by David Blixt
From that lofty perch it took a few moments more for her thoughts to return to earth. But soon her mind found its accustomed trail. If Pietro's going off to university, who will take care of father now? Not Poco!
There was only one answer. I have to go. I have to join them in Verona. Finding her bottle of ink and a fresh sheet of paper, she began to write her reply…
Shortly thereafter Gemma Donati came looking for her only daughter. "Antonia? Franco and his brood will be joining us after all, so-"
But the girl wasn't in the study, having left the house to find a rider to bear her message to her father. Unknowing, Gemma picked up the two letters her daughter had left out. At first she was amused by the contents, then startled. "Oh, Durante…"
Gemma wept until she heard her daughter in the entryway below, arriving just as her brother-in-law rode up with his family. Daubing her eyes, Gemma rose and placed the letters just where Antonia had left them. She knew what her daughter would ask, and was tired of refusing. Gemma's attempts to find her daughter a husband were a desperate ploy to tie the girl to Florence, so that at least one of her children would remain with her. But she knew the power of her husband's words, made only stronger in Antonia by his absence. Realizing it was to be her last Christmas feast with her only remaining child, she descended the stairs with a slow, heavy gait.
Padua
The same moment Antonia was leaving church, the Count of San Bonifacio was entering one. Not a grand Paduan church, but a mean and humble one outside the city walls. Unknown to him it was the same one Cangrande had used as a rendezvous months before. On this holy day it had only two occupants. One, a frightened-looking priest, stood at the door. The other knelt in prayer by the altar. Nodding to the man of God, the Count crossed himself and sat down, resigned to a long wait. If he could enlist this penitent's aid, his cause might yet be won. He had the key to this man's spiritual vault. The Pup had given it him.
After hours of painful kneeling on the stone floor, the figure rose. And rose, and rose. He was as tall as he was thin, a grotesque figure made moreso by deliberate starvation. He crossed himself before turning about. "You didn't come here to pray," he said at once, accusing. "Your presence here is profane." His voice was deep and rich, odd to hear from such a strange figure.
"Merely secular," said the Count.
"I told you no," said the penitent.
"And I respected that," said the Count. "But things have changed."
"Your defeat is nothing to me." The man wore a medallion with an odd cross surrounded by pearls. Some pearls were missing.
"No reason it should. Still, you live so far from the city I wondered if you'd heard."
"Heard what?"
"Cangrande has taken in a son — a bastard son — and named him his heir."
The skeletal penitent remained entirely still, yet a change came over the chapel. Suddenly it was cold, as if a pall had swallowed the sun.
"A bastard heir?"
Seeing the fire in the penitent's eyes, the Count knew that at last he had found the wedge to drive the other man into action. Checking his smirk, he began setting his plan in motion.
Venice
The Count's was not the only wheel set turning because of the child. Late Christmas night, a ship was admitted past the bar and through the Lido, an unusual event after dark. It dropped anchor in a misty port off the Castello. Within ten minutes two cloaked figures were stepping from the arriving ship into a sky-blue gondola. The leading figure was short with the shoulders of a scribe. His shadow was built more like a mason or a soldier, tall and broad. As they settled into the bottom of the tiny gondola, its black-hatted oarsman pushed off and started angling them towards the Rio di Greci — Greek Street, a causeway of water entering the Castello directly opposite the small island of San Giorgio Maggiore.
They passed under the first bridge of the Greci in silence, but for the slapping of the waters against the gondola's sides. Here and there music or snippets of conversation floated by. At the second bridge, they were forced to stop. A deep-red and gold gondola had gotten turned, a mishap common with inexperienced polers. The figures in the immobile gondola were masked, and showed signs of drink. Some helpful fellows on the bridge had gotten sticks to aid them in turning, and now the unfortunate gondola was straightening out.
In the front of the sky-blue gondola, the smaller man asked, "Can't we get by them?"
The oarsman touched the wide brim of his hat and obediently shoved hard to angle them past the stalled gondola. Through no fault of his, the two bumped. There was a jeer from the masked men in the red-gold gondola, then another from the bridge.
