Juliet & Romeo

by David Hewson

  ‘We need to speak,’ her father said.

  ‘May I walk alone? Along the river? To compose my thoughts. These last few days–’

  ‘No.’ He took her arm firmly. ‘We will talk now.’

  He was unshaven, his eyes pink and rheumy. The night had been long for him too, she guessed. Filled with drink and anger, not love and new discoveries.

  The little crowd around the grave was dispersing. She was soon left alone with her parents and the priest. Father Cesare doffed his cap and, seeing he wasn’t wanted, walked back towards the chapel. The sextons were busy shovelling dense brown earth into the grave. It was impossible for her to connect that plain and simple box vanishing into the ground with the sneering, teasing creature Tybalt. That unhappy bundle of fierce emotions had surely vanished on the cobbles of Sant’Anastasia the day before. All that was buried here was the shell, a carcass of meat and bones soon to turn to dust.

  ‘Do you love me, Father?’

  ‘Of course I do. It’s why I act this way.’

  ‘Let me walk a little while then. I won’t vanish. Or run away.’ She looked at Escalus who was now talking to the priest by the chapel door. ‘I couldn’t even if I wanted, could I?’

  ‘No.’ It was her mother who spoke though the tone might have been her father’s. ‘And don’t ask such presumptuous questions. Of course we love you.’

  Her father’s hand gripped her arm more firmly. ‘It’s why we know what’s best.’

  What’s best?

  If only she could flee. If only she could tell them. But while she had the courage she understood too well the consequences.

  ‘As you wish,’ she said and went in silence back to the palazzo and her fate.

  * * *

  Romeo was out of the Veneto within two hours. Another and he found himself approaching Mantua, a city new to him, though its wily political character was known throughout the north.

  Isabella d’Este, wife of Francesco Gonzaga the second, the current marquess, ruled mostly as regent. Francesco was a notorious mercenary leader, once in the pay of the Venetians, now more dependent on the Borgias in Rome where he spent most of his time. This way Mantua clung to its status as an independent state, one so small it was always in need of powerful friends.

  As Romeo rode in from the plains he realised it could scarcely be more different from the place he’d left. Four artificial lakes surrounded the city, wide defensive moats created from the river Mincio that flowed from the snowy heights of the Alps. A tall castellated wall ran the length of the northern border. After that, four bridges crossed the lakes, expanses of water so large they appeared to support a small fishing fleet as well as trading craft headed for a harbour visible in the distance.

  He was stopped by a guard when he reached the first gate and gave the response Laurence had suggested. He was a student wishing to talk to the apothecary Nico on behalf of his brother, a Franciscan friar in Verona. The man asked for papers. All he had was the letter Laurence had given him and that was written in Greek.

  The soldier grumbled at that, talked to his sergeant, came back and waved him through.

  ‘That fellow from Otranto’s the only apothecary hereabouts who isn’t a bloody quack. Since it’s Nico and you seem a harmless sort you’re in.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘One thing, mind. I heard all them fools in Verona were worried about the plague,’ the man said opening the gates.

  ‘There are reports of it. I passed a house along the way. The red cross–’

  ‘Spots. That’s what those folk had or so we heard. You don’t get spots with plague, lad. Boils. Spewing. Lots of nasty stuff. Not spots.’

  ‘I’m sorry–’

  ‘When you get back to Verona you tell them that. We don’t need their scaremongering driving people down here. Ask your friend the apothecary. He understands all there is to know about pestilence. We haven’t got it. And nor, I think, have you. Now on your way.’

  The bridge over the lake was low and pretty, with no crenellations, no threatening militia. The city he found on the other side was delightful, most of the houses around the centre painted with frescoes on their exteriors, all classical scenes, bright and jovial. The sight cheered him until he found the square he wanted, only to see that was called the Piazza Erbe too. An unwanted reminder of home, of Juliet, and with it an ache of longing.

  The directions Laurence had given him led to a small round building, much like a classical Roman temple. It had once been a church. Now, in a city full of grander places of worship, the Rotonda of San Lorenzo had turned into a marketplace, with food counters in what was once the circular nave, more obscure services on the floor above.

