Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “The servants must have talked—”

  “Then tell them the truth, he can’t be moved—”

  It was amusing to hear the voice yelling at itself. But the voice was boring, the same old tune. Don’t let him, he can’t, don’t tell him, he shouldn’t, don’t touch him, he’ll die. If I die, don’t deny, you’ll cry that I never try.

  “Pietro, what do you say?”

  Pietro? I know a Pietro. He’s a good man. He lied to me. He doesn’t own me. I owe him. But he doesn’t get to choose. The future will be. Amen.

  Before him was the door. He lurched for the handle and pulled. The sun was bright and the voice grew in volume as he blinked and saw a hundred faces grinning at him. Oddly, they were all black like the Moor. But the Moor had never cheered him this way. He liked it. He grinned back at the sight of so many funny faces. They cheered more.

  “That’s done it. Someone, take his arm. Bail, Nico, carve us a path. No, Antonia, they won’t let you in. Wait here. We won’t be long, I promise.”

  “This will kill him,” said his mother’s voice in a fading whisper.

  “You should be a ventriloquist.” This was very funny because he heard laughter, which might only be inside his head. The Moors in the street laughed with him, reaching for him, clutching at him, begging for a scrap of him to take and eat to give them strength. “Plenty to go around!” It didn’t sound right so he said it again in a funny tongue. “There will be plenty for all. Raisins for virgins, please.”

  “What’s he saying?” demanded his father’s voice. I’ve never met my father.

  “He’s delirious.”

  “This is madness,” said his father’s voice again.

  “Papa Pietro,” said Cesco.

  “Did he just say my name?”

  “Keep him moving.”

  Time was blurry, and Cesco felt like vomiting. The laughing and the waving went on and on and on. Then it was over and he was sitting in a cool chamber, a chill creeping up over his skin as someone mopped his brow. I feel funny. Grandpa Dante, where’s my head? He reached up and felt for it. “Somebody, help me find my head.”

  There was a sharp pinch. The world snapped into sharp focus before receding into fog once more. But the pain had showed him the way, giving him a solid foundation for his sensations. He dug his fingernails into his palms. He ground his teeth, then bit his tongue. The sickening feeling of being tossed in a flowing river didn’t go away, but he was able to think. I’m Cesco, and this is – this is true. Time to wake up.

  The fog was still before his eyes, but it was entertaining, in its way. Shapes rose and fell in languid succession, some foreign, some familiar. Sound was easier to maintain than sight, so he let his eyelids fall as he listened to his own breath, his pulse. Had his heart always hammered this way?

  Closing his eyes seemed to open his ears, voices becoming distinct and clear.

  “Ho, Pietro,” said a polished voice Cesco didn’t know.

  “Mari.” Uncle Pietro, warm with affection. An embrace, then the smooth voice said, “You know we’re with you.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “Gianozza sends her love.”

  There was hesitation in Pietro’s voice. “My sister is here. I’m sure she’d like to see your wife.”

  “Excellent! And you must come see my son! He’s four and brilliant!”

  Brilliant? wondered Cesco. Does he glow?

  “I’d be honoured. When all this is settled.”

  “Of course! You can come see him after Cesco is elected Capitano.”

  “If we’re all still alive,” said a third voice, gruff and vaguely menacing.

  Cesco opened his eyes and discovered his vision had improved a little. First he noticed he was sitting upon a dais, resting on a Roman-style chair. No back. How am I sitting upright? Oh. The Moor was at one elbow, the doctor at the other. It was the doctor who had pinched him. “Thank you.” The doctor didn’t seem to hear. Did I even say it out loud? Can they hear me? Am I spirit or flesh?

  At the foot of the dais stood three men. Pietro was at the center. On his right hand stood a man of middle height who was very pretty. Be specific, and you will be poetic. Dante’s advice. So, specifics – the man had shiny black hair and eyes as blue as snow at midnight. His features might have been delicately carved by an ancient sculptor for use in a temple to Apollo. His clothes were rich – no, sumptuous, better word – perfectly tailored, all in expensively dark colours.

