Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Waiting, Fracastoro snapped his fingers. “Has he tried olive oil yet?”

  Surprised, Antonia answered, “What? No – no, I don’t think so.”

  “It’s worth a try. Valentino, go down to the kitchens and ask for a goodly amount of olive oil.” The lad left the room gratefully.

  Eyes closed, Cesco said, “Are you going to cook me? I’d prefer a good basting…”

  “Olive oil can be used to draw out toxins in the blood,” explained Fracastoro. “We’ll make a few small cuts in your feet and your other arm and soak them in it.”

  “At least I’ll smell better,” said Cesco. “My breath is – foul.”

  Fracastoro leaned forward to sniff. It was familiar, that smell. “Hellebore,” he muttered.

  The door opened and Morsicato returned. Motioning Fracastoro close, he started to relate the nature of the venom.

  Suddenly Cesco opened his eyes. “I want to hear.”

  “No, you really don’t,” said Morsicato firmly.

  Cesco sat feebly forward. Trying not to shiver, it had grown beyond his power to hide it. “I want to hear.”

  Pursing his lips, Morsicato said, “You were poisoned with a combination of venoms. It began with the body of a mouse stung to death by scorpions, then ground to powder and mixed with black hellebore, poppy seeds, and eel brains. At least, that’s what the Moor was told.”

  “Then it’s the – truth.” Cesco fell back, closing his eyes. His breathing was laboured. “The poisoner would be – too scared to lie.”

  “I can attest to the hellebore,” said Fracastoro in a soft tone. “Smell his breath.”

  Morsicato did, wrinkling his nose. “How do you feel now? Is there anything new?”

  “It feels – it feels as if someone has – nailed a piece of wood between my heart and lungs.”

  “That’s the scorpion venom. Lie still now. We must confer.” The two doctors stepped to the trestle table and spoke in low whispers, arguing back and forth until a servant announced the arrival of the apothecary, his cart in tow.

  Now began the real work: the leeching, the bleeding, the continual rubbing of the limbs, the sweet-smelling compresses. Cesco’s feet and arms, with small cuts in them, were laid in bowls of olive oil, and he was force-fed crushed herbs and vinegar through a mouth that was now almost entirely swollen shut. Cesco made two more morbid jokes before he lost all consciousness of his surroundings. From then on he was adrift in a world of feverish imaginings and wrenching pain.

  The first scream came from nowhere. He was lying stiff and still when all at once he unclenched his mouth and released a noise so inhuman that everyone recoiled. They had to bind his hands because he started to beat them against the bed’s edges, knocking away the bloody olive oil.

  He was never a good sleeper, plagued by evil dreams. But this night Cesco lived the nightmares with his sightless eyes open.

  Fifteen

  Bailardino’s brother spent the early part of the night shuttling back and forth between the Giurisconsulti and the house across from Santa Maria Antica – an awkward trek, for he had to pass directly beneath the palace where Mastino had barricaded himself. The news he brought was neither exciting nor surprising. The City Council had been up all night treating – through intermediaries – with Mastino, who was playing a delaying game.

  He knows, thought Pietro. He knows, and he’s waiting to see.

  At midnight Bailardino arrived. He was greeted first by servants, then by an exhausted Pietro. “How is he?”

  “Still alive,” said Pietro dubiously. The screaming had stopped. Pietro hadn’t thought it possible, but the silence was worse.

  Bailardino beckoned Pietro into his study, where he closed the door before collapsing into a chair. “Is it as bad as Antonio says?”

  “Worse. He stopped breathing twenty minutes ago, so the doctors tried something drastic. They forced his mouth open and fed him more poison.”

  “They what?”

  Pietro shook his head. “I don’t pretend to understand. They say some poisons are actually cures for other poisons. Belladonna cures foxglove, and foxglove cures monkshood. They decided that since the poison was slowing his blood through him, they would give him a dose of something to stimulate it and balance his humours.”

  “Is it working?”

  “I have no idea. He seems to be breathing easier now, but that could just be wishful thinking on my part. Morsicato says it’s too soon to know. Maybe by morning.”

