by David Hewson
‘Royal? That lot haven’t been royal here for donkey’s years. This place belongs to Venice, to my lot, now.’
‘If the soldiers see you…’
‘Well, they haven’t. And besides… what does it matter?’
The monuments were extraordinary creations, gothic and quite unlike anything else in the city. Raised stone coffins with ornate roofs, tucked by the side of the church the Scaligeri clan called their own. They were all buried here, the top ones named after dogs: Mastiff, Noble Dog. The fiercest of all, Cangrande, Big Dog, lay above the church portico, his stone sarcophagus bearing an imposing lifesize statue of him on horseback, laughing death in the face, a helmet shaped like a hound’s head on the back of his armour.
But the family was history now. The lion of Venice had been standing triumphant over the Piazza Erbe since the Doge’s men took control almost a century before, seizing Verona as one more prize for its empire.
Mercutio nodded at the stone warrior grinning like a fool on his armoured horse.
‘Don’t know what he’s got to smile at. Death? His cousin poisoned him from what I heard. Bet he wasn’t chuckling when that happened. You lot out here love your little potions, don’t you? Back in Venice…’ He made a fist, a pretend dagger in it. ‘We just stab the blokes we hate.’
Romeo muttered something about respect. And caution.
‘Caution?’ Mercutio pointed a finger at the statue above the door. ‘Cowardice, you mean. A dead man’s statue ain’t going to do anything, is it? And besides… if they don’t want folk to take a leak here they should put a fence round it or something. Personally–’
There was a shout then. One of the city guards had spotted them.
‘I stand corrected. Time to leg it, boys,’ he announced and then set off running down the lane towards the river. A few minutes later all three of them stood breathless, laughing beneath the shadows of the Ponte Pietra.
‘You’ll be the death of us,’ Romeo said, still panting.
‘Death’ll be the death of us. Nothing else. Let’s have a look at your masks then. See if they pass muster.’
Beneath his arm Benvolio carried a sinister black bauta with a long, deep chin. Romeo had a plain white volto, a deathly face moulded to the skin.
Being from Venice Mercutio was familiar with the customs of masked balls.
‘Your bauta is common,’ he told Benvolio with a shake of his head. ‘And as for that volto…’ He laughed. ‘A wonderful disguise. But how do you intend to eat or drink without lifting it and showing your face? At least the bauta lets you do that.’ He wagged a finger at them. ‘And remember. You two are on enemy territory here. The Prince of Cats will get his claws in you if he can. Don’t give him opportunity.’
The Prince of Cats. Mercutio always called Tybalt that and gave a single reason. The Capulet youth was of such a black nature that, like the worst of felines, he couldn’t wait to kill something, simply for the pleasure.
‘So what are you?’ Benvolio asked.
He grinned and showed them a shallow half-mask, barely covering his nose. ‘Mercutio, of course. Nephew to our omnipotent city marshal. Unlike you two I want them to know who I am. That way there’ll be no misunderstandings.’
They walked to a tavern three streets away from the Capulet mansion, and drank outside, stoking their courage with chilled wine. The season’s lassitude had struck the city. Most of the moneyed classes were home trying to avoid the heat. The workers, too, if they had the chance.
‘Will that servant really sneak us in?’ Romeo wondered.
Benvolio felt sure of it. ‘He seemed a decent enough lad. Not the brightest I’ll admit.’
Mercutio was all smiles. ‘They’ll let me in. I can knock on the front door. I’ve got an invitation. But if you two are feeling a bit scared… no problem. I’ll tell you all about the girls tomorrow. From what I’ve heard they’ll be a lovely sight.’
‘We have to go. For Romeo’s sake. Rosaline’s there.’
Benvolio knew from the glint his words raised in Mercutio’s eyes this was a mistake.
‘The horseman’s girl from across the river. So what?’
‘So…’ The cat was out of the bag. Benvolio nodded at Romeo. ‘Our friend has… feelings for her.’
Mercutio guffawed. ‘Plenty of feeling been going on around that one. For quite a while. With quite a few I gather.’
Romeo glared at him. ‘What?’
