by David Blixt
“Go,” he said, denying his words by taking her hand. Again he bent low, and this time he kissed her wrist. “As long as I know I'll see you again, I'll survive.”
Beaming, she ran to join her friends. Even as they turned the corner out of the piazza she was casting glances back over her shoulder at him.
Pietro stood in the square a long time, feeling an excitement he'd never known. So fast! It couldn't be real. Yet it was! Forgive me father, Petrarch – everyone who has spoken of this. Until tonight he'd never believed their stories – love at first sight were for the French romances. But at first glimpse of Dolce, he'd had his breath stolen away.
Cesco sidled up beside him, with Detto and Poco on the other side. “That seemed to go well.”
Pietro blushed, and they teased and tormented him all the way back to their lodgings. There, dressing in his finest clothes, he instructed Cesco to beg forgiveness from the Florentine ambassador, but he had a pressing engagement he could not afford to miss.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE DINNER WENT far better than Pietro had dared hope. Dolce's father was a kindly businessman who had planned for his daughter to marry some as-yet unidentified suitor from a good local house. Seeing the way this handsome knight-lawyer was staring at his daughter, and the way she stared back at him, he cheerfully changed his plans. By the end of the evening, Pietro and Dolce were unofficially engaged.
“You'll have to wait a year or two,” warned Dolcetto Salerni. “I promised her grandmother that I wouldn't let her marry until she was twenty, and if I break my word, the old biddy will rise from her grave and hound me to death. But if you two wish, we'll read the banns this year and make the whole thing official. Now, Jacopa, will you see our guest to the door? I think I have something to do in some other room.”
Pietro's first true kiss was all the sweeter for having been waited for. Hesitant at first, it became passionate, promising much for the future.
Fingers entwined with hers, he lingered as long as he decently could, and they agreed to see each other the next day. Out on the street, he walked towards his borrowed house on winged feet, the soles of his boots hardly seeming to touch the ground. For the first time in his life, Pietro considered abandoning duty. What need he go to Treviso, when his heart was here?
Was this the parting that Tharwat had envisioned? Not Cesco abandoning Pietro, but the other way around? Pietro starting his own life, his own family. Cesco was fifteen now, a man. With Treviso secure and Cangrande running Verona, with Cesco no longer bent on destruction but instead on becoming all he was meant to be, could not Pietro choose to pursue his own course for the first time in his life?
He would never have thought it possible until today. But now Pietro wanted to be selfish. Finally he valued something more than honour, more than loyalty. Dolce. Sweet Dolce…
Pietro was in such a daze that he did not register the number of men outside the house until they had seen him and moved to intercept him. It was the shouting of his brother that wakened him to the threat. “Pietro! Run!”
“Pietro Alighieri?” asked a gruff man with a very full moustache.
“Alaghieri,” corrected Pietro automatically. “Yes?”
The mustachioed man held up a large parchment, though it was not light enough to read it. “Pietro Alighieri, we are here to arrest you in the name of the Republic of Florence.” With that, they laid hands upon him.
Pietro tried to shrug them off. “Wait – what?”
They gripped his biceps firmly. “You are to be returned and tried for your crimes against the Republic.”
Poco was shouting, “Pietro! I've sent for Carrara! Don't let them take you!”
But there was little he could do to prevent it. The soldiers disarmed him and bundled him into a carriage. Inside it sat a man beribboned in a doublet of stuffed and slashed sleeves. He smelled of roses and orange petals. Though Pietro did not at once recognize him, there was something familiar in his posture, which was elegant and refined.
“Ah, Count Pietro. Welcome. I see you chose to honour the summons. A pity. Here I was hoping you would put up more of a struggle.” The scented man leaned forward, and the lamplight displayed a wispy moustache, with stronger whiskers along his chin. The perfectly arched eyebrows looked tweezed.
Dominating it all was a nose that had been hideously broken sitting like a squashed turnip in the middle of his face. “Had you fought, you could have uttered the words, 'I am a sore and sorry ass.' ”
Cianfa Donati.