  “He’ll pull through, he’s got to,” said Bailardino, adding a wry laugh. “How can he not? He’s protected by a curse.”

  Pietro had often wondered if Bailardino knew of the prophecy of Il Veltro and its connection to Cesco. He settled himself on a stool by the wall, massaging the muscles of his right leg. “I don’t put too much stock in prophecies. I’ve seen what happens to those that do.”

  “Cangrande, you mean,” said Bailardino. Pietro had actually meant Bailardino’s wife, but he chose not to clarify. Bailardino kicked off his boots. “Yes, he was always intent on proving that damned astrologer wrong, proving once and for all that he was some mythic figure who was going to pull Italy out of darkness by the hair. You weren’t here these last few years. He grew really touchy about it.”

  Pietro had heard the stories. “Since everyone but us already thought he was Il Veltro, I’m sure it was a constant sore point.”

  “That damned astrologer,” muttered Bailardino.

  “You blame al-Dhaamin?”

  “I do. He was the one made those hellfire charts for the whole family, Kat included. If he hadn’t meddled…” Bailardino’s voice trailed off as he closed his eyes, fatigue more immediate than a very old grudge.

  To Pietro’s way of thinking, it was not the astrologer who was at fault for Cangrande’s lifelong disappointment. It was Katerina, the woman who had raised the Scaliger from the time he was six, all the while filling his head with the thought that he truly was destined for greatness – that he was the heroic figure of legend, the hound that would bring about another golden age. It was written in her stars that she would have a dramatic role in the shaping of that mythic man. Cangrande had been her trial run, her testing of theories and methods.

  When Cangrande turned fifteen, the official age of manhood, Tharwat had stepped in, revealing the truth at last – Cangrande was going to be a great man, a famous warrior and statesman, a patron of the arts, a conqueror. But he was not Il Veltro. That destiny belonged to another.

  Bailardino opened his eyes and yawned, slapping his own face. “Don’t – ah, don’t let me sleep, boy. There’s far too much to do. God’s bread, but it was easier twenty years ago.”

  Pietro loosed a wearily malicious smile. “I was eight years old, then.”

  “Shut your face,” groaned Bailardino.

  “Make me, old man.”

  “By God, if I could get out of this chair I’d crush your skull.” He smiled wanly before gravity returned. “I’ll tell you, though – just this once, I hope that heathen devil is right. Because God help us all if Mastino comes to council tomorrow afternoon and we show up without Cangrande’s heir. That evil bastard will string us up by our guts.”

  “We have the army,” countered Pietro.

  Bailardino waved that away. “Mastino’ll have something better – public outrage. He’ll accuse us of trying to kill the boy. Don’t ask me why, he’ll have some reason. It doesn’t have to make sense. Mastino will appeal to the people that traitors, led by foreigners, have killed Cangrande’s heir. He’s clearly innocent – he was nowhere near the boy and everybody knows it. The army will turn, as will the Anziani. No, if your little Cesco snuffs it, we’ll all have to run for the hills. Otherwise the crows will be pecking out our eyes by supper.”

  “Thanks,” said Pietro. “I needed a good cheering up.”

  “Well, you’ll like this at least – your friends Montecchio and Capulletto are trying to outdo each other in oaths to follow Cesco to the grave.”
<
br />   “They may get their wish. What did you do with our two Scaligeri guests?”

  “Both Federigo and Alblivious are at the city council, under a heavy yet inconspicuous guard and told to keep their mouths shut for the duration. They make it look like Mastino’s the only one not bowing to Cangrande’s wishes.” Bailardino chuckled. “Little Alblivious actually offered to be the one to treat with his brother.”

  “You didn’t let him!”

  “God, no. Not that I suspect him of any duplicity, but rather because I think Mastino would dig out his eyes with a splintered spoon. We sent Nico instead.”

  “And?”

  “Mastino has agreed to come across to the Domus Nova under truce at two tomorrow afternoon.” Bail took a breath. “But an hour ago there was a new wrinkle added.”

  “Let me guess – a message from Giovanna.”

