by David Blixt
“Why not organize a search?” suggested Passerino.
Cangrande scowled. “If I had the time, I’d set my hounds after him.”
“You aren’t concerned?”
Cangrande wagged an angry finger. “This was no kidnapping. He took his cloak and some gold I had lying about. At this moment our heirs are gallivanting around the city, laughing their fool heads off. He thinks it was bad before? O, I’ll flay him!”
“Well, allow me to supply you with a squire until he turns up,” offered Passerino. They had set up camp near Modena, and the battle would commence in the next day or so. Cangrande would indeed be needing a squire, whose duty was to ride beside his master all the way up to the moment combat was engaged and aid his master in any way possible. If the knight was unhorsed, the squire fetched another destrier or offered up his own mount. When his knight was hurt, the squire brought him from the field and bound the wounds, burning them closed with a red-hot dagger if necessary. And if a knight died in battle, it was the squire’s duty to see to the burial arrangements.
Cangrande thanked Passerino for his concern. “I’ve already spoken to Montecchio, my personal bodyguard for the coming battle, and he’s agreed to lend me one of his. Another relative, actually, but far more reliable. Young Paride.”
Shrugging, Passerino rose to go. “Excellent. Well, I’ll see you both at noon. May I wish you the best of the day?” Saluting, the Mantuan lord left the tent.
Bailardino clapped a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder. “We were young once, and I daresay we got up to more trouble than those two ever will.”
“I was young,” corrected Cangrande. “You were always ancient.”
“Whelp! Fine. But today is an important day for you and me, and we can’t be slack. Dress for the feast. Meanwhile, I’m sending out searchers. You’re likely right, they’ve scarpered. But Cesco was poisoned, remember. I want to be sure my son is safe.”
“Do as you please,” replied Cangrande. “They’ll turn up all grins and insolence. See you at the feast. ”
It was San Martino’s day, the anniversary of their knighting, and the soldiers were planning a midday celebration for the Capitano di Verona and the Podestà of Vicenza. Of course, the real hosts were the officers and nobles like Nico da Lozzo, Montecchio, Bonaventura, and Capulletto. But the ranker soldiers were invited to cheer their lord and gorge themselves in his honour.
Mastino and Fuchs were present, carousing with the ranker soldiers. Alblivious was more subdued, being deprived of his boon companion – being unmartial to the point of ridiculousness, Poco had returned to Verona directly following the wedding.
Mingling with the poorer knights and low soldiers, Mastino hid his resentment behind an easy smile. He hated the need, but as the Scaliger’s heir had wooed all the nobility with his golden tongue and silver tonsils, there was little left for the Mastiff to take but the scraps. He had to build a faction, something he’d never paid attention to before. Before this summer he had simply assumed he would inherit all of Cangrande’s followers and rule Verona. Cesco had changed everything.
Tomorrow he had to be seen to be brave, brave enough to earn a knighthood. Verona’s knighthood was called the Order of the Mastiff, yet here was Mastino, sans knighthood, sans honour, sans anything.
Fuchs could read his master’s thoughts. He murmured, “At least the bastard won’t be getting knighted ahead of you. He isn’t even here.”
Mastino grunted. “Wonder where the little shitheel has got himself. Whatever he’s doing, I’ll wager it steals the Capitano’s thunder. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
At the head of the main table, Cangrande was deflecting the inevitable questions about his heir with such humour that only a trained watcher could discern the ember burning in his eye. That Scaligeri temper, so much closer to the surface since Ponte Corbo, was on the verge of spewing forth.
All around him celebrations went on, becoming sloppier as such events invariably did. After the salutes and drinks there were songs and games, and a man could sit near the Scaliger without drawing much attention. Cangrande was surprised to feel a light touch at his elbow. Turning, he found himself nose to nose with Antony Capulletto. “My lord, I need to speak to you.”
Passerino appeared as if by magic at Antony’s side. “Capulletto! There you are! There’s a bet that Montecchio can juggle four knives at once. He says you’ve seen him do it. Will you testify? Or are you busy bothering the Scaliger again?” He turned to Cangrande. “I keep telling him your son is too young to marry his daughter! Not everyone enjoys a child-bride!”
