The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “Not everything,” answered Antonia defensively. “I told her I could not share state secrets, or secrets that did not belong to me. But I did share our fears of Cesco and the hashish.”

  “There's no telling who she passed that on to,” said Poco. “Mastino, maybe?”

  Antonia shook her head. “Giovanna has visited the Abbess often these last few months, and always when I am not expected.”

  “That bitch!” snarled Pietro, ignoring the pain in his side. “She's fortunate to be on her way to France, and out of reach of my arms!”

  Morsicato looked to the Moor. “I thought she made a vow not to move against Cesco.”

  “The promise was contingent upon Paride's elevation. She might feel we did not hold up our end of the bargain. And she was not murdering Cesco. Merely rendering him volatile. She may have hoped he would speed his own destruction.”

  “No wonder he wasn't falling asleep – he wasn't even taking our mixture.” Morsicato straightened himself to face Tharwat. “I apologize.”

  The Moor shook his head. “I should never have started him on this road. I have given his enemies a weapon.”

  “No.” Head in his hands, Cesco's voice was muffled. “You gave me a tool. My fault I let someone use it against me.”

  Wincing, Pietro leaned forward. “Cesco – how do you feel?”

  “Unclean,” came Cesco's muffled answer. “And profoundly stupid.”

  “What do you want?”

  Cesco's head jolted up. Fighting through the haze that had been surrounding him all these weeks, he struggled to find the truth within him.

  “I want to win.”

  Thirty-Four

  THE PLAN THEY MADE was a good one. They would spread the story that, to aid Ser Alaghieri's recovery, Cesco was escorting his foster-father south to the seaside, staying with friends at Pisa. They would divert en route, and pick some less populous place where Cesco could endure the painful weaning off the drug. Suor Beatrice would remain in Cesco's house to look after his little wife, while Poco, Morsicato, Tharwat, Detto accompanied the traveling pair.

  They had to tell Cangrande the truth, but they were sure he would not object. Nor did he – the prospect of his troublesome heir vanishing for weeks or even months meant he could settle the Paduan discontent in Verona. “Just be sure he is ready for Treviso.”

  “He will be,” said Cesco, who did not enjoy being talked about as if he were not present.

  Morsicato wrote to inform his wife that he had to journey with Ser Alaghieri, wondering what the reply would be. When it came, he felt a pang of disgust – Esta wrote that she was feeling poorly again, and had taken to her bed. He dashed off a curt reply:

  Then you'd best stop dosing yourself. I have actual medicine to practice.

  The three Alaghieri siblings spent hours alternating between talking, weeping, and staring in uncomfortable silence. Through it all, they were themselves – Pietro solicitous and concerned, Poco indignant and hurt, and Antonia practical and stern. Of them all, she was the least forgiving of herself. Pietro was as understanding as he could be, but could not stop himself asking, “Why didn't you come to me?”

  “You were gone,” Antonia told him. “And Cesco had no one left. It was the price I was willing to pay.”

  He took her fingers in his. “Too high, too high. Cesco would never have wanted it paid.”

  “Which is why I hoped he'd never know. No one was supposed to know,” she added bitterly. “But for my weakness, no one would have known, and Cesco would not be suffering—”

  “Nonsense. Firstly, he knew without you telling him. Second, Cesco was correct about one thing. Secrets are a disease of their own. You see what they've done to Cangrande, Katerina, Giovanna, all of them. Keeping secrets is the problem, not the solution.”

  “That's what Abbess Verdiana said.” She was feeling particularly bitter towards the Abbess, and was glad to be sleeping elsewhere than the convent.

  “She wasn't mistaken. You just chose the wrong person to confide in. Something we've all done from time to time.”

  Antonia leaned her head into her brother's shoulder. It happened to be his bad side, and he ignored the pain to put his arms about his sister and hold her close.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “YOU'RE MINE!” shouted Maddelena, clinging fast to Cesco's legs. “You're mine!”

  “So I am,” her husband answered. “But as I am yours, Count Pietro is mine, and I must look after him. Just as you must look after Icarus while I'm gone, and Felix and the puppies. And your bunny, and little Giulietta, who is smaller than you and is losing her father soon to the war.”

