Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Seated, Cangrande made a quarter bow. “I live to serve. Yet, alas, there are some who do not appreciate my need to serve them. Hence, enemies.”

  “They’ll learn the errors of their ways, I’m sure.”

  Cangrande’s smile was grim. “Yes, they will. But that’s not to say there won’t be more in their wake. You should be aware that if you take up the name of Escalus, you will never be rid of it. Already you are tainted. We are not a wholesome bunch. I believe God likes to test us to keep our mettle pure.”

  “God as blacksmith, always forging ahead.” As Cangrande winced, the boy opened his palms in apology. “You set the tone. However it pains me, I must prove my mettle equal to yours.”

  “Life as a Scaligeri would not be life as an Alaghieri.”

  “Confidentially, if you asked Ser Pietro, he might say my deeds stretched what it was to be an Alaghieri.”

  Cangrande stood. “You are determined, then, to take up the title?”

  “I am, lord, if you wish to bestow it upon me.”

  “And if I don’t wish to?”

  “I cannot dream of a time when you could be compelled to do something you didn’t wish to do.”

  “Expand your dreams, then. It happens all too frequently. Take tonight. I had planned on a lovely meal and a few words, then seduce a few maids before stumbling off to my bed. I haven’t been getting much sleep of late.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve alluded to lovemaking,” said Cesco. “Are you flirting with me?”

  Cangrande allowed himself a laugh. “Perhaps I am! But not in the way you mean. You’re baptized for me, you know.”

  “I rather thought so. You won’t mind if I don’t take your cognomen.”

  “Don’t like dogs?”

  Cesco’s fingers brushed the coin hanging at his throat. “Adore them. But I wish to be my own man.”

  “I hear the ring of Ser Alaghieri’s voice in that sentiment. I said something quite like that to him once. And yet, Omne quod est, aut habet esse a se, aut ab alio.”

  “I see,” said Cesco. “I am the latter to your former, then? I think I am resentful.” Popping another blueberry into his mouth, he chewed while tapping his fingers absently on the tin lid.

  Cangrande said, “Aren’t you ever still?”

  Cesco shook his head. “Enough time to be still when I’m dead.”

  “When you evanesce, you mean.”

  “Evanesce?” asked Cesco, puzzled. “Am I made of vapor, that I’ll evaporate with the morning dew?”

  “No,” said the Scaliger, approaching. “Light as you are, I believe you’re made of more solid stuff.”

  Cesco didn’t flee. “Almost a compliment. What do I need solidity for?”

  “For what comes next. Creative you may be, but you will have responsibilities beyond your imagination. There are twin offices, military on the one hand, judicial and financial on the other. You have to be prepared to overrule men four times your age. Not just Castelbarco, Bonaventura, and the rest, but wizened fools who resent any form of change or innovation. To them the old ways are always the best, no matter how ineffectual they may be. You must be willing to judge your friends, even sacrifice them for the sake of the city. All concerns are second to the welfare of Verona.”

  “This offer grows more seductive every moment. I’m awed you haven’t slit your wrists by now.”

  “Expect no help from anyone, even your friends. Especially your friends. Everyone wants something. It’s what you’re willing to sacrifice that matters, and as Capitano you have to be willing to sacrifice anything and anyone.”

  “Even your heir?”

  “Especially your heir.”

  “Poor me. Though from what I hear, there are more where I came from. Are the nobility at all useful, or are they the children you paint them?”

  “Not all are bad. Castelbarco is capable, if unimaginative. His son looks to be cut of the same cloth. Nogarola is steadfast and a true leader of men, but not much as a general. Lozzo is genial, but under his cheerful façade he’s ruled by self-interest alone. Bonaventura is somewhere between those last two, but has a fascinating wife to guide him.”

  “You left out Montecchio and Capulletto.”

  “Ah, our own Eteocles and Polynices,” said Cangrande. He raised a probing eyebrow.

  Cesco groaned sourly. “I was raised in Dante’s house, you know. Examinations were the alpha and omega of my existence.” He uncurved his spine to sit upright and recite. “Sons to Oedipus and Jocasta. Forced their father to abdicate, and thus were cursed to be enemies forever. I made some small attempt tonight to bring them together.”