Thirty-Six
IN SPITE OF HIS PREDICAMENT, Pietro began to laugh. He had no idea how serious the situation might be, nor if he would even survive the night. Perhaps thoughts of Dolce made him impervious, or Cesco's newfound stability, or his suddenly rosy future. Whatever the cause, the laughter burbled right up out of his throat and into Donati's surprised face.
Donati was hardly amused. “I'm afraid this is no laughing matter, my dear Count.”
“Of course it is! O Cianfa, you fool. You couldn't steal my father's bones, so you'll take mine?”
“Tch. Such bluntness, and from a poet's son! It is fortunate that your foster-child did not inherit his wit from you.”
“That's right, you were a witness to his wit,” said Pietro.
“More a victim of it.” Donati's hand twitched towards his face. “I confess, I had half-hoped he would be here tonight.”
“If you wait, he'll be here. He's dining with the Florentine ambassador.”
“Yes.” Donati plucked imaginary lint from his hose. “You were supposed to be arrested there. When you did not arrive, the ambassador sent word that you were attempting to flee.”
“I had another engagement.” Even in his present circumstance, that last word brought a smile to Pietro's face.
“I hope it was pleasant, as it will be your last evening of freedom.” Donati thumped the carriage roof. “On, driver!”
The movement of the carriage quashed some of Pietro's joy – he was being taken away from Dolce! At once the lawyer in him took control. “What is the charge?”
“What else? Treason. Your family was exiled, and you are therefore a traitor to the Republic. You are here, close to Florentine power. You are being arrested and returned for trial.”
“You realize there's no real charge to answer. I'll pay a fine, give up the house, and go free. Why bother?”
“No charge?” repeated Donati. “Why, as an exile, you've been fomenting sedition. By publishing and reading your father's infernal work, you've been spreading slander against a dozen famous Florentine families, mine included. By siding with the Holy Father's enemies, men such as Occam and Bonagratia, you prove yourself unworthy of your renewed place in God's sight. And by working so closely with the Greyhound, you threaten stability of the region.” Donati leaned back comfortably. “I think there are many charges to answer. And you'll find the penalties far more severe than a mere fine.”
Now Pietro understood. Florence was using the pretext of his exile to stir up a quarrel with Verona, thereby distracting Cangrande from attacking Treviso. So long as even one city in the north held out against the Scaliger, the allied Guelph states would breathe easy.
All that was nothing to Donati, a mere pretext to punish Pietro and Cesco for Dante's insult to his father, and Cesco's insult to his visage. The nose really was squashed almost flat. And it had been such a fine patrician nose…
Shouting outside caused the carriage to jerk to a halt. Raised voices, some familiar, all demanding. The door was flung open and Cesco poked his head in. Seeing Donati, his mouth fell open. Then he started to laugh.
It was most unfortunate that Pietro had retained much of his good mood. If he hadn't, he might not have joined his foster-son in doubling over with mirth. They slapped at each other, trying to stop, which only made them howl the harder. Clinging to each other they climbed from the carriage, Donati in their wake. He was shaking with rage, his jaw clamped tighter than the Pope's purse.
They were
surrounded by Carrara's men, and Rossi's. Both great men were present, looking on in wonder as these two played the fool.
Dragging in a breath, Pietro told Cesco the important news. “I'm to be married!”
Eyes streaming, Cesco reared back in shock. “Nuncle, did he molest you? The handsome Cianfa has a voracious appetite, I know. He once made overtures to me!”
Donati reddened, but his voice was even. “I mistook you for a maid. So small then, and with a girlish temper.”
Hearing the man speak set Cesco into fresh paroxysms of laughter – the fine voice was now comically nasal. “Can you not tell the difference between a hart and a hind? Or is it the hind you like? Oh, I see! You cannot smell them out! Your poor patrician proboscis is a little less proud than of yore.”
Whatever Donati had been about to say, he was forestalled as Lord Rossi and Lord Carrara approached, demanding the reason for Count Pietro's arrest. Donati answered by producing the writ from the Florentine Signoria commanding Pietro's appearance before their court.