‘Where’ve you been hiding? Randy Rosaline from the knacker’s yard? Headed for a y-shaped coffin from what I heard. Not that I’ve been there myself, you understand. More’s the pity. She’s quite fetching in a dozy, doe-eyed kind of way.’
‘You say–’
Benvolio came between them. ‘He’s making it up. You know what he’s like. Everything’s a joke. Rosaline’s a fine and chaste young lady–’
Mercutio winked. ‘Right. Chased upstairs and down. By half the lads in town.’
‘Her reputation–’ Romeo objected.
‘What’s a reputation, brother? Nothing more than what people say in the street. The things that go on behind closed doors, behind closed curtains, beneath the sheets… you don’t know. And maybe I don’t either. But I know this. Verona’s not the pretty, godly place you lot pretend. Can’t be, can it? It’s just full of people. We all know what they’re like.’
Romeo finished his drink and suggested they leave soon. ‘We’ll use the back door like the servant said. You take the front if you want.’
‘Oh, surely you’ll fly in there held aloft on a flock of white doves! All of them chirping… Rosaline! My darling Rosaline!’
‘That’s not funny,’ Benvolio said.
Mercutio nodded and knocked back his wine. ‘Wasn’t meant to be.’
Romeo was walking off.
‘Where are you going now? Is this party on or what?’
He went down to the river, to sit on the bank. The evening light was fading. A glorious sunset lay to the west. Early that morning he’d woken in the midst of a nightmare, a bloody one full of death and poison. That had driven him to those miserable hours in the grove of plane trees, as much as the constant nagging thoughts of Rosaline.
‘Perhaps this isn’t a good idea,’ he said when the others joined him on the dry summer grass. ‘The Capulets hate every last man who bears our name.’
Benvolio shuffled between him and the water, to get his attention. ‘No one’s going to recognise us, are they? You know she’ll be there. Others, too. We agreed–’
‘I had the oddest dream. Death. And violence. So close–’
‘I had a dream too,’ Mercutio cut in, cocky as usual. ‘I dreamt that people who dream get it all arse about face. That everything they think they dream is the opposite of what they really dream. Because it’s all a dream. You get me?’
Romeo gave him a cold stare. ‘So a part of the dream should be true, then?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘If the dream’s a lie, then anything the dreamer dreams must be a lie within a lie. Which by logic ought to be the truth.’
Mercutio shook with laughter. ‘Oh. That’s clever that is. I do believe you’re right. I think…’
‘I like you, Mercutio. In spite of yourself.’
‘In spite of myself I like me, too. You know who you’ve been sleeping with?’
‘I’ve never slept with anyone.’
‘Oh yes, you have. We all have. Can’t help it. Queen Mab.’
Mercutio drew up his legs and wrapped his arms around them, like a storyteller about to begin tale.
Benvolio sighed and asked, ‘Queen Mab? Who on earth’s Queen Mab?’
‘She’s the fairies’ midwife.’ He picked up a tiny stone. ‘No bigger than this here pebble. A little team of dream horses drives her coach over men’s noses while we lie asleep. Her wagon spokes are made of flies’ legs, her roof from the wings of grasshoppers. Her dress is a spider’s web and a cricket leg her whip. Her chariot’s an… an empty hazelnut and h
ere’s the thing. Small as Queen Mab is she gallops through the world night by night. Through lovers’ brains, after which, like our friend here, they dream of passion. She dances on courtiers’ knees, and they dream of the perfect curtsey. Over lawyers’ fingers, and they smile in their sleep thinking of the greatest fees. And the ladies.’ He chuckled. ‘She pirouettes across their lovely lips and smiles as they part to kiss their phantom lover, the perfect man to steal them from this dull, dull world.’
With that he threw the tiny pebble in the water.
‘And then, if she smells the stink of the lady’s breath, the angry Mab plagues those lips with blisters. After which she gallops inside a courtier’s ear and he thinks to himself… aye, there’s money to be had from some desperate fool in the morning. Here’s a parson and she tickles his nose, so he says to himself… tomorrow I’ll get a bit of cash from selling a fake indulgence to some gullible sinner. And look. Here’s a soldier. She drives over his neck and all he can dream of is cutting foreign throats, of breaching castle walls and slaughtering every living thing that lurks behind. And then of rape and booze and booty. Aye. And she’s the hag who tells young women, fresh to the marriage bed, how to lie on their backs and take it all. Never question the roaring brute above them. Because that’s how things are and even Queen Mab can’t change what beasts are men. Now can she?’
