by David Blixt
Pietro laughed. “I suppose, but they’re not trying very hard. Though they did recently attempt to steal my father’s bones.”
“What?! Silly buggers. If you ever need any help dealing with them, I have connections there.”
“I’m sure,” said Pietro dryly. “You’re quite the man of the world these days.”
“I’m sure I’m the same man you knew back when. Just because I’ve done well for myself —”
“Don’t get your back up, Antony. It’s just, well, look at you! Not even thirty and a wealthy man, one of the Anziani, and married to boot!”
The compliment didn’t have the intended effect. Instead of swelling with pride, Antony leaned up against a wall and looked deflated. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? Me, married to that child.”
Pietro blinked. “Antony, I – didn’t you want to marry her?”
“She’s not bad, I guess,” grumbled Antony. “But I – well, I know I can trust you, Pietro. Her family got wind of some of my, well, a questionable business dealing. When I started looking for a bride, they threatened me with exposure.”
That was news to Pietro. “Was it that bad?”
“They had documents. It would have hurt my public standing, maybe even a censure from the Church.”
“That can sting,” admitted Pietro.
“I know. Look at you.” Careless of his fine robe, Antony sat down heavily on a bench. “They told me to break Theobaldo’s engagement and marry Tessa myself. Not a bad deal, business-wise. And I’m sure she’ll give me lots of children. But it was hard to – I mean, I only… The moment I was sure she was pregnant, I moved down to the bedroom at the back of my office.”
When you were away from Antony, it was easy to remember only the brash and churlish side to his personality. Being with him, you always saw the enormous heart. If only his pride wasn’t so great, his insecurity so deep. “Does the girl know why you married her?”
Antony looked up, surprised. “What? No! I hope she believes I asked for her hand. She wasn’t pleased at the time, but as she grows up she’ll come to like being the lady of the house. Much better than being married to my brother’s brat, anyway.”
Pietro sat down beside him. “Why get married at all? I mean, what made it so important that you had to marry now?”
“You know why.”
Pietro saw the old hurt in his friend’s face. Yes, he knew. Five years ago Montecchio and his wife had gone to Rome, and returned to Verona last year with a child, their pride and joy. “Mariotto’s son.”
“Her son,” corrected Antony. “Giulia’s son.”
Oh for pity’s sake! Antony had always called Mariotto’s wife by that name, an affectionate reference to Julius Caesar’s daughter Julia, the perfect woman. It was always said that a Julia had the ability to make her man happy. A foolish pet name, as Mari’s wife had caused no happiness in Antony’s life, only misery.
But Pietro kept his thoughts to himself. Aloud he said only, “I’m so sorry, Antony.”
“I had thought—” Antony cuffed roughly at his face. “Life was passing me by, you see? She and Montecchio were moving forward. Even his little sister has a son. And there was me, standing with my thumb up my ass. I need an heir. I’m a man without a son…”
Servants appeared at the far end of the room bearing trays, and Antony leapt to his feet with a forced smile. “Good. Good! The Scaliger will be here soon. Come, Ser Alaghieri – up to the Grand Salon.”
Ascending another flight of stairs, they came to a long room where fine oak tables were ready for the guests of honour. No rushes here. The wood floors were polished so bright they shone. Frescos decorated the walls in tight geometric patterns, every so often making room for a fine rendering of a saint.
At the far end was a large fireplace displaying the ancient Capelletti crest, a two-tiered hat in stone. Overhead, the wood cross-bracings steepled up to a point. This, then, was as high as the original Capelletto house went.
Tall windows on both sides let in the daylight, but near the staircase a door led to the long balcony Pietro had seen from below, connecting the old house with the new one. “That’s where your household actually lives?”
“Oh yes. The tower goes up two more flights, with room enough for nearly everyone. A fireplace in every room. Some even overlook the via Cappello.”
Antony was about to take Pietro through when they heard the sound of hoofbeats, barking dogs, and a great cheer from below. Stepping quickly onto the balcony, they watched the crowd move aside as a rider on a snow white horse came galloping through the tunnel, followed by six great mastiffs and twin spry greyhounds. Cangrande had arrived.
