by David Blixt
Corrado, as mentioned above, is the Italian version of Conrade.
The Nurse being named Angelica is from Shakespeare. Lord Cap says the name once towards the end of the show. He could be addressing a servant or Lady Cap, but it’s the Nurse who answers him. Her husband’s name, Andriolo, is my own invention – I saw it in a book of Italian names and it reminded me of Androcles and the Lion. I did that show once, too, a long time ago (I was the lion). Their daughter, Susanna, is simply from the Nurse’s mention that ‘Susan and she – God rest all Christian souls – were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; She was too good for me.’ (R&J, Act I, Scene iii)
Tessa for Lady Cap has no literary or historical origin. I read off a list of Italian names to my wife, who has played Lady Cap more times than she’d like to remember. That’s the one she chose. Done and done.
While I’m discussing Giulietta’s mother, I feel the need to address her childhood sexual encounter with Thibault, and her becoming a mother at the age of twelve. Starting with the latter, in the play she tells her daughter, “I was your mother much upon these years that you are now a maid.” (also Act I, Scene iii). So she was already a mother by the time she was Juliet’s age, and Juliet, remember, is thirteen. Now there’s always a possibility that she’s lying about her age – I’ve seen it played that way many times. But it does me little good to assume that Shakespeare’s characters lie – usually when they do, they tell the audience the truth first. And there’s quite a bit of dramatic tension created in Tessa marrying a man more than twice her age.
Choosing to be hemmed in by her age, I still needed to establish the bond between Tessa and Thibault. We know from the play that the Nurse is rather, shall we say, frank about her sexuality. With that as an example, how could children not be curious? Small children often sate their curiosity by playing doctor, and that’s the scene I wrote. Like all premarital sex in Shakespeare (and, indeed, almost all sex), it does not turn out well for anyone involved.
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Staying with the Capulletti, I must confess a (minor) heresy. I have used the Veronese building currently labeled ‘Juliet’s House’ as the basis for the Capulletti household. While it was indeed built in the late 13th century, La Casa Di Giulietta was actually bought by the city in 1905 and turned into a tourist attraction.
(Digression: The balcony that you can see in this yard was glued on to the building around the time they started billing the place as the setting for the famous scene. There is an actual period balcony a floor above the fake one that runs the length of the building, and looks down not only on the courtyard, but also on the rooftop of the neighbouring building. Interesting, that. So I mention the higher running balcony, but not the fake one.)
(Further digression: I have qualms about using a balcony at all. Shakespeare never mentions a balcony. Never. He says window, and he says it several times. In fact, the word 'balcony' wouldn't enter the English language until after Shakespeare’s death. Fortunately, I have years before I get there to make up my mind. I mean, it’s the Balcony Scene, right? It’s gotta have a balcony! Who cares what Shakespeare actually wrote?)
Similarly, I have kept the name of the street outside the house as the modern via Cappello, rather than the accurate via di San Bastiàn, from the name of a church built in 932 AD at one end of the street. I actually prefer the latter, but I think the modern makes more sense for the overall story.
In an effort to be totally inconsistent, I have taken the location marked as Juliet’s tomb and returned it to its proper owners, the Franciscan friars of the Capuchin. My reasoning is simple – in the play, the Capulet family vault is accessible from the open air, not through a church (though the line “stony entrance to this sepulcher” does give me pause). Besides, I have difficulty putting the Capulletto tomb inside the city walls at all. Space was at a premium and, from Roman times, family vaults were outside the proper walls. What did the dead need of that stony protection? The only exceptions, of course, were the tombs of the Scaligeri, and those few knights like Castelbarco who had ties to certain churches. So San Francesco al Corso has been restored to the Order that needed it, the Franciscans.
