The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  The moment he was gone, Buthayna fell to her knees and wept. She had wanted reassurances. Instead she had pushed him away.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING WEEK there was a knock at the door to Cesco's house on the via Pigna. It was still morning, and the master of the house was abed, as were Ser Detto and the other houseguest. Fidelio opened the door to find a huge man with arms like corded ropes and muck on his boots. With him was a bosomy woman in a nurse's wimple and a blonde child of about three. “Pardon us. We are looking for young Theobaldo Capulletto.” Admitted, they were asked to wait while someone was sent to wake Thibault.

  Antonia entered, drawn by the noise. Spying the little girl, she started. “Giulietta?”

  “Suora?” said the little girl. “Why are you here?”

  “I live here,” said Antonia. “I'm looking after the prince's wife. What are you doing here?”

  Giulietta looked down, and the nurse knelt to rub her back in a soothing manner. “Poor thing. She's afeared, Suora, that her brave cousin isn't well, and may not be coming back to her house. Her father says – well, you know him, he says a lot of things, some of which come true, some that don't, but he's said that he'll disown his nephew if he doesn't go off to his studies like a proper lad.”

  “He said more than that, Angelica,” said her husband. “He means to stretch the boy's neck. That's what's got her fearful.”

  There was a foot on the stair, and Thibault entered warily.

  “See, poppet?” said the nurse at once, pointing. “There he is, and just as strong and tall as ever you've seen him. He's got a bed here, I fathom, and they're feeding him regular-like…”

  Giulietta rushed to throw her arms about her cousin's waist. “Thibault!”

  “I'm fine, snowflake.” He patted her on the head, both touched by her affection and embarrassed for it.

  The conversation proceeded as most conversations with a three-year-old will, alternating between understanding and stubbornness. Giulietta wanted her cousin home. They explained all the reasons it was better he be away just now, and she understood them, or said she did, then a minute later she was asking why.

  “Is it nicer here?” she challenged.

  “It is for me,” said Thibault.

  “But aren't you lonely?”

  “No. I have friends here, and there's even another little girl, so it feels like home. Only no one beats me here.”

  “Another little girl?”

  Sensing a possible jealousy, the nurse Angelica said, “Would you like to meet her? Would that be possible?”

  “Absolutely,” said Antonia. “She's upstairs with her own nurse. Her name is Maddelena.” Antonia wondered why she had not thought of it before. Though destined to be the first lady of the city, Maddelena still needed friends. Who better than the daughter of one of Verona's great lords?

  “Mama is going to have the baby soon,” Giulietta told Thibault.

  He looked to Angelica, who nodded. “A few days at most. Never fret, she's fine.” Before becoming Giulietta's nurse, Angelica had raised both Thibault and Tessa, and knew the bond between them. Though Andriolo saw the trouble it caused, the nurse thought it adorable, not dangerous.

  Maddelena arrived, and everyone stood as she greeted them as the chatelaine should. Introduced to Giulietta, she smiled. “Hello. I have a cat, and some puppies. Would you like to see them?”

  Without waiting, Giulietta put her hand in Maddelena's and they went running off as fast as their layers of clothes allowed.

  Antonia shook her head. “I'm an imbecile. They should have been together since the wedding.”

  “They're together now,” said Angelica. “Dahna, was it? Would your little lady like to come visit our house next? Does she like sweets?”

  Thibault slipped out of the room, away from this childish talk. In the hall he was stopped by Andriolo. “You all right, lad?”

  Thibault nodded, his jaw clamped shut. He knew he should thank Andriolo for throwing the water on his uncle and thus breaking up the fight. It had probably saved Thibault's life. But that would mean admitting he'd needed help.

  The older man did not seem to care if he was thanked. He ruffled Thibault's hair. “It's good for you, being among these Rakehells. If he could see past his mad, your uncle would approve. He was much the same in his youth.”

  “And look where that got everyone,” retorted Thibault, ducking away.

  “A fair point,” agreed Andriolo. “So you make sure you don't follow in his footsteps.”

  Thibault scowled. “No danger in that.”

