by David Blixt
"You, of course, never indulge in them."
"They used his love of puzzles against us. He slipped away from his nurse, thinking you'd be there, and took Detto with him. I imagine they used the secret passage behind the tapestry on the ground floor."
"So it's my fault, not yours. That must be comforting." A page came running up, and he bent down in the saddle to listen.
Katerina waited for Cangrande's attention to return to her, then said, "I heard your orders. While your men are out looking, what will you be doing?"
"I think I'll go see an old friend."
The blow was swift, cracking across his cheek. "No games! Who is it you mean?"
He didn't rub his crimson cheek. But neither did he smile. "I mean Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, who, I have just been told, has been found, badly wounded."
"What are you going to do?"
Cangrande met her eyes. "I'm going to beat the life out of him until he tells me where the boys are. Care to watch?"
Stupido, stupido, stupido.
Pietro repeated the imprecation over and over as he rode though Vicenza's western gates. He'd traced the kidnapper this far with relative ease, but now the search grew more difficult.
How could we have been so blind? Even the Scaliger had been fooled. They knew the Count of San Bonifacio was behind it all, and still they hadn't seen that the whole attack this morning was a feint, a costly, bloody feint that disguised the real target.
Still, Pietro couldn't fathom the reason — unless Bonifacio wanted to remove the Scaliger's only heir. But then why not kill him outright? What could the Count gain by taking him?
Of cold consolation was the fact that they now had a name for the kidnapper. Gregorio Pathino, he called himself. Katerina's description had matched the newly restored exile, Nogarola's guest, to Pietro's scarecrow of two years before. No wonder he'd avoided supper last night. Of all people, only Pietro could identify him.
A kidnapper thrice over. Not only had he snatched young Cesco, he'd grabbed up little Bailardetto and Pietro's groom Fazio as well.
Katerina was even more panicked by Bailardetto's disappearance than Cesco's. If he was truly Il Veltro, her foster-son had the protection of destiny. But Detto had no mythic shield. Worse, in her terror, Katerina had revealed a horrifying fact — Tharwat had made a chart for Katerina's real son as well as her adopted one. This chart said Detto was in danger of an early death, well before he reached his prime. Katerina hadn't told anyone, not even her husband, but in her fear she'd blurted the truth to Pietro.
The moment she'd finished, Pietro had ridden back to the palace, exchanging his warhorse for Canis, collecting Mercurio and one of Cesco's shirts, then heading for the northwestern gates out of the city. He'd questioned everyone he saw, a task made more difficult since everyone wanted information from him as badly as he wanted it from them. Quickly he gave up until he reached the gates — the same gates he'd come through three years before, the first time he'd ever laid eyes on Vicenza. Here he asked the guards if they'd seen anyone pass out. They'd said yes, twenty minutes before a tall man had ridden out with two children perched on his saddle, a youth trailing behind. Ignoring their questions about the battle, he'd set off at once.
Pathino. It was good to have a name. Probably not his real name, but useful all the same. Pietro could focus all his loathing on that one name. Pathino. Gregorio Pathino. The man who had murdered Cesco's nurse in Verona, probably murdered the oracle as well. The man who, failing to steal little Cesco, had thrown him to the leopard. Gregorio Pathino. It was a name to hate.
Pietro couldn't help remembering the Moor's words last night. A new influence, a danger to Pietro and the child. Could that new influence be Pathino? Would the kidnapper escape? And then what? Give the child to the Count? Sell him into slavery? The possibilities were terrifyingly endless.
Once he reached an open space, Pietro dismounted and knelt next to Mercurio, holding the scrap of Cesco's clothing up to the greyhound's nose. Within seconds the greyhound lifted his snout to the air, then dropped it to the ground. Remounting, Pietro followed the dog south. South and west. The direction surprised Pietro, who had expected to be led towards Padua. If they headed far enough in this direction they would reach Verona in a few hours. Could that be? Was Pathino taking the boys to Verona? Or was he just making a wide loop to avoid the two armies? That made more sense. So where was he going?
Pietro hoped he was traveling more swiftly than the ex-banker, encumbered as he was with the children and Fazio. But what if Pathino decided he needed to move faster?
