The Master of Verona

by David Blixt

  Mariotto remained kneeling in the mud, looking down at the face that had always, but for one night, looked severe and reserved. Now the features were relaxed, peaceful. So should every man look, the assembled men thought, as he found himself at his Creator's knee.

  "Ambushed, looks like," said Bonaventura, sobering swiftly.

  Benvenito glanced up sharply. "By whom? A Paduan?"

  "No. Not a Paduan." Tenderly Mariotto laid his father's head to the ground. Pulling hard, he removed a silver dagger from his father's armpit. He had to work hard to slide it out, showing how forceful a blow the killing stroke had been. He wiped the blood from it on his own cloak. There, etched on the blade, was his own name.

  A murmur of voices from up the hillside, then a pair of figures came into the clearing under the tree. Luigi and Antony Capulletto walked forward into the light of the torches. Antony said, "We saw the lights on the hill. What's happened? Are they found?"

  "Capulletto," said Nico softly, "you don't want to be here right now."

  "Why?" Antony looked at the dead body. "Who is it?"

  Mariotto's head rose. Uguccione saw his muscles tense. So did Nico. As Mariotto sprang forward they were there, wrapping their arms about Montecchio to restrain him. Mariotto struggled fiercely as he shouted, "Bastard! Coward! Can't even come at me face to face! You have to stab in the back! Only you missed! You missed!"

  Antony turned red. "If I wanted you dead, Mari, you'd be dead!"

  "Christ, Capulletto," murmured Bonaventura, "shut up, can't you?"

  "I will when you tell me who the hell is that dead man?"

  Benvenito answered. "Aurelia's father. His father." He jerked his thumb at Mariotto.

  Antony went from red to ashen in an instant. "No!"

  Mariotto's face streamed tears. "You jumped-up nobody! She'd never have you! Kill me and she still wouldn't come to you!"

  Antony realized why everyone's eyes were upon him. "No! I didn't — the old man was kind to me — stood with me against his son! Why would I want him dead?"

  Mariotto raised the silver dagger in his hand. "Because you thought it was me! Me!"

  Antony stared at the knife, a horrified look on his face. "Where did you get that?"

  "From my father's corpse! Can't tell a young man from an old, but you can tell back to front! You lily-livered coward!"

  "Mariotto," said Uguccione in his ear, "calm yourself. I'll arrest him for this—"

  "No! Let me loose, damn you!" Mari strained against the men holding him. "You want a fight, Capulletto? You want a duel? Fine! Here, now. Daggers only. You can use the one you stabbed my father with!"

  Antony held out his hands. "I swear, I threw it away! I dropped that thing this afternoon!" Looking at the faces around him, it was clear that no one believed him. "I did!"

  "Everyone heard you, Antony!" Mari turned savagely to face Bonaventura. "You heard him, didn't you?"

  "Well, I —"

  Capulletto interrupted. "I was going to—"

  "What? What? Embrace me, then stab me in the back like you did my father!" Breaking loose of the arms restraining him, Mariotto took up a fighting stance. "Come on! Come on!"

  Crimson crept back into Antony's face. "Listen, you little shit! I didn't kill him!"

  "But you'd kill me, or someone who looked like me!"

  "No!"

  "Then prove it! Prove it! Win your life before God, and walk away with my blood on your dagger too. For if you don't, I swear, Capulletto, by all I hold dear, I swear on my marriage, on my wife's life, that I will never rest until your whole line are as dead as my father!"

  Antony's rage broke at last. "Then come on, boy, and try your accusations with a weapon sharper than your tongue!"

  Uguccione shouted, "Arrest them! Both of them! They're breaking the law and are subject to punishment. By the Capitano's own orders, there will be no dueling in his lands. Beat down their weapons! Bind them if you must, but get them out of here!"

  As they were dragged away, Antony was spitting curses and epithets that Mari hurled back in equal number. Uguccione sighed. "Bonaventura, go find Bailardino and tell him about this mess. Someone find Montecchio's wife. And Benvenito, make sure his sister his safe. She needs to be told, and Montecchio is in no fit state." He turned to Luigi. "I don't suppose you can tell me if your brother did this?"

  "I can't tell you he didn't," said Luigi with a sad look. "We parted on the road, and I only found him a few minutes ago."

