The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Pietro drew a deep breath, but Antonia laid a forestalling hand on her brother's arm. “Does it make it better?”

  Biting into the sweet confection, Cesco shrugged. “For a moment. Then it's worse. Like drinking to alleviate a hangover. As long as the wine flows, all is well. The trick is to keep the river flowing.”

  Pietro crossed closer. “Cesco—”

  Swallowing, Cesco closed his eyes. “Nuncle, you may relish being a rush-mat for men to trod upon. I am not you. Get out.”

  “Cesco!” said Antonia.

  Throwing his half-empty goblet across the room, Cesco snarled, “God, how I hate that name!”

  “It's the drug talking,” said Pietro with scorn.

  “No, dammit, it's me!” Cesco scrubbed his face with his hands. “Why should this worry you? The noble Moor gave it to me, the doctor continued in his absence. If you did not approve, you should not have been complicit. Why this sudden fear of what sustains me? A man cannot live off of prophecy alone. Nor can a Greyhound, it seems.”

  Pietro and Antonia shared a glance. “So you do know.”

  Filching a second sweet from the box, Cesco plopped down in a chair and gazed at the frosty window panes. “Yes. Despite the best efforts of my pack of keepers, I have learned the inevitable. What does it matter if I destroy myself? I have a destiny!” With his finger he traced looping figures on the glass. “Leopard. Lion. She-Wolf. Then death will claim me untimely. All I have to do is identify my three foes and I can be done with this farce called life.” Wiping the figures away, he turned to face the two Alaghieri. “Though now I wonder, could it be you? My keepers? Morsicato the Leopard, Pietro the Lion, and dear Sister Imperia the Wolf. If I murder you all right here and now, can I lie down and die in peace?”

  There was such menace in his tone, such otherworldliness, such contempt, they were both taken aback. For the first time they actually felt fear. Not fear for him. Fear of him.

  “Of course not,” said Cesco, answering his own question. “You aren't important enough to be mythic beasts. You are just my deceivers, the ones who lie and lie in your throats for my own good. Is it any wonder that I do not have an impulse to candor?”

  “You're being beastly,” said Antonia.

  “The beast in me is the best of me. Every cripple finds his own way of walking. This is mine. So leave me be. I mean it. Get out!” This last was shouted with such venom that the two adults took a united step back. But they did not depart. “Fine. If you won't, I will.” Cesco stalked to the door, exiting and slamming it after him.

  “Well,” said Pietro.

  “Anything but well,” answered Antonia. “If what the doctor says is true, shouldn't he be asleep by now?”

  “Yes,” answered Pietro. “Unless the doctor erred.”

  They looked at each other. There was nothing more to say tonight. Seeing her brother to the outer door, Antonia went upstairs to check on Maddelena.

  Dahna was asleep on her side of the chamber. On the far end, the little girl was in bed, but something in how rigidly she held her white stuffed bunny proclaimed she was awake. “You should sleep, little one.”

  “And you should leave him alone,” muttered Maddelena.

  “What?”

  The girl sat up sharply. “Why don't you leave him alone?”

  Antonia leaned forward to stroke the five-year-old's hair. “Because we love him. We don't want to see him get hurt. Or hurt himself.”

  “My husband is stronger than anyone,” said Maddelena possessively, fiercely hugging her bunny.

  “That's true,” agreed Antonia. “Sometimes I wish he weren't so strong. Sometimes I wish he could let himself cry. Because someday all the pain he hides is going to overwhelm him and he'll feel all alone in the world.”

  “He won't be alone,” said Maddelena. “He'll have me.”

  Antonia sighed. “That's sweet, little Maddelena. I hope you're right. I truly do.”

  A hammering on the door below caught them both short. In moments the steward arrived to announce young master Theobaldo Capulletto, commonly known as Thibault. He was bleeding, and seeking shelter for the night.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THERE WAS NO KNOCK, no warning before Cesco came into Buthayna's room. She was with another man, who found himself hoisted mid-coitus by his hair and beaten across the threshold. The door slammed shut, but reopened so Cesco could toss the man's clothes out after.

  It banged shut again, and he leaned against it, staring at her. “No one else. Whatever I must pay, you belong to me.”

