by David Blixt
But if we do go in disguise, no one will know I was there. And Carrara will already want me dead for the judgment. Most important of all, if we can conquer Padua, that’s one more city that will come to Cesco when he inherits Verona.
“Pietro?” Nico was demanding an answer.
Slowly Pietro nodded his assent.
Thirty-Seven
Verona
Tuesday, 27 August
1325
In the weeks after the Capulletto ball, Verona resembled an ongoing festival. At a moment’s notice all work would cease and the populace would throng the streets to cheer some new wrinkle in the saga of the Greyhound’s Heir.
Not that the heir was in the city much. Nor was he with the troops. Without a major war to fight, Cangrande’s army remained active by hunting down roving highwaymen, building roads, and training. There were a few minor skirmishes with rebellious towns, but those were handled by Castelbarco or the Nogarola brothers. Cangrande’s army saw very little of their commander, and the city saw him even less. When he did appear, it was with Cesco in tow, both looking tired, both in seemingly good spirits as the people flocked to cheer them.
Soon Cesco’s novelty would wear off and life would return to its usual ebb and flow, but for the moment the people of Verona were enjoying having an assured future.
Certainty was lacking in Suor Beatrice’s life. Slowly acclimating herself to Verona’s nunnery, as another house’s novice she was eyed with kindly suspicion, neither fish nor fowl. She took comfort in the hours of observance. Up at Matins, three hours before dawn, then again two hours later for Lauds. Prime came with the dawn, starting the day of work. She returned three hours later for Terce, and at noon for Sext. After noon there were only three divisions, None and Vespers being three hours apart, with the final Compline two hours after the latter. And then to bed for personal prayers.
The ritual was soothing, much needed in her current state. Unsure of how to pass her time, she returned to the familiar. Between the hours, she taught the sisters the value of an income derived from copying. The scandalous nature of women writing was quickly forgotten as money started changing hands, and soon she was again in charge of a few women with good eyesight and steady hands. Many of the sisters were unable to read, so Antonia’s time was greatly taken up overseeing their work as they produced a bible for their first client, Guglielmo del Castelbarco.
It was fortunate that Suor Beatrice had so much to occupy her daylight hours, because Antonia Alaghieri spent her nights in sleepless concern. She began each night in prayer, and slept only when fatigue overwhelmed her. Her days she kept filled to overflowing, so that no trace of her worries could interrupt her thoughts.
The subject of her agitation was Cesco. She hadn’t seen him since the day Pietro had left the city. Not once. And the stories bruited about made her fear for him. Not for his safety, exactly. In the field with Cangrande, Cesco was protected from overt danger. But if the tales filtering back to the city were true, Cesco was his own worst enemy, always attempting some stunt to out-do his teachers. At this rate he’ll burn out like an over-used lamp.
She was also concerned for Cesco’s other protectors, each for quite different reasons. Morsicato’s wife hadn’t recovered from whatever malady was afflicting her, and Antonia prayed for her relief, and thus his.
If the Moor was suffering or not, she had no idea. No one had heard from him. He was not within the city walls, was not traveling with Cangrande and Cesco, nor was he with Pietro in Vicenza. Had he gone? Had their rejection of him been so devastating that he’d simply packed up his bags? Did he fear they would betray him to some papal inquisitor and have him put to death?
Antonia refused to believe he had abandoned them. Even if he feared those things, Tharwat al-Dhaamin would never leave Cesco. Which meant that he was about some specific task and no longer trusted them enough to share it. Antonia felt the proper amount of shame, tempered with the knowledge that what he had hidden from them was indeed monstrous.
An Assassin! Thank God Gianozza doesn’t know . She’d be thrilled and shout it from the rooftops.
Lastly, she prayed for her brother. The reward Cangrande had dangled was indeed what she had prayed for all this last year. But she felt certain the Scaliger’s promise meant nothing. Her brother had downplayed the danger, but Antonia knew that even if Marsilio da Carrara did not discover his part in the Dente conspiracy, the judicial condemnation alone would be enough to make the Paduan demand Pietro’s life. Had she known he planned to risk life and limb himself, her nerves would have been stretched past breaking.
These worries gnawed at her innards, made her stomach roil throughout each night. So she worked all the harder to stay occupied during the day, hoping to wear herself out.
On this particular day late in August, she was busily teaching letters to a few of her better pupils, all a great deal older than she, when the bells for Compline sounded. Quickly she set aside the book she was teaching from and joined the others as they gathered to intone psalms one hundred twenty-eight through one hundred thirty, sing the daily Compline hymn, and listen to a chapter from Ecclesiastics. Then a second hymn before the abbess recited the final prayer:
We beseech thee O Lord that the
glorious intercession of the ever
blessed and glorious virgin Mary,
may protect us, and bring us to life
everlasting. Through our Lord Jesus
Christ thy son: who liveth and
reigneth, God, with Thee, in the
unity of the holy Ghost, world
without end.
Suor Beatrice mentally translated the Church Latin easily, unlike some around her who recited the words by rote. Her father had been certain the Italian he spoke in his life was the same as that uttered by Virgil, and that it was the church that had altered the true tongue of Italia.