  Up the stairs he found three apothecary stalls set side-by-side. One run by an African, the second the property of a Jewish man with long locks and traditional garments. The last was occupied by a smiling fellow of forty or so, built like a soldier, wearing red wool britches and a leather jerkin. He had Laurence’s eyes, intelligent and searching, but there was a worldly air about him the friar lacked.

  Romeo introduced himself and gave him the letter. Nico bade him sit down next to a row of jars and bottles much like those he’d seen in the cell in Verona and began to read.

  ‘The apothecary business interests you?’ Nico asked when he’d finished.

  ‘Not much. All these things you have here… your brother has them, too.’

  The man shrugged as if to say: why not? ‘You’ve read this letter?’

  ‘No,’ Romeo said. It was Greek. A language beyond him.

  Nico folded the thing up and put it in his pocket. ‘Never mind. Welcome to Mantua. I gather you’d rather be here for as brief a time as possible.’

  ‘I must return. I have a wife.’

  ‘And a death sentence hanging over you. For murdering a man.’

  True, he agreed and left it at that.

  ‘Odd thing for a poet to do.’

  ‘I’m not a poet. I’m not anything.’

  ‘We’re all something. Virgil came from Mantua, you know. We can visit his cottage if you like. Perhaps that might spark a bit of cheer in you–’

  ‘I have to return home. As soon as I possibly can. Your brother said you might be able to introduce me to the court here. If they support my case…’

  The apothecary got up and started closing his shutters. ‘Right then. No time like the present.’

  Outside on the gallery, after he’d boarded up his little shop, he said goodbye to the Jew in Hebrew and then what Romeo assumed to be the same to the African in a language beyond comprehension.

  Downstairs Nico picked up a bag of almonds and chewed a few. ‘Nice fellows my competitors,’ he said, nodding back at the floor above. ‘Charlatans both. One would sell you a dead lizard and tell you it cures sores. The other a piece of firewood that was supposed to be a splinter off the True Cross. Which won’t do anything at all.’

  Romeo took the almonds he was offered. ‘And do your cures work?’

  Nico smiled, then winked. ‘Only if you believe in them. Let’s go to the palace and see if I can talk you in there.’ He brushed at Romeo’s jacket. ‘You’re filthy from the road. Do something about it, lad. You’re about to step into the presence of royalty and they don’t much appreciate scruffs.’

  * * *

  Back in the palazzo Luca Capulet demanded water straight away, gulped at it messily then glanced sideways at his wife.

  ‘You tell her. If there’s any need for me I’ll be in my study. Making plans.’

  ‘For what, Father?’ Juliet asked. ‘I’m here. You can speak to me directly.’

  He glanced at her sideways. ‘You can’t spend the day in mourning clothes. Change them.’

  ‘Perhaps I feel they fit my mood.’

  He sighed, picked up his glass and wandered off.

  Her mother winced as he left. ‘Your father’s still a little delicate. Let me find something nice for you, love. Please…’

  Upstairs they went.
Juliet chose a light dress, a simple shade of brown. She wasn’t having anything picked for her. The room was tidy and spotless. Nurse had been everywhere. Fresh sheets. Fresh linen by the tub. Flowers in a vase, roses and lilies from the garden. The balcony windows were open. The day was stifling and silent save for the buzz of insects. Perhaps the birds couldn’t summon the energy to sing.

  ‘Happiness…’ her mother said, pacing the room while Juliet changed. ‘That’s what we need. Tybalt is buried. We must live.’

  ‘I’m sorry for my cousin. But you know what he was like.’

  ‘Yes. And hasn’t he paid for it? Your father was rambling last night about sending a rogue to deal with the Montague boy. The guards on the bridge said he was heading off towards Mantua.’

  Her heart thudded. ‘Deal with him?’

  ‘He had it in his head he could have the villain murdered. Poison. Stabbed in some dark alley as he deserves. Put him in the earth and we’d gain the revenge Escalus won’t give us. There’s not a servant here who’d do it, of course. Even that little bully Samson–’

  ‘I will.’

  Her mother stopped. ‘You’d what?’

  ‘I’ll go and… follow him. Do whatever you ask. Just give me the opportunity.’

