Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “The Paduans never attacked, so the truce still stands,” responded Antonio Nogarola. “And I have the pleasure to report that the fire is contained and Vicenza is once more hale and whole!”

  Mastino leaned away from the murmuring Fuchs. “Your news is welcome, uncle! We look forward to entertaining all our friends here for many years to come. Join us, let us drink to your recent victory!”

  Antonio Nogarola shook his head of whitened hair. “I have promised my brother to wait here for him, so that we might, together, swear loyalty to the true heir of Cangrande!” He was staring at the eye-slit of the Houndshelm, a grim smile on his face.

  From his place behind Mastino, Tullio d’Isola wondered what was happening. Everyone around him seemed equally confused. And still no sign of Castelbarco – nor, he noted, of Petruchio Bonaventura and Nico da Lozzo.

  Where had they all gotten to? What was happening?

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Riding down the road a mile outside the city, Petruchio da Bonaventura was demanding answers to those very questions. “Castelbarco, where the hell are we going? What the devil is going on?”

  “We’re off to see a friend,” was all the answer Castelbarco would give.

  “Probably found a new whore and wants to show her off,” said Nico da Lozzo.

  Petruchio laughed heartily at the unlikeliness of the thought. It was hard to find a man less prone to infidelity than Castelbarco - unless it was Petruchio himself. Ten years of married life had hardly dimmed Petruchio’s spirit, though it had added pounds to his body and caused his long brown hair to be mixed with strands of pure white. Broader now than he’d been on his wedding day, his eyes still danced, and his domestic arrangement was still the envious gossip of Verona and Padua both.

  Nico da Lozzo, the short and wiry Paduan defector, remained lean of face and outspoken in opinion. In that, he and Petruchio were well matched. Practical, energetic, loyal, and high-spirited. The perfect conspirators for this insane enterprise.

  They were drawing closer to the camp holding the main contingent of Verona’s army when they saw a small band of soldiers under the flag of the Nogarola eagle.

  Scenting mischief, Petruchio said, “What the hell?”

  “Isn’t he in Verona, kneeling to the little shit?” voiced Nico.

  “Clearly not,” said Castelbarco. “He’s here to meet us instead. And with him some familiar faces.”

  Petruchio exchanged a smile with Nico. “It’s mutiny, then.”

  “About damn time,” said da Lozzo genially.

  Castelbarco released a small breath of relief. No, they weren’t fools. They’d divined his purpose and were not averse to it.

  In moments they were being hailed by Bailardino, riding out to greet them. Behind him came a young knight in fine Veronese armour, helmet obscuring his face. The three conspirators greeted Bail warmly, already making jokes about their newfound treason. Then Nico jutted his chin at the knight. “Who’s your friend?”

  “What, don’t you recognize the scoring?” said the helmeted knight, touching the dents in the armour. “After all, you were there when I got them.”

  Mid-dismount, Nico da Lozzo goggled. “It can’t be – Alaghieri?”

  Removing his helmet, Pietro slid down to embrace Nico. He then faced Petruchio Bonaventura, whom he didn’t know nearly as well, despite having seen the man’s wife naked. They were acquainted mostly by reputation and minor tragedy. Clasping arms, Pietro felt the strength of the man’s gregarious grip.

  “Don’t tell me we’re going to topple the della Scala family in favour of Dante’s son?” Petruchio’s smile was both deprecating and amused. “A fine idea, but I doubt the masses would allow it. Unless he has his father’s way with words.”

  “Well, we can’t nominate you,” retorted Nico. “Your wife runs your household. Would she like the job?”

  “Kate, Capitano? Not that she couldn’t do it, but I beg you not to suggest it to her. She’ll get ideas.”

  Castelbarco tried to take control. “Obviously I don’t have to broach the topic of treason.”

  “One man’s treason is another man’s patriotism,” supplied Nico.

  “Says the professional traitor,” laughed Pietro. Nico had changed his colours before now.

  “His pragmatism trumps his patriotism every time,” agreed Petruchio.

  Taking no umbrage, Nico shrugged. “I am a simple man with simple pleasures. Are we storming the city and killing the bastard?”

  “Who said anything about killing Mastino?” said Bailardino. “We’re merely looking after Verona’s army for him. It’s why we’ve come – to get the army on our side.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard,” said Petruchio, “with all Federigo’s blundering. But even with a Nogarola in the lead, will they follow us?”

