The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “Pistoia.” Pietro passed the letter over.

  Cesco barely frowned as he worked out the code. “My uncle-in-law was correct, the Guelphs are knocking at Parma's gates. Poor Cangrande – if he doesn't take Treviso this year, I don't know how he'll bear it. Ah!” said Cesco, arriving at the heart of the message. He began to laugh. “You are to meet Marsilio da Carrara and aid him in crafting a peace!”

  “Why Pistoia?” asked Poco.

  “Symbolic,” said Pietro. “Castruccio Castracane won it off Florence, but since his death last autumn they've gotten it back. It gives the Guelphs the advantage. Acknowledging that we are coming from a position of weakness. Which, by conceding, strengthens our cause.”

  “What reason do the Guelphs have to bargain?” asked Poco.

  “A siege is costly for both sides, and the outcome is fairly certain. If it drags on, Cangrande will intervene, and the Guelphs will lose. But it will cost him Treviso. So they strike now in order to gain concessions, without any real hope of taking the city.”

  “Will they accept you as negotiators?” queried Morsicato.

  “Carrara and I are both emissaries of Ghibellines, yes. But I was born in Florence, and am newly restored by the Pope himself. Carrara has fought against the Imperial forces for most his life. We'll be accepted.”

  Cesco set the letter aside. “How very clever! Since you two implacable foes were able to sit across the table to fashion the Pax Verona, you can now sit side by side and make a Pax Italia!”

  “Nothing so grand,” said Pietro. “And I have not agreed to go.”

  “Of course you're going,” said Cesco, ladling up some soup. “We're all going.”

  “You're not,” said Morsicato at once. “Even if you want to help your uncle-in-law.”

  “Actually I don't,” said Cesco. “He forgot Maddelena's birthday, so let him whistle. But nevertheless, I am going.”

  It was an argument they wanted to lose. Cesco was improving daily. Sunshine, open air, and purpose would do him no end of good. The miracle of youth.

  The real question was if Pietro wanted to aid Carrara, and thus ensure the siege of Treviso went forward. Like hummingbirds, the consequences flitted through his mind. Credit among lawyers, if not the general public – Carrara would take the laurels for the peace. But here was a chance to ply his craft on the highest levels, increase his experience, and do some good while he was at it. How many lives would the peace save? And how many more lives would be lost at Treviso?

  As Treviso was the key to Verona's dominance of Lombardy, and Cesco was the Heir of Verona, the result was never truly in doubt.

  The next day they packed and left the house in the hills of La Spezia. It was just over two months since they had arrived, and before they departed they celebrated Cesco's fifteenth birthday. There was no longer any point in keeping it from him. He had seen the charts, and knew what they meant. So they chose to celebrate his day with laughter, music, and good cheer. It was the 13th of June, the Ides.

  No one knew that, just the day before, Rosalia Rienzi had gone into labour. It was painful, lasting far into the night. But she was delivered of her burden just before dawn.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN PISTOIA, PIETRO was greeted by Carrara with amused warmth. “My dear Count. I wasn't certain you'd come.”

  “Neither was I,” admitted Pietro. “Have talks begun?”

  “On the morrow. Your timing is, as always, serendipitous. The Scaliger needs equitable conditions for a truce in Parma. But I'm no lawyer.”

  “You could have brought Bellario. Why choose me? Did the Scaliger suggest it?”

  Carrara's eyes narrowed in an ironic smile. “Believe it or not, asking for you was my idea. You've always been honourable, and you thought of everything in Ravenna. Besides, you don't mind letting someone else take the credit.”

  Almost a compliment, almost an insult, the remark somehow managed to perfectly capture their relationship.

  “I did have one idea,” admitted Pietro.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE NEGOTIATIONS THEMSELVES were friendly and short, concluding after just two days. Both sides were eager for the siege to end, and both were willing to make concessions. Parma was forced to pay a sum of gold and to receive back its exiles – there were always exiles, as Pietro well knew. But Parma was not forced to return land confiscated from those exiles, nor to admit them into the higher echelons of government. Prisoners on both sides would be returned, without ransom. Cesco's uncle-in-law would retain some power, and all of his men.

