Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

Tessa knelt, hands fluttering, tears racing down her cheeks. “Giulietta, Giulietta!” Then she leaned in closer, looked into the tiny face. “Blue,” she said, shaking her head. “My daughter has blue eyes.” She turned to the nurse. “Angelica…”

  It took several moments more for the dazed Angelica to comprehend these words. When she did, her face became grotesque in anguish. “Susanna!?” Angelica rushed forward to pull the limp body from Cesco’s arms. “No! No, oh my sweet girl, no!” Again and again the nurse pressed the bloody mouth to her exposed nipple, but little Susanna failed to latch on.

  Finally untied, Thibault leapt to his feet and pointed at Cesco. “It’s his fault! He was trying to play the hero. It’s his fault!” But an evil look from the blackamoor stilled Thibault’s voice in his throat.

  Blinking several times, Cesco slowly crossed the room to the crib. Making a soft shushing noise, he lifted the wailing Giulietta from where she lay. Turning towards Angelica, he gave a gesturing nod to the Dante-looking fellow, who gently removed the dead baby from the nurse’s arms. The short bald man turned her by the shoulders, and before she knew what was happening Cesco had pressed the living girl to the nurse’s breast. Wrapping Susanna’s body in a blanket, the thin knight laid her in Giulietta’s place.

  Tessa fell sobbing into Thibault’s arms. He held her, weeping too, shameful hot tears of rage and loss and anguish. This is Uncle Antonio’s fault! And Cesco’s. This is not my fault, it’s not…

  Shamed, he looked around.

  Cesco had gone.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Cangrande’s party arrived after dark. Informed of the events, Capulletto had to break the news to his groom, Andriolo, that his little Susanna had been murdered. The huge man went at once to comfort his wife, an act that did not occur to Antony to emulate.

  The household was bundled off, wife, child, nurse, nephew, servants and all, to Capulletto’s country estates. Suor Beatrice offered to journey with them and give what comfort she could. It was appreciated, and accepted.

  Antony told his groom to forget his duties and go with his wife, but the man requested the right to stay. “I want to see that bastard hang, my lord.”

  “Of course.” Antony ordered the departing staff not to speak of these events to anyone. They left in a hurry, and no one could be blamed if they failed to count heads.

  Detto appeared, having been kept in the convent until everything was over. Hearing his news, Antonia had ordered him locked up and raced directly to Castelbarco. As they worked out what to do, Pietro, Tharwat, and Morsicato had arrived, all breathless. Unable to find Cesco, they suggested she follow the boy’s original instructions – knock on the door to Antony’s house and create a diversion, during which Castelbarco’s men would gather in the neighbouring buildings. Things had unfolded quickly, and the insurrection was put down with the single bloody tragedy as the only loss.

  Somewhere in all the confusion that followed, Cesco had disappeared. Searching high and low to no avail, Pietro sent for Detto, hoping to lure Cesco into the open where he could be chastised and consoled.

  Somehow the reverse happened. The moment their backs were turned, Detto too vanished without a trace. Frantic, wondering what punishment Cesco would put himself through for his failure, Pietro took a measure of solace in the thought that Detto would keep him from any real harm.

  Federigo was locked in a middle room in the Capulletti tower, two floors above the arch. The only window faced the inner courtyard. Pietro watched as Cangrande dismissed guards and strode in, closing the door behind him. Walking gingerly on his injured feet, Pietro took up station upon the balcony, scant feet away from the window. Keeper of Keyholes, Cangrande had said. But Pietro saw no dishonour in standing here in the open air, with open ears.

  Cangrande’s words were clear enough. “A child-killer. What honour you’ve brought the family name.”

  “What else was I supposed to do?” came Federigo’s voice in heated reply. “You stripped me of everything!”

  “Not that I imagine it was difficult,” said Cangrande, “but what did Passerino say to make you betray me?

  “That he was afraid of you. That if you could feed me to your hounds, you could betray anyone. He feared the day when you would turn and sink your teeth into him.”

  “Sadly, cousin, he was toying with you. He’d already betrayed me once by then. He was behind the poisoning of my heir. You two are excellent company – infanticides both. Though I suppose you deserve more credit. You succeeded.”