Donati concluded his oration. “So if you will permit me to bring the accused, he will receive his day in court.” He gestured for his men.
“Not so hot,” said Carrara, interposing his person between Donati and Pietro.
“Quite,” said Lord Rossi. “The Count is a guest of this city, and under its protection under a seal of peace, signed by Florence. If the Signoria wish to bring him to account, they must do so in Pistoia's courts, not their own.”
Donati seemed to expect that argument. “He is not a citizen of Pistoia, nor even Parma, but of Florence.”
“Actually,” said Morsicato, elbowing his way forward, “the city of Florence stripped him of his citizenship two decades ago. He's a citizen of Verona now. The Scaliger made him first a knight, then a count.”
“He's also an honourary citizen of Padua,” declared Carrara at once. “I have the right, and here I declare him a Paduan. So he is under my jurisdiction, not yours.”
That engendered a fresh wash of amusement. Carrara had tried to murder Pietro on three battlefields, and once in a formal duel. Now he was rallying to Pietro's defence.
The moment was not lost on Carrara, who winked. Pietro laughed and raised his fist in the air. “Patavinitas!” Which in turn had Carrara chuckling.
The constant current of laughter made Donati purse his lips so that he looked like a duck. With his ruined nose, it was hardly an improvement. “Ser Alaghieri is charged with treason and sedition.”
“And I'm not?” asked Poco. “I'm Dante's son as well.”
“You have paid your fine and been forgiven,” said Donati coolly. “A pity your brother did not take time to do the same.”
More and more armed guards were arriving, these latest belonging to Lorazzo Cancellieri, a local magistrate. Seeing his crest, Pietro groaned inwardly. Here was another man whose ancestor was languishing in at least a literary Hell, if not the real one. Well done, Pater! Did you have to insult the whole world?
Cesco was laughing again, murmuring, “Canto thirty-two. 'Nor yet Foccaccia….'”
“Quiet, you deranged maniac,” murmured Pietro, barely holding his own piece. “You'll get us hanged.”
A verbal battle raged between Donati, Rossi, Carrara, and Cancellieri. There was no question of the Count's arrest – he was here under safe conduct. Donati countered by arguing that, his mission concluded, Signor Alighieri was no longer Pistoia's concern.
“I don't know why Donati's complaining,” whispered Cesco. “Cancellieri's ancestor occupies a much lower place in Hell than his father, and he seems perfectly content.”
At last the Florentine ambassador arrived to craft a peace, which had likely been the intent all along. At his insistence, Pietro would remain in Pistoia until a court could be convened that would satisfy Florentine justice. “Florence requires an oath that the Count of San Bonifacio will not be allowed to abscond north until this matter is settled.” Cancellieri agreed, turning at once to Pietro and offering to house him in the palace as a guest.
Normally Pietro would have protested. Thinking of Dolce, he instead thanked Cancellieri with such real pleasure that Donati looked quite put out.
Cesco seemed to have finally recovered himself. He stepped forward to face the Florentine ambassador, a member of the Amidei family. A large and gruff man, naturally sour of visage, his ancestor had fared better in Dante's hands, being mentioned in Paradiso. “Lord Amidei, when the time comes for the trial, I'd like to proffer counter charges against the wily Cianfa here. Grave-robbing, to be precise. I am a witness. So is Bailardetto.”
As Amidei looked on in surprise, Cianfa Donati was scornful. “I have witnesses who will swear I was in my room on the night in question, and nowhere near Dante's tomb.”
“Did I say it was Dante's bones you were trying to steal?” replied Cesco politely. “You were always petty, Cianfa. Like your father, giving the fig to your betters instead of owning your faults. Now be gone before someone ends your nosing around by removing it entirely. Cosa fatta capo ha.” This was aimed at Amidei, who knew the phrase far too well, being part of his family's lore. What's done is done.
Failing to conjure a biting reply, Donati clambered into his carriage. It rattled away with his armed men riding close behind. Amidei was apologetic, Rossi sympathetic, Carrara amused, Morsicato angry, Poco furious.