As to our beloved (if rather callow) Franciscan, Friar Lorenzo, the blackmailing of him is from one of Shakespeare’s sources, Luigi da Porto. In that version of the tale, young Romeo has some dirt on the good friar, and Lorenzo is arm-twisted into helping the lovers. But that doesn’t jive with the relationship that Shakespeare’s Romeo has with the friar, so I’ve transferred the idea, giving it to Pietro. Which meant, of course, I had to come up with something to blackmail him with…
Oh, and I do know that Franciscan friars dwell in convents, not monasteries. But in the modern shorthand, convents are for women, monasteries for men. I didn’t want to be confusing (or confused), so I have used the common rather than proper term.
While I’m speaking of proper terms: I’ve been reliably informed that Signore isn’t the most correct mode of address, that Messer would be far more suitable. I tried it, read it, and finally realized why I didn’t like it. In Shakespeare’s Italian plays, men are always calling each other Signior. As this series is based as much on Shakespeare as upon history, and as I’m writing for a primarily English-speaking audience, I ask my Italian readers to forgive me my foible. It’s hardly the only one, but this time it’s not due to ignorance, but stubbornness.
The same applies to Ser Alaghieri and the like. In Italian, as in English, it should be Ser Pietro – Sir Peter. We don’t say Sir Stewart or Sir McKellen – it’s Sir Patrick and Sir Ian (Sir Ian, Sir Ian). But Ser Alaghieri helps tremendously in the story-telling. I’m making up my own rules here, people. It’s wild!
Knowing the anguish I caused last time, there are again two Shakespeare-related anagrams hidden in the text. But this time, hints: one is an anagram for William Shakespeare, the other for Romeo and Juliet. Please, don’t hurt me.
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Away from Literature and Language, on to History.
The major events of Cangrande’s life are fairly undisputed, only the minutiae are murky. So all the feats I attribute to him are based in as much fact as we have. Even diminished from his youthful glory, he is a man made for fiction. For example, Cangrande’s fake death and miraculous return is perfectly true – the rumor of his death, the panic, the rise of Mastino, the sudden return, the banishment of Federigo. I wish I were creative enough to make that kind of thing up but, I assure you, it’s all history. Only Cesco and the motives are mine.
Motives. I received a good deal of guff from several of my Veronese friends for the final chapter of The Master Of Verona, and I’ll confess I ended up vilifying Cangrande far more than I’d originally planned (though I think Mastino deserves everything I give him – read Petrarch’s excoriation of him). Part of the problem was that I was falling into hero-worship with the character I was writing – always dangerous. So feet of clay for him!
But also, the more I looked for patterns, the more scheming I found on Cangrande’s part. Many are the reports of his growing pride in the latter years of his life. What was good for Verona became entangled with what was good for him, and what was good for him was hard on personal relationships, as witnessed by his falling out with Bonaccolsi.
On the other hand, I’m the first I know of to suggest that Bonaccolsi was equally culpable in the deterioration of their relationship. Not everything can be laid at Cangrande’s door, as Pietro learns. Thus while I have made him a villain in so many areas, I’ve actually exonerated Cangrande for the one deed he was condemned for in life – his turning against Passerino. It’s astonishing where fiction can lead.
As I’ve kept Katerina della Scala artificially (if, I hope, artfully) alive an extra twenty years, what’s a few more? Even crippled, the machinations of the Scaligeri matriarch are wonderful fun to write. And like a Shakespeare play, there are far too few women in this tale. I refuse to lose one of the most interesting.
Small note to ward off the obvious ob
jection – Venetian gondolas used to be multi-coloured, not black as they are today.
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Regarding Cesco’s horsemanship: I know of no child who can do what I ascribe to eleven year-old Cesco. Yet the skills of the Jighitovka are well established in the modern world and have their roots in the 6th Century. Like modern gymnasts, training began quite young. Cesco is admittedly self-taught, but the possibility exists. And if it’s only improbable, not impossible, Cesco will work until the job is done. To quote the saint that shares his name: ‘Start by doing what is necessary. Then do what’s possible. And suddenly you’re doing the impossible.’
