The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Summoned to Pietro's house, where the walls did not have ears, the doctor and the novice were brought directly to his study, where they found Pietro laying out the originals of the documents Mastino had copied so long ago.

  Exhausted from days of tending to a dying man, Morsicato saw Pietro's face and misinterpreted the look. “Pietro, it's true. He's gone. I had hoped our message would find you—”

  Antonia knew her brother's face. This was not just grief. It was anger. Anger, and fear. Even Tharwat looked ashen. “What's the matter?”

  Seeing the door closed behind them, Pietro spoke rapidly. “We found the manifest for La Alisceote. There are two passengers – Donna Maria d'Amabilio and a Signor Leonardino d'Amabilio, traveling from Scotland to Genoa.”

  “The lady and her cuckolded husband,” said Morsicato. “Do we know who he was?”

  “It says here only that he was a gentleman of Verona.”

  “Verona?” asked Antonia. “Not Padua.”

  “Verona. He was Veronese. Beyond that, we don't know.”

  Morsicato stroked his forked beard. “Then what's got you in such a lather?”

  “The dates. Look. The ship sailed in from a port called Perth on November 27th, 1313. It called at London the following week, and departed there on December 5th.” His finger traced the dates, one after the next. “It sailed to Lisbon, where it landed on December 26th, and they stayed through Christmas. From there it sailed to Barcelona, but they hit bad weather and had to stop twice on the way. They didn't reach Barcelona until January 23rd.”

  “So?” pressed Morsicato, looking back and forth between Pietro and the book.

  Antonia saw it. Wide-eyed, she placed her hand to her mouth. “O lord.”

  Pietro nodded. “Yes. They departed Barcelona on January 29th, 1314, called at Marseilles, and arrived at Genoa on the 15th of February.”

  “So?” repeated Morsicato, glancing back and forth between them in frustration.

  It was Tharwat who answered. “Cesco was born on the 13th of June, 1314.”

  Morsicato frowned, counting. Then the blood drained from his face. “And where was—?”

  “Here the whole time,” said Pietro, “starting the war against Padua.”

  At last the doctor saw it. “Dear God. That's means they couldn't have – that he wasn't—”

  “Yes,” said Pietro, feeling a terrible satisfaction in sharing the thought that had his stomach churn for the whole journey. “Even if they raced home, Maria couldn't have been in the Feltro before March.”

  Antonia was shaking her head. “But why? Why?”

  Tharwat's voice almost inaudible. “We do not know.”

  “There is one thing we do know for certain.” Pietro drew a ragged breath. “Cangrande wasn't Cesco's father.”

  Forty-Two

  WATCHING LIKE THE HOUND he was named for, Mastino prepared himself. This young man was always one for the unexpected. He stood tensed against the wall between two windows, intent in his search for even the slightest flicker in Cesco's expression. Dreaming of this day for years, he wanted to relish every second.

  To Mastino's vast disappointment. Cesco didn't deny it, didn't demand more proof, didn't even laugh disbelievingly. His expression was curiously blank. After a time he pushed the papers aside. “Then who?”

  “You don't seem surprised.”

  “It's a piece to a puzzle. Not one I had considered, but it makes sense of some things, confuses others. If not his, then whose son am I? It has to be a Scaliger – I'm too obviously part of the family. Why such a massive deception?”

  “How well do you know the family history? Mastino, Alberto, Bartolomeo, Alboino, Cangrande. Five rulers of Verona.”

  “I make six.”

  Ignoring that, Mastino pressed on. “Those five names, they're the only ones anyone remembers. But there were offshoots from those branches. My namesake and grandfather Alberto were brothers. But they had another brother, Bocca, who was killed in their rise to power. The first Mastino had a son, Niccolo. When his father died, Niccolo tried to seize power from his uncle, whom he called usurper. He even accused Alberto of joining the plot against his father, Alberto's own brother. That's when the curse was laid down – Alberto swore an oath to God, demanding damnation for any member of his family lifting a hand against another. Niccolo was put down, but his sons and daughters survived. They're relations of the late Bonaccolsi. So much intermarrying.”

  “So I'm from that stock?”

