The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Cangrande grunted. “Very well. Tomorrow you can ride out to join the army. It's mustering around Padua.”

  Tomorrow suited Cesco to the ground. He had one interview to make before the war. He had put it off long enough.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO SENT AHEAD to La Rosa Colta to tell her he was calling. It was the least he could do. He wrote formally, and mentioned an interview, lest she have the wrong idea. He did not want to arrive and have her throw herself into his arms.

  One look smote him. She knew. Without knowing why, she knew. It did not make what he had to say easier. If anything, it made this all the worse.

  It occurred to him that he was under no obligation to say anything. She was a whore, and had been paid. But after all he had put her through, he owed her at least this.

  They entered her room, hung with its exotic drapes and smelling of pungent spices. It made him feel ill, as though the walls seethed at him. He remembered all they had done in this room, and wished they were anywhere else in the world.

  “Buthayna. Please sit down.”

  Still she said nothing, simply obeying him by curling herself gracefully down onto a large pillow and gazing up at him with dark eyes full of hurt.

  “First, I must apologize that I did not call after the events of the Palio. That was extraordinarily unkind. I was ill. It is not an excuse. It is plain fact.” She nodded that she understood. “But I also stayed away because of shame. My shame.”

  He sat down on a cushion opposite her, at a distance. “Last year, Buthayna, I fell in love. A woman of your years, possessing a beauty quite different from yours. It was the kind of love that burns, that fills your mind. The kind of love you think will last forever. Only it didn't. It ended – badly. And when it ended, I missed her. But I missed myself as much. The self that I had been when I loved her.”

  He drew a ragged breath, knowing it was unfair – he should display no weakness, invite no pity. Showing his struggle would not absolve him. Nor should it.

  “I threw myself into debasing everything that we had shared. Including sex. I came here as often as I could to forget the feel of her flesh. I knew it was a danger, you see. Yet still I fell.” He looked at her levelly. “You understand what I am saying? I wanted to be in love. I wanted to burn, to have my mind filled. So I chose you to fill it, to burn me.”

  He shook his head. “But I did not burn. I did not pine. I did not perish. You are a remarkable woman, Buthayna Warda. You have charm and wit and courage, generosity and grace. You have all the things that, in another life, I should have loved.”

  He did not say how foolish he felt, falling into such an obvious trap. He had bought her affection, just to be certain it would be his. He had chosen, of all the willing dames in La Rosa Colta, the one who was the most foreign, the most other. They even had a private tongue. In every way, he had crafted a circumstance in which he would have complete control. He did not say this, because it would diminish her, turn her into an object more than he already had. He had made her the vessel of his affection, rather than allow her to be the cause of them. His entire affair had been a performance, proof that he could be an excellent lover. Except, of course, that he had not loved.

  She did not need telling. She was intelligent, and more worldly than he. If he felt shamed, how must she feel? To have fallen for him, believed his promises. For that is the nature of lovers' lies.

  Buthayna was silent, but her expression had altered. She was no longer wounded. She was angry. Good. Hate would make it bearable.

  Cesco rose. “I have purchased your freedom. And I have here a second purse that will buy you passage to anywhere you care to go. There is enough to take you home, should you wish it.”

  He held out the bag of gold, but she did not rise, did not take it. He set it gently on the bed.

  Finally she spoke. “One final payment for the whore. Should you not take the pleasure you are paying for?”

  What had he expected? Understanding? Forgiveness? He shook his head. “I don't think there would be pleasure in it for either of us, Madonna.” He bowed to her and departed.

  Buthayna remained, reliving his words, his reasons, his terrible, remote civility. If she had clung to the notion that he had stayed away for love of her, those hopes were now utterly demolished. No, her first impression of him had been correct. Here was Trouble personified.

  She wished she could say she had no regrets. But she regretted not listening to her wiser self. She regretted having given so much of her self to him – not just her body, but her mind and soul. She regretted that Fortune had put her in a position where he could buy her freedom, for which she was obligated to be grateful.