Yet another disclaimer, a personal one: when I finished the first draft of this novel, my son was two years old. His name is Dashiell, after Dashiell Hammett, whose works I love. At the time of publication, his sister Evelyn is just a touch older. I want to put it into writing that they were marvelous infants and toddlers. We couldn’t wish for better tempered, more ingenious, curious, adventurous, charming, devilish children. I say this because when Dash and Evie are grown, I will have to explain to them in no uncertain terms that, no, I had nothing against them as babies. With so many young characters, I am invariably going to harm one or two in the process. I swear, next book, no baby danger (though things get dicey for a couple of teens).
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A.M. Allen’s A History Of Verona is still my primary source, along with Padua Under The Carrara by Benjamin J. Kohl. For the history of Dante’s family I again used Emanuele Carli’s Dante e Gli Allighieri a Verona, a volume containing some contentious information but that I nonetheless quite enjoy. Lastly, the Italian version of Gli Scaligeri, 1277-1387, edited by Arnaldo Mondadori, is chock full of facts and contains photos of just about every Scaligeri artifact a body could want.
The conversation of excellent ways to die is pure theft. Frances Stonor Saunders begins her marvelous history of the period, The Devil’s Broker, with just this discussion (she also mentions the Scaligeri, always pleasing.). And it echoes the conversation Julius Caesar had the night before his assassination, which was the basis for my play Eve Of Ides.
For Ecerinis, I must thank Joseph R. Berrigan, whose 1975 translation is the only copy I could find in English (it seems quite popular in German). Hailing from an age that saw the rise of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, the poet Albertino Mussato has been all but forgotten. His play is not, perhaps, great theatre, but it is great art in the Senecan style. Just prior to 1300, the Paduan literati came into possession of several of the Roman playwright Seneca’s manuscripts, and Mussato embraced the form. He meant this particular play as more than art – he was ringing the alarum bell, warning Padua of another tyrant of Verona who was bearing down upon them. But civil strife proved a greater threat to Paduan peace than Cangrande ever was.
As in MoV, the translations of select Italian poems comes from an anthology by Marc A. Cirigliano.
I am also indebted to Dale Antony Girard’s privately published volume, The Fight Arranger’s Companion. Girard has taken centuries of French, Italian, English, and Spanish sword terminology and created a unified dictionary. I hope he has plans for a wider publication in the future, as it has proven even more useful to me as an author than as a fight director, and other writers and scholars should have access to it.
Like the last one, this novel could not have been fully formed without the internet. Halfway through a paragraph I’d come up with a question that I’d go online to answer. What were the makes of saddles in 1325? Who was ruling Aragon, or Egypt? What was the date of Easter Sunday, 1329? Fully half of my research happened on the web, sifting through incomplete and conflicting data. It is perhaps sinful of me not to note herein the sources of my information, but this is fiction, not journalism (though I did try to double-source everything). If any reader has questions, I encourage them to go hunting – there are more details out there than I could possibly render here. But a note to the website asking for further sources will be answered as best I’m able: www.davidblixt.com. Or at my Facebook author page. Or else on Twitter. It’s a brave new world.
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Thanks to Tara Sullivan for reading it piecemeal as it was written, and for forgiving what I was doing to characters she loves (the texts I got were very angry). Thanks to Scott Kennedy for being another early reader, and Chris Walsh for his kind encouragement. Thanks to Breon Bliss for reimagining Friar Lawrence’s physicality for me. To all the Patches, past and present, thanks for playing.
Big thanks to Michael Denneny, editor extraordinaire, for his ability to slice away the fat and leave the lean.
Grazie to Judith Testa and Marina Bonomi for fixing my many, many Italian infelicities. Thanks too to Constance Cedras for hunting down the pesky and persistent typos as this was prepared for print. They all tried valiantly to correct my blunders, and any remaining errors are entirely mine.