  "Very well. I would appreciate it if you would go tell your father that we've arrested your brother, and things look bad for him. That knife is pretty damning."

  Luigi said, "It certainly is. I'll leave right now."

  "Thank you." Uguccione was disturbed by the whisper of a smile on Luigi's face as he departed. He arranged for the body to be moved to Castello Montecchio. Mariotto would be released in a couple of hours to make the arrangements for the funeral. For he was now Lord of Montecchio.

  If ghosts haunt the places where they have work yet unfinished, the spirit of Gargano Montecchio remained, watching the rebirth of a feud, an ancient grudge broken to new mutiny.

  Just when Pietro believed they had no choice but to jump, the carriage slowed. They were stopping. He was weaponless but for his cane, returned to him by the Capitano's men. He gripped it tightly.

  Cesco had fallen asleep. He woke now with a rush. "Are we there yet?"

  "We're stopping," replied Pietro. "Cesco, I hear you're good at hiding. Do you see anyplace you can hide in here?"

  Cesco looked up at Donna Katerina. She asked him, "Where would you hide, Francesco?" He shook his head. "Of course you can. You always know where to hide." Cesco grinned and shook his head again.

  Dante interrupted. "Madonna, if I may. Child, do you know a place to hide?"

  The child nodded.

  "Then why didn't you—" began Katerina.

  Dante smiled in spite of their predicament. "I think he doesn't want you to see it."

  "Oh, for Heaven's sake!"

  "Madonna, we have little time. If you wouldn't mind…?"

  With an exasperated sigh, Katerina della Scala covered her eyes with her hands. Immediately the child jumped up and pushed Pietro out of his seat. Lifting the cushion Pietro had been sitting on, he opened a wooden lid that led to a small compartment. In it were riding clothes, an empty chamber pot, and the various necessities of a lady who travels a great deal. Cesco hopped inside and began to close the lid. Pietro stopped him, his eyes having caught something in the gloomy light. Reaching in, he pulled a dagger out of the compartment, then rubbed Cesco's head. "It'll be better than the cave. Nothing will fall on you." With one last look to make certain Donna Katerina's eyes were well and truly covered, Cesco ducked into the compartment and closed the lid. Pietro replaced the cushion and resumed his seat.

  "May I open my eyes?" Receiving assent, Katerina glanced about the carriage interior. Pietro pointed to the seat he was on and she raised an eyebrow, wondering how the child had noted the compartment's existence. The telltale hinges were well concealed in the woodwork.

  As the carriage reached a complete stop, the occupants heard the drivers leap off and approach them from either side. Fingering the hilt of the dagger, Pietro called out, "What's happening?"

  "The way is blocked! A tree fell across the road ahead! We'll have to send for help!"

  "We'll wait in here, then," called Pietro. "We're all pretty tired! Why don't you unhitch the horses and ride back to Cangrande!"

  "We need to talk to you!" the speaker responded. This one seemed to be doing all the talking. Where's the other one?

  After a pause in which Pietro failed to emerge, the speaker continued. "We have orders not to leave the boy alone."

  "We'll be here with him! Leave us a sword, and we'll be fine!"

  "Why don't you come out and we'll discuss it!"

  This was getting bad. Pietro decided to try a different tack. "I can't walk! My bad leg, it's seized up!"

  "Then
open the door and we'll help you out!"

  Seeing Pietro at a loss, his father piped up. "He's got to rest it, and the boy is asleep. Just go!"

  There was no answer. Pietro motioned for Katerina to move to the center of her bench, away from the doors, then changed his mind and ushered her into his own seat. He placed himself in the center of the empty bench. He needed freedom of movement. There was no telling which side the attack, when it came, would begin. If the grooms were planning to assault the carriage, they'd open both at once. He leaned against the wall by the left-hand door. His right arm would have better range of motion. If someone came in through that door, he would receive a blade in the eye. Then Pietro could wrench another weapon free and attack the other.

  But no attack came.

  Cangrande and Morsicato galloped up the muddy road in the darkness. The Scaliger carried a torch overhead, using it to make out the carriage tracks that were devilish hard to see.

  The doctor called out, "We have to overtake them soon."