  Federigo’s voice was almost inaudible. “It was a mistake. I was desperate. You shouldn’t have banished me!”

  “You shouldn’t have proved me right to do it!” Cangrande lowered his voice. “In a couple of years I could have had you recalled. You were too valuable to lose forever. You don’t know how to run an army, but no man defends a fixed position with more skill. Yet today I am ashamed to know you, cousin, let alone admit a blood-tie.”

  “Poor Cane Grande. I weep for you.”

  “You will when I’m through.” Pietro heard the click of the latch, and Cangrande exited the chamber, locking the door behind him with a key that he slipped into his belt. He noticed Pietro. “These family affairs are so scintillating.”

  “Yes. First Pathino, now Federigo. Once again one of the Scaligeri tries to be the instrument of the others’ destruction.”

  Cangrande cocked his head, the folds around his eyes creasing in contemplation. “Hadn’t thought of it that way. It does make one wonder if the whole family isn’t a little mad.” He shrugged. “Still, genius often looks like madness.”

  “Federigo is no genius. Just a man filled with envy and resentment.”

  “Like me, you imply.” Entering the house, Cangrande descended the stairs. “Do I own envy for our red hawk? Do you see a green-eyed monster on my shoulder? Where is my impetuous little falcon, by the way? Trying to wash that little girl’s blood from his hands?”

  “Wherever he is, Detto’s with him.”

  “Then I will assume he is safe in form, if bruised in spirit. Perfect fodder for a resumed hawking. But that will have to wait, as here come Bailardino and my doting sister to give me council.”

  Cangrande ordered guards back up to Federigo’s door, then gestured for Pietro and the new arrivals to join him in Capulletto’s office across the empty yard.

  It was already occupied, as Castelbarco, Tharwat, Morsicato, and Antony shared a flagon of wine. The Scaliger took the patron’s seat behind Capulletto’s massive carved desk. “An interesting assembly.” Without servants to tend them, they were forced to serve themselves as Cangrande enlightened the newcomers of the day’s ugly events.

  Katerina’s first response was to repeat her brother’s question. “Ser Alaghieri, where is Cesco now?”

  “Resting, I hope,” replied Pietro. “Detto’s with him, so he shouldn’t get into any trouble. He’s sick over what happened.”

  “He should be,” said Cangrande coldly.

  “He saved my Giulietta,” interjected Antony. “Federigo might’ve murdered my whole family if not for him.”

  “Cesco’s rash rescue aside,” said Cangrande, “I need to decide how to deal with Federigo and, by extension, Bonaccolsi. You all share the information, but retain your own unique perspectives.” Cangrande gave a wry nod to both his sister and Pietro. “I would value your counsel. Truly,” he added.

  “Federigo may be family,” said Katerina at once, “but he is also an exile who has returned without pardon. For that act alone you are within your rights execute him.”

  Pietro looked dubious. “Without a trial? Is that legal?”

  “No,” said Castelbarco. “It isn’t.”

  “We must do it regardless,” said Bailardino, taking his wife’s part.

  “Lord Nogarola is correct,” agreed Tharwat unexpectedly. “Federigo must die, at once.”

  Cangrande seemed surprised. “Your reason?”

  “If he is allowed a defense,” said the Moor, “he wil
l use Passerino’s name.”

  Morsicato was nodding. “If it leaks out that the lord of Mantua was conspiring against you, the people will demand his head. The last thing Verona wants is open war with Mantua.”

  “It’s a single tree that knocks down a forest,” said Pietro.

  “I don’t see that,” said Castelbarco.

  “Federigo at trial condemns Bonaccolsi. If we then take Passerino to trial, he’ll expose Dandolo’s hand in all this. Mantua and Venice – Verona will be at war with them both.”

  “Are you advocating no trial?” asked Cangrande.

  Pietro shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not. Every man deserves a trial. I’m saying there are consequences, small and large. Think of Antony. Can his role be kept out of it?”

  Antony’s voice was grave. “If my evidence is what condemns both Federigo and Bonaccolsi, I will take my punishment. Verona matters more.”

  “Antony, you are full of the most astonishing depth today.” Cangrande faced the others. “Capulletto has my full pardon. If necessary, I will swear that he was working under my orders to expose the traitors.” This was clearly a relief to Antony, who released a long-held breath.