  “You're not going to war,” sniffed Maddelena. “You're going to sit by a sick man.”

  “You'd rather I was fighting a battle?”

  “Yes!” cried Maddelena. “What can you do for a sick person? You're not a doctor. Stay!”

  Trembling uncontrollably, Cesco tried to laugh. “I don't want to go. But I must. And you must be brave. I promise, you will see me again.”

  She hadn't even considered the possibility that she might not see him again. Bursting into fresh tears, she was led away by Antonia and Dahna.

  Cesco felt the pang of guilt. He had brought her into his life, his world. A world in which there was nothing but pain.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “WHAT OF US?” asked Signor Benedick, crushed to discover he was not invited on this journey. Salvatore was beside him, less indignant but clearly vexed. The remaining Rakehells, from Thibault to Hortensio, would hear of this departure second-hand.

  “I have orders for you,” Cesco informed them. “Take the rest of the Rakehells and join Otto's camp. He'll be at the forefront of Treviso, and I want us in the thick of it. Oh, and spend this for me,” he added, tossing a bag of golden florins at Benedick's feet.

  Benedick's eyes lit up. “As you command.”

  Cesco pointed at Salvatore. “Don't get married until we return.”

  “I won't,” said the grey-eyed Paduan with a smile.

  Benedick ventured a question. “Do you mean to stop at La Rosa Colta before you go? The girls have been asking for you.”

  “One in particular,” added Salvatore drily.

  Cesco shook his head. “I have not the stomach for it. Tell her I shall call when I return.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THEY BROUGHT NONE of Cesco's household staff save his cook, who made the very best sweets. During a stop on the carriage ride south, Tharwat drew Vito aside to taste a local nut. They did not return in time to catch the carriage, but Tharwat showed up that night, alone. “Vito has elected to ply his trade elsewhere. Perhaps in France. But not before he samples his own cooking.”

  “Did he offer a name?”

  “He did. Very readily.”

  “Too readily?” Seeing the Moor's expression, Cesco's nostrils flared.

  They stopped over in Parma, where Cesco's uncle-in-law currently served as Vicar, similar to Podestà. The situation here was very like how Padua had once operated – the Correggio family held sway, but elected a foreigner to rule.

  Rolando Rossi feasted them, and they spent a pleasant evening in the company of his sons. Late in their talk, he became a little serious. “Can I persuade you all to remain here? There's trouble brewing, I can feel it.”

  “Trouble?” asked Morsicato, stroking the forks of his beard as he cast a worried glance at Cesco. They had put him back on the little sticky chews, hoping to ease the weaning process. The doctor worried he might think himself cured already, and take up the troubles of his wife's family.

  “Florentines have been sniffing about the city,” said Rossi. “The Guelphs have Pisa in their power. I believe they mean to snaffle up Parma next and take control of the whole Po Valley. You know what that would mean.”

  “No siege for Treviso,” said Pietro gravely. If Parma was lost, Verona's cause would be worse off than before the fall of Padua. The Guelphs would own the only Ghibelline foothold south of the Po River, l
eaving Cangrande's flank open, with Mantua ripe for the Guelphs to besiege and win. Instead of taking Treviso, the Scaliger would have to use his army to defend his own territories.

  “Won't you consider staying?” pressed Rossi. “With a famous knight such as Count Alaghieri and the Scaliger's own son here, the Guelphs might think twice before marshalling their forces.”

  “It might have the reverse effect, making Parma more alluring,” offered Cesco. “Florence has no love for our friendly Count. And if the papal forces were able to capture the Heir of Verona, they could force all kinds of concessions. No, I think it best we don't stay.” He acknowledged Rossi's disappointment by lifting a cup. “Never fear, uncle-in-love. We'll bend our brains to solving your dilemma.”

