The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “I am astonished, if I may say, at your equanimity.”

  “O, I wailed. I beat my chest and tore my hair for days. But he loved my hair. My chest as well. A poor way to honour him, doing harm to the things he loved. Which is why I so enjoyed your public displays of wit this evening. He would have appreciated it. Love should never be easy. Though,” she added darkly, “some people make it too hard.”

  Beatrice's brow furrowed. “Was that aimed at me?”

  “No,” said Kate sadly. “At me. But what about you and Signor Benedick? He is a man of parts, yes?”

  “If by parts you mean wit and looks and a nimble sword – or so I'm told, and not just by him. But if you mean wealth, no.”

  “Does that trouble you?”

  “Me?” repeated Beatrice in surprise. “Not at all! But it may vex him when he learns I have nothing to offer in way of land.”

  “You are unkind,” chastised Kate. “Or else you do not think highly of him.”

  Beatrice looked away. “Too highly.”

  “Well then, will you allow me to offer some advice? Focus on the aspects of your being that tempt him, and challenge him. Never be something you're not, because he won't like what he sees when the covers are lifted. Always remember – men are vain. They need to believe they are the best, the most valourous. 'This citadel must be taken, and I'm the only man alive who can!' ”

  “Is that what you did?”

  “Hah! Yes, though all unknowingly. I was invested in my own independence, and the more I fought his wooing, the more he fought to win me. With jests, with mad deeds masked in kind words. It took me weeks to realize the game he was playing. The moment I recognized it, I set out to prove I was better at the game than he was. When I did, he accepted me as his partner. In a war of wills, we found a very happy peace.”

  “But not an easy one.”

  “Again, what in life that's worth doing is easy? Still, there are simple things to do that make a world of difference. The best thing I ever did was keep his reputation alive. We bantered and played in public, of course. But I never harmed his dignity. In fact, I upheld it. With mockery, yes. But with me fostering his reputation as a scoundrel, he did not feel the need to remain one. Give the man the reputation he desires, and he is free to do as he likes. Reputation is far greater than wealth. And that is something you can give your Benedick. But first,” added Kate, “let him prove himself worthy of you. Tell him the truth of your circumstances, and see if his affection cools. If it does, he is not the man for you.”

  Beatrice thanked Kate for her sage advice, then went off to fix her hair. Kate stood all alone, her eyes closed, shoulders bent. “Yes, I know. From me, of all people. But you don't get to criticize. You left without permission.”

  “Mama?” said Evelina, edging forward. “Are you talking to—?”

  “Your father, yes.” Kate drew herself upright. “It's not madness, darling. I'll never stop hearing his voice.”

  Evelina took her mother's hand. Kate squeezed it, then restored her brave face for the others.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  ACROSS FROM THE PALACE, Cesco and Detto reached the roof of the Domus Bladorum. Below was the well where Cesco's mother had been hidden. They said nothing of it as they made the short leap across to the next rooftop. Detto started to slip, but Cesco caught him by the wrist. “Careful.”

  Detto shook his hand free. “Do you doubt me so much? Can't I be trusted to do anything?”

  “I have trouble sometimes,” said Cesco slowly, “discerning how much of your anger with me is for show, and how much is real.”

  Detto pressed on. “Let's keep going.”

  They traversed the path above the Piazza delle Erbe. At the lip of the roof Cesco touched Detto's arm. “Wait a moment.”

  “What now?” said Detto harshly.

  “This race. Think – we know the author…”

  Detto understood. If they could guess the rest of the quotes, they might skip a step or two in the race. Detto tried to remember any pithy sayings attributed to San Francesco. “Wasn't there one about doing the impossible?”

  “ 'Start by doing what's necessary; then do what's possible, then suddenly you are doing the impossible.' You see any help in that? No, nor I. What else?”

  Detto frowned. “ 'I have been everything unholy. If God can work through me–' ”

  “ '–he can work through anyone,' ” Cesco finished. “That should be my motto. Does it bring any places to mind?”

  “No,” admitted Detto.