  The key provision, Pietro's own invention, was that Parma would become an open city, neither Guelph nor Ghibelline. No army could be quartered within its walls. This satisfied both sides. Cangrande couldn't use the city to launch an attack south, but neither could the Guelphs use it to attack the north. As long as the truce remained unbroken, this new status quo would hold both factions in place.

  The deciding factor was the approval of the Correggio family, the most powerful force within the city of Parma itself. Fortunately, they gave their heart-whole blessing to the bargain. Caught between the forces of the Emperor and those of the Pope, theirs had ever been a perilous state. Becoming an open city, the first of its kind, was a novel solution that put Parma in thrall to neither party, while allowing it to profit from both.

  The only marring element to all this was Pietro's certainty that both sides left the meeting to start planning when and how to break the truce. But such was the nature of diplomacy.

  Cheerful, and at last wholly recovered from his wound, Pietro took the air around Pistoia, with Poco, Cesco, and Detto as his companions.

  “Congratulations,” said Cesco. “The concept of an open city is brilliant. Quite a coup.”

  “For which Carrara gets the credit.”

  “So?” inquired Cesco. “All the men in the room know who was the brain behind the terms. They won't forget.”

  Feeling justifiably proud, Pietro nodded as he took in the sights. Pietro knew the city from his half-remembered childhood. Halfway between Lucca and Florence, nestled snugly into the foot of the Apennine mountains, the city had grown rich and prosperous in recent years. There were new walls, with a gate in each of the city's four quarters, and new buildings under construction.

  Still, some things did not change. There was the Palazzo dei Vescovi, with its mullioned windows and fine frescoes. And there was the Tower of Catilina, which purported to be Roman but was clearly not.

  Whereas in Verona the banded marble alternated cream and rose, here it varied between green and white. This was most prominently seen in the oldest building in the area, the eight hundred year-old Cathedral of San Zeno. Verona also venerated Zeno, and thanks to its doors the Veronese cathedral bearing his name was more famous than this one. But there was a rugged simplicity in this ancient structure. Damaged by fire three hundred years ago, it had been rebuilt in more modern ways, yet retained the original design.

  Cesco was less enamoured, though his frown had nothing to do with the basilica itself. Noting Cesco's peaked appearance, Pietro misinterpreted the cause. “I need to sit down for a bit. Jacopo, I saw some vendors in the next street. Do you think you could find us some nuts or fruit to graze on? And some water?”

  Appropriately, the cathedral faced the Piazza del Duomo, and there were benches for communing with society. Detto offered to accompany Poco, thus releasing Cesco to sit on the marble bench beside Pietro.

  “What do you think of Pistoia?” asked Pietro.

  “Pleasant enough. A bit dull. This is high summer – where are the faires, the revels? Perhaps I'm spoiled by Verona.”

  “That's a safe wager.” Pietro was tempted to mention that if Cesco had succeeded, those kinds of revels would have ruined Verona. Pietro was still frightened by how far Cesco had gone down that road before checking himself. But they were staying away from accusing him of anything just now. “We could visit Castruccio Castracani's grave. I hear it bears a bas-relief of a hound.”
r />   Cesco pulled a face of mock indignation. “That bastard! Usurping our symbol. Of course, he was a cani as well.”

  “Not as canny as you.”

  “Wordplay, Nuncle? I didn't know the wound in your side had tickled your brain. Though I note you have yet to find a diversion for us.”

  “Well, if we stay until the end of July, we can see the Giostra dell'Orso.” Pietro described the event where twelve mounted knights ran courses at a bear-figure to win an ancient rag.

  “Thank heavens it's not a real bear,” said Cesco. “Detto wouldn't tolerate it.” Just today several stray dogs had started following them, looking to Detto for attention.

  They sat for a time on the bench, just enjoying a beautiful day.

  “So,” said Pietro at last. “Treviso.”

  “And then the world,” mused Cesco. “Or at least enough to create a new age of man. How does the prophecy go again?”

