by David Blixt
Like the obverse of a coin, Cesco made no concession to form or practicality. He stood upright, his legs relaxed and too close together. He let his buckler hang, unmindful. His sword, too, he left low, until it whipped up to strike. He had speed and grace. Detto struck methodically, but Cesco was never there, dancing away while slicing a light cut at his partner’s buckler. Slash, ting. Slash, ting. Detto feinted and feinted again, yet wherever his true blow fell, Cesco was never under it.
The fight far from uneven. Often trapped by his own cleverness, Cesco was forced to bring his buckler winging up to block a thrust he’d mistimed. His own attacks were beaten aside by Detto’s surging parries. As they clashed, they traded insults as well as blows, quickly developing a rhythm of verbal patter and shrieking metal.
Watching their play, Morsicato grunted. “Cesco could use a refresher in the basics.”
“Would make no difference,” observed Pietro.
Antonia had never seen them spar before. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
“They’re good for each other,” said Pietro. “Detto is learning that speed is as important as strength, and Cesco is finding that, every now and then, a little discipline is a good thing.”
“No, I mean isn’t it dangerous if someone sees them? Or hears them,” she added after a particularly loud yelp from Cesco - Detto had stabbed for his face and barely missed. Esta gasped and several soldiers said ‘ooo’.
“They’re just fulfilling their training as pages.” Pietro spoke distractedly, having just spied Tharwat returning. Gone over an hour, the Moor reined in and dropped from his saddle. Although his horse was lathered, his complete ease made everyone release a collective breath.
“There is no army, Paduan or Vicentine, between us and Quartesolo. There are traces of a second army chasing this one, traveling by another road to head them off. And there are marks of a smaller party forced to move by the armies.”
Pietro didn’t like that last, but made up his mind. “We continue on to Vicenza.” A peal of laughter behind him made him point at the warring boys. “We need them to stop so we can get moving.”
They called, but were ignored. The boys were in high spirits, and so far the hits were even. When Pietro let out his most insistent bellow, Cesco flipped his sword into the air and gave the fig over his shoulder before catching the hilt and lunging again.
The soldiers’ muted laughter kindled Pietro’s indignation. “That little bastard!”
Tharwat reached over his saddle and lifted a powerful bird-bow from his tack. It was already strung, so he fitted an arrow into the groove between his first and second fingers. “Shall we get their attention?”
Grinning, Pietro lifted a similar bow from his own gear. The bow was not an approved instrument of war. Only crossbows were holy weapons, and Pietro had cause to loathe those fiendish contraptions. In recent years the Moor had been teaching Pietro how to hunt with the bow, and slowly Pietro’s aim had improved. Besides, he was already an excommunicant, and Tharwat a heathen Moor. Hell awaited them both, so why not carry bows?
Pietro nocked an arrow. “That weeping pine?” He used his chin to indicate the tree, a good ten yards past the boys.
The feathers on the Moor’s shaft stood out, having been taken from a mallard duck. “The trunk.”
“The large knot near the split branch. It’ll sail just over their heads.”
“And the prize?”
“The loser has to answer any question from the boy.”
Morsicato clapped Pietro’s shoulder. “I hope you have your answers worked out, my boy.”
Pietro thanked the doctor for his encouragement. “Do you want a piece of this?”
“No, thank you. I’ve seen Tharwat shoot.”
So had Pietro, but he’d been practicing at the butts behind his house and thought he might actually have a chance this time.
In unison they raised their bows and counted three. Released, the shafts sliced the air with a thin whistle, meant to crease the space above the combatants.
Just at the moment of release, Detto lunged for his partner’s leg. Cesco should have jumped back from Detto’s oncoming attack, but instead he spun around Detto’s near side, away from the blow, and swept Detto’s legs out from under him. Then he sat down as the thin dark streaks passed well overhead and smacked into the tree.
Cesco rolled over and sat on Detto’s chest, sword held lazily near his partner’s neck. “You should cry foul. There was interference.”
