Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “We don’t. We need someone with him at all times.”

  “And that’s why you’re—”

  “—asking if you’ll help.”

  Lorenzo considered for a time. “Why do you think it will be someone at the feast?”

  “He said the man was noble, well-spoken. All the nobility of Verona will be at the feast.”

  “Except Montecchio,” protested Lorenzo pointlessly.

  “I seriously doubt Mari ordered the death of Cangrande’s heir.”

  Lorenzo sighed. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Disguise him as a vagabond friar visiting Verona, and have him accompany you to the feast.”

  “That might be a problem. I don’t usually attend such things. Especially not at Capulletto’s house.”

  “They’ve been throwing these celebrations for ten years. You’ve never been?”

  “I have avoided Ser Capulletto’s company ever since I caused the rift between him and Ser Montecchio.”

  Pietro understood. “You didn’t cause the rift. You married Gianozza to Mari in good faith. No one blames you.”

  “That’s not to say I don’t deserve some blame.”

  “Then leave it to God. If Antony doesn’t hold you responsible, I don’t see why you need to hold him at arm’s length.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “To what?”

  “To all of it.”

  “Fra Lorenzo,” said Pietro haltingly, “I have a sister in the Order. I was raised to join it myself. I may be an excommunicant, but I have nothing but respect for the Church. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “There are many who would see it as their duty to the Church to betray me.”

  “I am not one of them. I try not to judge a man without evidence.”

  They reached a street leading back to the Franciscan monastery. Lorenzo stopped. “You have me over a barrel. I’ll aid you in your deception, but only because it will aid the child and the Capitano.” The friar studied Pietro from head to toe. “You know, I always understood you to be an honourable man. I watched you fight a duel once. I even cheered for you because you were in the right. I mourned your excommunication when I heard of it because I thought you were the wronged party. But now I see the Pope was guided by the Lord in making his decision. You are in league with the Devil.”

  Barbed words. Pietro answered in kind. “Of the pair of us, I’m not the one the Pope would like to see burned at the stake.”

  It was past the hedge of Pietro’s teeth before he could stop it, and at once he tried to mend his gaffe. “When he was five, Cesco asked me a question. ‘Uncle Pietro,’ he said, ‘how do you put your talk back in your mouth?’ I wish I had an answer now. That was unworthy. I apologize.”

  The friar just stared, mouth set in a deep grimace.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Pietro said, “I’ll send my sister to you. She knows nothing of your secret. Nor does anyone else. I mean it. I will not betray you.”

  Lorenzo said nothing. There was nothing to say. But Pietro made a last stab at amends. “You told Brother Giovanni that everything on earth has the potential for both good and evil. Consider this me doing evil for a good cause.”

  Fra Lorenzo studied Pietro as he would a weed in his garden. “Matthew 7:17. Every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. It says nothing about good fruit from an evil tree.” Turning, he left Pietro standing at the water’s edge with the thought.

  Twenty-Two

  Verona

  Thursday, 25 July

  1325

  Three days before the Capulletto feast, Cesco was well enough to join the household for both the noontime dinner and evening supper. The sun was in the middle of the sky when he met Pietro, Bailardino, Antonia, Detto, Valentino, and the visiting Castelbarco at the boards.

  “Where’s the doctor?” asked Bailardino.

  “And Tharwat,” added Cesco, amused by Bail’s persistent dislike of the astrologer.

  Tucking in, Pietro said, “On their way to Mantua to discover who made the poison.”

  That rocked everyone back on their heels. Even Antonia looked surprised. But Pietro knew the best way to make Cesco curious was to evade the truth. Lay it bare and he might just let it alone. You really are starting to think like them. It was an ugly thought, one that had haunted him since his interview with Fra Lorenzo.

  Focusing on the dish before him, Pietro said, “This looks excellent.” It did – horseflesh in an apple sauce.

  Bail laughed. “The cooks choose my meals for me. I have no say in it. And I must admit, it’s always better than what I could have come up with – warm bread, a bowl of porridge, and a salted hunk of game, probably. Kat picked our servants years ago. Even unable to enjoy it, her meals always consist of the best dishes.”