  “I'm not doing any better,” said Cesco. “There's the bit about injury and pardon, despair and hope, blah blah blah. Too vague…”

  Detto stood upright. “The gloomy face.”

  Cesco slammed his wet palms together. “Perfect! 'It is not fitting, when in God's service, to wear a gloomy face or chilling look.' You know who that is, of course!”

  Without another word, Detto led the way over the thin walkway of La Costa, from which hung the monstrous rib-bone, and towards the Torre dei Lamberti. In the square that joined it to the Palazzo Cangrande, there rested a fresco cycle of Pietro's father, the poet Dante, he of the most chilling look.

  They were almost there when Cesco snapped his fingers. “Of course! 'I have sinned against my brother.'” Detto stared at him. “A quote, not a confession.” Cesco told him the context. “It makes the logical final stop, does it not?”

  Together they reversed course and started running again, so focused at keeping their feet they failed to notice the knot of men following them below.

  Thirty

  MONTAGU AND AIELLO ran along the rooftops in uncomfortable silence. Neither knew the city well enough to even hope for victory. Instead they followed other runners and tried not to look each other in the eye. Or anywhere else.

  “This way,” said Aiello suddenly.

  “Why that way?”

  “Because, bastard, that's Mastino della Scala, with Lord Carrara beside him. They know where they're going. But if you have better ideas…”

  Montagu responded by doubling his pace, leaving the older Aiello huffing to catch up. “Bastard.”

  “Yes, I am,” agreed Montagu. “Your point?”

  “My point is that you're a bastard, and are going to die a bastard's death.”

  It wasn't the slanting sheets of rain that made Montagu shiver. “Not in Verona.”

  “If you should disappear, it might go unnoticed. Poof. Vanished, like a shadow at nightfall.”

  “Like you did to Breon?”

  Aiello managed to look both proud and wounded. “He stuck his finger in my meat pie. What did he expect? Stuck it right in there!”

  “Stuck more than his finger in, I hear,” answered Montagu.

  Aiello swore, and Montagu feared he was about to be attacked.

  Instead, the Scot began a diatribe on manners and fairness that lasted several city blocks. It was the strangest combination of outrage and indignation Montagu had ever heard, coming from the lips of a bounty hunter and murderer.

  Aiello concluded by remarking, “But that was personal, not business. I am paid to end your life. Scaliger or no, I am a man of my word.”

  I have to do something, thought Montagu.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  MARI AND ANTONY had a salutary experience in the La Rosa Colta, laughing themselves sick, though not partaking of the offered enticements. Some of their fellow racers had abandoned the chilly and damp contest to remain there, and could be heard through the walls or glimpsed behind flimsy screens connected by lengths of rope.

  Departing the whorehouse, the duo found themselves not too far behind the Bonaventura group, who had mistaken the whores' message and were only now heading towards the saint's statue.

  “You know,” said Mariotto, “we might just win this.”

  Antony rumbled with amusement. “We might at that! Wouldn't that shock the masses!”

  They ran harder, and this time when one started to fall, the other helped him up.
>
  ♦ ◊ ♦

  BACK IN THE Scaligeri palace, Salvatore was talking in a low voice in Vittoria's ear when she let out a coo that had nothing to do with his words. “Oh, look at that. The little princess is falling asleep.” Salvatore's attentions had miraculously cured her dislike of Maddelena.

  Salvatore glanced over to where Maddelena was curled in her nurse's lap, trying valiantly to remain awake. Antonia and Dahna were making preparations to take the girl back to her home.

  Salvatore rose. “Excuse me, Vittoria. As the sole friend of her husband present, I'd feel better if I escorted them.” Vittoria pouted, and he flashed her a smile. “Cesco is Verona's Heir, and my friend. I must look after his wife, as I'm sure he would do mine. When I have a wife.”

  From forsaken, Vittoria suddenly began to glow. Sitting close at hand, her sister Evelina made a vomiting noise, for which her mother scolded her.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO AND DETTO dropped together into the attic of a muleteer's shop three blocks from the river's edge. The way in was a sideways window in a cupola, and their eight-foot drop placed them center of an upper chamber.

