by David Blixt
Tuesday, 17 September
1325
Idleness was a curse.
For two days Pietro had been sitting in a Paduan inn not far from Vitaliano Dente’s house. With him were Nico da Lozzo and his fellow expatriates. They had all ridden into the city separately, using assumed names, and refrained from intermingling except in the common eating area, where they played at dice or chess as strangers. Avoiding each other would have been as obtrusive as hiding in their rooms.
Pietro was supposedly a Florentine alum speculator for a syndicate of Nice dyeworks. The choice of city was a whim. He’d passed through Nice thirteen years ago and had liked the city. An Italian working for foreign interests was no great novelty, so he attracted little attention and less respect.
Nico, however, was thriving in his disguise. Unlike Pietro, there were many in Padua who might recognize him, so he’d spent the last month growing his beard and taking care to be neither clean nor respectable. He played the part of a pilgrim traveling to Brindisi, the launching point for the Holy Land. He’d considered playing a leper, but the goal was to remain in the city, and inconspicuous, and a leper would achieve neither.
Remaining unrecognized was hardest for Nico’s two friends, whose departure from Padua was far more recent. Maltraverso and Schinello were disguised as horse-traders fallen on hard times. Of the pair, Schinello embraced his part with more gusto, describing his fictitious decline so tediously that no one wanted to listen. It was, Pietro reflected, a perfect way to wear a disguise – tell everyone everything about yourself in the most pedantic way, and no one will think you have something to hide.
Of course, the easiest thing would have been for the four of them to pretend to be friars and stay with Abbot Gualpertino, but this way, even if one of them were found out, the others would have some modicum of safety.
Pietro had taken a page from Schinello’s book and started asking if anyone had been looking for him. “I’m supposed to meet a man here for some business. I’m in the alum trade.”
“You don’t say,” replied the innkeeper in complete disinterest.
This morning he’d come downstairs to the common room just before dawn. Spying the innkeeper, he opened his mouth, only to have the fellow answer without being asked. “No, no one looking for you.”
“One more day,” said Pietro in frustration. “If the fellow doesn’t show, I’ll go further south and try to find him.”
Muttering under his breath, the innkeeper continued laying out new rushes. Pietro rudely stepped on the fresh straw as he made for an open space on the bench.
Nico was already there. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” His pilgrim was unrelentingly cheerful.
“The sun isn’t even up yet.” Pietro’s alum merchant liked to goad the pilgrim.
Schinello and Maltraverso joined them, demanding, “Is breakfast ready?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “Not for another hour. Stove refused to take a light.”
“But I’m hungry!” cried Schinello.
“You haven’t paid for last night’s meal!”
“I’ll pay for it when I’ve had my egg!”
“And when will you pay for the egg?” demanded the innkeeper.
“Tonight, when I get my dinner!”
Pietro rose. “If it’s going to be that long, I’ll take a walk.”
“A wonderful idea!” exclaimed Nico, also rising. “We can watch as light spreads over God’s creation.”
Pietro made a face. “If you’re coming, I’m not going.”
“We’ll all go,” said Schinello. “Maybe we can find an inn with a decent stove.”
“Fine,” snarled the innkeeper to their backs. “I wish them luck of getting you to pay!”
As the four conspirators emerged into the pre-dawn light, Pietro looked around. “Where to?” he said loudly.
“Let’s go this way,” said Schinello with indifference, setting them on the road to Dente’s house.
Pietro had never been to Padua before, and before leaving Vicenza he’d asked Nico to draw him a detailed map. “It would be nice to know where I’m going.”
“So go out! Explore!” Nico had said. “It’s not as if you’d be recognized!”
“Really?” Turning his head to show his profile, Pietro had addressed Nico’s two friends. “Who does this look like to you?”
“Dante,” said Maltraverso.
“Yeah, Dante,” agreed Schinello.
Nico had been dumbfounded. “Dante never looked like that! He wore a beard!”
“You know that because you met the man,” Pietro had replied. “But he always shaved when someone was taking his likeness. More Roman. People who’ve only seen his portrait stamped into the pages of his books think he looks like me.”
