by David Blixt
There was an open window, with a wall of red flowers just outside, overflowing the unshuttered sill. He didn't know their name, and didn't care. He heard birdsong, and the rustle of leaves in a breeze, and all the hundreds of sounds that live in the background of a summer's day, unnoticed except in moments of dire stillness.
Sitting beside him, Detto lifted a cup and poured a little water into Cesco's mouth. “Don't worry. We're safe for a day or two. The servants think you were attacked, and I'm hiding you from your enemies.”
Cesco wasn't interested in lies, in schemes, in plots or puzzles. “You son of a bitch.”
“Cesco…”
“I mean that. Your mother was a conniving cunt.”
“Cesco, don't. Just don't.”
“Don't what, speak the truth?”
“Pick a fight. Not now.” Detto drew a breath. “I'm sorry, Cesco. About Lia.”
“Go be somebody else's martyr. I don't want you as mine.”
They sat for a time in silence. Then Detto pulled a knife from his belt. “I can't stop you. I know it. One way or another you'll make it happen. So I'm going to give you this, then leave the room.”
“But first you're going to talk at me.”
“No.” From a pouch he withdrew Lia's note from the night of the Palio, carefully preserved. He laid it carefully on the table beside the bed. “I just want to remind you that she loved you.”
Placing the dagger atop the note, Detto left the room.
In the bed, Cesco tried the impossible – he tried to forget how to think. Because if he thought one thought, another would follow. Like what a fool he had been. An unmitigated fool. Had he honestly thought he had known suffering, sounded the depths of despair? Had he mistaken reversal for true loss? Had he been so arrogant as to believe he knew the worst of what life could dish him? O no. There's a bottom below…
Thinking was better than staring at the letter. The words were seared into his mind, etched in acid, carved in fire. But the temptation to once more see her writing, perhaps even catch a trace of her scent, was too much. Stretching his bandaged arm, he pulled the note from under the dagger, unfolded the paper, and held it to the light:
Francesco, my Odysseus, dearest Castor,
Penelope waited, I could not. But she had hope. I have none.
All is well with me. My husband is a good man I have known my whole life. He will take me, damaged as I am. In many ways he is like my father – or, rather, the man I thought was my father. Which means he is nothing like you. That makes it easier.
I think of you and I think of lilacs. Amongst all the superficial pleasantries of life, lilacs are the sweetly scented words of truth. They are scattered about where most aren't apt to look. Inside the lines of the lilac's poems are three ideas – Love, Life, and Beauty. They aren't easily detected, only easily faked by charlatans throughout existence. We must sit, surrounded by humanity and nature, until we collect a bouquet of lilacs. To lead us. To secure us.
I heard of your marriage with a joy-filled heart, broken. She will grow, your wife, and you must not hate her when she does. She is your wife, and always will be. I am not, and never could be.
I tell myself I'm writing this because of the attempt to murder the lord of Verona. But that is the excuse, not the cause. Much of what I hear of you frightens me. Lacking me does not mean you must lack purpose. Do not let your brilliant mind be overthrown. You shine brighter than any star. Do not use your light to trick those that would follow you by leading them astray.
We played many tricks together, you and I. Why should not the stars play tricks on us? You cannot punish the stars, and should not try. They will win, by virtue of not caring. We care, you and I. That is why we suffer.
I would hate to be the ruin of all you can be. Do not make that my legacy. When I cancel out existence, leave only my heart to explain to God, Fate, and the stars why I will not release what I have felt, regardless of consequence. I felt it, to the smallest atom of my being. I cannot honour it. You can. Be better. Be what you might be, must be. Be your self.
Make me proud, my love. My brother. My life.
Sic ego nec sine te nec tecum vivere possum.
Rosalia / Penelope / Death
He had forgotten that the note bore the mark of her tears.
Gently, as though it were likely to shatter or crumble, Cesco brought the letter to his heart and closed his eyes.
Then he reached for the knife.
♦ ◊ ♦
IN VERONA, MISTRUST AND FEAR were thick in the air. At the Montecchio house, several voices were raised at once.
