The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  I will remain true to what I have written, and believed. Seneca will show me the way.

  Pietro wrote back, but the letter was returned to him – Mussato had died just after writing to Pietro. Those were likely the last thoughts set down by the poet whose true Tragedy was to have his genius overshadowed by one even greater than he. Pietro wondered if, like Seneca, Mussato had died in his bath.

  Tharwat's letter from Venice was another jolt. After reflecting pityingly on the fate of Shalakh, he came to the heart of the message. Tubal was willing to hunt for the information in exchange for an annuity to cover Shalakh's expenses. As Tharwat wrote:

  For obvious reasons, I do not think we should put this to the Scaliger. Would you be willing to undertake the cost? It may lead to no answer at all, but it would be helping a man who has lost his family, his fortune, his faith, and his wits.

  Pietro wrote back at once, instructing Tharwat to have Tubal himself draw up the contract. Pietro would sign it. He had more than enough wealth. First time he was thinking of spending some of it on himself – a fine new house here in Pistoia, so they could visit Dolce's family. Gowns and jewels for her to wear, servants and tapestries and horses and every modern convenience.

  As he often did, Pietro caught himself and laughed when he journeyed too far down this particular road. But he could not help himself. God help all lovers, he thought.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Treviso

  AFTER TWO WEEKS, the besieged city was suffering from an excess of Cangrande's kindness. Though there had been no assault or bombardment, there was also no let. Anyone who wanted to leave was allowed to do so, provided they carried neither arms nor messages. Those who remained within the walls started to breathe air as cloying and suffocating as if they were sealed in a tomb.

  Every dawn, soldiers from Verona's army set out into the countryside, cutting down fruit trees and denuding the land of any hope of a summer harvest. The Trevisians began to fear Cangrande meant his oath and would remain through the fall harvest and into winter, when the city's supply of food would be long gone. Farmers saw the fruit of their labours being eaten and tossed about – even burned! – by the army outside the walls and wondered if life would be so much worse under Scaligeri rule. Look at Padua! They had not suffered. Cangrande's past clemency and generosity paid dividends within Treviso's walls, as the whispers grew.

  The podestà of Treviso, one Ser Gerozzo de' Bardi, made a speech exhorting continued resistance. “In the name of God, my friends, let us not be craven! Let each citizen join to defend our lands! Do not doubt, but remain resolute, fighting like leopards until rescue comes!”

  But from where would rescue come? Cangrande had sent a large force under Alblivious to the alpine passes, blocking any aid from Cangrande's longtime adversary, the Duke of Corinthia. Verona's own lands surrounded Treviso, cutting off any sympathetic force. The only road Cangrande did not own led to Venice, and Doge Dandolo was not at present inclined to offend the Scaliger. The Capitano da Verona's star was rising, and all Italy feared his displeasure.

  Meanwhile more nobles were arriving with their private armies in tow. Count Gherardaccio da Collalto arrived with a host of hardened warriors – a particular insult, as he had sworn to defend Treviso against the Scaliger. Cangrande embraced Collalto like a long-lost brother and gave a great feast in his honour that consumed even more local food.

  Rumours of political treachery inside Treviso's walls began to reach the Capitano's ears. Guecello Tempesta dared not leave his house for fear of being rent limb from limb by the citizens. Each day more voices spoke of Cangrande's clemency, and each night more of the garrison slipped over the wall or out the side gates to go over to the enemy. Tempesta knew that if he held out to the bitter end, not only would he lose the city but also his own personal estates. Perhaps even his life.

  The lack of fighting meant there was little for this massive army to do, a fact especially true for cavalry. Not that soldiers disliked idle time. But the mercenaries had signed up for wealth, and the best way to enrich one's self was by sacking a city. Fortunately, Cangrande had an open hand.

  Fortunate, too, that his heir was inventive. Cesco had taken complete command of Otto's company, with Bevilaqua as his second. They stationed fifty horsemen within an easy reach of each of the city's gates, ready to chase down anyone going in or out. These men spread out at night to intercept any refugees with arms and alms.