Antonia recalled Cesco challenging this, as he’d challenged all of her father’s assertions. It had infuriated Dante that the boy of six or seven had more languages than a middle-aged poet. Yet still they had enjoyed each other. If only he had known that the boy was the Greyhound he’d alluded to in the first canto…
Lost in thought, she almost missed her cue for the chorus of “Amen.”
“Domine exaudi orationem meam,” said the Abbess.
“Et clamor meus ad te veniat,” replied the chorus.
“Benedicamus Domino.”
“Deo gratias.”
They made their obeisances and left the chapel for the open air of the yard. The nunnery was articulated around a square courtyard with a garden. Peaked roofs of orange clay tiles angled down from above. The common halls were located on the ground floor – rooms for eating, meeting, teaching, and healing. Beyond the north walls there was a large kitchen-garden extending up to a high and thick stone wall, the boundary of the property.
The entrance to the upper complex was on the west side of the building, a single set of doors atop a stair. This led into a greeting room on the first floor, separate from all other rooms and leading back down to the yard on the ground floor.
The individual cells were one floor up on the south side. These rooms were accessible only by two means – the stair leading to the yard, which led right up to the Abbess’ chamber, and through the church.
Antonia was housed on the opposite side. Scaling the flight of steps to the guest wing, she glanced out of the narrow slit window. It was already dark, the stars bright above. Below, girls her age and older were crossing the yard. They hadn’t taken the stair from the church, but had chosen to enter the chilly dark outdoors one last time this day, chatting and checking this or that vegetation.
It was this time of day she was loneliest. She was used to sleeping in a long room with six beds, attached to another room with six more. There was a warmth to such company that no book could ever replace, something she had never understood as a child. She’d dreamed of a cloistered life as one long pursuit of knowledge. Now she knew there was more,
and wished she could return to Ravenna to experience that sense of belonging again.
Yet that wish never became a prayer. It was selfish. She had work to do here.
Quite used to the dark – candles were expensive, as her own Abbess let them know nightly – she entered her cell without striking a light. She moved about this way and that, removing her outer clothes, fiddling with her shift to open it at the neck – even at night the August heat showed no sign of relenting. There was a window even narrower than the one in the yard, but she kept it shuttered. Birds flew in by day, and bats by night. Better to rest in darkness, undisturbed.
“You must have eyes like a cat.”
Antonia gasped. Instinctively, she took a step for the door.
“Shhh! Don’t call out. Now is the hour that turns back the longing of soldiers and melts their hearts. It would be a shame to disturb them.”
Hearing the deliberate misquote of her father, she relaxed. “I should have known. How did you get in?”
“The windows are narrow,” said Cesco, “but so am I. Moreso now than when you last saw me, I’m afraid. I don’t suppose you have anything to eat?”
“I’m sorry, no,” she whispered, closing her door. “When did you get back?”
“Tonight. There’s something in the offing. Whatever it is, Cangrande had to come back to plan it. Maybe it’s a war. I hope so. I’ll have to actually be a squire for a couple of weeks.”
“What are you now?”
Cesco’s chuckle was as dark as the room. “His hawk. His hound. His horse. His ass.”
“You said you’re hungry. Isn’t there enough food in the field?”
“For him, yes,” said Cesco. “For me, no.”
As she started to light the taper by her bed, he said, “Don’t bother. You wouldn’t like what you saw.”
“Are you ill?”
“Perfectly well. Only tired.” He stifled a yawn. “I slipped out of the palace. No doubt tomorrow I’ll be punished past enduring. But I needed a reprieve.”
“I can go to the kitchens,” said Antonia.
“Don’t trouble. I’ll steal some bread before I return to the slave-driver. I just wanted a familiar voice. A familial voice,” he said almost wistfully.
Antonia had never heard him sound so – lost. “What’s he been doing to you?”
The boy managed a weak laugh. “Hawking me.”
Drawing him to sit on the only furniture in the room, her bed, Antonia took his hand. “What do you mean?”
“I’m his new falcon. It’s amusing, really. He wanted me to know it. I am a new toy, a knack, a beast to be broken. He’s tamed hundreds of birds and hounds, I suppose it’s what he knows best.”
Growing more anxious with each word, Antonia repeated, “What is he doing to you?”
She felt him shift his weight as he leaned his back against the wall. “Wearing me down. I know the method because he cheekily had it demonstrated to me. Lord Petruchio has been showing me how to break in a new bird. Starve it, don’t let it sleep.”
“Which is what the Capitano is doing to you,” said Antonia dully.
“A month with him, and I think I’ve slept and eaten enough for a week. I’m off for days at a time, first with this lord, then with that, receiving instruction. Castelbarco for horsemanship, Passerino or Bailardino for swordplay. Bonaventura not only instructs me in hawking but also in axe-work and hunting. Sometimes dell’Angelo takes me out for bigger game. The moment one is done with me, I’m fobbed off to the next. At the end of each day, Cangrande has me hunt for our food, his and mine, long after all the other foragers have run the easy game to ground. I bring back whatever I can find, cook it, and he eats it, sharing just enough to keep me from starving.”
“My God,” whispered Antonia.
