The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Reason worked where threats had not. “San Zeno's. She's at San Zeno's.”

  “Thank you,” said Tiberio, reaching behind Detto to free his hands.

  Adamo protested. “He could be lying!”

  “He's not,” said Tiberio with a withering growl.

  Standing, Detto rubbed life back into his wrists. There was an awkward moment where his captors considered threatening him for silence. In the end, they hoped his own loyalty to Cesco would still his tongue.

  He donned his cloak and, to their surprise, marched with them towards the basilica. If Cesco was there, he would need a friend. If not, Detto had to be sure the girl was not harmed.

  The rain had slackened at last, and the sky was lightening. Steam rose from roofs as the hearthfires evaporated the water clinging to the tiles. Verona looked new, refreshed, cleansed. The opposite of how Detto felt.

  They found Lia in the confessional, still talking with Fra Lorenzo. Informed that her husband, father, and brother had come, she emerged. Her face was neither fearful nor confident. Merely resigned.

  Tiberio put a hand on her shoulder. “Good morrow, wife. Are you well?”

  “I am well, thank you, husband. Only tired. I have prayed all night.”

  “A worthy thing,” he said carefully. “Come. Let me take you home.”

  Taking her husband's arm, Lia made eye contact with Detto. “Ser Bailardetto, thank you. And you, Fra Lorenzo. I have left a token of thanks behind. I trust you will see it delivered.”

  “We will,” said Lorenzo.

  With a last look around, Lia allowed her family to remove her from the basilica.

  Detto stared after her. “He didn't come?” When Lorenzo shook his head, Detto made to rush back to the palace to see what had occurred during his captivity.

  Lorenzo forestalled him. “Wait! Her token.” From his robes he withdrew a sealed letter. Taking it, Detto felt something heavy inside. “Use your judgment, lad. It might do more harm than good.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE SOUND CAME from far away. Voices raised, and the clash of steel. Using what breath he had kept, Cesco called, “Help! Help! In the cellar! For God's sake, help!!!” He paused to breathe into her mouth again. She tried to pull away, not wanting to prolong her torment, ready to die. Her head submerged, she could not hear rescue coming.

  Cesco dropped the torch hissing into the water as he used both hands to hold her face and force her to take his breath. Fortunately, her struggles were weak. The cold water had numbed them both, though the chamber itself was warm. Had it been exposed to the air, they might have already succumbed. But then they would not be so trapped.

  He wished she could hear the noises from above. He called again, gave her air, then called once more, his own head pressed against the tunnel's roof. Soon he would be submerged as well. Again he shouted.

  This time he was answered. “Cesco! Is that you?”

  “Yes!!” Echoing around him, his very voice seemed trapped. “Help! I need an iron crow, a sword, something – now!”

  “We're coming!”

  He couldn't tell whose voice it was, but was reassured by the use of the plural. Buthayna was now aware of his yelling. Her body tensed as he gave her breath again, with a comforting squeeze on her shoulder.

  Splashes caught his attention, and he told them where to go. Flickering lights heralded their approach. Never before had Cesco been so glad to see his brothers Barto and Berto. With them was the Paduan Salvatore. He didn't bother to ask how they had found him, nor how they had squeezed through that narrow gap in the church floor. “Quick! Break her free of this collar!”

  It took moments, and she struggled as air was forced from her in their attempts to free her. The water was inches from the ceiling of the low tunnel now, forcing them to perform their work submerged.

  With three sets of hands levering the pieces apart, the collar gave way at last. Buthayna came up gasping, shaking and weeping with relief. She clung to Cesco as he dragged her back to the large central chamber where they could stand upright.

  Consoling her with one hand, Cesco looked to his fellow Rakehells. “Is there anyone up there?”

  “One guard only. He's dead,” added Barto.

  “Damn.” But he could not complain. He had killed those two men in the dungeon to keep them from telling anyone else the message that brought him here. Thinking of which, he frowned. “How did you find me?”