“You should grow a beard.”
“But then I’d actually look like him!” A horrifying thought.
“Whereas now you look like what people think he looks like.” Nico had laughed. “Scylla and Charibdis.” But he’d drawn the map.
Now Pietro ran over Nico’s map in his mind. That church would be San Matteo, which made this the very road on which Guglielmo Dente was murdered. They were heading away from the spot itself, angling north back towards the house Vitaliano had inherited from his late father.
A high wall surrounded it, almost butting up against the external city wall. Padua was a city surrounded by water, an island in the middle of rivers. This was the true reason the city had been able to resist Cangrande for so long, its natural defenses. The Paduans had built their walls just above the riverbanks, enclosing almost the whole island, except for a jutting spit to the north.
What surprised Pietro was how similar Padua’s architecture was to Verona’s. Brick, rose marble, columns, crenellations. God could lift any building and drop it into Verona and it wouldn’t look out of place. Was the reason for the war the similarity of the two cities? Was it envy? And who was envious of whom? Was one copying the other? It was impossible to say.
Dente’s house was inside the wall, near the bridge that led to the small Roman arena (nowhere as grand as Verona’s) on the river’s far side. The password ushered them in, and Pietro had to admire the preparations. From outside it sounded as if a few men were working with an anvil. But through the thick door, the wide yard teemed with nearly a hundred soldiers arming or praying in commendable silence.
It was agreed beforehand that none of the Dente would speak to the four outsiders, so as not to single them out. Instead the quartet sought out Abbot Gualpertino, who greeted them roughly, saying, “My sons.” At first Pietro thought it was a holy blessing, then noticed two burly men behind the abbot that bore him a striking resemblance.
“Here.” One of the ecclesiastical bastards shoved tunics into their arms. The condition of their participation was that, while Schinello and Maltraverso could ride, Pietro and Nico could not. They had to mingle with the common men-at-arms. Schinello and Maltraverso had never betrayed their country, they had only gone into voluntary exile to protest the rise of the Carrarese. Their return would be a beacon, whereas Nico had most definitely changed sides, spending the last ten years fighting his brother Paduans. Pietro, of coursem was known to be the Greyhound’s creature. So they would fight among the anonymous foot, or not at all.
Pietro had agreed despite his qualms. He’d always done his heavy fighting from the back of a horse, where he could adjust the saddle to compensate for his bad leg. But as long as he wasn’t wearing heavy armour, he thought he could manage.
Stripping to the waist, Pietro donned the Dente livery. Why am I always fighting in disguise? Does that make me a coward? Over the tunic he wore a gambeson, a short tunic sewn in vertical stripes, each one stuffed with tallow and cloth. It might not deflect a stab the way a chest plate would, but it could blunt any swinging attack.
The most important piece today was the helm. He couldn’t wear a fancy affair that hid the face, it wasn’t in keeping with his role. But he did have a fine round helm with a chain mail coif
that buckled under his chin. There was a nose bar as well, so chin, nose, and forehead were all obscured. Hopefully enough to keep Marsilio from recognizing him. If we succeed, I won’t have to worry if he recognizes me or not.
He was handed sword, knife, and gauntlets. Someone offered him a large club, but he refused it. Despite pretending not to be a knight, he couldn’t bring himself to carry anything but a sword.
Not that this sword was particularly good. It looked rather chewed on one edge, as if someone had been hacking at a stone wall. And the wire binding the grip was coming apart. He turned to Gualpertino. “Is there another I could use?”
“Beggars, choosers.” The abbot hefted his famous mace, flexing his arms and testing it crossways in a series of molinelli, the windmill attack.
As the abbot didn’t want Pietro here, the poor weapon was one more inducement to make him quit before things started. But Pietro wasn’t leaving, and he refused to carry a weapon liable to break. Ramming the point of the toothy sword into the earth, he reached to the abbot’s belt and drew Gualpertino’s own sword. Beautiful, thick but perfectly balanced, with enough nicks to show it was battle-worthy, not enough to make it look weak.