Pietro spied Lorenzo, Antonia, and Borachio off in a corner of the yard. His sister caught his eye in a moment of anticipation. This is it. The moment of truth.
Antony’s eyes were on the Capitano. “The boy’s not with him?”
“They haven’t actually met yet. Not formally. We’ll present him after the feast.”
Antony beamed at this unexpected honour. Uttering a perfunctory excuse, he vanished back down the stairs to play the humble host, while Pietro remained on the balcony, watching carefully.
The Scaliger was a master of these situations. Motioning his dogs to stay, he greeted Antony with grace and humour, then made the rounds of important men, each one treated to the famous allegria. Poise perfected. Antonia and Lorenzo were passed by, unremarked.
Pietro’s eyes were on Borachio. The disguised poisoner was looking right at Cangrande, listening to the words the great lord passed with his fellow nobles.
No reaction. Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.
Antonia looked up to Pietro, wondering if he had seen something she had not. Pietro just shook his head.
Damn. The others were right. Cangrande was not the man who had ordered Cesco’s poisoning.
Now what do we do?
Twenty-Four
Blue sky was giving way to red and exterior torches were being lit when everyone was finally seated for the first course. Merchant families, the ‘new nobility’, were placed on the ground floor among the least influential nobles, while the first floor housed the middle tier of the city’s best and brightest. The most prominent nobility, thirty in number, found themselves guided to the best table on the second floor.
The division made it impossible for Antony’s servants to create the formal entrée, the traditional bringing in of dishes on horseback. Instead they cannily made the household dogs the bearers of each dish, low trays strapped between paired hounds matched for height. “Cani grandi!” joked Antony.
The blackened bread was hot from the ovens, and Pietro broke his with the rest of the honoured guests on the highest floor. The faces were all familiar: Nico da Lozzo and his wife Imogen; Lord and Lady Castelbarco with their mature son (who shared a name with his father); sallow-faced Bernardo Ervari, recently a widower; Petruchio and Katerina Bonaventura. Bailardino was there with his brother and sister-in-law, who was from Cremona. The Mantuan lord Passerino Bonaccolsi was all smiles. A few other famous couples, chosen for their influence and wealth more than their ancestry. The only noble exceptions were Montecchio and his wife, who had never been invited to the Capulletto feast.
Not every face was friendly. Mastino and Alberto were both present, seated far from the Capitano, a demotion that clearly didn’t sit well. With Alblivious came Jacopo, who avoided Pietro’s eye. Twice Pietro had tried to apologize, but Poco had ducked his visits.
Even Verde della Scala, present with her husband Rizardo, sent Pietro chilling looks. She had doubtless fancied her little brother ruling Verona, with Rizardo in charge of Serravalle.
One particularly unfriendly face was the Bishop of Verona. At the end of his life, Pietro’s father had eviscerated the incompetent Benedictine friar in several letters to the Capitano. But Bishop Giuseppe was a distant Scaligeri cousin, from the wrong side of the sheets. The same side as Pathino, come to think of it. Most of the Bishop’s duties had been t
ransferred to Lorenzo’s master, the Franciscan Prior, who was absent. Probably to avoid the Bishop. Luckily, or he might ask who this drunken brother with Lorenzo is. Antonia and Lorenzo were at the far end of the table, as a favour to Pietro. Taking the place of a servant behind them was Borachio, who eyed the wine longingly.
His hounds ranged about him, Cangrande sat at the center of the table rather than its head, the better to hold court. Arriving in her husband’s wake, Giovanna sat on his left beside the feast’s host and hostess, with a large-boned nurse fussily hovering over the pregnant mistress of the house.
Awkwardly, Pietro found himself placed on the Capitano’s right hand. He stood through the Bishop’s blessing, but when he began to sit, Giovanna forestalled him. “Ser Alaghieri, should you even be at this holy feast?”
“Where else should he be?” called Cangrande.
“I mean no disrespect, of course. But he has been declared persona non grata by Mother Church.”
“As have I.” Nudging a hound aside, Cangrande settled himself in the backless chair. “We’ll just have to beg you all to overlook us heretics in your midst.”