  Twenty-Seven

  AS CESCO AND HIS RAKEHELLS continued raising Cain throughout the city, denunciations from the pulpits became more pronounced. Cangrande decided it was time to lance this particular boil, in the guise of another poetic salon.

  This time the chosen site was within doors at the Scaligeri palace, and invitations went out to a select audience – men and women of intellect and poetic taste, not rabble who might misunderstand the stray malicious comment.

  It was a debate to allow women at all. But Antonia was adamant she be present. “And after hearing of the last one, Abbess Verdiana plans to attend. Good luck barring the door to her.”

  “Mariotto's making noise about his wife,” observed Pietro. “He'll never hear the end of it if she isn't there.”

  “Very well,” growled Cangrande. “The nobility, the clergy, and wives.”

  “At least we'll be spared Donna Capulletto,” observed Castelbarco. Antony's wife had finally been brought to childbed, producing a healthy boy named Gianni. Never was a child so coddled, watched every second of the day lest he fall victim to crib death like his brothers.

  Cangrande grunted. “I suppose that means we'll have to endure Antony's longing looks towards Gianozza. I wish she would run off with her groom or something equally foolish. Leave Verona – or just die! As time goes by, I can't help but think that we will only be freed from their nonsense by her death. Ah well. We cannot be fortunate in all things. Arrange for the salon, and let us hope for the best.”

  “Any other names?” asked Pietro, trying not to sound anxious.

  Cangrande understood at once. “No. The general summons will go out in March. Let's not add fuel to the fire before then.”

  So it was that towards the end of January the Scaliger's loggia was filled, as it had been so many times before, with the cream of Verona's crop. The only lack was the late Petruchio Bonaventura, whose boisterous laughter was missed by everyone present.

  Just inside the door Cesco bumped shoulders with Mastino. Almost of a height now, Mastino gave Cesco the up-and-down. “You do not dress festively, cos.”

  Cesco indeed looked splendid in a black suede doublet with crimson piping, grey hose, fur-lined boots, and a hooded cape as black as night. “I dress to reflect my mood. Or my stomach,” he added.

  Mastino's brother Alberto clapped his hands. “I remember those days! One of the first tests of manhood is discovering your limits.”

  “Then here's hoping you will soon reach manhood, Cousin Alblivious.” Everyone laughed, even Alberto, who loved wine, women, and song more than any man present.

  Cesco threaded the press of people to where cushioned benches were set for the main players in today's little drama. The Scaliger was engaged in polite conversation with Capulletto and Castelbarco, though Antony paused to frown at Thibault, entering in clothes borrowed from Cesco's own closet.

  Cangrande patted Capulletto's shoulder. “It's a hard age, Antony. You remember, surely. One feels the need to rebel against everything. Isn't that so, boy?”

  “It is,” agreed Cesco. “Or should I defy you, just to prove your point?”

  “Defiance is your natural state. It hardly needed puberty to set it in motion. Your dropping balls have only amplified your inner-most self. I shudder to think what you'll be when you're full-grown.”

  “A pity you won't be here to see it.” Heads turned at that remark, and even the Sc
aliger was momentarily at a loss for words.

  Cesco looked around him in blank surprise. “The prophecy. The Greyhound is not meant to live but three days past his greatest deed. If the Capitano is indeed the Greyhound, then we must prepare ourselves to lose him. But not before he has won all that is due him.”

  Cangrande's face darkened. “We must all reconcile ourselves to our due. Shall we begin?”

  Cesco deliberately seated himself opposite Bishop Francis, who sat beside Abbess Verdiana, Fra Lorenzo, and the aged Abbot Giuseppe. Pietro recalled his father engaging this man on their first day in Verona, belittling him for his lack of Aristotle and poor understanding of the art of theology – 'God logic'. The abbot's presence today boded nothing good.

  Indeed, before Pietro could rise to read the chosen passage from Purgatorio, the aged abbot raised a hand. With a perfunctory request for audience, he said, “My lord Scaliger, pray forgive me. When this city last heard the words of the late poet, your son and heir made a statement that has caused consternation among the devout.” He cast a glance at his superior, who was frowning. “Since no one has demanded an explanation of his words, I feel it is my duty before God to offer the lad a chance to renounce his heresy.”