  “We heard what gate you used and followed. An innkeeper told Salvatore he saw a young man riding towards Quinto. We went there, but no one had seen you. Then we had the idea that you might have come here. We didn't know why.”

  “I couldn't say why myself.” Their arrival was suspiciously miraculous. But now was not the moment to look a gift horse in the mouth. “If it's safe, let's get her out of here.”

  Above, he searched the dead man, but found nothing. They found the priest trussed in his solar and freed him before setting out for Verona.

  Buthayna rode in Cesco's lap, while the dead man was slung behind Salvatore's saddle. Cesco already knew that identification would be useless. The man was nothing.

  During the whole ride back to Verona, his dizzied brain kept posing the same question: What was the point? He could find no answer, because another thought kept intruding to smote him to the core.

  I missed her.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  AT DAYBREAK, GIULIETTA was retrieved from the via Pigna and brought to her own home where she cried and cried. She hugged her father, doing her very best to help him through his grief. At one point she asked if they could send for Thibault. “He must be here. He's family.”

  For the first time, Antony felt a slight thawing for his nephew. His suspicions felt churlish now. “Yes, very well. Bring Thibault home.”

  As Giulietta rushed to tell her mother the good news, Antony exited the house and dully crossed the yard to his office. The chill rain had finally ended, and the sky today was clear. The promise of Spring. But it was a promise already broken.

  Among the papers his steward handed him was a note of condolence from Mariotto, kindly written, and full of offers of friendship and renewed camaraderie.

  Reading it over, Antony threw it in the fire.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO'S FIRST STOP in the city was San Zeno's. But the brothers were already at their labours, and no married lady was waiting for him. Not anymore. He did find young Romeo, who seemed strangely quiet. Which suited Cesco, He was not in the mood to banter.

  He asked Barto and Berto to see Buthayna safely ensconced at La Rosa Colta. Himself, he felt the pull of the palace, and Ser Alaghieri. But his hands were shaking, his stomach in knots. He needed a wafer to calm him.

  Need. A word that frightened him.

  His home was filled of frightened servants, all full of questions. He asked if there was news from the palace, or anywhere else. They said that Suor Beatrice had not yet returned, but that Ser Bailardetto was upstairs.

  Detto, who had seen Lia, whereas Cesco had bitten on the wrong lure. With feet hardly heavier than his heart, Cesco ascended the stairs.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE RISING SUN found the Piazza dei Signori thronged in silent vigil for Pietro Alaghieri, son of Dante, knight of the Mastiff, Count of San Bonifacio. The Veronese loved him for all the things he had done, and for himself. Was there any man more noble, more honourable, more devout – more Veronese! – than Pietro Alaghieri?

  Somehow a rumour started that Ser Alaghieri had been attacked by Paduans, and lay now at death's door. Perhaps his foster-son had been right all along. Paduans weren't to be trusted. Or perhaps the Scaliger's heir had brought this on with all his brawling?

  On one thing everyone agreed – if some treacherous Paduan backstabber had spilled the blood of the architect of the Pax Verona, the war would start anew.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN THE SUITE they shared, a roaring fire had been kept alive all night in case of the master's return. When Cesco enter
ed, Detto sighed in relief. “You're alive.”

  “Am I? Someone erred, then.”

  “What happened?”

  Pulling off his ruined clothes, Cesco explained. It took remarkably little time to tell.

  “And Salvatore, Barto, and Berto found you?”

  “Just in time to drag us from a watery grave. Yet another near death. Though I think I was meant to save her. They didn't anticipate such heavy rain.”

  “Where is the – what is her name?”

  Encased in a fresh tunic and hose, Cesco lingered at the box that contained the wafers. It stood beside the pine nut brittle he liked so well. “Buthayna.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Opening the box, he took out a wafer. “La Rosa Colta. I placed some guards outside.”

  Detto ventured a smile. “That will spoil their business somewhat.”

  “I'm glad you're amused. What about you? I half expected you to be leading the hunt for me.”

