The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “Noted. Though you never enjoyed discipline during your hawking. Isn't that a bit hypocritical?”

  “Different circumstances, different rules,” said Cesco cheerfully. “And if I'm a disappointment to you, it's because I've always aspired to be.”

  “It's good to dream,” said Cangrande.

  “Really? I rather think that dreams are our downfall.”

  Cangrande laughed. “Well, then, don't tell Pietro. I'd hate to disabuse our latest Veronese lover.” Ser Alaghieri's new infatuation was the subject of much good-natured jesting. “Still, good for him. He needs a child of his own. If only to stop fathering you.”

  “Speaking of children,” called Mastino from across Cangrande, “how's your wife?”

  Cesco gave a lunar-sized roll of his eye. “Off the teat and on to the thumb.”

  “No doubt your cock will be next.”

  Detto growled and despite his light answer, Cesco looked angry. “Alas, her teeth have come in. What about Taddea? Is she swelling yet? Word is she can hardly walk.”

  Mastino smiled blandly. “What, eager for competition?”

  “Any competition is welcome. Old rivalries grow stale. The della Scala line needs some new blood.”

  “In that we agree,” said Mastino.

  “Ears, lads,” said Cangrande, meaning they were where anyone could hear them. “Cesco, ask Otto if he's willing to give you command of the light cavalry. I leave the decision to him.”

  Cesco looked pleased. “At last, a chance to prove myself.”

  “I confess I'm interested to see you lead men, not a rabblement of hot-headed boys. Just don't do anything stupid, like dying. I'd miss these little chats.”

  “So would I, believe me,” replied Cesco. “I'm just now growing to like them.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  AS NEWLY-INSTALLED COMMANDER of Otto's light company, Cesco rode with the Burgundian at the head of the mercenary army, Detto by his side. The men under his command were doubtless unsure of him. They might have seen him race neck-and-neck with their beloved Otto, but they had also seen him spewing wine from his nose that same night. Whatever tales Yuri and Fabio had told would be little reassurance.

  Still, at least they weren't rebelling. Helms fitted, they spurred out behind their new commander, riding through the glorious summer countryside at a good clip, not so fast as to blow their horses, but swifter than any messenger or warning could travel.

  They passed through Zero Branco, tugging their reins at an inn called Frascata. The innkeeper came forward, a portly man with a long beard and hands the size of mallets. Those hands were held wide in a show of peace. “Are you from the Greyhound?”

  “We are,” answered Otto.

  “Can I offer your men food or drink?”

  Otto shook his head. “We'll pay for anything we eat.”

  The innkeeper gave an ingratiating smile. “Figured I'd offer, as there's nothing I can do to stop you.”

  Another man would have put the man at his ease. Not Otto. “Are the Trevisians within their walls?”

  The innkeeper scratched his bearded chin. “Not since last I heard. They've known it was coming, of course. But it's hard, staying alert for weeks and weeks. I think they hoped you'd all decided not to come.”

  “Mm.” Signaling his men, Otto led his force forward towards Treviso itself.

  “Can that be true?” marveled Yuri, riding along with Otto. “Do they not know we're coming?”

  “They're fools if they don't have scouts and signals planned,” said Fabio, at his other side. “But then, they're fools to hold out at all.”

  Cresting the final hill, they saw the brownish-red bricks of the city's southern walls across the narrow water of the river Sile. Amazingly, the gates were open. Evidently the innkeeper had spoken true – word had not yet reached the city. There was even a party of foragers gathering wood and plants from the field, and many citizens out at their daily business.

  Seeing the open gates across the wide bridge, Cesco murmured, “If we could reach those gates…”

  Detto understood. If they could get inside, they could hold a gate open until Cangrande arrived. The city would fall in a single night. The temptation was enormous.

  A decision had to be made, and at once. But would Cesco's men follow him? Or would they see it as the daredevil, hare-brained action of a wild, foolish boy and not follow him?

  Once Cesco might have thrown all caution to the wind. But this new Cesco glanced sidelong at the commander of the company. “Otto?”