“I won't believe it!” cried young Romeo. “He's not a traitor!”
“Me either!” chorused his cousin.
“Benvolio, son, be silent.” Having come to town for the reading of the will, Benvenito was as stunned as the rest.
“We won't!” shouted Romeo.
Mariotto turned to his wife for help. “Gianozza, will you quiet them! We have serious business to discuss.”
“Can you blame him for being worried?” demanded a fluttery Gianozza. “They've been seen together often – our son is branded as the friend of a traitor!”
Romeo balled up his fists. “Cesco's not a traitor!”
“Perhaps not,” said Mariotto to his son. “But this is none of your concern. When you're older, you'll have worries enough. Now, please, take your cousin and go upstairs.”
“I want to see Cesco!”
“If we could find him, none of this would be happening. And the streets aren't safe tonight. Please, son – go upstairs.”
Romeo left the room, sullenly dragging his feet. Benvolio followed, but Gianozza remained. “Have you heard from Suor Beatrice's brother?”
“After that all-day session in the Domus Nova, he disappeared as well. And that letter he read – I half-believe him when he says it isn't true. But then why did Cesco write it? Why not stay and fight?”
Benvenito said, “There must be something else. Something bad.”
“Pietro would never be a part of something dishonest – not knowingly. But if Cesco did have a hand in Cangrande's death…”
Gianozza paced nervously. “What will we do? We're so tied to them!”
“The only thing we can do. When the Anziani convenes in two days, we'll support Mastino.” The words were bitter in Mari's mouth. Throwing his hands into the air, he cried, “If only he hadn't run!”
♦ ◊ ♦
ON THE OTHER SIDE of the Piazza dei Signori, a little girl was crying in private. Giulietta had been promised a holiday in the Capulletto summer castle. She was still mourning the loss of this latest little brother, whom she had loved for the few weeks he'd been in the nursery. To ease her mind, it had been decided that the whole family would go away once Treviso had been won. And just now her father had declared they weren't going.
Giulietta wasn't a child who cried in front of people. She took the news as stoically as an almost-four-year-old could. But it was still a disappointment. It was her birthday in four days, and she had looked forward to a holiday with her family. She wanted to see the fish in the Lago di Garda. Andriolo had promised to teach her how to swim.
When she thought no one was looking, she slipped into her room and climbed up onto her bed, burying her face in her pillows. Not only was she not going to fish, but her best friend Maddelena was leaving the city as well! It was as if everyone was trying to ruin her life!
“Stop crying. It never fixes anything.”
Startled, Giulietta looked up to see her cousin Thibault frowning at her. Turning her face away and scrubbing her palms over her cheeks, she said, “But it's not fair!”
“Life's not fair. It's flawed and unrelenting.”
Giulietta perked up at a new word. “What?”
“Nothing,” said Thibault.
“Why aren't we going?” she demanded.
“Your father's scared,” said her cousin with a derisive sneer. If he'd been honest with himself, he'd admit that fea
r was justified. If anyone left the city now, they would be suspected of joining the traitors.
“Papa's not scared of anything!” said Giulietta fiercely, hopping down from her bed to punch Thibault on the thigh.
Thibault took her hand and spun her in a circle several times. “He should be scared of me.”
“Why? I'm not,” said Giulietta, pulling free to hug her cousin. “You're my only brother now.”
Thibault patted her awkwardly, thinking of her dead brothers, his uncle's lost heirs. He suspected what had happened to them, and was as frightened as he was pleased.
His thoughts turned to Cesco, exiled and fled forever. He expected to feel – something. He had lived in Cesco's house, after all. Rivals, they had almost become friends. Almost, but not quite.
Now Cesco was gone, and Thibault felt himself relieved. Without the Greyhound's heir, he would have no competition worth the name.