In another moment they were trotting over. “Nuncle Pietro, you should really know better. After all, alone among us, you’ve actually been skewered.” The thin smile creased further. “Where was that, again?”
“You know where.”
“Ah yes! At the Battle of Vicenza, you said. The first or second?”
Pietro didn’t bother to respond, since the answer was already known. Detto demanded, “Where was my father, then?”
“Away,” answered Pietro. “Your uncle Antonio was in charge.”
“Which means La Donna was the real guiding light.” La Donna was Cesco’s name for Detto’s mother – The Lady. He’d only met her a handful of times since coming to Ravenna, and hadn’t seen her at all in two years. It was a mark of how she had deeply touched his life that he could discern so accurately a truth from a battle almost as old as he was.
Detto looked a little sad at the mention of his mother, and Cesco immediately turned the talk back to the battle, demanding that Pietro relive it. As they mounted and began the trek north Pietro did just that, omitting only a few details. He didn’t mention Montecchio or Capulletto by name, saying only that he’d ridden into battle with ‘two friends.’ Hardly an appropriate sobriquet these days.
There was one name, however, that Pietro could hardly fail to leave out. He wondered if that had really been Cesco’s goal.
The tale told, the boys lagged behind to discuss warfare in general. Tharwat drew up next to Pietro. “My arrow was truer.”
“Mine had the inner track.”
“It’s lovely to think so. So who answers the question from the boy?”
“One each, do you think?”
Al-Dhaamin nodded. “He earned it, the little fool.”
“He saw us,” said Pietro, “and made a show of being missed.”
“Worse. He goaded his friend into the attack.”
“So he could play the hero. Idiot. I like how Cesco acted as if he saved Detto’s life.”
“They were in no danger.”
“I know it, you know it. And Cesco knows it. But he likes to be the hero.”
“Even when there is no danger.”
“And yet,” admitted Pietro, “when they moved, I could feel my heart stop in my chest.”
“Mine was in my throat.”
It was easy when one met the Moor to think that he had no emotions at all, that whatever had so scarred his flesh had also rendered him senseless internally. His harsh voice rarely carried any inflection, even now. But eight years with their joint charge had drawn the two men into a kind of intimacy that neither had looked for, and both valued.
Cesco cantered up on Pietro’s other side. “So who won?”
“I did,” said both Tharwat and Pietro in unison. Pietro added, “Next time we’ll spare ourselves the effort and aim right at your head.”
“You mean you weren’t? I only moved because I know what poor shots you both are. The safest way to avoid being hit is to stand where you’re aiming.”
“Give me the fig again and you won’t find anywhere to hide.” Pietro stretched out to ruffle the boy’s wild hair.
Cesco ducked away. “So who won, really?”
“You, I suppose. You’ve earned two questions, one from each of us.”
Cesco reared back in mock surprise. “Ma, no! That’s two more than I thought I’d get. I must think of something to ask. By the by, it’s astrology.”
Pietro took some water from a skin. “What is?”
The boy produced the crump
led screw of paper from inside his boot. “This code. It has to do with the stars.”
Pietro turned to Detto. “Two hours since he first laid eyes on it, and that’s as far as he’s gotten. I’m unimpressed.”
Cesco bristled. “I’d like to see anyone else do better.”
“Nobody else has your advantages,” Pietro retorted. “Who could have helped me with that code? The list is short – father, sister, brother, doctor, and astrologer. Hmm. Astrologer. Perhaps it has to do with the stars!”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Nuncle,” said Cesco. “In fact, the pursuit of irony is a poor suit of armour for those of weak wit.”
This was a trick Pietro knew well. Vexed, Cesco often retreated into word-play. Pietro snapped his fingers. “A week’s wit spent at once, then. If sarcasm ill-suits me, then deliberate obtuseness suits you even less,” he said, paraphrasing an oft-repeated chastisement of his father’s. “Use what you have. You’ve handicapped yourself by starting from scratch, as if you know nothing of the men who devised it.”