The abbot grasped furiously for it, and one of his sons made to pin Pietro’s arms. Pietro simply said, “Whose money?”
Angry, Gualpertino waved his son off. Cangrande had paid for the weapons, so it was only fair that Cangrande’s agents carried the best of them. Amusingly, the abbot refused to take the chewed blade still sticking out of the earth, instead stealing someone else’s.
Nico had chosen a quarterstaff rather than a sword. “I like the balance,” he explained. “Besides, I’m a little bastard, and on foot I’ll need a longer reach. Speaking of little bastards, I saw your boy a few days back.”
“You saw Cesco? How is he?”
“The Greyhound’s running him ragged, to be sure. But he’s whole, and still smart as a whip. Wants to know what we’re up to together.” Nico chuckled. “Nothing slips past him.”
“Don’t speak,” growled Gualpertino as he passed by, the long mace cradled in his arms like a child.
Pietro was reassured to hear Cangrande and Cesco hadn’t killed each other yet. Antonia had written about the ‘hawking’ and Pietro was sure the boy was pushing himself to prove his merit. Neither could maintain that pitch forever, and he wondered which would be worse – if Cesco broke first, or Cangrande.
Across the yard Paolo Dente mounted a fine stallion. Despite his thin frame, in his armour he was almost passable as a leader of men. Flanking him were Vitaliano and Gualpertino.
Dente gave no speech, made no oration. Everyone had their instructions. Surprise was the key, and surprise was only achieved in silence. The main gates opened, the mounted men started out into the street, to the surprise and horror of passersby.
Taking his place beside Nico in the crowd of Dente foot soldiers, Pietro gripped his sword.
Here we go.
♦ ◊ ♦
San Bonifacio
Day forty-eight of my captivity, thought Cesco. Early on, thinking of his squireship as a kind of imprisonment had given him ironic pleasure. Now the counting of days was a simple statement of fact. The riddle of that first day had resolved itself. The message Cangrande had been conveying was now painfully, exhaustingly, terribly clear. Cesco was just another red hawk, and Cangrande was an expert falconer.
Each day began with a ride into some unknown part of the territory. Early on they’d traveled in company, usually a knight intent on teaching Cesco some lesson. Sword practice was most common, in various styles – on foot, on horseback, in concert, alone, with shield, without, in armour, in shirtsleeves. He’d been taught spear-work, different from his lessons with a staff, just as his lessons with a club differed from his training in mace or flail.
Sometimes he excelled, having been taught the rudiments of this or that by Uncle Pietro or the Moor. But those two were amateurs compared to the men instructing him now. Each teacher was chosen for extreme competence if not outright mastery of the lesson of the day. Cesco was often humiliated at his own lack of ability.
Hardest of all were the wrestling matches. Small and lithe, Cesco could often twist away from any teacher’s grasp, but he lacked the strength to pin an opponent for any duration. Without fail, those lessons ended with his face in the muck, pinioned while a friendly voice told him what he had done wrong.
Even more humiliating were the horse lessons. His skill in a saddle was beyond compare, but not in armour, nor in strictly regimented martial moves. He preferred to improvise, resulting in a serious chastisement regardless of whether he succeeded or not. His choices quickly became fail and learn, or succeed and be punished.
All under Cangrande’s critical eye.
Not that Cesco begrudged the training. Far from it. His hunger to learn was equal to the number of lessons. And he was learning to ignore his ego. But his body couldn’t match the pace. Each night, when the rest of the palace was asleep, Cesco was made to show what he had learned that day in private for the Scaliger. When the lesson called for them to spar, the Scaliger – older, stronger, and rested – always won.
Cangrande was not neglecting the court, or himself. Handing Cesco off to a new tutor with strict instructions as to the day’s schedule, the Scaliger would oft disappear for a few hours with Tullio or Castelbarco, or simply to his chamber for some much-needed slumber.
Cesco’s one respite, his single interlude of peace with Antonia three weeks before, had been repaid in the worst way. Cangrande had cancelled all their plans and taken him up into the foothills of the Alps. Though it was summer, they went high enough to feel the chill. Then Cangrande insisted on teaching Cesco how to climb. Three days later Cesco’s fingers were ripped raw and he had a gash down his forearm from a nearly fatal slip. He hadn’t visited Antonia since.
