by David Blixt
Whatever the reason, Verona would have cause to regret his decision to the end of time.
♦ ◊ ♦
CANGRANDE ARRIVED AT the Giurisconsulti to find both Paduans dead. Drawing Cesco quickly outside, the Scaliger said, “You didn't have to—”
“I did,” retorted Cesco. “Pietro?”
“Alive for the moment. He's having difficulty breathing. Had the wound been on his other side, he'd have died at once. These men, were they behind it?”
“They knew nothing about it. I was their quarry.” Unconscious of the blood on his hands, Cesco began mounting the stairs two at a time. “A woman hired them. I have her description, and where she found them.” Cesco relayed the information. “She was Paduan, by her accent.”
“I can't think of anyone that fits.”
“Nor I,” admitted Cesco.
“Does this link to the poisoning?”
“They say no.” Finding his cloak, Cesco pulled it on. “And truly, would they know? They're hired swords, not master spies. You know as well as I that Petruchio's death was done by someone inside that hall. Besides, if the woman who hired them was behind the poisoning, she'd be a fool to tell them so.”
“But they were Paduans?”
“Yes. Nobodies. No name, nor standing. Scum.”
Cangrande was grim. “I'll set Carrara onto their trail. He'll be desperate to help, and it might be linked to the attack on him.”
“It might. Excuse me, I have to clean up.”
The young knight was so anxious to leave that Cangrande was suspicious. “Did you learn anything useful?”
“They were holding back one detail,” said Cesco, exiting into the rain. “The woman who hired them said they were working for the Count of San Bonifacio.”
♦ ◊ ♦
“THE COUNT REMAINS in the sick-room, Suora,” said Tullio d'Isola. “They deem it too dangerous to move him.”
Antonia pushed her way past the Grand Butler and rushed to her brother's side. Pietro's skin was the colour of old parchment. Taking hiss hand in hers, she pressed her fingers against the wrist to feel the thready flutter of a man clinging to life.
Lifting the blanket, she gazed at the bandages across his belly, freshly changed. There was no hint of blood. Was that because he had lost too much even to bleed? Or had they gotten to him in time?
“We burned the wound, then sewed it closed,” explained Morsicato, delicately lowering the blanket again.
Antonia's voice felt miniscule as she asked, “Will he live?”
Morsicato chewed nervously on his beard, leaving it to Fracastoro to answer. “He has a chance, suora. It was a little wound, made with a thin blade. His cloak and doublet blunted the blow. Had it been even half an inch deeper, he would not be with us now. So much damage from so little a thing,” marveled the physician.
Collapsing onto a stool, Antonia took up vigil on Pietro's left side. “I remember – when Cesco was poisoned, we kept rubbing his feet and hands to keep the blood flowing. Would that help?”
“It wouldn't hurt.” She noted Fracastoro did not say it would help.
Minutes later Jacopo burst in, dripping and naked. She hugged him, then returned to rubbing Pietro's arm. As he dressed, Poco listened as the two doctors described the injury in more detail than they had given her. “The main problem is he lost a great deal of blood. It all soaked into his clothes, and in the rain he never noticed.”
“Can I give him my blood to replace his?” asked Antonia. “The Bible mentions it. And Ovid writes that Medea transferred blood to Jason's father to save his life.”
“Do you have werewolf entrails?” asked Morsicato harshly.
“I'll find some!” snapped Antonia.
The doctor ran his hands over his face, forking his beard again. “Sorry, sorry…”
Again Fracastoro filled the awkward gap. “Even if it could be done, blood transferred often does more harm than good. We don't know the properties of blood, or how to transfer it. They have tried making men drink blood to replace the quantities they've lost, but it has never helped.”
“Perhaps it would make him a Greek mormo,” said Poco with a grim attempt at levity. “If not living, then not dead.”
“You're not amusing,” snarled Morsicato.
“I'm not amused.” Poco pulled up a stool. “Can we not replace his blood somehow?”
Morsicato slapped his hand onto his knee. “Do you think we haven't discussed it? There's a Paduan – what was his name, Aventino? I can't think.”
