The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Cesco jabbed the pommel of his blade forward, crunching Salvatore's nose, which exploded in a spray of blood. “Third's the charm!”

  Salvatore staggered back, but Cesco was too desperate for air to press his advantage. They both retreated, gasping. They'd been fighting for ten minutes, an exhausting exercise.

  “Bastard,” said Salvatore, voice muffled from the blood clogging his nose.

  “Truth is truth,” Cesco huffed. He was finally angry. “I am a bastard in more ways than you could possibly know. You make very free with your title. But you don't know mine. I am Il Veltro. The true Greyhound. My life is foretold by the stars, a destiny full of prophecy. And I don't die at your hand!”

  Salvatore was utterly unprepared for the wild attack that came at him. Cesco's blade moved like a snake, attacking high and low, whipping left and right in moves too fast to see.

  The traitorous Rakehell gave ground, trying desperately to keep up, choked by the blood running down his face and into his throat. In desperation, his hand fell to his belt and he drew his dagger, parrying Cesco's spinning, seething attack with steel in both hands. He swung the dagger at Cesco's neck, barely missing. “Ha!”

  Dodging the next dagger stab with a snarling laugh of his own, Cesco brought his sword up so fast he nearly took Salvatore's arm off. The Paduan pulled it back in the nick of time and stabbed again.

  Cesco started to spin away but caught his foot on a buried root and fell sprawling on his face. Hearing Salvatore's cry of triumph, Cesco let go of his sword, took two handfuls of earth and rolled, throwing them up.

  Half-blind, Salvatore didn't check his downward blow. But Cesco hadn't rolled away. Instead he pushed forward off his feet, throwing his body into his attacker's.

  Flipped onto his back, suddenly Salvatore's face was being smashed by Cesco's left fist. Salvatore's dagger was caught in Cesco's right hand, but his sword arm was still free. His nose being thoroughly pulped, his eyes starting to close, Salvatore did the only thing he could – he brought the round metal pommel of his sword to crack Cesco's already-bleeding skull.

  Seeing it coming, Cesco rolled away, taking nothing more than a glancing blow off his chin. Still it felt as if his jaw had been broken. Salvatore's dagger lunged out, but Cesco was three feet away, scrambling for his sword. His fingers found it and he turned just as Salvatore rose.

  They stood, legs shaking, blinking the sweat, blood, and dirt out of their eyes, their weapons still raised. Moving his aching jaw, Cesco tried to spit blood, but it just ran down his chin.

  Rushing forward, Cesco seemed to fall. But as Salvatore's dagger flashed towards his throat, Cesco turned sideways, his left arm falling while his left knee came up. Knocked free, the dagger landed in the dirt.

  Salvatore put his whole weight behind his sword's next swing. Cesco parried, the shock of Salvatore's blow radiating up his tired arms. Spinning, Salvatore lunged. Cesco pulled back, only to find the sword still coming for him. Salvatore had opened his grip on his sword, letting the handle slide forward through his gloved fingers. Salvatore's hand snapped closed on the very end of the pommel. This gave his thrust a precious extra three inches.

  The point entered Cesco's ribs at the level of his sternum on his right side. It was the slightest penetration, but both men felt the blade enter Cesco's body. Salvatore's left hand grasped Cesco's outstretched sword arm and readied to press his right shoulder forward and ram the blade straight through Cesco's chest.

  “The stars were wrong,” taunted Salvatore.

  “I wish,” said Cesco thickly. His sword arm still caught in Salvatore's grip, Cesco twisted to his left. The blade scored his chest all the way to the armpit. But the force of Salvatore's attack brought him into Cesco's extended arm, catching him a blow just below the chin, across his windpipe.

  Choking, Salvatore pulled Cesco down to the earth where they fought with every weapon remaining to them, fending off blows with knees, elbows, and hips, twisting, and wrenching, biting and tearing.

  Shoving Cesco off him, Salvatore dragged his blade free and swung it down once more on Cesco's head, sure that this time he had won. But Cesco's blade met it, the ringing clash echoing all around them. Both were on their knees, staring at each other, muscling their blades with both hands.

