Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

Rising as well, Cesco chose to speak his innermost answer. “Not to die.”

  “A specious reply, given the impossibility.”

  “Let me rephrase,” said Cesco. “To gain immortality.”

  “Yes! Now you’ve hit on it. And to gain it, one must start as a warrior. No, not just a warrior – a conqueror, a destroyer. A human scythe, taking down the chaff of an age.”

  Cesco was dubious. “Is that something to aspire to? It’s that thinking led Herostratus to his horrendous act.”

  “That you remember his name says it all. The Greeks outlawed it from being spoken, and in so doing they insured it would outlive them.”

  Cesco considered. “So fame is the pillar of life? No matter how terrible the deed that achieves that end?”

  “Fame is not immortality. Herostratus chose an easy way – simple destruction, tacking himself onto Artimis’ star, a cheap route to eternity. He didn’t have it in him to spend a lifetime building after he destroyed. Building better than he had found. That’s the real way, a man’s way. To strive. Achievement matters less than trials. Immortality is reputation, and that is not gained cheaply. I will be remembered alongside Caesar, Alexander, Arthur, Charlemagne. Men who destroyed so they could build.”

  Genuinely moved, Cesco still couldn’t resist poking. “All those men had someone else’s shadow cast over them. Their real struggle was to free themselves from that shadow. Once they emerged into the light, their own excellence could shine.”

  Cangrande gazed down at him. “Very astute, monkey.”

  “Which means the way to immortality is to have a foe as grand as yourself, and to free yourself from their clutches.” Cesco raised his eyebrows at his master. “I know whose shadow I need to emerge from. But who do you have to strive against?”

  The question gave Cangrande pause. “I? I have one of the greatest foes in the history of man. I have myth. I must emerge from the shadow of the Greyhound if I am ever to make my name known.”

  “But you are the Greyhound!”

  Cangrande was very still. “The Greyhound is a myth. He is not a man. He is legend. I am no legend, merely human. If great men are defined by what they struggle against, then I am defined by the Greyhound. For I have fought that myth all my life.”

  “That makes no sense at all! Everything you do is attributed to the myth, not to —” The breath hissed out from between Cesco’s teeth as understanding came. “Oh, that’s rich! You’re right, it’s horrible! You’re forever denied the grandeur of your own deeds, because they will always be ascribed to your mythic stature!”

  Cangrande reached across and ruffled Cesco’s hair. “Now you grasp the evil shadow I live under. The Greyhound is my true nemesis. One that I mean to conquer. But enough! Come, we must resume your training.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Padua

  It was at the end of that victorious, vindicating day that Marsilio da Carrara at last had the chance to look again at the warning note. He compared it to the one Peraga had received. The writing was identical. But Peraga’s bore the scribbled crest of the Carrara family. Only Marsilio’s note showed the symbol of the ladder.

  The sign of Cangrande.

  But how did Cangrande know about this coup? And, more important, why did he write? Why did the Scaliger save my life?

  To put me in his debt, of course. The answer was probably more complex, but in the end all that mattered was Marsilio had been saved from death at the hands of his fellow Paduans by his worst enemy. Now Marsilio owed the lord of Verona a debt of honour. He felt a thrill of dread, sure that someday soon the debt would be called due.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Outside Mirano

  Hiding in an abandoned farmhouse while his horse took water and rested, Pietro wrote to his sister. Hands shaking as he formed the coded words, he laid before her the bald facts of the battle and its aftermath:

  Nico and I parted company as soon as we emerged from the city. I imagine he’s headed for his estates, and Paolo Dente has gone to Treville. Myself, I rode east, away from both Carrara and Cangrande.

  I grasp now that this was Cangrande’s true plan to be rid of me. He instructed Nico to bring me to the battle, having already sent a warning to Marsilio. By ensuring that Dente lost, Cangrande has earned Marsilio’s good will while at the same time placing me in a cleft stick. If I return to Verona now, Carrara will mysteriously learn just who it was fighting alongside Dente. It’s why I was made to pass judgment in the law case, to tie me to Dente. Cangrande will be ‘forced’ to denounce me to keep the terms of the truce. I’ll be on the run with yet another price on my head.

