by David Blixt
It took minutes to worm their rope sideways towards the nearer building. Finally it was done and they were perched on windowsills a story away from the rooftop.
“My arm is murder,” groused Antony.
“Mine too,” said Mari, massaging his wrist. “Want to stop?”
“Do you know what happens if we don't make it back?”
“We'll never live it down,” agreed Mariotto. “Let's go then.”
This time as they climbed they made jokes. Poor ones, as both were treading lightly on this new peace.
But it felt good. It felt right. Each man had his best friend back.
♦ ◊ ♦
HAVING PASSED THE first clue and already decyphered the second, Cesco and Detto were well in the lead. As hinted to Benedick, 'Brother Sun' referred to the monks at the Chapter Library of the Duomo. The Library itself was across the square from the Duomo, and thus reachable from the rooftops of the northeast part of the city. The 'sun' reference was double, since the fresco on the front of the building had both a sun high in the sky and the baby Christ in his mother's arms.
Inside the top floor windows, a single torch lit words scrawled in chalk:
Love is he, radiant with great splendour,
And speaks to us of thee, O Most High.
“It would be so easy,” Cesco had mused softly.
“What, to erase the words? Leave that to Mastino,” Detto had said.
Now they skirted buildings over-run with pushing and crawling men. In the rain they were invisible as Cesco led the way to the next location.
“Where are we headed?” asked Detto at last.
“Love, radiant with splendour. What rich building houses love?” They were already approaching their familiar stopping point – La Rosa Colta. Cesco grinned. “Love he is, and speaks to us of thee, O Most High. Shall we?”
Acutely aware of his nakedness, Detto rolled with Cesco over the lip of the roof, dropping onto a balcony that ran the whole length of the building. Every few feet there was another door. The noises from some rooms were quite distinct, making Detto blush.
A door stood open at the end of the balcony, light streaming out. Above it was a painted Cupid, his bow drawn and ready.
Cesco made no gesture towards modesty as he passed through the open doors. “Good evening. I trust we're expected?”
The room was full of women in various states of undress. Some wore make-up, some wore wigs, some wore nothing at all. All were waiting for them, with Madonna Rapida and Madonna Troppo painted and primped for many promised guests.
“Poor babies,” said Rapida, eyes crinkled. “They're all wet!”
“I can warm them up,” offered Troppo.
“Greedy witch,” answered Rapida. “We can do it together.”
Cesco walked deeper into the scented chamber, seeming to look for someone. Detto lingered as near the balcony door as the rope allowed.
“What's the matter, sweetie?” inquired a young-looking girl with curled red hair. “Don't you like us?”
“No,” said Detto, flushing. “I mean, of course, but…”
“But Bailardetto is a man of duty,” said Cesco, “and we are on a mission. You have something for us?”
“It depends, dear Francesco,” said Troppo in a husky voice. She walked to him and rubbed her hips against his pelvis. “Do you have something for us?”
Cesco looked down. “As you can see, Madonna, I do. I would make Priapus hide his head in shame. Isn't that right?” He wagged his hips to make his manhood nod. “He says that's right. But first, you have a message for us?”
“We certainly do,” said the young whore near Detto. She began whispering something in his ear that caused him to blush.
“I mean a message from the Capitano,” Cesco clarified.
“The magic word.” Rapida looked around at her companions to make certain they were ready, then led a joint recitation. “You damned spirits! You can only do what the Hand of God allows!”
Cesco grinned. “How appropriate. I hope you who are so skilled in trucco do not meant to trick us.” In the Veronese tongue, the word for make-up was the same as for trick.
Rapida raised her palm. “Hand to God.”
“Hand of God,” said Detto from the doorway.
“Yes.” Still Cesco seemed to be looking for someone. “Do you have it?”
“I think so. Let's go.”
But Cesco continued to glance about. Madonna Troppo leaned close to whisper in his ear. “She is not here, my lord. But she is not with another man, I promise you. She went out earlier for some reason. Her chamber is empty.”