Cancellieri was solicitous. “Count Pietro, I'm sorry, but I gave my word I would not allow you to leave until this matter is settled…”
Pietro waved this concern aside. “I'll gather my things and come to the palace right now. Please have your men accompany us, so you have no fear I'll 'abscond', as Donati put it.”
Rossi was a bold man, and his disgust at this evening's events was manifest. “What a cockroach!”
“Cockhound, more like,” said Cesco. “He is always chasing a tail, most often his own. I'll walk with you, Nuncle.”
As Carrara and Rossi returned with Cancellieri and Amidei to the palace, Pietro, Cesco, Detto, Poco, and Morsicato trooped along to their lodgings, watched by two of Cancellieri's men.
Checking over his shoulder, Cesco made certain they were out of earshot when he spoke. “How did Donati learn you were here? It was decided in Verona, and the business was finished almost as soon as you arrived. Yet he had time to arrange your arrest?”
Pietro frowned. The note had been signed by the Signoria – not a thing to be accomplished swiftly. “It doesn't seem possible…”
“More likely another jab from our unknown enemy. Like I said before, malicious but playful. An inconvenience, rather than a serious attempt on your life. Though if you died, I'm certain our foe would not mind.”
“Comforting. You know who it is, don't you?”
“I have a suspicion.”
“Are you going to tell us?”
“Not without proof.” Cesco grinned. “But tell us, how was supper? Is she pregnant yet? Cosa fatta capo ha.”
Pietro blushed, thinking of another pregnancy. But he thrust Rosalia from his mind as he related the evening's events. The guards were forced to wait a weary while as the close friends of Count Pietro Alaghieri raised cups to his good fortune.
Pressed to describe his love, Pietro did his best, but he was not his father. Words failed him.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE PEACE SETTLED, Carrara had to leave for the north for the war. Cesco elected to ride with him. “We'll be safe in his company. We'll stop over in Verona and give Auntie Imperia your happy news. Then we'll travel on to join the army. Now that Parma is safe, the Scaliger will move swiftly.”
Pietro felt a pang. He would not see the fall of Treviso. But that pain was balmed by the knowledge that he would be here for the reading of the banns. Two years until the actual wedding, her father had said. It hurt, but neither Pietro nor Dolce truly minded the wait. Each wanted to give the other time to regret, withdraw their proffered affections, though both were certain nothing of the sort would happen. It was a love match.
Poco elected to remain with his brother, to protect him from their homeland. But Tharwat and Morsicato would travel with Cesco and keep him safe.
With embraces and good wishes, Pietro put his arms about Cangrande's heir, unaware that it was for the last time.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE RIDE WAS PLEASANT and uneventful. Carrara was amusing, though he did have a tendency to scratch his skin. “As I age, I find my skin flaking. My father was much the same. By the time he reached forty if he touched his beard, it looked like it was snowing on his tunic.”
“Which is why you shave close,” observed Cesco.
Carrara grinned. “A man is not a man who does not like a close shave.”
They parted near Padua, angling westwards, and arrived in Verona the following day, to squeals of delight from Cesco's little wife.
“We are now both a whole year older,” he told her, dropping a saddlebag filled with presents. “But you are catching up to me. I used to be three times your age. In two more years, I'll be just twice your age.”
Her face fell. “Icarus died.”
Antonia had written, so Cesco was prepared. “Not with an untimely fall. He lived a good life, and died knowing he was loved. What more could anyone want?”
He left Maddelena smiling and thinking that her husband did not look as sad as he had before.
♦ ◊ ♦
CANGRANDE HAPPENED TO BE in the city at the moment, signing papers and hearing petitions, clearing his desk before hostilities distracted him. “I'm always astonished how swiftly your hair grows.”
Cesco scrubbed his mane. “I think all my growth goes to my hair, defeating my attempts at height.”
“Not entirely defeating. You're taller than when you left. Though you look like a dancing girl.”
“I have excellent legs. Care to see?”
“I only want to see them running towards Treviso. Is Count Pietro recovered?” It was not Pietro the Scaliger was asking after.
“If he's not, he never will be.”