“I know so little of anything, how could I do less?” Cesco held out the paper. “Clearly this author knows little of astrology, as that layer is of the most basic kind. The date on the paper was three days past – the sun was just into the ninth house then. The moon formed a trine with Mercury, but that’s been missed. Written in the second hour of the day, when Venus reigns. Scorpio ascendant, and Jupiter was in Cancer, and the eighth...”
“Yes, yes, you’ve been well tutored. Even a parrot can recite Virgil.”
“I’d rather be a dancing monkey,” said Cesco, slipping to hang sideways in the saddle and scratch his armpit. “That way I could earn my keep. Chireep!”
“What a pleasant change that would be.”
Still hanging, the boy’s smile turned nasty. “You’re just upset that you missed me.”
Pietro spurred his mount. “That, at least, is true.”
Seven
Verona
Tullio d’sola entered the palace’s private chamber just as Mastino was lecturing his brother Alberto. Two years Mastino’s elder, Alblivious was forever innocent and guileless. This caused his ambitious sibling more problems than it solved. Alberto’s latest gaffe was in letting slip Mastino’s intention of holding back the pay of Verona’s mercenary army for a month to furnish himself with a fine processional parade.
“…you damned fool, yes it’s a problem! Our uncle relied on the mercenaries more and more, calling up his own knights less often. Until things settle down, we’re going to need these greedy bastards—” Mid-diatribe, Mastino rounded on the Grand Butler, turning his ire from one victim to another without breaking rhythm. “If my uncle hasn’t returned from the dead, you’d best turn right back around! I have no time for bric-a-brac and petty complaints!”
Having known Mastino man and boy these sixteen years, d’Isola was no way startled by this greeting. “My Lords Capitano,” he began, tweaking Mastino’s nose with the joint-captainship, “there is a delegation arrived within the city requesting an audience. A delegation from Venice.”
Hands braced on the table before him, Mastino stilled. “Did they give their names?”
“The leader of their party is Ambassador Francesco Dandolo.”
Mastino hissed through his teeth. Alberto looked a blank. “Is he someone important?”
Ignoring his brother, Mastino pressed d’Isola. “Where, do you think?”
“I believe the Domus Nova would be best for an official visit of state,” replied the Grand Butler.
“Call my man, have the proper clothes prepared. We shall receive Ambassador Dandolo in – three hours. Let him stew.”
D’Isola bowed. “As you think best.”
♦ ◊ ♦
The Road to Vicenza
Despite the Moor’s assurances, it was a wary ride, with Novello’s men continually scanning the horizon for an ambush. But as the sun began to descend, Detto was able to doze, held upright in his saddle between Morsicato and Esta. Tharwat was scouting ahead, and Antonia was too focused on staying upright to fear an attack. “I’m not made for riding,” she said through a clenched jaw.
Whereas Cesco was. He fidgeted, slipping one foot out of his stirrup and wrapping it around the saddle’s pommel. His restlessness had nothing at all to do with unseen dangers. Finally he ranged himself alongside Pietro. “Two questions?”
“That was the wager.”
“The Arûs isn’t here. Do you mind receiving them both?”
“Let loose.”
“Poor choice of words, considering the contest.” Cesco paused, considering. “Tell me – have you ever been in love?”
Pietro’s mind balked like a horse hit on the head with a war-hammer. “What?”
The eyes were less green than blue at this moment. A traitor to the core. “My first question. Have you ever been in love?”
“That’s your question? You don’t want to know about your father?”
Cesco pointed an accusing finger. “Oh-ho! So it’s my pater who matters, not my mater? Thank you. But I’ll find out soon enough. No, I want to know why you’ve never married. You’ve had offers, good ones.”
“I – hmm. Perhaps I’m not the marrying kind.”
“Nonsense! You’re positively made for family life! But that was an evasion. You said you’d answer anything.”
“So I did.” Feeling a tightness in his chest, Pietro had to take a deep breath before answering. “I did love once. An older woman.”
“Was that the problem? Too large an age difference?”
“No. She was married to a man I liked.”
“Hah! And because you liked him, you didn’t try anything.” Cesco applauded slowly, shaking his head. “Courtly Love. The mournful sigh from afar! I know Grandfather Dante fell into that trap, but I didn’t think you were such a fool!”
