The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Tharwat and Morsicato hauled Pietro back to sit on the bed. His stitches had torn, but not badly. As the doctor examined them, Pietro said, “You're telling the truth?”

  Stretching his shoulders, Cesco folded his arms. “Why lie?”

  “To hurt me. To wound me.” Pietro's voice was indeed wounded. “To make everyone around you suffer, the way you were made to suffer.”

  “It's true, it seems I am made to suffer. Has it made me noble? As to your accusation, would that I could. The truth, Nuncle, is that I'm tired of secrets. Of lies. Let us all be men, shall we? Knight to knight. Truth is supposed to be paramount. 'While truth is always bitter, pleasantness waits upon evildoing.' To Hell with pleasantness, then. If I am embittered, I'll speak the bitter truth. Your sister was raped by Fuchs. More than once.”

  Antonia was sitting with Poco's arms about her as she vibrated with a brittleness Pietro only now comprehended. “O, Antonia!”

  She rose and came to take his hand. “Forgive me.”

  “O God, no! It is for you to forgive me!” Pietro wept hot tears, but her gaze remained clear as she soothed him.

  They embraced, and Cesco filled the time by crossing to an empty chair. “I have avenged a part of that indignity. Fuchs is dead. But Mastino must have known, so he has to pay as well.”

  “That's enough, boy,” growled Morsicato. He stopped examining the damage Pietro was doing to his healing wound long enough to glower.

  “I thought you all wanted to play. What I cannot learn, try as I might, is if the Capitano had a hand in it. So Imperia can help me after all. Did he say anything?”

  Woodenly, Antonia said, “ 'No quarter.' ”

  “Hmm. Equivocal. But it's not as though I lack cause to revenge myself upon him. I should hurt him if only for Uncle Pietro's sake. After all, Cangrande tried to sacrifice him for the Paduan peace. But we got in first, making Ser Alaghieri a hero instead. I think it pleased him – he's not evil, he just knows what he wants. I wish I did.”

  Tears still flowing, Pietro held his sister while Poco stroked her hair through the caul. It was the younger brother who said, “You're a bastard.”

  “In every sense, il veltro,” agreed Cesco, planting his feet on the edge of the table. “Back to the artful way I was stripped of my companions. You mentioned the riots. They were fortuitously timed, weren't they? Because the only one Cangrande couldn't send away was the Arūs. Better than the most faithful dog, determined to stay with me at all costs. Cangrande knew there was no other way but to kill him, and the fall of Bursa was the perfect excuse. Cangrande tried it twice, using agents to stir up resentment among the people. So what if a half-dozen poor Muslims died? Tharwat, being Tharwat, was able to defend himself with his skin intact. Next time, I was sure, he'd be so outnumbered he'd fall. So I sent the Moor on a fool's errand. To Avignon.”

  “Was it a fool's errand?” asked Tharwat.

  “Clearly. Look at you. My fault. I saved Cangrande the need of killing you. But is this better than death?” Cesco glanced down at his folded hands. “No matter what I do, people suffer.”

  “Arrogance,” replied Tharwat. “Not everything is due to you. I choose my own path.”

  “No, the stars choose it for you. Isn't that the way?”

  Head reeling, Morsicato thought he saw the outline of Cesco's words. “You mean to kill Mastino and Cangrande.”

  Cesco opened his hands in a helpless gesture. “They are sanguis meus – blood of my blood. But I've done it before.” It was the first time he'd admitted complicity in Federigo's death. His hands shook, and clasped them more tightly. “You mistake me, doctor. Death is too kind. No, I plan to make their existences a misery worse than any grandfather Dante envisioned. I had plans for Fuchs, but he foiled them by making me murder him. That's one score settled.”

  Antonia raised her head to gaze at him. “I do not need avenging.”

  “Ask your brothers, or the doctor, or the Moor. I think they disagree. Dear, dear auntie – you understand why I stayed away?”

  Holding her tightly, Pietro looked as though he wanted to unearth Fuchs' body and murder him again. He asked, “How can we help?” and surprised himself by meaning it.

  “Choose your game and throw your die. For me, my plans were to ruin Mastino and eclipse Cangrande entirely. It's been his terror all along. He shouldn't have taken such pains to break me, as it only showed me how very much he fears me.”