"Come on, Mercurio! Fly! Let's see those winged feet!"
The sounds of battle are unmistakable, even from far off. Eight miles to the southwest of Vicenza, at the Montecchio estate, the distant clashing was clearly audible in the still summer air. Forewarned, the residents of the castle were forearmed, but that didn't stop them from worrying. Lord Montecchio, dressed in full armour, fretted over his son, while his daughter kept plaiting and unplaiting her sister-in-law's hair as they waited for news.
Antonia Alaghieri hadn't intended to stay on at Castello Montecchio once the young master had returned. She believed her presence would be awkward as the two lovers settled down to a true married life. But a few kind words from Gargano and Aurelia as well as the pleas from Gianozza convinced her to stay. If Mariotto was heading directly out to war, the girls needed a friend to help ease the waiting. So Antonia found herself in the tallest furnished tower of the castle watching the three Montecchi fret over the outcome of the ambush just a few miles away. She was fretting too, concerned for Ferdinando, her — friend.
Distraction was the key. The girls had already admired all the fine clothes and gifts Mariotto had brought back from France, unpacked from the baggage that had arrived this morning. They'd pored through the illustrated pages of the many books he'd purchased at the papal court. They had discussed the furniture and the wine and all the little trinkets. Now they were experimenting with braiding pearls and jeweled combs into Gianozza's hair as a template for Aurelia's wedding day.
"I smell smoke," said Gargano. The girls, whose sense of smell was better, had detected the acrid scent long before. "There," he added, pointing, "there's a haze on the horizon."
"I'm sure they're in no danger," said Antonia reassuringly. "The Paduans will break and run, and they'll all be fine."
Lord Montecchio shook his head. "I should have gone with them."
"Lord Faggiuola wanted you here," she reminded him. Gargano's responsibility was to lead the hunt for Paduan fugitives once the battle was finished. Yet he was impatient. Barely forty in years, he was as fit as any man his age, a tried warrior anxious to take up a sword in the Scaliger's defense.
They heard hoofbeats. All four moved to the window to see a horseman ride through the gates. But the angle from the tower was poor, and the cluster of men surrounding him made it impossible to see. Someone shouted, and all the castle's soldiers took up the cry.
"The devil take this," cried Montecchio. He crossed to where his cloak lay, and Aurelia moved quickly to fit it over his shoulders. It was an exact duplicate of the one Gianozza had draped over her husband's shoulders that morning, a heavy blue knit that didn't flap up while riding. Gargano placed his helmet on his head. It was new, a gift from his son, a fierce French mantle that resembled the one given Mariotto by the pope.
"I'll send word," he said, already racing down the steps.
Aurelia looked at the other two girls. "Do we follow?"
"I don't know," said Gianozza.
"Of course we follow," declared Antonia. She snuffed the candles, Aurelia picked up their cloaks, and Gianozza opened the door only to find the passage blocked by her father-in-law running back up. But now the cloak was spattered in blood and reeked of smoke.
Suddenly she was enveloped in a swooping embrace, quite unfatherly in nature. "Francesca!"
"Paolo!" Husband and wife murmured a few endearments to each other. To Aurelia, Mariotto
said, "Benvenito is downstairs, gathering up more men. He's fine. Not a scratch." She hugged her brother and fled the room to find her betrothed.
Gianozza asked the question Antonia could not. "And Ser Bonaventura's cousin?"
"Ferdinando?" asked Mariotto. Not having been at court these last years he was surprised by the question. "Fine. Whole, hearty, and obnoxious as ever."
Antonia didn't sigh, didn't smile. She merely nodded. "What's happening?"
"We can't stay. Cangrande's bas- his, ah, natural son, Francesco, has been kidnapped, along with Bailardino's son. Pietro's out looking for them now."
Antonia started. "Pietro who?"
"Your brother! By the Virgin, I was shocked. I didn't even know he was in the area, much less hidden in the city. I thought he and the Scaliger weren't on speaking terms. Goes to show you can't — "
"Wait a moment," said Antonia sharply, her hand slicing the air before Mariotto's face. "Start from the beginning."
