Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  They exchanged kisses, and while Gianozza greeted Lorenzo, Antonia took in her friend. Gianozza was still a breathtaking beauty. Motherhood had added a little to her figure, which suited her, made her voluptuous. Those large sad eyes were untouched by lines or care, as if age were giving her free passage. But then she was only, what, twenty-five? Barely older than Antonia herself. Yet infinitely more immature.

  They settled in upstairs, and Gianozza’s first questions were naturally all about Cesco. “So you’ve been living with the Greyhound’s heir all this time? Hiding him from the Capitano’s enemies? How daring! And never even a hint in your letters!” she added reproachfully, as if it were Antonia’s duty to pass along anything so utterly dramatic. Clearly the notions of consequence, responsibility, and restraint continued to elude her.

  Eventually talk turned to Antonia’s joining the convent. “Don’t tell me you actually enjoy a cloistered life!”

  “I do,” said Antonia simply.

  “But it must be so dull! Wouldn’t you rather find yourself a husband? You say you haven’t taken your final vows yet, you could still meet the perfect man…” She trailed off, putting a hand over her mouth as if she had trespassed. “Or – oh, of course, I’m so sorry. That is why you’re becoming a nun! I understand!”

  Whatever Gianozza understood, it was lost on Antonia. “What do you mean?”

  Gianozza laid a hand over Antonia’s, clasped it tight. “You already found your one true love, and now he is gone. Tell me – do you ever think of your poor lost Ferdinando?”

  It was as if Gianozza had smacked her in the face. Antonia had, in fact, thought of Ferdinando just the night before. How could she not see Petruchio without recalling his awkward, rude, garrulous cousin?

  Antonia removed her hand from her friend’s grip. “So Gianozza, tell me, have you read the Sonetto per Selvaggia yet?”

  Gianozza gave Antonia a sad and understanding smile, then launched into a recitation of the new poem’s flaws and genius.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Their final call was at the convent of Santa Maria in Organo. Antonia tried to hurry, but it didn’t stop Lorenzo from making the obvious inquiry. “You were to marry?”

  “No,” said Antonia discouragingly. Then, thinking that a short answer might only make matters worse, she elaborated. “Matters never progressed that far. We were – friends.” Fra Lorenzo kindly let the matter slip.

  Several minutes of dashing between raindrops and a quick crossing of the Adige over the Ponte Nuovo brought them to their destination. Outside the original city walls, the convent lay nestled against the river’s east bank. Rebuilt after an earthquake two hundred years earlier, Antonia had always found it one of the most unassuming convents she’d ever seen – brick, covered with a thin layer of plaster that was already bare in places. But inside there were ancient pillars dating back to the convent’s founding in 745.

  After making her purpose known, Suor Beatrice was granted an interview with Abbess Verdiana, a kindly woman with a face so wizened it looked humourous. Lorenzo made the introductions, and Antonia told her history, concluding, “If it pleases Mother Abbess, I shall take up residence here tomorrow.”

  The Abbess granted her leave. “On condition that, for the time-being, you reside in the guest suite, away from the common dormitory. Until we know you better.” Suor Beatrice might be welcome for her father’s sake, and the Capitano’s, but they were not going to be responsible for her.

  Antonia was content. It was enough to be able to pray, work, and sing in company. Who cared where she slept?

  She thanked Lorenzo, who departed at a run, impatient to see what the storm had done to his gardens. Alone, she walked around the church’s interior, feeling calmness descend. Her shoulders lifted, relieved of a weight she hadn’t been aware she was carrying. She felt the shift as Antonia Alaghieri slipped away. If she had ever doubted, she was now certain. She loved her brothers and her friends, but this was where her true life was. Deprived of her beloved father, she could devote herself to the Father of all. She was meant to be Suor Beatrice.

  But ties to her old life still bound her. Until Cesco became a man, able to fend for himself, and until Pietro was wed and content, she would continue to straddle two worlds. She had to keep Antonia Alaghieri alive until Cesco and Pietro didn’t need her anymore.