Romeo cried, ‘Enough!’
‘Enough,’ Benvolio agreed.
‘It is enough, friends. Mercutio is with you there. But it is the way of the world. More so than all these courtly romances they’d have us swoon over.’
Romeo picked up a clump of grass and started to pull at it, tearing dry shred from shred. ‘I dreamt I died. That my miserable life came to an untimely end and nothing I could do might change it.’
‘Queen Mab,’ Mercutio said.
For once there was no quick and clever riposte. Romeo got up. They followed, brushing off the grass from their velvet britches and jackets. There would be girls. It was a time to look smart.
‘Romeo,’ Benvolio said, putting a hand to his arm. ‘If you’d rather not–’
‘No. Life’s a journey and whosoever steers it knows the course. I’m nothing more than a passenger on this ship. What business is it of mine?’
The Marangona bell tolled eight.
‘We’re late already,’ he said.
* * *
The poor ate spelt porridge and beans, tough wild chicory, and herbs scavenged from the hedgerows along with any offal they might find cheaply in the slaughterhouse. All of it devoured with greedy, greasy fingers off a single slice of hard dry bread.
The merchant and noble classes lived differently. Rich food, spices from the Orient, cheese from distant territories, exotic fruit, strange meat, all served on silver platters, consumed with dainty forks and precise, well-practised manners.
Capulet had returned from Venice with books, too. A pair of cookery volumes, one a hand-copied manuscript by Apicius dating from Imperial times, the second, Platina’s more recent On Honourable Pleasure and Health, the first printed recipe book the new presses of Venice had produced. It was early evening in his palazzo. The reception hall on the piano nobile was now decorated with lilies and roses. A group of musicians was tuning up on a small stage in the corner as the guests began to assemble. The room was full of light and colour, the women in their finest silk, the young men behind masks, clutching at wine, aloof yet interested. The double doors that led towards the broad stone staircase and the garden were thrown wide open, allowing in the fresh night air and the dwindling calls of birds before the dark.
In the ground floor kitchen, dishes from both books Capulet had bought were being prepared by a busy round of servants, all flustered, not least because one of the master’s own had marched into their midst, donned an apron and demanded to help.
‘Am I doing this right?’ Juliet demanded. She was up to her elbows in feathers, with blood stains all down the front of the apron. ‘I’ve never plucked a chicken before. It’s harder than I thought.’
‘To be quite candid, Miss, no,’ the cook said. ‘Much as I appreciate the offer it would be far easier if you left us to the–’
There was a kerfuffle at the door and her mother marched in. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What in the name of sweet Jesus are you doing here?’
Juliet put down the bird and rubbed her hands. Fluffy down flew everywhere. ‘Learning how to prepare a chicken for the pot. Shouldn’t every woman–?’
‘No! That’s why we have servants!’
The cook stopped working on the roasted peacock. ‘I did point that out, Madam.’
‘Then why did you let her do it?’
Cook was mistress of the kitchen. This was her territory. ‘Because if the daughter of the master of the house comes in here demanding to shove her hand up a chicken’s backside I hardly think a lowly soul like me’s in a position to tell her she can’t. Not least because I’ve spent most of the past hour trying to stuff a bloody peacock.’
‘I’m almost finished,’ Juliet complained, turning over the half-plucked corpse in her hands.
Her mother growled something then walked over and threw the chicken into a bin. ‘That’s the worst prepared bird I’ve ever seen.’
‘It was my first.’
‘Upstairs, girl! Nurse can run another bath. Then find you some clothes for the ball.’
‘But…’
‘Now!’
There was the briefest moment of mutiny, then she obeyed and the two them left the kitchen. Pots were stirred again. Cook huffed and puffed over the prize peacock. ‘I don’t know, Pietro. All that money they’ve got. It doesn’t seem to make them any happier, does it?’
‘Perhaps not,’ the pot boy replied, ‘but Mistress Juliet is always very kind to every one of us. I won’t hear a word said against her.’