  “No question,” said the Burgundian. “Give the order.”

  Cesco drew his sword and waved it, hissing the air over his head. “Charge! Take those gates!”

  Cheering, the light company spurred to attack en masse. Detto saw the relief in his friend, and the joy. Hesitation was gone. Now it was only death, or glory. Otto rallied his main force into a charge as well, and soon the whole mercenary company was racing full-tilt for the unsuspecting gate.

  Citizens and foragers took one look and turned tail. Otto's cavalry was closer to the gates, at an angle to the foragers, with Cesco's force on the far end. It meant that as he raced for the gates, Otto would cut the Trevisians off, leaving Cesco to cut them down. Otto would reach the gates first. But what did it matter, so long as they won?

  Sword out, Detto felled one man as his horse trampled another. It was his first kill in war and he wished he could relish the moment, but he found it distasteful. The foragers were all running away, their backs to the racing horses. There was no glory to be had here.

  But there could be victory so long as the gates remained open. The winches had to be moving by now. Yes, the doors were closing. In moments the portcullis might drop. Only the streaming bodies of citizens and soldiers prevented the Trevisians from cutting that cord.

  “Swiftly now!” shouted Cesco.

  Slashing left and right, Detto glanced ahead. Otto was pressing hard, Yuri and Fabio at his flanks, galloping desperately up the paved road to outpace the men working the fortified gate.

  Over the cries of citizens and the thunder of hooves, Detto could hear the whine of huge ropes pulled taut and the thuds of wheels working within wheels. There was a loud snap and something passed over the city like a speeding bird.

  An instant later the earth shook in a way that had nothing to do with horses. It happened twice more before Detto could put a name to it. “Catapults!”

  “Keep going!” Cesco's company wasn't yet within range of the missiles, but Otto's men were and they hadn't stopped. More stones landed around them, some directly in front of their horses. The beasts balked, but still Verona's mercenary cavalry rode for the gate.

  Then there was a scream. It was not a single voice, but a dozen united in a single horror. Far back, Detto twisted around to see what had happened.

  Otto's men had simply stopped, their horses trembling and panting, as the mercenaries stared at a stone that had just landed in their midst. Under it lay Otto, crushed to a bloody smear by a perfectly launched siege stone. His horse's legs were still twitching, but Otto's splayed hand was entirely still.

  Leaving his men to finish dispatching the foragers, Cesco raced Abastor to where Yuri, Fabio, and the rest stood stunned at the sudden loss of their imperturbable leader. He grabbed Yuri and slapped the big man's tear-stained face. “Get them back!”

  “The gate—” protested Fabio weakly.

  “Too late! Just get them out of range! Retreat! Retreat!”

  “He didn't even cry out,” said Yuri dully.

  “Get back out of range!” Cesco began tugging on reins and kicking horses with his spurs. “You want to end up like him?”

  Another stone landed close, startling several horses. This, more than Cesco's commands, awoke the men to their danger. Under the jeers of the defenders on Treviso's walls, they pulled back, halting just out of range of the catapults.

  Upon hearing of Otto's death a half-hour later, Cangrande wept openly. “Treviso has already co
st too much!”

  “We might still have made the gate,” said Cesco as he quietly explained events. “But the men had lost heart.”

  “Are you sure it was the men?” demanded Cangrande darkly.

  Cesco looked him up and down from head to heel. “I'll go storm the gate now.” He started to leave.

  Cangrande caught him by the arm. “That was unworthy. You made a good decision.”

  “You sound surprised. Now excuse me, I must return to my men.”

  “Tell them this,” said Cangrande, tears still on his cheeks. “Tell them I vow that, should the siege last fifty years, I will not depart without having Treviso in my power!”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  PLANTING HIS COMMAND TENT near the monastery of the Quaranta Santi, the Holy Forty, Cangrande set about dividing his army into two parts. One, under Bailardino, would guard the north-east side, while the remainder under Carrara would take the south-west. Since Treviso was a rectangular-shaped city, the Veronese army could watch all the entrances from these two vantage points.