Giovanna bowed her head graciously. “When have I ever been unwilling to overlook your sins?”
A fine opening sally. In just a few words she had reminded everyone of Pietro’s excommunication and her husband’s philandering. It’s going to be a long evening.
The salutary drinks came next. They first raised their cups to the newly resurrected Capitano. “Long may he keep returning from his grave.” The next salute went to the host and hostess. “Long may they prosper and flourish.”
Distaste was etched on the face of Petruchio’s wife. Pietro had only seen Katerina Bonaventura once before, on a snowy day several years earlier. However, he’d seen a great deal of her, and in the years between he’d heard many a tale of this remarkable couple.
Her husband was the next to receive a salute, sharing the name of the holy man whose day they were belatedly celebrating. This made them the ostensible guests of honour, seated across from the Scaliger.
Quaffing his cup, Cangrande held it out for more. “I trust the brood are well?”
“Very well, my lord!” replied Petruchio, waving away almonds in coloured garlic sauce in favour of a tray of Golden Morsels. These were a new favourite in Verona – toasted bread crumbs soaked in rosewater with beaten eggs and ground sugar, then fried with chicken fat and dusted with more sugar.
The tray of Morsels was taken from Petruchio by his wife and passed along before he got one. Petruchio kissed her fingers, laughing. “My eldest son is so taken with horses, he might as well be a centaur.”
Castelbarco took the denied Morsels happily. “How do you count him eldest? They’re twins.”
“My Kate tells me he came out a full two minutes ahead of his brother, so he bears my name. The other is named for my friend Hortensio.”
“I knew a Paduan of that name,” said Nico.
“The very man,” agreed Petruchio.
“My first was named for me, too,” said Bailardino. “But I have no idea where my wife came up with Valentino. I had planned on Nicolo, but was over-ruled in the strongest terms.”
“You must have a happy marriage,” said Kate. “How does your wife fare?”
Bail was in high spirits. “Coming along, coming along. Sadly she cannot join us, but she’s delighted that Cangrande’s brat is back where she can keep track of him.”
All eyes shifted to Giovanna, but the Scaliger’s wife disappointed everyone by ignoring the bait. “Speaking of your family, Donna Bonaventura, how is your father? He hasn’t visited us in months.”
Petruchio cut across his wife’s answer. “Baptista? The codger’s surviving, lady. Though spending less time in the city. Padua’s not a safe place to be at the moment. Even for Paduans!” There were more cheers at this, and another round of salutes for the foolish Paduans.
“Your girls are well?” pressed Giovanna.
“Thriving!” Petruchio waved a hand at his wife, nearly overturning a goblet of wine in her lap, if not for her deft removal of the vessel a moment before. “The younger one takes after me – peaceful, mild, kind-hearted. A real joy.”
“A joy to her father,” corrected Kate. “She reminds me of my sister.”
“For shame, Kate! Vittoria is an angel! But Evelina takes after Kate. The harridan never lets me sleep.”
“Turnabout is fair play,” Kate replied with a wicked smile.
“A willful and spiteful girl! Hisses like a cat if I don’t spoil her rotten.”
“The apple of her father’s eye.”
“As I said, just like her mother.” With one arm he pressed her close to him and bussed her cheek. The other guests shifted. Such public displays were against custom, but Petruchio didn’t appear to care.
Kate held up a table knife. “Husband, watch ravaging me when I’m armed. This could end up in a dangerous place.” She let the knife fall between his legs.
Catching the blade before it reached its target, Petruchio flourished it in the air. “I’m married to a madwoman! You’re all witnesses! She tried to caponize me! Kate, I demand satisfaction!”
“Here? As you wish. I am nothing if not a dutiful wife.” She began unbinding the laces of her dress.
Quickly Petruchio laid the knife aside and stopped her. “Not that kind! Christ, save me from an obedient spouse!”
Laughter led to more drinking and the next round of appetizers – armoured turnips, fried cheese discs, and a selection of plums and late cherries. Conversation gave way to good food until the plates were cleared for the first course of meat.