  She gazed back at him, uncertain, restraining her heart from leaping with joy. As the frequency of his visits had increased, so too did her determination not to fall into the wanton's trap. Never love a client. Never.

  He came to her and kissed her hard, with teeth and tongue and jaw. His hands moved with such force she would be bruised, and she responded in kind, biting his lips while her hands ripped at his shirt to rake him with her nails. It was angry lovemaking, loud and forceful. She thought her own hunger was artifice until she realized she was weeping with longing. Not for his body, but for his heart.

  But she would not say it. She would not give up that last inch of her self, her dignity, her protection. Not unless he said it first.

  Which he did. Curled behind her, spent and sleepy, his hands as tender as they had been rough, he traced the line of her arm with one finger. It was a moment she would remember forever – the sheets, the light of the taper, the scent of the incense, the feel of his body, the timbre of his voice. But most of all she remembered the words, spoken in her own tongue. “Uḥibbuk.”

  She suppressed the shuddering warmth that flowed through her. Reaching up, she trapped his hand against her arm, softly, tenderly. As was right, she responded in his own language. “I love you.”

  From that moment Buthayna knew she was lost.

  She did not care.

  Twenty-Five

  UNABLE TO FEEL his arms, Benjamin Montagu staggered down the road under a grey sky. He swayed, uncertain how he kept his feet beneath him, much less placed one in front of the other. But he could see it now. His half-brother had spoken with reverence of the city's fabled forty-eight towers. He was almost in Verona.

  Benjamin had been on foot ever since the cart driver had noticed the unwelcome rider and beaten him away with his crop. His own fault. The rocking of the wagon had lulled him to sleep, wonderful sleep. Even better, sleep while making progress! In the last three days of travel he had caught snippets of sleep in trees, once under that bridge when it had been too cold to brave the air. But sleeping in the back of a wagon, even a wagon of crated pigs, had been near heavenly. How did he hear my snores over the grunting? Am I that loud?

  It had been a grueling journey. Catching a chill from the river, he had been found and nursed to health by a farmer's wife – until the farmer had taken umbrage at his wife's favourite method of warming Montagu. Escaping with his sword and shoes had been a miracle. He'd been on foot ever since.

  Thinking of feet, his left foot was numb. He plopped himself down by the side of the road and massaged, not the foot, but the leg above it, welcoming the needles of pain as blood started flowing again. The temptation to stay seated was so great, but he dared not indulge it. He might fall into a never-ending sleep.

  Struggling upright, he stalked back to the old Roman road. He had a vital message to deliver. He was only afraid the Scot had arrived before him. It's been weeks. Maybe he turned about and went home—

  That sounds like horses. Benjamin longed for his own horse, safe in the stable in Lyons. He'd lost what little gold he'd had in the river, and it was a miracle he hadn't lost his sword.

  Horses! screamed a voice in his head.

  He turned to spy six mounts galloping towards him. Forgetting the cold, the pain, the exhaustion, Benjamin began to run.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  BENEATH ONE OF Verona's fabled towers, Romeo Montecchio was skipping along, attempting to touch only non-snowy pat
ches cleared on the ground. In his mind, if he landed in snow, he'd fall, not down, but upwards, into a cloud. What if snow is actually fallen clouds? What if you could grab a handful of snow and be lifted into the sky?

  His thoughts in the air, Romeo trailed along after his mother on the way to church. She made the trip daily, ostentatiously entering the confessional while her pretty seven-year-old boy waited outside it. When he was smaller he'd just stood gazing at the walls, making up stories. He knew every fresco, every cross, every engraving, every fine fixture of this shrine.

  As he grew older, he also grew bolder, and started to explore. The Basilica of San Zeno was a wonderful maze. The main chamber split at the boundary between the nave and the sanctuary, creating two tiers. The upper opened into the sanctuary proper. The lower, visible through pillars supporting the sanctuary, led down into a cavernous enclosure where the holiest men and noblest Veronese lay at rest. The older sarcophagi were simple and plain, bearing rudely carved inscriptions. The newest bore ornate inlays of gold and silver, complete with elaborate crests.