Capulletto didn’t colour, as one might have expected. Instead he looked pale. “My lord, a moment of your time—”
But at that moment a page came struggling through the throng to Cangrande’s side. “You have a visitor, my lord. She is in your tents.”
Cangrande grinned at Passerino. “A gift?”
Passerino shook his head, smiling also. “Not from me. If you don’t want her, be sure to pass her along.”
“For shame! Aren’t you recently married?”
“In the field, no man is married”
“Well said. No, wait – you stole that from me! I declare, Passerino, one of these days you’re going to have to have an original thought. You can’t trod in my footsteps forever!”
“True,” said Passerino evenly. “But until you stumble, I don’t see why I shouldn’t follow the trail you blaze.”
Capulletto had already slipped away, so Cangrande left the feast for his tent in the nearby camp. Ducking under the flap, the smell of lavender girded him, and he threw up his hands in mock surprise. “Katerina! What a pleasure! Are you here to help honour us valiant knights? Or do you mean to don men’s clothes once more and fight beside us? If you think your health can manage, I’ll let you lead a division. No matter their superior numbers, the enemy would not be able to prevail. I know I never could. We’d win before noon.”
Seated on a camp stool, hands folded in her lap, Katerina della Scala was the picture of patience, her fixed smile polite and bored at once. “Are you quite through?”
“I am well lubricated,” said Cangrande, pouring himself more wine from his private stock, “meaning I may start again at any moment. You’d best get in while there’s a lull.”
“Well, brother dear, as tempting as your martial invitation is, I am afraid I must decline. If this army wins, it shall do so without my help. Or yours,” she added.
Cup at his lips, Cangrande paused. “Oh? Why, pray?”
“First things first. Cesco is in Vicenza. So is Detto.” Katerina’s voice was neither furtive nor low, simply crisp. “This battle is a trap for you. Our own beloved Ser Alaghieri uncovered a plot, though he required some little assistance in relaying it. The crux of it is that in the midst of the battle you will be cut down by men pretending to be allies. And not just you. Mastino, Alberto, Paride. And Cesco, were he here. My husband and son, too, just for good measure. All slain in combat. If it’s any comfort, it would be a good death. That is, if you do not object to your whole line being stamped out at once. Myself, I have some qualms.”
Sitting at the edge of his camp bed, Cangrande showed no surprise. “Tell me more.”
Katerina was equally composed. “Pietro, Cesco, Detto, and company all appeared at the palace in the early hours this morning. They relayed their news, with all the details Pietro had gathered while a prisoner in Venice. Did you know he has been in a cell in the Doge’s palace for the last month?”
“No.” Cangrande raised an eyebrow. “That must have been uncomfortable.”
“He seems whole, if thin. Almost as thin as Cesco,” she added.
Cangrande waved that away. “This is no time to discuss my hobbies. Did Pietro say who was the author of my impending misfortune?”
“Authors,” she corrected. “He only knows two names. Dandolo and Bonaccolsi.”
“Passerino.” Cangrande’s eyes became veiled as he sat, turning the name over. All at once
he brightened. “Trying to step out my shadow. Good for him!”
Katerina evinced no surprise at his lack of anger. “There is also a member of our family working to take your place.”
Cangrande’s eyes twinkled. “Is it you?”
“No. If I wished you dead, Francesco —”
“I would long be in my grave. Well I know it.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“What can I do? I cannot call Bonaccolsi out without tangible proof – letters, whatnot. Besides, even a whisper of this might cause a rift between our two armies, who may take it upon themselves to sort the matter out. Then, while we’re biting each other’s necks, the Bolognese will fall on us and tear us to pieces. No, this cannot be made public. Not yet.”
“Don’t rely too heavily on the loyalty of your own men,” warned Katerina. “Pietro’s information is that Passerino has turned at least one of your nobles.”
