The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Seeing the wave, Pietro's old schoolmate broke ranks, grinning. “Pietro! Or shall I say, Ser Alaghieri. I hoped I'd see you here. We didn't get to talk at the funeral. Congratulations on finishing the race today. I had intended to join in, but—” Glancing at his wife, he shook his head. She seemed to feel it, as she gave him a withering glare before smiling coyly at Pietro.

  Pietro knew better than to smile back. Thanks to Petrarch, he'd already earned a reputation as despoiler of his friends' sisters. He wanted no rumours growing here at home. “It's not too late. Run tonight! Tell her it's to honour Petruchio. She can hardly object.”

  “No, she'll just take her objections out in silences and…” Lucentio caught himself. “But look at this room! Paduans and Veronese, breaking bread? All thanks to you. It's hard to believe it was just six months ago that you appeared at my door with Carrara to negotiate the peace. Though someone is clearly trying to wreck it,” he added darkly.

  “Petruchio's loss was a blow to us all,” said Pietro solemnly.

  Lucentio smiled through his pain. “My purse may be richer without all his wagers, but my life will be poorer. Lord Lozzo, it's good to see you again.”

  “And you,” said Nico, clasping Lucentio's arm and exchanging the double kiss of friendship. “We've both lost a brother. You a brother-in-law, I a brother-in-arms.”

  “And a brother-in-love.” Lucentio knew how close the severed bond had been.

  Talk was hard at first, but Pietro and Lucentio filled the gap with reminiscences of their school days, half a lifetime earlier. From then the tables turned, with Nico and Lucentio talking of Petruchio's antics at Lucentio's wedding. “Though he was not the one who caused the biggest scene. Where is Antonio Capulletto?” Pietro pointed, and Lucentio chuckled. “That's him. Put on some pounds in the intervening years, but I'd know that frame anywhere.”

  Confused, Pietro looked to Nico for an explanation. “Capulletto and his uncle attended the wedding all uninvited. In masques,” he added, smiling in spite of himself. “Overturned the entire desert table on Carrara. Don't tell Carrara, it might end the peace altogether. He was furious.”

  “I imagine!” laughed Pietro, amazed this tale had escaped his ears. “How were you even there?”

  Nico grinned. “Petruchio snuck me into the city. I bet him he couldn't, you see?”

  Pietro demanded to hear the whole story. Anything that got Nico smiling again.

  There were plenty of smiles near the center of the hall. Don Pedro of Aragon and Donna Beatrice had invited Signor Benedick to join them. Both the Pisan lady and the Paduan soldier understood they were being put on display.

  “It seems we must sing for our supper,” said Beatrice in an undertone.

  Benedick grinned back at her. “We'd best, then – after that race, I'm famished.”

  “And drenched. In clichés, if not water.”

  They bantered for show, each scoring points and garnering applause. There was less bite tonight, perhaps because they were both aware of their status as entertainers. Or perhaps because of a mutual growing attraction? They might not admit it, but the pull was evident to all present, making Don Pedro frown several times.

  During a lull in the bickering, he said, “Signor Benedick, tell me – have you ever considered becoming a lawyer, like Ser Alaghieri?”

  Benedick blinked. “No, my lord, honestly it never occurred to me.”

  “You have a way with words, is my only reason.”

  “I am a soldier, lord. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing more at all,” agreed Beatrice. “Besides, there's more to lawyering than talking. One must be able to influence people towards one's cause. If Signor Benedick tried his hand at defending Saint Anselm on charges of theft, the jury would convict the saint of murder out of pure revulsion.”

  Seated nearby, Kate Bonaventura laughed in approval, breaking the last seal of restraint. As in the ancient Olympics of Greece, a torch had been passed from bickering couple to bickering couple. Many predicted a wedding within the hour. After all, the Palio had a reputation for secret assignations and stealthy marriages.

  One prospective wedding seemed promising – not Beatrice and Benedick, but rather the daughter of the late Petruchio and one of Cesco's Rakehells. Salvatore da Battaglia was seated beside the prim Vittoria, their heads close together. Pietro recalled them holding hands at her father's funeral. Perhaps from tragedy, comedy will spring.

