by David Blixt
Her right arm about Pietro’s neck, Katerina watched without change of expression. But Pietro felt a tremble run through her. He tried not to tremble himself. In all the years he had known her, they had never been this close. Unwilling, he breathed in her scent. Lavender. How could he have forgotten?
It was a relief when the lady’s husband came pounding up the stairs, still covered in dust from the road. “How now! Out of bed!” His dark hair had thinned and his bristly beard was shot through with salt, but in every other respect Bailardino was a man in his prime. “Alaghieri! They told me downstairs! A welcome face in a troubled time.”
“It is a holiday,” said Katerina. “All our prodigals have returned to us.”
“Just as welcome as that first Prodigal,” said Bailardino, lifting his wife gently from Pietro’s arms. “Light as a sparrow, just like the day we met. D’you want to go down? A spell in the garden might do you good.”
“I am tired. I think I need to rest.”
Instantly contrite, her husband carried her back to her bed. Pietro remained by the railing, watching the youthful sport below with unseeing eyes. After a time the door behind him shut and Bailardino drew near. “Thought you’d arrive tomorrow at the earliest.”
“A small but determined party. Detto’s doing well.”
This brightened the warrior’s face. “I swear, I don’t know how I survived a life without children. They make everything make sense!” He shot Pietro a happy grin. “When are you going to settle down, boy?”
“When this is all over, maybe.” He nodded at the closed door. “She seems well.”
Bailardino released a weighty sigh. “Kind of you to say, lad, since we both know you’re lying. She should have recovered more than this. Walking by now, they say, and no slur.”
“How do the doctors explain it?”
“What they always say. ‘An imbalance in the humours.’ Not that I find it so damned humourous.”
“Morsicato’s with us. He’ll help.”
“I’m just happy that her brother’s death hasn’t caused a second stroke.”
“She does seem to be taking it well.”
“Better than me.” Bailardino ran his meaty hands through his wispy hair, then cuffed Pietro’s shoulder. “I’m sure she was glad to see you, though! She’s always had a soft spot for you. Come, let’s talk of more pleasant things – like the war we’re going to bring to that little shit! How much do you know?”
Following the Nogarola lord down stairs, Pietro quickly recounted their journey. In return, Bailardino gave him the news from Verona. “Mastino has taken over the palaces. He’s wooing the younger courtiers and flattering the elder statesmen – those he values, at any rate. Castelbarco is immune, but worried. And Venice has sent Francesco Dandolo to treat with him.”
“The one that Pope Clement called—?”
“The same.”
“That’s not necessarily bad,” observed Pietro. “Our resident astrologer is on cordial terms with him. What about Alberto?”
Bailardino snorted. “Alblivious? Like a faithful dog, he does what his brother tells him. He’s so likable that Mastino’s using him to soothe the people.”
“That’s not good.”
“Worse than you know.” Bail hesitated, then blurted out, “Your brother’s with him. Making it seem as if your family supports Mastino.”
“Poco?” Mouth agape, Pietro shook his head. “The idiot! He knows! He damn-well knows!”
“Probably thinks he’s being clever, spying for you.”
“Instead he’s doing more harm than good. As usual.” Pietro was torn between laughter and rage. With Poco that was normal.
Bailardino shrugged. “In the meantime, I’ve been summoned to swear my loyalty to the new joint-captains. The messenger found me on the road. Now that the Paduan army has drawn off, Mastino has ordered – ordered! – me to come to Verona without delay and kneel before him in the Piazza dei Signori. Show my family’s ‘continuing bond of loyalty to the Scaligeri.’” His distaste was palpable. “A Nogarola, told to kneel before someone other than a pope or a emperor? If I knelt to the Greyhound, that was my choice. He never demanded it.”
“Twenty to one it’s for Dandolo’s benefit,” said Pietro.
“No wager.” Suddenly Bailardino’s bearded face broke into a thin smile. “There’s one ray of sunshine. Cousin Federigo was charged with reorganizing the army and he’s made a right mess of it. By all accounts they’re close to mutiny.”
“In just three days? How did he manage that?”