  “By provoking them both into chasing you? An interesting tactic, if futile. I’ve tried everything. I think Montecchio might be willing – he’s long gotten past the belief that Capulletto murdered his father. But our Antony is still stung by the thought of his lost love. Myself, I cannot understand it. The girl is pretty enough, but insipid to the point of absurdity.”

  “Those do seem to be the women who cause the most trouble.”

  Cangrande barked out a single laugh. “Too true! What about you? I had my first real woman when I was your age. Have your balls dropped yet? Have you been bedded?”

  Cesco shook his head. “I am sadly ignorant of the skills, if not the act. Though I was recently witness to the most fascinating wooing scene…”

  “You must tell me all about it, tomorrow. Tonight, we must find you a willing girl. There’s one back at the palace —”

  “O please, no,” said Cesco. “Not one of your courtesans. I’m going to be doing enough treading in your footsteps. To complete your list, what about my erstwhile rivals, Mastino and Alberto?”

  Cangrande now stood before Cesco. “What, am I supposed to give away everything at once? Probe their stuffing yourself.”

  Cesco rose to his feet, looking up. “As you wish, pater mi, oh great Greyhound!”

  Cangrande slapped Cesco across the face so hard it cracked the masque. Broken, the three varnished faces slipped to the floor, Comedy to one side, Madness and Tragedy to the other. “Never call me that.”

  Cangrande watched Cesco’s head come slowly up, furious tears in the boy’s eyes – tears of outrage, shame, and surprise. They fell freely, carving their passage down his flushed cheeks. For the first time in his life the Scaliger saw a naked rage that dwarfed his own temper. He readied himself for the blow that had to be coming. He wondered if it would be to maim, or to kill.

  But Cesco simply turned his face, offering up his other cheek. “Please. I value balance in all things.”

  Cangrande felt an unwelcome shiver run through him. “Christ-like. But heed my words. In public, in private, in my company or out of it – never call me that.”

  “Which? Greyhound? Or father?”

  “Either.”

  Cesco’s tongue worked at the blood filling his mouth. “I suppose I should have accepted the whore.”

  “I suppose so.” Cangrande stooped and took up the broken halves of the masque. “A visor, for a visor?”

  “We all wear masques, my lord. Some are just more grotesque than others.”

  With galling defensiveness, Cangrande offered a kind of apology. “Only blood of my blood could fray my temper so much. Yes – you are a true della Scala.”

  Cesco managed a bloody smile. “Was there doubt?”

  Cangrande stared down into that face a long time before answering. “Once, perhaps. But now? No. No doubt at all.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Pietro was among two dozen horsemen gathered in torchlight just outside Cangrande’s palace in the Piazza dei Signori. With the aid of many other hunters, Bailardino had managed to trap his sons, letting Montecchio repossess his stolen horse. Of Mastino and Fuchs there was no sign. No one expected them to show their muddy faces for days.

  By now they had given up all hope of tracing Cangrande and Cesco from the ground. Instead they laid odds on how long it would take for the Scaliger to return wit
h his wayward heir in tow. Some of the younger lords stared at the Moor, sitting calmly atop his horse, having never known him in their time at court.

  “Ho! Look out below there!”

  Faces turned up to behold two descending figures. Pietro released a long breath, and Petruchio cheered. “See, see! They’re back together, and before midnight. That means I won!”

  “Only if the race is over,” said Nico da Lozzo. “My lord, have you driven the prey to us? Should we bring him down for you?”

  “Lay a finger on him and you’ll regret it,” replied Cangrande loudly, hanging from a grating on a palace window. “Oh, I won’t stop you, but your nipples may be sore on the morrow.” He rubbed his own for emphasis.

  Every man laughed while openly studying the pair, so unlike in size, yet so very similar in gait and bearing. As the Scaliger and his heir dropped to the earth, the assembly felt the weight of the moment. As one they dismounted and wordlessly knelt.

  “My friends,” said Cangrande in his expansive public voice. “It is my duty to present to you Francesco della Scala. My heir.”

