by David Blixt
The Scaliger slipped into sleep. Cesco sat for the next few hours, very still, very quiet, listening to Cangrande's laboured breath.
Suddenly the Scaliger opened his eyes. “Cesco!”
“I'm here.”
Cangrande relaxed. “You know who did this.”
“Yes,” said Cesco. “Petruchio, too.”
“Can't punish. Ruin the family.”
“You don't want justice?”
“I already have it. I die today. Do you see?” Cangrande stiffened and, through sheer force of will, rose to sit upright. “Three days! Three days – three after-”
Cesco put his hand on Cangrande's shoulder, trying to ease him back down. “Shh. Easy.”
Choking, face purple, the Scaliger raised a finger. “You – are not – you – not you! Not–”
It was the last of his air. Fear of dying this instant forced him to calm himself, concentrate on breathing. Cesco fetched water, but the Scaliger couldn't swallow until he'd heaved again. There came a foul stench as he soiled the bed.
Cangrande fell back, exhausted from the effort. When at last he felt able, he said, “Indignity. Puking and shitting myself to death. No way for a man to die.”
“You don't have to die today.”
Cangrande's eyes shot open. “I must! The prophecy says – three days after-”
“I know what it says!” snapped Cesco. “Was Treviso your greatest deed? Will it bring about a new age of man?”
Cangrande smiled. His perfect teeth looked strange in his mouth, as the gums receded. No more allegria. “For want of a nail – the empire fell.”
“I wish you were right,” Cesco whispered to him.
“I am. I am.” From behind closed eyes, Cangrande drank in shallow sips of air. “Dante – had his Hell. I've had mine. You have – yours.”
“What is your Hell?” inquired Cesco.
“Not being – what I would.”
“While mine is being what I would not.”
Cangrande was once again passing into unconsciousness. Behind his closed eyes the room was fading. He managed four final words.
“I am Il Veltro.”
♦ ◊ ♦
AS BIDDEN, BAIL RODE straight for his own palace at Vicenza. He traveled forty miles overland with no armour and only a light escort. If he hurried, he might return with some word from his wife, some final balm to the hurts of a lifetime.
With him rode Detto. Val had wanted to come, protesting loudly. But at twelve years old, he would not be able to keep up on the thunderous overland ride.
They changed horses twice en route, gulping water and snatching bites of bread while the fresh mounts were saddled. Otherwise they did not stop. There was no conversation beyond directions. It was hard riding, and under the rumble of hooves Detto could pretend not to hear his father's sobs. He understood well enough. The father was thinking of losing his friend, while the son was fearing what such a loss would do to his own friend. Having just rediscovered himself, would Cesco descend again? Or would he rise to the challenge?
It was late when they entered Vicenza's walls, long after dark, the heart of the night. Recognized, the master of the city raced to his palace.
There he met long faces. Had they already heard?
Antonio Nogarola came forth to meet them on the palace steps. He used his one arm to grip his brother's shoulder. “We did not think the messengers would reach you so swiftly. Bail, Detto – I'm so sorry.”
Detto was confused, even as his father drew a long breath. “When?”
“Two hours ago. Another stroke.”
Now it was Detto's turn to draw in that breath of understanding. His mouth remained open, his limbs frozen, his mind locked. “Mother?”
Bail said, “Tell me she was not alone.”
“Her niece Verde came to call the day before. They were together. She is within now, making the necessary arrangements.”
Bail wrapped his arms about his numbed son, squeezing him tight. “Fitting. It was only fitting. She loved him so much. And she was spared his passing.”
Cold comfort. For Katerina had also been deprived of the only honest declaration of love her brother had ever offered her.
♦ ◊ ♦
SOMEWHERE IN THE DARK HOURS of the night Cangrande stirred once more, wakened by a final spasm that had him violently vomiting and churning his bowels. Cesco called in Morsicato and Fracastoro, who brought with them a bevy of servants. Cesco retreated to the wall to watch as they tried to delay the inevitable.
In the midst of the terrible contractions and purges, as his body fought to expel the poison that had wasted his system, he stiffened with one prodigious lurch, sickness and excrement and vomit all spewing forth at once. In that moment of extreme exertion, his heart erupted and he collapsed, racked no more.