  Rossi did not seem comforted. Likely he had heard too many tales of Cesco's high living, brawling, and philandering to take the boy seriously. He was of use for what he represented – a link to the rising power of Verona. All it had cost Rolando's brother was a daughter. It had cost Rolando nothing at all.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  AFTER PARMA, THEY CONTINUED on west along the Taro river until it turned south. There they diverted, heading for the seaside town of La Spezia. Built into a crescent bay at the foot of rolling hills, the seaside resort had existed since pre-Romans days. Here, under assumed names, they came to a halt. It was the second week of April, and the promise of Spring was in the air. Rains came and went, scrubbing the countryside clean.

  In many ways, the following weeks were reminiscent of their years in Ravenna – a seaside home, anonymity, no pressure to be anywhere. Indeed, their stay would have been idyllic, save for all the screaming.

  Cesco's pain was caused by his flat refusal to take another sticky chew. When reminded that they also contained the poisons he had been exposed to, growing his immunity, he snarled. “Give me the poisons, then, and be done!”

  After just three days he had disappeared behind his eyes. He lost weight, returning to the spindle-thin form of his days being hawked by Cangrande.

  Tharwat was with him at all times, ready to soothe or restrain, as the moment required. He had seen this process before, and knew better than anyone how to cope with it. He also had the most guilt, having exposed Cesco to the substance that his body was now craving with such terrifying hunger.

  It was hard for them all, forcing them to relive that terrible night four years earlier when poison had left Cesco dangling at the edge of life. This was less mortal, but it lasted longer.

  “Heaven knows what the neighbours think we're doing to him,” muttered Morsicato. But their villa was in the hills above the city, with little danger of prying eyes.

  Because of his injury, Pietro could not do much more than watch. Any attempt to hold Cesco would aggravate his wound. But he quickly discovered something he could do. Poco had found a well-stocked library in the city. Pietro asked him to borrow a copy of Virgil, and another of Ovid. Books in hand, he set himself up in a comfortable chair and proceeded to read through the day and into the night until his voice grew hoarse.

  The first few days were absorbed by The Aeneid. Cesco seemed better when listening to something he did not know as well, so Pietro switched to The Metamorphoses. He began with the primal chaos, moving through the ages towards the flood. Passing swiftly through Jupiter's rape of Io, Pietro did take the time to read Mercury's retelling of the story of Syrinx that so lulled Argus that Mercury could strike off his head.

  In Ovid's second Book, Pietro was disconcerted to find another rape on the part of the great god, first of Callisto, then of Europa. He had never before noticed how often this violent act was depicted in literature. Worse, it was ever the woman who received punishment – Io transformed into a cow, Callisto into a bear, Semele consumed by fire. At least Europa became a queen.

  It was remarkable how often Mercury appeared in these tales. And also the stars. Unhappy creatures were constantly being transformed into constellations. Perhaps that is why they torment us – unhappy in life, they strive to share their despair with the living below.

  Pietro read aloud the story of Actaeon, turned into a stag and killed by his own hounds for spying on the naked Diana. He read of the birth of Bacchus, the judgment of Tiresias, the story of Echo and Narcissus. Coming to the tale of the lovers Pyramus and Thisbe, he told of the wall separating them and their plan to meet in secret. Of the lion that frightened Thisbe away, leaving only her veil behind to be gnawed by the beast's bloody maw.

  He related what came next:

  Having gone out later, Pyramus saw the creature’s tracks in the deep sand, and his whole face went pale. When he also found the veil stained with blood, he cried, ‘Two lovers will be lost in one night. She was worthy of a long life. I am the guilty spirit. I have killed you, O pitiful girl. I, who told you where to come by night, and did not reach it first. O whatever lions dwell under this rock, tear apart my body and devour my wicked entrails with your fierce jaws!

  But it is cowardly to wish for death.’ Lifting Thisbe’s veil, he carried it with him to the shade of the tree they had chosen. Kissing the token, wetting it with his tears, he said, ‘Accept now draughts of my blood too!’ Without hesitating, he drove his iron sword into his bowels. Dying, he dragged the sword from his steaming wound.

  Cesco sighed. “Idiot.”

  Pietro paused, unsure if Cesco was responding to the story or lost in his delirium. “What?”