  Mastino lifted his brows. “I'm just making a point – there are lots of Scaligeri out there. Barto, Berto. The Abbot of San Zeno. Rosalia. So why you? Why did both Cangrande and Katerina focus on you? What makes you special?”

  “The prophecy,” said Cesco.

  “That's true for Katerina,” said Mastino. “But what about Cangrande? Why would he draw to his bosom the one person he thinks is destined to supplant him? Why make a child not his own his heir?”

  “I hope you'll tell me. I'm all aflutter.”

  Mastino refused to allow Cesco's sarcasm to prick his pleasure. “It was love. Pure love. The love only a brother can give.”

  “You don't mean Katerina.”

  “Of course not. I mean love for his brother.”

  Cesco frowned deeply. “I hope you're not saying Alboino. I would hate to have you for a sibling.”

  Mastino barked a laugh. “Ha! Yes, that would be terrible. Alboino – it's just a name to me. He died when I was three. I hardly knew him, and don't remember him except through my mother's stories. According to her, Cangrande was never overfond of my father. They shared the captainship, but there was never any real feeling between them. Father was married by the time Cangrande was seven, and can't imagine he appreciated sharing his power with a thirteen-year-old. How these things do repeat. But it was clear to everyone that our late lamented Capitano was a prodigy, which was why the eldest brother, Bartolomeo, made it clear in his will that after he was gone, he was leaving the power to both his brothers jointly. Thanks to the lack of brotherly feeling between them, when Alboino died, Cangrande felt no particular compunction about cutting me out of my rights.”

  “In favour of me.”

  “Yes. Why do that? Why claim you as his son?” Mastino paused, relishing the moment. He had anticipated it so long, practiced it in his mind time and again. To have it here, he knew he must memorize every sand dropping, every mote in the air, so he could revisit this triumph in all his days to come. “Because there was someone he loved, loved even more than Bailardino. Lord Nogarola was foster-father and brother-in-law to Cangrande. But Cangrande had an actual brother, old enough to be his father. Alberto died when Cangrande was ten, leaving him in the care of Bartolomeo della Scala, whom Cangrande loved more than the world.”

  There was an objection. “Bartolomeo had a son. Paride's father, Cecchino.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mastino, pleased to see the links of the chain forming. “If he had lived, neither of us would be having this conversation. In 1290, Bartolomeo took a wife – none other than the elder sister of Cangrande's own future wife, Giovanna. But before he married, when he was just fifteen years old, Bartolomeo fell in love with a girl who had a natural son. They called him Leonardino.”

  Cesco pointed at the papers before him. “The man in the passenger manifest.”

  “Yes,” said Mastino with real pleasure. “This Leonardino was part of the same compagnia di ventura as Aiello's father, sent to Scotland to fight for the rebels. It was his service that caused the Scots leader Wallace to send his thanks. And like Aiello's father, he stayed. When Bartolomeo died suddenly in 1304, there was nothing for him in Italy. He married a local woman and taught her his language. When she became pregnant, he decided to bring his budding family home.” Mastino waved at the papers. “As you see.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Dead. Your mother said he died before they could reach Verona. Heavily pregnant, she could not turn around. So she purchased the house in Padua and bore yo
u.”

  “So not il veltro,” mused Cesco.

  “Not a bastard at all, but the son of a bastard,” said Mastino mockingly. “Never fear. You'll always be a bastard to me.”

  Cesco did not rise to the bait. So far his questions were proving maddeningly practical. “Where did the name Amabilio come from? I've never heard of it. Is it a town?”

  “I don't know,” said Mastino honestly. “It wasn't the name of the family, or I'd have traced it.”

  Cesco sat under Mastino's gaze, ignoring his enemy's excitement while he grappled with the tale he'd been told. “There are gaps in your story. When Leonardino died, why did my mother buy a house in Padua, Verona's sworn adversary? And why come back at all – as a bastard's heir, he had no legal claim. And how did he die?”

  Mastino spread his hands. “I have no answers. But a few guesses. I think your father was murdered on his way to Verona, and your mother took refuge in the one place where Veronese fingers could not reach. Once there, she contacted Katerina, hoping to find sympathy for herself and her newborn son. Katerina offered to take you, in order to fulfill her place in the prophecy. But your admirable mother refused to give you up until there was an attempt on your life. Hired by Katerina or no, your mother knew you would never be safe so long as she remained with you. So she did the only thing she could – gave in, and gave you away. On the condition that you were made Cangrande's heir.”