In the silence that followed, Cesco heard the bells of the nearby Santa Maria Maggiore, known to locals as La Madonna Granda. They rang, marking the Benedictine hour of Lauds. Which meant it was three o'clock in the morning of July Twenty-Second.
Cangrande's final triumph had taken place four days earlier.
Forty
IN TREVISO THE SUN refused to rise, as if unwilling to usher in this wretched day. Those few in the know had gone home for some fitful sleep. They would need it.
Morsicato emerged from the death-chamber, his hands washed clean of the touch of corruption. Mastino and Alberto appeared at the door.
“There's no doubt?” asked Alberto. “He's done this before. I've heard of drugs that mimic death. Is he truly…?”
“Dead,” said Morsicato. “I held a mirror to his lips and pierced his nose with a needle. His blood is settled, his joints are stiff.”
Mastino sighed, not so much with relief but with a kind of assurance. “Where's the boy?”
Morsicato gestured. “In the chamber. What's been decided?”
“Castelbarco will inform Montecchio, Capulletto, and the others. But we'll keep it a secret from the Trevisians for another day or so. They might still rise up.”
“And the body?”
“He must be buried in Verona. But how do we get him back without drawing attention?”
Drawn by their voices, Cesco emerged from the chamber. He toed the door closed behind him. “I'll need a wagon. Four horses. Some empty crates – no, better, fill them with chickens. Or swine, whatever. Something awkward to steal. I'll set out at first light.”
“A team of horsemen,” said Morsicato. “We must preserve his body for burial.”
“At the expense of anonymity,” replied Cesco. “Armed men will invite questions and worse.”
“What's worse than questions?”
“Rumours.”
Mastino saw the sense in that. “Fine. You, me, and three men, with clubs visible and swords hidden.”
“Just the wrong side of right,” said Cesco. “Too weak to defend us from a real attack, strong enough to invite speculation. Give me a cart, a straw hat, and a sword, and I'll see you in Verona by tomorrow night.”
“You're not going alone,” said Mastino.
“Heaven forefend,” said Cesco. “I'll take my father with me.”
It was an argument none of the adults expected to lose, but Cesco prevailed by saying simply, “It was his wish.”
♦ ◊ ♦
SERVANTS CARRIED A CRATE out of the Bishop's palace and down to the nearby stable, with no notion as to the true nature of their burden. Inside the stable were Nico da Lozzo, Antonio Capulletto, and Mariotto Montecchio. Anyone who saw them thought they were servants, for they worked in their tunics. Castelbarco appeared in his own attire, presumably to give orders.
When the servants had gone, all four men took the corners of the crate and strapped it carefully to the wagonbed. Then, feeling insanely awkward, they began loading the wagon with crates of snorting, snuffling pigs.
For once, Mari and Antony held off from any bickering. They worked side by side, united by tragedy.
“Too soon,” murm
ured Nico, pushing the last crate into place. “Too soon.”
Cesco appeared, dressed in peasant clothes. Climbing into the driver's seat of the wagon, he thanked them all. “Remember, let no word of this out until tonight. I'll see you all at the rendezvous. Oh, and Guglielmo – bring Signor Benedick along, will you?” Pulling a borrowed straw hat down over his eyes, Cesco urged the four horses out of the sheltered stable and, without any sign of hurry, started towards the south gate.
To the four men watching in the stables, and the others looking down from the palace windows, this was a prosaic and uneasy moment. Their lord was dead, and they had a new lord, young and vivacious. What kind of prince would he be? Already he was as strange and daring as his forebear. Would he be as successful? Only time would answer.
Separately they returned to their various lodgings to bathe and dress and prepare to journey back to Verona for the state funeral. It would take a week, they had figured, to prepare things. The coffin had been filled with herbs, and Morsicato had wrapped the body in a manner that would preserve it for as long as necessary. For, of course, the first tomb would not be the final resting place. This great man would be laid to rest under the floor of Santa Maria Antica until a suitable monument was ready.
Being so young, Cangrande hadn't even begun thinking of his tomb. It was perhaps the only thing for which he had never had foresight.