  “Perhaps you could try Federigo in secret,” suggested Castelbarco, “and wait to expose Bonaccolsi until matters are better suited.”

  “Oh, worse and worse!” cried Bailardino, smacking his hands together. “Now we have to delay squashing that traitorous bug?”

  “Dear,” replied Katerina, “think. Pietro’s point about toppling trees is well made. If Venice and Mantua rise against us, Padua will surely break the truce and join them. Ferrara will stand by its new brother-in-law, Bonaccolsi. Add to that tally Treviso and Cremona, and we are surrounded by foes. It will be Verona and Vicenza against the whole world.” She turned her gaze upon her brother. “He must die.”

  “You make a strong case,” said Cangrande. “But Federigo is blood of my blood. I cannot kill him outright.”

  “The curse,” muttered Pietro.

  Bailardino stood. “I’ll do it, then.”

  Antony was on his feet in an instant. “Allow me!”

  Cangrande held up a restraining hand at them both. “That’s no better. I ascribe to the Greek manner of thinking. A murder I order is on my head as much as on the man who carries it out. I cannot order the death of a kinsman without a trial. It must be an act of state. That I can tolerate. Nothing else.”

  “Then it’s war,” said Katerina.

  “A war we can’t possibly win,” added Castelbarco. “I agree. He must die.”

  Cangrande was adamant. “I refuse to shed the blood of my blood without the weight of law behind me.”

  “I think our father would forgive you this lapse,” said Katerina.

  Cangrande’s laugh was tinged with darkness. “I think you’re forgetting what kind of man our father was. He burned some friends among the Paterenes. We are not to shed family blood – unless we choose to defy our stars. I don’t think even little Cesco is that reckless.”

  His words drifted up through the open window and out into the night. There they were caught at the rooftop’s edge by Cesco’s keen ears. He was stationed at the very spot where three months ago he had struggled with Thibault, the perfect vantage for eavesdropping on Capulletto’s office.

  Detto was nearby, listening as well. Summoned to the house, he’d been in the yard when he heard a hiss from above. When no one was looking, Detto had clambered up a doorframe and onto the rooftop.

  At first he’d been angry at Cesco for undertaking the adventure alone. One look at Cesco’s face and bloodied clothes and Detto’s indignation died in his throat. Now he waited as Cesco just sat staring into the growing shadows, shivering. Detto didn’t think it was from the cold.

  Nor was it. Cesco was reliving the events in the tower over and over. Tharwat had warned him against over-indulgence in the drug, how to measure his weight and fatigue against the dose. Cesco had taken just enough after leaving Vicenza to propel him through the day. But on the verge of entering the house, he’d consumed a second dose, thinking it would heighten his energy and clarity. Instead, things had become horribly twisted.

  That Cesco had always had bad dreams was common knowledge among the people who had raised him. But he’d never told anyone what those dreams were. Not even Detto. For he knew, even as a little child, that there was something evil about his dreams. They were dreams of death, of each kind of torture Dante had devised for his depiction of Hell, along with several others from Cesco’s own pure brain. He dreamt, too, of humiliations. Broken spirits, broken hearts, broken dreams. For Cesco, sleep was a necessary horror.

  The moment Federigo had placed the knife against Susanna’s throat, Cesco’s world had turned into a waking dream. A reddish-brown fog had descended, and Susanna’s face had vanished to be replaced by his own. He knew it was him from the coin of Mercury hanging at his neck. Just below the knife.

  Federigo had grown and stretched in Cesco’s eyes until he was a distorted shadow. Their surroundings changed to the lowest part of Hell, near Lucifer’s upturned legs. Federigo’s head swam up and became a hound’s, snapping and snarling.

  That was when Cesco willed himself back to the real world. The whole episode lasted only seconds, but was burned into Cesco’s brain as if by a brand. He’d come back too late, hesitating for the moment it took to cut that little baby’s throat.

  His impulse now was to throw away the rest of the sticky chews. But the fault was not in the drug. It was in himself.

  Cesco hiccoughed, swallowing a sob. At once Detto laid a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “Blame Federigo. He did it, not you.”