  “Right in one. That’s why I’m here – I’m supposed to be consulting with Cesco and you. The bitch says that, as Cangrande’s widow, she knows where all the bodies are buried. If we do not disqualify both Cesco and Mastino and elevate Paride to the Captainship, she’ll reveal every trade secret and under-handed deal done in Verona’s name in the last twenty years.”

  “Meaning if she can’t rule the city, she’ll ruin it.”

  “Yes. I have to say, after all this plotting, it was a refreshingly blunt message.”

  The lawyer in Pietro sprang to life. “Not written down, was it?”

  Bail shook his head. “Spoken by a page. Nothing we can use in a court.”

  “What do the Anziani say?”

  “They’re wondering what damage she can really do. You’re the spymaster. What possible secrets could she know? How awful would it be?”

  Pietro didn’t have to consider at all. “However bad you can imagine, multiply it by a factor of ten. No, Bail, I mean it. Cangrande’s reputation will be utterly ruined, and no Scaliger will ever be able to rule in his place.”

  Bail frowned. “What could he possibly have done?”

  There was a large piece of Pietro that didn’t want to speak. Bail had been part-father, part-brother to Cangrande. But Pietro’s sense of outrage and injustice was even greater than Morsicato’s. Now he could voice a fraction of his ire without feeling self-serving.

  He started with an old example, the massacre at Calvatone. Bail had been there when Cangrande’s word had been broken to the surrendering city and every last man, woman, and child had been slaughtered. “At the time, it seemed someone had betrayed Cangrande. But the orders were his.”

  “He had the offenders executed!”

  “I heard it from his own lips.”

  “I refuse to believe it!”

  “So will the people,” answered Pietro honestly. “And they’ll close their ears to one story, or three, or ten. But, Bail, there are dozens. Dozens.” He began to describe with precise detail a few of Cangrande’s dealings in the last ten years – broken pledges, extortion, double-dealing, even murder. All of it to Verona’s good, any one the action of a cynically practical man. But combined…

  “I have proof. Or rather,” said Pietro, correcting himself, “I had it. My strongbox in Ravenna was filled with evidence against him, just in case...” He paused to wonder where Giovanna had gotten her proof. His strongbox was built to survive even a fire, but they hadn’t found it among the ashes of his house.

  Bail was still struggling. “If you knew all this – you’ve been helping him all this time—”

  “Helping Verona,” corrected Pietro. “For Cesco. Not for Cangrande.”

  “No,” declared Bailardino, covering his ears. “I helped raise him, Pietro. He was my friend, and a good man. I mean, he was a little wild, and certainly cunning, but what you’re hinting at – no, Pietro! I won’t listen to him being spoken of like this—”

  “Then don’t!” snapped Pietro. “Just know that the threat is real, and treat Giovanna accordingly.”

  Bailardino eyed Pietro suspiciously. “Fair enough. Even if it’s a pack of lies, she can make people listen. So what do we do? The people are all in a lather about your little ward. Even if we were to accede to her demands, they wouldn’t follow Paride, not now.”

  “Bail, even if Cesco lives, there’s no guarantee he’ll ever leave that room under his own power.”

  “Truly?” Pietro’s face carried all the answer required. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that there’s nothing useful to do at the moment. Let Mastino worry about Giovanna – he has as much to lose as we do. Meantime, we just have to wait.”

  “That’s something I’m no good at. I’m a soldier, I need to be doing!”

  “I understand. But this isn’t a battle fought with swords. I wish it were.”

  They sat together a long while. Never close, they had always friendly. Pietro wondered if that was about to change. Bail had idolized his late brother-in-law. Pietro had sown a seed of doubt. Already he was regretting speaking of it. I could have given him a less pointed answer, let him keep his illusions, even if I’ve lost mine…

  Again slapping his own face roughly to rouse himself, Bailardino stood. “I’m going to check in, see how the boy’s doing.”

  “Be prepared.” The last time Pietro had been up there, the room had been a foul-smelling shambles. The doctors were now trying to sweat the poisons out through Cesco’s pores, so the room was closed and stuffy with two braziers burning on either side of the daybed. Bailardino’s sons were looking like ghosts, and Antonia had started reading to Cesco to keep his mind engaged. Pietro had needed to escape, however briefly, unable to watch his boy lying there, whimpering and struggling against the pain.

