by David Blixt
Maddelena broke free of her nurse to throw her arms around Cesco's neck. Slowly he disengaged from her. “Now go and play.”
Detto returned from playing messenger, and they whiled away the hours until supper with nothing at all. At last Benedick joined them and they set to their meal, Vito spoiling them all with delicious fishes and sweet treats. Antonia was there, but the conversation remained harmless in front of the little girl.
After the meal, Cesco broke open his supply of pine nut brittle, and was uncommonly generous, allowing everyone a piece of the confection made of honey, cinnamon, ginger, and black pepper. His wife ate only a bite before turning up her nose, but Antonia enjoyed it greatly, and Detto had three pieces.
Cesco was genial, if impersonal. He listened to the stories Benedick told, most of which they had all heard before. No one could recall Suor Beatrice laughing so much. She even sang with them, though she was quick to chide any ribaldry. Fortunately, there was but little. No one there had much use for carnality at present.
Cesco then gave Benedick a curious instruction. “Disappear for a few hours, won't you? There's a good fellow.”
Head swimming, Benedick obediently stumbled out of doors, staggering in the general direction of the Four Swords. Not that he wanted more drink. No, he longed for a different kind of intoxication, and was half-tempted to accept Cesco's offer of a horse to go after Don Pedro's carriage. Preoccupied in cursing his own foolishness, he didn't even notice Cesco had given him a cloak not his own.
For his part, Detto had to lie down. He hadn't thought he'd had much wine, but he fell into his bed, heart racing, head spinning, vomit close to churning forth. He wanted to drop into a blessed sleep, but each time he closed his eyes the world seemed to teeter. He stared resolutely at a fixed point on the ceiling. The flickering candlelight didn't help, but it was better than the spinning behind his eyes.
Suddenly Cesco burst into the room, tossing a scabbarded sword down across Detto's legs while buckling on one of his own. “Up, arm, and out.”
“Already?” objected Detto, willing his meal back down his esophagus.
“Almost the witching hour.” Oddly, Cesco held Benedick's cloak over his arm. “Time for night's black agents to rouse themselves.”
Outside, Detto paused to stick a finger down his throat and purge himself. Feeling marginally better, he mounted one of the waiting horses and followed Cesco back towards the Montecchio stables. “More death-door entrances?”
Cesco shook his head. “Invited this time. Good evening, my lord.”
Montecchio appeared, looking furtive under a hooded cowl. “Thank you for this. With the city guards looking for traitors, you're the only one who won't raise suspicion.”
“I wish you had come to me sooner. I could have added him to Paride's retinue, and he could have had an escort all the way to France. Or even departed with Don Pedro. Instead he'll have to take his chances along the lonely road. You have his horse ready?”
“A sturdy palfrey.”
“Give him this cloak and have him come out.”
In short order Benjamin Montagu appeared, fidgeting and restless, dressed in the stolen cloak. Ludicrously he had red in his retreating hair. “It itches,” said Benjamin.
“Well don't scratch it, or it will all fall out. If the guards stop us, you're Signor Benedick. Just keep your hat forward.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Benjamin in halting Italian.
Cesco replied in French. “Come. We'll meet the others by the Ponte Navi.”
“Others?”
“Eight men are going riding into the hills. Seven will return. Nothing simpler.” Cesco kicked and Abastor started to trot. Montagu pressed his heels and his palfrey jolted forward.
Thanks to the surprisingly strong wine, Detto was still less than himself. His subconscious registered the sound before his brain acknowledged it. A figure had raced out of the darkness and leapt up behind him in the saddle.
Feeling a knife press his ribs, Detto sobered. A voice in his ear said, “Ride after. Say nothing.”
♦ ◊ ♦
PIETRO'S NEW STEWARD was hesitant to admit the latest visitor until the master's brother assured him that Tharwat al-Dhaamin was welcome within these walls.
Taking his ease with hot water and lemon to drink, the Moor asked after the Count's health, and listened intently to the tales from the eventful Palio. He then related in just a few short phrases his exchange with Girolamo, and why the crippled diviner had fled.