  Feet up, Cesco leaned back, balancing the chair on its back legs. “But last September I finally saw that the whole thing was a pointless joke! A cosmic jape, played on me. You asked me what I want, Nuncle. I want the thing I cannot have. One thing for myself, just for me, and it's denied to me. Ever since then, I've seen the pieces, but refused to play the game. Can you appreciate that, Tharwat? I defy the stars.”

  “You cannot,” answered the Moor.

  “No? As Nuncle Pietro likes to say, if not my stars, I can control my actions.” Hopping up, Cesco crossed to a side table with a bottle and several goblets. He poured one for himself. “But things were already in motion. I had a notion that Detto has been helping me carry out.”

  “And what is that?” inquired Pietro.

  “You should have tumbled to it, Nuncle. You're the one who caught Detto near the Doge's palace. I'm betraying Verona to Venice.”

  A thunderous silence followed this remark. Cesco filled it by drinking off his wine.

  In a remarkably soft voice, Pietro said, “You're doing what?”

  “The galling part is that, when I found out about the prophecy, I showed myself to truly be Cangrande's son. All I wanted was to prove the damn thing wrong! That took on a great importance to me,” he said, gazing over his goblet at the middle distance. “I am the Greyhound of Verona. What better way to deny the prophecy than to remove all my own power? And in the process, Cangrande's and Mastino's as well. I think you'll find that Venice has been usurping Veronese trade since the wedding. O, the wedding! And Christmas, and the Palio. Such largesse, such extravagance! The coffers are entirely bare. Only the income from all her investments will save her. But when the summer arrives, the money won't be there. The damage won't be clear until autumn, I think, and not even fully appreciated then. There are some loans, taken through various banks in the Scaliger's name, that will come due quite soon. Things will be very tight. We might have to start pawning towers.”

  As stunned as the rest, Morsicato was strangely soft-spoken. “You'd ruin the city? The lives of everyone you know?”

  “I'd burn the city to the ground and salt the earth, only I wouldn't get as much satisfaction.”

  Pietro looked to Detto, who was ashen. “You knew?”

  Detto gabbled. “I – I didn't-”

  “He knew only that he was helping to ruin Mastino. But fear not! The Veronese are not alone. Dandolo doesn't suspect that I plan it as a trap for him as well. Because if he tries to take a bankrupt Verona, he'll find he's not the only claimant. The Holy Roman Empire won't let Verona fall to a neutral party when it could be the Emperor's Italian capitol instead. Rupert and I had many long conversations.”

  “Rupert? But he attacked Detto!” protested the doctor.

  Cesco snorted. “Of course he didn't. You forget, I've known Rupert these last two years. He saved my life at the Emperor's court. Even as I sent him away, I knew he hadn't arranged it.”

  “Then who did?”

  Cesco sipped again. “That's the question, isn't it? I didn't see the pattern at first. I thought it was part of the larger game. But during the Palio I realized there was a new player on the board, one I hadn't counted on. Detto, Benedick, Carrara, me. The attacks were playful, almost. Everyone was offered a chance to survive.”

  “Not Petruchio,” said Morsicato, then pointed. “And not Pietro. It's a miracle he's alive.”

  “Those are a case apart,” said Cesco. “Each was real, and quite desperate. I thought for a moment the poisoning was Dandolo, but why risk it when I'm ruining Verona for him?
And who wants Pietro dead? All of his foes have turned into loving friends. It's a neat trick, Nuncle. You'll have to teach it me someday.”

  Seeing their faces, Cesco held up his hands, palms forward. “Never fear! I am no longer bent on total annihilation. I always left myself a death door to escape through. The pieces were set for three different games. Victory through destruction, victory through strength, victory through indifference. I can easily mislead Dandolo, and thus recoup Verona's losses twofold. Verona will be stronger than ever before. No one will suffer but Verona's enemies.”

  “You were on the path of destruction,” said the Moor. “What changed?”

  “You mean why am I telling you all this?” Cesco drank, then looked levelly towards his best friend. “Detto. He's not much of an orator, but what he lacks in rhetoric he makes up in vehemence. He gave an impassioned speech the night of the Palio. And I had a fright, I confess. I realized – something. Then he delivered a letter.”

