The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Gasps. Even Cesco's Rakehells looked uncomfortable. Before more shouting and clerical denunciations could commence, Cangrande said, “If you were to reconcile them, Ser Francesco, how would you do it? Bend your reason to that. What lesson do you take?”

  Cesco shrugged. “I have several thoughts. We refer to God as the Father. Our earthly fathers are responsible for teaching their children. I know of no good father who would place a poisoned apple in a child's room and say, 'Do not eat this.' It's nonsense. So perhaps God intended we should eat of the apple. Perhaps it was part of His plan that we should fall, that we might learn. Fathers are our teachers. Hard teachers, sometimes,” he nodded to the Scaliger, whose mouth creased slightly. “But teachers. What father seeks his own son's destruction?”

  “Only the father who fears being replaced by his offspring,” answered Cangrande at once. “Kronos ate his children because he feared being usurped.”

  “Is that what we think of our God, whom we are told is a being of love? Is He so insecure on His heavenly throne that He planted the seed of Man's destruction in the Garden of Eden? Was it a trap? For if the Almighty is indeed all-knowing, He knew full well what would happen. The God we are told exists is not so cruel. So Adam and Eve were fulfilling their part in God's plan. What if He was attempting to teach them a lesson?”

  Softly Antonia said, “What lesson?”

  Cesco spread his hands theatrically. “How do I know? It is the folly of Man to say he knows the Will of God. I only posit that He gave us reason for a reason.”

  Fully engaged now in spite of himself, Pietro leaned forward in his cushioned seat. “What if it was not about the fruit at all? What if it was a lesson in free will? Because I disagree with you. His greatest gift is not reason. It is the opportunity to choose.”

  Cesco frowned, eyes turned inwards. “Well argued, Nuncle. What a mind the Church lost in you! Though it was your good fortune, as you would have doubtless suffered the same fate as Occam and Bonagratia. You are correct, free will is His greatest gift. But would He have offered us such a choice – eternal happiness or irreversible damnation – upon the bite of an apple? It seems too capricious, even for God.”

  Cangrande threw Cesco's own words back at him. “It is the folly of Man to say he knows the Will of God.”

  “And the damnation is far from irreversible,” said Fra Lorenzo. “God offered us His only son, Jesus Christ, to provide a chance for redemption. Christ suffered, that we might be saved.”

  Cesco's answering smile was fierce. “Hah! I knew we'd reach it. The second pernicious notion.”

  Fra Lorenzo's powerful shoulders tensed. “Is it pernicious to say Christ died for our sins?”

  “Not at all. Hm. Since this is meant to be a poetry reading, perhaps we should indulge. Nuncle, may I?” Foregoing the copy of Purgatorio in Pietro's hands, Cesco hefted the beautiful copy of L'Inferno and opened it to the back, turning pages rapidly. “Here we are! Canto Thirty-Four. The bottom-most pit of Hell, as far from Heaven as it is possible to go. Lucifer lies here, stuck in the ice where God cast him, his three mouths chewing the greatest of all villains – the betrayers. Virgil points to them each in turn:

  ‘That soul up there who bears the greatest pain,’

  said the master, ‘is Judas Iscariot, who has

  his head within and outside flails his legs.

  ‘As for the other two, whose heads are dangling down, Brutus is hanging from the swarthy snout – see how he writhes and utters not a word! –

  ‘and from the other, Cassius, so large of limb.

  But night is rising in the sky. It is time

  for us to leave, for we have seen it all.’

  Cesco closed the heavy volume. “The best thing about what the poet achieves here is the inherent implication of the nature of suffering. For suffering is the cornerstone of the Christian faith. The trials of Job. The sacrifice of Abraham. Moses and the Hebrews wandering the desert for forty years. The Bible repeatedly makes the point that suffering leads to nobility, to greatness, to grace. There is no possibility of redemption without suffering. Whereas Dante shows clearly that suffering is just suffering. There is nothing noble to it.”

  Pietro's mouth was hanging agape. Nor was he alone. “There is nobility in suffering.”

