Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “And in the meantime,” said Tharwat, “the doctor and I will travel to Mantua and track down this apothecary. It bothers me, the instruction to purchase the poison in Mantua. There are enough disreputable apothecaries in Venice. Why add forty miles to the trip to procure the foul means of murder? I can only think that the apothecary is important. He may know something.”

  Pietro suddenly snapped his fingers. “Mantua! We can find out the events of those missing days without asking Cangrande! I know who we can ask!”

  “Who?”

  “Passerino! Lord Bonaccolsi was with him the whole time!”

  “Excellent,” said the Moor, nodding.

  Visibly relaxing, Antonia said, “Somehow I always forget he exists – he’s so eclipsed by the Scaliger. But Passerino is a good man, and thinks this was an excellent joke. He’ll want to tell the tale.”

  “Yes. But not until the party. We can’t let the Scaliger know we’re nosing around until we can confront him.”

  Morsicato held up a hand like a student. “Pietro, you may have thought of this, but how do we get the drunkard into the party without the Scaliger knowing?”

  Pietro smiled. “I have an answer for that, too.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Soon Pietro was crossing to the opposite end of the city, from north-west to south-east. His destination was an entirely different house of God, San Francesco al Corso. A modest establishment, as befit an Order that embraced poverty and humility. It was impressive only for its sheen, as the sun reflected off unadorned white walls and white paving stones leading to the open front door. This was not a church of massive grey stone. Nor was it made of the ubiquitous rose-marble and yellow brick that so defined the city. It seemed to glow, and in daylight hurt the eyes. Perhaps that was why so many of the brothers had squints.

  Pietro came at it from the side, following the path to the garden. Even the gravel was white, and Pietro’s feet kicked up chalky clouds with each step. I mar God’s path, he thought, wondering if it were true.

  It was too fine a day for such thoughts to linger. Light filtered down through trellised arbors wound round with bright green leaves. The white marble pillars holding up the trellises were thin, almost apologetic for being there at all.

  The man Pietro sought was in San Francesco’s garden. Once handsome, he clearly spent a great deal of time outside. His skin was dark with sun and his eyes had the smiling crows-feet of long days spent squinting. His hands were hard, his fingernails encrusted with soil. The knees of his brown robes were deep in the dirt as he instructed a teenaged acolyte in the nature of Nature. The sun reflected off the tonsured skin on their heads, but the elder man’s hadn’t been shaved in several days. Clearly he wasn’t as careful about his appearance as once he’d been. No longer in the spring of his Orders, the thirty year-old still had a spry step and a genial smile.

  Seeing someone approach, the friar paused until the hazy figure resolved itself. “Ser Alaghieri?”

  “Good morning, Fra Lorenzo.”

  “Benedicite,” said Lorenzo in cheerful welcome. “Is your young charge with you?”

  “He’s at home, mending. Reading, probably.”

  “Delighted to hear it.” Fra Lorenzo cuffed the young man beside him. “See? Learning is a meal to be devoured, not a torture only inflicted on prisoners of youth. Ser Alaghieri, are you out for a stroll or do you have a specific destination?”

  “I’m where I want to be.” Pietro stepped into the shade of the garden wall. “I was hoping for a word, but there’s no hurry. Please finish your lesson.”

  Lorenzo nodded. “Thank you. Brother Giovanni, stop staring at Ser Alaghieri. You’ll make him self-conscious. Now, as I’ve said before, all creation is made for the express good of Man. No, that does not mean that everything is universally good. But there is nothing that exists on God’s earth that doesn’t have the capacity for good.” His fingers brushed the rough twinned leaves of a tiny blue-stemmed plant. “Take this, for example. What’s it called, do you know?”

  “It looks like spinach,” said the young brother.

  “Do you want to eat it?” Lorenzo plucked one of the leaves free. “Smell this.”

  Brother Giovanni quickly turned up his nose. “Ew!”

  “It tastes worse than it smells. Now, use your head. Name a plant that I might be interested in that looks like spinach.”

  “Umm.” The novice gave a quick glance to Pietro, who shrugged.

  “I’ll give you one more hint. While it’s poisonous to small animals when it’s fresh, heat removes the harmfulness.”