Detto did not know to whom she referred, but Cesco was clearly put out. “Then we depart. Ladies, thank you for your hospitality. We'll be back – well, I will. My friend is virtuous to a fault. Keep the fires warm and yourselves warmer. I'll need to generate some heat!”
The giggling trollops made kissing noises. As Detto withdrew, the red-headed girl attempted to pry his hands apart, hands that were having more and more trouble maintaining his modesty. Returning to the balcony, he accepted Cesco's boost, only to be humiliated as his erect manhood painfully caught on the lower lip of the roof. Shifting his hips, he clambered awkwardly up and used the rope to haul Cesco after him.
As they started west, towards the statue of a saint with obtrusively large hands, they encountered a group of four running together.
“Ho, Cesco!” cried Hortensio da Bonaventura.
“Ho!” called his brother, young Petruchio.
“Ho, Ser Pipsqueak!” bellowed Nico da Lozzo.
“Ho, ho,” said Hortensio da Padua.
“Ho. Ho. Ho. Ho!” replied Cesco, greeting each in turn.
“Hello,” said Detto dourly.
“Where are you fellows off to?” inquired Cesco innocently.
“Don't give us that,” said the elder Hortensio. “We're going where you've just been, and don't deny it!”
“Going to the whore-house,” said young Petruchio happily.
“Ho ho,” said Hortensio his brother.
“Nico, don't let them intimidate you,” called Cesco.
“I'll try not to rise to their bait,” retorted Nico da Lozzo.
“Just don't tell my wife, or she'll be a widow again,” said Hortensio the elder with a note of real pleading. The four men laughed as they slipped over the edge and down to the balcony.
As Detto and Cesco traipsed across the rooftops, Cesco echoed the whore's question. “What's the matter? Aren't you having fun?”
Detto shook his head, his sodden hair whipping the rain away. “Just keep running.”
♦ ◊ ♦
AMID THE REVELS on the Scaligeri loggia, women were in great prominence. Most males were out there in the rain, leaving behind only men such as the senior Castelbarco, too aged to race, Cangrande della Scala, too important to race, or Salvatore, too enamoured to race. Even members of the clergy were participating in the Palio – forbidden to ride a horse, Fra Lorenzo was under no such restriction for his own feet, and was out there naked with the rest.
Feminine attention centered on Pietro. Gianozza Montecchio kissed him on both cheeks, and Antonia brought forward little Maddelena to curtsey to the new Count. Thanking the little girl, Pietro embraced his sister. “Now I have almost as many titles as you.”
As she slapped him playfully on the shoulder, Castelbarco the elder arrived to punch him hard on the opposite arm. “What did you ever do to be made a Count?”
Pietro rubbed his bicep. “Does a title allow everyone to hit me?”
Gianozza Montecchio began rhapsodizing about the latest poet to catch her fancy – none other than Pietro's friend, Francesco Petrarca. He had started sending his shorter love rhymes to his friend Pietro, and Antonia had been foolish enough to share one with Gianozza. Now whenever they met she pestered her husband's friend to recite one of Petrarch's new lines, sighing deeply whenever the word 'love' passed his lips.
Other women were sighing too, but with m
ore emphasis on the speaker than the words. Pietro looked to his sister for rescue, but she laughingly pled her duty to little Maddelena. “I'll have to take her home soon.”
Escaping poetic talk, Pietro sought a private word with the Scaliger. Crossing the loggia, he was suddenly waylaid by the Paduan Rakehell Salvatore, who rose from beside Vittoria to shake the new count's hand. “May I offer my congratulations?”
Pietro accepted the offered arm, a little bemused. He didn't really know this young man. “Thank you. You're not racing?”
The young man shook his head. Sotto voce he said, “I have another race to win. Vittoria is not much impressed with contests.”
“With brothers and a father like hers, she must be tired of them. Well, best of luck. I hope her name brings you success.”
“As much as your new name brings to you, Count.”
Hmm. As he moved on, Pietro fretted. Was he truly ready to be a man of the land, to own and administer property, settle disputes, and lead men into war? His life to date had been one of itinerant travels. The longest he had ever spent in one place as an adult was his near-decade in Ravenna. Other than that, his life since exile had been spent in Paris, Pisa, Verona, Bologna, Avignon, and Verona again.