Suddenly figures were leaping onto the sky-blue gondola from all directions. In an orchestrated move, the four men from the red-gold gondola threw off their cloaks, revealing shining weapons as they scrambled over. Their masks were firmly in place. Two more men vaulted the short stone balustrade of the bridge to land lightly, knives ready. They had donned hard-leather bauta masks as well, thus disguising their features entirely.
The oarsman of the sky-blue gondola dove into the freezing waters to preserve his life. Clearly the accident had been a sham. Whoever his passengers were, someone was out to murder them. This was the kind of ambush that left no survivors, and the oarsman valued his skin.
Back in his boat, the smaller man let out a yelp of surprise as he was forced to lie down by his companion, who rose to his full height. From under the taller man's cloak an arc of steel sliced the air, making the attackers jump and hiss in frustration.
The ambushers fought hard, but their numbers dwindled in the face of the tall man's falchion, a curved sword that ended in a wicked point. Having lost half their number and the element of surprise, one shouted, "The devil with this!" He dove into the water. His remaining companions hesitated, swore, then followed.
The driverless gondola drifted to the next bridge, the blue on its sides now flecked with crimson drops. Four men lay in its bottom. Two were screaming, one was whimpering, and one was entirely still. The final figure stared at the carnage as his upright companion wiped the massive blade clean.
Poles appeared and knocked the craft roughly to a stone and tile jetty. Wounded in calf and wrist, the larger man ignored his injuries as he helped his companion find footing on the stone steps. Some citizens reached for the little man, pulling him along into their ranks and comforting him while eagerly asking what the fracas had been about.
"I have no idea," the little man told them.
Thinking his brave companion might have a better answer, they made to pull him along as well. But as the man sheathed his curved German blade, his wrist became visible between the glove and the sleeve. One Venetian saw the man's skin and recoiled. "A damned blackamoor!"
There were hisses of distaste and disgust. Instantly the tide changed and people began to wonder whose side was in the right, the survivors or the ambushers.
"Call the constable! Take him to the gaol!"
"The devil with that! He killed a Venetian! Let's string him up!"
"Right! The gallows, not the gaol!"
"What about this one?" demanded someone of the littler fellow, who promptly found his hood pulled back until the knot under his chin choked him. The violence subsided when they saw a pale face growing paler by the second.
The mob on the jetty grew, more torches heralding the new arrivals. There was talk of tarring the black man. The little man tried to protest but the crowd paid no attention. Through it all the larger man stood with perfect stillness, his gloved hands in plain view, his breathing eerily steady. Blood continued to trickle down his leg, pooling in his boot.
Rubbing his throat, the little man tried to intervene. "My name is Ignazzio da Palermo. This man is my servant!"
"Man! Monster, more like." Emboldened by the large man's stillness, one fellow stepped out of the crowd and reached up to yank off the concealing hood and scarf. His fingers had just closed on them when he uttered a choked sob and fell to his knees, clutching his throat.
The crowd tensed, knives and clubs at the ready, but the large man's hands were still empty. He'd simply struck with his open palm.
But the crowd's eyes were not on his hands. The bold Venetian had dislodged the muffling hood and scarf, revealing skin that was dusky black, not ebony, marking him as Spanish. He was a Moor.
The flickering torchlight light caught the Moor's neck. Someone gasped. Criss-crossing it were lines of white and pink, raised above the level of his natural skin. The bands were linear, created by some man-made implement. Running the entire circle of his neck, a single blistered scar made a horrible kind of collar about the Moor's throat. In some places it was bubbled, in others it was worn. It was a very old burn scar, and it made the man who had survived it even more fearsome.
The aggressive Venetian retreated into the crowd, gasping and sputtering as his eyes streamed, obviously calling for vengeance but unable to make the words come out clear.
The Moor placed a hand on the hilt of his falchion. "We have done no harm. We defended ourselves. Let my master pass." His voice rasped as if the words were scraped by a rusty spoon from somewhere deep within.