  John took a guess. “Mercorella?”

  “Good, good.”

  “I was right?”

  “No. Well, a little. Part right in name, wholly wrong in fact.” Lorenzo held up the sprig. “This is Dog’s Mercury.”

  “Dog’s Mercury? Like a Dog Violet or a Dog Rose?”

  “Yes. Why do we call some plants Dog?”

  “Because they don’t – they lack the attributes of the regular species.”

  “Correct!” Fra Lorenzo twirled the stem to bring a leaf to the front. “You can tell this is the commoner male by the leaves – more pointed, less serrated than those on the female, which have longer stalks.” As the novice started looking for the female, Lorenzo clucked his tongue. “Sadly, male and female are rarely found together. They don’t get on well.”

  “Then how do they thrive?”

  “A surprisingly excellent question! They rely on the wind and, though I have yet to observe it, I think insects. Meanwhile they increase their numbers by spreading their rootstocks and stems. Rather like a man of considerable influence who lacks in potency of the loins.” The novice reddened, causing Lorenzo to chuckle. “It flowers from March to May, and seeds in summer. The Greeks called it Mercury’s Grass, and the French call it La Mercuriale. Its name comes from an ancient legend that the pagan god Mercury came down and revealed its medicinal properties to man. Do you have any idea what those properties might be?”

  “Ah. Poisonous. Um, good as a, a dye…”

  Lorenzo gave Brother Giovanni’s tonsure a light slap. “Don’t guess.”

  “Was I wrong?”

  “No. But I can still tell. To an adult, Dog’s Mercury isn’t necessarily deadly. Rather, it is an irritant. It will make you vomit, feel drowsy, or maybe twitch a bit in your face and extremities. As far as dyes go, the leaves and stem produce a muddy kind of indigo when steeped in water. It’s permanent, but expensive, as a fair amount of alum is needed to bind it together. However, that’s not what I asked you. I asked for the medicinal properties.” Lorenzo sighed. “By the panic on your face, I see you haven’t a clue. Fine. Listen. Learn. Hippocrates commends it for women’s diseases – used externally, of course. If swallowed in a very watery concoction, it’s a fine purgative. A solution of powdered leaves is good for sore eyes and pains in the ears. And if you’re smart enough to pluck it while it’s in flower, you can mix it with sugar or vinegar and create an excellent poultice for warts and ugly sores.” Lorenzo stood and brushed himself off. “Now, here’s the trick I use to keep my plants straight in my mind. I think of them as people. In time they become old friends, or at least passing acquaintances. So, Dog’s Mercury or, as we shall call him, the Mercurial Dog. First, picture him physically. Blue eyes, feathery hair. He’s smaller than his fellows and has extra arrogance because of it. He’s not murderous, but neither is he friendly. A little prickly, he makes you uneasy when you’re around him. But as he ages, he has hidden depths, and grows to a man of great, if unseen, influence.” Hearing Pietro chuckle, Lorenzo said, “Ser Alaghieri, do you have anything to add?”

  “I am only astonished at how well your little device works. I feel like I know him. But I imagine him with curling hair and a wicked smile. And his eyes are green.”

  “Indeed?” Lorenzo was amused. “You are fortunate in your imagination. I always end up seeing faces of people I have known. Giovanni, can you picture him, too? Good. Keep hi
m in your mind and make sure you never eat him. Now go back to the abbot and tell him what you’ve learned today. Ser Alaghieri has been very patient, but I don’t think he’s here to speak with you.”

  “Alas, no,” said Pietro, patting the young novice on the shoulder as he passed. He waited while Lorenzo shook out his brown Franciscan robes from waist to ankle. He was barefoot according the rules of his Order. As he came near, Pietro breathed in the scent of freshly turned earth that by now had become the friar’s own. Gesturing at the wide enclosure filled with plants, Pietro said, “A long way from tending Bishop Francis’ little herb garden.”

  Lorenzo scrubbed his hands on the chest of his robes. “God’s gift to me. I am blessed that I may put it to use.”

  “Doubly blessed,” observed Pietro. “I hear even the Benedictines have swallowed their pride and asked you to instruct their young men.”