“Three deaths,” said Pietro grimly.
“Three more deaths at least,” corrected Tharwat. “Verona is heading for an upheaval. What we can say for certain is that three people close to Detto will soon perish.”
“For certain,” repeated Morsicato dubiously.
Pietro pressed the point. “Two, surely. Petruchio died in January, after the attack on Detto.”
“No, all will be blood-relatives to Detto.”
Pietro chewed on that for a time, then said, “I can't believe you let him go.”
“He is guilty of no crime. He has to choose. I will not force a man to action.”
“No, only damn them with their fates,” said Morsicato tartly. “And then offer them drugs to keep them in thrall.”
Tharwat's fatigue showed in his lack of patience. “If you have something to say, doctor, speak.”
“He's worse than ever.” Morsicato stroked his beard with both hands. “It's not just the hashish, though I think it's feeding his condition. He seems – defeated. He puts on a brave face for Pietro here, but something's happened. Even the brawling is over. He's like – like an animal who has stopped fighting the whip and is just taking the lashes in silence.”
“He's been broken?” said Tharwat.
Wincing, Pietro leaned forward. “I don't believe it. Call him here. Let's have it out. It's time.”
♦ ◊ ♦
THE GUARDS AT the bridge made no objection to the gathering Rakehells. It was dark, the only light coming from torches high above the bridge gate. Moreover, a fog hung in the air. Men were distinguished by their cloaks, their horses, and their voices.
Barto and Berto were first to arrive, eager for a night-race. Salvatore was next, coming in the company of his future brothers-in-law. Seeing Cesco's black horse approach, they called to him, and he answered, “Patter patter. Shall we race?”
Salvatore asked, “How is the Count?”
“Mending,” said Cesco briefly, nodding to the guards as he cantered under the arch and across the bridge.
“What a relief,” breathed Salvatore. “Ho, Benedick!”
Under his cloak, Benjamin Montagu raised a hand. Cesco said, “Don't expect much from him. We drank a very healthy dinner. He can barely sit his saddle.”
Grinning, Hortensio rubbed his hands together. “Improves our chances.”
“What's the course?” asked Barto, dimpling in the shared excitement.
“Across the Navi, down the road towards Santa Lucia. At the church we cross overland to San Massimo, then back through the Porta Palio.”
“That will take half the night!”
“Daunting,” agreed Cesco. “We'd best start.”
“We won't be starting just yet,” said an accented voice. Detto's mount appeared, the guards having not even challenged the two riders upon it. “First give me the fugitive Montagu. Then you can go your merry way.”
Amid the murmurs of shock, Cesco turned in his saddle. “Monsieur Aiello.”
“Forgive the theatrics,” said Aiello, angling the knife against Detto's ribs so it caught the light through the fog. “I had to wait until he tried to escape. Once the Scaliger sees him alive, I'm free.”
“Until Lord Nogarola catches up with you for threatening his firstborn.” Mirth was absent from Cesco's voice. “State your demands.”
“I demand only that Montagu be taken before the Scaliger and hanged.”
“Trying to succeed at law where you failed in villainy?” demanded Hortens
io. Other Rakehells eased their mounts sideways, cutting off any possible escape.
“I did nothing to him!” snapped the Scot. “He cut the rope himself!”
“You were planning to murder me!” cried Montagu, his voice over-lapping Aiello's.
“He's alive! Proof enough that I didn't murder him!”
“But not proof you didn't try,” said Cesco. “Your current bargaining tactic does not purchase you any credit. Detto?”
“I'm fine,” replied Detto.
Aiello scowled. He did not like being ignored. “Tell Cangrande I'm innocent, put Montagu in chains, free my men, and I'll release Nogarola and get out of this hellish place!”
“Your aim has always been to see him dead,” said Cesco. “Even after you knew he'd relayed his true message to us. Why does it matter that he die?”
“Because his death will send a message to his brother. You cannot trifle with power without getting burned.”
“Fire,” said Cesco. “You meant 'Trifle with fire without getting burned'. Your metaphors are particularly – now!”
