The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “My father had three heirs,” the Capitano always replied. “He could afford to lose one. I can't.”

  Knighted, married, living on his own and free to make his own way, there was now nothing to prevent Cesco from entering. For months he and the other Rakehells had been practicing, and the odds-makers were doing robust business. Yes, this year's Palio promised to be the best ever.

  Ash Wednesday came, and the city spent the day in churches, praying. All eyes on him, Cesco knelt obediently by the Capitano's side, head bowed. All public displays of insolence had ended two weeks earlier, as had the whoring and brawling. A broad hint that he might miss the Palio due to being imprisoned had finally moderated the young prince's behavior.

  Thus it was surprising, two days before the Palio, to hear shouts in the streets raised in alarum. Pietro heaved a sigh before exiting his front door and calling out, “What's happening? Is it the Rakehells?”

  “If it is, they'll pay with blood this time!” called a lawyer shuffling towards the Piazza dei Signori. “Lord Carrara has been attacked!”

  Rushing to the palace, Pietro discovered that the Paduan Capitano was unhurt, but that his party had been set upon by a band of brigands wielding crossbows. “Dozens of bolts from under cover as we crossed the bridge by San Bonifacio,” said Carrara, more angry than anxious. “Cowards killed two of my men! We chased them, but they had a boat and slipped down the river.”

  “Any notion who it was?”

  “The exiles,” said Carrara. “I'm sure of it. My men will hunt them down.”

  “You never know,” observed Cangrande. “They might have been sent by Pietro here. A guarantee he won't have to face you in the Palio.” A poor jest, but enough to lighten the mood. Soon they were sharing cups of wine and discussing Treviso, even as the countryside was scoured for the villainous ambushers, to no avail.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE DAY OF THE PALIO started out bright, but from an hour after dawn clouds were visible. They rolled in all through the morning's theatrical displays, and the first stray droplets slanted down just as the riders were mounting their horses on the floor of the Arena. With no new knights to create today, the speech the Scaliger gave was short. Telling them which coloured flags they were to follow, he gave the signal and they were off.

  Pietro Alaghieri and Marsilio da Carrara both started strong. In anticipation of the day, Pietro had used his now-considerable funds to purchase a swift horse from Mariotto. But he was no longer seventeen. Past thirty now, the things that mattered so much in Pietro's youth seemed less vital in age.

  Apparently Carrara felt the same. No longer desperate to prove Paduan superiority, he rode with vigour, but no heat. At several points he found himself smiling at Alaghieri, who unaccountably found himself smiling back. Partly due to the peace they had wrought, partly due to their added years, their rancor was gone. Neither man disgraced or distinguished himself, much to the disappointment of both the crowd and the bookmakers.

  Their disappointment was enhanced by Capulletto's exuberant cheerfulness. Antony had paid no attention to the preparations for the race, talking his fool head off to every unwary ear about the brilliance of his little son, nearly two months old. According to him, Gianni was another Veronese prodigy. “He's trying to speak, I know it! And he can lift his head already. He'll be strong, my son. Certainly wore his mother out! She's barely up from her bed. Ha! He'll be a force to reckon with, you wait and see!” Besotted, he gave no thought to the race until he was in the saddle, and hardly even then. He paid Montecchio no mind, and hardly frowned at all when he saw Thibault astride one of Cesco's horses.

  Still, the race did not lack for excitement. From the start, a heated contest developed between Cesco's Rakehells and the companions of Mastino. Even without the late unlamented Fuchs, Mastino had a sizable following. In addition to some Veronese of his own years, he'd recruited foreign knights whom he had met upon the jousting circuit. Inviting them for the Palio at his own expense, he had in effect hired his own small army of racers to rival Cesco's.

  Ever inventive, the Scaliger's track would give victory, not to the swiftest horse, but to the wiliest rider. There were few open stretches where a fast horse could gain ground. Instead, the course turned down narrow streets, under low tunnels, over obstacles. This race was all about angles, when to push and when to check, and the luck of being on the correct side for a turn.

  At the halfway mark, six young men vied for the lead. Of the Rakehells, Cesco and Detto were well away, with young Petruchio close on their heels, and Paride della Scala determined to make his name before he left for France. For Mastino's faction, there were only two – Mastino himself and Guglielmo del Castelbarco the younger, a quiet and stable fellow who seemed to be Mastino's genuine friend, something Castelbarco the elder could not fathom.