  “While I confess to this uncommonly holy gathering that he can be troublesome, the lad is both a knight and a prince, brother,” said Cangrande, giving weight to the word. “And will be referred to as such.”

  The abbot purpled, and Bishop Francis rose to aid his fellow ecclesiastic. “My lord, forgive the good abbot, do. Like the rest of your guests, I promise that I came to hear poetry, not hold an Inquisition.” His mouth turned down. “Yet clearly some present have concerns. You and I understand the poetic nature of words, and how great literature often strives to seek drama in art, but means nothing for life. However, not every member of this august assembly has heard as much from your own lips. Perhaps you and Ser Alaghieri could spare a few words on the great questions of poetry.”

  Before either Cangrande or Pietro could speak, Cesco said, “Why address them, my lord bishop, when the demand was made of me? I am perfectly armed for an Inquisition.”

  The snake-pit already, thought Pietro.

  The bishop had tried to deflect the moment, only to be thwarted by the very fellow he was trying to assist. “Since you offer, Ser Francesco – you did surprise many of us with your most creative questioning of the existence of Heaven and Hell.”

  “Did I?” Cesco blinked rapidly. “I thought it was fairly obvious. If not, allow me to elucidate. It is possible that I was simply responding to an omission in the roster of those languishing in Limbo. Or rather, a presence and an absence from the roster of noble Limbicoli.”

  “Whom do you mean?” asked Cangrande, waving the perplexed bishop to his seat.

  Rising, Cesco addressed the crowd. “The immortal poet mentions meeting the Laughing Philosopher, the great Mocker – Democritus, fellow of Aristotle, foe of Plato, father of Atoms. It was Democritus who first imagined that we are all made up of the same stuff as the stars, small bricks of matter molded into terrestrial forms. He noted that the basic elements of the universe – water, fire, earth, and air – have means to regenerate themselves. That inside a fallen oak are the elements to recreate the oak anew. That all things are made of these invisible yet solid atoms, and the rest is made of void. Atoms, and void.” Cesco pointed. “I see from your face that you know.”

  Startled to be singled out, Fra Lorenzo nodded warily. “Aye. Atoms and void – God's mortar and clay. That is the theory, though entirely unprovable.”

  “We shall never see an atom, that's true,” agreed Cesco. “Yet in observing nature, we see that everything does indeed renew – trees from seeds, water from the sky, living creatures through sin.” This elicited chuckles from his lay audience. “All this we glean from Democritus. Yet his natural successor is not in Limbo, but placed much further below. Nuncle, you know to whom I refer.”

  Sensing the road ahead, Pietro had to unclench his jaw to answer. “Epicurus.”

  “Epicurus! A name unfairly dragged in the mud of the ages. Thanks to high-living Romans, he is the father of a philosophy that has come to mean hedonism – wine, women, song, nothing more.”

  “Is there more?” asked Alberto della Scala, garnering a second ripple of laughter and easing some of the tension.

  Cesco pointed two fingers at his cousin. “Exactly! His answer is that there is – and there isn't. He takes Democritus' thoughts on science and applies them to morality. If we are nothing but atoms, he argued, then when we die our atoms will disperse to be renewed again. If that is the case, then there can be neither Heaven nor Hell. When our selves cease to exist, the stuff that makes us is renewed. It was therefore the argument of Epicurus – who was no debauched soul, but actually lived rather modestly – it was his argument that we should live in the present time, appreciating the beauty of each day, because there is nothing after.”

  The abbot made to stand, but Bishop Francis placed a restraining hand on his knee. “You cite a pagan who lived long before our Lord Jesus Christ, and therefore never knew His truth.”

  “Yet Epicurean philosophy was the basis for so many great men that followed, including many Christians. Atoms, not Adams, they said.”

  “For which crime he is placed in Hell,” said Bishop Francis gravely.

  “A place in which he did not believe,” countered Cesco cheerfully. “Which prompts a side question – if God depends upon faith, does lack of faith weaken Him?”

  The abbot broke his superior's restraint. “You speak heresy!”