  As he passed, Pietro touched his arm. “Bail – I’m sorry.”

  Face closed, Bailardino had nothing to say. With a curt nod, he left the study.

  As Pietro sat back down, Tharwat appeared. “He needed to know.”

  “Listening at keyholes? Or after all these years can you hear my thoughts?”

  “It is right he should be told.”

  “Not by me. Not now.”

  “Ser Alaghieri,” rasped the Moor, “you are a man who loves the intangible things that most men say they honour, but few do. Of these, the greatest is truth. Do not be ashamed of it.”

  Pietro shook his head. “I was hurting, and wanted to spread the hurt. I still do.” He noticed Tharwat wrapping a scarf around his scarred throat and pulling a hood into place. “Where are you going?”

  “To uncover another truth, one that has been too long in the shadows. If I do not return, it has been an honour knowing you.”

  Before Pietro could even rise, he was gone.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  The streets of Verona were a strange place that night. Part festival, part armed camp. The threat of civil war, though real, was overshadowed by the exciting arrival of the bastard heir of their beloved Cangrande. The tension was palpable, as was the excitement. No one walked alone.

  Traveling in groups from house to house, avoiding the public squares, the men of Verona’s middle and upper-classes congregated to discuss the future of their city. The poor stayed home, sure that whatever Fate brought, they would endure it – even if it was a bloodbath in the streets.

  At least the bloodbath would be short. Cangrande’s soldiers had all defected from Mastino’s cause. The only men still loyal to him were the German mercenaries barricaded in their barracks, or else in the palace with their master.

  Most of the city’s soldiers were on patrol, while the rest sought out taverns. Just before nightfall they had received a welcome if unusual order: each man was to raise his cup three times to the health of Cangrande’s heir, paid for by Bailardino Nogarola. At the same time an order went out to all the churches: pray for the spiritual and mortal health of young Francesco della Scala.

  In the streets, the Moor went almost unnoticed as he journeyed on his self-appointed mission. For the first time in his life he was defying the stars, taking preemptive action.

>   For Cesco he could do no less.

  Sixteen

  Antonia was in the upstairs hallway getting a breath of fresh air when she heard a knocking below. There was a voice she knew, some small discussion, then a cry. Quickly she descended, frantic to intercede.

  Entering the study, she saw her brother Jacopo laying flat on his back, hands over his head, face bleeding. Pietro had him by the arm, dragging their little brother up to his feet to hit him again.

  Running forward, Antonia prised her way between them. “Stop it! Stop!”

  “What? What?” Seeing her, Poco cried, “Imperia, he’s trying to kill me!”

  “Pietro!” yelled Antonia. “What are you doing!? Cesco needs quiet!”

  Knuckles bloody, Pietro pointed an accusing finger. “Couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you! Had to let it drop! What was it – trying to get in good with Alblivious? Or did you go straight to Mastino!”

  “Wha – I don’t—” stammered Jacopo.

  “Pietro, he wouldn’t –”

  “Antonia, Cesco is lying upstairs because our little brother can’t keep his mouth shut!”

  “It wasn’t that – I mean, I never —” protested Jacopo feebly around his bleeding lip.

  “Pietro, we don’t know it was —”

  “Who else would have told them, little sister? You? Me? Katerina? Castelbarco? We were all part of the plan. Only this little shit-heel – dammit, Poco, we trusted you! I trusted you!”

  Stepping defiantly out from behind Antonia, Poco still kept the desk between himself and his brother. “Pietro, as God is my witness, I don’t know what you’re —”

  Pietro started forward again, fists raised, and Poco scuttled back behind Antonia, who caught him by the sleeve. Waving Pietro off, she spoke in a soft voice. “Listen to me, little brother. No one is going to hurt you for what you did, but you cannot lie to us. Two nights ago Pietro’s house in Ravenna was burned to the ground. That means someone knew that Cesco was alive and in Ravenna. Did you tell anyone?”

  “No!” cried Jacopo indignantly. Antonia slapped him across the face, and he yelped. “You said you weren’t going to hurt me anymore!”