The Master of Verona

by David Blixt

  The young Montecchio's eyes sparkled as he seized hand after congratulatory hand. He refused several offers of malmsey and cheese pressed on him by admirers, moving quickly through the throng, looking for someone.

  When he found her, he bowed deeply, kissing her hand. "Signorina, we've not been properly introduced. I am Mariotto Montecchio, eldest son of—"

  Gianozza cut across him with a laugh. "I know who you are, Ser Montecchio. Congratulations on your victory. O, Ser Alaghieri! Hello!" She gestured to another pretty girl beside her. "This is Consolata."

  "Charmed." Pietro bowed as much as crowd and crutch allowed. Consolata hid her face and tittered. Uneasy, Pietro said to Gianozza, "Lady, your betrothed is well. His leg is broken, but apart from that he's fine. He asked Mariotto and me to entertain you in his stead."

  Mariotto made a little flourish with his hat. "May we join you?"

  Gianozza patted the cushion of the box bench upon which she sat. "Of course. I'm honoured to be in the presence of the winner of the Palio. Please, tell us all about it." The other girls were looking at Mariotto coyly. Consolata forgot Pietro entirely. He didn't know to if he was relieved or insulted.

  But Mari couldn't be bothered with any of them as he told Gianozza about the race, turn by turn, each slip momentous. Nowhere in the narrative did he mention Antony. When he finished, Gianozza clapped her hands. "How exciting! But Ser Montecchio, I heard something this evening… but perhaps you won't wish to speak of it."

  "No," said Mari eagerly. "Please, tell me."

  "Ser Alaghieri said that there was talk this evening, something to do with your family…"

  "Of course. The feud." In a hushed tone he spoke of his mother's death and the ancient feud with the Capelletti. Gianozza listened, eyes wide, head canted sympathetically to one side.

  Does she give that look to everyone? wondered Pietro. No wonder Antony fell under her spell so fast. Watching now, it seemed she was working hard to weave that same spell over Mariotto. Almost as hard as he's trying to fall under it.

  Pietro was wondering how to politely drag Mari away when he suddenly spied the same Moor from outside, passing across his line of sight, in a great hurry. Watching the man move through the crowd, he was startled by a voice in his ear. "For shame, Pietro. Forsaking me for younger girls."

  He rose at once. "Donna Katerina."

  Katerina received Mari's bow and curtsies from the young ladies. "No please, don't rise. You wouldn't mind if I stole Ser Alaghieri away for a few moments, do you?" She took Pietro by the arm, and the moment they moved away the girls burst into close whispers.

  Katerina glanced back at Mariotto. "All hail the conquering hero."

  "Yes, he's the man of the hour."

  "So I see. Quite the Lancelot, isn't he?"

  This rang a warning bell in Pietro's memory. "I suppose so."

  "I didn't want to interrupt, just say goodnight. And return these." She extended his knife and his hat to him.

  Pietro blushed as he tucked the blade into its sheath. "I'm sorry, lady. I was going to find you. I just—"

  She laughed. "I am not pining, Ser Alaghieri. Today is a great day for you, I should not be monopolizing your time. I'm grateful for the attentions you've shown me. But it's time to put Cesco to bed."

  "Is he tired out?"

  "No, I am. He has the energy of the men in my family, he rarely sleeps." She stopped, her mouth twisting wryly. "If your father were here, he would tout that gaffe to the skies."

  "It's not much of a secret," confided Pietro. "Is he with his father?"

  "No, little Cesco is with the nurse." She gestured to the corner she had occupied. Sure enough, there was the nurse, back turned to them.

  There was a great deal of noise on the balcony, including several animals. But Pietro swore he heard Mercurio's growl from the nurse's side. Squinting, Pietro thought that there was something wrong with the way the nurse was sitting. She was slouched forward, one arm hanging loose. "Donna," he said with an edge of urgency.

  Turning, Katerina immediately spied what disturbed him. With Pietro in her wake she walked back to the nearly deserted corner of the loggia. "Nina?" Each step was quicker than the last. "Nina? Cesco?"

  Reaching the nurse's side, Pietro laid his hand on her shoulder. Instantly the body fell from the stool to lay awkwardly limp on the marble floor. Kneeling, he turned her face to the light. Her skin was white, her body limp and lifeless, a crimson stain spreading outward from a knife in her chest.

