest, or a roughly kind word. Best known for the public spats with his wife, the whole city had relished those hilarious duels of wit from which he rarely emerged victorious, which seemed to make him ever-more joyful. The idea of one without the other was inconceivable. And yet, it was now fact.
Known to be passionate and wild in nature, Katerina Minola in Bonaventura – whom her husband had teasingly called Kate – was shockingly stoic throughout the service and burial. It was her daughter Vittoria who dissolved into hysterics and had to be escorted from the Duomo. She, and the late lord's groom, who blubbered as if he'd lost his own child. Petruchio's sons appeared stunned, ghosts in their skin. Only the youngest Bonaventura child modeled her behavior after their mother. Despite her red hair, Evelina was cool and clear-eyed as they said prayers and carried her father to the family tomb just outside the city walls.
Bishop Francis was remarkably insightful as he intoned, “In a colourful city full of men of stature, Lord Bonaventura was perhaps the most robust-hearted man among us. He lived for each day, sucking the pleasure from it as one would the juice of a peach. His untidiness of manner was not slovenly. It was, instead, a statement of being. Loyal, fierce, mirthful, yet never vain or self-possessed. Never considered an intellectual – he would have scoffed at the idea – was there ever a man so blessed with confidence and self-knowledge? A man's man, who loved his hawks, his hounds, and his friends. He did not care what the world thought of him. He cared only for the good will of his God, his companions, his children, and most of all his wife. We must thank the Lord that He blessed us even for a time with such a presence, and that Petruchio's spirit will carry on in his four children, and in all our hearts. Verona will be less for the loss of his laughter.”
The moment was punctuated by a long, unhappy cry. Not a human sound, but the voice of Comare, Petruchio's favourite hunting hawk, shifting uneasily on her perch by the twins. It was this bird's sustained wail of sorrow, not her eldest child's tears, that broke Kate's composure. She lowered her head and wept in silence.
As they retired out of doors to escort the bier to the Bonaventura vault, Cangrande said to Pietro, “It seems to be a day for funerals.”
For a moment Pietro thought he meant Donna Maria, still unburied in Pietro's basement. There had not been time to find a good place to inter her. Then he realized what the Scaliger meant. The late Doge Soranzo's state funeral was today. “Do you think this was Dandolo? An attempt to win before the battle was even begun?”
Cangrande shook his head, but not as a negative. “The trouble with owning so many enemies is never knowing which has distinguished themselves with a plot.”
“You're employing tasters, I hope.”
Cangrande pulled a face. “Much against my will. It means a little less spontaneity in life. And we've already lost enough of that,” he added with a nod to the passing bier.
Pietro recalled the first time he had laid eyes on Bonaventura, surrounded by wedding revelers and lamenting his own lack of a wife. That day's bridegroom was also dead, having left only Paride behind him. Sons without fathers.
An uncommonly subdued Cesco rode alongside the bereaved twins through the snowy streets, across the Adige, and all the way to their family vault. The Paduan Salvatore rode beside the eldest Bonaventura child, the girl Vittoria. He held her hand, much to the consternation of her brothers. When did that happen? wondered Pietro.
From the time of the Romans, Veronese were not habitually buried within the city walls. One of the oldest Roman laws, never changed, read: 'hominem mortuum in urbe ne sepelito neve urito' – a dead man shall not be buried or cremated in the city. Of course, as the city expanded, more and more ancient crypts were incorporated within its boundaries. And there were always exceptions – the Scaligeri had their sarcophagi in the city, and Castelbarco had already started construction of his eventual resting place just outside San Anastasia.
For the rest, from knight to pauper, the body had to lie outside the city proper. Just as living and dead had to use different portals in a house, so the deceased could not set up camp near the dwellings of the quick. Fortunate, as there was no room within the city for elaborate crypts in the modern fashion, marking a man's passing with a lavishly ornate monument to his life and memory.
The Bonaventura vault was barely a century old, making it relatively new by Veronese standards. Under an ornate stone cross and above the descending stairs, a recently-engraved motto stood plain. It originated with a holy scholar destined for sainthood, one who shared Petruchio's family name: 'The voice of the heart must be heard more than the proceedings from the mouth.' Petruchio had added that motto at the death of his father, and one could almost hear the wry voice booming the phrase now, with laughter.
As the ruling family, Cangrande, Cesco, Mastino, Alberto, and Paride joined the Bonaventuri and the Bishop within the tomb's walls. Dismounting, Pietro led his horse up the r
oad a ways to wait.