  Grasping Salvatore's right forearm with his left hand, Cesco suddenly leaned forward and lifted both swords up and over his foe's head. For a moment the startled Salvatore felt the steel of Cesco's blade against the back of his neck.

  Lips against Salvatore's ear, Cesco spoke in a fierce whisper. “Tell your father the Greyhound sends his regards.” Cesco heaved, intending to sever Salvatore's spine.

  Salvatore ducked, and the drag of the blade ripped open the flesh along the back of his skull. Releasing his own blade, Salvatore shoved Cesco down. Hand clasped to his bleeding head, he ran in silence for the nearest horse, mounted, and kicked. The horse bolted.

  Benedick and Detto were shouting as the Paduan tried to trample Cesco, but the horse leapt just as Cesco threw himself flat into the silt.

  Detto and Benedick hurried forward, shouting loudly. Cesco was on his knees, breathing hard, two swords in his grip. As they reached him, he leaned over and vomited in the dirt.

  “Are you hurt?” pressed Detto. “Should I go get Fracastoro? Morsicato?”

  “No,” said Cesco between pants. “No. No one. Bastard. Is Yuri—?”

  “Chasing him now,” assured Detto.

  “You thought it was me?” repeated Benedick, half mocking, half injured.

  “Forgive me,” said Cesco, standing shakily. “Remember – tutti matti.”

  Benedick shook his head. “Truth is truth.”

  “In the face,” added Detto. Laughter was cleansing.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CANGRANDE WAS SUMMONED. In the torchlight, he looked at the ground, then at Cesco. “Quite a duel.”

  “We're not in Verona,” said Cesco at once.

  “Not what I meant. Salvatore? Who is he really?”

  “Veronese, by way of Padua.” In short gasps, Cesco explained, only leaving out the detail of the ship. That didn't matter.

  Cangrande gazed at him. “In all our private battles, it's good to be reminded there are others who don't respect the game. Come. Rizzardo has sent a case of surprisingly excellent wine to my tents. What say we drink until it's gone?”

  “Sounds perfect. I hope I didn't take you away from anything important.”

  “Only victory.” Cangrande grinned his perfect allegria. “Tempesta has sent a party to treat. I thought you'd want to be there.”

  “You'll have to find me a mount,” answered Cesco. “That son of a bitch took Abastor.”

  Cangrande peered into the dark night after the stolen horse. “We'll find him. And Salvatore. Poor Vittoria.”

  “Lucky, you mean,” said Cesco. “She escaped a cad. We both know what a poor marriage can lead to. Did you say there was wine?”

  “Aye. Come along.” Together the two princes of Verona climbed the ridge and headed back to the camp, followed by their various retainers. But they chose this night to be alone together, not reveling in company, but rather basking in something shared.

  In short order they were in the Scaliger's tent, Cesco's wounds tended while they both drank deeply, ordering bread, beef, and mustard to sop up the wine that continued to flow uninterrupted.

  Morsicato was present for the tending of wounds, but departed when they began singing lines of Cino da Pistoia as a drinking song:

  I was on the high and blessed mound,

  Where I worshipped, kissing the sacred stone,

  On that rock, in weariness, bowed down,

  Where Purity laid her forehead in the ground,

  Sealing there the fount of every virtue,

  When the woman of my heart, alas,

  Travelled through Death’s most bitter pass,

  She who was already in her gracious life renown’d.

  So there I called to Love, in words
again:

  ‘Sweet Lord, let Death take me for his own,

  Now, since in this place my heart was slain.’

  But when my Lord showed only his disdain,

  Still calling on my Selvaggia, I passed down:

  Travelling the mountain with my moan of pain.

  They were still at it as the sun rose and Tempesta's messengers arrived.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “I REGRET IT TOOK this long,” Tubal told the Moor as they met just outside the Yellow Crescent. “I had to be certain I was not betraying a confidence.”

  “You are satisfied?”

  Tubal nodded. “The ship in question was employed on several occasions. I have copies here of every reference.”

  Thanking the Jew, Tharwat returned to his lodging. Within minutes, he had seen all there was. The year Cesco was born, La Alisceote had landed in Genoa. The Moor's next port of call.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  GUECCELLO TEMPESTA OF TREVISO arrived at the monastery of the Quaranta Santi, there to treat with the Vicar of the Trevisian Mark – a title Treviso had never respected until now.