“Oh, I’m a bigger fool than you imagine.”
Hearing the bitterness, Cesco grew more interested. “So what happened?”
Pietro’s gaze was far away. “She wasn’t what I thought she was.”
“The failure of all great loves.”
That remark brought Pietro back. “And what do you know of great loves? Have you fallen for some false idol?”
Cesco made a face, proving that at least in this, he was an average eleven year-old. “Not me! Men make fools of themselves for women, even in literature. I’ve always wondered if Lancelot was happy once he and Guinevere ran off together. Pleasure for a month, perhaps two. But it had to start to pall. The reality of her couldn’t have matched his dreams. Within a year I’ll bet he was lusting after someone else. The only time love can truly last forever is if they both die before they get to know each other.” Cesco’s brow furrowed. “But that makes sense, about you. I’ve always wondered why you didn’t marry. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for,” he added.
“Why thank you,” said Pietro dryly. “Your second question?”
Cesco swung his leg back around and found his stirrup. “On second thought, I think I’ll save it for my Shadow.”
♦ ◊ ♦
Soon they passed Quartesolo. As they approached the city they saw abandoned war machines – trebuchets, ladders, the makings of a siege-tower – all heaped by the side of the road, forgotten. Cesco had to be kept from climbing them.
Within a half-hour they were crossing the bridge to Vicenza, a city none but Morsicato and Detto had set foot in for eight long years.
At once they noticed the outskirts were marred by the detritus of a great fire. Awake now, Detto looked anxiously at the charred walls of his birthplace. Pietro assured him that there were no signs of a battle.
The city guards were on them before they reached the gate in the great wall. Morsicato rode forward while Pietro remained among Novello’s men. If he’d come with banners unfurled and the train that was his due, Ser Pietro Alaghieri would doubtless have been accorded a hero’s welcome. But it was not Pietro’s intent to invite attention until he kn
ew how the ground lay. Morsicato had once been the private physician to Donna Nogarola. Questioned, he said simply that they were returning the elder son of Bailardino to his father in this time of distress. The armed men were for the boy’s protection.
The garrison visibly relaxed and the doctor passed some words with them, gaining the news he repeated to Pietro moments later, sotto voce. “They know he’s dead. The fire was accidental, and seems to be why he was rushing here – even though there’s a truce, Padua could hardly resist such a chance. On the way, he just died. Once they heard he was gone, they expected the city to fall in days. But the Paduans never arrived. They’re mystified as to why.”
“Who was leading the Paduan army?”
“Your old friend, of course.”
The title was ironic. Marsilio de Carrara was hardly Pietro’s friend. Three times they had met in battle, and each time Pietro had somehow stumbled away not only alive but bearing the acclaim. Since the death of his noble uncle, Carrara had taken up the running of Padua. Recent accounts said his younger relatives were terrorizing the city, leaving the blame squarely at Carrara’s door. Those rumours filled Pietro with a warm glow.
Passing under the gate, Pietro saw that eight years had brought little change to Vicenza. In spite of the fires it had suffered through a decade of intermittent siege, the city was rebuilding in the same old way – wood, not stone. The decimated structures would be recreated just as they had always been. Some lessons took hard learning.
Happily, the Nogarola palace was intact. Technically it belonged to the entire Nogarola clan, but Detto’s uncle chose to live on the estate outside the city. A crossbow hit had festered, costing him an arm. Despite occasionally riding into battle with a shield strapped to his body, Antonio da Nogarola was no longer fit to lead his family’s fortunes.
That honour fell to Detto’s father, Bailardino da Nogarola, a bear-like man with a genial temperament. The palace belonged to him, but Bail was often away on matters of state and war. With Detto so often in Ravenna, and Detto’s brother Valentino spending much time with his one-armed uncle, the only permanent resident of the palace was Bail’s wife – La Donna, as Cesco called her. The whole of the top floor was given over to the care of Detto’s mother, and for two years she had never ventured from it.