  “He is a della Scala by marriage,” Nico pointed out. “We could use that.”

  “We won’t have to,” said Bailardino. “We already have a della Scala.”

  Both Petruchio and Nico turned to study the group assembled nearby. They spotted some gregarious boys with a Moorish soldier standing behind them. Then they noticed with whom the boys were talking. Petruchio started. “Alberto? We’re going to pit Alblivious against his brother?”

  “Dear God, no!” asserted Bail with a laugh.

  “Who, then? Not Paride?” Nico was squinting at the boys.

  Pietro waved to the Moor, who said something. In response, one of the youths clambered into a saddle and rode over. Watching the boy approach, Castelbarco leaned close and whispered in Pietro’s ear. “I have to admit, after all this time, I’m curious.” Pietro merely shook his head.

  Arriving, the boy grinned down on them. “Alberto’s nice enough, Nuncle. I’m ashamed we’re using him like this. But I think I’ll recover.” He turned to the newcomers. “Welcome to our uprising. My name is Cesco, and I’m your leader.” It was said with a verbal wink that made both Petruchio and Nico laugh aloud.

  Castelbarco did not laugh, too busy studying the youth. Noting it, Cesco said, “Do I have a blemish, my lord? I’m a little young for it, I thought. Or perhaps I’ve grown a second head. That’s the trouble with the della Scala clan, I hear – like the Hydra, cut off one head and two grow in its place.”

  Castelbarco rubbed a knuckle against his chin. “I’m just measuring you against an overactive imagination.”

  The boy slid down from his saddle. “Blessed Mary! I’m sure I fall horribly short. You must be Lord Castelbarco.” He delivered a bow of exceeding gravity.

  “Wait!” said Nico, just catching on. “Cesco – Francesco? Little Francesco, the bas – I mean… but – you’re dead!”

  “Ah, a soul of eloquence and perspicacity. Tell me your name, ser knight, that I might kiss the sole of your boot and swear to follow you solely throughout the world.”

  “N– Nico,” the martial ex-Paduan stuttered.

  Stifling laughter, Pietro intervened. “Cesco, this is —”

  “Nicolo da Lozzo!” cried Cesco, as if it were a name he’d known all his life. “Of course! I trust you won’t mind turning your coat again, in a good cause.”

  Nico was confounded. “Is this a good cause?”

  “How should I know? I’m just a child. And you must be Lord Bonaventura, he of the willful wife! How does she fare in this time of trouble?”

  Petruchio scowled at Pietro. “A bit scrawny, don’t you think? Why don’t we strangle him and put one of my boys in his stead?”

  “You’re welcome to try,” offered Pietro.

  “Yes.” Cesco’s left hand rested on the hilt of his short sword. “I may be little, but I’m a bastard of a fighter.”

  Castelbarco was already appreciating the boy’s style. In just a few moments he had touched on all the objections that could be raised to him – his age, his size, his questionable heritage – and turned them deftly on their heads. He’d certainly charmed both Lozzo and Bonaventura. No, imagination fell far short of this boy.

&nb
sp; Nico slapped his hands together. “Oh-ho! I take it, Pietro, that this is why you’ve been holed up in a sleepy backwater like Ravenna?”

  “I like Ravenna.” Pietro sounded a little defensive.

  “So much that you let yourself get excommunicated rather than tax them. Fool.” Nico shook his head in mock admonishment, then grew serious. “I smell the Capitano’s hand at the back of this.”

  Castelbarco nodded. “Your nose doesn’t fail you.”

  “The time for secrets is behind us.” Pietro briskly described how matters stood, and Petruchio rounded on Castelbarco. “You knew?”

  “I had to know. I am the executor of his will. He gave me instructions as to its implementation. Why do you think the will hasn’t been read out yet?”

  “I wondered,” said Petruchio. “Has Mastino been after you to see it?”

  “Strangely enough, not until last night,” said Castelbarco.

  “Probably in fear of a surprise like this one,” mused Nico.

  “Though I wager he suspected Paride’s name in the place of honour,” added Petruchio.

  “Yes,” said Pietro. “Not since Caesar has there been so surprising a bequest. Won’t our Mark Antony be disappointed?”