The best question to ask an author is, “Who do you read?” I’m fortunate enough to have rubbed shoulders with some of my favorite authors, among them Sharon Kay Penman, C. W. Gortner, MJ Rose, and Michelle Moran, to whom I owe incalculable debts, both for their words and for their kindness. If you haven’t read them, do yourself a favor and pick up their books now. For earlier influences, check out Dorothy Dunnett, Bernard Cornwell, Colleen McCullough, Patrick O’Brian, and Raphael Sabatini.
My parents, who gave every kind of help imaginable during the writing of this book and the one before it, I cannot thank enough – it simply isn’t possible (my mother designed the maps, too). Much love to my brother Andrew, the soul of patience.
Dash and Evie are the light of my days and the bane of my nights.
But not my inspiration. To inspire means to breathe in. The person I breathe in is my wife. Janice, cara mia, every day is new, every face is you.
The next book is entitled Fortune’s Fool.
Ave,
DB
Fortune’s Fool
Chapter One
Caprino, Italy
24 March 1326
“The Greyhound? Why the Devil is that devil coming here?”
“A fit enough cause. He’s coming to inspect the forge.”
From his seat behind his elaborately carved desk, Gaspardo Rienzi thumped his fleshy fist. “Rubbish! He never comes unless there’s been trouble with production, and we’ve been exceeding even our own estimates this last six months and more!”
This was addressed to a teen that greatly resembled Rienzi, but taller and with tighter-fitting skin. “He’s bringing his heir.”
Mouth open for a further curse, Rienzi clamped it shut, looking very much as if he had bitten his tongue. “Of course he is.”
For once, the winter months around Verona had been quiet. The Greyhound’s prodigious energies were nowhere to be seen – no games, no festivals, no grand hunts. The Palio had come and gone in a rather lackluster fashion, since the great man had taken himself off to the Lago di Garda with this fabulous heir everyone was praising. It was the first time in memory the Greyhound had missed seeing the Palio run. More, there were murmurs of a family quarrel – the Greyhound’s bitch of a sister had followed to the palace at Garda, only to be refused entry at the gates.
Now, two days after Easter, both hound and pup were coming to see the forge. God alone knew why. Behind the desk Rienzi girded himself. “Very well. I’ll meet them myself.”
“I can do it, father.”
“No, Adamo. That family is the Devil’s own. I don’t want you to have any contact with them. Not you, and certainly not Lia. They’re dogs, the lot of them.” Eyes turning inwards, Rienzi gnawed his lower lip. “When is he coming?”
“Tomorrow, sometime after dawn.”
“Probably worried about the Emperor coming across the Alps. Damn the Scaliger and his damnable ambitions. Still, we can make him pay, demand a few more concessions. Inform the smiths to keep the fires going all night, just in case he tries to surprise us.”
“Yes, father.”
Rienzi averted his gaze, looking out the window and blinking rapidly. “Leave me.”
Bowing to his father, Adamo exited the chamber, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him. As he started down the hallway he was not surprised to discover his sister waiting.
“You shouldn’t have told him,” scolded Lia.
“You shouldn’t listen at keyholes.”
“Don’t try to joust with me.”
Adamo grinned nastily. “You don’t even have a lance.”
She persisted. “You shouldn’t have told him.”
“I had to, didn’t I?”
“Well then you shouldn’t have agreed.”
“To what?”
“To let father meet him! You know how much he loathes the Greyhound!”
“Oh yes, Lia, I know precisely how much. Just enough to bad-mouth him, but not enough to refuse his money.”
“That money is for you, you ungrateful—”
Adamo raised his fist and Lia stepped back. Tripping on her skirts, she fell hard on her rump and curled into a ball, expecting to be kicked.
But Adamo was a man now, fifteen years old, and deemed their childhood squabbling beneath him. Though he would never abandon his sneer. “Lia, you truly are an idiot. We should sell you to an abbey to live with the other girls too stupid to be ornaments to their families.”