  He’s maneuvered me like a master. Oh, he’ll keep his promise to the letter – I’m welcome in Verona. But returning is a death sentence. My fault. In my wildest imaginings, I never thought that Cangrande would deliberately lose this chance to snatch Padua.

  The one pleasing piece in all this is that Marsilio has aged. Being the head of his family is not sitting well on him. He’s fatter, his hair is routed, and at thirty he looks forty. And he now has a limp, at least for the next few months.

  Then again, I haven’t seen my reflection lately – I’m sure this summer has aged me past all recognition.

  I plan to hide for a few days. If my name doesn’t come up, I’ll take ship south to Ravenna, and from there to Bologna to resume my studies as if nothing were amiss.

  Take care, and be wary. Even knowing a trap was being set, I fell right into it. Stay low, don’t give him cause to remember you’re even alive. You and the doctor are the only ones left to look after our boy. At least we now know what Tharwat’s been doing – shadowing me. I owe him my life yet again. More than I deserve.

  Send me any news, and let Cesco know I’m well.

  —P.

  Sealing the note and tucking it into his pack, Pietro wondered where he should go to send it. Mounting, he gave his horse its head, letting chance dictate.

  The animal followed the road to a fork and there paused. Looking at the signpost, Pietro realized the answer was before him.

  Perhaps my exile can benefit us after all.

  Forty

  Venice

  The islands of the Venetian lagoon were first settled during barbarian incursions, when the people of the Feltro sought refuge in the marshes. These refugees built watery villages on rafts of wooden posts, unknowingly laying the foundations for floating palaces. Exciting and exotic, Venice was a city like no other.

  Everywhere one encountered the seal of San Marco. The device was engraved on walls, flapping on flags and banners, worked into the grilles of gates and metal shutters. Atop a pillar in the main square a stone lion held a shield bearing seal. When the apostle’s earthly remains were spirited out of Alexandria four hundred years before, they had come to rest in the aptly named Basilica di San Marco, thus forever linking the city and the saint.

  It certainly seemed blessed. With nearly 200,000 citizens, a full fifth of whom were sailors, it was a natural hub of commerce, culture - and conspiracy. The waters here seemed to breed intrigue. Indeed, the simple local proverb ‘L’acqua marcisce i pali’ had a darker interpretation. Taken literally, it referred to water moving the gondoliers poles. In practice, it meant Venice’s waters led to rot.

  The highest point in the lagoon, the Rivo Alto – or, as it was commonly called, the Rialto – was the natural focus for settlement, and became the heart of the city in 1097, when the great market was established on the left bank. The bridge of the same name, with its many arched façade, was the iconic hub of greed and gossip.

  Just off the Rialto, Pietro rented a room under an assumed name. He had funds, thanks to a local Jew, cousin to Cangrande’s jester. All of Cangrande’s clandestine banking was done through the Jew, whose name Pietro had never been able to pronounce.

  It was Manuel’s cousin who dispatched Pietro’s letter to Antonia, and it was through him that Pietro received her reply:

  So far you are safe. News of the Paduan revolt spread quickly,
but with no real urgency. Another squabble between Paduans? Ho-hum.

  There were those among the Veronese who pressed Cangrande to strike while things were still unsettled. But the Capitano declined, citing several reasons:

  First, he said, Heinrich’s Germans haven’t gone anywhere.

  Second, Verona and Padua are still under a truce. He says he needs a Just Cause to go to war and until they make some move against Verona, he is content to let them stew.

  Third, he says he has better sport in the offing. Everyone thinks he means the coming trouble between Bologna and Mantua - Lord Bonaccolsi is amassing some Ghibelline armies in the south, and the rumour is that Cangrande will join him there sometime next month. Not a very pleasant wedding present for Passerino’s bride!

  I confess I interpret his ‘better sport’ comment differently. I think he means Cesco’s hawking.

  I understand about you going to earth, but shouldn’t you be in Vicenza? Won’t it be easy for Marsilio to note that, after you condemned him at law, you disappeared just before the attack?