The little man called Ignazzio crossed to the Moor's side. "Theodoro and I are stopping in Venice for the night only on our way to Vicenza. We have been the victims of a crime. We demand an audience with the authorities at once. Disperse and bother your wives, not us!"
The crowd was muttering again. Then, as if on cue, came the stomp and clink of official boots. The crowd parted for the two dozen men-at-arms. The man who led them was easily one of Venice's most recognized faces. Francesco Dandolo was a hero in the Serenissima and still young enough to have great days ahead.
The choking man had recovered enough to step in front of the approaching Dandolo. "Ambassador, this — creature just assaulted me! He…"
Dandolo pushed past him to give Ignazzio and the Moor a deeply respectful bow. "Ser Ignazzio, we have been waiting on you at the doge's palace this last half-hour. I heard of an altercation along your route. I hope you are not hurt."
"Theodoro is," said Ignazzio angrily. "We were attacked in our gondola — an ambush by professionals, no less — and now these fools are waylaying us!"
Dandolo gave the scene an appraising glance. Turning to the captain of the men-at-arms, he pointed into the bloody gondola. "Take the living to the gaol at once. Use whatever means necessary, but find out who put them up to it." He turned sharply and pointed to the aggressive Venetian still rubbing his throat. "Take him as well. Don't kill him but thrash him soundly." The man gasped, his watering eyes now wide with horror. Dandolo turned back to Ignazzio. "Unless his offence warrants worse?"
"No," said Ignazzio grimly. "He was abusive, but Venice has given us worse welcomes."
"Very well. Take them away." Dandolo looked at the Moor, busy replacing his scarf and hood. "Does your man need a doctor?"
Ignazzio turned to the Moor, who shook his head. "No, thank you."
"Then please," said Dandolo, bowing again, "allow me to escort you to the Doge personally. He is eager to consult with you."
Ignazzio followed Dandolo without sparing the crowd a single glance. The large Moor trailed a few paces behind. The mob took a collective step back. Some may have been discontented, but all were unified in their wonder. Who were these men to be treated so solicitously by Dandolo and the Doge?
One found his courage. Stepping out, he called to Dandolo's receding back, "Ambassador, who is this man? Where is he from?"
Over his shoulder Dandolo said, "Disperse, citizens, before you're unlucky enough to find out!"
Fourteen
Verona
16 February 1315
Dawn was hours off and the night air was sharp, the remnants of the last snowfall hardening underfoot. The noise in the streets defied anyone to sleep, and Pietro didn't try. He lay in bed beside his brother, imagining the day to come.
When he'd first heard of the city of Verona, before he had ever heard the name Cangrande or the Greyhound, Pietro had heard tell of this day's event. The Palio. Arriving in Verona five weeks ago in the bitter January frost, he noticed at once that it was all anyone talked of. The betting was fierce, the speculation wild. Mariotto couldn't shut up about it. He had Antony and Pietro on the edge of their seats with excitement.
His return to Verona had happily thrown Pietro in with his two friends again. Since it was a poor season for hunting, Pietro's bad leg didn't hamper them as they settled into a raucous routine of storytelling, mock duels with woolly clubs, and surreptitious drinking. As they navigated the streets they earned the nickname "The Triumvirs" from a proud and welcoming city. The Triumphant Trio that had helped Cangrande rescue Vicenza. Antony had even paid to have a song written, and Pietro laughed whenever he heard it. It was terrible.
Through it all, Mari kept talking about the Palio. Dating back to Roman times, it marked the city's great victory over a monster whose bone still hung in the alleyway called Via dei Sagari. Held the first Sunday of Lent, the revelry served to take the citizens' minds off their fasting and the sumptuary concessions. Traditionally it was celebrated with parades and dancing, feasting and drinking, all manner of spectacle could be seen — pig wrestling, knife fighting, bear-baiting, duels, magicians, oracles, jugglers, gymnasts, fire-eaters.