  The bulk of the army was put to work creating massive and permanent camps. Tents were raised for soldiers and massive multi-coloured pavillions for their commanders. Trees and branches were felled to build lean-tos, using axes or, in the case of the German mercenaries, their wickedly-sharp curved falchions. By the second day of their occupation it looked as though Verona's army would never leave, as if Cangrande was willing to abandon everything else to follow only this enterprise.

  The siege started the next day when, rested and eager, the Veronese army was given stations and orders. These last were simple, and issued directly by Cangrande to his commanders. “No one in. Deserters are free to leave. Give them food and drink and anything else they want. We welcome the Trevisians with open arms.”

  “Not just arms?” asked Cesco. The men of Otto's company had expressed their desire for blood.

  “No,” said Cangrande firmly. “Warring is very like wooing. Let us take a page from the late Petruchio's book. Let us kill them with kindness.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Venice

  THARWAT AL-DHAAMIN CLAMBERED heavily from the bottom of the gondola and paid the driver, who was careful not to touch the skin of his passenger's hand. Long inured to such treatment, Tharwat had no room for indignation. He was tired, more tired than he cared to admit. A journey that should have taken him two days on horseback had taken four in a carriage, and he had been too exhausted upon arrival to visit the Jewish Quarter then and there. Instead he had taken lodging for the night just outside the city, in the home of some of his fellow Moors who worked the wharves. They asked no questions, and he told them nothing. Normally he would have offered them charts as payment, or produced his pendulum, a more immediate form of comfort to those in search of answers. But none of these men had questions they wanted answered. Their futures were known to them. They wanted no confirmation.

  Being in Venice was an enormous personal risk, as Tharwat was still charged on the city books with poison, sorcery, and more. But he doubted that Doge Dandolo wished to cause a rift with Verona at present. Only when Treviso fell would he make his move.

  Making the effort to straighten himself this grey morning, Tharwat had donned his finest robes and done his head up in the Eastern style, making himself appear a very fine merchant. Disguise was second nature to him, a fact he had often wondered at. With too many disguises, do you lose the man beneath?

  Walking with the aid of a stick, he entered the Yellow Crescent, known as such because of the shape of the swath carved out for Hebrews to inhabit, and for the yellow hats adorned with devils' horns the residents were by law forced to wear. How many humiliations must a people suffer? But then they, like Tharwat, seemed too tired for indignation.

  It was a bright morning, the sun so blinding that it was difficult to see more than a dozen steps ahead. But Tharwat had walked this route before. Curious gazes followed him, though when he reached the house he sought, everyone averted their eyes.

  Tharwat knocked, to no answer. His knocks became more insistent. The man never left his home untended. Moreover, Tharwat heard a voice within, speaking softly. He hammered for a good twenty minutes before a door across the street opened and a man stuck his head out. “The one you seek is not there.”

  Aware of the intimidating effect his broken voice could have, Tharwat lowered his tone to a whisper. “I have come to see Shalakh.”

  The bulky neighbour nodded. “That is his house, but he is not home.”

  Tharwat shook his head. “I heard his voice inside.”

  Sighing, the neighbour came waddling across the street. “Yes, I know. But I did not lie. He is not at home.” As he reached the door, the man produced a massive lead key and worked it in the lock until the heavy door swung open.

  In the pitch dark interior of the house, the muttering became distinguishable. “…daughter…ducati…a Christian, a Christian…ruin…”

  Lighting a taper, the ponderous neighbour led the way to Shalakh's office, revealing a shocking sight. Shalakh, the short, precise, bird-like usurer of yesterday now paced across his wood floors, naked, his hand running distractedly through his hair. “Damned judges…daughter, my daughter…oh, mi ducati…a Daniel, a Daniel…”

  “Master Shalakh?” said Tharwat.

  “He cannot hear you,” said the neighbour. “He may respond, but not in any meaningful way. Too many reverses. He lost his fortune, his daughter, and his faith all at once.”

  Lowering his voice, Tharwat said, “Is he mad?”