  Most of all she regretted having spoken. There was such power in silence.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO DEPARTED VERONA the next morning, leaving Antonia to explain to his wife why he was departing again so soon. “He has duties. He has to go, because he is a good and responsible soldier.”

  Maddelena mumbled something about showing him what she'd learned, but it was fairly unintelligible, and they coddled her and distracted her with the pretty gifts Cesco had brought for her.

  The good and responsible soldier took the road for Padua, with Detto, the Moor, and the doctor riding beside him. Their path took them to Vicenza, where Morsicato went to finally have a long-postponed conversation with his wife. Detto visited his father and brother in the camp of Vicenza's army.

  Tharwat accompanied Cesco to the palace, but had no desire to enter. So it was that Cesco knocked and was admitted alone for another interview long overdue.

  He found the lady reading – her left hand did not permit her to sew, and there were few other pursuits a stationary woman could perform. The leather cover bore the title Ὀδύσσεια – The Odyssey. Setting her book down in her lap, a finger to mark her place, she gazed at him. “I have just been reading about you.”

  “I have escaped the isle of the lotus-eaters.”

  “So do you now face Circe?”

  He couldn't help himself saying, “I do feel a bout of swinishness coming on.”

  “I seem to recall bringing that out in you.” She had been working on her speech. There was hardly a slur at all. “Dear me, so many tropes to play upon. Tharwat can be the Cyclops, who has the ear of the god determined to punish you.”

  Cesco nodded. “We should put on a play for Treviso. Cangrande can be Achilles, Bail Ajax, and Capulletto can be Menelaus. Instead of a giant horse, we'll build a hound and all drop from its balls.”

  “Hm. In one way you are more fortunate than Odysseus. If you were to stay away for twenty years, your wife would be just blooming when you returned.”

  Even had he been inclined to laugh, the jest was soured for him. Penelope had been another guise Lia had employed during their courtship. “You look well enough, lady.”

  Katerina studied him in return. “You're thin. I'd have thought that after all your excesses this winter you'd have grown fat and placid.”

  “Like you?” Ungallant, but true. Her immobility had caused her to weight to increase, making her appear slightly puffy. Yet she remained just as beautiful in the half-light as she must have been in the sun a dozen years before.

  “Well, there isn't much to do while you brave cavalieres are off conquering the known world. We graze and bear, because we must, and take what scraps of your precious time we are offered.”

  “Poor neglected auntie. Such a martial spirit! If the heathens are correct, in your last life you must have been Charlemagne.”

  “And if they're not? I prefer who I am to who I was.”

  “Or will be?”

  “That, always, is in the stars.”

  Cesco's voice was cool. “Not God's Will? But then who punched out those holes in the night? And, if we peer through them, I wonder if will we see God's candle burning bright. Or only oblivion, to which we are beckoned like moths to the flame.”

  “Donna Maria could answer you, if you only knew how
to reach her.”

  Cesco sat on a stool. “I was sure you'd know by now. Believe it or not, I haven't come to bicker. I came to say one thing to you, then depart.”

  “Here I was hoping for the bickering – at least I'd have your attention. Or must I force you to strike me again? I promise, Bail will never know.”

  “Is that how you seduced Nuncle Pietro?”

  “I tried, but alas, he was too wise.”

  “Not that wise. He is betrothed.”

  Genuine surprise, and perhaps even genuine pleasure. “Congratulations to him! It is past time.”

  “I agree. It is past time to let go of roles we have outgrown – or should never have had in the first place.”

  The right side of her face beetled. “How oblique! I pray you, say what you came to say, and be gone. I'm dying to learn how Odysseus survives the Sirens.”

  His brow furrowed for a moment. “Very well. I knew her for five minutes, no more. But Donna Maria was more mother to me than you have ever been, or ever will be.”

  With that, he rose and departed, leaving her in silence.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  ON THE SECOND DAY of the month named for Julius Caesar, Cangrande gathered his western-most forces in Villanova, parading them for the hundreds of Lombards who had come to see his banners snapping in the wind.