  Castelbarco said, “You don’t strike me as an Epicurean, Bail.”

  “O, I’m no Morsicato when it comes to these things. The cooks know their master is no effete. But they make certain sitting down to table is a pleasure.”

  Detto was focused on Pietro’s statement. “Do they have a lead on the poison maker?”

  “Yes,” said Pietro.

  “Will they kill him?” asked Valentino.

  “That depends on what he tells them.”

  “But it’s illegal to even own poison,” argued Detto.

  Pietro had filled his mouth, so Antonia answered. “A law is only as good as the men who enforce it.”

  Castelbarco applauded. “How well put! Mind if I quote you next time I’m wrangling with the Anziani?”

  “Feel free,” replied Antonia. “It’s hardly original – father used to say it.”

  “Speaking of fathers,” said Pietro, blatantly opening up a new topic. “Cesco must be dying to know what Cangrande was like as a boy. Bail, you knew him then. Any good stories come to mind?”

  Cesco gave Pietro a curious look, but Bailardino was already laughing with pleasure. “O dear Lord! A million! Which do you want to hear?”

  Castelbarco wore a rueful smile. “What about the time he stole the clappers to all the city bells? Or the time we thought he’d drowned in the Adige, teaching himself to fish with a spear? We spent hours in the freezing water, only to find him safe at home, eating salmon.”

  “Which he’d bought,” added Bailardino, leaning his chair back against the wall.

  Pietro had a particular story in mind. “I recall hearing something about him showing up uninvited to a knighting ceremony wearing a masque.”

  “Ah!” cried Bailardino as Castelbarco sighed with mock wistfulness. “I remember all too well! Many worthy men were invested that day. The very soul of chivalry, those men were— ”

  “Could you possibly have been among them?” asked Cesco, already laughing.

  “Come to think of it, I was! And lesser men, too, like Castelbarco here.” Castelbarco responded by tapping the bottom of Bailardino cup mid-sip, spilling just enough to make the speaker appear to be dribbling. Guffawing, Bailardino mopped his chin. “Must be getting old. Anyway, it wasn’t our knighting that made that day memorable. No, it was himself the elf. Not so small as you, boy, but close.”

  “Thank God,” said Cesco. “There’s hope for me yet.”

  “I remember that day as well,” said Castelbarco, explaining to Bailardino’s sons, “It was at the Corte Bandita, almost thirty years back—”

  “Dear God, I’m getting old,” moaned Bail.

  “—your father’s big day. Married in the morning, knighted in the afternoon!”

  “But the little puppy pissed all over my big day!” Bail pointed to all three boys. “Your grandfather was celebrating a victory over the Paduans – they never learn.”

  “The city was thronged—” said Castelbarco.

  “Noble guests, actors, jugglers, and minstrels—” Bail interjected.

  “Alberto della Scala showered us new knights with gifts—”

  Bail grinned at the memory. “F
lemish cloaks, scarlet, purple, green, white, and all lined with lamb’s wool or fur—”

  “I still have mine.”

  “Thrifty, my friend, thrifty.”

  “Now, boys, your grandfather was a favourite of the last pope’s—”

  “Unlike Cangrande and our friend here.” Bail jerked a thumb at Pietro.

  “—so he invited lots of cardinals and priests close to Boniface.”

  “In front of them all I knelt for blessing, and he knighted me.”

  “Only you?” asked Antonia airily.

  Bailardino harrumphed as Castelbarco grinned. “Well no – but no one of any importance.” Ducking a swipe from the aging noble beside him, Bail fended off continued attacks while he told the story. “Like I said, Castelbarco was knighted. My brother was there, too, but he’s so small I’m surprised anyone noticed. Oh, and Cangrande’s brother Bartolomeo was knighted, but everybody already loved him. Cangrande’s cousin Nicolo was knighted that day, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right, he was!” nodded Castelbarco, still making mock sword strokes. “I’d forgotten him completely!”

  “Who was he?” asked Cesco between laughs. The boys were thoroughly enjoying seeing their elders be foolish.