Surprisingly, last week one of Cesco’s instructors had been Nico da Lozzo. The lesson that day was knife-fighting, and it made Cesco wonder where the ex-Paduan had learned such low skills.
That wasn’t all he wondered. Nico had come from Vicenza, where Uncle Pietro was staying. Yet no matter how Cesco pressed and goaded, Nico wouldn’t tell him what Pietro was really doing there.
“Come on, you can tell me,” said Cesco, leaning away from a knife-stroke.
“Nothing, really. Law. Boring stuff. Pour the wine.” This was not an instruction regarding actual wine, but a memory device Nico used to teach the unarmed Cesco where to place his hands to fend off his attacker’s next thrust.
Cesco raised one hand to the level of his forehead, leaving the other at his beltline. As the knife came in, Cesco’s high arm came down on Nico’s elbow, while the low hand gripped the wrist and drove the knife up towards Nico’s own chin.
They stopped, disengaged, and reset themselves. “You left with him, so you’re party to whatever he’s doing.”
“Since he’s not doing anything, that’s what I’m a part of – nothing. Offer the platter.”
This time Nico was stabbing downwards. Cesco’s goal was to catch Nico’s wrist with his left hand, step behind Nico’s right leg with his own and force Nico’s knee to buckle, then use his right hand to sweep Nico’s left shoulder, knocking him off balance. It was the last part that Nico referred to as ‘offering the platter.’
But Cesco took it a step further. Once Nico was on the ground, he stripped the knife away. Sitting on Nico’s chest, he held the knife loosely over the Paduan’s breastbone. “What is he doing?”
Nico ignored the knife. “Making judgments, hearing cases – you know, like assault, and murder by idiocy.” With a sudden twist, Nico had Cesco pinned to the ground and eating dirt yet again.
The next day Nico had gone, which told Cesco the Paduan had come on Cangrande’s business. Business that involved Uncle Pietro.
Uncle Pietro was an ideal judge. That wasn’t the point. Pietro would never have left Verona if there weren’t something going on. Cesco suspected that it
had to do with him, probably trying to track down the guiding hand behind the poison. Cesco was glad someone had time to do it. He certainly didn’t.
Focus! This kept happening to him, these sudden bouts of self-pity. Worse than the hunger and fatigue was his awareness of them. If only I had more of those sticky chews that Tharwat gave me! But he’s gone, and they’re gone with him. I’ll just have to manage on my own.
Today it was just him and his master, having ridden out from some old castle called San Bonifacio to a clearing Cesco had never seen before, and was sure he wouldn’t see again for weeks. This whole last week Cangrande had been Cesco’s sole tutor. Sure there was a reason, Cesco couldn’t muster up the energy to care.
Dismounting, Cangrande laid aside his sword. “Today, we begin with falls.”
“Prat-falls are for fools.”
“Every man falls. Not every man can rise again.”
“Oh goody, metaphors,” sulked Cesco.
Cangrande’s leg shot out and buckled Cesco’s knees from behind, sending the boy to the ground. “That’s no metaphor.”
On his back, Cesco said, “I think I prefer metaphor.”
“Again, your fostering does you no favours. Poetry is for the salon. Are you ready?”
“Ready and eager!” Giving no sign that remaining on the ground was his fondest wish, Cesco leapt to his feet and took on a wrestling stance, reciting:
Charon the demon, with eyes of glowing coals
Beckons to them, herds them all aboard,
Striking anyone who slackens with his oar.
Just as in autumn the leaves fall away,
One, and then another, until the bough
Sees all its spoil upon the ground,
So the wicked seed of Adam fling themselves
One by one from the shore, at his signal,
As does a falcon at its summons.
Cangrande began to circle, looking for an opening. “And here I thought my eyes were blue.”
Cesco countered, sliding each foot across the dirt, never more than a half-inch from the ground. “My point was that in Hell, the damned are eager to get on with their torment.”