♦ ◊ ♦
ACROSS THE STREET from Cesco's house, Signor Benedick of Padua packed up all the belongings he could manage (not all of them strictly speaking his), and donned his plainest clothes. Unlike the nobles he'd been rubbing elbows with all these months, he had neither property nor wealth here in the city. Thus he had nothing to insulate himself against reprisals as one of Cesco's closest adherents. Cesco had named him in the letter, a complete betrayal. With no sign of either Cesco or Detto, there was only one practical course left to him – flight.
Leaving his bill unsettled, he slipped away into the night. Count Alaghieri had offered him a horse. Climbing onto its back, his safe-conduct clutched in his hand, he rode straight for the southeast gate and onto the road to Genoa. As the safe conduct specified, he was going to Sicily. Cesco's last bit of wry humour. Still, Don Pedro had offered him a post, if only in jest.
Benedick was only going because he had to. He was definitely not going to see that termagant Beatrice – though the thought of baiting her again made him quite forget the strife and turmoil he was leaving behind in Verona.
♦ ◊ ♦
UNDER ANTONIA'S INSTRUCTION, the nurse Dahna packed up all her mistress' belongings and hired a coach to take them both to Padua. They only encountered resistance when they informed the little lady herself. Maddelena stubbornly refused to leave the house, saying her husband would come for her. She had to be carried to the coach, and on the way she bit two men.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE WAIT SEEMED to last an eternity. Several times during those tortuous hours Detto stood and made for the door. Each time he stopped just short of it, feet pulling in two directions until he reluctantly returned to his seat.
He was sitting when at last the door opened and Cesco emerged, deathly pale but upright. He gazed malevolently at Detto. “God damn you.”
“He already has,” said Detto through a veil of tears. “He made us friends.”
Forty-Five
PIETRO RODE FIRST to Tiberio's lands. There, under the beetling gaze of the bearded Bramo, he learned of Rosalia's fate.
The third death. Rosalia had been Detto's close cousin. This is the third death.
And Mastino must have known, realized Pietro, astonished at the malice that lived in the world.
But there was no time to think of anything but finding Cesco, a task all the more serious now. With Rosalia dead, there was nothing left in this life for Cesco save revenge.
Pietro tried every inn, tavern, and private house in the area. Only when he considered Cesco's bold nature did he think of visiting the palace at Rivole.
It was empty, but Pietro learned that Cesco had been here, ill, just the day before. This morning young lord Nogarola had put him on a boat and sailed away down the river.
Towards Verona.
♦ ◊ ♦
IN NEAR DARKNESS, Cesco awoke aching. “What did you hit me with at the graveyard? My skull is shattered.”
Detto didn't want to say he'd struck Cesco with Lia's headstone. “I had to calm you down.”
They were in a small cabin. From the rocking of the floor, Cesco knew they were on some kind of boat. “Where are we?”
“Sailing down the Adige. We'll reach Verona in a few hours.” Detto saw the expression. “You chose to live.”
Cesco took several breaths before looking up, eyes unclouded. “Without her, I can never truly live.”
“But you can go on.”
“Fine. So what do I do now, oh mighty sage? How do I do it?”
Detto made a fearsome face. “We get off in Verona and kick Mastino in the teeth.”
“What day is it?” Detto told him. “Two days? Too late. By now he must have the backing of everyone – yes, everyone. Can you blame them? And he has Carrara, and through him, Padua. Venice, too, will support him. He's much less frightening than I am. If I show my face, Mastino will have me executed, either as a poisoner or an imposter.” His voice held no anger, only fatigue.
“You'll think of something. You always do.”
Cesco shook his head. “I'm too tired. Can't manage, lost, used up.”
“I'll do both our thinking, then.” Detto stood and began to pace, thoughts racing. “My father won't help us, not if he thinks you killed Cangrande. He already blames you for my mother's death.”
“He's right. I didn't denounce Verde when I suspected her. I thought I was protecting my family. Little did I know.”
“Be glad you're not one of us. Do you know who your father was? Pietro could not discover that.”
Cesco almost smiled. “Zeus. Though I was wrong. Leda is not my mother, egg-friend. Like Athena, I was born of a thought.” The smile faded. “A by-blow of Cangrande's eldest brother. I am close kin to Paride.”