Cangrande snapped his fingers. “Capulletto! Fool that I am, I should have seen it. He’s been trying to get me on my own. I thought it was more of his idiot marriage alliances, so I deflected him.”
“There’s an easy way to find out – call him here. You will have your proof to break with Mantua.”
Cangrande shook his head. “Too obvious. Besides, he must be under duress. Who knows what sword is hanging over his head? It could be that if he speaks out openly, something dire will befall him and his. He won’t thank me for putting him at risk.”
“Then what will you do? Ride into battle and sacrifice yourself? Noble, certainly, and you can die content knowing your heir will live to take your place, with me there to guide him. But I didn’t believe you were so altruistic. Or stupid.”
“You paint a compelling fresco. But your baiting jibes are only a tithe of what awaits me.”
“In the afterlife?”
“Here, in Modena. My allies are about to be terribly put out.”
“Because?”
A slow smile spread. Not his famous allegria, but something more feral. “Because I plan to take umbrage. I will indulge myself in a monumental snit over some trifle and remove my armies. During our retreat I will have a little chat with Capulletto. But not before. Knowing the plot exists is enough to act. I can learn the details later.”
Katerina rose. “You know, brother, he may try your temper, but having Cesco has restored you. You have a purpose again. Even if I don’t approve of the purpose, I applaud the results.”
If her compliment wounded him, he was far too skilled to show it. “I’m surprised my little heir is not here with you. Afraid of my wrath?”
Katerina smiled, the left side of her face drooping only slightly. “Embarrassingly, I don’t believe he’s even conscious of it. He has been forced to remain behind, having sworn a solemn oath not to try to come to Modena or meet you anywhere. Why are you laughing?”
“Because that, sweet sister, is a very carefully worded oath.”
♦ ◊ ♦
Vicenza
In the atrium of the Nogarola palace, Pietro, Tharwat, and Morsicato were resting on stone benches. It had been a hard ride through the night hours, and the boys had been sent directly to bed just as the sun was rising. Informed of all the machinations, Donna Katerina had shown she was well enough to ride by galloping off to Modena.
Now the three men sat, Morsicato tending to Pietro’s many bites and scrapes, while they speculated which della Scala was party to Passerino’s plan.
“My money is on Mastino,” said Morsicato, pressing a hot coal quickly against a bite.
“Ah! Stop that.” Pietro shook off the quick pain. “We’re forgetting Pathino. As a bastard Scaliger, he has as much claim as Cesco.”
“How on earth would he get Passerino’s support?” demanded the doctor, smearing a salve over the burn. “He’s entirely unknown to the people. No, it’s Mastino.”
Pietro turned to the Moor. “What do you think, Tharwat?”
The Moor sat perfectly still, his eyes closed. “Federigo.”
Federigo! Pietro saw it at once. Used, slighted, banished, Federigo was the prime candidate for a Venetian plot. Passerino had even been assigned to escort the exiled della Scala away from Verona. They could have hatched this plot that very day.
Morsicato also saw sense in that accusation. “I wonder where he is at this moment?”
“Somewhere near Verona, probably,” guessed Pietro. “If his plan works, he needs to be close to take advantage and declare himself the new Capitano.”
Finished, Morsicato set aside his tools. “Should we try to find him? He’s an exile, we could arrest him.”
“Where do we start? North, south? In the city, in the countryside? Not a clue.”
“We should turn it over to Cesco,” said Morsicato with a laugh. “Just the kind of puzzle to appeal to him. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t figured it all out already—”
Pietro sat bolt upright, sharing a startled look with Tharwat. Both leapt to their feet and started to run, Pietro’s injured feet bursting open again.
“What?” demanded Morsicato in their wake. “What did I say?”
They pounded up the stairs and down the corridor, past the sentry outside Detto’s room, and threw wide the doors.
The beds were empty.
“Damn it!” cried Pietro, rounding on the sentry. “You were supposed to make sure they stayed put!”