“He flogged a dozen men and stopped the pay of Otto’s whole company. I also hear rumours of an entire month’s wages delayed so that Mastino can have a lavish parade.” He grinned at his impromptu rhyme. “There. As good as your old man!”
Pietro’s mind raced ahead. “That is good news. If the army comes to us, it’ll be seen as a sign that they take Cesco as the true heir. Will they follow a boy they don’t know?”
“The Greyhound’s son? They’ll follow him to the end of the Earth and beyond.”
Pietro asked about the Paduan army. Bail said he didn’t know why, after setting out to take advantage of Vicenza’s recent fire, they had turned back. “You’d think his death would have spurred them on!”
“Count your blessings.” As they trudged down the main staircase to the ground level, Pietro added, “By the way, Cesco doesn’t yet know who his father was.”
Bailardino’s expression questioned Pietro’s sanity. “Don’t you think it’s time he learned?”
“I do. But please, let me do this my own way.”
Reaching the atrium, Bailardino shrugged. “I could never manage him. From the time he started walking he’s always gotten the better of me.”
They passed through gauzy curtains into the central garden. The game came to an abrupt end as Detto ran into his father’s bone-crushing hug. “Hello, my little man! Where have you been gadding? Look at you! All grown up!”
Detto disengaged to drag Cesco forward. “Father, this is—”
“Oh, I know that imp well. Hardly grown since I last saw him. Hello there, dottore!” Seeing the Moor, Bail’s cheerfulness vanished. “Astrologer.”
Al-Dhaamin bowed in the Italian style. “My lord.”
Ignoring their cool greetings, Pietro seated his weary legs on the bench beside Morsicato. He gestured towards the younger boy. “Bail, are you going to introduce us?”
“Oh, damn me, you’ve never met? Valentino, this is a dear friend to our family, Ser Pietro Alaghieri, also known as Pietro di Dante. A good friend of your mother’s and mine.”
Young Valentino performed a neat little bow, and Pietro complimented him for it. Seven years old and already he looked like his father and brother, if thinner. His eyes held a worrisome echo of his mother’s acuity. But only an echo.
When introductions were finished, Valentino ran back to Detto, who cuffed him genially on the ear. They were about to resume their game when Pietro clapped his hands together. “Boys, come here. It’s time.”
“Finally!” cried Detto.
“Time for what?” demanded Valentino.
“Time to listen,” said Bailardino.
“In a moment!” Cesco ignored Pietro’s summons, leaping instead up to the fountain and clinging to the shape of Melpomene, the muse with the sword. From somewhere he produced an inkwell and a quill and, using the muse’s arm as his desk, scratched a quick word on the back of the coded paper.
Pietro waited for him to finish. “Very well. What have you deciphered?”
Cesco lazily turned over the paper and read. “‘He is dead. Come quickly. The little dog is already moving.’” He glanced up, a pupil taking his final examination. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Just about.” Their best code, broken in less than a day by an eleven year-old boy. A boy Pietro had reared. He could take pride in that, at least.
Valentino glanced at his brother. “What was that?”
“Not no
w, Val,” growled Detto.
Cesco swung around to perch on the statue’s outstretched arm. “So, the dead man. Is that my father? Or someone threatening me.”
Pietro considered a soft answer, then decided against it. “Your father.”
Nodding, Cesco flipped over the muse’s arm to hang upside-down from his knees, waving the paper to dry the ink. “I’m the only heir, then?”
Bailardino snorted. “Would that you were.”
Swaying back and forth, Cesco’s inverted eyebrows arched. “The little dog?”
Tharwat spoke. “A literal translation. There’s more to the name.”
“I imagine so.” Swinging out, Cesco flipped in midair and landed upright like an acrobat. “First, take this.” He handed Pietro the slip of paper, folded so that the coded side was facing out. “Now, tell me about my dearly departed sire.”
Bailardino frowned. “A little respect, boy.”
Cutting across Cesco’s inevitable retort, Pietro said, “Your father was a great man. A powerful man. When you were a child there were several attempts on your life. Because of that, he was forced to foster you out – first to Bailardino here, then to me. Our hope was that when you came of age you could return to take your place at his side. Three days ago he died unexpectedly, which has changed everything.”