  “From Rosalia,” guessed Pietro.

  Touching the coin at his throat, Cesco nodded. Pietro had not noticed until this second that it had returned. “You never speak of her.”

  Cesco hid behind his eyelids. “Nor will I now.”

  Her composure rebuilt, Antonia drew near him, though she refrained from touching. “You cannot help what you feel, Francesco. There is no sin in that.”

  Biting down hard on his lip, Cesco almost spat. “The law of contradiction is basic Aristotle. To repent the sin and at the same time want to commit it is a contradiction. And I am full of contradictions. But I'm trying!” Lashing out, he punched the nearest wall hard enough to make his knuckles bleed. Antonia gasped.

  Staring down at his hand, Cesco laughed to himself. “Very trying, I'm sure. Bear with me. Youth is a turbulent time, they say.” He took in a ragged breath. “The Remedia Amoris says it best – love yields to busy-ness. If I cannot cure my liver of this sickness, I can use my mind to make prophecy a reality. That will occupy my every waking moment from now to the grave. Then I can die in peace and look God in the face. I have a few questions for Him.”

  Mingled with fear and grief, there was relief in Antonia's face. “So you do believe.”

  He snorted. “What day is it? I believe and don't believe. I want to believe, because then I could blame. Look what He did to you, let alone to me. I want to find the stairway to Heaven and climb it armed for war.”

  “Is that what you want?” said Pietro. “I thought you wanted to ruin Mastino and Cangrande.”

  “Eclipse, at least,” admitted Cesco. “I'm outshining my dogged cousin in every field he ventures into – if he tried to be a tailor, I'd learn to sew. As it is, I can out-joust him in the lists and out-fight him in a battle. Already I've made him a fool, little though he knows it in his gilt motley. His tenderest spot is his pride.”

  Sipping his wine, Cesco watched the blood trickling across the knuckles of his right hand. “That's only an appetizer. For the next course, I could devour the Capitano's authority. I've got the next generation of Verona's lords eating out of my palm. Detto there is going to be Podestà of Vicenza when his father dies or retires. I've also got a whimsical desire to make Signor Benedick da Nobody the next Capitano da Padua – either him, or Signor Salvatore, who will soon wed Bonaventura's daughter. Either will do, even if it means sticking my hand up his arse and putting words in his mouth. All this is to say that when our beloved Capitano dashes himself on the rocks of his ambition, I'll be there to take the reins.”

  Poco frowned. “How do you know he'll—”

  “Because his ambition is limited by his fear. He is more interested in prophecies than victory. To be sure, he wants his due. But he's fearful he's not due more than he has. Honestly, fourteen years to take Padua? Had he truly believed in himself, he would have swept them away in a single season.”

  Listening, Pietro could not help thinking back to the night Cangrande had first let victory slip from his grasp. In 1314, instead of chasing the routed Paduan army and taking the defenceless city, Cangrande had set out to receive the child Cesco. More interested in prophecies than victory. How true.

  Cesco continued. “No, Treviso is about the limit of his daring. After that he will posture and threaten, but make no move.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? I have a standing invitation to join the imperial court. I am Franz der Hund, remember? The noble heir to a despised vassal lord. But if Ludwig knew how many of his secrets I've gleaned, he would see me dead before I ever arrived. And with good reason. Uneasy is the head that wears the crown.”

  Antonia gasped. The Moor stood a little straighter. The doctor's mouth hung open. Detto and Poco both stared. It was Pietro who voiced their common thought. “You mean to become Emperor.”

  “The victory through strength. How else can the Greyhound bring about another age of man?” Cesco gazed at them all in turn. “I am not mad, you know. I could do it.”

  None of those present doubted him. Morsicato asked, “When did you scheme all this?”

  “During my absence in Padua last Fall. Oh, I saw the framework years ago, long before I knew about the prophecy.” He laughed darkly. “Ambition's a ladder, and everyone seems to forget – I'm a Scaliger, too.”

  The long silence that followed was broken by Tharwat's broken voice. “You have said you could do this, that this is all possible. But you have not answered the Count's question. Is this what you want?”