“I was told to guard them,” said the man, peering into the room. “I thought that meant—”
“You let them sneak by you! Idiot!” Pietro’s anger was not for the guard. Once again the two boys had disappeared, just as they used to slip away into the stews and alleys of Ravenna. But this situation was far more dire. “How did he have the strength? He looked as exhausted as I feel.”
Tharwat bowed his head gravely. “The fault is mine. Before we went to Venice, I supplied him with a few doses of that herb we discussed. It endows one with renewed energy, for a time.”
Though reconciled to the Moor’s past, Pietro was furious to hear that Cesco had again been given hashish. Seeing the conflicted feelings written on Pietro’s face, the Moor said, “It is not evil that he has another resource, when so many of us had abandoned him. But that is an argument for another day. We must divine where they’re headed.”
“Got a pendulum handy? That’s the only way we’ll trace them.”
“Maybe he left a note,” said the puffing doctor, just catching up.
“Yes.” Tharwat strode into the room to examine the beds. “If he was concerned with fooling us, he would have stuffed the beds with bolsters, make it look like they were still in them. He wants us to follow him. He just doesn’t want to be stopped.”
Pietro joined the Moor by the beds. There was no note on either. In fact, the only object other than bedding was a cap. Not a brimmed hat, but a night-cap, floppy and loose.
Tharwat picked it up, turning it over in his fingers. “Cesco never wears such things.”
“A clue,” said Pietro. “But what does a night-cap..?” His mind leapt to a family crest, one he knew well. “Dammit! I know where he’s gone!” But why there?
♦ ◊ ♦
The retreat order was not popular among Verona’s soldiers, but Cangrande was proud of how he had engineered it. He’d returned to the feast and, feigning drunkenness, had indulged in a monumental fit of pique. As the inciting cause, he first singled out one of the foreign generals, a Visconti, whose father Cangrande had never liked. “Your father is a secret Guelph, I know it, I. And I own no desire to fight alongside the scion of such a man!”
He’d been interested in how Passerino would respond. Sure enough, the lord of Mantua intervened on Cangrande’s side, demanding the Visconti to take his troops off a ways and wait until needed – he was to have no hand in the coming battle. Bonaccolsi had done his damnedest to keep Cangrande from renouncing the battle.
The Scaliger next went after the Imperial standards. Passerino had understandably given his new brother-in-law, Rainal
do d’Este, the honour of carrying them in to the coming battle. But by strict protocol they belonged to Cangrande as leader of the Lombard Ghibellines. He’d demanded them, and at the slightest hesitation had launched into a tirade over being insulted on his most honoured day. Before Passerino could intervene again, he’d issued orders for his army to pull up stakes and leave within the hour.
Having indulged his love of playacting, the Scaliger was now racing homewards in the company of anyone who could keep up. It was forty miles to Verona and he couldn’t let his army’s slower pace hold him back. Instead he left Bailardino in charge of the army, with Katerina in tow – she had already ridden hard enough just to reach them. Interesting, dear sister, how the stroke effects come and go…
Those who had a nose for such things scented a rat. The Scaliger had been drunk – until in his saddle, when he had spurred like the Devil was nipping his heels. Something was in the wind!
Mastino was among those who kept pace, and he used his status as family to demand an explanation. “Why are we running away? This was going to be my first battle!”
Because he couldn’t be sure which of his family was in Passerino’s purse, Cangrande chose the reply that would most annoy Mastino. “Thank your cousin Cesco.”
Mastino cursed. “What’s he done now?”
“Mischief, is all I know. Don’t worry, you’ll have a decent battle next year. Now be a good boy and tell Capulletto to get his lazy arse up here.”
Seething, Mastino dropped back into the knot of riders and relayed the message. Capulletto left his groom and retainers and pulled level with the Scaliger. One look at the big face under the sandy hair and Cangrande knew he was correct. He gave no preamble. “I don’t blame you. Whatever you’ve done, you were clearly unwilling.”
Blood rushed into Antony’s unusually pale face. “Thank God! O, thank God! When you gave the order, I was so relieved! I kept trying to warn you, but—”
“Who’s behind it, Antony?”
“Bonaccolsi, I think.”
“You’re not certain?”