“No no. Knowing what he’s doing only strengthens my resolve. My real nourishment, as it were.”
Antonia felt tears in her eyes. “And the other lords – they don’t feed you or let you sleep?”
Cesco patted her hand. “You think they know what he’s up to? Not from me! No, if I told anyone they’d slip me food or order me to bed down for a night. That’s why I can’t. He’d win.”
“What about Tharwat or Morsicato?”
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of them.”
“Well, the doctor is busy tending his wife.”
“And Tharwat?” He sounded casual, but she could hear eagerness in his question.
“We don’t know. He’s disappeared.” And that was our fault.
“Just like that monstrous old man, to vanish when I actually need him.”
Critically, she wondered if it was the Moor he needed, or the hashish. “What about Detto?”
“Oh, he’s fine! Busy squiring for Petruchio. I see him sometimes at night, when we’re taking our hawks out in their hoods to get them used to us.”
“This is dreadful!”
“They don’t mind the hoods, really.”
She made a playful punch at his arm, as she had a hundred times before. This time he flinched and recoiled. “Sorry. I’m all over bruises.”
“Does he beat you?”
“Absolutely. Just not the way you mean it. He spars with me every night, late. Last night I had to fight him blindfolded, the better to learn how to fight in night battles. Needless to say, he was the victor. I always lose. He wants me to break. It’s what he’s waiting for.”
“You make it sound like he’s your enemy,” said Antonia.
“Not an enemy. A Nemesis. An emisis. An emissary.” He made a small sound. “I’ve heard of squires treated much worse. He never lifts a hand to me except in training, and he’s really quite polite. An interesting conversationalist, too. I don’t mean to worry you, truly. I just wanted a night off.”
“You’re more than welcome,” said Antonia. “But you say he’ll punish you?”
She felt him shrug. “One becomes accustomed. Besides, I’m here already, so I may as well enjoy my time with you.”
She reached up to stroke his beautiful curly hair, only to find it gone. “Oh Cesco..!”
“Shamed, starved, and shorn. I can almost like it. It is certainly easier to keep, and the Scaliger is right, it’s more practical. But it’s the impracticality I miss. That, and getting it in my eyes.” He curled into a ball, his head in her lap. “Enough of me. Tell me about your life here. Why don’t they let you join the others? They don’t think you’ve got a lover?”
As Cesco laughed at the thought, Antonia heard a step outside her door falter, then keep on. Damn, she said inwardly. Abbess Verdiana making her rounds. There was nothing to do but ignore it. This was far more important. She was at last fulfilling her purpose here, providing a haven for her little boy.
Who for once was behaving like a boy instead of a prodigy, in need of compliments and affection and comfort.
That brought to mind another little boy. “Oh, Cesco, before I forget, I have a message from Montecchio’s son. He wants you to come and play.”
“Romeo?” Cesco chuckled. “Tell him I will as soon as I’m done playing with the Capitano.” He yawned and Antonia said, “Do you want to sleep?”
Cesco snuggled in against her. “Soon. It’s just nice to sit and listen.”
So she talked about trivialities, about daily life in the convent. She described Fra Lorenzo’s gardens, and told him about teaching the other sisters to copy. “Oh, and I’ve become a frequent guest of the friars at the Chapter Library. There are more books there than I have ever seen in my life. Scrolls dating back a thousand years, and translations from Arabic texts that must have come from the ancient Greeks. I’ve hardly scratched the surface of what’s there, but I found some plays and poems I’ve never heard of before. I’m trying to figure out who wrote them. And letters, lots of letters.”
“From whom?” asked Cesco sleepily.
“I’ve been focusing on the poems.”
“Naturally. Grandfather would be proud that you haven’t entirely given up his pa
ssion.”
“He’d be more proud of you,” said Antonia. “I know I am. And Pietro, more than he can say.”
She brushed his short hair with her fingers, the way she had when he was smaller. There was a slight tremble under her hand and she realized he’d begun to cry. Silently, but she felt him shaking. Then he drew in a single raggedly audible sob. She clutched him tight, saying nothing for fear of shaming him, making sure her own tears were silent.
Eventually he fell asleep in her arms. She fell asleep as well, propped awkwardly upright against the corner of the wall, Cesco’s head in her lap. It was, perhaps, the closest she had ever felt to him.
When the Matins bells rang she woke and found him gone.
Reaching the chapel, she knelt in the aisle and moved into her row. She joined in the first prayer of the new day:
Ave Maria, gratia Plena; Dominus tecum: benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.
As her head came up and she rose to her feet she felt the disapproving gaze of the abbess on her. She thinks I have a lover , thought Suor Beatrice with an inward sigh. Well, let her. If I sacrifice my reputation to give that boy one night of ease, it’s a price I’ll pay, and gladly.
“Domine labia mea aperies,” said the Abbess.
“Et os meum annunciabit laudem tuam,” said Suor Beatrice in unison with the others.
“Deus in adiutorium meum intende.”
“Domine ad adiuvandum me festina.”
And Lord, added Suor Beatrice, haste to help him as well.
V
Prisoner in Twisted Gyves
Thirty-Eight
Padua