  Detto squinted along the walls, looking for some sign, some message. They were risking all on guessing the answer, and so far he saw nothing. “Are you sure about this?”

  “No. But his dying words – 'I have sinned against my brother, the ass.' Wonderfully open to interpretation, don't you think?”

  Detto had stopped listening. There was something warm near his ankle. Reaching carefully down, his fingers brushed the hot metal screen concealing a candle's light. “I think I found it.” He removed the cover, and the flickering wick within cast its light on the wall before them. Scrawled in dark paint was written:

  The only ass here is you.

  “Here's the problem,” mused Cesco. “I have no idea if that's the real message, or one meant just for me.”

  “No reason it can't be both.”

  “Hm. His messages are usually less subtle. And yours are growing ever more opaque.” Detto turned away, and Cesco threw up his hands. “For Lucifer's sake! Do you want to strike me? Is that it?”

  “You don't know anything,” said Detto.

  “Because you don't tell me anything! You moon and scowl and frown and play the perverse painted pillar of prevarication! Yes! I struck your mother! I refuse to apologize—”

  “Who is asking you to?!” shouted Detto. “You think I'm so weak that I'd hold that grudge for months and months? If I wanted you to apologize, I'd beat you down until you begged to cry, 'I am a sore and sorry ass!' ”

  “You could try.”

  “Oh, you'd say it,” said Detto loudly. “I know your tricks by now, God knows. But you don't know anything.”

  “What then? What the hell is your problem? Jesu, anyone would think you were the wronged party, you were the one the stars were conspiring against, you were the one with dashed dreams, you were the one who – who—”

  The choked sob that escaped Cesco's lips might have checked anyone else. But Detto's own feelings were too pent up. His gates having fractionally opened, they now flooded forth. “It's all about you! Of course it is! You selfish git! You're the one wallowing in hurt feelings! You're the one wasting your everything! You think I don't see the wine, the women, the fighting, for what they are? You're diminishing everything you are because your feelings are hurt! Because Cesco is so deep! So important! He feels more than other people, his life matters more than anyone else's!”

  “I don't think that—”

  Detto squared his shoulders. “Well, you know what? It does! Your life does matter more than anyone else's. That's why I'm angry. I stand here, day after day, watching you soil yourself, spoil yourself, waste your gifts, squander your chance to become something great. The world has hurt you, so you hurt the world. But it wasn't the world, was it? There are maybe three or four people who invited your pain. Punish them! Not Fate, not the damned stars, not God, and not yourself! Fut! Other men moon or act morose, turn all their pain inside. But not Cesco! He has to hurt the people who care about him. Ser Alaghieri, Suor Beatrice, Ser Morsicato, Tharwat – do they deserve your wrath? What did they ever do but love you, rear you, raise you to be free enough to use your brain and see the world for what it is? You're so selfish that you'd turn the whip against your friends so they can share your pain!”

  “My friends!” cried Cesco, stunned.

  “Yes! People so eternally stupid that they stand by you even as you destroy yourself! What are you doing? Do you even know? What happened to your plans for Mastino and Venice? For your father? Are they still happening? Or are you just flailing like an infant with a toothache, wailing into the night?”

  “Toothache! You don't know, you supercilious shit! You have no idea! You don't know what it is to love!”

  “Of course I do, you stupid bastard! I love you! You're the only friend I have in the world, and my reward is the choice seat to watch you wreck your life! You want to know what's the matter with me? I'm waiting for my friend to come back!”

  Cesco began tugging at the knot binding him to Detto. “The hell with this.” But the wet knot was impossible to untie.

  Detto grasped Cesco by the shoulders. “My mother gave me a message for you. It was her request, the night before I was attacked. My mother, who never gave a fig for me. If she died untimely, I was to tell you something. Her final words are for you. Not for Val. Not for me. Not for my father, even. We're the ones who… We're the ones… Why doesn't she have messages for us? I asked her that. You know what she answered? 'Because I have nothing to say to you.' So I went on to Venice and was attacked, on your business, knowing that even if I died, my mother had no message for anyone but you.”