  “Only in matters of plants. I am under orders – from both Orders – not to discuss wider theological concerns.”

  Pietro cocked his head at the word theology. “I thought that both Franciscans and Benedictines frowned upon applying logic to God.”

  Lorenzo returned him a helpless smile. “Officially, yes. But in practice, it’s what we’ve always done. And I like the word. Theo Logy. God Logic.”

  In the smile was the young man Pietro had met ten years before. Time may have broadened his shoulders and added weight to his frame, as tended to happen with Franciscans. But his eyes were still the colour of a cloudy sky, his hair still raw black. His long, solid chin was now hidden by a bristly beard, which had the effect of making him less pretty than he had been. No longer could the women of Verona refer to him as another Brother What-A-Waste.

  Indeed, if the rumours were true, Fra Lorenzo was one of the few members of any order who did not have a woman stashed away somewhere. It was noted that he always had time for the young men in need of work, or a kind word. Which gave rise to other whispers. Monastic life was the target of much speculation, and all too often the rumours of indecency between the brothers were true.

  But Lorenzo didn’t seem to be that kind of friar. His vow of chastity seemed as sincere as his other vows. His devotion to rules ensured that he would never rise to become a Bishop. But that, too, seemed to be fine with the man, who was happiest in his herb garden tending to God’s creation.

  Finished with his rough grooming, Lorenzo said, “How is Cangrande’s son enjoying Verona?”

  “He is as eager to soak the city in as a sponge for water.”

  “You say he’s reading – books from the Chapter Library?”

  Pietro nodded. “He’s interested in learning as much as he can about the city.”

  “That library is indeed magnificent. Even I have found a few treasures in the collection. Several translations of Hippocrates’ notes on herbs. Though the common joke around the monastery is if you handed me a book, I’d try to plant it. Ha! Tell me, what kind of poison was it?” Pietro blinked, and Lorenzo gave him a shrewd smile. “I am not a fool. Fracastoro employs me as his personal apothecary. The brotherhood approves because he’s the Scaliger’s personal physician. When he sends to me for information about three separate poisons on the very night that the boy arrives, it does not take a monumental intelligence to divine the cause.” Lorenzo patted Pietro’s shoulder. “Don’t concern yourself. I know how to keep a secret.”

  “I’m well aware of it,” said Pietro pointedly. “You see, I know a few secrets myself.”

  “Obviously! You raised the Capitano’s son for nearly a decade and not a soul got wind of it. No small feat.”

  Hating himself a little, Pietro edged closer to his real reason for seeking out this holy man. “You know, it’s funny, what sticks in the memory. As I remember it, you had only just arrived in Verona when we first met.”

  “True,” said Lorenzo easily. “Ages ago.”

  “And now you pass for a native. Your accent is entirely gone.”

  And there it was. Just a flicker, but finally Pietro had prodded the man in a sensitive place. For the space of a single breath, Fra Lorenzo’s face transformed from genial openness to wary suspicion. Then it was gone, vanishing as soon as it had appeared. Fra Lorenzo tried to laugh. “I wasn’t aware I’d assimilated so thoroughly.”

  “Of course, they speak Occitan in Sebartés as well,” continued Pietro. “The transition could not have been too hard.”

  “Sebartés? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Really? If I were to mention that a Frenchman called Arnaud Sicre was in the area, what would that mean to you?”

  Another breath of hesitation. “Nothing. Who is he?”

  “A religious bounty hunter. You must have heard of him. He’s the tool of a Dominican called Bernardo Gui.”

  Fra Lorenzo doggedly shook his head. “Another name that means nothing—”

  Pietro sighed. “Fra Lorenzo, that’s a ridiculous lie. Who doesn’t know Gui? But we’ll let that pass in favour of another name – Batto Tricastre. Does that—?”

  With the suddenness of lightning from a clear sky, Lorenzo swung all his weight into a blow aimed at Pietro’s chin.

  Pietro Alaghieri was no longer the untutored teen who had arrived in Verona eleven years earlier. Any moment not spent learning law was spent in practice with Tharwat, and his swordsmanship now rivaled even the proudest soldier’s. Training had honed Pietro’s reflexes. Instinctively, he caught the blow on his own forearm. Stepping forward, he placed his weak leg behind Lorenzo’s knee and unbalanced the friar by forcing that knee to bend. At the same time Pietro twisted his hips and shoved.