  Then she’d be free to be Beatrice forever.

  Thirty-Three

  That night, as the rain poured down and Cesco’s few belongings were moved into the Scaliger palace, Pietro called a meeting of Cesco’s inner circle – himself, his sister, Tharwat, and Morsicato. They met, not in the Nogarola house, but in a rented room above a tavern, part of an inn called the Albergo delle Quattro Spade. The Inn of the Four Swords had been a haunt of his during those halcyon few months when he, Mari, and Antony had all been friends, free from care. Ten years past, he still associated this place with good times and good friends.

  The door closed, Pietro succinctly laid out the details of the Scaliger’s mission. “In essence, I’m being sent to give a legal pretext to an uprising against Padua.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous,” asked Antonia. “What if Carrara learns of it?”

  “Well, he already dislikes me…”

  “Don’t be glib. Does this put you in peril?”

  “In peril,” repeated Pietro with his crooked half-smile. “You’ve been talking to Mari’s wife.”

  Antonia blushed, stubbornly repeating, “What happens if —”

  “If Carrara hears, he’ll assume I’m acting on an old grudge. Trust me, he’s got enough troubles at home. He won’t come looking for me.”

  Morsicato held up his palms. “Wait, wait. I’m still choking on the fact that you’ve accepted the Capitano’s offer.”

  “If I didn’t, he’d have some other way to get rid of me. Just as he’ll be looking to fob off you lot. That’s why we’re having this discussion. First and foremost, we must discuss protecting Cesco from future attacks. I was wrong and you all were right. Cangrande was not the man in Venice. Which does not mean,” he added quickly, “that he did not hire the man.”

  “Makes it less likely. What did Passerino have to say?”

  “That he was with Cangrande the whole time. They stayed in hiding in a monastery while the rumour spread.”

  “They must have paid someone to start the rumour,” mused the doctor. “We could find that person, learn who they told and when. That might tell us who knew—”

  “Wait,” interrupted Antonia. “He said they stayed there the whole time?”

  “Yes. Until they returned to Verona, they were in hiding in—”

  “But that’s not true!” protested Antonia. “Didn’t Cangrande tell you he was the woman in the carriage on the road? Why wouldn’t Passerino mention that? If it was such a great joke, wouldn’t that be the best part?”

  Pietro could have kicked himself. “A sin of omission? Something else to look into. On my way to meet the Paduan exiles, I’ll stop in at the monastery and —” His voice trailed off at the obvious objection.

  “I’ll write them,” suggested Antonia.

  “No no. If they turn me away, I’ll just bribe them with Cangrande’s money. I can also look into Cangrande’s movements prior to the rumour of his death. He was on his way to Vicenza because of a fire. Maybe I have Cangrande on the brain, but I have to think he ordered the fire set as an excuse to leave Verona quickly and disappear along the way.”

  “That I agree with,” said Tharwat. “It suits the workings of his mind.”

  Morsicato raised an objection. “But he was risking all of Vicenza! He couldn’t have known that the Paduans wouldn’t attack.”

  “Couldn’t he?” asked Tharwat. “He’s sending Ser Alaghieri to stir up revolt inside of Padua. Who’s to say he’s the first? It is convenient that at the moment Vicenza is most vulnerable, civil strife keeps Carrara from pressing his advantage.”

  Pietro waved his hand. “We’ll know more soon. We ha
ve to decide how we’re going to protect Cesco from this unknown menace. I’ve started by extracting promises from Cangrande. What else?”

  They spent an hour shuttling ideas back and forth. Some were rejected, some adopted. In the midst of discussing food tasters, Morsicato snapped his fingers. “I just remembered! Tharwat, tell me – what was it you were feeding Cesco?”

  Pietro had entirely forgotten the little wafers the Moor had been slipping Cesco. For the first time in memory, the astrologer looked discomfited. At last he answered. “Hashish.”

  Pietro goggled. “What?!” Antonia echoed her brother while the doctor angrily exploded, “You damned fool!”