  Bianca Capulet laughed. ‘That is kind. And brave. But you’re a girl–’

  ‘I won’t be satisfied with this Romeo until I see him…’ Her mind was racing ahead of itself.

  ‘See him?’

  ‘See him dead, I mean. You’ve no need of servants. Give me the chance–’

  ‘No, no, child.’ Her mother closed her eyes for a moment, as if in pain. ‘Vengeance is a matter for men, not us. They have a hunger for it and never see the consequences. It was the drink talking. Your father’s not a murderer. It wouldn’t be proper.’

  ‘None of this is “proper”, is it?’ Juliet asked a little too harshly.

  ‘Tybalt’s dead. The Montague boy’s as good as. We’ll never see his face in Verona again. Unless it’s in a noose. That’s enough for me.’ Bianca Capulet smiled. ‘Now. Let’s try and think of joyful things instead.’

  ‘Joyful…?’ It came out as a whisper.

  ‘Your father’s a prudent, thoughtful man. I know it doesn’t always seem that way. But he bears burdens we never witness. A happy day he’s arranged for you.’

  There was a tremor in her voice then. Juliet heard it and wondered.

  ‘What day is that?’

  ‘Your wedding. It’s arranged. The service. The flowers. A choir. Count Paris makes his preparations, too.’

  ‘I told you. I’m not ready. Give me a little time…’

  Her mother looked her in the eye. ‘This procrastination on your part must end. The deal’s been struck. Your father and Paris decided last night. You’ll be wed tomorrow. In the morning. Father Cesare will marry you in Sant’Anastasia where you were baptised.’ With tenderness she touched her daughter’s long blonde hair. ‘I’ll bring in women to make you the loveliest bride this city’s seen in years. Whatever it costs–’

  ‘This is too soon! You haven’t asked me. Paris… I don’t know this man. And when we spoke it was… awkward.’

  A laugh again, bitterness beneath it. ‘It’s always awkward at the start. How do you think it was for any of us? The time for argument’s over. You know–’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I know!’

  Juliet’s voice rose to echo round the room. Angry tears began to fill her eyes. The painting on the wall, the little girl with her stick drawing in charcoal seemed to mock her. As if the grinning figure there said, ‘You understood it was coming all along. And simply used Romeo to fool yourself otherwise.’

  ‘I know I do not want this. I will not marry yet and that is that.’

  ‘It is arranged!’

  ‘Then un-arrange it! Or send me to this Montague in Mantua. If I don’t kill him I’ll marry him instead. You hate him, too. Perhaps that would be a greater punishment for both of us–’

  ‘Be quiet, girl. Speak moderately and with a modicum of sense.’

  ‘Sense? You’d marry me to a stranger? Against my will? Tomorrow? And you dare preach to me of sense?’

  There’d never been blows between them. There wouldn’t be now. But she did push her mother out of the room, with all the force it took to move her struggling, protesting frame. Juliet bolted the door with a slam, weeping, crying, cursing with all the words she’d never used out loud before.

  After a little while a hesitant voice came through the polished wood.

  ‘Daughter?’

  She didn’t speak. The tears were running freely. She wiped them away with her arm.

  ‘Juliet… in an hour I’ll come back for you. We will discuss this with your father. Calm yourself. Think of your family. Of your duty to us. As we think of ours to you.’

  ‘I think of Mantua and nothing else! Send me there!’

  After a long pause her mother said with firmness, ‘Tybalt’s death has distressed you more than I imagined. More than you realise yourself. Young girls may become hysterical–’

  ‘Hysterical?’

  ‘It’s a fact. I will arrange for a physician. He can find a potion that will soothe your nerves.’

  Her response came unbidden, as if some instinct seized on any slight opportunity. ‘The only medical man I’ll talk to is Friar Laurence from San Francesco. At least he’s kind–’

  She could hear her mother’s laboured breathing. Then Bianca Capulet said, ‘The Franciscan? If that’s what you want. He’ll have a drug to put you right. But first you must speak with your father. One hour. I’ll knock on your door.’

  One hour.

  ‘The time will fly,’ she murmured.

  On Cupid’s wings. And there’s the joke.