  The next day he marched to Vicenza, sweeping up Bailardino's forces in a grand display, then continued on to Padua, where he entered the city to a shower of flower petals and paeans of praise. Here, in sign of his favour and complete trust, he gave command of the foot soldiers to Marsilio da Carrara.

  That night, as the army camped outside Padua's walls, Benedick found Cesco and Detto. After an effusive greeting, the red-headed Paduan began telling tales of the weeks of training and waiting. “It got so bad that Salvatore and I began holding races. Our own band of Rakehells.”

  “Otto did not object?”

  “Not in the slightest! He likes contests with a purpose, and encourages competition among the men.”

  “A commander after my own heart. Where is Salvatore?”

  “Here,” said the fellow himself, coming forward. “I was off talking with Hortensio. We've set the wedding day.”

  “I'm sure you and Hortensio will be very happy.” The ensuing protests drew in more of their fellow Rakehells – Petruchio and Hortensio, Barto and Berto, even Detto's brother Valentino.

  Watching from a distance, Tharwat was reminded that most of these fellows were mere boys. Cesco had achieved technical manhood, but he still looked younger than Detto despite the advantage of a year. The twins were thirteen, Valentino was twelve. Berto was the same age as Detto. Of the Rakehells, only Barto and Salvatore were near twenty, with Benedick as the aged mascot in his late twenties.

  After they had hoisted their cups several times, saluting everyone from Cangrande to the noble Count of San Bonifacio, Cesco slipped away to join the Moor. They had an appointment – not with a person, but with a place.

  Wending their way through the streets of a city he had only visited once, Cesco relived those wretched memories. He had last seen Lia here. They had shared their last night here. And here was where she had stared at him in such horror that she likely never wanted to see him more.

  Burdened by these recollections, Cesco was silent until the Moor stopped and pointed. “This is the house.”

  Cesco stared up at the walled casa that had been his first home. Being in Padua, it had been impossible to resist visiting, and Tharwat had dutifully brought his young lord to see it.

  Cesco's memories of that time were too dim to glean anything, though the carved caduceus gave him pause. He walked through the dusty halls, examining the frescos with interest. They were completely average, without any special meaning he could draw from them other than good taste.

  Staring at one fresco depicting green fields and stone buildings under a blue sky, Cesco said, “I wonder if that's Scotland. Was she homesick? It's sad that she was never able to return.”

  “We don't know that. She might have gone back many times while you were in Ravenna.” In truth, the Moor shared Cesco's doubt. The way she had arrived so swiftly when called, she had likely been nearby, waiting for the moment to reveal herself if needed.

  “You've searched the house,” said Cesco. “There was nothing?”

  “Nothing. No papers, no coin, no seals. No clue as to who Signor d'Amabilio might have been.” Tharwat cleared his throat. “I was planning to remain in the city and resume the hunt.”

  “If you do,” said Cesco, “I'd prefer you start with the woman who hired the kidnappers the night of the Palio. I'd like a word with her. And I'd like you to buy this house for me. Do you think that could be arranged?”

  “Being under Scaligeri control, the city might just give it to you.”

  “I'd rather pay,” said Cesco. “I want the deed to be uncontestable. It's close to the Rossi clan. And it's easily fortified. This can be Maddelena's home while I'm away.”

  “Away?” repeated Tharwat.

  “Once Treviso is dealt with, I imagine I'll be busy for years to come.” Cesco paused, looking closely at one of the painted walls, the only one not defaced. “Bring that lamp here.”

  The Moor obeyed, squinting. “Is that a ship?”

  Indeed, there was a three-masted vessel painted on the wall, sailing into an Italian harbour, but flying an English flag.

  They both stopped breathing as they leaned their noses so close they nearly touched the varnished paint. There, just above the captain's cabin on the rear of the ship, was a name. La Alisceote.

  They were silent for a time, drinking this in. Then Cesco laughed. “Well done, madre mia! The answer in plain sight, hidden in art!”