“Pietro d'Abano.”
“Yes. Twenty years ago he did a study of blood transferral, and the use of cups and leeches.”
“Well, where is he?” asked Poco urgently. “Have Carrara send for him!”
“He's dead,” said Fracastoro. “Killed almost fifteen years ago by the Inquisition.”
“For studying medicine?”
Morsicato's voice was hard. “For denying the existence of God.”
♦ ◊ ♦
CESCO COULDN'T RISK his own stable, his own house – too many eyes, too many questions. Come alone. That part resonated loudly. So he did not fetch Abastor for this ride. Fortunately, thanks to the morning's Palio, there were stables full of swift mounts. He chose one, made sure of his arms, and set out.
Leaving the city unseen was impossible. Men were hunting for Pietro's attacker, and more were hunting the fugitive Aiello – Cesco guessed that from discussion of the 'missing Scot'. Something must have happened to Montagu.
It didn't matter. Only one thing mattered.
Lia is in Verona.
In the end he allowed himself to be seen. Identifying himself, he told the guards at the Ponte Pietra that he was on a mission for the Greyhound. Which was true.
Turning his stolen horse towards Quinto, he raced north under the pelting rain, his mind blazing so hot it blistered. Lia. Was this her doing? How would she have known about his mother? Had Detto told her that? What else had he told her? Who else had she been in contact with?
She wants to see you. Tonight, after the race. She's arranged a place. San Zeno's.
Lia had tried to murder his father – her father – had hated them all without knowing the truth. How much more must she hate them now? Had she been the drunkard who stabbed Nuncle Pietro in the street? She had played at being a man before.
But then who was the woman who hired the kidnappers? Killing them had been a risk. But had they lived, they would have told Cangrande and the others about the threat. His one true love.
Above it all, that one thought repeated over and over. My one true love. How she must hate me, to do all this.
The argumentative part of his mind reminded him that Lia might not be behind this. The obvious name was Mastino. He could have known where Fuchs hid the body, and been alerted when it was moved. He definitely knew about Lia. How he had relished telling them the truth of her birth, of their relationship. Did he have her now, as bait to lure Cesco to his death?
No. Lia was many things, but never helpless. She would not allow herself to be used in this way. Instead she had used Detto to send a message. San Zeno's. Not the church, but his original baptistery. With Donna Maria, in the stars.
She says hating makes it easier.
She was right. Cesco had just chosen other things to hate.
♦ ◊ ♦
DETTO ARRIVED AT just the wrong moment. Tiberio had returned home from the foot race to find his wife missing. Worse, the girl's father and brother were with him. In a rage, they accused Detto of helping the Scaliger spirit her away. Tiberio had his men clap Detto's arms and would not listen when Detto shouted his innocence. That was when Adamo started hitting him.
Manhandled, Detto said nothing about San Zeno. He could give Cesco and Lia that, at least.
♦ ◊ ♦
MARIOTTO RETURNED HOME, helpless and angry. Still covered in Pietro's blood, he didn't know where else to go. Yet he had no desire to face his wife. For the first time in fourteen years he regretted hi
s marriage. Always he had excused her excesses, made concession after concession to her whims and fears, her passions and her unhealthy need for attention.
Tonight was like the breaking of a dam. Pent up resentments flooded through him. A thousand petty annoyances cascaded over his heart, hardening it towards the woman he had loved nearly half his life.
How could she have been so selfish? So stupid? I could have had my friend back!
And how selfish was he, thinking of his own loss when Pietro was lying close to death. When Antony had lost his son! I should be there, comforting him…
“Lord?”
Startled, Mari whirled about, hand dropping to his sword. “Who's there?”
A figure came forward. He was covered in a horse-blanket, but Mariotto knew that balding head with the small ears. “Benjamin! We thought you dead! Come, let's get you warm.”