  “Sca-la!” In seconds the cry was taken up by the assembly. They rose, pumping fists into the air. “Sca-la! Sca-la!”

  As Cangrande smiled and waved, his heir stood looking from face to face, his expression sardonic. Then the crowd surged forward to lift Cesco up onto their shoulders, bearing him back towards the Piazza delle Erbe.

  Watching the boy go, Pietro felt a rock lodge between his ribs to stop his breath. He will never be free now. They will both strive for mastery. Who can say which will win? Prophecy says only so much.

  Mounting his white horse, Cangrande grinned at Pietro. “See? Entirely unharmed.”

  Pietro was too heartsick and weary to spar. “It doesn’t matter. He’s yours now.”

  “I suspect he will never be entirely mine. For that, I congratulate you.” The Scaliger clicked his tongue, urging his horse to follow the impromptu parade.

  Pietro, Tharwat, and Morsicato followed. “At least he’s alive,” said the doctor.

  “He will need us more than ever now,” said the Moor.

  And I won’t be here. Cangrande’s already made that clear. Pietro suddenly noticed that the revelers were returning to the Capulletti house. “Oh, no.” Kicking his mount, he called out Cangrande. “We shouldn’t return to the feast.”

  “Whyever not, Ser Alaghieri, Knight of the Mastiff? Did my hounds get into the pudding?”

  “Word came while we were chasing about. His wife is giving birth.”

  “Excellent!” said Cangrande, unperturbed. “Another reason to celebrate. And if it is indeed a girl, perhaps we can delight him with an alliance, my heir with his. What do you think?”

  “I think now is not the time to disturb their household.”

  “Nonsense! He’ll welcome the distraction. No, Montecchio, don’t slink off! Young Cesco made an effort to draw you out tonight. I won’t let his first act of diplomacy go to waste. Truly, you’re coming, I insist! Won’t that be a surprise for our host!”

  But Antony was not the only man surprised. When the group dismounted at the tunnel to the Capulletti household, there was an odd tension in the air. Antony rushed forward to intercept them. Unbelievably, he didn’t even bat an eye at Montecchio’s presence. “My lord —”

  Cangrande took Antony in his arms and kissed his cheeks. “I understand you are about to be a father! A night for heirs!”

  “Yes, lord, but —” Antony paused, trying to frame his words. “Another guest has, I mean, she’s here, she —”

  “What is it, man? Did one of my mistresses show up?”

  “Given their number,” said a cool voice from the door of Antony’s house, “that would be far less surprising.”

  Audible gasps. For several seconds Pietro couldn’t believe his eyes. Even Cangrande seemed taken aback. Only Cesco was unmoved, looking curiously at the newcomer.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” said Katerina della Scala, striding gracefully forward. “I seemed to have missed some excitement. Won’t you tell me all about it?”

  Not a word was slurred.

  Twenty-Eight

  “I fear I am one of Horace’s slavish herd. I decided if you could come back from the dead, the least I could do was overcome a simple stroke.”

  Ensconced in one of Capulletto’s chairs near her sons and husband, Katerina gazed levelly at her brother, leaning casually between tapestries against a nearby wall. His answer was smooth, his famous allegria firmly in place. “All artifice is but imitation of nature. I’m flattered.”

  “To misquote a poet is a sin.”

  “Not a mortal one, I’m sure. What do you say, Ser Alaghieri?”

  “Are you really better, mother?” asked Valentino. Her gloved hand stroked his hair as he sat at her knee. Detto was seated on her right, holding her other hand and happier than Pietro could remember him being.

  The lady spoke crisply. “I’ll never be all better, my boy. But I decided enough was too much.”

  Cangrande was darkly amused. “I’m sure you did.”

  Pietro watched the family reunion with interest. Cangrande’s manner was predictably careless and sardonic. The two boys were overjoyed. But Bailardino’s brows were drawn together in a frown. I wonder what he’s thinking right now.

  Bail wasn’t the only one fretting. In Antony’s house for the first time, Mariotto was stiff and wary. He’d viewed the fire-scorched fresco in the torchlit yard with a sour face. Pietro tried to ease his friend’s discomfort by observing, “Petrarch says hello.”