Mariotto related the course of the battle and the bizarre aftermath of kidnapping and treachery. "Pietro's out there now, on the trail. We're to spread out through the countryside and find them."
"Then go!" shouted Antonia, pushing on his chest. "Pietro may need you this second!"
"He can take care of himself," Mariotto assured her. "He held that street longer than anyone thought he could." He glanced at his wife. "There's one thing. Antony threatened me this morning, before the battle. He wants a duel. Today, or as soon as we're done carrying out the Capitano's orders."
Gianozza gasped. "You won't fight him, will you? It's against the law!"
Mari stroked her cheek. "Law or no, I can't let a challenge like that pass. It would stain my reputation. It's too bad, too. Today, fighting side-by-side — it was almost like old times." He ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed hair. "Francesca, I have to go." He kissed her, nodded to Antonia, scooped up his helmet, and ran.
At once Gianozza crumpled to the floor. Antonia rushed to her side, thinking, The poor thing never seems to have trouble producing tears. She wept now, ruining the bodice of her lovely new French dress as she whimpered and wailed, while Antonia talked her up to her knees and convinced her to pray. They prayed to the Virgin, and San Pietro, San Giuseppe, and San Zeno.
As they prayed they heard Gargano's auxiliary forces ride away. Gianozza started to go to the window but Antonia dragged her back down to the hard stone floor to finish their prayers.
By the time they finished, Gianozza's tears were dry. Hiccoughing, she asked her maidservant to bring a bowl of water to wash in. "I'm a baby. Antonia, please don't tell Paolo that I wept this way. It might embarrass him."
It embarrassed me. Anxiety mingled with annoyance made Antonia snappish. She couldn't help demanding, "Why do you call him that?"
"It's a pet name. I call him Paolo and he calls me — "
"Francesca, I know."
Gianozza heard the disdain. "What is it?"
"Nothing. Really."
"You don't approve of Francesca da Rimini?"
Antonia couldn't hold back her snort. "Hardly!"
"Why not?"
"Gianozza, if you've read my father's poem, then you know that Francesca and Paolo are in Hell!"
"Yes, but she has an excuse for that — it wasn't their fault, it was — "
"It was what? The poetry made them do it? The weather? The stars?"
"Antonia, your father felt such pity for them when he talked to them that he fainted."
Perhaps her father was correct when he said a little learning was a dangerous thing. "Gianozza, do you understand allegory? In the poem, my father isn't Dante the poet, he's a character. He represents every man. Of course he feels pity for them — what Christian soul wouldn't? But it's God, not man, who put them there, and God is infallible. The Lord knows Francesca's excuses are meaningless — the fault is hers. She's the one who committed the sin, and no matter what she says, she's the one who will suffer for it."
"But — but it's romantic, it's — "
"It's tripe! And Paolo knows it! He weeps even as she speaks because he understands, you see? He knows why they're made to suffer. But Francesca convinces herself that it's anyone's fault but hers — even God's. Francesca is one of the worst people my father comes across in Hell. Technically, she's even guilty of incest! She's everything that's bad in women, from Eve all the way down to today! That you idolize her is worse than scandalous. It's impious!"
Gianozza walked suddenly to the window, where the smoke rising from Vicenza was now visible. She was silent for a long time. A very long time.
Antonia began to feel guilty. She got to her feet and sighed. "Gianozza, I'm sorry. I'm worried about my brother. Here I am fretting about Ferdinando and I didn't even know Pietro was here, I thought he was safe at university, and now he's out there again… I probably spoke too harshly. I'm sure I did."
"No. You're right. I'm a fool."
"What?"
Turning to face her, Gianozza had a wild look. "I'm a fool. I just saw the romance of it. I should have married Antony. I mean, he's not so bad. But I thought that — it was the poem that Mari read to me that night. He read to me from L'Inferno, and I heard their story and I thought it was a sign, a sign we were meant to be together. But now I see that if it was a sign, it was a sign that I would go to Hell! And Mari, poor Mari! He will, too. For my sin! It's my fault that Mariotto will be killed! He'll die dueling Antony, and he'll go to Hell, and it will be my fault!"