  Romeo had explored down there for weeks, always returning just as his mother emerged from unburdening her soul. By now he knew every stone, every inscription, and was ready for something new.

  Today, boldly leaving his mother behind, Romeo crossed to the stairs at the far left of the nave. Instead of following them down, he tugged on the door in the wall and exited the church, pulling his cloak tight.

  The garden here was enclosed by the pillars of a walkway, with the monastery proper on the far side. A lone friar was toiling on hands and knees, re-wrapping some blighted shrubs. Romeo recognized him at once. Fra Lorenzo was a man whose frame was unsuited to his size, but that was due to the beer that Franciscans practically lived on. A favourite of Romeo's mother, Lorenzo had always been kind to Romeo, patting his head and sneaking him sweets.

  The man's back was turned. It entered Romeo's head that it would be good sport to startle the holy man, and was about to call when someone beat him to it. “God give you good morning, brother!”

  “Benedicite,” said Fra Lorenzo, automatically offering the greeting of the brothers of San Zeno, a Benedictine order. Then he saw who had hailed him. “My lord prince, an honour.”

  Romeo's face lit up. Leaving the cover of the walkway, he broke into a run. “Cesco!”

  Himself startled, Cesco laughed and bowed. “Romulus! Did you leap the wall?”

  “No, I just killed the brother that did.” Skidding to a halt, Romeo bowed back, grinning, sure he'd found his adventure for the day.

  “With so many brothers to choose from, how did you spy him out?”

  “By finding the one without a hood.”

  “Because he was not a member of the brother hood. Ha! Well, whatever the cause, it is wholly a delight to find you here.”

  “I've come to fill the unholy hole Adam left us with his bite of the apple.”

  “You'd best change your name then, to escape the apple.”

  Romeo frowned for a moment, thinking, then beamed. “Meaning I need a new appellation!”

  “Right!”

  “I shall apply myself to finding that new appellation, Cesco.”

  “Ser Francesco,” corrected Fra Lorenzo, breaking into their badinage. “Even in wordplay, titles matter, my little lord.”

  “Quite right,” agreed Cesco amiably, putting a hand around Romeo's shoulders. “Take our esteemed brother here. He could be called many things, but he prefers Pater, since he sees it as his duty to patronize the whole city. Even now, this is not even his garden, yet he feels compelled to meddle.”

  “I was asked,” said the friar huffily.

  “A rare happenstance. Be warned, little Romeo, don't let the good friar into your life. He won't ever stop meddling.”

  Fra Lorenzo's brow wrinkled. “Romeo has no need of my advice. He's a good boy – unlike some I could name.”

  “Could isn't would, and definitely not should. In the naming, wouldn't you shatter some oath or other?”

  Finished wrapping the plant's base, Lorenzo lifted his shears to clip some stray leaves. “Ser Francesco, I hope you've come to pray. You aren't here nearly enough to atone for all your foolishness.”

  “I did my praying this morning, at an eastern altar.”

  “Humph. I suppose I must accept that oblique statement at face value. But if you have prayed, why are you here trampling these poor herbs?”

  “I wanted you to explain something to me.”

  “And that is?”

  “I was recently reminded of Omar Khayyám, and the dual nature of nature. I hoped you could enlighten me as to the theory of duality.”

  Lorenzo paused, frowning. “It is nothing new.”

  “Perhaps not. But Auntie Imperia – Suor Beatrice to you – says your view of it is unique.”

  “I am an herbalist. My observations come from working in my garden.” Reaching out, Lorenzo snapped a leaf from the white dog's blossom at his elbow. “Inside this plant there is both medicine and poison. If I crush it, mix a pinch of it with some other herbs, it will cure several maladies. If I were to eat it whole, I would grow ill and possibly even die. Both qualities live in my garden.”

  “Quite the Eden,” said Cesco laconically.

  Impervious to interjections, Lorenzo warmed to his theme. “It strikes me that man has much in common with plants. The ability to do acts for good or ill – it is a question of use. If a gifted man used his gifts for selfish pursuits, no matter the reason, it would act like a slow poison on both the man and those close to him. If a man, for whatever reason, commits acts of charity and selflessness, it could cure a city, or even a whole land.”