  “He's a fool. Make certain she's dead, at least, before opening your veins. I'm thirsty, Nuncle.”

  Setting the book aside, Pietro rose to bring Cesco some water. He had to fetch a second and hold it, as Cesco's own hands spilled too much of the first cup from shaking.

  Cesco began to improve, if slowly. He vomited up most food he tried, but kept nibbling wafers of bread and slivers of fruit until he was able to hold them down. Prone to blinding headaches now, he forbade light, which left Pietro to read from the next room, or from behind a curtain.

  Yet the doctor was pleased. “I'm not sure if it's his youth or the fact that we've been dosing him with poisons for the last three years, but his body is recovering.”

  “What about his mind?” asked Poco bluntly. “He's been utterly deranged.”

  Morsicato waved that off. “Delirium. But there may be changes in him. All we can do is watch for the effects, and hope he'll tell us if he feels anything.”

  “That sounds likely,” muttered Poco.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  AT FIRST, IT SEEMED the delirium was here to stay. Waking, Cesco would see them and pose the oddest questions – What time was it under the earth? Where had the singing gone? Did they think he was drowning in an ocean of air? He wondered aloud if there was only one light in the night sky and the blackness was actually dark stars blotting it out. And once, in deadly earnest, he yelled, “Answer me this – did Adam and Eve have belly-buttons?!?”

  He also made strange requests, such as paring his nails in order of left thumb, right thumb, left forefinger, right forefinger, and so on. “Must attain balance,” he told them. He refused to sleep on one side longer than the other, and asked to be turned over at every hour. And he asked for oysters. “They have the secret, you see.”

  Yet he could be lucid. There were moments of banal conversation, and often he seemed amused by random comments. When someone departed the room, he bade them farewell as though he might never see them again, and greeted them on their return with fierce joy. “I was afraid I had forgotten you.”

  It was the middle of the night when Pietro finally understood. All the others were asleep, but Pietro had remained behind to read, at last drifting into sleep in his chair. He did not know what called him from the depths of slumber, but when he opened his heavy lids he saw Cesco's eyes fixed on him.

  “Forgive me,” said Cesco.

  “You didn't wake me,” answered Pietro.

  “No,” agreed Cesco. “I was wishing you didn't exist.”

  Pietro had endured worse insults these last few weeks. “Sor
ry to disoblige.”

  “No,” said Cesco, shaking his head. “You misunderstand. I think it means you're real.”

  Pietro stared. “Of course I'm real.”

  Cesco gazed back in interest. “How do you know?”

  “Because I'm here. I feel the floor, see you, hear Morsicato's snores.”

  “The detail is amazing, isn't it?” mused Cesco. “But how do you know? Maybe what you see is not what I see. Maybe what you think is snoring sounds like a choir to me.”

  “It's loud enough. You're interested in philosophy?”

  “In what's real. I always thought I knew. But this has shown me how frail reality is. How do I know you're really here? That I'm really here? How do I know that I'm not really living in the world I call dreams, and that this is the illusion, that the reality?”

  “What do your senses tell you?”

  “Senses are tricked by any number of things.”

  “We're talking. Right now, you and I are having a conversation.”

  “I could be imagining this conversation. I could be imagining you exist at all. That's what I was trying to do – use my mind to make you vanish. I can do that in my dreams, sometimes.”

  “There's your proof. This is not a dream.”

  “I could be dreaming you saying that.”

  “Yes, you could.” Instead of frustration, Pietro felt relief. This was what had been going through the young man's mind? Each time someone left, he was afraid he'd never see them again because they were a figment of his imagination.

  Pulling his chair closer, Pietro launched into the talk he'd had with his father on this very subject when he had been younger than Cesco. Having read some passages from L'Inferno, Pietro had asked if Hell was indeed real.

  “It is,” Dante had replied. “But not just because God decreed it so. It is real because we believe in it.” Seeing his son's perplexed face, Pietro's father had grown grave. “The world around us is an agreement. The details may vary, but most men agree that the sky is blue, that grass is green, that night is dark while day is light.”