  Cesco's casual smile was almost genuine. “I'd have expected the poet's children to focus on my semantics. But then, I'm always up to some antics. You've hit it, of course. I could do all this. I still don't know if I want to. Spiting Mastino and my father seems a poor outcome for all that effort. Sometimes – O, sometimes I just wish to disappear. Travel to Arabia with your friend Battuta. Or go with Montagu to England. Or Don Pedro to Aragon. Somewhere far off, where no one has ever heard of Cangrande, or the Greyhound.” His laugh was unamused. “Victory through indifference.”

  “If that's what you want,” said Pietro, “we'll help. We are on your side.”

  “Provided he chooses the right side,” said Morsicato harshly. “Run away? Hide in drink? In hashish? Is that the best you can do?”

  Cesco rolled his eyes. “Detto, let's go. I'm too tired for this.”

  “Yes, go sleep it off!” roared Morsicato. “The ultimate sleep. You'll never be tired again. Want to defy the stars? There's the easy way. Just die. Poof, thwarted.”

  “Doctor!” snapped Antonia.

  “It's the other thing he's been flirting with,” said Morsicato. “The brawls, the drinking, the hashish – he wants someone to take the decision away from him. If we won't, one of his enemies will.”

  Cesco shook his head angrily. “That's not – I don't—”

  “He's right,” said Detto. “You have to choose. 'Be what you might be, must be.'”

  Shaking, Cesco leveled an angry finger. “Don't!”

  “'Be your self.'”

  Cesco launched himself at Detto. “You have no right—!”

  Catching Cesco's fist in his own grip, Detto held his gaze until the doctor and Poco got between them.

  “It's the drug!” snarled Morsicato. “He's numbing himself to death.”

  Pulling free, Cesco stared at the doctor with disdain. “What are you talking about?”

  “The hashish,” said Tharwat sternly. “You are abusing it.”

  “I'm not!” cried Cesco.

  “Your eyes betray you. And your words.”

  “He isn't!” protested Detto.

  “Detto, you may not have noticed it—”

  “He gave it all to me,” insisted Detto. “I burned it up.”

  “What?” asked several voices at once.

  “I threw it in the fire. The night of the Palio, the night Ser Alaghieri was stabbed – he told me to burn it, and I did.”

  Grasping Cesco's face, Morsicato opened the eyelid. Cesco pulled away, but not before the doctor had seen what he nee
ded to see. “He's definitely been dosed.”

  “If not by his own hand,” said the Moor, looking suddenly dangerous, “then by whose?”

  Morsicato crossed to where Detto stood and repeated his examination. “He has it, too. Not so deep. I might not have noticed it.”

  “Antonia,” said Pietro. “Show Morsicato your eyes.”

  She obeyed, and the doctor reared back in horror. “You've all been dosed with opium!”

  Cesco started laughing, laughing so hard his side ached and he had to cough. He now understood why he hadn't needed the wafers all these weeks – the reason there had been so many for Detto to burn. And why his sense of detachment lasted until the night of the Palio, when the need became intense. He had been absent from his home all that day, and into the night. And so he had not partaken of his favourite treat. “Pine nut brittle!”

  “O God,” said Antonia, her head swimming as she explained. “Pine nut brittle is a treat made by Vito only for Cesco. The cook is very careful to see that no one else eats it. Only tonight we all…”

  Pietro felt a fist grasp his heart. “Does Maddelena…?”

  “No,” said Antonia, recalling the taste of the sweet on her own lips. “She hates the stuff. It made her sick once.”

  “Smarter than all of us combined,” said Detto, feeling wretched and now understanding why.

  “The cook? Vito?” asked Poco. “Who could have put him up to it?”

  The bottom dropped out of Antonia's stomach. “I may know.”

  “Not Fra Lorenzo,” said Cesco, skin crawling. “He tried to make me cast off the habit.”

  “No, not Lorenzo.” Slowly she explained. It was easier now the rape was out in the open. So much of the past three years could be explained – her timidity, her re-embracing of the Order, her close relationship with the Abbess. And with the friar, who had procured the tea that had rid her of Fuchs' monstrous child. After all, the Bible said that only priests were allowed to perform that act.

  “The Abbess knows everything?” Pietro was careful not to sound as angry as he felt. He couldn't blame his sister, not after what she had been through. But why hadn't she come to him? And how had he been so self-absorbed that he hadn't noticed the change, even from Avignon?