Idly he looked up at the imposing metal doors of another family vault. The engraved name was hidden by snow. Depicted on the doors themselves were great deeds, done in the style of the famed doors of San Zeno. But instead of relating the acts of a saint, here were the acts of a family. The bronze was faded and worn on the oldest plates. But there were newer ones, two of which caught his eye. One was of a quartet of knights riding into battle. The other was of a knight in Verona's Arena, fighting valiantly. Both looked eerily familiar.
“How does it feel to be adopted?” Pietro turned to see Antony Capulletto gazing at the doors. “You'll forgive my father, I hope. He was so eager to add our deeds to that of the old family, he took some liberties. Since you were fighting on my behalf, technically your duel was a great Capulletto victory.”
“Except that I lost,” said Pietro.
Antony scoffed at that. “Carrara cheated. Fitting, as he was representing a cheater. To me, you'll always be the victor of that fight. And my friend.” He walked over and stroked snow from the engraved letters over the doors. It was not Capulletto, but rather the older Capelletto.
“You didn't add any panels for your father or brother?”
“What did they do?” demanded Antony shortly. “Father made money. Luigi made that little sprog that drives me mad. Nothing worthy of being hammered into bronze. Though I will certainly be there – and for more than that ride with you and the Scaliger – and the bride-thief,” he added grudgingly before carrying on. “Can you imagine your greatest deed being performed when you're under twenty? Spending the rest of your life living in the shadow of that? I can't. I need to do something grand. Look at the Scaliger. Look at your father! Great men, doing great things right up to the moment of death.”
Pietro understood the bleak talk. “It's natural to be thinking of death today. I am. Legacy matters. But you've got a family. A daughter, and another child on the way. She must be close.”
Antony grunted. “Days, they say. Let's hope this one lives.”
“It will,” said Pietro encouragingly.
“I've stopped getting my hopes up.” Antony's brow darkened. “And I'm sending that little shit away to the country estate.”
Confused for a moment, Pietro said, “Antony, you don't think that he—”
“I don't know it,” said Antony gruffly. “But I can't help thinking it. Unworthy, I know. But as long as I lack a son, Thibault's my heir. Just don't want to take any chances.”
“He dotes on Giulietta,” protested Pietro.
“Giulietta isn't male. Thibault is the only one who profits from the death of my sons. They're in here,” he added, resting a hand on the right-hand door. “My sons, locked in the cold. In the dark. My poor boys.”
Pietro reached out a reassuring hand. “They're not in the dark. They're with God.”
“Not if your boy is right,” said Antony, voice choked. “Not if it's all a lie.”
The reading. The casual refutation of Heaven and Hell. It had even struck Antony, the least introspective or religious person hereabouts, making him doubt the existence of Heaven for his dead infant sons. Cesco, do you even have a hint of the damage you're causing?
Casting his eyes towards the tomb where Cesco had vanished, Pietro found himself watched. Mariotto Montecchio was gazing at his two old friends with obvious sadness. Was he feeling Antony's pain, even from afar? Could this be the link that repaired the chain between them?
But Mari's son was living, while Antony's were dead. Mariotto had everything – the wife Antony had coveted, the life that Antony wished to be living. Everything. And Pietro knew that so long as that was true, Mariotto could not be forgiven.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE FEAST THAT NIGHT would go down in the history of Verona as one of the most magical moments in the city's history. Held at the Casa Bonaventura, it was not for the public, but for those friends and comrades of the bearded bellowing blowhard who had been so beloved. Kate had organized the evening, asking for help from Nico da Lozzo and Signor Hortensio of Padua, her husband's two greatest friends. They were each to speak, and she had told them in what vein they were to do it.
Long-faced with cheeks like a bellows, Hortensio began. “I don't know how to forgive Petruchio for this. I really don't. I wasn't even going to come today. I mean, why should I attend his funeral if the bastard's going to skip mine?”
Uneasy laughter, with shy looks to the widow. But Kate was grinning. Soon the laughter was less hesitant, more heartfelt as Hortensio heaped abuse on the dead man's head, all the while praising the things he had loved – his hawks, his hounds, his children, and his wife. There was a lot of focus on his wife – as much as they abused the dead man, there were an equal number of loving jibes at the madwoman from Padua.