  Mari’s face brightened a fraction. “How is he? Still lusting to be like you.”

  “Like my father,” corrected Pietro. “All he cares about is poetry.”

  “He should meet my Gianozza,” laughed Mariotto, then frowned. “Or maybe he shouldn’t. I’ve already had one friend turn on me over her.”

  Over her idiocy. Well, so much for distracting him.

  Adding to the general awkwardness, every few minutes an agonized cry would issue from somewhere in the attached tower over the tunnel. Antony pretended not to hear his wife’s shrieks until it became too much and he whispered to his servants to have the girl gagged if need be. “She’s disturbing our guests.”

  The center of all attention, Katerina looked around. “I understand there was a fuss over my former ward. May I be introduced?”

  Heads turned in the crowded feasting hall, but Cesco was absent.

  “Dammit,” said Morsicato through a full mouth – quite the gourmand, he was trying to catch up on the courses he had missed. “Not again.”

  “Never you mind, doctor,” said the lady. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  But Pietro was concerned. “Excuse me, Mari. I have to look for him.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Pietro tried to wave Mari off, but he persisted, so together they stepped out onto the long balcony and followed it left, towards the living quarters. Cesco couldn’t have gone to a lower floor without slipping past them, which meant he was somewhere in Capulletto’s private rooms.

  Both Pietro and Mariotto winced at a smothered moan from above. “With Romeo, Gianozza had an easy birth. At least that’s what they told me. She sent me away.”

  “Probably for the best,” said Pietro absently. He’d just spied Tharwat at the far end of the hallway, at the foot of a staircase. Pietro made to call out, but a gesture from Tharwat cut him short. Approaching, he saw why.

  Cesco was huddled in a corner, curled into a ball and shivering. His eyes were closed and sweat poured down his face.

  “The reaction,” whispered the Moor.

  “Jesu Christo,” murmured Mariotto. “What’s the matter with him?”

  Pietro knelt. “Can he hear us?”

  “If he can, he should not try to answer.”

  “Shall I fetch Morsicato?” asked Mariotto in genuine concern.

  “N-n-no,” said Cesco through chattering teeth. “F-f-fine in a m-minute.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t talk.” Tharwat forced the boy to swallow some wafer, then produced a flask and pressed it to Cesco’s lips. Drinking, the boy breathed in through his nose several times.

  “What’s that you’re giving him?” asked Pietro.

  “Something to give him strength.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” intruded a younger voice. Thibault was watching through the slats of the banister above.

  “Should you be spying on people?” asked Mariotto.

  “I know who you are,” sneered Thibault. “You shouldn’t even be here.” He jutted his chin towards Cesco. “Is he going to die?”

  “No,” said the Moor.

  “I hope he does die,” said Thibault. “He deserves to die!”

  Pietro took a step towards the stair and the boy covered his mouth with his hand and ran from sight. “What was that about?”

  The Moor shrugged. “On the road to friendship, they veered.”

  Cesco spoke through chattering teeth. “C-could n-never be f-f-friends with the K-king of Cats.”

  Capulletto appeared. Seeing Cesco, he blanched. “What’s the matter? He’s not ill? Not here, not tonight!”

  Shoulder to shoulder with his former friend, Montecchio asked, “What is the matter with him?”

  The truth is better than the rumours they’ll start spreading. “Antony, Mari, not a word of this to anyone. He was poisoned when we first arrived in the city. He’s recovering, but he pushed himself too hard tonight. Idiot boy,” he added.

  Cesco’s deep breaths seemed to be helping. He flexed his trembling fingers, staring at them with concentration, as if willing them to stillness. “If I’m weak, h-he’ll send me a-away.”

  “Cangrande collapsed when he was knighted.”

  “He was six,” said Cesco dismissively.

  “And hadn’t been poisoned,” said Tharwat.

  “Poisoned,” murmured Antony in disbelief.

  “On the day he arrived, you said?” asked Montecchio.

  “Yes,” said Pietro.

  “I thought he seemed unwell in council.”

  “Anyone could see that,” snapped Antony. “Pietro, do you know who did it?”