  Breathless, Pietro confirmed his worst fear. The nurse's arms were empty.

  TWENTY-THREE

  "Francesco!"

  Across the loggia the laughing Capitano turned and saw the expression on his sister's face. At once he barreled across the crowded hall. Reaching Pietro's side, he took in the scene at a glance. "Where is he?"

  "Gone. I stepped away for a moment." Though she was shaking, Katerina's voice was firm.

  Cangrande snapped his fingers and men appeared — Passerino Bonaccolsi, Nico da Lozzo, Bailardino, Tullio, and Ziliberto dell'Angelo, his master of the hunt. "The girl's been murdered and little Cesco has disappeared. Tullio, find Villafranca, tell him to seal the bridges. Nico and Passo, get your men and make a house-to-house search, starting with the nearest. Nico, go north, Passo, south. Bailardino, go dunk your head, get sober, then take my men west. Ziliberto, get across the San Pietro bridge. It's closest. All of you, go."

  As they dispersed Katerina laid a hand on Cangrande's sleeve. "He can't have got far. This just happened."

  Pietro opened the shutters beside them, looking down on the huge crowd milling about in the alley below — an alley that led in one direction to the stables and in the other towards the Piazza della Signoria. His eyes searched all the faces desperately. "I saw a Moor."

  "I know about the Moor," said Cangrande.

  "I think it was him," insisted Pietro.

  Katerina said, "He might have his reasons."

  Cangrande frowned uncertainly. "True. I'll search the palace. You'll organize things here."

  "Let Tullio," said Katerina. "I'm coming."

  "Pietro, I'm taking your dog." Slipping his hand into Mercurio's leash, Cangrande made for the exit, only to find his path blocked by his wife.

  "Husband?" asked Giovanna da Svevia, her face concerned. "What is happening?"

  Cangrande pushed past her without a glance. "No time."

  Katerina followed her brother. By now gawkers were pressing in, fascinated by the dagger protruding from the nurse's breast. Half the men on the balcony had military backgrounds. One by one they offered their services to Cangrande, who was struggling towards the far door.

  Pietro remained behind, feeling utterly helpless.

  When the panel swung open to disgorge a man with a bundle, the drunks gave an ironic cheer. Nursing a broken head, one exclaimed, "I told you! The wall moves!"

  "Let me pass." The man had been delayed by the darkness of the stairwell and the wriggling of the bundle's contents.

  "What's that door?" asked one of the sots, looking inside.

  The man with the burden said, "They're giving away free drinks up there. But it's a secret."

  Already men were staggering for the sliding panel. The man tried to push past them, and as he fought, a blond head emerged from the blanket in his arms.

  "Cute kid," said one drunk as he passed.

  Pietro stared down upon the milling crowd in the Piazza della Signoria, looking for one face, a single face in the throng. An elderly voice at his elbow snapped, "What's happening?" Pietro saw Constable Villafranca examining the body.

  "Cesco's been kidnapped."

  The Constable visibly started. "When?"

  "Just now, dammit!" Turning back to the window, Pietro peered through the falling snow at the crowd below. To one side a noteworthy figure emerged from the palace doors, struggling through the sea of staggering drunkards. It was the man Pietro had been looking for. The Moor.

  Something wasn't right. In s
pite of the bulky cloak, Pietro could tell the Moor's arms were empty. But he was certainly moving fast. In fact, he seemed focused on another figure ahead of him, a figure making better progress through the throng. The Moor was trying to intercept him. The man in the lead was passing almost directly beneath Pietro's balcony, which meant he couldn't have come through the main doors. A tall man in a knee-length tunic and a long trailing hood, with awkwardly distended limbs, he looked like a spaventapasseri, the creatures farmers created to scare off scavenger birds.

  In the scarecrow's arms was a bundle, something wrapped in a blanket—

  "There. There!" shouted Pietro, pointing. "Stop that man!"

  The fugitive glanced back in panic and Pietro got a good look at the man's face. Beneath the short beard it was grotesque, with long sallow cheeks under the shadows of the hood, conjuring up Pietro's every childhood nightmare. "There he goes! That's the man!"

  Cangrande had barely reached the doors to the loggia. Now he whirled about and saw Pietro pointing out the window. The Scaliger cursed and cried, "The back stairs!"