  The rain made riding difficult. It came down in cold sheets, driving right into their faces. But none of the six gave up or checked. For Cesco, Detto, Petruchio, and Paride, this was their first Palio. For Mastino, who had won twice before, it was the upholding of his honour. For Castelbarco, who had ridden in the middle pack three years in a row, it was a chance to break free from his father's shadow and distinguish himself.

  Cesco won, not for any trick or feat of daring, but for plain good horsemanship. Mastino entered the Arena two yards behind him, with Detto just overtaking him at the end. Paride and young Petruchio tied, while young Castelbarco's horse fell on the slick stones. Weeping, he was forced to order the beast killed.

  All the Rakehells did well, coming in among the front ranks of the seventy-three horsemen who finished the race. They cheered their victory and their leader, whom they lifted on their shoulders for a parade around the Arena floor.

  Set down at last in front of the Scaliger's balcony, Cesco found himself face-to-face with his cousin. “Congratulations,” said Mastino gruffly.

  “Thanks, cos! Cheer up. There's always the footrace to best me.”

  As Cesco marched off, Mastino murmured, “There's more than that.”

  Cesco received the victor's gilt crown and the red ribbon, called the Pride of Mercury. As the crown was placed on his head, he was singing to himself: “Indeed a crown Verona wears…” Ascending the Scaligeri balcony, he bestowed the crown upon his beaming little wife, seated under a canopy, at which point the crowd's hearts melted even as they themselves melted away to get out of the wet.

  Cesco and the loser of the race, an old cavaliere named Adelmota, made the customary parade through the streets, the victor giving out alms while the loser rode a nag with the hock of cured meat for the superstitious to take shards from. The rest of the nobility returned to their homes to discard their soaked gowns, doublets, and hose, and dress for the feast that preceded the footrace.

  On her way into palace, Suor Beatrice caught the eye of Fra Lorenzo. “You look sad, Brother. Are you well?”

  Startled, Lorenzo froze for a guilty moment. Then he smiled ruefully. “I miss horses. I've hear some of my Benedictine brothers have participated, and I confess a degree of jealousy. I don't mind going barefoot, and I've never had much use for money, but why on earth did the Holy Saint deny us the use of horses?”

  “San Benedictus was much more practical,” said Suor Beatrice of her Order's patron.

  “Oh yes!” laughed Lorenzo from under his soaking cowl. “Seventy-three chapters of the Rule. Much more practical!”

  “Our Blessed Saint was indeed very thorough,” said Suor Beatrice tartly.

  Lorenzo smiled. “I can see why you were drawn to that order.”

  “I take that as a compliment.” Head high, Antonia marched away, allowing Lorenzo to return to fretting over the message he had just received.

  The feast was as lavish as obedience to Lent could allow. There were a plethora of fishy-choices – Egerduse, salmon sautéed in red wine and vinegar with sugar, onions, and cloves; bulbarelli, a river fish from Mantua, in a galingale sauce; shrimp baked in a breaded confection; and Tart de Brymle
t, a pie involving three types of boiled fish that were then minced and combined with figs and raisins washed in wine, as well as apples and pears, all placed under a sugared pastry shell. For side dishes, supplementing the ever-present Golden Morsels, there were all kinds of nuts – walnuts, pistachios, almonds – mixed with pears, peas, lentils, and fava beans.

  Pietro was amused to discover the drink of choice was Dandolo's Twice Burnt, a beverage Poco had made popular after sampling it in the Venetian embassy.

  The only pall was the use of tasters, who had to sip or sample every dish before it could be brought to table. Pietro felt for the poor peasants. They must be in Purgatory, tasting savoury dishes they've never imagined while wondering if each bite will be their last.

  Yet despite these living reminders of mortality, the mood was festive. Only Pietro was on edge. Seated near the High Table, he swept the room with his eyes, taking in guests not seen at the court since the double wedding. There was Signor Martino, who lived to the south, nearer Mantua than Verona. The father of twin girls, he was currently deep in talks with Antony, glowing over his thriving son.