  The volume grew, threatening to drown the hammering of the chilly rain striking the palace roof. It was so hot in the smoky hall that layers of clothing were removed, some more risqué than others. Badinage, singing, and tales combined to make a joyful gathering, despite the ominous presence of food tasters.

  Pietro kept one eye upon the Rienzi party, with occasional glances to where Cesco was laughing on the far side of the hall with his Rakehells. As long as those groups remained separate, all was well. Pietro wondered where Detto had gotten to – if anyone had the ability to check Cesco, it was his best friend and cousin.

  Dinner was served, but people barely took time to chew as they argued, bantered, and wagered – it seemed that a dozen men were eager to fill the gap Petruchio had left in being Verona's bet-maker-in-chief. Even when Cangrande stood to make the prayer and salute, he was hardly noticed. It took the booming voice of Bailardino to swing everyone's attention around to the High Table.

  Cangrande made a prayer to the Virgin, his personal patron, and then allowed the Bishop to intone a longer prayer. Before raising his cup to propose a salute, he pressed the wine to his lips and drank deeply. When he did not keel over, there was a slackening of tension. “Best to get that out of the way. I would like to propose we drink to the man whose presence we are all missing. He was the perfect symbol of all we celebrate – a brave and cheerful Veronese married to a wild and willful Paduan, whose union was the envy of the world. Lord Carrara, may the marriage of our two cities be as fruitful and admirable as that of Petruchio and his beloved Kate. To Petruchio Bonaventura!”

  “Bonaventura!” roared a chorus of voices.

  Lest anyone look around to see if someone was growing purple in the face, Cangrande pressed quickly on. “Before we finish our meals and the men get naked, I have another announcement. I had intended to wait, make this its own occasion. Because, as we all know, I am revered far and wide for my patience.” Cangrande bowed his head under the ensuing jeers. “But with my friend Marsilio here, the moment seems far too apt. This is an occasion where we might right a very old wrong while at the same time rewarding one of our own. So please indulge me. This sort of thing is more commonly a matter of state, rarely done in spontaneous moments of exuberance.” Cangrande looked about the expectant faces and found the one he sought. “Ser Pietro Alaghieri, step forward.”

  Startled, Pietro rose from his seat and came to face the High Table. He did not appreciate being the focus of so many eyes. What fresh Hell is this?

  “Outside Verona, Pietro is known for his father. But we Veronese know him for himself. As brave a man as I've ever met. Unfailingly loyal. Unfortunately honest.” Laughter. “Of paramount importance, he is completely devoted to doing what he sees as right. His sense of duty binds him more than Aeneas' did, and the words of Virgil could easily apply to this knight before me:

  I am Aeneas, duty-bound, and known

  Above high air of heaven by my fame,

  Carrying with me in my ships our gods

  Of hearth and home, saved from the enemy.

  I look for Italy to be my fatherland,

  And my descent is from all-highest Jove.

  “Pietro saved not the gods of Troy, but the future of Verona, taking my heir into hiding for eight long years. His descent is not from Jove, but from a man gifted by God with the power to create a word palace for Heaven to come to Man. Surely the duty-bound Pietro is as well known in that Heaven as ever Aeneas was. A pity that Verona already has a saint of his name, for Ser Alaghieri is more than worthy of canonization.”

/>   Pietro dropped his chin to hide his crimson cheeks. Heart racing, he waited for the hammer to fall. Is he exiling me again?

  “Ha! See him now? That is another trait – no no, I do not refer to his modesty, which is all too genuine. I refer to his endurance. Uncomfortable as the good knight is to hear his praises sung, he will stand and take it as though it were a charge of cavalry. For Pietro knows how to endure. He has endured injury, exile, poverty, excommunication, unjust slurs, assaults on both his body and his character. More, he had to endure my heir's antics. I must beg him to let me drink from the font that gave him his unmeasured patience! To mangle Virgil again, Quidquid erit, superanda omnis fortuna ferendo est.”

  Here, at least, was a message Pietro understood. It was not for him, but for Cesco. 'Come what may, all bad fortune is to be conquered by endurance.'

  Across the table from where Pietro stood, Cangrande turned to his chief guest, Marsilio da Carrara. “My Lord, you had the misfortune to face this knight before he was a knight. You fought fairly on the field of battle, did you not?”