  “Does that make me an emperor-in-training?” said Cesco brightly.

  “Slow down, August one,” said Castelbarco. “Action hasn’t been fought yet. First you need an army.”

  Bonaventura stroked his whiskered chin. “So you think, what, you’ll show him to the troops, tell them he’s Cangrande’s brat, and they’ll march to his defense?”

  “That’s about it,” admitted Pietro.

  “I prefer bastard to brat,” added Cesco seriously. “Or love child. More colourful.”

  “Il Veltro’s veltro,” said Nico.

  “That joke’s been made.”

  “He’s young,” said Petruchio.

  “Cangrande was knighted at six,” countered Bailardino.

  “Meaning I am not teething, but rather long in the tooth,” said Cesco. “So, my dear new friends, will you breathe with us?” In answer to their blank stares, he explained, “Conspiracy. It comes from the Latin, to breathe together.”

  Nico grunted. “I will, if you promise Verona won’t turn into a schoolroom.”

  “I make no promises. That way I never break them.”

  “Very wise.” And, astonishingly, Nico gave the boy a leg. Petruchio did the same. They weren’t kneeling, but these two grown knights were giving this strip of a boy a formal bow. Castelbarco began to hope they might survive the day. “Let’s get moving. There’s much to do.”

  Remounting, Nico fell in alongside Pietro. “How are you keeping Alblivious so docile?”

  “I sent Poco a note saying this was Mastino’s idea for a grand show.”

  “Alberto has no idea who the boy really is?”

  “He says not,” said Pietro dubiously, sending a dark look in his brother’s direction. He still suspected Poco of revealing all to Mastino and Alberto.

  “Our happy hostage,” laughed Petruchio.

  “Our oblivious hostage. But not for much longer. He’s about to learn the truth, along with Verona’s army.”

  “A rude awakening.”

  “Very.”

  Riding in the rear of the company, Castelbarco reflected that they had cleared the first hurdle – the boy had gained the allegiance of two of the great men of Verona. The next hurdle was the army. And then came the city itself.

  There was no turning back. They were committed.

  Eleven

  Verona

  An hour after Antonio Nogarola’s arrival, the bells rang out again. This time the friendly banners brought no sigh of relief. Civil war loomed on the horizon. Everyone foresaw the glow of Verona in cinders.

  Yet the city gates still opened, for at the forefront of the army were some of Verona’s most famous faces – Alberto della Scala, Castelbarco, Nico da Lozzo, Petruchio Bonaventura, and Jacopo Alaghieri. At their center rode Bailardino Nogarola, clearly visible as he waved to the masses as if nothing at all were amiss.

  Helmeted and riding behind Bailardino, Pietro Alaghieri entered Verona for the first time in ten years. He wasn’t certain what he should feel. Joy? Nostalgia? Remorse? Excitement? All at once, probably. Instead he felt a strange vindication. Also, very alive.

  The man beside him began to shift. Pietro murmured, “Remember. Be still and you’ll live. Raise a fuss, you’ll be hunted down by your own men.”

  The eyes of Federigo della Scala held daggers, but he said nothing. He couldn’t. Under the helmet his mouth was gagged, and a draped cloak hid the bonds on his wrists.

  Alberto had needed no such precautions. A simple threat of violence bought acquiescence. Poco, too. He hadn’t been happy to see his brother, and had vehemently denied Pietro’s accusations of revealing Cesco’s identity to Mastino. Well, Pietro would deal with his little brother later.

  If we’re all still living.

  They rode through the city, the crowds parted to admit them, until they passed under La Costa, the monstrous bone that legend said belonged to a dragon or some other ancient beast that the city had united to defeat in battle.

  Entering the Piazza dei Signori, Pietro allowed himself a nostalgic glance at the Domus Bladorum, the guest lodging he’d shared with his father and brother a decade ago. He was startled to find the window occupied, and astonished to recognize the man within. Francesco Dandolo, ambassador and nobleman of Venice! The handsome patrician face was a bit more creased, which only added to his gravity. I hope he enjoys the show!

  Across the square, Mastino stood upon the balcony Cangrande had used for grand orations. Just large enough for one man to occupy, it served as an excellent rostrum.