  Mercurio was ahead of him, his nose leading him to a door hidden in a recess just around the corner from the loggia. Cangrande reached it moments after the hound and pulled on the latch. It didn't move. "Why in the name of the Virgin is this door locked?!" He battered uselessly at it with one hand, then spun on his heel for the crowded front stairs.

  At the window Villafranca stood beside Pietro. "Show me!"

  "There!" Down among the populace the scarecrow was not able to run, but he was pushing steadily on, hugging the walls of the Giurisconsulti where the crowds were thinner because of the leopard on the steps. If no one intercepted him or the Moor, they were going to lose the child.

  Pietro's leg was over the railing before he knew what he was doing. He beat away Villafranca's grasping hand with his crutch and used his left leg to propel himself, dropping off the balcony onto the crowd below.

  Some saw him coming and threw up hands to protect themselves. Some were taken by surprise. Pietro's hip cracked on someone's head, but his outstretched arms grasped enough men to keep him off the ground.

  There was a good deal of cursing until someone noticed his clothes. "It's a knight!" Thinking him drunk, they held him aloft and passed him from hand to hand. On a sea of men reeking of drink and sweat, he was being carried away from the kidnapper and the Moor. "No! Stop, dammit!" His frantic shouts were lost, so he started lashing out with kicks, swinging his crutch. One man ducked and let go, which sent the young knight rolling over face-first towards the earth. Pietro's left knee struck hard on the cobblestones but he forced himself to stand, thinking he was lucky it had been his left knee, not his right.

  Ducking this way and that, he tried to see through the crowd. The hunched figure of the kidnapper was still jostling people near the leopard, trying to get by. Pietro stumbled in that direction, shoving bodies out of his path.

  A great cry from behind him made him glance over his shoulder. The huge Moor in the hooded cloak was brandishing a falchion, scything the air above his head as he threw men out of his path, heading directly for Pietro, protecting the scarecrow's escape. Pietro's hand went instinctively to his belt, but he was armed only with the silver knife Mariotto had given him that morning, the one with his own name on it. The thin miseracordia was useless against the falchion's blade, which could remove head from neck in a single stroke.

  The crowd parted for the Moor, who began moving faster. Pietro stumbled but kept on in the direction of the scarecrow, casting frantic glances behind him at the approaching falchion. Further back, he saw a sign of hope. Cangrande was emerging from the palace doors, a firebrand held high in one hand, Mercurio's leash in the other. Pietro's dog was straining towards the chase, and Pietro prayed Cangrande would let the hound free to aid his master.

  Forcing himself to forget the Moor, Pietro trained his eyes on Cesco, squirming this way and that in the scarecrow's arms. The boy was crying now, shrieking for all he was worth. The kidnapper was obviously having trouble holding him. Pietro cupped a hand to his mouth. "Cesco! Francesco! Cesco!"

  The little head turned and the frowning eyes found Pietro, a known face. A hand broke free from the blanket and reached for Pietro. Ignoring the terrible pain in his leg, Pietro broke into a full run. Damn me and damn this leg and where the hell are Cangrande and Bailardino and the rest of them? And how close is the Moor? In desperation, he threw his crutch over his shoulder, a weak missile. Maybe it would trip the Moor up.

  Now all Pietro had was the silver dagger. Suddenly an idea struck him. He held the weapon up high. "Cesco, look!"

  Cesco saw the dagger glinting in the torchlight and started to struggle, pulling both hands free and straining for the pretty weapon. The grotesque kidnapper cried, "God bless it, child! Be still, in the name of God!" The spaventapasseri shook Cesco, who cried out and grabbed onto a thin chain around the scarecrow's neck.

  Mere feet away, Pietro saw the villain cast about in desperation. The crowd had backed off, but it wouldn't be long before they understood who was in the wrong. His path would be blocked, his life ended. The scarecrow had no hope of escape. Pietro drew a shallow breath and called, "Give up, man! It's over!"

  "The devil it is!" The scarecrow whirled around. There was a knife in his hand, resting on the back of Cesco's neck.

  Pietro checked his run. "Don't!"

  A fierce growl cut him off. Nearby the leopard was straining its leash. The scarecrow glanced at the animal and Pietro saw the thought forming. A smile curled the edge of the fiend's mouth. No. He can't!