  He and Uncle Pietro were facing the newcomer, a man with shoulders so broad they made him look shorter than he really was. Almost a full head taller than Pietro, he had sandy-blond hair, muddy eyes, and a beard with faint touches of red. His clothes were just as fine as the pretty one’s, but had crossed the river of ostentation. That isn’t bad. I need to write that down. May I have some paper? Hello? Are you listening?

  “Antony.” Uncle Pietro sounded vexed as he embraced the big man. Pretty man and big guy weren’t hiding their antipathy. Anti pathee. Auntie Pathino. Hmm. Cesco’s slowed brain finally realized who they had to be. Mariotto Montecchio and Antonio Capulletto. Former best friends, before Montecchio had run afore and apace with Capulletto’s former betrothed, kindling a furor of feuding familial foolery. Cesco had heard the story many times at the knee of Pietro’s father. How dark is it in Santafiora?

  Fading away for a moment, Cesco was surprised to return in the midst of a conversation. “…Magagnato, Villafranca, and Cristofoletto – all of them with us, with all their clients’ wealth behind them. Thanks to my assurances that you were in the right.”

  “Thank you, Antony,” said Pietro.

  Montecchio scoffed. “Not that it was such a feat, convincing them. Pietro’s got the army, both Nogarola brothers, Castelbarco, Bonaventura, and me behind him. And, out of the blue, Giovanna sent a letter of support this morning. It doesn’t take much to see where the die has fallen.”

  “And what have you done, pipsqueak? Sat in your tower and waited to see who would win, same as always. Never willing to risk your own neck—”

  Uncle Pietro was grinding teeth. “All of us are here to swear our allegiance to Cangrande’s heir. That is proof enough of our commitment.” Had Uncle Pietro learned to throw is voice? No. I see. It was Castelbarco who spoke. And now they’re looking at me. Smile! Wave!

  His head was fogging again but there was enough of his usual poise present to realize this was his moment. Cesco took a breath, hoping his voice would appear this time. “I was enjoying learning the ways of a courtier in Verona. Ravenna lacks this —” be specific! “— sophistication.”

  Uncle Pietro winced, but it got laughs from the crowd. Montecchio looked rueful. Capulletto swallowed a scowl. Picking on these two to win the others. Poor leadership. Bad orphan! Bad orphan! But it was about as subtle as he could manage at the moment. His stomach was twisting and it took all his will not to clutch at it and retch. He dug his nails harder into his palms.

  “That’s the boy?” asked Capulletto. “I’d’ve thought Cangrande’s son would be better fleshed.”

  “Not all of us can be built like aged oxen,” retorted Montecchio.

  “Aged!” sputtered Capulletto, but Montecchio pressed on. “He’s probably just sick from laughing at your poor beard.”

  “At least I’m man enough to grow one…”

  “The Triumvirs,” muttered Uncle Pietro. “Together again.”

  Castelbarco said something and in moments the whole of the Anziani were seated on benches on either side of the dais. Before they vanished in another wave of dizzying fog, Cesco noticed that both feuders were trying to draw Pietro to sit by them. Instead he remained standing close at hand with the Moor and the doctor.

  Thank you for not leaving me. But I can do this without you. I have to. So go away. Just don’t leave me.

  Castelbarco’s soothing voice droned on and on. Cesco forced his eyes to remain open, if half-lidded. He heard little of the oration, saw less. In his eyes were dragons and centaur
s and vipers, all doing battle in a brown and orange haze. What about unicorns? I want unicorns! He realized he was staring at a tapestry. There were stitched rabbits doing battle with embroidered knights, with tiny demons hidden in the woven wood, egging the battle on. I preferred the visions.

  Castelbarco was talking about an oath, and the mutters around the hall sounded favourable. Cesco reflected amusedly that the only thing keeping these noble men from swearing their undying oath to Cangrande’s heir was the heir himself, sitting like a lump, half-dead, sweating and unmoving. I should leap up and do some cartwheels. That is, if I could feel my feet. Can I even move my shoulders? Only the sure grip of the Moor held him upright. This chair is uncomfortable. Would they mind if I slip down and curl into a ball on the cool mosaic floor and die? Yes, they probably would mind that.

  One face briefly roused him from his reverie. A thin patrician nose cleaved a pair of eyes that were boring into him. The man wore a black robe, and it took Cesco several seconds to recognize the badge of Venice on it. Seeing himself scrutinized in return, the man gave Cesco a slight bow. Cesco winked at him, and grinned at the three-headed pixie next to him. The pixie waved back.