  Cangrande slowed a bit to let Morsicato catch up to him, twisting in the saddle to examine the trees about them. Just as the doctor pulled level, the Capitano shouted, "Archers!" He pointed with the torch.

  Morsicato twisted to follow the Capitano's indication but was struck a blow on the head. As he toppled from the saddle, the last conscious sensation he could make out was the smell of burning skin.

  There was a rustling sound under Pietro's seat. Katerina whispered harshly, "Cesco! Stop fidgeting!" The rustling stopped. They waited in more silence. The curtains over the windows were drawn, but they knew their attackers were outside. Every now and then a torch moved in the darkness, shifting the light hitting the curtain.

  Pietro smelled the smoke before he heard the crackle. "Oh no."

  "What?" frowned Dante. Katerina was already looking to see where the smoke would come from.

  "The bastards have set the coach on fire." Smoke poured in through the floor. The fire was catching faster than he could imagine. Pietro's breath choked. "Must have been covering the thing with pitch. That's what they were—" He was unable to say more through the coughs that racked his lungs.

  There was nothing for it, they had to risk the door. Pietro handed his father the cane, pointed at the right door, then kicked open the left. As Dante worked the handle on his side, Pietro stabbed into the smoky darkness opposite with his dagger, hoping to feint the murderers out of position. But if these men had sense they'd be well back from the carriage, waiting for their prey to run into their waiting arms.

  Which is what we're about to do.

  As Dante bolted out the right-hand door, Katerina lifted the lid of the bench under her. "Cesco!"

  There was no answer.

  Ducking out the right-hand door after his father, Pietro limped heavily down to the ground. His father was just outside, the cane raised high over his head, ready to fell any attacker. Pietro took position on the other side of the door, every muscle tight, his lungs burning. His watering eyes were blinking furiously and he didn't see the figure approaching in the smoke. He bent to cough and the sword stroke missed his head by a fraction. He gasped and lunged, burying the dagger all the way to the hilt in the man's thigh. Pietro's momentum continued carrying him forward, toppling both him and his assailant to the earth. Dante was over them a second later, using the cane to club the villainous groom senseless.

  Inside the burning carriage Katerina's left hand searched the compartment. She reared back with a shriek, her flesh smoking. The compartment was already burning. Choked, faint, she was unable to call for Cesco. Yet she couldn't leave. She reached down again, willing herself to ignore the pain. Her fingers encountered burning straw, and for a moment she believed it was hair. She clutched and pulled at it, scalding her hands on a sizzling chamber pot that she tossed aside. She smelled her own flesh burning, yet didn't stop digging, throwing the burning thatch this way and that, until her hands felt the floor of the compartment.

  Empty.

  She heard the hoofbeats. A horse approached. Friend or foe, she couldn't be bothered. Where was Cesco? Where where where?

  In the smoke outside, Pietro watched his father continue to beat at the groom's head with a fury that was surprising. Then he saw a glint of light from the fire reflecting a few feet away. A sword, an axe, something deadly. The hand that gripped it aiming for the great poet's back. Pietro was too choked to cry out. He was weaponless. He tried to stand, but his body failed him at last. There were no more reserves, nothing he could do to save his father's life. He watched as the weapon's blade began its descent.

  There was an ugly clang, metal on metal. The weapon fell away as the attacker turned to his right. A gust of wind showed a surprised expression cross his face. "But my lord!" Then his face split apart as a sword hacked down with an incredible force.

  It was a sword Pietro recognized. Cangrande had come. Thank God!

  Collapsing to the ground with another fit of coughing, Pietro felt himself get dragged a few feet away from the blaze where it was easier to breathe. Twisting around onto his back, he saw Dante point towards the carriage, gasping out some words in Cangrande's ear. The Scaliger dashed into the blazing conveyance. A moment later Katerina reeled from the carriage, wrapped in her brother's arms. She screamed and fought, kicking and clawing to return to the flames. Her sleeve was on fire, her left hand and arm and shoulder burnt and blistered, her hair singed and black. Cangrande threw her to the earth and rolled her back and forth to extinguish the flames. She coughed and screamed, desperate to return to the carriage that was nothing but a shell of raging fire.

  Her brother gripped her right wrist as she struggled. "Kat — your baby! Stop fighting, damn it! The baby!" She moaned once as she fell to the earth, her hands on her belly but her eyes on the fire.