  “I would have, had I not been bound to a chair in Tiberio's house.” That brought Cesco's head around sharply, and he noted fresh bruises that had not come from the scuffle at the muleteer's.

  Detto described events since they had parted. “My own fault for calling there. I hoped to forestall her.”

  “And were yourself forestalled.” Cesco paused, his face in shadow. He had not yet bitten. “And what of her?”

  “Lia waited all night, until her husband came to collect her. They're heading back to the Tiberio estate at once.”

  “Did he hurt her?”

  “No. He was gruff, but kind.”

  There was nothing to say to that. But there was something that needed saying. “You were correct tonight. Selfish. So very, very selfish. The ideal word.”

  “No, I was wrong.” Detto had spent hours wishing he hadn't said anything at all. Like all emotions, they were one thing when inside. Blood ran blue under the skin, but changed colour as soon as it touched the air. Things seemed so very different now. But how was Detto to know all that would befall this terrible night?

  “Figs. Everyone around me gets hurt. How many injuries must my friends endure because of me? Cangrande spoke sense. I should go. England, France, Spain – Arabia. Somewhere. I should just go.” He sighed. “But they'd find me. Wherever I went, the stars would find me. O, it would be so much better had I never been born!”

  Dangerous talk. In his current state Cesco might take it into his head to do something awful. “There is no one who wishes you had never lived.”

  “No one?” Cesco's retort carried bitter sharpness. “I can think of a dozen within a stone's throw. How many lives have I ruined just by living? How many are dead, or nearly died, because of me?” His eyes welled, and he shut them to cut off the threatened flood. “What's the matter with me?”

  There was only one thing to say. “Cesco – I have something for you. From Lia. She left it for you. I didn't know if I should deliver it. But she wanted you to have it.”

  Eyes opening slowly, Cesco blinked until he saw the proffered paper, sealed with a crest he didn't know but that seared itself into his brain. The Tiberio device.

  Taking it, he broke the seal. At once something fell out. Detto recognized it. So did Cesco, who left it alone as he scanned the page in the firelight. He read it over twice, his expression fixed. “Most amusing. Wouldn't you say?” Without looking up, Cesco offered the paper across.

  As Detto read, Cesco picked up the old Roman coin from the floor. Crossing to the window, he stared down into the street. In one hand was the little wafer. In the other, the coin. He flipped the metal disc into air, caught it, and looked at the upward face.

  Mercurio.

  Nodding to himself, Cesco walked to a trunk by his bed and removed a satchel. He stared at it for some time, then carried it to join the box full of wafers. “Burn these.” Gripping the coin with white knuckles, he nodded at the letter. “That, too.” Wrenching the door open, Cesco vanished.

  Detto advanced on the burning brazier. With a surge of vindication, he tossed the package of sticky chews into the flames, then upended the contents of the box and watched as they sizzled, filling the air with a sickly scent.

  But the letter remained in his hand, unburnt.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN THE MAKESHIFT hospital in the palace, the vigil was ongoing. They filled the empty time with stories of Pietro, gently mocking his earnest good nature, his devotion to fairness. Poco kept chastising the unconscious man. “Really, big brother? You won't even defend yourself? Come along, join the debate!”

  They were all relieved when Cesco arrived, Detto in his wake. Both looked much the worse for wear, and the Scaliger demanded to know where they had been.

  Privately explaining his evening's adventure, Cesco concluded by saying, “Someone is toying with us.”

  “With you,” corrected Cangrande. “With me and mine, it seems they are not toying at all. Carrara is on his way back to Padua to investigate those corpses. If he discovers who hired them, he will report at once.”

  “He won't,” yawned Cesco. “Discover who it was, I mean. If we couldn't find a poisoner in a closed room, he certainly cannot find the correct woman in all of Padua. Is there anything more?”

  “Nothing but to wait and see how Pietro fares.”

  “Nothing fair about it.” Cesco crossed nearer the supine figure of Pietro. “As I learned earlier tonight, I find I much prefer being the victim to being an observer. Shouldn't he be awake by now?”