“You won't tell anyone I'm here? Not even the Capitano? If Aiello learns I'm alive—”
“I won't tell,” promised Mariotto, glad to have someone he could actually help. Starting for his door, he halted suddenly. “Not here. My wife – is not discreet. We'll find you a place to recover, and then I'll send you home.”
♦ ◊ ♦
IN THE PALACE, Pietro stirred, only to be dosed with syrup of poppies and sent back into blissful oblivion.
If Antony Capulletto could have availed himself of the same, he would have welcomed it. Hearing of Pietro's plight, he sent a lad with a note to ask after his friend. The lad happened to be Pietro's own nephew, one of Poco's little bastards. Little Piero. A boy Antony had taken in, thinking to give his first son a playmate. But that son had died, and the next. And now Gianni. He could raise other men's sons. Just not his own.
He howled, then tried to sleep, then howled again. As glad as he was that his little Giulietta was not here to see him so unmanned, he missed her badly. It was like a physical need, to wrap his living child in his arms.
In her place, he reached out to clutch his wife, red-eyed but stoic in her grief. The nurse Angelica was in utter hysterics, raising such a lamentation that Antony ordered her husband take her to the stables where her mourning wouldn't disturb his.
He regretted it the moment she was gone, and called her back, and they wept together. He sent for Fra Lorenzo, but was told the brother was out of the cloister at the moment, having disappeared after the footrace. Another brother came in his place to administer what succor he could.
When the comment was made that his wife was young and they might yet be blessed, Antony snapped. “What, and go through this again! Three times! Three times blessed, and three thousand times cursed! No – no more! I have my daughter. She is all the heir I require!”
Unable to remain in the house any longer, Antony crossed the courtyard to the building he used as an office. Opening the door, he was startled by movement. He wasn't wearing a sword, but his hand dropped to his knife. “How now! Who's there?”
Aiello the Scot came forward, dressed in a blanket and a spare shirt Antony kept here. “Lord Capulletto, you must help me. I didn't – I didn't do it. I didn't touch him, I swear it!”
Stepping sideways, Antony put the table between them. “You hurt my son?”
“What? No – no, my lord, I mean Montagu!” Swiftly Aiello explained.
Antony felt heavy, tired. “If you did nothing, why did you run?”
“Because of how it looks! But I swear on my father's grave that I did nothing to harm a hair on his head. He must have cut the cord himself, then jumped so the blame would fall on me.”
“Just like a Montecchio,” said Antony reflexively. He shook his head. “I'll give you clothes and some silver, but then you must go. I am in no mood for intrigues.”
Aiello wanted to argue, but the threat in Antony's eyes kept him silent. A few minutes later, dressed and armed with a small bag of silver, he hitched himself over the wall into the garden that backed up to the Capulletto house.
Leaving Antony alone with his grief.
♦ ◊ ♦
QUINTO WAS A tiny hamlet, its name derived from the simple fact that it was five Roman miles north of Verona. Tonight's kidnappers were supposed to bring him here. Failing that, they had to make certain he came of his own volition. As he had.
Arriving at a fork in the road a mile south of the settlement, Cesco angled his horse towards the church of Santa Maria in Stelle. The village seemed deserted – it was night, and the rain was unrelenting.
Up the steep incline, he arrived at the church, its back to the shadowy hills. There was no light, within or without. If not for the rain, there would have been no sound.
Dismounting and throwing his saddlebag over his shoulder, Cesco tied his mount to a tree. Already his gloved fingers were numb. Kneeling, he felt his way across the ground until he found the entrance to the hypogeum. It was sealed shut, the heavy stone slab bolted in place with new iron.
Cesco had expected as much. It was another entrance he was meant to use.
Approaching the church, he suddenly wished he had a sticky-chew. He hadn't taken one before either race today, believing he did not need support. And he hadn't, for the races. But it had been a mistake not to carry them tonight. He needed clarity, and emotional distance. Especially now.
By now word would have reached Cangrande. He would know Cesco had lied, that the prisoners had said more than he'd revealed. Hunting parties would be racing out. But in this weather there was no hope of them tracing his path. As commanded, he was alone.