♦ ◊ ♦
HAVING AGAIN DINED with Dolce and her family, Pietro strolled weightlessly back through the streets of Pistoia. He had heard by now of the victory at Treviso, and also of the perfidy of Salvatore. Pathino's nephew? Bonifacio's son? Astonishing! But wonderful to have it explained. There was nothing so terrible once the danger was identified, and could be fought.
He had barely entered the palace when he sensed something amiss. The servants explained that his friend, the Moorish astrologer, had arrived, and waited for a private interview with the Count.
Behind closed doors, Pietro smiled at his old friend. Then he saw Tharwat's face. “What's the matter?”
Tharwat produced several papers. “Read these.”
The news was shocking, entirely erasing all of Pietro's equanimity. “Dear God!”
“We must tell him. At once.”
It meant Pietro breaking his vow to remain in Pistoia. But it could not be helped. This was too important.
Just as they were deciding how best to slip out of the city unseen, a messenger arrived with a note from Morsicato. The grave news it bore made their journey even more urgent.
♦ ◊ ♦
CESCO TOOK THE RIDE easily, conversing with passers-by, sharing the road with a convoy carrying strawberries bound for Padua. When they turned off, he spent the rest of the day in silence. If he was tempted to converse with the spirit still lingering around the body in the wagon, he must have decided they had already said enough.
At nightfall he pulled up to a little country church, La Pecchiena. Explaining he was bearing a humble soldier's body home, he paid the rector and gained the man's help in removing the anonymous coffin from the wagon and placing it inside the chapel. They covered it in a silken pall and surrounded it with candles. Then, with the holy man's permission, Cesco knelt beside the plain wooden box and prayed through the night.
He spoke to God, though the discussion was one-sided. As his cross, he held the hereditary sword of the Scaligeri. Once Cangrande's sword, now his own. The grip was bound with iron wire and the crossguard was gold. Both reflected light from the candles, making the weapon shine in the near darkness.
He was up before dawn, breaking his fast with the rector, whose eyes grew wide as Cesco rose to greet the great men of Verona, Vicenza, and Padua. Word had begun to spread now. Carrara had brought the news back to Padua. Bernardo Evari, one of Cangrande's closest advisors and the current podestà of Padua, had arranged a more royal conveyance, gilt and beautiful.
Looking at the plain wooden box that held his lord, Ervari said, “Death, you've shot a bolt to pierce my heart.”
The Rakehells were all present save Yuri and Fabio, still with Otto's men. And Detto was missing, a gap explained by news of Katerina della Scala's death. Already portentous, Cangrande's demise now took on mythic proportions. The loss of whatever had driven that remarkable pair in life had snuffed out both their candles at once.
Cesco fretted, wondering if they should take the body to Vicenza. But Benedick shook his head. “They're burying her today. Detto went back for his brother, and they're all together now. Besides—” the red-headed Paduan paused. “Lord Nogarola is upset. He says if you had not caused her stroke in November, she would not have died.”
“And if he had tamed her of her wildness, she would be living to old age in comfort. Figs. No, it's fine. It's only that I should be there too. She helped to raise me. I owe her something.”
“You are where you should be,” stated Benedick with certainty. Cesco was forced to agree.
While the other nobles transferred the humble crate into the new conveyance, Cesco dressed in richer, if more somber, clothes. Then he took his place at the head of the procession to escort the body the rest of the way.
They approached Verona from the east, just as the sun was at its zenith. They had removed the roof from the golden carriage, displaying the box whose shape was barely visible under the layers and layers of ornately embroidered cloth.
The bier was preceded by a dozen knights: Mastino, Alberto, Rizzardo, Carrara, Castelbarco, Lozzo, Montecchio, Capulletto, Ervari, Spinetto, Villafranca, and the desolate Tullio d'Isola, an honourary knight this day, taking the place of the absent Bailardino.
Leading them all was Cesco, dressed in the white of mourning. In his white tunic, white doublet, white cape, black hose, and black boots, he seemed to float above the horse. In his right hand he held Cangrande's naked sword. On the saddle before him was the Houndshelm, as bright as it had been when last the Scaliger had donned it. Behind him, Mastino carried the Scaliger's plainer war helm. The rest of the procession bore the ladder, on banners, on shields, on their chests.