  Cesco leaned forward so suddenly that Mastino tensed, expecting the table to be overturned and blades come into play. But the hellion was just straining forward like a hound after a scent. “Why would Cangrande agree to that? What did he gain?”

  Mastino shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps he was just protecting the grandson of the brother he loved.”

  “Or perhaps shaping the future in order to deny fate,” said Cesco softly.

  Mastino frowned. “What's that?”

  Cesco shook his head. “If I was born in Padua, I must have been baptized there.”

  “I imagine so,” said Mastino.

  “What name was I given?”

  Mastino shrugged. “If Fuchs asked, he never told me.”

  At the mention of Fuchs, Cesco's eyes narrowed. “A pity you and Fuchs didn't just put her in a room with me.”

  Now the threat was palpable. Mastino pointed a finger. “Before you consider revenge, think about what this means.”

  Rising, Cesco tapped two fingers on the pommel of the sword leaning against his chair. “If I decide you have to die, a little forethought won't save you.”

  “I was hoping your gratitude would overwhelm your anger.”

  “I'm still weighing the extent of my gratitude.”

  “You can have her now,” said Mastino eagerly. “Rosalia. She is not your sister. A second cousin at most.”

  Cesco nodded. “My abounding joy is tempered by the fact that you didn't mention this in September.”

  “No,” agreed Mastino. “I didn't.”

  “At least you don't deny your venality. If I attack, will you fight? Or call for your faithful followers, who are doubtless just outside, waiting.”

  Mastino's eyes flickered to his own sword. “Draw and see.”

  “I might.”

  “We are all meant to die.”

  “Not me. I will evanesce.”

  “I'm surprised you haven't evaporated from the room.”

  “Figs. You expect that, now there are no impediments, I'll go running to her side, leaving everything to your tales of poison and betrayal, of Mohammedans and Emperors.”

  “If you attack me, all the more proof.”

  “If I stay and denounce you,” continued Cesco, “you'll publish my lack of blood-link to our dearly departed Capitano. You can call Ser Alaghieri as a witness. He's so damned honourable, he might not lie for me. You've done very well, cos – I may still call you cousin, yes? Downright brilliant. I've spent years quarrelling with him, shaming him. The night before his great victory, he's poisoned. Who benefits? Me, the disgruntled Heir. Was it blackmail? Was it a trick played by the Paduans? I was born in Padua. Suspicious.” Cesco clicked his tongue. “It's excellent. The whole city will have doubts about me.”

  “Even if Verona doesn't, Padua might.”

  A heartbeat of a pause. “You and Carrara.”

  “Me and Carrara. We've had many long and friendly talks during this campaign.”

  “Long may you live in bliss. So you've positioned me to leave. If I go freely, I get the girl. If I stay, I'll be hounded out of the city. It's genius – but you've missed one factor.” Mastino raised his eyebrows. “Revenge.”

  “For spoiling your little romance?”

  “For Antonia. Suor Beatrice. Fuchs raped her repeatedly, on your orders. How will the Church react to hearing you're a nun-raper? That's a little more serious than bastard or murderer.”

  Mastino blanched. “That was Fuchs. On his own.”

  Cesco started edging around the table, the scabbarded sword in his hand. “When did he ever do anything on his own? You clearly knew about it.”

  “After the fact,” said Mastino quickly. “I'll make restitution.”

  Cesco scoffed. “How? Do you have sway with the goddess Hymen?”

  “Payment. A new abbey. A statue to her father. I'll honour the whole family – even Pietro. He can keep his title, lands, and pension. Jacopo too. They'll want for nothing!”

  “Your word is worthless.”

  “But yours isn't,” countered Mastino. “If you give me your word to keep my name spotless with the Church, I'll take care of the Alaghieri family.”

  It was a breathless pause, with Mastino waiting to lunge for his own blade should Cesco even begin to draw steel.

  At last Cesco nodded. “Here are the conditions. Pietro, Antonia, Morsicato, all the Rakehells – they must be left alone.”