  For the men not on duty, the goal was to refrain from dying of boredom. Cesco aided in that, devising races and sports that would at once keep them occupied and at the same time dishearten the watchers on the walls. Races, giostre, mock duels – all the sports he had given the Rakehells he now brought to bear with the army. Training, disguised as amusement.

  Cesco had once read that a Roman general had held chariot races on a course made of the raised shields of his legion. Not wanting to risk their horses, he proposed footraces, and it became a game in itself as different groups of men were told to move their shields, making the track undulate under the racers' feet.

  Each morning Cesco appeared before Cangrande's tent to report, and offer suggestions:

  “What about digging a trench and undermining the wall?”

  “I've always wanted to try building one of those siege towers, like in the Crusades.”

  “A battering-ram under a tortoise-like shell.”

  “Water-weapons. What if we start digging to divert the Sile?”

  “How about a giant horse? Wait, that's been done. What about a rabbit?”

  Cangrande finally snapped. “No attacks! We want to demoralize the defenders. The more of their own they see living well outside the walls, the more their spirits will sink. That's why I'm not bombarding them or setting them on fire. Defiance strengthens a man's spirit. I want them wondering why they're holding out.” He smiled. “That, and I want the city in good condition when we take it.”

  “Then what are the trébuchets for?” The small artillery had been sitting idle since it arrived.

  “Only for show, I'm afraid.”

  Cesco's brow furrowed in thought, but he said nothing as he departed.

  Not much later, Cangrande was in his pavilion going over Veronese tax complaints when he heard the first trébuchet fire, then the second. By the time the third sent its missile aloft he was out of his tent and running towards the sound. “Who the Devil is firing?!”

  Siege weapons had not changed greatly since the days of Caesar. There were only three methods of sending large missiles over a distance – tension, torsion, counterweight. The trébuchet was of the third kind, with a long arm bearing a sling on one end, and heavy weights on the other. The sling-arm was hauled down, the sling filled with projectiles, then released. The counter-weight on the other end came crashing down, sending the arm up to hurl the contents of the sling at the target. The triangular wooden structures had wheels attached for easy movement, and when not in use the long arm stood upright.

  Verona's trébuchets were not where they had been stationed, nor were the arms upright. They had been moved within reach of the city, and the arms were hauled in close to the ground, the slings being refilled for firing.

  Cesco stood by a launch trough, directing the engine-master's aim. Then he stepped back behind the machine, holding the trigger lanyard in his hand.

  “Cesco! Stop this instant!” An angry Cangrande made all men step clear of their instruments.

  Cesco just smiled. “I was showing initiative.”

  The insolence goaded Cangrande to berate his heir in public. “I said no damage, no bombarding! Are you deaf, or deliberately insubordinate? Whichever, you aren't fit to command an army of lepers off a cliff, let alone real soldiers. Pack up, you're going back to Verona this instant!”

  Cesco nodded. Dropping the lanyard, he turned to the ashen-faced men around him. “You heard the Capitano. Put the food away.” He stepped forward, wrists outstretched. “Shall I be clapped in irons for my return?”

  “F
ood?” Cangrande's head snapped to the contents of the nearest sling. It was indeed filled with food – bread, apples, oranges, figs, and the like. “What's the meaning of this? Do you want the siege to last longer?”

  “I was hoping to shorten it. It was your idea, actually.”

  “Mine?”

  “You said you wanted to demoralize them. What could be more demoralizing than your foe giving you food? Once they figure out it isn't poisoned, they'll realize what it means – that you're here for as long as it takes. You're so confident, you'll even give them food. That's how sure you are you're going to win.”

  Looking around, Cangrande saw Otto's men standing in clumps beside each trébuchet, arms full of food. Cesco said softly, “They needed to do something. This was the best I could come up with and remain within the spirit of your orders.”

  “I note you didn't tell me first. You made me into a fool.”

  “No one thinks the Greyhound is a fool, my lord,” said Cesco.