  “Fluently,” replied Cesco. “But, my dear abbot, if you wish to condemn me, allow me to offer up more compelling causes for my coming crucifixion.”

  “Perhaps we should offer up some poetry, instead,” suggested Pietro, half-rising with the large volume in his hands.

  Cangrande waved him aside. “He'll say what he likes in any case. And, as he says, this is what the people came for.”

  “They should be serving boiling oil instead of wine,” snarled Abbot Giuseppe as the crowd shifted in uneasy fascination.

  Cangrande inclined his head to Cesco. “Please. Share your causes.”

  “That you might show me the error of my ways?”

  “Always. As you show me the errors in mine.”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Cesco spoke directly to the Scaliger, behaving as if they were alone in the crowded loggia. “To my mind, lord, there are two pernicious notions that the Church has set down as the cornerstones of Christianity, foundations of our faith.”

  “Only two?” asked Cangrande lightly.

  “Well, two to start. The first is the concept that knowledge is sinful. God cast Adam and Eve out of Paradise for eating fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The act in itself is the Original Sin. Therefore it is reasonable to conclude the act of learning is in itself evil, and must be avoided. Thus we are meant to be sheep, unable to read or write or think for ourselves. Education is dangerous. A useful stick with which to cudgel the unwashed masses. The educated thus keep the uneducated in check, forever living in ignorance.”

  Bishop Francis looked stricken. “My son! Holy Mother Church extols intelligence as one of the highest virtues.”

  “Really? How often has Mother Church denounced works other than the Bible as being dangerous? Even Aristotle, whom we all agree is brilliance personified, was reviled for years.”

  “We don't all agree,” growled the abbot.

  Bishop Francis spoke over his neighbour. “Aristotle has been accepted as a great pagan thinker who simply did not know the light of Christ. Just as the poet portrays him.”

  “Yes,” agreed Cesco, “when it became clear his works hold universal truths, Aristotle's thoughts were refashioned in a manner consistent with Church doctrine. His potential heresies are excused with the sop that he existed before Christ. Does that mean all thought since Christ is valueless? We twist ourselves to find means by which g
reat works of the past can exist in harmony with the Church. Because anything that questions the modern interpretation of the Bible is dangerous to Church power.”

  “No,” said the bishop gravely. “Because the Bible is the Word of God.”

  “And Aristotle is not? Intelligence, reason – these are God's greatest gifts. He gave them to us in order that we might use them. But the Church, in its cleverness, reverses that. We are told that reason is the enemy of faith. We are told that God gave us reason to test us. We are told we must reject reason in order to have faith.” Cesco pointed to Pietro. “In Avignon, Ser Alaghieri befriended two holy men, Bonagratia of Bergamo and William of Occam. These men were held as papal prisoners and eventually drummed out of the Church itself for the crime of applying reason to the Bible. Who is more heretical, the man who rejects God's gifts, or the man who employs them to their fullest?”

  Pietro shifted, uncomfortable because he did not disagree. Indeed, he had made a similar argument two years earlier before a papal Inquisitor. He felt compelled speak. “It is true. They were reviled and accused of heresy despite their opinions having the weight of both reason and the Bible behind them.”

  “Describe them for us,” invited Cangrande, thus silencing his heir for the moment.

  Pietro did, with much focus on the question of the poverty of Christ, a heated debate at present. Antonia answered, followed by Castelbarco, which prompted more men to voice their opinions. Some sided with the Church. Startlingly, more took up the cause of reason. Cangrande himself posed several piercing questions, and the loggia became both more fraught and more relaxed. The topic was tense, but no longer did it feel as though a fourteen-year-old was on trial.

  Matters came to a head when the abbot said, “Returning to the root question of reason versus faith, it is no mistake that Eve and Adam were damned for eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Universal knowledge belongs to the Lord alone. He did not mean for us to share in it. It was our Original Sin, which has caused all the suffering since!”

  Cesco pointed. “Thank you for proving my point. You say that knowledge is sinful, the source of our woes. But was that the original sin? Or was the original sin God's, putting the tree there for them to be tempted in the first place?”