  “No, Nuncle,” said Cesco clearly, holding L'Inferno close to his chest. “There can be nobility in how a man handles adversity. Here we see Brutus suffering in silence. He is noble. But suffering did not make him so. Suffering in itself is not noble. How a man reacts to suffering shows his inborn nature. There is much suffering in the world, and the pain of life alone does not make one noble. Take me,” he added, scanning particular faces in the assembly. “I have suffered. I think no one will argue that it has made me noble.”

  The vast majority in attendance believed he was referencing his 'hawking' at the hands of Cangrande. A handful knew better. For them, his admission of ignobility was less a confession than a statement of continued defiance. As was every word he had spoken this day.

  Setting L'Inferno aside, Cesco drew himself upright to summarize his heresy. “Education is damning, ignorance is blessed, and suffering ennobles. If I wanted to control large groups of people, I could ask for no better tools. In this way, I can maintain power, wealth, and authority. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the fearful power of religion.”

  The bishop could no longer restrain the abbot, and perhaps no longer wished to. Leaping up, Giuseppe leveled an accusing finger. “This is the Word of God you are condemning, young man!”

  “Figs,” said Cesco calmly. “It is the word of Man. The Bible was clearly written by men. God would not be so perverse. But Man can. God is not so fearful. But Man is. Especially men in power. An educated populace questions authority. That way danger lies – not for God, but for the tyrant. How better to keep a people docile than to keep them dull, stupid, and vapid? To tell them their poverty, their hunger, their pain will all be rewarded after they die. Whereas the much-maligned Epicurus eschews an after-life and urges us to find beauty and pleasure in the now.”

  We should never have done this, thought Pietro, barely breathing. He will be racked and murdered, all to spite the stars.

  Yet is he wrong? This was the painful question rattling through Pietro's brain. All of Cesco's arguments had occurred to Pietro. Some had even passed his lips, in private. He had only lacked the courage to voice them so forcefully, so fiercely, so publicly.

  “Questioning authority is not sinful,” insisted Cesco. “It is the path to liberation. Christ Himself questioned authority. Are we not supposed to emulate Christ? We focus so much upon how Christ died, when we should be heeding what He said and did.”

  Abbess Verdiana rose. “Ser Francesco, you have the wit of your sire, and the energy of youth. More, you have a questing mind that is wonderful to behold. I can only hope that in the days and years before you, you will set that mind to greater things than questioning the very fabric of our relationship with the Almighty. It is unworthy of one so deeply blessed with intellect and courage.”

  “I am perfectly comfortable with my hypocrisy, thank you.” Turning to Cangrande, he raised his eyebrows. “Are we through?”

  “Quite through.” The way it was said, it meant many things. Then the Scaliger laughed. “I think if we listen any further, we'll have no convictions left. Come, everyone. A feast awaits. In the meantime, let us take my heir at his word, and pay renewed attention to the teachings of our Savior. Bishop Francis, would you like to lead us all in prayer?”

  The Bishop took his cue from his patron. “Yes. For all the troubling arguments we have heard espoused by this brilliant if misguided young man, this is one I can heartily endorse. Let us pray to be more Christ-like in all our doings, to live the teachings of Christ as best we can, and do as He did – forgive and accept those who wrong Him, and pray for His guidance.”

  Cesco pulled a wry face as he realized he had given a sop that they could use to excuse much of what he had
posited. He obediently knelt and listened as the Bishop recited the Latin prayer, though Pietro did not hear Cesco's voice as everyone else murmured “Amen.”

  The crowd dispersed, excitedly discussing what they had heard. Would Verona under Cesco be wholly excommunicated, as Venice once had been? As, indeed, Verona had been in the days of Cangrande's father. It had taken the burning of hundreds of heretics in the Arena to expiate that sin. Would the Pope demand that Cesco recant his words, or else burn in like manner?

  More, did he actually believe what he said? Wasn't there truth in it? Wasn't the Church in Avignon often more interested in wealth and power than in piety? Or was he doing what he always did these days, picking a fight to show his cleverness and daring?