Though intrigued, Detto was anxious to keep formulating a plan. “We have your troops. Otto's men. Yuri and Fabio will follow us.”
“Will they? Or will they think themselves used, wooed to be my arm. Enough of the men will think I killed the source of their funds and hate me for it.”
“We can ask the Bonaventura twins or da Lozzo,” said Detto.
“By now the twins will have heard my confession to killing their father. Nico will swear vengeance, too.”
“Castelbarco might join us.”
“His son is tied to Mastino. That's too much to ask anyone.”
“Figs,” said Detto. “Ser Alaghieri will never believe you're guilty. He can tell them everything.”
“Ser Alaghieri doesn't have a faction. Just an ancient Moor, a broken-down doctor, a half-disgraced novice – and us. Against Mastino, who holds a united Verona, Padua, Mantua, and Treviso. I marvel we haven't won already.”
Detto stopped his pacing to plant his feet in front of Cesco. “So we disappear. We go and never look back. We vanish.”
“Evanesce,” murmured Cesco. “You'd do that? Leave your family, lands, title – just disappear?”
“Yes.”
Cesco nodded absently, his gaze drifting off into the distance. “Mastino will outlaw us both. He can't not – it's too good. We'll never be allowed to return.”
Detto tried to grin. “No temptation, then.”
Cesco returned a ghost of a smile. Then he closed his eyes as the pain returned. All kinds.
“Where do you want to go?” asked Detto.
“It doesn't matter. You decide.”
Detto frowned. “My mother. She gave me a message for you.”
“I seem to remember you mentioning it,” said Cesco, a little of his natural wryness slipping into his tone.
“She said, 'It is hidden where he kept his other amusing puzzles.' What does that mean? What is hidden there? And where?”
Cesco looked a blank. “I have no idea.” He closed his eyes. “It doesn't matter. We won't have a chance to go looking, and I truly don't care. Forgive me, but I am finished with your mother and her riddles. I am finished with the Scaligieri. I am finished.”
An hour later they opened the cabin's little window to gaze out at the twilight. Passing one by one under Verona's bridges, they saw th
e walls, the crenellated rooftops, the fabled forty-eight towers. Once the tower had been the symbol of Verona. Before ambition's ladder had taken root.
Detto quelled the impulse to cry out, to rouse the city to action. Instead he sat beside his friend and took a final look at the city they both called home. It had almost become the capitol of the world, had the stars allowed it.
The people of Verona were uninterested in the stars. They plied their trades and went about their lives, loving their families, greeting their neighbors, embracing the simple pleasures of existence. Never knowing that the man who could have changed their lives was instead sailing slowly away from them.
Bells began to toll the hour of Sext. Cesco watched until the last tower was out of sight, and then looked away, towards their unknown future.
Verona was past.
♦ ◊ ♦
HAVING SEEN MADDELENA safely on her way, Cesco's last adherents traveled east in a carriage. It wasn't as fast as single horses, but between Pietro's leg, Tharwat's ankles, and Antonia's gender, it was the best they could manage.
They had decided to go first to Vicenza, and from there split their numbers, some to Venice, some to Rome, some to the imperial court, wherever it happened to be at present. The doctor could not stop swearing, stroking his beard for comfort. More excited than frightened, Poco was allowed to ride up top with the driver.
At one point Pietro caught the Moor smiling. “What?”
Over his throaty rasp, Tharwat's voice contained grim humour. “I was just wondering if Cesco ever got around to reversing the spying he did for Dandolo. If not—”
“—Mastino's in for a nasty surprise. Verona is about to be utterly without funds.” Pietro couldn't help grinning too.
His smile vanished as he felt the carriage slow. They gazed about in apprehension. Had Mastino broken his vow? Were they being attacked?
“I don't believe it,” said Jacopo from over their heads. “Lamo.”
It was indeed Girolamo. Pietro stepped out to find the road blocked by the cripple, leaning on a stick. No need to ask how he had found them. But the why mattered.