  Across the room by a side table, Count Filipo Anselmo was harmonizing with his sisters, to the enjoyment of many. Old Lord Vitruvio had come down from his estate on the far side of the Lago di Garda, bringing his young French wife to display to all. Signor Placentio, the confirmed bachelor who was said to have an over-fondness for male company, had journeyed from his rich estates along with his sister.

  Pietro was greeted warmly by Ser Serego, grown grizzled now, with more salt than pepper in his beard and hair. But he remained as genial as ever, recalling their first meeting during the Palio of 1315, where they had cursed and vied against each other so vehemently. Serego exhorted Pietro to come calling on his little estate at San Pietro in Cariano. “I have a daughter who longs to hear tales of your father.”

  Everyone, it seemed, had a daughter or a sister who longed to hear of Pietro's father, his travels, his life's story. The noose of marriage was tightening. If he did not marry soon, he would be accused of living the same life as Signor Placentio.

  Pietro found himself wondering when Verona had ever owned so many eligible women? There was the lady Livia, an heiress with a great fortune, deep in conversation with the young Giulia – not Capulletto's daughter, but rather another of these young women who would soon be of age and seeking a spouse. She was making eyes at Valentino, ensconced with his best friend Proteus and paying her no mind. Nor should he! Twelve was far too young for a man to even consider a spouse.

  Whereas thirty-one is too old. Not that there were any possible candidates tonight. However much their parents wanted to link their houses to his, these girls were all far too young for Pietro to even consider.

  Blame Antony. Thanks to Capulletto's wedding an eleven-year-old girl five years earlier, it was becoming fashionable for men to wed ever younger brides, barely in the flower of womanhood. Cesco's own ridiculous marriage would do nothing to stem the tide.

  Antony's young wife was absent, but her brother was present. Signor Valentio Guarini, who like Antony had both a boy and a girl child, though a few years older than Antony's brood. He and Antony spent a long time laughing together.

  Across the hall, it looked as if there might be a match in the offing. For weeks now Signor Lucio Villafranca, son of Cangrande's Constable, had been courting the vivacious Helena Lenoti, sister of Benvenito Lenoti, who was the husband of Aurelia Montecchio, who was sister to Mariotto. These entwined Veronese families, thought Pietro, amused. They're as bad as the ancient Romans!

  Uncommonly, Benvenito was present tonight. Mariotto's brother-in-law usually spent his time at Mari's castle near Vicenza, breeding horseflesh. His visits to the city were rare, but every month or so he would make the ride to see his son Benvolio and sell a fine mare – the Montecchi rarely sold stallions. Naturally he'd come today to show off the finest of the family stock. Already he had a dozen offers on just one horse.

  Turning his head once more, Pietro stiffened. He had found who he was dreading to see – the enormous round form of Gaspardo Rienzi, standing beside his leaner son Adamo. Deep in discussion with them was a bearded mountain of a man Pietro recognized instantly as Abramo Tiberio.

  All three men were here, but not the woman. Peering around, Pietro could see no sign of Rosalia. Which did not mean she was not present. It was hardly likely that she was standing. Or she might be off in the company of other wives.

  Grasping a pair of goblets from a passing tray, Pietro walked boldly forward with a fixed smile. “Gentlemen. This is unexpected.”

  “I'm sure,” growled Adamo.

  Once, Gaspardo would have cuffed his boy for his rudeness. Instead he lifted his topmost chin. “The invitation was explicit.”

  “How goes the rebuilding?” The Rienzi family had charge of Cangrande's forge, burned down previous spring in an imperial jab at Scaligeri power.

  “Well enough,” replied Gaspardo warily. “The foundation was solid. No expense is being spared. It should be back in operation by the fall.”

  “Indeed? I'm glad to hear it. And Signor Tiberio, you have received the price of your land? I hope to start building on it when the weather clears.”

  The huge man grunted. “It's yours now, do as you like.”

  Gritting his teeth at this rudeness, Pietro persevered. “I hope everyone is in health.”

  “My wife is fine, if that's what you mean,” said Abramo coldly.

  “She isn't here?” said Pietro, daring to hope.

  “She's in the city. Couldn't refuse a command from the great Greyhound. But she's resting.” He looked accusingly at Pietro. “You promised her you wouldn't tell.”