  We were fools, thought Pietro. We offered him a platform from which he could dare the world to condemn him. Because Cesco knew what Dante had always maintained – the most dangerous thing in the world was a new idea. Ideas spread quicker than fires, quicker than disease, and could be far deadlier than either. While questioning the Church and God was hardly new, it was not often done so publicly, with such vehemence, or such reasoned arguments.

  Perhaps this was the natural end to theology – apply enough logic to God, and there will be no God left.

  Pietro was less concerned with theology than with protecting Cesco from himself. There was now no question of sending him away – outside the protection of Verona, one speech such as that would have him dead.

  Even inside Verona his safety was not assured. That Cesco was young was some protection. That he was a prince, far more. But the religious institution would only tolerate so much before it brought the sky crashing down.

  Cangrande's wife ushered Paride away. “The sooner we are in France, the better,” she was saying.

  Pietro saw Fra Lorenzo hurrying out, and understood why. The man had once been a heretic. If his secret were known, he would be in as much danger as Cesco.

  Not everyone was anxious to leave. The abbot, abbess, and bishop approached Cangrande for a private interview. There was no mistaking the gravity of their intent.

  Across the loggia, Pietro met with Antonia and Poco. “He'll be hanged before Lent.”

  “Or for Lent.” Grinning, Poco's eyes were wide as dinner trays. “That was the most exciting thing I've ever heard. Even father was never so daring.”

  Though shaking, Antonia was clear-eyed. “Father condemned bad priests and evil popes. Never the whole Church.”

  There was awe in Poco's voice as he said, “All because of a thwarted love.”

  That sparked something in Pietro's memory. The oracle who had spoken at his knighting. 'Verona will be brought low by love.' Is this what she meant?

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  LIKE A WELL-FUELED FIRE, word spread of the gauntlet Cesco had thrown down to the Church. The Bishop did his level best to keep the sword of righteousness firmly in its sheath by grasping the least objectionable idea mentioned – following the teachings of Christ. The homily he delivered that Sunday was about the Sermon on the Mount. But at the same moment the Abbot of San Zeno was loudly calling down hellfire on the Rakehells, a name no longer humourous.

  Cangrande did he level best to ignore the unease. Departing Verona in early February, he rode with a sizable guard to Vicenza. Arriving at his brother-in-law's palace, barely had he finished dragging his boots over the metal mud-scraper when his sister's steward invited him upstairs.

  Katerina was upright, her hands folded, the gloved left over the naked right. Striding in, Cangrande hooked a stool with his foot and settled down. “You called. I came.”

  “Like a shpirit invoked by conjuration,” remarked Katerina. “Shomeone ish trying to kill you again, I hear.”

  “Someone killed me once before?”

  “Fool. Do you know who?”

  “No idea. Though there's a story going around…”

  “What shtory?”

  “I'm just trying to get you to say the letter 's' as often as I can. No, the story is being spread by me. That it was Dandolo, in his first move as Doge. It is as much attacking as I can do, since he now has the means to compromise you.”

  Katerina's right brow furrowed, though the sinister side remained slack. “I did not expect them to live.”

  “He is crippled, if that is any consolation. But I forget, you've seen him. Very alive, and in an accusatory mood. Do you remember their names?”

  “Ciolo Fishcella and Girolamo Pometti,” she said at once.

  “Nothing wrong with your memory, at least.” He made to rise. “Well, I must—”

  Katerina stiffened, lifting her good hand. “Shomething more.”

  Settling back onto his stool, Cangrande smiled. “Say it.”

  The right corner of her mouth turned down. “The Shcotshman.”

  “Ah, the Shcotshman. What about him?”

  “A danger.”

  “One we did not anticipate, though I suppose we should have. He's a fool, and has told his story to the court. He knows nothing himself, but his very speech was a clue. Your fault again!” he added, pointing at her. “You summoned Maria to Verona four years ago. Had Pietro and Cesco not heard her speak, they would never have connected the stars into a constellation. Part of a constellation,” he corrected.