Now I am a man of substance. My heirs will be ennobled – if I ever have any.
Reaching the Scaliger, he found the great man staring out a window curtained with rain. “Count of San Bonifacio?”
Cangrande arched a mirth-filled eyebrow. “Does the title's previous owner bother you?”
Pietro recalled his one meeting with Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio. The corpulent older man had been raving nonsense: “Come back and see me, boy, when I'm dead. I have stories to tell. I have a secret. It's one secret no one else knows. Not even your master! It's only mine. All mine. Two secrets, twins, entwined snakes! The caduceus! When I'm gone, someone has to know. I want to tell someone – someone who will suffer in the knowledge – someone who will, can, when the time is right, tell Cangrande the truth of it—”
“Then tell me now,” Pietro had said.
“No, no, no! You'll tell him too soon! Too soon! I have to have my secrets! Their lies killed me, so my lies have to live to kill their lies! And you, too, boy! You wore my armour! They told me! From beyond the grave I'll haunt you! Down, down down!”
Shivering now, Pietro did not share those recollections. Another prediction was itching at the base of his neck. “No. It's just – there's something Pathino said before he was executed. He said the Count of San Bonifacio was not finished with me. Was he prescient? Did he foresee this?”
“How could he?” asked Cangrande. “I just thought of it last month. It's past time someone took up the title. Twelve years is too long. The people of San Bonifacio will appreciate having a new lord. You don't have to live there, you know. Vinciguerra never did. I've held it for years. But now you have a castle, if you like of it. And you can buy yourself a fine villa somewhere and do whatever you please. Not that I imagine you'll ever settle into a life of ease. It's not in your nature.”
“No more than in yours.”
Cangrande's smile reached his eyes. “Some thanks this is! Here I bestow a heartfelt gift of my true affection, a statement of my valuance of your worth, and you squinny and wonder at my motives. In plain truth, Pietro, I wanted to bind you to Verona. Whatever happens, the city will need you for all the days to come.”
“Whatever happens?” echoed Pietro.
“Someone tried to poison me. As if I was not already approaching an age when one thinks about mortality. What was it your father said? 'Midway through the journey of our life, I came to myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost.' He was younger than I am now – and, alas, thirty-five did not prove the halfway point of his life.” Cangrande shook his head. “You'll say the straight path was always lost to me.”
“No,” said Pietro with more compassion than he'd expected. “I'd say morbidity doesn't suit you. You've always been immortal, at least in your mind.”
“You're wrong,” said Cangrande, staring out at the rain. “I only wanted to be.”
Interesting as the Scaliger's doubts were, Pietro had a more pressing mission. “Where is she?”
“At her husband's house in the city. Shall we?” Together they slipped out the side door of the hall and donned cloaks to take them to the interview neither was looking forward to.
♦ ◊ ♦
GIULIETTA DISLIKED RAIN. Her room was near the top of her family's tower, with a door to the hall and a small balcony looking down on the central courtyard. The rain lashed at her window, and though there was no thunder tonight, every few minutes the wind would pick up, howling around the corners of her tower, rattling the latches and brushing the covers on her bed.
A creak in the hall made Giulietta start. A footstep on the darkened wooden stair. Who could it be? Her father, home early from the feast? Or perhaps her nurse, come to cuddle her? Leaping up, Giulietta threw wide the door, face expectant, eyes ready to well with tears of relief. “Hello?”
It was not her father, nor her nurse Angelica, but her mother. At the look on her face, Giulietta wished she could close the door and disappear. “Mama? Where are you going?”
“Go back to sleep, Giulietta.”
“Can't sleep,” said the three-year-old. “The wind,” she added, ducking her head in shame. Tears gathered on her lashes, though they did not fall.
“Back to bed then.”
“Mama,” said Giulietta hesitantly. “Will you snuggle me?”
Giulietta did not expect the answer to be anything but no. Her mother had never snuggled her. But she was young enough to hope and scared enough to ask.