  If there was a tensing in the Scaliger's arms, only Cesco saw it. Then Cangrande threw back his head and laughed. In his usual battlefield voice he cried, “I love it! Carry on, boys! Make them despair. Just put a note in each bundle bearing Otto's name. Let them know it's his final gift to them!”

  Cangrande walked off, waving merrily at the cheering soldiers. Then he went into his tent, where he stayed for hours, not receiving visitors. He did, however, call for wine.

  It was brought by his brother-in-law, Rizzardo da Camino. “I confiscated some local vintages.”

  Cangrande accepted the offered bottle warily. “Is it any good?”

  “I haven't tried it,” replied Rizzardo.

  “Then take a chair and help me find out,” said Cangrande, waving Verde's husband to a seat as he poured.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO TOOK HIS ROLE of commander seriously, diligently riding from group to group, checking their readiness. Detto was with him at sunset when they came to the camp by the north walls that contained Benedick and Salvatore. “Haven't you Paduans betrayed us yet?”

  “We'll wait until your back is turned,” said Salvatore. “Do you come bearing orders?”

  “Alas, no,” said Cesco. “Just looking for rust on your weapons.”

  “There's no rust,” said Benedick, “but we have supper ready. Care to join us?”

  “Stomach, some ache. I wonder you are not fatter, Signor Benedick. You are continually thinking of your appetites.” Nevertheless Cesco and Detto took stools around the fire and accepted meat, sopping up the juices with good bread brought by villagers eager to ingratiate themselves with their soon-to-be masters.

  Seeing Benedick's frown, Cesco punched the Paduan in the shoulder. “What ails you? Triumph is the name of the hour! Wake up!”

  “Was I asleep?” Benedick slapped his own face comically, then shook his head. “I just don't enjoy not doing! How does a soldier prove himself without battles?”

  Cesco laughed. “The world is broad and wide. A witty man with a quick blade can always find amusing employment. Even if this were Verona's last war – which it most certainly is not – I can think of half a hundred kings looking for good swordsmen. Even a couple in Sicily,” he added carelessly.

  Benedick sat up straight. “I wasn't thinking of her!”

  “Of course you weren't. I mention Sicily, you protest at once.”

  “Speaking of love,” said Salvatore, “is it true that Ser Alaghieri means to wed?”

  “If you mean the Count of San Bonifacio, then the answer is yes.”

  Salvatore waved a hand. “Forgive me, I forget. But if he's to marry, he'll have his countess and a brood of budding nobility in no time.”

  Benedick snorted. “He never struck me as a fool. I swear, a good bachelor hears the bells of thirty years ringing and he thinks they're wedding bells.”

  “You'll be thirty in a couple years,” teased Detto.

  “And the only bells I hear are those of Florence, calling a man to do what he will repent.”

  “That's not how the saying goes,” said Cesco. “Bells and bellas, not bellicose belligerence.”

  “That's a tautology,” protested Salvatore.

  “I am nothing if not repetetive, over and over.” Noting him, Cesco clapped him on the shoudler. “Besides, Salvatore here is not yet twenty, and yet he plans to wed. To Vittoria!”

  “Vittoria!” everyone echoed, raising their cups.

  Never perturbed, Salvatore took his mockery in stride. “Perhaps the good Count and I should imitate you and hold a double wedding. How is the lovestruck Count faring? Wasn't there some trouble with Florence?”

  “There might have been, but for his nature. Another man would not have so many friends willing to stand between him and the axe. Still, he is trapped in Pistoia for the time being – a hardship he is happy to endure, as it keeps him close to his love. He sees her daily, and they plan for the future.” Cesco's gaze became distracted by something in the middle distance. But there was nothing there.

  “They should ask your Moorish friend,” offered Benedick. “Is he with them?”

  “No, we left him in Padua, hunting.”

  “Hunting whom?” asked Salvatore from across the fire. “The one behind the attack on Detto? Or the one who kidnapped your great love from the brothel? Whoever it was, we owe him a few inches of steel.”

  “My great love…” said Cesco, frowning.

  The silence that followed became awkward, so Detto filled it. “Evidently they were hired by a woman.”