  The kidnapper heaved Cesco sideways at the leopard. The child was still clutching the man's necklace, but it broke and the child sailed through the air.

  Far behind him Pietro's heard Katerina's scream drowning out the gasps and cries from the drunken crowd.

  Wrapped in the blanket, Cesco bounced off the leopard's shoulder and fell. Landing roughly on the top stone step, the small bundle rolled down two more stairs. Cesco ended facing upward, looking at the snow falling from the sky. His mouth was open in a scream but there was no sound coming out.

  The startled leopard crouched back on its hindquarters, looking at the boy and growling. Pietro gazed for a horrible moment at the beast's strange mouth and the row of teeth just within. Then the angry leopard lifted a forepaw big as the child's whole body, ready to crush the offending bundle. Cesco dragged in a huge breath, and this time his scream was audible.

  Forgetting the Scarecrow, forgetting the Moor, forgetting everything else in this world, Pietro threw himself forward over Cesco's body, putting up his fist to ward off the leopard's blow. The weight that struck his fist was crushing. The leopard bellowed as something was torn from Pietro's grip. A second swipe hit him like a furry brick to the head. Damp stones buffeted his shoulders as Pietro was flipped in the air and landed flat on his back.

  Dazed, he rolled onto his side, blinking hard. Something dark was blurring his sight, but he could hear the leopard howling. Pietro cuffed his eyes and squinted up.

  Cesco was still laying on the nearby step, screaming bloody murder. The leopard was perched on the top step of the Giurisconsulti, but something was amiss with its right forepaw because it limped, trailing blood behind it. Pietro's dagger, forgotten when he'd jumped, had pierced the leopard's paw.

  The leopard snarled again, letting out an eerie cat bellow. It's ears were back and it crouched again, ready to throw itself at the child—

  Suddenly Cangrande was there, flaming torch in hand. He waved it back and forth to ward the beast back. To Pietro's eyes the Scaliger looked a thousand times fiercer than the animal.

  Then a huge shape appeared close to Cangrande. The Moor! Standing behind Cangrande, that evil blade hovering over the child! "No no no," mumbled Pietro, stretching out a futile hand.

  Cangrande didn't see the danger to Cesco. He was busy swinging the torch, forcing the leopard to hunch back. But fear of fire did not diminish the creature's rage. A
snarl, a clamping of jaws, and it leapt into the air.

  Cangrande lunged forward at the same moment, one arm protecting his head, the other still holding the brand. The Moor stepped right over Cesco and drove in behind the Scaliger, arms crossed, bashing the animal under its chin with the flat of his blade. The crushing weight of the beast landed on the Capitano's shoulders and the Moor's forearms. Its paws flailed wildly at the air as together they staggered, both throwing their legs wide for support. If they gave ground at all, the leopard would land squarely on the child.

  Cangrande used the brand to fend off the claws of the uninjured paw, then pressed the flames upward, scorching the beast's underbelly. The massive cat screeched horribly. The Moor took a step forward and twisted himself so his back was pressed against the animal's wounded belly. Cangrande dropped the brand, twisted around the Moor and away from the animal. In two steps he swept up the shrieking Cesco and dashed to the edge of the crowd, handing the bundle to his sister, just arrived.

  "Could someone help me, please?" Voice low and rasping, the Moor's calm tone disguised his enormous strain as the held the leopard at bay.

  Someone in the crowd cried, "Let them kill each other!" The sentiment was echoed. Quick bets were made as the leopard was cheered on. Suddenly Ziliberto dell'Angelo appeared, a long stick with a leather noose on its end in his hand. With a flick of the wrist the Master of the Hunt collared the beast and hauled upward.

  "You're not a light love, are you?" demanded Ziliberto. The leopard was angry, hurt and frightened. Landing on the steps it limped away from the crowd. Ziliberto followed it, cooing, making strange animal noises. Immediately the Moor stepped away, to the jeers and hisses of the crowd.

  Pietro felt hands hooking into his armpits, but his eyes were on Cangrande. The Scaliger was breathing hard, and blood flowed from his shoulder and back, but he seemed steady. He looked around for Cesco. "Is he hurt?"

  "The Capitano's fine," someone told him.

  "No — the boy! Is he hurt?"

  "He's fine," rasped a low voice as a dusky hand touched Pietro's head, feeling for damage. "Someone needs to look at those cuts."