Best of all was the Palio, the famous twin races of Verona. The first Palio would be run at midday on horseback though the streets. Wild and reckless, it was but a prologue to the midnight race through the city's eastern streets across the Adige and back. The route was hand-picked by the Capitano and run by the light of the stars. Many participants fell to grisly injury and even death. The citizens not participating came every year to cheer as the competitors ran, not merely barefoot, but entirely naked.
A native, Mari was going to race for the first time this year. Antony declared his intent to run. They hadn't been able to think about anything else for weeks. Pietro, who wasn't racing for obvious reasons, teased them both by making bets on one or another of them, settling on both of them to come in second place.
The celebration came early this year, February Sixteenth, right upon the heels of the New Year's games. Verona was one of the few cities that still celebrated the Roman New Year, January First. The rest of Europe chose to celebrate Easter as the start of the year, that being, they said, the month God created the earth. Greeks were even stranger, choosing September as the month to begin their calendar. Thus while most of the world was still in the year 1314, Verona had already turned the page to 1315.
Inside the city walls, the streets were all but impassable. Spectators, gamblers, merchants, peasants, petitioners — all had traveled for days to vie for what lodging they could find. The decent rooms were already rented out triple or quadruple capacity. Pietro knew how lucky he was to be housed with his father and brother in the Domus Bladorum, the former home of the della Scala family. Many visitors, even noble ones, were forced to sleep on dirty floors, or else in stables, where the beds were somewhat more comfortable.
But fully half the people in the city were not sleeping. Other attractions called — treats and spectacles and mythical beasts, lights and sounds and smells. At some point each visitor stood in the Piazza della Signoria hopeful for a sign of the Capitano at work or play. Even viewed from without, the Scaligeri palaces were full of life. Cangrande's staff was well used to working through the night when the Capitano was in residence. There was always an event to be planned, arriving or departing guests to be catered to, or the detritus of feasts or minor festivals to be cleared away. To provide these services, the Scaliger employed a bevy of men and women. All had their own duties and fiefs within the household. Having watched them prepare for today, though, Pietro truly pitied them.
Shivering now in his bed, he listened to the catcalls outside, the cheerful jeering of borrowers and lenders. Money would be spent lavishly today. Not on clothes, nor food nor wine nor music, but on alms and charity. Many of Verona's lesser citizens would put themselves hopelessly in
debt, yet consider it money well spent. Pietro himself had been given a modest sum by his father to donate to San Zeno, along with a remark about "ostentatious piety."
A polite tapping on the door of his family's suite made Pietro sit up, making sure not to jostle his brother. Before retiring, they'd dragged the frame of their bed closer to the huge brazier that warmed the chamber. They could have more easily moved the brazier, but the metal dish was placed to warm their father. To tamper with it would have risked a fate worse than freezing.
Curled at the brazier's foot was the pup Mercurio, a gift from Cangrande. The young lean head was up, tail slapping the cold tiles. Hanging from the collar around his neck was the inspiration for the dog's name — the old Roman coin Pietro had stumbled across during his midnight adventure with the Scaliger.
The tapping on the door was persistent. As the dog rose with an answering growl, Pietro shot a hand from under the covers and gripped Mercurio's collar. Where was his father's manservant?
As if in answer, Pietro heard the door being unbarred. There was whispering between Dante's steward and whomever it was. Then the slow, measured steps of the poet, grumbling as he went to satisfy his curiosity. There was more discussion, then Dante's footsteps again but much faster. Suddenly Pietro felt his father's hand on his shoulder. "Pietro. Pietro!"
Along with his father, light was coming into the room. Pietro blinked dumbly. "What's wrong?" There were five men coming in, all bearing lanterns. Dante was standing beside the bed, a thick blanket pulled over his nightshirt and sleeping robe. The comatose Jacopo continued to snore.
"They're from il patrono," said Dante. Sure enough, the lead figure wore a medallion with the seal of the ladder. Pietro recognized Cangrande's Grand Butler, Tullio d'Isola.
Mercurio scampered back and forth between Dante and the visitor. D'Isola presented a sealed roll of parchment to the poet, then reached down a hand to pat the young greyhound. Having a good rapport with hounds was an important part of Tullio's office.