  ACT V

  Dreamers Often Lie

  Thirty-Seven

  Treviso

  Tuesday, 4 July 1329

  THE WAR BEGAN in an almost leisurely manner.

  Cangrande's army struck camp before daybreak, and the first rays of the sun found the amassed horse and foot of Verona, Padua, Vicenza, and Mantua all idling, wondering at the delay. It was thirty miles overland to Treviso, and they all wanted to be encamped before nightfall.

  Before the command tent, their leaders watched the Scaliger scarf down a boiled egg and some bread. Talking with Carrara, the Scaliger wiped his chin and stared around him. “Sorry – were you waiting for something?”

  Carrara was amused. “I believe they're awaiting an order.”

  “Another egg!”

  “Not that kind.”

  “Then give them one,” replied Cangrande. “I can't be bothered.”

  As the men laughed at his apparent unconcern, Carrara said, “I don't think they'll leave without you.”

  “O very well!” Standing, Cangrande pulled on the great Houndshelm. “Let's go start a war.”

  A rousing cheer erupted from every throat as the order was given: “March for Treviso!”

  Not a light march, which meant speed, sore feet, and horseshoes thrown. Nor a defensive march, slow and heavy. Cangrande called for a parade march, a sharp step with only basic armour, no helms, shields shipped to the rear. Almost a holiday parade, far more for show than military sense. They certainly looked splendid as they passed through town after town along the road from Padua to Treviso, and the people admired, cheered, sang, gave prizes of food and drink.

  While the foot levies from Verona, Padua, and the rest of the Feltro were under Carrara's command, Bailardino led his loyal Vicentines. The various condottieri answered to Otto the Burgundian, who rode with Castelbarco by his side. Rizzardo del Camino preened at the head of his own force of men, Trevisians bent on 'liberating' their home city.

  The rest of the nobility were gathered into one magnificent force, a multi-coloured column of knights mounted on their finest riding steeds. Nearly three hundred cavalieres were in attendance, each with at least one page or squire bringing along his master's destrier. A show of force that would have awed a
n emperor.

  Cesco rode alongside the Scaliger at the head of this body. On a purely physical level, they looked nothing alike. One enormous, one of medium height. One with short chestnut hair tinged with silver, the other with a long fell of wavy curls streaked blond by the sun. One set of eyes cornflower blue, the other green as a disturbed sea. Yet something in the posture, the attitude of the head, the easy authority, spoke volumes. Nothing alike, and yet entirely the same.

  Even in their accoutrement, they were a mismatched pair. Cangrande rode a white stallion, while Cesco sat astride Abastor, black as night. Yet they wore identical half-armour, each with a golden petta across his chest, with matching gorget and greaves. The arciones of their saddles were silver, with acid-etched swirls evoking the Scaligeri crest. If Cesco's helmet was not as impressive as the Houndshelm, he did not care – he still thought the thing looked ridiculous, with its snarling greyhound and spreading wings.

  When he said so, Cangrande merely smiled. “Wait until you see an enemy run from it. You may reassess what is ridiculous.”

  Detto rode on Cesco's right, looking equally fine in his glittering half-armour. Detto seemed entirely happy – his friend was restored to a noble purpose, he was at peace with his father, and they were on their way into war. Cesco was tempted to fart loudly to remove some of the solemnity.

  On Cangrande's far side rode Mastino. Amusingly, Cesco's cousin had chosen some of the armour Cesco had sent him as faux wedding gifts from far-off lords. That these pieces of plate and chain mail were finer even than the Scaliger's did not go unnoticed.

  During the second hour of their march Cesco started to complain. “I'd rather ride with the light cavalry.” Otto was about to send forty light horses ahead to scout and forage. In battle the light cavalry were the quickest of the attackers, and the poorest armed. This meant that they could be either devastating or devastated, determined solely on the skills of their commander.

  Cangrande shook his head. “I can't give them to someone who worships chaos.”

  “Worship implies blind obedience. Chaos is a tool. So is discipline. I can use either.”