  * * *

  The monumental quarters of Verona were cramped and jumbled, constructed piecemeal over the centuries with little thought for design or planning. Mantua seemed grander and more organised by comparison, as if the little town wished to be a miniature Venice or Rome. The apothecary gave him some necessary background before they reached the complex of palaces and fortifications that formed the regal household. This, Nico said, was a state with great aspirations and a sense of independence. It paid well to heed both. That way lay swift elevation and, with luck, for Romeo, a letter recommending Escalus show mercy to a son of Verona who’d come to repent the hot-headed fury he’d displayed on a single summer day.

  ‘Ingratiate yourself, lad,’ the apothecary advised. ‘Flatter her. Tell her what she wants. If you’re lucky she’ll take you on her staff for a pittance. Doesn’t matter. One day you’ll get those papers and then you’ll be on your way home.’

  ‘How long?’ Romeo asked.

  Nico smiled and didn’t answer.

  Finally they reached their destination, the castle of San Giorgio, a turreted fortress overlooking one of the lakes and near the harbour. The walls were of soft golden stone, more appealing than the red brick of Cangrande’s castle by the Adige. Inside, the building seemed more palace than stronghold. Nine paintings greeted them in the reception hall, gigantic, imposing canvases documenting the triumphs of Caesar. They were as grand and colourful as anything Romeo had seen in Florence. The work, Nico said, of Mantegna, Mantua’s favourite artist, now resident on a fantastic salary at the court so that he was never tempted to roam.

  It was as well Mantegna’s magnificent depictions of an imperial triumph were there to welcome them. There was precious else to look at as they waited more than an hour in a sweltering corridor while servants and clerks and others whose purpose Romeo could only guess at came and went. The court of the absent Francesco Gonzaga the Second seemed a busy place, buzzing like a hive in which serious young men in dark suits carried documents and pens about as casually as the young of Verona sported daggers.

  Then a face appeared at the door and said he was summoned. The apothecary nodded at him. ‘You’re on your own now. Be polite. Be sharp. Be lucky. I’ll see you outside
when you’re done.’

  The man who called his name was black. Not with the swarthy colour of the men of the south, of Sicily and the like, that he’d seen at home. This man was black as coal, with round and serious features and a shiny silk costume of scarlet and silver stripes designed to show off his muscular frame.

  Romeo followed him down a corridor of portraits – men mostly, Gonzagas he assumed – then they entered the private office of Isabella d’Este, Marchesa of Mantua.

  She sat on a kind of raised throne next to a long, wide window that looked out over the placid lake. Her attire was even more extraordinary than that of her servant. The dress was of green velvet set with gold and gems. The arms were billowing, the low neckline covered modestly with fine gauze. It was hard to take his eyes off the most unusual aspect of her gown: the openings over her breasts through which a pair of timid brown nipples were peeking.

  ‘You’re staring at something.’

  ‘No, no, your Highness. I’m not. I promise.’

  Instead he gazed up at the towering bookcases next to the throne. A small brown and white monkey was perched on top. When it saw him the creature scampered down, chattering, stole a pear from a fruit bowl on the table, then curled up on a cushioned bed by the fireplace and started to eat very noisily.

  ‘You’re from Verona,’ Isabella d’Este said, as if nothing odd had happened.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Banished for murdering a man.’

  ‘The villain killed a friend of mine, in a cowardly cruel fashion. I was… full of anger. He threatened me. The red heat came. Now I’m banished and full of regret and shame. For which I truly curse myself.’

  She was looking at the paintings. All portraits of herself. ‘Your personal feelings are of no consequence. It is for the state to deliver justice. Not the individual. Though…’ A thought occurred to her. ‘I am the state. And I am an individual. So perhaps I’m being pompous.’

  She had dark eyes, small and keen, and seemed far more alert than he felt after a night in Juliet’s bed and the ride across the plain.

  ‘No, my lady. You are right.’

  ‘I usually am.’

  She asked him about Escalus and which way his troops were pointing: north, south, or west? It seemed an odd question to throw at him. Mantua surely had a web of spies throughout Italy. They would know more of military matters than he could ever glean from gossip round the Piazza Erbe.