  “A promise I kept until the Scaliger planned to send for her. I did my best to dissuade him. Cesco still doesn't know.”

  Unwilling to be mollified, Tiberio looked around angrily. “Where is the little bastard?”

  “You're not going to talk to him.” There was a sudden hard tone to Pietro's voice. He could imagine nothing worse than Cesco discovering Lia's pregnancy.

  “No, I'm going to get stinking drunk. Now which one is he, so I can avoid him?”

  Adamo pointed. “That's him there. With the little girl on his arm,” he added in disgust.

  “Don't point.” Gaspardo knocked his son's hand down, covering the gesture by taking one of the goblets from Pietro's hand. “Let us survive the night, then get the hell away. Ser Alaghieri, no reflection on you. But you raised that-,” the fat man's mouth struggled to frame an inoffensive title, “boy. For obvious reasons we would prefer not to associate ourselves in any way with him, or you. And I think you agree that the less interaction our families have, the better for all. There's been too much already. If you'll excuse us.”

  Pietro watched the trio move away with a pang. Old Rienzi knew the full extent of the horrible truth. Did he despise his daughter, pity her, or some combination of the two? A shame he could not muster the same for Cesco. But that was asking too much.

  Still, Pietro felt a slight relief. Though enraged, they meant no mischief. At least the older men did not. Something in Adamo's eyes said his restraint was imposed, not reasoned. Given a chance, he would likely slip his leash.

  Worse, Lia was in the city, a living sword of Damocles. Pietro hated to think what Cesco might do were he to learn of her presence.

  Stopping by Morsicato, he found the doctor embroiled in a quiet debate with Fra Lorenzo over Cesco's use of hashish. The doctor spoke in an accusing tone. “I thought you were with us in insisting he must be weaned.”

  The friar looked like nothing so much as a rabbit caught in the open. “It is not for me to say. He is a man, or soon will be, and a knight. He may make his own decisions.”

  Morsicato scowled. “Washing your hands of the matter, are you?”

  Fra Lorenzo bobbed his head. “I suppose I am.”

  Pietro wanted to chastise the holy man, but there were too many open ears hereabouts. “Now i
s not the time for this discussion.”

  Swearing, the doctor stomped off. “Thank you,” said Lorenzo.

  “I didn't do it for you.” Turning away from the sweating friar, Pietro spied another forlorn face and made towards its owner.

  Normally at the heart of any revelry, Nico da Lozzo was leaning against the wall beside an ornate sconce done in the style of a snarling hound. I wonder Cangrande doesn't get tired of the image. “Ho, Nico. Not enjoying yourself?”

  “It's not the same.” Nico waffled a hand. “Everyone's acting as though it didn't happen. As though we didn't lose one of our own to some cowardly bastard. No one's even trying to find who did it!”

  “That's not true,” said Pietro reasonably. “Massimiliano has been scouring the city. The whole staff has been investigated, and there are tasters for everything. But with so many people present that night, it's almost impossible to know who had access to the cup.” It had been the cup, not the flagon or the barrel. “The best hope, actually, is that he tries again.”

  Nico nodded. “I hope he does. I want to place my hands on him. Who do you think it was?”

  “I suspect someone different every day. Was it the Doge? The Emperor? The Pope? The Trevisians? The Mantuans, in revenge for Bonaccolsi? There are too many choices, and heaven knows which is nearest the mark.”

  Nico shook his head. Politics didn't matter to him. Not when he had lost his best friend. “Go join the festivities, Pietro. I'm no good to anyone, the mood I'm—” Looking over Pietro's shoulder, Nico's face showed startled delight. “She came!”

  Turning, Pietro saw Kate Bonaventura. She had chosen this day to emerge from her mourning. Entering the hall with a son on either arm, Kate was greeted as though she were a cherished monarch, back from some terrible war. Cangrande kissed her cheeks, followed immediately by her countryman Marsilio da Carrara.

  Behind Kate came her daughters on the arms of their Paduan grandfather, Lord Baptista Minola, and the old family friend Hortensio, namesake of one of the twins. In fact, Kate's whole family was present, including her beautiful but pinched-face sister Bianca. And if Bianca was here, then so too was — “Lucentio!”