  Pietro blinked. “I meant to be more practical. But if that's what's on your mind, let me say this – I'm sorry I never… I mean – I saw what it did to Cangrande. It ruined his life, first thinking he was, then finding out he wasn't. I didn't want that kind of pressure put on you—”

  “I thank you for your concern. And, if this is my destiny, I should embrace it, shouldn't I?”

  “Does this mean you know what you want?”

  “I've had time to think about it. And yes, I think I know.”

  “So that means—”

  “Yes yes,” said Cesco, making a face. “Let's not belabour it.”

  “Fine.” They lapsed into silence. Yet there was something Pietro wanted to say. “You know, you're not only Cangrande's son.”

  “I know that,” said Cesco. “I'm also yours.”

  Though pleased, Pietro waved that off. “I meant Dante.”

  Wryly, Cesco said, “Grandson, perhaps. He was never very fatherly.”

  “Nevertheless, he saw in you someone to whom he could relate. You proved him right after his death. I think you were the son he always wanted.”

  Cesco stared at Pietro for a long moment. “Nuncle – your father envied you.”

  “What? No, he didn't-”

  “He did, I assure you. You were the man he always wanted to be. The good man. You are correct, in me he recognized something familiar. Restlessness. Dissatisfaction. Despair. Joyful malice, or malicious joy. Call it what you like, it was in your father as well. So I may be the son he always wanted. But you are the man he wanted to be.”

  “That's – very kind of you to say. However, you're missing my point. I'm talking about the prophecy. You don't have to follow in your father's footsteps, anymore than I followed mine in his. Dante Alighieri proved that a poet can change the world just as much as a soldier or leader.” Pietro paused. “I know you're in rebellion against the Church, but there is an important lesson from Christ himself in this.”

  Cesco was wary. “And that is what, turning the other cheek?”

  “Turning the other cheek is not a sign of weakness. It's a show of defiance. But no, the lesson is this – many of Christ's followers expected the Messiah to be a leader in war. All the great heroes before him had led the Jews into battle. But he showed there was another way to lead. Prophecies don't have to mean what people expect them to mean. You will usher in a new age of Man. You might do it in war. But you might also do it in words. You have the skill.”

  “I might do it by overthrowing the entire Church,” said Cesco. “Have you thought of that?”

  “I have,” admitted Pietro. “And I will fight you in that, and love you all the while. The Church may not be perfect, but God is.”

  “If He exists at all, He must be,” said Cesco, “to have someone as worthy as you following Him.”

  Pietro placed a hand on Cesco's shoulder. Cesco put his own hand over it, and together they shared a moment of peace and warmth.

  Ever restless, Cesco stood suddenly. “Where are they? I'm starved!”

  Grinning ruefully, Pietro rose from the bench, only to stop in his tracks and stare across the square.

  When Cesco realized he was no longer walking in Pietro's shadow, he turned in concern, his hand dropping at once to his sword. But Pietro simply continued to stand like a statue, utterly immobile.

  “What is it?” Receiving no reply, Cesco strode to stand directly in front of Pietro, gazing where the older man's eyes were trained.

  Across the piazza a group of young women passed the time in conversation. All were finely attired in the latest fashion, fitted gowns cinched in close to the waist, with a fair display of décolletage. Panels were a thing of the past, and the fabric of the overdress was bunched at the back, showing a tantalizing hint of the underdress. The sleeves were absurdly long and wide, ending in a definitive point.

  Off to one side stood a woman. Her oval face was dominated by two enormous eyes over a snubbed nose and pert rosy cheeks. She was clearly unwed, for her lustrous, curly black hair was uncovered, falling to the small of her back and shimmering in the summer sun. Her gown was more modest than those of her companions – the broad violet band that stretched from shoulder to shoulder barely dipped below her neckline, displaying none of her chest. Her overdress was ivory with lavender accents, and her under-dress was midnight blue. She looked like the sky.

  Ignoring the nearby conversation of her friends, this young woman was staring back across the piazza at Pietro, as transfixed as he.

  Cesco's tension vanished, replaced by mirth. “You dog. Finally we have an answer to the question, 'What kind of woman is Count Alaghieri attracted to?' Shall we discover her name?”