  “How much?”

  “They know she was Scottish. They have the house and the name Amabilio. They even discovered her body. Fuchs hid it where Uncle Mastino and Bail's father were tossed after they were killed.”

  “Another clue.”

  “Yes, though they have not yet figured that out. Yet. Pietro is distracted by Cesco, who is in turn distracting himself with heresy.”

  “And Masshtino?”

  “Ah, the Mastiff.”

  “He mussht know the truth about Maria.”

  “You mean that if Fuchs tortured Cesco's late mother, he likely passed the results on to his master. I have not broached the topic. Knowing the lady, I do not think she would reveal any secret, no matter how tortured.”

  “Unlessh it was a shecret she wanted revealed.”

  Something he had not considered. Frowning, at last he shook his head. “Had he that bolt, I think he would have shot it in September. But even if he showed unwonted restraint, remember, it is hardly in Mastino's best interests to have those facts revealed. The secret does nothing to help him.”

  “Not while you are alive,” said Katerina pointedly.

  “After I die, the world of cares dies with me. I presume you have a contingency? You always do.”

  “I left ordersh with Detto. A letter, hidden.” Seeing her brother blench, she blew out her lips. “Have no fear. It will not be found until we are both gone.”

  “Some comfort at last. Though no comfort to my heir's present state.”

  “What can we do?”

  Cangrande opened his hands. “Nothing but let the universe unfold. Never fear. The charts have declared themselves. The boy did not marry for love. Whatever happens next is what is meant to be.”

  Katerina's eyes glowed. “How ish he?”

  “Whole in body, brutalized in spirit. One sympathizes.”

  “It wash never going to be painlessh.”

  Cangrande rose. “I suppose not. But it hurts to see.”

  “Are you wavering? You could shave him?”

  “He barely needs to shave yet.” Katerina made a snarling sound, and he laughed. “Oh, did you mean something else?”

  Tears of frustration pooled her eyes. “It ish unchivalroush to mock the infirm.”

  “Nobody has ever accused me of chivalry. But to answer your question – no. Unwavering. Unmoving, and unmoved. As fixed as the North Star.”

  “Good. For if you wavered, you would be unmade.”

  Standing beside his sister's bed, Cangrande's face was lit by the low brazier beside her. It threw the sharp lines of his face into stark shadow, tinted with red. “I wonder. Still, we must see this through to the end.”

  “Yes,” she said, struggling not t
o slur. “We have our destiny.”

  Cangrande leaned forward to kiss his sister on the forehead. “Everyone does. They just don't grip it so hard.”

  ACT IV

  Strange Capers

  Twenty-Eight

  THE WEATHER AT the end of February was as bitter as it had been in living memory. Even the blizzard of 1317 paled in comparison.

  Yet a week later the cold broke, a huge relief to the men of Verona. The 8th of March was Ash Wednesday, which meant the following Sunday was the famous Palio, a pair of races through the streets of Verona, one on horseback, one on foot. As the second race was run in the nude, the warmer weather was appreciated. No one fancied frostbit privates.

  For the last dozen years the majority of the betting had been on which would get in first, Capulletto and Montecchio. Their rivalry having been born during a Palio, these twin races remained its only public outlet. Every year they whipped their best horses almost to death to beat each other, then stripped off their clothes and ran full out in the footrace. Between them they had ten victories in fourteen years. Though the rest of Veronese nobility tried their best, few had their motivation.

  This year promised something more. Marsilio da Carrara declared his intent to contest the Palio, prompting Ser Pietro Alaghieri to say he would join the horse race. The last time they had raced, he'd famously lost to the Paduan. The next day, they had dueled. The fact that Pietro could not run in the footrace was due to Carrara having shot him with a crossbow bolt just above the knee. Though their enmity was supposedly a thing of the past, in the Palio anything could happen.

  Even more exciting, for the first time the Greyhound's Heir was going to participate. Each past year he had applied to the Scaliger, and each year he'd been denied.

  “You were allowed to race as a boy,” Cesco had always protested.