  “Aaah!” Fra Lorenzo tumbled to the ground heavily enough to lose his wind, crushing the nearby crop of Dog’s Mercury.

  Pietro stepped out of arm’s reach. “That’s some temper.”

  “Wha – wha – wasn’t it deserved?” demanded Lorenzo, red-faced.

  “Probably,” admitted Pietro. “I apologize.”

  “Is Sicre – in the area?”

  “In Spain, last I heard. As far as I know, he has no reason to come here.”

  Lorenzo hauled himself to a sitting position. Face flushed with rage, his grey eyes were filled with panic. “What do you want?”

  “To warn you,” lied Pietro. “If I know, you can wager that others do as well.”

  Tears formed in the friar’s wide eyes. “It’s been so long…”

  A couple of Franciscans came around the corner of the wall, both running. “Brother, we heard a shout—”

  Lorenzo clambered up to his feet. “I’m fine. Slipped. Stupid of me,” he added, with a quick grin. It was convincing. The man was an accomplished liar. In moments Lorenzo had sent them off mollified, thanking them for their concern.

  The instant they were gone, Fra Lorenzo turned back to Pietro. They held gazes for a moment, and there was something like hate in the holy man’s eyes. Then the friar made a helpless gesture. “Walk with me.”

  They left the grounds of San Francesco, turning to walk along the riverside where there was less chance of being overheard.

  “I’m curious,” said Pietro. “What would you have done if your blow had landed?”

  “Tied you up, I suppose. Hidden you in the shade of the wall. Then I would have run.” The friar uttered a sour chuckle of self-disdain. “It’s something I’m good at. Running. How much do you know?”

  “Enough. I wasn’t lying when I said my father remembered you. When the trials started five years ago, he recalled you came from Sebartés, and how panicked you were when he discovered it. It was not a difficult leap.”

  Lorenzo sighed. “He was the only one who ever remarked it. It was because of him that I worked so hard to erase every trace of French from my accent. You say others know?”

  Pietro shook his head. “I’ve never told anyone. But the Scaliger must know. I have no idea who else.”

  Lorenzo was pensive. “If he’s known, he could have done something else long before now.”

&nb
sp; Pietro didn’t reveal what he thought of the Capitano. “He’s a politician. He could be waiting until it’s of use.”

  “True.” Lorenzo’s face was hangdog. “His father burned the Paterenes alive in the Arena.”

  “From what I understand, Alberto della Scala was a fanatically religious man. His son is devout, but not cut from that cloth. He bears his excommunication with equanimity.”

  “Whereas yours bothers you?”

  “Every day.” It was a small enough secret to share, but Lorenzo could tell that it was something Pietro didn’t like to speak of. An attempt to build trust.

  They walked in silence for a time. At one point Lorenzo bent down to pluck a plant growing along the water’s edge. He studied it hard, as if hoping it contained the answer to his problems. Finally he said, “How can I help you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your motives are not altruistic. You’re not here to warn me of impending danger. If you wanted to betray me, you would have done so. You need me. There’s no other reason to reveal your knowledge. So get on with it. But I warn you, I have very little influence with the Pope.”

  “I’m not here to extort your help,” said Pietro, working hard to be persuasive. “The opposite, really. I’m going to trust you with a secret of mine. I wanted you to know that I can keep secrets. Besides, as you point out, I’m an excommunicant. What do I care about heresy?”

  It was a lame attempt at humour, and Lorenzo’s stare chilled Pietro. “A secret of yours?”

  “You already guessed that Cesco was poisoned. We caught the man who did it. He was hired by someone in Venice, but I think that someone was really from Verona. The poisoner can’t identify the man’s face, but he can recognize a voice. It’s my suspicion that the man will be at Capulletto’s feast next week. What we need to do is sneak the poisoner into Capulletto’s house in some disguise so he won’t be recognized. If he hears the right voice, he’ll tell us and we can bring the real villain to justice.”

  “How do you know you can trust the poisoner?”