  Cesco heard the doors open, then blinked at the influx of thick light. Out of the murky fantastic shapes of his fancy came a single visage, a solid dark face filled with malice.

  Cesco was on his feet before he knew it, his voice ringing around the marble pillars and mosaic tiles. “Cousin! Here I am! Devilish forces do what they dare, I keep my word.”

  A fainting spell almost took him as he finished speaking, yet it didn’t cheat him of the sight of Mastino’s face. The Mastiff was framed by the open doors, gazing at the living Cesco, Nemesis personified.

  The whole room came into focus. He felt sharp as a dagger. It can’t last! Make the most of it.

  The hall was silent with anticipation. The Mastiff slipped the gauntlets from his fingers and handed them to a servant, then strode to the center of the hall. “I never doubted you, cousin. It is those you serve whom I mistrust. Come, let us embrace and show these men that the blood of Cangrande cannot be turned against itself.”

  Pietro reached out a hand, but Cesco ignored him and took the three steps down from the dais. “Apt! The Greyhound’s blood is stronger than even I knew.” He felt his knees buckling, so he turned his stride into a low bow and knelt at Mastino’s feet, arms outstretched. “Come, cousin!”

  Mastino had no choice but to kneel as well. On the floor he did not have the pronounced advantage of height, and they were easily able to kiss each other’s cheeks. Mastino started to rise, but Cesco put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder and lifted himself back to his feet first, praising a capricious God above that his balance had returned.

  Cesco made to return to the dais, only to find Mastino’s hand restraining him. “That seat belongs to the Capitano of Verona, boy. Cangrande’s heir you may be, but the people have not voted in their assemblies. Until they do, that seat is rightfully mine.”

  “If wishing made it so,” said Cesco lightly. The vicious strength of Mastino’s grip was a blessing, a painful new focus that distracted Cesco from the wicked nausea and the agony in his lungs, his guts, his head.

  Without releasing his hold on Cesco, Mastino addressed the assembled nobility. “I have agreed to debate the future of this city, but I insist on taking my rightful place.”

  Castelbarco and Pietro opened their mouths to reply, but Cesco got in first. “I may be wrong – I am very young – but I think ‘rightful’ is the debated point.” If the seat is what you want, you can’t have it.

  “Child, you have so many friends, allow me this one victory. A salve on my conscience,” insisted Mastino in a commendably cheerful voice. Only Cesco was close enough to see the vein at Mastino’s temple throbbing. Can I make it burst?

  “I would, my ancient cousin, but where else can I sit? It’s the only place in the whole hall where I can be seen.” This was greeted with laughter.

  “You have such a tongue, they would heed you wherever you sit, little master.”

  “And you have an ass’ bray, cousin. They couldn’t miss your ‘nay nay nay!’”

  It just slipped out. Stupid! He’d given Mastino the first victory by resorting to overt insolence. The red flush on his foe’s face was pleasure, not anger. “A pity your tutors couldn’t school you in manners.”

  “I learn from each new host in turn. Your hospitality hides poisoned strokes in honeyed words.” Did you do this to me? Come on, you can tell me, you want to!

  Mastino frowned. “You see poison where there is none, cousin. Nor honey. I am neither sour nor sweet. I simply am.”

  That’s not a denial! But, no, you would tell me. You couldn’t resist. You didn’t do this. But you see it, don’t you? You can see there’s something wrong in here. Well, go on! Say something! Taunt me again, so I can tear you to —

  Redoubling his grip on Cesco’s arm, Mastino suddenly stepped back. Released, Cesco nearly collapsed, yet somehow he turned his gasp into a laugh. “Do you recoil at my touch, cousin? Am I so fearful?”

  “I only fear the devil, boy.”

  “Then I shall call myself Devil-boy.” The crowd laughed. Mastino is losing an argument with a child. And thus I’ve found my theme! Cesco started to sing. “Devil-boy, where are you – roaming?”

  “Very droll.”

  “Don’t you see your dog’s mouth – foaming?” Louder!

  “Do you want to be Capitano or Master of Revels?”

  “Don’t you fear the pain of – stoning?” Play to the back!