  “The first Mastino’s only son,” explained Bailardino. “Dead, what, twenty years? But he was made a knight that day. Not that it mattered, really, because all eyes were on me. Y’see, I’d just come from my wedding, and there was my Katerina, as refined as a Giotto, lovelier than Venus at her bath. So all the crowd was looking at me and whispering—”

  Pietro broke in. “ ‘Who’s that big ox with the beautiful wife? He must be somebody’s brother, or rich, because he’s so ugly. Poor lady!’ ”

  Detto came to his father’s defence, flinging an apple slice at Pietro. Cesco rallied for Pietro, hitting Val with some hard cheese. Amid the flying food Bail shook a fist. “Were you even alive then, Alaghieri?”

  “Wait wait wait!” cried Cesco. “You said Venus at her bath! So La Donna came to the festival naked?” Detto and Val turned their full attention to attacking Cesco, who gleefully defended himself as everyone at the table laughed harder.

  The only woman present, a sighing Antonia gently put a stop to their antics. “What happened then?”

  As Bailardino was busily mopping apple sauce from his forehead, Castelbarco picked up the narrative. “Alberto della Scala was on the dais doling out knighthoods, surrounded by a few thousand well-wishers. Suddenly this horse pushes through carrying a little fellow in a masque and cape.”

  Bail’s face came up out of his shirt. “I remember thinking, ‘Oh, a midget! This’ll be good!’”

  “We all thought he was there to perform tricks because he was riding bare-back, with only a rope halter for steering. And we were right. He begins this course of acrobatic moves, handstands and flips, all while he’s racing a stallion around and around the dais —”

  “The crowd went mad applauding and laughing.”

  “Nogarola, who’s telling this story?”

  “I am,” replied Bail. “The little twerp plucks a spear from one of the guards and hoists it up over his head, twirling it like a girl with a needle. Well, suddenly what’s been amusing antics become threatening. Some men step out to grab him, but the spear lashes out, cracking a skull, trapping a knee. The imp doesn’t stop until he reached the podium where we’re all standing with our thumbs up our – noses. Up our noses, Antonia! He leaps at us, spear in hand. He lands all set to attack, then, just before I chop him in half —” He paused, considering. “There’s a joke there. Cutting a midget in half. Would that make him a quarter-man —?”

  “Half a half-pint?” suggested Pietro.

  “A demi-dwarf,” said Cesco.

  “This is why you can’t tell stories,” said Castelbarco sourly.

  Bail made him a face. “So the insect is about to sting our beloved leader in the gut when he drops down on his knees, holding the spear out like a gift, calm as you please. Now, old Alberto was a cool one. He booms out, ‘What do you mean, stranger, invading our lands and disrupting our festival?’ And the midget, sounding just like our Cesco here, whimpered and sniveled —” Cesco launched a piece of food at Bailardino’s head. “I mean, in a manly voice, nothing at all like a little girl-child, he says, ‘I come to claim knighthood. Try me as you might.’

  “Well, after a moment of thought, Alberto calls forth his new knights – eleven in all, I think – and tells us to devise tests for the little puke. Some didn’t quite take it seriously, making him recite poetry or swish his sword through the air!” He made a couple of weak slashes at Castelbarco, informing his audience who had come up with that particular lame task. “Whereas I understood how important, how truly fraught with meaning, the charge of knighthood is. I made him parade around the dais ten times, holding a banner over his head.”

  “A banner covered in nightsoil,” supplied Castelbarco.

  “A mark of his courage and dedication!”

  “Defecation!” cried Cesco, wincing.

  “If he let it fall, he wasn’t fit to become a knight!”

  “If he’d let it fall,” said Castelbarco to Cesco, “it would have landed on his head and he’d’ve been covered in – well, in —”

  “Shit,” finished Antonia with a disgusted look for all these idiots.

  “Er, yes, quite.” Castelbarco quickly moved on. “At the end of eleven trials, the boy climbs up the dais to claim his reward. Alberto then delivers the charge of knighthood and helps the little imp to stand. ‘What shall we call you, my boy?’”