Surprisingly, her mother said, “Very well. This once.” Entering Giulietta's room, she stretched out beside her daughter on the large bed.
So happy she could hardly speak, Giulietta wriggled to press as close as she could. “Where were you going?”
“To check on your brother. But he's with Angelica, he can wait. Now hush, child. Go to sleep.”
Giulietta closed her eyes. Her mother loved her! Not even the wind could steal her tonight, because her mother loved her! She kept sighing and cuddling closer, almost forcing her mother from the bed. But Tessa Guarini in Capulletto hung on to the last bastion at the edge of the mattress and stroked her daughter's hair. She was tempted to sing. Unsure what songs her child liked, she settled on one from her own childhood:
Lullaby, lullaby, oo,
Who will I give this baby to?
If I give him to the old hag,
For a week she will keep him.
If I give him to the black wolf
For a whole year he’ll keep him.
If I give him to the white wolf
For very long he’ll keep him.
If I give him to the bogeyman,
For a whole year he’ll keep him.
Lullaby, lullaby, ee…
Giulietta felt a shiver run through her mother. Thinking she had forgotten the final lines, the little girl whispered:
Lullaby, lullaby, ee
I will keep this baby for me!
“Yes,” said her mother, stroking Giulietta's hair. “Now go so sleep.”
Giulietta did, feeling happier than she could remember.
♦ ◊ ♦
IN THE PALACE, Giovanna della Scala held a grand court, discussing her upcoming departure for Paris and all she meant to do there.
At the other end of the loggia, two women found themselves together beside a tapestry depicting the siege of Troy. Donna Beatrice shifted uneasily. What to discuss with a widow? “My hair must be a fright. This kind of weather wreaks havoc upon it.”
“You look fine,” assured Kate Bonaventura. “Very natural.”
“That's to say, unkempt. But thank you.” They had not spoken since the night they had met, doubtless a most unwelcome memory for Kate. Unsure what else to say, Beatrice broached the nearest topic at hand. “Do you ever pity Helen?”
&nb
sp; Glancing at the tapestry, Kate laughed. “No! I know her all too well. A scheming, simpering little beauty who will as soon cut a man as kiss him. Selfish to the extreme.” She pointed across the room. “Have you met my sister?”
Spying the little beauty, Beatrice drew a breath of amused understanding. “Ah. I see. Well, I'll confess I've always pitied Helen, just a little. 'The face that launched a thousand ships.' What a title to endure. How terrible, to have so many idiots dying for your sake.”
“The chivalric ideal,” agreed Kate. “What a pile of controsenso. A woman wants to be kissed. What good is adoration from afar?”
“Spoken like a woman who knows.” It slipped past Beatrice's lips before she could recall it. “Oh! I'm sorry—”
Kate's expression was understanding, and though tears came, she was smiling. “No no, put your hands down. I'm not a fragile icicle to dissolve with a little heat. Not like herself over there,” she added with a frown for Donna Montecchio. “I have loved and been loved. I refuse to mourn, but rather remember the love.”
“That's – brave. Profound, in fact.”
Wiping her eye, Kate fixed Beatrice with a basilisk gaze. “Do not mistake me. When it is known who did the deed, the Capitano had best keep him far away from these my hands.”
Beatrice nodded. “I cannot help but wish sometimes that I was a man. I do not care for waiting. I'd rather be doing.”
“A pity you've never met the Capitano's sister. In her youth she was as formidable as any man living. Wore armour into battle, and male attire on several occasions. Refused to be less than she could be, gender be damned. A model for us all.”
“Her husband didn't object?”
“Lord Nogarola said he enjoyed seeing her legs. My Petruchio often tried to entice me to dress as a man, for sport. He bet me that I couldn't pass for a man in a tavern for a whole evening.”
Beatrice's eyes were as wide as her smile. “Did you do it?”
“Of course not.” Kate gestured to her ample chest. “It would have been doomed to a ridiculous end. Not every bet must be won – something I never quite convinced him of.” The smile was wistful, but not without joy.