  “Please lower your voice, doctor,” said the Moor. “The walls have ears.”

  Morsicato didn’t hear him. “You idiot! You monster! Why on earth…?”

  Tharwat al-Dhaamin replied in a tone so soft it was almost inaudible over the rasp from his throat. “It eliminated his pain and gave him energy to get past the ordeal.”

  “You’ve made him an opium eater!”

  “No. I appreciate your concern, but it was a small amount, mixed with other herbs. You use more opiate in your sleeping draughts.”

  “When did you become a doctor? Shall I begin fiddling about with charts and pendulums?”

  “I have some experience with the substance. If the boy had been wholly well, he would not have needed it. In the aftermath of the poison—”

  “You decided to poison him more!” The doctor pointed an accusing finger. “Never do that again.”

  “I will do what I deem necessary.”

  “I wasn’t asking a question,” said the doctor icily.

  “Tharwat,” said Pietro. “Promise me, no more.”

  “That is a promise I cannot keep. He has tasted it, knows its strengths. If I cease his training now, he will never learn of its dangers until it is too late. He will indeed fall into the pit you fear so much.”

  Morsicato’s fury was replaced by incredulity. “Training? In opium eating?”

  “It is a discipline like any other. So far he is managing it.”

  Pietro’s feelings were in tune with the doctor’s. “Dear God, Tharwat! He’s a child!”

  “I was even younger.”

  “What in the name of all that’s holy does that mean?” demanded Morsicato, his beard bristling.

  Antonia provided a calming voice. “Tharwat, what do you mean?”

  The Moor’s expression was blank. “I was seven, at most. As you see, it has done me no harm.”

  “Why were you given hashish as a child?”

  “As part of my training.”

  Pietro was perplexed. “As an astrologer?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  It was clear Tharwat did not like the question. That he answered it was a triumph of his friendship, his trust for these three people with whom he had shared so much.

  “As an Hashashin.”

  Antonia put a hand to her mouth.

  “Dear Christ,” swore the doctor.

  “You were a – an Assassin?” said Pietro.

  “No,” said Tharwat.

  “You just said—”

  “I was trained to be one of the Order. But as I came to manhood, the Order was hounded out of formal existence.” He touched his neck. “I barely escaped with my life.” Never in all the years they had known him had the Moor made reference to the origin of the disfiguring scars that had damaged his voice.

  “Beloved Christ.” Pietro was shocked to his core. Tharwat’s reluctance to share this piece of his history was understandable. He seemed suddenly so foreign, so frightening, the others had difficulty looking at him. Bad enough his dark skin marked him as a Moor, a born heathen. If it was known that he had been part of a sect of Muslim murderers, trained to mete out death in secret – if that got out, he would be dead in an instant.

  Tharwat gazed at them with sad eyes. “I understand your unease. I always meant to spare you this. I promise, there is no one living outside this room who has this knowledge.” The way he said it, they knew that he had personally made certain this was so. “But we are here to safeguard the boy. I suggest you put aside your discomfort a few moments more, that we may finish laying out our precautions.” He turned to the doctor. “For the substance you object to. You will admit now that perhaps I understand it better than even you. It is a tool. Like any tool, it may be abused. But if I have at my disposal skills to help him through the ordeal to come, I am remiss in not teaching them to him. I suggest that you, doctor, do the same. Teach him medicine, science, anatomy, anything that may stave off the darkness until he has achieved his destiny. For he has one. Remember, Cesco is the Greyhound. He will unite this land and bring forth a new age of man. But the prophecy does not say what that age will be – will it be to mankind’s benefit, or the Beast’s? His stars are uncertain, confused. He needs every tool we possess if he is to rise above his darker portents and shine like the star we all know he can be.”

  It was the longest unbroken speech al-Dhaamin had ever made, and the most passionate. By the end of it, his voice was ragged, worse even than the rasp they were accustomed to. Indeed, he seemed to speak with two voices in disjointed harmony, one rasping, one pure, a lute whose middle strings were cut, leaving only the top and bottom of the scale. It gave the merest hint at what his voice had been like before the injury.