  “Fascinating theory. And so similar to something… what was it? Ah well – it will come to me. Thank you, Friar, I feel enlightened.”

  “In lightened?” Romeo was still eager to play.

  Cesco ruffled Romeo's hair. “Yes, a warm light fills me.”

  “All aglow.”

  “Better aglow than a-glowering,” said Cesco with a sidelong glance at the friar.

  “But you are lightened,” pressed Romeo.

  “Nearly weightless.”

  “Perhaps by wings on your heels.”

  Cesco winced. “Those were clipped long ago. I'm waiting for them to grow back. Until then, my lightening must come from a wick. Even a one as dry as this wholly holy man.”

  “My young lords,” said Fra Lorenzo, “play with words as you please. I have work to do.”

  Cesco interposed himself between the holy man and the next plant. “One more thing. As you say, men, like plants, can have undesirable effects on their fellow man. That isn't limited to the young. The old and nominally wise can fall into the trap of doing evil, no matter their intent. Does the plant have intentions? Or is it just there, waiting to be used? Regardless, I wanted to warn you, some plants have thorns. Thorns that can prick, exposing what lies beneath the outer skin.”

  Startled, Lorenzo's anger kindled beneath his tonsure. “Prince or no, take that tone with me again and you'll regret it.”

  “Regret will be catching, then. I'll pass it on to you. I know you Franciscans are all about good works. But take me off your list of charities. In this one instance, follow the guidance of my friend Benedick's namesake – separate yourself from worldly cares. Pray for me if you must, but leave it there.”

  Fra Lorenzo unconsciously cracked the knuckles of both forefingers under his thumbs. “I will do as my conscience dictates.”

  “That wasn't always the case, was it? I have heard whispers. Whispers of a city far, far away. A city in the hills of France, one with some very peculiar traditions – what, are you leaving?”

  Fra Lorenzo had blanched, the shears trembling in his grip.

  Romeo was confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing!” said the Friar quickly, sweating despite the cold.

  Cesco's tone remained jaunty. “O, our friar was once a sinner. Worse, really. We're
all sinners, but Lorenzo was something more.” He snapped his fingers. “That's why your plant-theology sounds so familiar! It's the doctrine of—”

  “No!” gasped Lorenzo in a husky voice, looking over his shoulders.

  Cesco grinned nastily. “Never let it be said, Romeo, that our dear Fra Lorenzo isn't perfect. Yes, always remember – he trained to be perfect, just like his father.”

  “I'll remember,” said Romeo, not comprehending.

  Lorenzo stared at Cesco. “How – how did you—”

  “I listen at keyholes.”

  “Please,” said Lorenzo, wringing his hands.

  “Don't beg, O holy perfection,” mocked Cesco. “I'm no Inquisitor. Your little heresies are as safe from me as my secrets are from you. Put another way, I swear, Pater Perfecte, if my secrets are not mine alone, neither will yours be.”

  The Franciscan swallowed. “God will not accept oaths to do sin.”

  “Sin?” Cesco feigned dismay. “You perplex me, you truly do. To do Evil is a sin. But according to San Giovanni, Evil's opposite isn't Good. It's Truth. All I threaten you with is Truth. How can that be a sin?” Cesco tapped Romeo's head with two fingers. “Remember, Romeo – perfect in every way.” With that, Cesco departed the cloister.

  Romeo was tempted to follow and ask what he meant, but he felt bad for the friar, who looked very upset. “Are you all right, father?”

  Lorenzo mopped his brow, despite the cold. “Yes – yes, I'm fine. It's nothing.”

  “What's wrong with being perfect? I'd like to be perfect.”

  “Nobody's perfect, Romeo,” said Lorenzo. “Certainly not me.”

  “Romeo!” Gianozza emerged from the church, her voice sharp as she spied her wayward son. “Romeo! For shame! Do you know how worried I was?”

  Bending low, Lorenzo murmured swiftly in Romeo's ear. “Not a word, little Romeo. How would you like it if someone spread your secrets?”

  “I don't know any secrets of yours,” said Romeo.

  “You know I have a secret,” said Lorenzo. “That's enough of one, isn't it?”

  Romeo's mother was making a bee-line through the gardens. “I won't tell,” he murmured.