Antonia realized there and then that Gianozza didn't love poetry — she loved love. Poetry was just the vehicle. The girl had to be set straight. There was poetic love and there was real life. "Gianozza, I didn't mean — "
"No! You're right! It will all be my fault! If I'd only given Antony what he wanted!" Gianozza turned back to stare vacantly out the window.
She's living a French romance, thought Antonia with amazement. But she didn't know what else to say, and now that Gianozza had stopped crying Antonia had another duty. Opening a small box that contained her writing things, she took out a sheet of paper, her inkwell, and a hardy quill.
Gianozza turned from the window, clutching herself tight. "What are you doing?"
"Father needs to know," said Antonia, writing swiftly. "Do you think you could find a servant willing to ride to Verona?"
"Yes." Gianozza walked over to a wardrobe and pulled out a riding gown and coat.
"What are you doing?"
"We can't stay here and do nothing. I'm going to see your letter is delivered, then I'm going to find Antony and stop this feud nonsense, however I can!"
Mercurio hadn't slackened his pace. So far they had mainly stayed on the road, veering off only twice. Both those times the trail had led to a clump of trees, and Pietro imagined that Pathino had heard some noise on the road that had frightened him into taking cover. Each time he'd returned to the road a few yards ahead of where he'd left it and continued on his way.
If Pietro remembered rightly, this road led past Mariotto's lands at Montecchio, past Montebello and Soave, and directly towards San Bonifacio. So when Mercurio turned off a third time, Pietro thought it was another dodge. He was surprised, therefore, when the hound failed to return to the road. Determined as ever, Mercurio headed south among bushes and trees.
Perversely, Pietro wished he hadn't fought so hard in the battle. Pathino could be lying in wait behind one of these trees. Pietro's sword arm was weary, his right leg weak. He slowed Canis' pace, which earned a withering look from the eager dog, pressing the hunt before him. But Pietro didn't want to risk falling to a hasty ambush. The closest aid was a half-hour behind. If Pietro let himself be killed, Cesco, Detto, and Fazio would disappear like breath into the wind.
Pietro's most valuable sense in this environment was his hearing, and he strained to listen for the slight hints of breathing or metal clanging or a horse shifting. He heard water running — a brook or a stream. Birdsong, and all around him an angry wind rustling the leaves.
And something else. It came from somewhere ahead of him. Pietro's instinct was to kick his spurs and race forward, but he forced himself to dismount and advance slowly. The hound crept along close to his side. Poking through the brush with his sword, he saw a riverbank. And the source of the noise.
A toddler sat on the bank, whimpering in fright. Pietro dismounted and hurried forward, looking about warily. At the sight of Pietro, the toddler shied away, protecting his right arm. The hound sniffed at Detto, then walked directly to the water's edge and strained to cross.
"Bailardetto," said Pietro, watching the opposite bank. The sky was darkening under storm clouds, and it was hard to see through the first rank of trees. He tried to keep his voice friendly. "Do you remember me? We met last night. I'm a friend of your mother."
Barely two years old, Detto was too scared to speak in any coherent way. But in the midst of his tears the boy called for his mama. Pietro knelt and reached out a hand. In response the child held up his good arm to be picked up.
"May I see it?" asked Pietro, indicating Detto's other arm. "It's all right," he said reassuringly when the boy shied, "I won't touch it." There was a livid bruise growing, and scraped skin all around the elbow. Pietro ruffled Detto's hair. "It hurts, but you'll be all right." In response the boy buried his face into Pietro's neck. Pietro put an arm around him and patted his back lightly. At once Detto's breathing relaxed and his mouth found his thumb. Keeping his sword arm free, Pietro hugged him even closer.
It was while he was holding the sniffling toddler that he saw Fazio. The teenager was facedown, half-floating in the shallows of the opposite bank. The water around him showed wisps of blood.
What to do? Pathino had crossed here to hide his tracks, leaving Detto and Fazio behind to delay his pursuers. Pietro released Detto, rammed his sword into the sandy earth, and used his fingers to lift Detto's chin. "Hey there, little man. Which way did your brother go?" The child looked at him without comprehension. "Cesco. Which way?"