  Considering his position, the terms Tempesta sent were outrageous. He was to retain his personal castle at Noale, and be granted the title of Capitano da Treviso. He would get a personal salary of one thousand Venetian ducati a month, and be granted the right to choose the podestà of the city. His mercenary army would be paid out of Cangrande's own funds. For all this, he agreed that most the exiles could return to the city, excepting his personal enemies, whose banishment Cangrande was to declare perpetual. For the protection of the citizens under his care, he made no provision at all.

  Cangrande agreed at once.

  Messengers were sent haring off in every direction, and celebrations erupted all over the Feltro. The Lombard wars were over.

  Foes abounded, of course, annoying pockets of resistance. Venice remained, an autonomous entity at their eastern edge. To the west, Bergamo still fulminated and caused minor troubles. To the north were the Alps and the Germanic states. But since the nearest was ruled by a distant relative, called Escalus, it was no concern. To the south, Pisa and Florence shivered in anticipation of Cangrande's next move.

  Verona now ruled from Feltro to Feltro, as the saying went. Give him five more years, everyone thought, and Cangrande would own all Italy. After that, well, already rumours were flying, rumours that spoke of greater ambition, rumours that would give Emperor Ludwig many uneasy nights.

  At dawn Cangrande would enter and take possession of the city, much as he had done the previous fall in Padua. So on this, the eve of the final capitulation, the Scaliger ordered a celebratory feast for all his men. Then he retired to his pavilion to vomit.

  “Christ, I wish we hadn't drunk so much last night,” murmured Cangrande, waxen-faced and sweating.

  Guarding the tent-flap lest someone enter, Cesco was little better. “My stomach was churning all through the negotiations. Did we agree to those terms because you wanted the siege over, or the talking?”

  “Both,” admitted Cangrande with a wan smile as he leaned over the basin. “I hope history sees it as evidence of my magnanimous nature.” The last syllable was lost as the Scaliger heaved again.

  A waft of hot summer air brought the smell of vomit to Cesco's nose, which had him swallowing his own breakfast a second time. “No more local wine.”

  “Agreed,” gasped Cangrande with an attempt at laughter. He forced himself to heave twice more, removing all the contents from his stomach, then wiped his mouth and stood. “Give me some mint to chew, and let's go celebrate.”

  “So long as we can do it without eating, drinking, or even smelling food.”

  It was a forlorn hope. A massive clearing had been prepared for the festivities, full of tables and benches and spits of meat, kegs of ale and barrels of wine. “I hope somebody's still on guard duty,” said Cangrande loudly. “It would be terrible if they came and slaughtered us while we were too drunk to raise a sword!”

  “All hail the conquering scalawag!” cried Bailardino, overjoyed.

  “Hail!” crowed Nico da Lozzo, raising his tin cup of ale.

  “Imperator!” shouted Castelbarco, mimicking the Roman salute. Several men picked it up, and soon the whole army was shouting, “Im-per-a-tor! Im-per-a-tor!”

  Cangrande waved them off, but couldn't help mirroring the salute as he did so. “Oh, that won't feed the rumours,” observed Cesco with a grin.

  Cangrande flashed him a wolfish smile. “Why do I owe Ludwig assurance? A crown is not a relief from cares, but rather a bringer of them.”

  “ 'Indeed a crown Verona wears.' A wonder you should long for another one.”

  “What I long for is food I can keep down. Do you think we might try a little bread?”

  Cesco was more successful than the Scaliger at keeping his meal down. Cangrande had to escape twice to vomit again, and when he returned in fresh hose, Cesco correctly deduced that the stomach had turned in both directions. Cesco's own buttocks were firmly clenched against any sudden movement of his liquefied bowels.

  Watching the proceedings, the Trevisian guests observed how their foe was beloved. If there were a few flashes of Scaligeri temper, or long looks at someone's wife, or a little too much pleasure in flattery, it was drowned by the voices calling out his name in genuine admiration. And what wasn't there to admire? Caesar had owned a temper, and a body, and a pride. No, each decided silently, there was no shame in submitting to this man. Though they had feared the sun, they couldn't be faulted for not preventing its rise.