  More than his pleas, the use of his true voice silenced them. Pietro took a breath. “I think we’ve covered everything we need to tonight.”

  About to say something, Morsicato thought better of it and headed for the door. After a brief pause, Antonia went up on her toes to kiss the Moor on both cheeks, then left.

  For some unfathomable reason, Pietro felt betrayed. Reason told him that Tharwat’s silence was a wise precaution. But he had placed his life in the Moor’s hands on several occasions, and he’d believed the trust between them was absolute. This secret felt like a knife through trust’s heartstrings.

  Struggling to find words, al-Dhaamin saved him the trouble. “One thing more. Cesco’s mother has vanished.”

  Pietro’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t she supposed to?”

  “That was your arrangement, yes. But we needed to know more about this woman and the bargain she has made with Cangrande. So I followed her.”

  Another betrayal. But then, what did an Assassin know of honour? “I gave her my word.”

  “I do not deem myself bound by your promise to her. But it does not matter now. Her carriage was assaulted on the road from Verona. Her driver is dead. There is no sign of the lady or her belongings.”

  “A robbery?”

  “No reason for robbers to take the lady.”

  “Ransom?”

  “If so, then the Scaliger will receive a demand.”

  “And we’ll hear about it, or not, depending on his whim.”

  “That is not the possibility that frightens me. I fear that some person has divined the lady’s relationship with Cesco, and is asking her for the answers we also wish to have, but with more – forthrightness.”

  Pietro realized what the Moor was saying. If someone laid hold of Donna Maria, tortured her, that person could learn all the secrets of Cesco’s past. Whatever Cangrande and Maria were hiding, it was important. Not knowing the secret was, Pietro had no way to protect Cesco from it. “I suppose you discarded the possibility that the kidnapping was staged just to stop you from following her.”

  “It’s possible, but it gains us nothing. We must assume she is in peril.”

  “And we don’t even know where to start looking for her. Hell, we don’t even know her name.” Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Pietro slumped in his seat. “I’m glad you went after her.”

  Tharwat said nothing.

  “You’re sure Cangrande doesn’t know about your past? Because if he does, that would be the most expedient way to remove you from Cesco’s company. He could burn you at the stake, based solely on the accusation.”


  “Then I hope you do not tell him.”

  That cut Pietro to the quick. “Of course I’m not going to – Tharwat, you just admitted to being an Assassin! You understand why I’m wary?”

  The Moor’s brown eyes were puffed and bagged from a fatigue greater than Pietro’s. The two gazed at each other for the span of a beating pulse. Finally al-Dhaamin answered. “I have lived all my life among men who wish me dead for the place of my birth, the colour of my skin, the practice of my faith. I have been the Other, the alien, through all my adult years. I know that, but for my skill with the stars, I would have been long dead, murdered by men who fear me.”

  Pietro tried to interrupt. “I’m not—”

  “What these men did not understand, what they could not know, is how I fear their fear. I fear them, Ser Alaghieri. I have lived fifty years among men I fear. Every face I see is potentially the man who will undo me. It is why I go about in the guise of slave or servant. Before you, there was Ignazzio. Before him, there were others. Before I die, there will be more. As long as I seem servile, I am welcome everywhere. My skills are recognized as having value, which lends value to my life. But I cannot go home. I have no home. I was stolen from my parents, raised in captivity to be something terrible. But those evil men became my brothers. Then those brothers were slain and I was left for dead. It took years, but I repaid their killers in kind. It meant forever leaving the only place I ever knew as home. Even now, returning would mean death.”

  Tharwat al-Dhaamin spoke more softly now than in his earlier impassioned plea. This was again a rumble from his chest voice, rasping but whole. “You ask if I understand why you are wary. I do. I have lived with that same wariness for almost as long as I have been alive.” He paused. “But I had hoped that you, the man who loves law and the concept of justice; you, son of your father, father to the boy we both love; you, who have been my friend – I hoped you would not find it in your heart to despise me for being what life has made me.”