Valentino turned to his father. “But papa, the only one who died this week was Uncle Francesco.”
Detto gasped, turning to stare at his brother. “What?”
Valentino retreated in confusion. “What? What?”
“Uncle Francesco’s dead?” Detto was some time picking up his jaw. Then he made the connection and gasped again. “Cesco’s his son?”
“And who, exactly, is this noteworthy Uncle Francesco?” Before anyone could answer, Cesco clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh! You mean Francesco della Scala, known as Cangrande, the Great Hound of Verona. Grandfather Dante’s patron, brother to Detto and Val’s mother, the man who knighted Nuncle Pietro, il Capitano di Verona, Dux Bellorum, and Vicar of the Trevisian Mark. Il Veltro. The Greyhound. Is it him you mean?”
“The same.” Only Tharwat noticed that Pietro winced at that last title. But only he had been looking.
Superbly pleased with himself, Cesco was leaning against the fountain. “I seem to have heard of him once or twice.” He grinned and raised his eyebrows towards the note in Pietro’s hand. Unfolding it, Pietro read in Cesco’s neat practiced script:
Cane Grande della Scala, lord of Verona
Cesco’s eyes flickered back and forth between the adults. “So what’s my name? My real name, I mean.”
That gave Pietro a moment’s pause. He didn’t actually know the boy’s true name, the name he’d been given at birth. Instead he offered a carefully worded answer. “You were baptized Francesco in the church of Santa Maria Antica in Verona. I was there. So was Bail.”
“And my mother?” Seeing the blank look on the adult faces, Cesco cracked a light grin. “Ah. A bastard, is that it? Il veltro del Veltro,” he punned. Veltro meant both greyhound and bastard. “And my father, the noble Capitano, is dead?”
“That’s what this message says.”
“So I go from one orphaned life to another. We believe this message?” he added, rather wisely, Pietro thought.
“There are seven people living who know that code – four of them live in Ravenna, two more here.” Pietro nodded at Bailardino. “Only one of them is in Verona.”
“Not Jacopo!” cried Cesco in mock dismay. Pietro, Bailardino, and Morsicato all chuckled. Tharwat said nothing.
“No, Jacopo is not involved in our little side business.”
“Thank the Lord. A secret in Jacopo’s head will be all over the Rialto in an hour.”
“While a secret in your head will go unspoken for a lifetime,” observed the Moor.
“Well, at least until it’s useful. Scala.” Cesco rolled the name around on his tongue. “Della Scala. I think I remember… there was a night, it was dark. There were torches, lots of people shouting. They were chanting it. Scala.” His eyes came back into focus. “Did that happen? It wasn’t a dream?”
Pietro nodded, secretly pleased Cesco had held on to that memory. “That happened. But now isn’t the time for that story. We must brief you on the history of the city, our potential allies and enemies – everything you’re going to need to know. Then we have decisions to make.”
Bailardino leaned close to Pietro. “Now?”
“Sand is slipping away every second.”
Bail laughed as he gestured at the children. “Damn silly gathering for a war conference.”
The Moor’s voice rumbled softly. “It is their war.”
Nine
Food was ordered as four men and three children sat in the atrium, talking through the political landscape as it stood. For Cesco’s benefit, Pietro began by describing Mastino and Alberto. “But those two are not the only claimants to the Scaligeri line. We have Detto and Val here, of course.”
Cesco faced Detto. “Best two out of three falls.” Detto laughed and Val looked anxious, wondering if Cesco was serious.
Pietro was adept at ignoring the interruption. “Then there’s Paride della Scala, a year or so younger than you. He’s Cangrande’s great-nephew. His father, Cecchino della Scala, would have been the obvious choice to take Cangrande’s place. But, fortunately for your claim, he died in February.”
Cesco adopted a solemn air. “An ill-omened year for us Scaligeri. But if we’re concerned about the people welcoming a whelp like me – and I take it that we are – why should we worry about a boy who’s even younger?”