  “The locals I'll need,” said Mastino. “But your friend Benedick will hang. The crowd needs an execution.”

  “No, you'll see him safely to a ship – to Sicily,” added Cesco. “You must likewise give Tharwat al-Dhaamin a safe conduct out of your territories before you slander his name. Morsicato must maintain his rank and position. And send my wife back to her family so I can have the marriage annulled. Do you agree to these terms?”

  Mastino considered. “If you go right now, tonight, and never come back – then yes, I agree. But I have a condition of my own,” he added maliciously. “You must write a letter confessing your crime, and my magnanimity. Address it to your beloved Nuncle. And cousin – be convincing.”

  Cesco did not hesitate. Taking up paper, ink, and a quill from a side table, he leaned over and penned the required note, then handed it over. “It won't be witnessed.”

  Mastino read it over. “This will do.”

  “Then there's only one matter left.” With lightning speed Cesco drew Cangrande's sword.

  Mastino lunged for his own, his mouth open to shout for his guards. But Cesco didn't attack. Reversing the sword in his grip, he held it hilt forward and laid Cangrande's sword on the table between them. “When his real tomb is finished, bury him with it. It doesn't belong to either of us.”

  “It's the Scaliger's sword,” said Mastino. “The Capitano's sword. And I am now both.”

  Heading for the door, Cesco smiled over his shoulder. “Keep it, then. Nothing tempts fate like hubris.” Hand on the door, Cesco paused, looking back. “You think that if I leave, you win. But you're wrong. The victory is mine. I marry for love after all.”

  And then he was gone.

  Mastino stood staring at the open door, listening to Cesco's steps echo on the stair until they faded away. Prepared as he had been, that was as tense as any gambit in his life. But he had known fear alone would never have dislodged Cesco. He had to have the promise of something forbidden. So Mastino had given him the best incentive possible. He offered love.

  It could still go terribly wrong. There were so many threads that could unravel, and Mastino wondered which Cesco would
resent most – the many lies Mastino had told, or the awful truth he had omitted.

  He heard a horse bolting down the street. So it was time to prepare. He took the bottle of wine Cesco had left behind, ready to add it to the litany of proofs. He would have a day or two, at most, to make the initial charges stick. Then he would dole out more and more damning pieces of evidence until he had the whole city screaming for Cesco's blood.

  First he had to deliver this letter to Count Alaghieri, or his representatives. For he would keep his word to Cesco. That's what a great lord did. And though no one yet knew it, from this moment on, Mastino was lord of this city and all its lands. Twenty-one years old, and the master of Verona. Just like Cangrande.

  But the Great Hound was dead.

  Long live the Mastiff.

  Forty-Three

  WITHIN MINUTES the prince's flight was known, and like an infernal fire the news reached every corner of the city. Cangrande was dead, and the Rakehell had fled. What did it mean?

  Having just come from laying his mother in state, Detto arrived in Verona to find it roiling with rumours. After calling at the via Pigna, where he found an anxious Signor Benedick, they went together to Pietro's house.

  Pietro was sitting stunned as everyone else passed from hand to hand a letter just delivered from the palace. Detto took it and read, Benedick craning over his shoulder:

  To Ser Pietro Alaghieri, Knight of the Mastiff, Count of San Bonifacio, from Francesco della Scala, Knight of the Mastiff, bastard heir to Cangrande della Scala, the Greyhound,

  I murdered Cangrande. I did this for personal gain, and for revenge for the many wrongs my father had done me. Under the influence of foreign powers, I conspired with Tharwat al-Dhaamin and Signor Benedick of Padua, along with a whore called Arabia, to gain control of this fair city. I poisoned my father's drink the night before Treviso surrendered. I am also responsible for the death of Lord Petruchio da Bonaventura, who intercepted the poisoned drink meant for my father.

  I confess my crimes to you and to God, praying to Him above to forgive what I now see are terrible sins. I have opened my soul to my holy cousin, the noble and just Mastino della Scala, who has offered Christian clemency. But I do not deserve charity or pity. To my shame, I will always do whatever I must to gain my heart's desire. Therefore, for the love I bear in my heart, I fly from Verona.