  “We're keeping him asleep,” said Morsicato. “If he wakes, he may tear his stitches again.”

  “What about maggots?” The doctor always prescribed maggots for deep wounds to keep the flesh from rotting.

  “If he makes it through the next few days, we'll use them. No use until we know he'll live.”

  “He'll live,” insisted Cesco. “If this were fore-ordained, the Moor would be here, hovering like Atropos with her shears.”

  Pietro shifted slightly, and everyone stilled, fearful of the ultimate moment. But he sighed and relaxed back into sleep.

  In several ways, Cesco looked more ill than Pietro. The blue of exhaustion hung about his eyes and lips. Knowing the signs, Morsicato quietly offered a little syrup of poppy to him, but the young knight steadfastly refused.

  Cesco was not the only one showing the signs of fatigue. “Antonia, you should get some sleep,” advised the doctor.

  “Not until Pietro decides whether to live or die.”

  “Alas, Ser Alaghieri is dead already,” said Cesco bleakly. Everyone turned frantic eyes to him, and then to Pietro.

  Cesco continued in a maudlin tone. “The great Scaligeri murdered him last night, put him in his grave. There is only the Count of San Bonifacio now.”

  Morsicato groaned, clutching his heart. “You little… don't do that!”

  “I speak only the truth,” said Cesco with a feeble smile.

  “If only that were true,” retorted Cangrande from near the door. “But you're right. He's the Count now.”

  Antonia shook her head. “That will take some getting used to.”

  “For all of us,” said Pietro.

  They turned to see him smiling weakly from behind closed eyes. Rushing forward, everyone began talking in low but chipper voices, welcoming him back to the land of the living.

  Minutes later Cangrande made an announcement from the steps of the palace to those waiting without. Cheers went up, and bells began to ring.

  Verona's greatest knight would live.

  Thirty-Three

  Legnano

  Saturday, 19 March 1329

  PLYING HIS TRADE in the shelter of a tavern wall, Girolamo noticed the muffled figure watching him. No telling how long he had been there. After a half-hour under that baleful stare, the stress started interfering with his pendulum. Lifting his stick, the crippled diviner limped across the street to confront that one accusing eye. “You found me. Divination?”

  “I have not your skill,” said Tha
rwat al-Dhaamin. “But I can read a map, and I know you by now.”

  In spite of himself, Girolamo laughed. “Comical. One cripple pursuing another.”

  “I am not here to chase you,” said Tharwat in his broken voice. “Merely to ask what happened. And again offer to mentor you.”

  Girolamo's twisted face softened. He turned away, shrugging. “Come along. Slip me some coin and I'll buy us bread and wine. They won't serve you here.”

  They ate in the open air, under a sun warmer than any time in the last six months. A false spring, a lure to buds and shoots and those foolish animals young enough to mistake light for warmth.

  “I thought the blame would land on me,” confessed Girolamo gruffly. “I tried to save him.”

  “You did save him,” said Tharwat. “He survived, thanks to you.”

  Girolamo nodded. “I know. The bob told me.”

  “Why were you there at all? Why leave Venice?”

  “It was the pendulum.” Girolamo held up his callused finger. The scars were plain. “If I stayed in Venice, I was in mortal danger. Or so I thought. Instead it guided me to someone else in danger.”

  “Detto.” Tharwat's brow creased. “But then, when he was safe, why not stay?”

  “I told you…”

  “I do not believe you. You had another reason for going to ground.” Tharwat waited, his one eye level and hard.

  Girolamo wilted. “When I touched him, something happened. I'd never felt anything like it. A premonition. It wasn't until I was away that I asked the pendulum. Three people. Three people with a close blood tie to that boy – they're all going to die, and soon.”

  Tharwat did not argue. His own charts showed a great upheaval was at hand. “You did not care to warn them?”

  Girolamo could not meet his eye. “Already I've been linked to two misfortunes to that family. You know the saying. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action. How would anyone believe I was innocent, especially after I admitted to attempted murder! No, far better to remove myself until the damage was done.”