Nico da Lozzo turned in his seat to waggle his fingers in a passing bowl of sage, rosemary, and orange-peel water. “So, Pietro, tell us. We’re all in a frenzy to hear tales of this boy Cangrande has kept hidden all these years.”
Pietro sipped his wine. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, we know he’s daring. Can he ride?”
“He can.” Better than anyone I’ve ever seen.
“Does he know one end of a sword from another?” asked old Arnaldo Capulletto.
“Better than I did at that age.”
“That doesn’t mean much!” laughed Antony.
“It wasn’t supposed to,” observed Cangrande. “Ser Alaghieri here is doing an excellent job of deflating our expectations.”
Petruchio pointed his knife at Cangrande. “Is he anything like himself here?”
“Yes,” said Cangrande with evident interest. “Is he?”
Pietro pursed his lips. Best, he decided, to give an example. “I’ll tell you a story. This happened fifteen days ago.” Once more he related Cesco’s thwarting of the theft of Dante’s bones, assuring them all that his father’s remains remained safe.
“Sounds foolhardy,” said Castelbarco’s wife.
“What boy of his age isn’t?” asked Bailardino.
“Of any age,” amended Kate Bonaventura. Cangrande raised his goblet to her.
The meat arrived, suckling pig with sky-blue summer sauce smelling of ginger and blackberries. Petruchio asked if Cesco hawked. Upon learning the boy had never had a lesson, he offered to take young Cesco out and teach him. “If the Capitano can spare him, of course.”
“Who better?” said Cangrande.
Kate elbowed her husband in the ribs. “Who indeed?”
“You’ll have to take my boy Detto with you,” said Bail. “They’re inseparable – a third generation of Nogarola and Escalus.”
“Let’s hope they don’t end up like the first,” said Cangrande.
Pietro chose to ignore the unlucky reference, instead asking, “Escalus? Who is that?”
Cangrande laughed. “An Imperial title. Ludwig apparently has trouble pronouncing ‘della Scala,’ so some ingenious courtier gave him a Latinized variation to cover his inability. I am now called Prince Escalus by the Holy Roman Emperor.”
“A well-deserved honour,” said Antony, slamming his ha
nd repeatedly on the wooden tabletop. He was joined by all the men, and the thumping on the table brought echoing noises from the floors below.
While Antony was busy speaking to Giovanna, Pietro murmured to Cangrande, “Has he been trying to get you to betroth Cesco to his unborn daughter?”
The Capitano chuckled. “The latest in a string of Capulletti offers. Only last month he was trying to marry his still-wombed brat to Cecchino’s son.” The great man’s face grew solemn and he stood. The table stilled as he raised his goblet. “To Cecchino.”
“To Cecchino,” Pietro echoed among the chorus. His very first day in Verona had been Cecchino’s wedding day. He’d liked the late knight, and it was Pietro’s instinct to suspect Cangrande. If Cecchino had lived, there would have been no question of succession, and Cesco would have been safe for years to come.
“Paride!” Cangrande called out for his great-nephew. When he didn’t appear, Cangrande beckoned a servant nearer. “Have someone find where he’s dining and tell him we’re honouring his father.”
“Why Paride?” asked Kate. “The name, I mean. It’s unusual.”
Giovanna explained. “My niece has always been a romantic. She fought for Tristano, but was willing to settle on Paride.”
“For Paris? Helen’s lover?”
“Exactly. It seems Costanza fancies herself as Hecuba.”
“If I remember my poetry,” said Kate, “that’s an unfortunate likeness for a mother to her son.”
“Nico and Antony look confused, poor fellows,” said Cangrande. “We are fortunate in having a poet’s son with us. Pietro?”
Having often been put on the spot often by his father, Pietro hardly blinked. “Hecuba, wife of King Priam. She witnessed the fall of their city, the suicide of her daughter on the tomb of Achilles, and the deaths of her sons.”
Castelbarco joined in. “After being enslaved by Odysseus, she went mad, killed – someone, and was transformed into a dog for her troubles.” He noticed the looks he was receiving. “I don’t just read law, you know.”
“A man of hidden talents,” said Petruchio.
“An unfortunate name,” observed Bail. “If one gives a fig for such things.”