Having already slipped his foot from the stirrup, Detto dove to his left as Cesco's hand flashed. Something steel flashed in the distant torchlight as it spun through the fog to rest in the Scot's belly.
Aiello looked down, frozen in horror. “Gah—buh—wha—you—you—”
Landing on his hands, Detto rolled away from his horse, who backed up in fright and reared. Still gabbling senselessly at the dagger lodged in his flesh, Aiello toppled backwards. His head and right shoulder struck the bridge parapet. For a moment he scrambled, then fell over into darkness.
The splash was impressive. Before the ripples stilled, the thawed Adige had swept the body away.
Dropping from his saddle, Cesco raced forward. “Detto! Tell me you're not hurt!”
It was worth the threats and insults, the pain and the fear, it was worth it all to have certainty of Cesco's affection. “Perfectly well.”
Cesco made certain for himself, feeling over Detto's form, lest he be like Nuncle Pietro and be wounded without knowing.
Relieved to find no injury, Cesco turned to Montagu, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “He wasn't lying, was he? Aiello didn't attack you. You faked it.”
Benjamin blinked several times. “What? No. He threatened me—”
“-so you decided to remove him from play by faking your death, knowing perfectly well he'd be blamed and possibly executed.”
Montagu's face broke into a charming, toothy smile. “I hear the Scaliger faked his own death once. My inspiration.”
Cesco nodded. “You should go.”
“You don't approve?” asked Montagu.
“I doubt the Capitano will appreciate it. For myself, I don't care one way or the other. Go.”
Benjamin Montagu didn't need telling twice. Turning his horse, he kicked it in the direction of Mantua, and from thence to Pisa or Napoli for a ship.
The Rakehells watched the Englishman go, then glanced over the bridge at the water where the Scot had been washed away. Young Petruchio gave voice to their common thought. “These foreigners are crazy.”
“Tutti matti,” agreed Salvatore.
“So,” said Hortensio. “No race?”
♦ ◊ ♦
ARRIVING HOME, Cesco and Detto found Antonia waiting for them. “We've been summoned to my brother's house.”
“Is he ailing?” asked Cesco quickly.
“No,” answered Antonia, who herself looked a little ill. “Tharwat has returned.”
“O, excellent. That always presages good news.”
Ushered into Pietro's chamber by the Greek steward, Cesco found the old faces – Pietro and Poco, Morsicato and Tharwat, all waiting. Antonia took a place next to her brothers, though she massaged her temples with vigour. Detto waited beside the door.
Cesco glared around him, suspicion stamped across his brow. “I thought we were going to interrogate the villainous Girolamo.”
“He is no villain,” said Tharwat. “He saved Detto's life, then fled in fear.”
“Where is he, then? Detto can thank him, and so can I, for attempting to murder me as a child. In fact, if I try to kill him, Detto can save him, and all debts will be quit.”
“Tharwat let him go,” said Pietro, sparing a cross glance for the Moor before sitting a little straighter in his bed. “We thought it prudent to talk to you. We've been tip-toeing around it, but it's time.”
Cesco groaned. “I thought I was past the age for lectures. Or is this an exorcism?”
“Neither.” Clearly Pietro had been deputed to do the talking. “We just need to know what you want.”
That was startling. Cesco demurred. “Thank you, but I prefer to keep my wants to myself.”
“You shouldn't,” rasped Tharwat. “That's what the Scaliger has always done. He is now a vainglorious drunkard, a shadow of the brilliant man he once was.”
“That's hardly fair! He's the Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, Capitano del Popolo, and a dozen other titles. He's a patron to the arts, a builder. A lover. He embraces philosophy and learning, encourages literacy, discourages discrimination, keeps good laws, and is fair and just to all who live under his rule.”
“And you hate him,” said Pietro.
“Do I? I always wondered what that emotion was. But that's beside the point. As you like to say, Nuncle, no man is just one thing. Cangrande della Scala may be what you say, but that doesn't change what he has done with his life. I doubt the Greyhound could do more.” Cesco turned, only to find his path blocked by Detto. The false smile fell from his lips. “You too?”
“You know what I think,” said Detto.