Pushing the doors wide, Cesco entered the still church. A single candle was lit, just for him. It rested above a hole bored into the church floor. He recalled looking up from below, seeing that perfectly round gap in the ceiling of the room with all the frescoes. The hole to Heaven had been surrounded by painted scrolls. The Word of God.
A trail of dampness led into the church. Someone had been here recently, lighting the candle for him. Someone from out in the rain.
Following the path set for him, Cesco knelt beside the candle. He didn't bother looking into the shadows – if he was observed, there was nothing for it. Unlike the foot race, he had to run the whole course.
A sound caught his ear. Weeping. A woman. It came from somewhere far below. Could it be that Lia was a prisoner? Or was that what he was meant to think? He could shout. But that would alert anyone below. Better to act in silence.
Two crossed metal strips barred passage into the hole. Drawing his sword, Cesco began levering them up. They were not strong, and once the bolts came loose he was able to bend them back, out of his way.
He was not a fool. Even with his mind whirling, he had paused in the stable long enough to grab what he would need. Producing a rope from his saddlebag, he looped it around the altar, then tied one end around his sword, which he lowered into the darkness. He measured each length against his forearms, wrist to wrist. A man is about as tall as his armspan. The sword touched the tiles between the fourth and fifth length. Thus the drop was less than five times his own height. Between twenty-five and thirty feet.
He lowered the saddlebags the same way, using the other end of the rope, which was now anchored below by two heavy objects. He noticed the saddlebags splashed as they touched down. Thanks to the rain, water was running high in the ancient baptistery. So much for the torch he was going to drop down there. He would have to descend blind and light it below.
A larger man could not have done it. Detto could not have done it. But even though he had gained height this year, Cesco had grown no broader. Thin as a whip and just as lithe, he had only to bunch his shoulders as he slipped feet-first into the circular hole. He grabbed the two ropes, side by side, and lowered himself down. Before he vanished below, he reached out and snuffed the candle. No sense helping anyone watching.
It was tight, and for a moment he feared getting stuck. His cloak was clinging to the prickly bricks around him. But almost at once his feet felt open air and he let himself slip down the rope until his head was clear of the narrow tu
be. He breathed in the close air, tasting the water before he felt it. Lowering himself, he found it was up to his knees.
It was black as Hell here, and Cesco worried as he fumbled at the saddlebags that water had ruined his torch. But he'd packed it well against the rain. Unwrapping the outer cloth revealed sticky pitch that would still burn well. He pinned it against the wall with his forearm while his fingers found the flints and sparked it to life.
The sobbing choked off at the first hint of light. “Who is there?” The wary voice was distant, echoey, hard to distinguish.
“Cesco,” he said.
“Cesco?” At first the voice was disbelieving, then desperately hopeful. “Cesco! I'm here! I'm here!”
There was no mistaking the fear. Just as there was no mistaking the voice. But Cesco had to see for himself. Flickering shadows danced as he splashed through the doorway, following the voice down the narrow tunnel to his left, the source of the water that was rising so high now. He had to bend double, the torch just above the water, its flames licking the curved rock that brushed his head.
She was chained on her knees, a metal collar around her throat. The water was at her neck, and rising. Her face was terrified, bruised, and swollen from weeping.
It was not Lia.
It was Buthayna.
Thirty-Two
THERE WAS NO TIME to understand. She was clutching at him with her manacled hands, and he had to pull away lest she douse the torch. “Shh, shh,” he repeated. “Listen – listen! Calm yourself. I'll get you out, but we need this light. Now let me think.”
Buthayna quietened at once, allowing Cesco space to think. Someone had stopped the flow out of the hypogeum, causing the water to rise. This was the work of not hours but days of preparation. It would be a long time to find the blockage – fool that he was, he hadn't looked for where the water went last time he was here. He'd only traced it to its source.
It was a place to start. “Listen, my Arabia, I need you to be calm. You must hold the light. I have to dive and slow the water from rising. I need you to keep the light from going out. Can you do that for me?” Shivering, she nodded.