  Shalakh reared up. “Mad as Hell! Hell, for I have eaten pork! I am unclean, unclean! Mad as my old God, but I must love – that's what Christians do, they love! They murder with love. So I will love! I love you, Jessica! I love you, Antonio! I love this land, and the Doge, and the judge – I love them all! Let them feel my love!” He paced, his bare feet sliding across the floor in what must have been the work of days, for the varnish was gone from the wood. At one point his eyes seemed to come into focus, for he smiled at Tharwat's companion. “Tubal! Will you come and share some swine with me? I have a curious craving for a pound of pig's flesh.”

  “Not today, my friend,” replied Tubal gently. “Today is a time for rest. Go, and rest your weary mind.”

  “Rest? Christians cannot rest until they have loved their enemies…oh, my daughter…the Doge! The Doge will have it, I have no choice…I am ruined…oh, mi ducati…”

  Once the fit was off him and his ravings were reduced to mere rambling, Tubal put an arm around Shalakh's shoulder and guided him upstairs. When he returned, Tharwat said, “I heard of the trial, but not the aftermath. It drove him mad?”

  “Worse. He is a Christian now. His funds are in trust for his daughter. He has no livelihood, and no future. He is left with nothing. Even his house was sold.”

  “This house?”

  “Out of pity I purchased it and allow him to live here until such a time as we may mend his mind.”

  “Is there nothing to be done?”

  The neighbour shook his head. “Time alone can heal this wound. It hasn't killed him, and that's sign enough that he will weather this. Though he must soon leave this house.” Tubal showed a sad smile. “Christians are not allowed to live in the Crescent.”

  “You are kind to look after him.” Though disturbed by Shalakh's fate, Tharwat had not forgotten the matter of his visit. “What has happened to his business?”

  “What's left of it, I have,” said Tubal. “I bought up his debts, and have undertaken to make them good.”

  “I must see his records.”

  Tubal was suddenly brisk, guarded. “What right do you have to them?”

  “The right of one of his clients. He has done a great deal of business for the Scaligeri of Verona. Some gold passed to the family Amabilio. I have been asked to track down any records pertaining to that name, and a ship called La Alisceote.”

  Tubal looked wary. “I am not certain I have the right. It is not good
for a business to reveal its dealings.”

  Tharwat paused, his mind working. “If I were to offer a pension for Shalakh's interests, in honour of the good work he has done for the Scaliger's family, would that sway the balance?”

  It was Tubal's turn to consider. “I would need an offer in writing.”

  Tharwat bowed in the manner of his native people. “I shall see to it.”

  Tubal showed him out. “I shall look into the records. It may take some time.”

  “Thank you.” Giving his name and where he could be reached, Tharwat departed as swiftly as he could manage. It did not behoove one to linger long where madness grew.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Pistoia

  WITH NOTHING TO DO save await a trial that would likely never occur, Pietro thought to work again on his commentary on his father's great work. But try as he might, he could not focus upon the writing. His quill would pause for a moment that turned into an hour as he remembered his most recent visit with Dolce, or imagined his next one.

  He did force himself to answer letters, even bitter ones. One of his correspondents was Albertino Mussato, the Paduan poet laureate now in eternal exile. Knowing what was coming, the peripatetic poet had fled Treviso for Chioggia. Reading, Pietro tried to empathize with his father's old rival, the man who had penned the play that had so irked the Scaliger.

  I find myself ruminating on the nature of Tragedy. I once believed there were only two kinds – the fall and disaster of great kings and princes, and the trials such men endure on the battlefield. But now I see there is also the personal Tragedy, not at all epic, and yet greater due to its utter humanity. Mine is a Tragic tale. I wrote all these years in the style of Seneca. I neglected to note his history, which was to spend his life trying to instruct evil princes of their duty. He was ordered to take his own life by the very one into which he had poured his heart.

  I have poured my heart into Padua. And it has given itself over to the beast. But they do not care enough even to order my death. They simply bid me pack, and forget my name. Ten years ago I was a hero of the Arts. Today I am a traitor. I, who have betrayed no one, least of all myself.