“Yes, you made it quite clear that I am wasting my life. However, you overlooked something.”
“What's that?”
“It's mine to waste.”
From his sickbed, Pietro's voice was low but urgent. “We all love you. We are, every one of us, on your side. But we need to know what you want. Do you even know?”
Cesco's head dropped. His fists clenched. When he turned to face them, his expression was no longer bland. It was full of rage. “You want to play? Really? You can't even see the board.”
Pietro blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Fine. I'll give each a piece. Do with it what thou wilt.” He turned to the doctor. “Ser Morsicato, we'll start with you. Who benefits from your wife's illness?”
It took a moment for the shock to settle in. “What?”
Pupils enormous, Cesco's expression flickered between a smile and a sneer. “Come come, it's obvious.”
“Cangrande,” answered Pietro. “He wanted to strip you of all support. He sent me to Avignon. Tharwat had to leave because of the riots. He only needed to remove the doctor as well.”
Cesco shook his head. “Whatever you think of him, he is uninterested in poison.”
“Mastino then,” said Tharwat, who had clearly thought of this as well.
“Or Giovanna,” offered Antonia.
“It can't be poison,” said Morsicato firmly. He looked around at their disbelieving faces. “I tell you, it can't! Do you imagine I didn't think of it? I changed cooks, I monitored all her food. I hired a nurse from another region who knew nothing of the Scaligeri. It isn't poison!”
“Truly?” Cesco's condescension was maddening.
“No one had the opportunity,” said Morsicato firmly.
“One person did.”
The doctor swelled, his forked beard jutting as he lifted his chin. “Are you saying it was me?”
“Ha! No. Come now, it's right before your nose. How many potions are laying about your home? She must have picked up a few tricks you over the years.”
Morsicato's jaw fell slack. “Esta poisoned herself?!?”
Tapping the side of his nose, Cesco winked. “She lacks you, you see. Forever running off to war, first after the Emperor, then Bailardino and his family, then me. But those years in Ravenna weren't nearly so bad. She was close to you, and
you were close to home. She couldn't bear returning to Vicenza only to have you running off after me hither and yon. So she engaged you professionally. It couldn't have been hard. She might have asked anyone – Fra Lorenzo, perhaps? He knows plants. Even dear Suor Beatrice knows them. What potion did you use to rid yourself of the effects of the rape, Auntie? Was it rue? Do you rue it? Or was it hellebore? I almost died from that, you know. I feel a kinship for your unborn child.”
There was an awful, breathless pause. Antonia was too stunned to respond. The doctor was frozen in place. Poco's mouth was fishlike, waiting for a hook. Tharwat was mournful, while Pietro looked as though he'd been hit with a stunning hammer. “What?”
“While you were off looking after your own godliness, God was allowing another to take from Suor Beatrice that which she had promised to Christ alone. Right there in the holy house to boot! I don't wonder that she didn't tell you, but could you truly not see the change? She went from lioness to mistress mouse in the span of a few short months. Did you never wonder? Did you never—?”
“Stop! Just – stop!” Pietro ran a trembling hand over his face, trying to control his breathing. His features expressed a changing landscape – horror, failure, shame, sorrow, rage, disgust, all mingled together and amplified to a thunderous echo.
Cesco had experienced those same emotions three years before. And again last fall. And every moment since. How good it felt to share.
Dazed, Pietro lifted unwilling eyes towards his sister. Through a distended jaw he said one word. “Who?”
She shook her head, so Cesco answered. “Don't trouble her over it. He confessed before I killed him.”
“Fuchs.” The word trembled as Pietro said it, vibrating with menace, hatred, rage.
“Indeed. The great jouster will tilt his foul lance no more.”
Cesco was shocked to find himself lifted bodily and thrust hard against the frescoed wall at his back. Ignoring his wound, ignoring the shouts from his doctor and friends, Pietro had bolted from the bed and now his hands threatened to pull Cesco's shoulders apart. “Don't you laugh! Don't! How – how can you laugh?”
Cesco smiled back, green eyes expressionless. “Why not laugh? It's all so risible.”