  Bailardino nodded to his brother, still sitting atop his horse in the square, then lifted his chin to address his nephew. “Mastino della Scala! I, Bailardino da Nogarola, Lord of Vicenza by the grace of your honoured uncle Cangrande della Scala, have come to hear the reading of his will. And I vow that, in this place and at such time as it has been read, I shall swear my allegiance to his true heir!”

  “Sadly, my lord, there is no will.” Mastino’s voice was full of remorse. He must have spied his brother and the helmeted Federigo at Bailardino’s back, but to his credit he retained his composure. “My uncle died unexpectedly, without making direct provision for the future. But we, his surviving heirs, have joined together to avoid any threat of bloodshed and strife, to create a new government based on his spoken wishes.”

  “There is a will!” This shout came from Castelbarco, edging his mount a step forward. He turned to a citizen, apparently a random choice, but in reality one of Castelbarco’s clients, told to be present today. “Sirrah, would you please cross to that well?” He was pointing to the disused stone basin at the corner of the square, in the alley called the volto dei Centurioni. The spot where, years ago, Mastino’s namesake had been murdered. The well was thought to be cursed.

  The crowd parted to create a path for the obedient citizen. Castelbarco continued issuing instructions. “Uncover the well, please, and raise the bucket.”

  Mastino spoke out. “This is madness! Citizens, you are being tricked. Disperse!”

  If ever there was a futile order, this was it. The theatricality of the moment had every citizen within earshot riveted.

  While the man plied the chain, Pietro had a long moment in which to sweat. Castelbarco had taken a terrible risk leaving the will in such a public place. How could he know that the well would go unused, in spite of the prohibitive signs? But it was cursed, and the Veronese were particularly superstitious.

  Mastino was talking with someone inside the door behind him. Pietro glanced around, looking for Tharwat. The Moor was nowhere in sight. A hopeful sign.

  Finally the bucket reached the top of the chain. Eager nearby citizens peered in. “It’s empty!”

  Full of expectation, the huge crowd released a disappointed breath. But Castelbarco was un
perturbed. “Is there a chain attached to the bottom of the bucket?”

  There was. The excitement was electric, like the charged air before a storm. The chain hauled up, a small iron box appeared. It was clasped with a series of three locks, and the engraved ladder of the Scaligeri seal was clear on the box’s front.

  Mastino pointed, shouting loudly. “Bring that to me!”

  Something flashed in Castelbarco’s hand. “Why, my lord, when I have the keys?”

  Overt animosity was growing. Separating box from chain, Castelbarco’s man carried it through a field of expectant faces to where Castelbarco sat atop his fine steed. There were impatient mutters as he worked the locks, each with a separate key. Finally the lid fell back and an oilskin was removed. From out of the waterproof casing Castelbarco produced a scroll-tube just like the one Morsicato had taken from the floor of the abbey in Ravenna.

  Castelbarco held it high. “As Cangrande’s executor, I call upon these men to witness the mark of the Scaliger’s sigil on the case, and here again upon the wax.” Castelbarco held out the scroll-tube to nearby citizens, who could later be called upon to testify the seal was valid. He then held the scroll out to da Lozzo and Bonaventura, to Alberto and the helmeted Federigo. When the bound man started to shake his head Pietro stabbed his long spurs into Federigo’s leg, making the elder della Scala stiffen sharply. To those watching, it appeared to be a nod.

  Mastino was shouting again. “A lie! There is no will! Guards, arrest those men!” But no guard could reach them. A crowd of soldiers had instantly stood to attention, facing outwards, protecting the inner circle of nobility. Not Bailardino’s men. These were the soldiers of Verona. Who, it was suddenly understood, did not support Mastino.

  “I open the seal, and again I call upon those men present to verify that the wax on the parchment bears the ladder, the eagle, and the hound.” Again it was passed about, though this time it did not go before Federigo. Even Alberto della Scala confirmed the validity of the seal.

  Breaking the seal and unfurling the parchment, Castelbarco began to read: “In the name of God, Amen. Francesco della Scala, Cangrande, of Verona, to be buried in Santa Maria Antica, my soul bequeathed to God.” There followed the traditional bequests to churches and holy orders in their varied and extremely generous forms. “To my great-nephew Paride, grandson of my lamented brother Bartolomeo, one tenth of my fortune and my castle at Pescheria, to be paid in the year of his majority.”