  Cangrande paced over to the man Dante had beaten and checked to see if he was breathing. He must not have been, for Cangrande lifted the lifeless body over his shoulders and pitched it headfirst into the blaze. He did the same for the man he had killed. He then joined Dante and Pietro, kneeling by Katerina's side as they watched the fire. After several minutes Katerina spoke.

  "He wasn't there." It took her several breaths to speak again, and when she was able, all she could do was repeat this single fact. "He wasn't there! He wasn't there, he wasn't there, he wasn't there!"

  Dante shook his head. "He must have been stuck, or curled up in a corner."

  Pietro wiped his eyes and face. "How could he be in there and not make a sound?"

  "He was a remarkable child." The poet's voice trembled. "My lord, I am so sorry."

  Dante was behind the Scaliger, as was Katerina. Only Pietro, prostrate on the ground, had a view of Cangrande's face. Pietro blinked in disbelief. Engraved on Cangrande's every feature was an expression of pure, boundless —

  Joy. Ecstasy, raw delight, the face an angel might bear doing the bidding of the Lord. Only this face was delighting in the death of a child. Blood of his blood.

  A giggle made them all whirl about. Stepping into the road from by the treeline was Cesco. With nothing worse than muddy knees and hands he stood in the light of the fire, smiling happily.

  Dante goggled, Katerina let out a sighing sob, Pietro stared between the flames and the child. Then he looked to Cangrande.

  The Scaliger's face was back to its old self. With a twinkle in his eye he bowed to the boy, who made a fine bow in return. Then Cesco ran forward to embrace his foster mother, who was too tired to deny him the affection he so clearly deserved. She wrapped her right arm about him and wept.

  Later they would reconstruct his miraculous escape as something quite simple. The compartment under the seat also had a door leading to the rear exterior of the carriage, allowing the disposal of waste or stowing of luggage without disturbing the passengers within. Cesco must have forced the catch just as they halted, then dashed for the trees. That rear door also explained why the carriage went up in flames so swiftly — the two grooms had taken straw fr
om a nearby hut and stuffed it into the compartment. What Katerina thought was Cesco moving about under her was really the murderers, planning their demise.

  "It's a shame they didn't live," observed Cangrande. "We might have discovered who hired them."

  "But we know, my lord," said Dante, blinking. Then he realized what he was about to say would be quite a blow to his patron. "I have a heavy tale to tell, my lord," he began, quickly outlining their deductions regarding Cangrande's wife, Donna Giovanna da Svevia.

  When he was finished, the Scaliger turned away. "I see. That reminds me — Morsicato. He's nearby, unconscious. Rogue Paduan soldiers attacked us on the way here. He was knocked out, and I had to tie him to his horse to bring him along. If he's up to it, perhaps he can examine your wounds, Kat." The Scaliger vanished up the road.

  With the two carriage horses, removed before the fire, and the two horses that bore Cangrande and the senseless doctor, they were able to slowly make their way back to Vicenza. Pietro rode one horse, Katerina another, Morsicato lay over Dante's saddle, and Cesco sat in Cangrande's lap.

  No one spoke overmuch on that ride. For Pietro it was a ride filled with one thought, one image that returned over and over to his mind — Cangrande's expression when he thought that Cesco was dead. That horrible delight tormented Pietro's imagination the whole weary ride back to Vicenza.

  FORTY

  Vicenza

  22 May 1317

  Perched atop the roof of the Nogarola palace, his back to a turret, Pietro stared down at the sleeping city. The wet rooftops of Vicenza glistened under the light of the moon and the stars.

  He heard bells. Barely midnight. So much had happened since the dawn. He'd lived a whole life in the span of the rising and falling of one sun. Yet while his inner eye ran over all the events, in his ears he heard only a child's voice singing through tears of fright.

  They'd been dropped into complete oblivion, he and Cesco. Without each other, neither would have survived. Never out of reach, always conversing or singing, they had kept away the korai, the gods the Greeks believed called men to madness. It had seemed eternal, though he now knew it was less than an hour. He also knew how close they'd come to running out of air altogether. He wondered if he'd ever be comfortable in enclosed spaces again. Hence the rooftop.