  “A woman?” said Salvatore. “Do you know her name?”

  “No, but never fear.” Cesco was suddenly bright. “Tharwat has ways of loosening tongues. Not all of his time with the Inquisition was wasted. And it only cost him an eye.”

  “An eye for an eye,” said Salvatore. “My kind of justice.”

  “Yes, if only justice were as just as that,” mused Cesco, biting into a sausage that burst, sending liquid down his front. Kneeling forward, he cursed. “Hot! Hot! Detto, do you have a spare tunic?”

  They retreated to Detto's horse for a moment, then Cesco returned and hung his grease-stained one on a branch over the fire. “Fan the flames, let the Trevisians smell it!”

  Salvatore returned to the earlier discussion. “So the Moor is in Padua?”

  “Perhaps.” Cesco's eyes narrowed, thinking of the ship called La Alisceote. “When we departed, he was following a most promising clue.”

  Salvatore raised a cup. “Here's to success! His and ours!”

  “Success!” echoed Detto.

  “Love and health to all!” cried Benedick.

  Standing, Cesco raised his own cup. “To Otto. Would he were here. A friend when we needed one most.”

  “To Otto.” Every man present said the name reverently. Then Cesco and Detto took it in turns to tell the tale of how Cesco and Otto had met three years before, when Cangrande was thought dead and Mastino had seized Verona's throne. “It was Otto joining our ranks that helped seal the coup, removing Mastino from power. Of course, then Cangrande arrived, not dead after all.”

  Salvatore said, “I hear you tweaked your father's nose a little today.”

  Cesco was all innocence. “I don't know what you mean.”

  The wine flowed, and soon it was time for the changing of the watch, which meant that Cesco and Detto had to inspect the placement of their men. Rising unsteadily, Detto almost fell over. “Someone kept filling my cup…”

  “Let him sleep here,” said Salvatore. “I'll ride along with you.”

  “By all means,” said Cesco, adding testily, “Detto, sleep it off.”

  “No, I can go,” protested Detto, trying to climb into his saddle. His foot missed the stirrup, and Benedick led him off, protesting feebly.

  Cesco mounted Abastor, and Salvatore leapt up atop his own mount, a dappled gray stallion. They rode together in silence to the first band of Cesco's men, led by Yuri, whom he approached from the rear at a slow pace. Alert, they whir
led about to challenge him. Identified, Cesco asking if any more Trevisians had slipped out to surrender.

  “Half a dozen so far,” reported Yuri. “Two women and four children. They're fed and off to the next town. Bound to be more before dawn.”

  “Treat them all well, but see they're not armed and are put nowhere near the siege engines.” Cesco spurred past them, towards a treeline, Salvatore in his wake.

  The Paduan asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I want to surprise each division,” explained Cesco. “We'll come at them from behind, out of the trees, and see how ready they are.”

  Their horses maneuvered easily through the arbour – it wasn't a real wood, just several clumps of trees and bushes that happened to grow near each other. To keep them out of view, Cesco let Abastor take the easier path to the lower ground behind a rise.

  “Do you hear that?” asked Salvatore.

  Cesco checked his reins and was just turning his head to listen when something burst alongside his skull. Feeling flushed and sick all at once, he barely registered hitting the soft earth.

  Training made him roll, just as training had him draw his weapon. Luckily he had kept his sword attached to his hip instead of his saddle. The blade was longer than his arm and had a grip that allowed him to use one or two hands. It was called a bastard grip. The name as well as the practicality appealed to him.

  He didn't touch his scalp – he knew it was bleeding, touching it wouldn't do a thing. They were at the bottom of a gulley that had once probably been a shallow stream. Nothing grew around Cesco's feet but a few creeping roots covered in silt. Both sides of the gulley were lined with trees, hiding them from view of the camp.

  Head ringing, Cesco said, “Salvatore?”

  “I'm here,” said the Paduan.

  The tone said it all. No hurry, no fear. Just icy calm. Cesco lowered his sword to squint at the dismounting figure. “Was it something I said?”

  “I thought we should conduct our affairs without prying eyes.”