  They stood naked before each other, the cord binding them chest to chest across the divide.

  “We're all waiting for you,” said Detto. “I don't know for how much longer.”

  Still Cesco said nothing. Detto was wondering if he should say it, the thing he had promised to say. He licked his lips and drew a breath—

  Cesco held up a hand. Detto heard it too. A scraping sound. He glanced up, wondering if some fellow racers had arrived. But no, the sound was coming from below. There were footsteps on the stairs, and these feet were shod.

  “In here,” came a gruff whisper, barely audible over the patter of the rain above. “Spread out, and remember – no killing the prince.”

  Cesco flashed Detto a look. Anyone else might have showed fear. But Cesco's face bore relief, and pure joy.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  HOODED, CANGRANDE AND PIETRO were well concealed in the rain, and had no trouble avoiding notice as they approached the door of Lord Tiberio's house. Admitted before they finished knocking, they were shown up the stairs to a small chamber lit only by a fire. In its light, both men could see the figure seated in the chair. The figure, and the crossbow she held.

  “Come in, father. Ser Alaghieri, step to the side. I'd hate for this to run through him and hit you.”

  “Hello, Rosalia. A pleasure to meet you at last.” Unconcerned, Cangrande crossed to a side table and poured himself a generous helping of wine. “I presume I'm a fair target over here. The light's much better.” Lifting the cup, he paused. “Should I call a taster?”

  “I'd drink some,” answered Lia. “But it makes the baby kick.”

  “Then I shall have to risk it.” Cangrande threw back the cup and waited, curious, before pouring himself another. “No. Poison did not seem your weapon. I recall a dagger?”

  “I did try poison once,” she answered, her voice as level as his. “A blowgun. I tried it for weeks on the local animals, perfecting my aim. But my brother stopped me then as well.”

  Cangrande spoke sharply. “Don't call him that.”

  “Oh? Do you deny that is what he is?”

  “I deny nothing. I just don't want Count Pietro here to vomit. His stomach isn't near as strong as mine.”

  “Or mine,” said Lia. “Count, is i
t? Congratulations. Is that the price you earned telling him I was carrying his first grandchild?”

  Before Pietro could answer, Cangrande cut across him. “Technically, the good Count did not violate his oath. He was only trying to prevent me from calling you here. He feared a scene such as this.”

  “I think it was a different scene he feared. Cesco burning the city to the ground.”

  “Which he would do for you, yes,” agreed Cangrande. “I'm astonished, really, that it matters so much to him. He's fourteen. At his age I had slept with my sister half a hundred times.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “IN FUTURE, DON'T yell at me so loud,” whispered Cesco. “Douse that light. Go left, stay low.”

  Detto closed the lamp's shutters just as the door crashed open and four armed men advanced into the room, searching. A jiggle on the rope signaling him, Detto crept left until the rope between him and Cesco was almost taut. Then, above the breathing of each unknown man, his ears caught a low whistle.

  Lurching forward, Detto pulled the rope as Cesco did the same. Caught at their ankles, all four men flopped onto their stomachs. The leader took the brunt, a sharp crack declaring him out for the moment.

  His three compatriots clambered to their feet. One grasped the rope, dragging Detto towards him. There was nothing for it but to rush him head-on. Lowering his shoulder, he lunged forward.

  As Detto made contact he heard a similar 'whoof' from close by – Cesco had come to the same conclusion. Detto ducked what he hoped was a club and not a knife. In close, a club was all but useless. A knife was not.

  A year wrestling with Cangrande had taught Cesco all manner of dirty tricks, which he had passed along to Detto. Making sure to keep a hand high to ward off blows, he swept a leg across one man's shin, drove his elbow into some soft flesh, and brought his knee up to follow a hard punch to the stomach.

  Inches away, Detto heard Cesco's usual taunts while fighting. “You mewling pumpion! Craven scut-knocker!” It made Detto laugh.