‘That’s true. As to that father of hers…’
‘Kitchen’s due its portion when all the toffs are finished, eh, Cook?’
Vast cauldrons of stock and stew murmured on the stoves. Over the blazing fire a line of mallards and partridges sat next to three suckling pigs slowly turning at the sooty hands of a young girl working the spit.
Cook didn’t answer. She was too busy trying to stuff the roasted peacock back inside its feathers.
‘And another thing,’ Pietro declared. ‘A couple of chaps I met who were kind to me in the street might turn up. When they knock on the back door they’re all right–’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cook cried. She turned to him, a broad, triumphant smile on her face. The bird was whole again, neck upright, tail plumed, dead eyes replaced by raisins glazed in honey. All through the miracle of a forest of tiny wooden skewers. ‘Take this fellow and all the rest that’s done upstairs. Time we started feeding the ladies and the gentlemen. There’s plenty more to come.’
Within half an hour the feast was set on great tables next to the musicians and the singers. It was to be the greatest banquet the palazzo had ever seen.
Boned roast goat’s heads covered in white meat sauce and decorated with pomegranate seeds. Fried trout caught in Lake Garda by busy cormorants. Cucumbers with dill. Chicken pie with cherries. Tart with cheese and chard and saffron. And pastissada de caval, horsemeat stew slow cooked until it was near black, seasoned with laurel, nutmeg and cloves, a dish Verona had been eating for so long it seemed as much a part of the city as its old stone walls and the constant flow of the Adige.
* * *
Capulet left his wife to make the greetings as the guests arrived. Then, when sufficient had assembled, he entered arm-in-arm with Juliet, Tybalt in black jacket and britches, sulky at their heels. His nephew was unmasked, like Capulet, and the older men who thought themselves too ancient for such rituals. Tybalt, it seemed, disapproved of frivolity entirely. He was a miserable companion in the place.
Still, this was a social occasion. A speech. Capulet liked his speeches.
‘Ladies! Gentlemen!’ He held aloft his
cup of Garganega white. ‘Welcome to our palace. This is a glorious summer evening. A night for dance and merriment. And dance with you I shall…’ He grinned. They all knew a laboured joke was coming. ‘Provided that is you don’t have corns. If you turn down my hand I’ll know that’s why.’
Someone tittered politely.
The young women had arranged themselves next to the food, as if they were another course. Fourteen girls, all in competing dresses, scoop-cut necklines everywhere, since it was the fashion to show a full pale breast. Silk from China, fine wool from England, Egyptian linen, Syrian damask. The colours matched those of the dead peacock: shining blue, radiant yellow, the fiercest scarlet. But each of them wore white, too – a teasing visible kirtle, a sash or a ribbon. That was the badge of maidenhood, the most precious gift a young woman had to bestow.
‘Music! Music!’ Capulet announced. ‘My house is yours, friends. Take your delight of it, and ourselves.’
Then he turned and, sotto voce, said to the nearest servant, ‘For God’s sake get more candles in here. Didn’t any of you buffoons realise night soon follows day? Open more windows. It’s far too hot. Get those tables cleared the moment they leave the plates. Well? Well, boy?’
The lad rushed off to do as he was told.
‘Go join your friends, Juliet.’
‘I barely know those girls.’
‘Then now’s the time. Make small talk. It won’t take long. Paris will be here soon.’
She breathed a deep sigh, said nothing and wandered off.
Capulet watched her walk slowly across the room. She was the most beautiful of them all. That he truly believed and not just because he was her father. Her dress was ruffed blue, the colour of the sky. In spite of all the pleading she wore nothing in her hair except a simple circlet. And as for white… only the sleeves of her chemise, visible from elbow to wrist beneath the silk gown.
Had there been time he’d have scolded her and told her she was an ungrateful child. A would-be husband deserved better and her wardrobe contained much fancier garb than this. But watching her now, unsmiling and silent next to her more garish, gabbling peers, Capulet realised he was wrong. Unadorned amidst such overdressed, glittering maidens, Juliet looked, despite her years, a woman, serene, secure, a cut above the rest. No, so many cuts he couldn’t count them.