Morsicato’s forked beard positively bristled. “Because of who is behind him.”
“His aunt, Cangrande’s wife.” Pietro acknowledged Cesco’s despairing expression. “I know, it’s confusing. Cangrande and his oldest brother, Bartolomeo, married sisters. Giovanna da Svevia and her sister are the great-granddaughters of Emperor Frederick II. That makes little Paride Giovanna’s nephew twice over, and a potential heir to the Holy Roman Empire.”
“My, what a tangled web I’ve fallen into! So this lady wants to set up young Paride as the ruler of Verona as the first step towards conquering the world. Pitting him against me, the fruit of her husband’s philandering. That might make for an awkward family reunion. Should I send flowers?”
“It’s worse than you know,” growled Morsicato. “She tried to have you killed when you were a baby. That’s why Pietro took you in, to protect you from her.”
The doctor stared defiantly at Pietro and Bail, daring them to contradict him. His knowledge of this particular secret was the true cause of his exile in Ravenna, and he was savagely pleased to finally expose the lady, righting a wrong he had endured for eight long years.
What Morsicato didn’t know was that Giovanna hadn’t been the only person to order an attempt on Cesco’s life. The very first attack on the boy had been planned by the crippled lady in the room above them, the first move in a chess match to bring Cesco within her sphere of influence.
It had been foretold that Katerina would raise the great man Cesco was destined to be. Everything hinged on that prophecy and the star-charts that accompanied it. People had died, wars had been won and lost, all because Cangrande and his sister had been determined to play their parts in some oracular dance. Pietro’s own life had been at hazard many times, as had Cesco’s. It was the thing that had driven Pietro from Verona, determined to shelter the child from this madness as long as he could.
Both the prophecy and the fact that Donna Katerina had ordered killers to attack the baby Cesco were secrets shared only by Pietro, Tharwat, and the lady upstairs. Cangrande had known, but Cangrande was dead.
Hearing the doctor’s statement, Valentino was both excited and horrified. “Auntie Giovanna tried to kill Cesco?”
“I never liked her,” said Detto at once.
“Yes, you did! She gave you sweets!” protested Val, igniting an argument between the brothers
that their father had to put a stop to.
The steward arrived to say supper was ready. Dutifully the pack trooped off to the dining hall where a fine meal was laid out. Antonia was waiting for them – Esta, it seemed, had gone to begin airing out the doctor's home in the city. Bail dismissed his staff for the evening, posting guards to be certain they weren’t overheard.
Pietro waited until the eight of them were alone before resuming the conversation. “Antonia, we were running through the names of Cesco’s rivals. Mastino, Alberto, and we just came to Paride and his loving aunt. Yes, boys, it’s true what the doctor says. Donna Giovanna tried to have Cesco killed on several occasions. But more than that. To get rid of him, she ordered the death of my father, my self, and Detto’s mother.”
“Mother?” said Detto and Val together.
Bailardino was frowning. “Don’t frighten them too much.”
Pietro was unapologetic. “They need to know the stakes.”
Reluctantly, Bailardino nodded. “Then they’d best they hear it from me. Lads, you’ve often asked how your mother got those burns on her arm.” He quickly told the story of the burning carriage, how Donna Katerina had rushed inside to rescue the three year-old Cesco from death. “She was pregnant with you, Val, at the time. You might not even be here.”
A horrified silence. Then Cesco said, “Why am I not burned then?”
Pietro gave him a half-apologetic look. “She didn’t know you’d already escaped on your own.”
“So it’s my fault,” said Cesco blankly.
“No, it’s not.” Pietro was emphatic.
Val was staring at his father. “I’ve seen you be nice to her! She tried to kill me, to kill mommy, and you were nice to her!”
Bailardino took his younger son in his arms and pointed at Cesco. “To protect him. And all of us. Otherwise she might have figured out he was still alive. Instead, we let everyone think he died in the carriage.”
Val threw an ugly look Cesco’s way, but Cesco was too busy parsing the situation to notice. “She sounds like someone I want to get to know – if briefly. Do I have any more murderous relations?”