  I’m worried for you. Almost as worried as I am for Cesco. Because you’re wrong. He doesn’t have two protectors left, only one – me. Esta’s illness has taken a turn, and Morsicato has taken her back to Vicenza. He’s even hired a nurse to live with them. He’s wracked with guilt, of course, but he feels he’s done his part for Cesco and the least he can do for Esta is to be with her while she recovers.

  I hear your thoughts even as I write this. But Cangrande is not Satan Incarnate. Of all people, Morsicato would be the first one to detect poison. Sometimes illness is just illness.

  I won’t write again unless I have some vital news. As it is, I have very little to impart. I don’t see Cesco much. I think life will ease for him next month when he goes with Cangrande to Passerino’s wedding. Then, if the rumours are true and Cangrande means to field his army, he’ll take up the real duties of a squire.

  Rest assured, I’m taking your advice and keeping my head down. The only gossip I’ve heard is about your friend Capulletto. He’s behaving strangely, absenting himself from court in favour of his country estates. It’s beginning to be said that he has a mistress there. Which, I must confess, I hope he does. As long as that mistress is someone other then Gianozza, it can do nothing but good.

  Oh, stop your laughing. I’m no longer a girl, and though I have no experience, I have lived long enough to see the world as it is, thank you. And no, it isn’t Gianozza he’s running around with. She’s far too consumed with her son to even consider a dalliance – thank God. Because I think that, bored enough, she might entertain the idea, just to stir the pot. Not very charitable, true, but I have never ascribed to the maxim that friendly eyes don’t see faults. Rather we must rely on our friends to curb our faults. As you have always done for Cesco, and Tharwat has always done for you.

  Take care of yourself. Don’t fret about Tharwat. The fact that he was there when you needed him says everything. Trust him, and let him trust you again. That’s all I can think to say.

  Write me a note back so that I won’t worry. Without you, all I’d have is Poco. You wouldn’t wish that on me, would you?

  — A.

  Pietro used the taper beside his bed to burn the letter, making sure even the ash was destroyed. Then he lay in his bed, considering.

  She’s right, I should be in Vicenza, passing judgments as if nothing happened. But that did nothing to help Cesco. In Venice, Pietro could do something constructive. He could find the house Borachio had described, the one with the three faces.

  Shouts from the Rialto drew his attention, and soon he was hearing news of a great Ghibelline victory in Tuscany. On the twenty-third of September, Castruccio Castracane had led an army against the Florentines and beat them soundly. Pietro had no love for Castracane, the current lord of Lucca, who had gained that title by deposing Pietro’s friend, the late Uguccione de Faggiuola. Uguccione had been the first to welcome Dante and young Pietro back to Italy after their sojourn in Paris. A gregarious man, he’d died six years earlier in Vicenza, where he’d stayed after his ignominious exile from a land he’d once ruled. Thus Pietro had nothing but ill will for Castracane.

  However, Castracane was one of the few Ghibelline leaders that could challenge Cangrande’s pre-eminence. While Pietro wanted Cangrande to conquer far and wide for Cesco’s sake, he also didn’t want it to be easy, and welcomed anything that pricked the Scaliger’s pride. This victory would surely do that.

  Venetians seemed bored by the Guelph-Ghibelline wars, deeming themselves above such concerns. Nor were they much interested in the young man with the slight limp who wandered the streets, looking for a carved tripartite face above a palace door.

  It was a frustrating search. He’d expected to succeed in the first few days. But a week went by, then two, and nothing.

  While he failed to find the three faces, he succeeded in finding the tavern that Borachio had mentioned. Paradiso Perduto was a famous tavern where it was said the drinks were so sinfully good, a man wouldn’t miss Heaven. It made sense that some witty fellow would open a rival tavern in the seedier part of the city that played off the fame of the other. So Pietro returned each night to Paradiso Trovato, thinking that if this was Paradise Found, he should remain excommunicated.