  Pietro hissed, “Don't!” But Cesco had already turned to wave brightly to the young woman. She raised one hand, freeing it from her long sleeves just enough to wave shyly in return.

  Cesco clapped Pietro on the back. “That's as much invitation as a man could hope for. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to be violently ill. Let me know when the wedding is.” He walked off, whistling.

  Mustering more courage than it had taken to ride to Vicenza, or to challenge Carrara to a duel, more than it had taken to face off against Bernardo Gui and the Inquisition, Pietro forced himself to walk, doing his utmost to hide his limp. A dozen introductions flashed through his mind: he could use his father to impress her, he could say he was a knight, or a count, or the foster-father of the Heir to Verona. Yet when he reached her all he could say was, “Lady – you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I would like to know you.”

  Such a smile! Open and welcoming, she showed just the smallest flash of teeth. One of those teeth was imperfectly turned, giving a very human flaw to utter perfection. Knowing his own teeth were a little crooked, he seldom used them to smile. But he could not help himself answering hers in kind.

  “Signore, I – oh, how do I answer a beginning like that?” she said, flustered.

  “By saying you'd like to know me.”

  There was nothing of challenge or defiance in her laugh. It was a sound of joy, and Pietro joyed in it. “I would like to know you, signore.”

  Pietro could not imagine ever wanting anything more in this life but to hear those words come from this woman's lips. For once all thought of duty, of honour, of God, of Cesco, of Cangrande, of his father – these passed entirely from his mind. His world was reduced to one person, and his heart hammered in thunderous claps for excitement and fear.

  By now her friends had noticed their discourse. Thinking to defend her from unwanted advances, they intervened. “Dolce? Who is your friend?”

  Dolce! A sweet name. And she was sweetness personified as she blushed. “We have not yet reached the point of exchanging names.”

  Forced to introduce himself, he started small. “My name is Pietro,” he said into her eyes. Then, for her friends, he bowed and used it all. “Ser Pietro Alaghieri, Count of San Bonifacio, son of the poet Dante, and Knight of the Mastiff of Verona.” He took up her hand from the voluminous sleeve and raised it to just below his mouth. “
Your servant.”

  Evidently his name was suitably impressive, as his welcome among the gaggle became noticeably warmer. Dolce looked less impressed than happy – here was a man with a name no one could besmirch. “We are most pleased to make your acquaintance, Count Pietro. Allow me to introduce my friends.” She did so, though the names flew out of Pietro's head the moment they were uttered. At last she arrived at her own name. “I am—”

  “Dolce,” he supplied.

  “Jacopa,” she answered over her friends' twittering titters.

  “Forgive me,” said Pietro. “I thought she said—”

  “My father is Dolcetto dei Salerni,” she told him. “My name is Jacopa. My friends call me Dolce, for him.”

  “My brother is called Jacopo,” he said, almost apologetically.

  “Heavens! Then please, call me Dolce.”

  “So long as you call me Pietro.”

  Under the gaze of sleek stone lions high above, the conversation continued, mostly revolving around Pietro. He tried to remain modest, but his reason for being in Pistoia was unavoidable. They congratulated him on making the peace, then asked questions about his famous father. After a time Dolce's friends stood back, amused, as she and Pietro launched verbal barrages at each other like armies loosing flights of arrows. He was eager to learn everything he could, and at the same time desperate to impress her.

  When bells began to ring, the friends reminded Dolce that they had a prior engagement. Pietro could have murdered them all. By now they were all aware of the looks passing in both directions and before departing the group of girls retired a few steps to give these two a moment alone.

  Quickly Dolce said, “Ser Alaghieri, are you engaged?”

  “Engaged? I – no, I have never—”

  As he sputtered, she blushed. “Tonight! Are you engaged tonight?”

  He had promised to dine with the ambassador from Florence. “Not at all.”

  “Then, if I may be so bold, I am certain you would be welcome at my father's table.”

  “If you will be there, I'll be honoured.”

  They gazed at each other in surprise and pleasure and hope and fear. Dolce pleaded for understanding when she said, “I have to go.”