When Hortensio finished, Manuel and Noam sang one of Petruchio's favourite drinking songs:
Be merry, be merry, my wife has all:
For women are Shrews, both short and tall:
'Tis merry in Hall, when Bears wag all;
And welcome merry Shrovetide. Be merry, be merry.
We shall do nothing but eat and make good cheer,
And praise heaven for the merry year,
When flesh is cheap and females dear,
And lusty lads roam here and there so merr'ly.
They ended in a C harmony, and the voices of the whole crowd sang the refrain with a heartiness that would have made the dead man proud.
Next it was Nico da Lozzo's turn. “There seems to have been some confusion this morning, as to whether Petruchio was supposed to be buried or cremated. I told Kate, take no chances. Do both. I mean, he'd be offended if he didn't find himself both below, and burning.”
It was unthinkable to mock Hellfire and damnation. And yet, for Petruchio, there was nothing more apt. The crowd allowed itself to laugh, and Nico continued, telling tales of his friend that were both scandalous and hilarious. He made much of the man's debts and his wagers before finally reaching the topic of Petruchio's marriage. “The real pity of Petruchio Bonaventura's life is that he wasn't born in Padua. Then he might have had some Veronese friends. As it is, he was too well known in Verona to make Veronese friends or take a Veronese wife. No one here would have him. No, while we all appreciate the Pax Verona, I think we can agree that the real conquest of Padua began when Petruchio went wife-hunting there. But, as we must also acknowledge, it was Verona that was conquered. Deflecting Petruchio's lance with her ample bucklers, Kate then did the unthinkable – out-talked him. Everyone here has heard them in their quarrels, talking over each other. Yet they maintained the impossible – they listened to each other even while they talked. Petruchio used to always tell me that Kate heard him. Not what he was saying, but what he meant. All of us long to be heard in that way. She brought out the best in him. He did the same for her. And while they are hardly the ideal couple – no great poems or lofty prose will ever be devoted to this pairing! – yet they have given us an example of unlikely people finding unlikely love. It was not chivalric – no one was less chivalrous than Petruchio! Yet in its best days it was even better. It was honest.”
Another song, with everyone encouraged to sing along in their best impression of the deceased man. Then it was Kate's turn.
When she rose, there was an expectation. Hers was a reputation for wildness, humour, willfulness, selfishness, and audacity. Once she had stripped nude before a whole crowd of onlookers. While no one quite expected that of her this night, no one was quite prepared either for the performance she gave.
She began by abusing her husband's previous mourners, and the singers, mocking them all for their thoughtlessness and insensitivity, smiling all the while. Then she launched into a speech that had them all in tears – tears of joy, of sorrow, of shared pain and love and mirth. It was at its heart a speech of the agony of mortality, of love cut short, of the blazing unfairness of being cheated of a lifetime together.
“That he died drinking was a surprise to no one,
really. But it was remarkably unkind. I've been drinking a lot these last three days, thinking I might join him. No, not because I cannot live without him, though I can't imagine how I will. Not because I must live on for my children, though I will, because I see so much of him in them. No, the reason I want to join him is because I have no one to lock eyes with now. Which means seven years bad sex.” Kate's voice quavered even as she smiled, the tears staining her cheeks. “My children are looking at me in shock. Which, honestly, amazes me. You four know it was my having sex with your father that brought you into this world, do you not? Yes, children, I regret to inform you that your father was nothing but a mother-fucker. But all the sex I have – and believe me,” she added, in imitation of her husband's pelvic swagger, “I plan to have a lot of it – it will all be bad sex, because it won't be with him.”
The tears came streaking down her face even as the howling mourners put their hands together in applause. Shocking, hilarious, and heartfelt – the perfect expression of the life of Petruchio.
It was a speech forever precious to those who were there, a gift given from the one who had suffered the greatest loss. Rather than be stoic, as she had been at church, she gave them catharsis, offering up just enough of her own pain to let them feel it. Yet she made certain her pain was not so raw that it overwhelmed them, became a barrier to their own grief. If sacrifice meant to make something holy, she sacrificed her grief for her husband's friends and hers, to heal them, to comfort them. For those who perceived what she was doing, it was the most selfless act from a human being they had ever witnessed.
The drinks and food that followed were astonishingly cheerful. As the widow allowed herself to be hugged, her hand to be clasped, doing more for those consoling than being consoled herself, the rest milled, hugging and raising their cups – though with an unwelcome measure of suspicion. Most carried their own drinks, refilled from their own bottles. Which meant everyone got drunk faster.