  Worse, there was no help to be had in the tavern. The men who had abducted Borachio were hardly likely to be here now. Asking questions would give away more answers than they received. So he was content each night to sit, sip, and watch. He saw a seedier side of life than he’d experienced until now, and received more than a few offers by the infamous wives of Venice. Even had he been so inclined, the tales of sailor’s diseases would have prevented him.

  That, and it was hardly how he wanted to learn the secrets of intimacy. Being male, it was difficult not to feel inadequate for not having ‘conquests’ to boast of. Nearer thirty than twenty, he had yet to engage in a dalliance. He found it sadly amusing that Dante’s son was a true romantic. He was waiting for love. Besides, thanks to an early infatuation, he wasn’t certain he could trust his instincts as to women.

  As requested, he penned a brief note to his sister to let her know he was well. He followed it with a similar note the next week, and the next. Each consisted of a line of their father’s poetry, but with the words rearranged in what he hoped was an amusing fashion.

  In frustration one afternoon in mid-October, Pietro stopped his search long enough to browse the contents of a bookseller’s shop. Naturally he drifted first to his father’s works, and was pleased to see the hefty price attached. Next, on a whim, he asked to see any works by Albertino Mussato. To his amazement, the shopkeeper returned with a pristine copy of Ecerinis. Pietro bought it in a trice.

  After his purchase, he looked at the meager remains of his purse. His funds were definitely beginning to lag. So instead of his usual fruitless afternoon prowl through the streets, he made his way towards the small section of the Rialto known as the Yellow Crescent. A curved street only two blocks long, it drew its name from the people who lived there. The Jews of Venice.

  Pietro’s opinion of Jews was not the one held by the world at large. Church doctrine clearly proclaimed them tools of Satan, far worse than even pagan unbelievers, because they had denied Christ as the savior and helped bring about his death.

  Since he’d been denied access to the Church, Pietro had spent a great deal of time reading the gospels and studying the writings of San Giovanni, whom the Romans called Iohannes. Nowhere could he find it written anywhere that the Jews as a people had betrayed Christ. It was Caiaphas and Judas, just two men. And we must remember that Christ, too, was a Jew.

  When he was about Cesco’s age, Pietro had seen a family of Jews herded down a cobblestone street, being pelted with filth and offal. There were only two men in the huddle of Hebrews, the rest had been women, one a girl of no more than five. Pietro remembered wondering, How can that child be guilty of Christ’s murder?

  Pietro couldn’
t help recalling Tharwat’s words – I have been the other, the alien, through all my adult years. That was certainly as true of Jews as it was Moors.

  Approaching the tall, thin casa, he knew from experience whatever sympathy he felt towards Jews was about to be tested. But if it wasn’t fair to judge them all by Caiaphas, nor was it fair to judge them by the man he sought. Pietro mused that it would be like judging all Romans by Caligula.

  There were sounds of habitation within, but no one answered the door. The master was probably on the street here, somewhere. Pietro would have to ask around. The only problem with that was Pietro's inability to pronounce the name. According to Manuel, it was the Hebrew word for cormorant, a bird of prey unfit for food. Whether that was the case or Manuel was once again having fun at Pietro’s expense, it didn’t matter. It was the man’s name, and couldn’t be avoided.

  Approaching one of the residents of the Crescent, Pietro tried once again to wrap his tongue around it. “Pardon me, signore. I’m looking for Shalakh.”

  The man flinched, though if it was due to the mangling of the name or being accosted by a Christian, Pietro couldn’t tell. The fellow merely pointed, bowing and giving Pietro a closer look at the imposed horns Hebrews had to wear on their hats.

  Following the man’s outstretched finger, Pietro saw the person he was looking for. Like his cousin the jester, Shalakh was short, barely as tall as Pietro’s chin. But he owned an impressive forehead over his wedge of a nose. He was well-muscled in arm and leg, slim and somewhat forbidding. Below the mandatory pointed cap he was dressed in well-tailored gabardine clothes. With a trim mouth-beard beneath his scythed nose, he was everything one imagined a money-lender to be. Yet the humour about the eyes entirely removed the element of villainy such men were reputed to have. He looked like a kindly older gentleman in a ridiculous hat.