  In the whirlwind of the day's events, there was little time to digest the previous night's revelations. Calling all the remaining Rakehells together, they discussed Salvatore's betrayal. Berto and Barto were astonished, mouths hanging open in slack-jawed shock. Petruchio and Hortensio were enraged, demanding they find the treacherous bastard who had toyed with their sister's emotions.

  “She's well out of it,” said Cesco, choosing not to repeat what Salvatore had said of their sister's virtue. “Besides, it's not like he got away with her. Whereas I miss Abastor like I'd miss my own legs.”

  “Have you sent to Ser Alaghieri?” asked Detto.

  “The Count, you mean,” corrected Cesco. “We must all remember to call him so, and thus blot out any hope that Salvatore has of claiming that title. Nuncle Pietro must hold a festival this fall for all the people of San Bonifacio, and live there with his new bride. They'll love him. They won't be able to help themselves.”

  “But you did send,” repeated Detto urgently.

  “I did, and so did the Scaliger. If Salvatore is foolish enough to seek out Pietro or Tharwat, they will be well warned. Ooh.” He put a hand to his stomach.

  “Is it the wound?” fretted Benedick.

  Cesco shook his injured head. “The wine.” He caught a concerned glance from Detto and laughed weakly. “Truly! The Capitano was aiding me in lubricating my wounds, and as a result we've both been spewing all day.”

  Through the night the remaining Rakehells cavorted together, Benedick, Petruchio, Hortensio, Berto and Barto all having the time of their lives. Astonishingly, Mastino joined the festivities, bringing his brother Alblivious and the younger Castelbarco with him. In short, the whole of youthful Veronese chivalry were present, singing, eating, drinking, boasting and challenging each other to mock duels and contests of strength and skill.

  For a while the sport was knife-throwing, the target being a butt of wine placed on the edge of a high wagon. Each knife that penetrated the wood created a trickle of liquid that men eagerly vied to be beneath. The aim was to plant the knife in such a way to make a spout before the butt was empty. Cesco's throw was the best, opening a hole at the very bottom of the barrel. Accepting the acclaim, he said, “I just pretended it was my own back.”

  After the knife-throwing, Detto arm-wrestled all comers, and at fourteen years he beat men twice his age. Benedick engaged in bouts of wordplay, besting anyone who dared to challenge
him to a duel of insults. Berto invented songs from his own pure brain, while his brother showed an unsuspected skill at art, sketching in coal the faces around him.

  Looking at a drawing of himself, Cesco was bemused. “Is this what I look like?”

  “Aye,” said Barto, sucking in his cheeks and raising his chin in mockery. “Your left profile is better than your right.”

  “What you mean is that I look better from a sinister point of view.”

  Barto grinned. “That's exactly what I mean.”

  Cesco continued to wander among friendly faces. For a time he joined the badinage with Benedick, letting fly with barbed missiles from his own pure brain. Then Cangrande called him over, and they sat close together the rest of the night, amazing old courtiers and new adherents with their wit, their talents, and their daring. So very alike. Frighteningly so. A dynasty in the making. There had been four other Scaligeri rulers over only two generations, and none so great as these. Here sat the future, and it promised to outshine its forebears as the sun outshines the moon.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  ON JULY 18TH, 1339, Cangrande della Scala made his official entry into the conquered city of Treviso. Citizens poured into the streets to cheer him as they had no one else in their history. Bugles blared, trumpets sounded, drums and castanets, bagpipes, flutes, lutes, and every kind of noise-maker was employed, as if men wanted to pierce the sky with sound. Not since the days of Caesar or Charlemagne had a single frame so embodied all that a man was meant to be. Having been relieved of their defiance, the people of Treviso now embraced him with the fervor only a new convert can possess.

  Children preceded him, some holding up his banner, others bearing simple ladders stolen from shops. The people cried their acclaim for the Capitano di Verona, their new lord, the man who would at last bring them honour, fame, and victory. It was his crowning triumph – literally, as someone had made him a chaplet of oak-leaves. They hailed him another Caesar. At long last the whole of the Mark lay at his feet.