  “We did,” answered Carrara loudly. Clearly informed of what was coming, he was playing his part. “He took me prisoner at the First Battle of Vicenza, fifteen years hence. It was I who wounded him, yet he treated me with honour, and released me at your request.”

  “Losing a fortune in favour of honour,” noted Cangrande. “Then you two dueled in the Arena, and Pietro was as gracious in defeat as he had been in victory.”

  I didn't lose, thought Pietro with a flash of annoyance. You declared the duel inconclusive. That was a technicality, though. Pietro had to admit that lying in the dirt with a dagger at your throat was a fairly clear sign of loss.

  “And Lord Carrara, you must by now have heard the sequel to your first encounter. How, during the Second Battle of Vicenza, Ser Alaghieri wore the armour of the Count of San Bonifacio in an attempt to amuse you before the city's gates. It was Pietro who delayed you, and he who fought against you in the street alongside my forces.”

  Carrara's laughter was a little forced, but he managed it. Thankfully there was no mention of Pietro's hand in the Dente uprising, though Carrara knew full well that Pietro had tried to kill him in the street brawl four years ago. What is happening?

  “The Count himself was wounded that day,” continued Cangrande, omitting that it was Carrara who gave the aged Count his fatal wound. “Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio died a true son of Verona, brave and fierce in his patriotism, however misguided. He was an ally to Padua, and none fought harder than his father to overthrow the tyrant Ezzelino da Romano. With a temper as fiery as his head, his name meant 'In war, I win'. We here today know that there are no winners in war. Peace is infinitely preferable. Yet in many ways, the Count's spirit embodies much of what we have achieved here – peace, prosperity, and a glowing future with Verona and Padua united to restore Italy to her rightful place as center of the world.

  “Ser Pietro Alaghieri helped bring all this to pass. A lost son of Florence, a treasured son of Verona, a respected hero in Padua, Pietro set the seal on our newfound harmony with the Pax Verona. Now it is time for him to claim his reward.”

  Cangrande directed his gaze to the knight himself. “Ser Pietro Alaghieri, once at my command you wore the armour belonging to the Count of San Bonifacio. Today I wish you to don that armour again. Not for anyone's amusement, nor in any act of deception, but in truth.” Lifting his chin to bathe the assembly with his famous allegria, the Scaliger cried out, “Hear me now! I, Cangrande della Scala, Capitano di Verona and Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, hereby elevate Ser Pietro Alaghieri to the title of Count of San Bonifacio, and lord of all the lands and deeds thereto. Praise be to God, and long live Count Alaghieri!”

  It was impossible to know who cheered first as Pietro found himself swept into congratulatory embraces and kisses. The Bonaventura twins threw their caps into the air, Morsicato was slamming his hands together wildly, Bailardino leapt forward to crush Pietro in a bearish hug. Signor Benedick was on his feet, while his fellow Paduan Salvatore turned away from his courting to rise and applaud Pietro's elevation. He was weeping, odd in a man so phlegmatic.

  There were tears in Pietro's own eyes as he accepted the sword Cangrande offered. He was then swept from hand to hand, thanking everyone for their praise, until he found himself embraced by Cesco. The pupils were distressingly large, but the rascal seemed quite himself as he kissed his foster-father on both cheeks. “I wish I had thought of it! Such poetic justice! But, as this seems to be another Virgilian evening – Equo ne credite, Teucri! Quidquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”

  The quote was apt: 'Do not trust the horse, Trojans. Whatever it is, I fear the Grecians, even bearing gifts.'

  Pietro leaned close to whisper, “I was thinking the same thing.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “YOU GOT MY NOTE.” A statement of the obvious.

  “You shouldn't be here,” said Detto, dripping onto the rushes of the dimly lit room.

  “Now is the only time we could meet,” agreed the room's sole inhabitant. “While everyone is at the feast.

  “No, I mean here in Verona.”

  “There was no help for it. I was summoned. I would have come in any case. You understand why.”

  He did. “It wasn't an attempt on Cesco. Besides, he's been poisoned before, so he takes doses of something to prevent it happening again.”