  “Oh no,” said Cesco bitterly. “There’s enough blame for all. Blame me, blame Bonaccolsi, blame Federigo, blame Capulletto. And save some blame for the king of cats.” With an air of decision, he rose and dusted his hands. “Come on.”

  “Where are we off to now?”

  “We’re off to offer the damned a chance to give God the fig.”

  Forty-Seven

  Federigo della Scala sat head down, arms bound to his chair. The sun through the sole window was down, casting him into darkness. A candle sat on a desk in front of the window, but it wasn’t lit. Perhaps they were afraid he would start a fire. He’d already proven himself capable of the unthinkable.

  A little girl. What had he become?

  He heard a slight commotion outside, the sound of running feet. For a moment his hopes lifted. But the door did not open. No rescue came.

  Staring intently through the darkness towards the door, he did not notice the shape at the window until the flint sparked and the candle was lit. It cast light on the face of Cangrande’s little bastard heir, the cause of all Federigo’s sorrows. He must have leapt from the long balcony across to the window.

  Holding the candle, Cesco put a finger to his lips. “Don’t shout, cos.”

  The boy was still covered in the infant’s blood, and Federigo felt a knot of shame and defiance at once. “What do you want?”

  “To offer you a chance to clean part of the mess you’ve made.”

  “It’s not my mess,” answered Federigo. “That belongs to you and your sire. I’m just playing my part.”

  “As am I,” replied Cesco. “We are both mere players. But you’ve started working from a different script.”

  “So much like him,” said Federigo in disgust. “Always taunting, never a genuine word out of your mouths.”

  “You judge me based on two afternoons, three months apart. That’s hardly fair, don’t you think? I may be a delicate flower, with only one or two prickly thorns.”

  “You’re just proving my point. Why have you come?”

  Cesco turned back to the window, fiddling with something. “I have a question. You planned for all of us to be cut down. Aren’t you afraid of this family curse I’ve heard so much about?”

  Federigo’s laugh was sour. “Sanguis meus? A dying man’s attempt to keep his sons in che
ck after he was gone. And it worked! They believed it, the more fool they. I have no use for superstition.”

  “Nor do I.”

  Federigo felt a chill pass over him. Despite his words, he did believe in the curse. It was actually Federigo’s only hope. In spite of all, Cangrande would not kill him.

  But the boy hadn’t been raised to fear the curse, didn’t respect its power. Swallowing, Federigo tried to sound defiant. “Have you come to kill me, boy?”

  “No,” answered Cesco. “I’ve come to watch you die.” As the boy moved away from the windowsill, Federigo saw in the dim light that what he had been fiddling with – a rope, firmly knotted to the foot of the heavy desk.

  “You don’t mean to hang me,” said Federigo. “You’re too small, you could never manage it.”

  “You’re right,” said Cesco agreeably. “Besides, you’ve already hanged yourself.”

  Federigo saw the rope move. It shifted again, as if a great weight were hanging from it. Or rather, a weighty man ascending.

  Eyes fixed on the rope, Federigo didn’t notice how close Cesco was until the boy shoved a rag into his mouth. Federigo tried to yell, but that only allowed Cesco to press the cloth in further. Leaning close, the boy whispered in Federigo’s ear. “Choke on the blood of the girl you murdered.”

  Federigo flailed, trying to fight the bonds. Cesco prevented the chair from toppling, eyes fixed on the window. From the darkness a hand reached up to grasp the sill. An elbow followed, and a huge rough man in workaday clothes hauled himself up and into the room. His dark tunic bore the Capulletti crest.

  Cesco spoke in a low whisper. “Federigo, this is Andriolo. You murdered his daughter today. He’s here to repay you in kind.”

  Normally a merry man, the massive groom’s genial face was now blank, raw – primal. To Cesco he said, “How?”

  Cesco answered in gentle tones. “First I must offer you the chance to turn back. The deed is appealing today, and tomorrow. But in a month or a year, you may regret it.”

  Andriolo gazed hard at Federigo. “Never.”

  “Then it needs to look like suicide or, better, an accident while he was trying to free himself. There can be no marks on the body. Much as you might wish to beat him, it would betray our presence. And we must hurry – Detto can’t distract the guards much longer.”