  “He almost said son.” Bail was determined to finish the story himself. “And though we all know who he is, the little imp has earned the right to unmasque himself. Well, he grins at us, for the first time looking his age. He tears the masque off his head, turns round and asks the crowd, ‘What’s my name?’”

  “Cangrande!” cried the table in unison.

  Bailardino nodded, his smile fading a little. “Then he collapsed. It was Kat who picked him up. She had a good joke about it – something about him carrying a sword and a rattle. She had to play his nurse for eight days. I could have murdered him! Some honeymoon!”

  Pietro was laughing with the rest until Antonia caught his eye. She had no trouble communicating her thoughts: Why did you want Cesco to hear this story?

  Pietro had good reason. Armed with an example, Cesco’s official entrance to Veronese life would have a sense of tradition, bolstering his claim. Already he could see the boy’s mind considering how to make the biggest splash.

  Of course, it had always been likely that Cesco would outdo himself to create a spectacle. That didn’t worry Pietro. What frightened him was what Cangrande might do if he felt himself being eclipsed.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Mantua

  A mass of bricks surrounded entirely by water, that was the impression Mantua gave the eye. No plaster on the walls, and therefore no frescos upon the plaster. Just brick upon brick, topped by clay tile. A functional city, a serious city, a city without a sense of play.

  Perhaps the reason lay in its history. Founded three thousand years earlier on the banks of the Mincio River, Mantua was built upon a quasi-island. Sadly, this defensive position did not prevent it from being conquered time and time again, first by the Gauls, then the Romans. Augustus settled his veterans around Mantua in the hope of bolstering its backbone. But the moment Rome collapsed, so did Mantua. Goths, Byzantines, Longobards, Franks, and Tuscans all took Mantua for their own. Not valuable in itself, the city was a perfect staging area for northern Italy. Which led to its being named the capital of Lombardy.

  For two hundred years Mantua had been a free commune. Determined never again to be ruled by outside forces, the citizens fought strenuously to defend themselves from the growing Holy Roman Empire. One ingenious Mantuan had altered the flow of the Mincio, creating four ‘lakes’ to reinforce the city’s natural defenses.

  Then, just fifty years past, the Bo
naccolsi family had seized control and switched the city’s allegiance from Guelph to Ghibelline. Which made Mantua an ally to Verona. Not as populous, Mantua had benefited from the alliance with its northern neighbour. Trade flourished, and a new militaristic fervor rose. For the first time in its history the city could look forward to being the conqueror, not the conquered.

  Unlike Verona, Mantua had not invested in towers. There were a handful, yes, but as a whole the city felt squat, crouched, wary, waiting for the next blow to fall. The people of Mantua bore a similar look. Stern, guarded, reserved.

  Amidst this serious community walked two unusual figures. One was a stout, long-armed, fork-bearded fellow wearing a urine-glass about his throat, declaring his medical profession. The other was a Moor in fine clothes with a big falchion on his back, carving a path through a sea of Mantuans.

  As citizens made way, the doctor grunted. “What I don’t understand is why you don’t wear that all the time.”

  Tharwat glanced down at his finely tailored garments. Worked into every piece was the Scaligeri crest. He shrugged. “Itches.”

  “It damn well doesn’t itch and you know it,” groused Morsicato. “It looks magnificent. And no one will bother you with that crest on your sleeve.”

  “Which is why I wear it this day. Mantua is hardly less hostile to men of my colour than Venice. We have enough difficulties.” He paused at the intersection of three streets. “Do you see a sign? Or is this yet another city where the streets have no names.” They had been forced to leave their mounts at a stable outside the walls and cross a bridge spanning the man-made lakes. But on foot, the city design made no sense.

  Morsicato was not inclined to let his companion escape the topic. “I just don’t see why you make it hard on yourself when you could wear that every day.”

  “Let’s try this way.” The Moor set off, and Morsicato trotted to keep up.

  “Did you see a sign?”

  “No.”

  “If you didn’t see a sign, how do you know where we’re going?”

  “I don’t.”

  “We should just ask,” suggested Morsicato.