  “Enough!” shouted Mastino over the clapping and laughing nobility. His calm was disappearing as the mirth grew. Oh, you don’t like being laughed at? A shame! Because a prince will always lose to a clown.

  Guglielmo del Castelbarco tried to take control of the situation. “If you please, masters, we have grave matters to discuss.”

  “Grave is the word,” echoed Cesco.

  Mastino turned on his new target. “We have. But I will not discuss them with a traitor.”

  Castelbarco was prepared to be called names. “I am a loyal son of Verona, my lord.”

  “You’re a traitor, and these good men of the Anziani should know it. I don’t care how many witnesses you drag forward, that will was forged. You’ve pulled the wool over the council’s eyes – except maybe da Lozzo the turncoat and Bonaventura the lecher.”

  “The uxorious, please,” said Bonaventura, with an edge.

  “I wonder what you promised them. Land? Gold? Whores?” Nico and Petruchio were red with anger, but Mastino pressed on. “And for Montecchio and Capulletto to work together – well, perhaps they’ve finally reached an agreement on how to share the lovely Lady Montecchio. Does Capulletto get her on feast days?”

  Montecchio’s neighbours gripped him hard to keep him from leaping up and throwing blows. Across the aisle, Capulletto managed to rise a few inches despite the hands of four men holding him back.

  Castelbarco said, “Ser Mastino, a few days ago you were filled with sweet words, abasing yourself before this council. Now you seem to be alienating the great men of Verona just when you need them most. That isn’t wise from a man who has usurped the rights of another.”

  “One man’s usurper is another man’s rightful heir. Why should I care what the council thinks? It wasn’t me who abandoned the Anziani – the Anziani abandoned me. Some purported bastard shows up filled with pretty speeches learned by rote at the knee of a poet, and the great men leave their patriotic duty to embrace a myth, a puppet, a tool. Whose creature is he, Lord Castelbarco? Yours? Ser Alaghieri’s? My Lord Nogarola’s?”

  “I am the Greyhound’s heir, cousin.” Close to falling down, Cesco had only moments more to give. I have to strike, make my mark, then get out before I damage my cause. But how?

  “Cousin or no, you are a child, a creature of other men.” Dismissing Cesco, Mastino addressed the council. “Masters, I say the Capitano’s seat is mine.”


  For the crowd, Cesco managed a smile. “Masters, the will says it is mine.”

  A third voice boomed all around the hall. “And I, masters, say it’s mine!”

  Heads turned. Mastino’s German mercenaries had retreated from the open doors, leaving a tall figure framed against the streaming sunlight. A single sweep and the muffling cloak and floppy hat were cast aside. Taller than any in the chamber, the intruder grinned at them, his chestnut hair cut close to his skull, his cornflower blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

  Benches and stools scraped the tiles as men all around the chamber stood staring, gasping, laughing in relief. Many said his name, but Cesco didn’t need to be told. He knew at once. Father! He even started to say it aloud, but the title stuck in his throat.

  Cangrande della Scala had returned.

  Eighteen

  “That bastard! I’m such a fool! I should have checked. I should have gone myself, seen his body, held up a mirror to his lips, sewed his nose shut, and buried him twenty feet under the earth before I even thought of bringing Cesco here! Bastard!”

  “Well, Pietro, you’ve always said he’s more fox than hound.”

  “Joke all you like, Antonia. This is a disaster!”

  The two siblings occupied the stony kitchens of the Nogarola house at the end of that interminable day. Cesco was in bed upstairs, forced into restful slumber by Morsicato’s poppy draught. Detto and Valentino, exhausted, had fallen asleep where they sat at dinner. The Moor was asleep too, unknowingly given a touch of Cesco’s sleeping potion in his wine. Bail was off feasting with Cangrande and the rest of the jubilant nobility – all except Federigo della Scala, who was probably on his way out of Verona as fast as his horse could carry him.

  Pietro had declined the invitation to dinner, pleading his charge’s exhaustion as his excuse to escape the nightmare he found himself inhabiting. But after a whole day and night without food, he was famished. So he now carved hunks of roast lamb off a spit in the warm, dimly-lit kitchen.

  Sitting upright on a stool, Antonia said, “Tell me what happened.”