  The figure rose from her chair, her back to the fire. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Detto saw her profile against the flames. “O God.”

  Rosalia Rienzi rubbed a hand over her swollen belly. “Seven months gone.”

  Detto felt bloodless. “Cesco's.”

  It wasn't a question, but still she answered him, leaving no possible doubt. “Yes.”

  There was such sadness in her tone that Detto had to hide behind his eyelids. “You can't see him.”

  “He can't see me, you mean.”

  “You can't,” he said emphatically. Cesco couldn't be told. It would unhinge him even further.

  “I must,” said Lia.

  “Do you still love him?” Detto didn't mean to ask, but the question forced itself upon him.

  “Love?” echoed Lia. “I hate him. I detest him. I shake when I think of him. I want this last year back. But that's not possible.”

  “No,” agreed Detto.

  “I think – hate makes it easier. If I stopped hating, I'd only feel—”

  “I know.” His tone expressed his truth.

  Sitting again, Lia folded her hands. “Poor Detto. Poor Cesco. Poor Rosalia. We're all too young to know such sorrow, aren't we? Because we all love. You and I, at least, don't live his life. He's a figure made for jealousy, envy, hatred, admiration.”

  “Pity.”

  That provoked a sad laugh. “I cannot imagine a worse fate for him than to know he was pitied.” Lia cocked her head slightly. “You are as loyal to him as you were when we met. Is he as loyal to you?”

  “He's only disloyal to himself.”

  Lia sat for a long time, digesting that statement. “You should tell him so.”

  “He won't listen. And I can't make things better.”

  “No. No one can. We can only endure. Detto, I have to see him, but on my terms. I have made the arrangements. Do you trust me?”

  “Secrets,” said Detto. “I hate secrets.”

  Lia reached out a hand. “Detto – trust me. All will be well.”

  Even as he agreed, he knew she was wrong.

  Twenty-Nine

  THE GENERAL HOPE was that the rain would end during the feast, or at least lessen. Instead it grew more torrential. Cangrande pulled his wizened steward d'Isola aside, whispering in his ear while scribbling notes onto a wax tablet, detailing last-minute alterations in the Foot Palio.

  Busy being congratulated, Pietro did not notice the start of the encounter he so dreaded. Marching up, Cesco was wringing Tiberio's hand before the big man knew it was taken. “I hear congratulations ar
e in order! On behalf of my whole family, please allow me to offer my felicitations on your marriage.”

  Shocked, Tiberio struggled to find breath for a retort. Adamo pulled back his arm to strike, but his father closed a massive hand over his son's fist and hissed, “Not here!”

  “No, he prefers back streets and alleys, does our adamant Adamo,” rejoined Cesco crisply. “He also likes taking men unawares. Signor Tiberio, shall I speak a word in your ear?” Shifting his body so the two Rienzi couldn't see him, Cesco stared up and up into the whiskered face. “Tell me she's well.”

  “As well as can be expected.” Tiberio towered over Cesco. “I'm glad to have the chance of a word.”

  “You have something to say to me? I am all attention.”

  “Just this. If you come near her, I'll murder you.”

  Cesco's eyebrows lifted. “You threaten well,” he said approvingly. “Not too much detail, just plain words in a plain style, plainly delivered. Allow me to offer you a threat in return. If you do not treat her well, you're the one taking the measure of a grave. A big grave, to be sure. But a grave is a grave.”

  Tiberio's breath was fast as he controlled his aching fists. “On that we agree.”

  “Gravely.” Cesco laughed. “Ah, I see the new Count counting the ways to part us. He is quite correct, I must be going. The race, the race! Are you running tonight, Signor Tiberio? No? Perhaps your brother-in-love there can persuade you. For surely Adamo is racing! The first man thought nothing of his nudity until he ate of the Tree of Knowledge. A sin our Adamo has clearly never committed.” Without even watching the barb go home, Cesco turned and slithered through the throng while the three northmen remained behind, seething.

  Pietro passed them by with a wary look. Rienzi shook his head, but Tiberio chose to answer. “Keep him away from me. Next time, I'll kill him.”

  Saying nothing, Pietro continued to edge between bodies as he tried to catch up to Cesco.