Cesco set a measured, stately pace, and it was not until noon that they entered Verona itself. Word had spread, but of course most refused to believe it. The citizens of Verona had heard Cangrande's death tolled so many times, it was impossible to credit it now. He would appear in a day or two, as large in mirth as ever he was, laughing at their gullible natures.
Sight of the solemn parade of knights dashed those thoughts to shards. Yet there was no weeping or wailing, no gnashing of teeth or tearing of hair. As if ruled by a single mind, the people of Verona thronged the streets, roofs, and windows, parting only to clear a path for the body.
When they arrived at Santa Maria Antica, the family chapel, Castelbarco made a short speech, with Cesco, Mastino, and Alberto standing close at hand for all to see, with Berto and Barto not far off. Though their greatest scion had fallen, the Scaligeri line still flourished.
Castelbarco declared three days of mourning, during which time market activities would be halted, law courts adjourned, business suspended. Tomorrow he would read out Cangrande's will. Until then, they should go home to their families and pray for the soul of Verona's greatest son.
The people obeyed Castelbarco's injunction, willingly offering prayers for Cangrande's soul. All knew the contents of the will, having heard it before. Thinking of the earthquake and how their new prince had taken care of them, some were heartened. Thinking of the months of pointless squabbles and vain quarrels, some were uneasy.
As arranged, the corpse of Cangrande was taken into Santa Maria Antica, where outside his forebears lay at peace. His uncle, the first della Scala to rule the city. His father, the great Alberto. His beloved brother Bartolomeo. Now there would be another monument engraved with a ladder. At last Cangrande della Scala, the greatest man in all of Italy, was at rest.
As everyone departed for their homes or guest houses, Cesco drew near Mastino. With two gentle fingers, he tapped the stiff leather of his cousi
n's sleeve and murmured in his ear. “Shall we talk?”
“By all means.” They set off together in what to every eye appeared perfect amity.
♦ ◊ ♦
THARWAT WAS NOT the active man he once had been, and the ride to Verona was slowed by necessity. Pietro himself found he winded easily these days. Too much easy living.
But the urgency of the matter drove them on. Cesco was in mortal peril.
♦ ◊ ♦
CESCO ACCOMPANIED MASTINO into the new palace, the Palazzo Cangrande, on the southern side of the Piazza dei Signori. After passing a few consoling words with Taddea, Mastino sent his wife to find her uncle Carrara, lodged in his own house in the city. Then he and Cesco entered Mastino's study, a room with few books but a great number of weapons.
On the center table was set a tray of food and a bottle of wine. Mastino waved a casual hand as he unstrung his cape and tossed it aside. “Help yourself. I ordered enough for two.”
Removing his own cape, Cesco dragged a chair far back from the table, but did not sit. “Ah, you Cassandra, you. You were expecting me. Brave of you to stay.”
“I have nothing to fear from you.” Sitting, Mastino removed a knife and speared a hunk of meat. “Eat, if you're hungry.”
“Alas, while your meal is probably the only safe food in the Feltro tonight, my stomach is still uneasy.” Though he had handed off the Houndshelm to Tullio, Cangrande's sword was still on Cesco's hip. Unbuckling the belt, he propped the sheathed weapon against the chair. Then, from a satchel at his waist, he withdrew a bottle of wine. “Still, I thought you might like a celebratory drink. I brought one of Cangrande's own bottles.”
Mastino eyed the bottle with a gimlet eye. “I see. You believe I poisoned him.”
“Didn't you?” asked Cesco brightly.
“No,” said Mastino.
“Of course not,” agreed Cesco. “Poison is a woman's weapon.”
Mastino bit into the meat on the end of his knife. “Or a coward's.”
“Another word for womanish. Though we don't know many cowardly women, do we? Certainly not inside the family. Who will ever take the place of Katerina? So strong, so fierce. Braver than a hundred knights, smarter than a thousand men. And sister to a great prince. I wonder if anyone is ambitious enough to replace her. Of course, she was not alone at the end, was she?”
