by David Blixt
“Cake?” she'd asked.
“Breakfast, noon, and night,” Francesco had told her. “Cake until you can't stand the taste of it.”
“I'll never not like cake!” she'd told him forcefully.
“Then it's a good thing I like cake too.” She'd giggled, and after that it was fun, putting on pretty dresses and having people make a fuss over her. She'd cried a couple of times during the wedding day, and felt stupid about that, because since then life had been joyful. Of course, she didn't have cake every day – that would be silly. And her days were almost exactly the same as before: lessons and playtime with her nurse, weaving, naps, church, meals, prayers, and bed. But sometimes Francesco would appear, bestowing Maddelena's world with a beam of sunshine that made everything else go away.
When she heard him with other people, he sounded different. He wasn't happy. In fact, Maddelena thought he was sad. He pretended not to be, and he fooled everyone because he was so good at pretending. But he was sad.
So was Detto. Maddelena liked Detto, though he didn't spend much time with her. At first she'd thought he didn't like her, but then she saw that he was shy with everyone except animals. And along with Detto, Cesco didn't pretend as much.
Maddelena wondered why Cesco pretended to be happy when he was with her. She was his wife! He didn't have to pretend with her. Dahna told her again and again it was her duty to grow up to be a good wife and make her husband happy. But she didn't have to wait to grow up, she could make him happy now. She could draw for him, or sew pictures like in the tapestries that hung from the walls. She could sing – he liked singing, she knew.
She worried sometimes that he didn't really like her. He could do anything. All she could do was weave a little and sing and play with blocks and make messes and pray. Maybe he didn't really like her, but since he'd already married her there was nothing he could do so he pretended to like her and all the time tried to think of ways to stay away from home.
I'm going to ask him, she decided. I'll ask him why he's sad, and then I'll fix it, and he'll love me and not need to pretend anymore. I'll ask him.
♦ ◊ ♦
Venice
GIROLAMO WAS EATING BETTER than he had ever eaten in his life. Mostly fish, of course, but fish in such quantities and with such marvelous sauces that he would never dream of complaining.
The Venetian ambassador had kept his promise, lodging the crippled diviner at a fine private establishment set aside for guests of the Serenissima. He had already had an interview with the ailing Doge, who had wisely refrained from asking personal questions – his end was near, he needed no oracle to tell him so. Instead they had discussed parts of the world where Venice had business interests.
They'd also discussed the lawsuit that had all Venetians buzzing, brought by a Hebrew money-lender against a prominent merchant. “I will have to hear it. My last act of justice will be most unjust, I fear. Unless you can divine an answer to my dilemma?”
Girolamo had shaken his head. “The pendulum does not deal with such things as law, your grace. Perhaps the merchant should consult an astrologer. They are better at predictions.”
“There was an astrologer once,” Doge Soranzo had reminisced. “A Moor called Theodoro with such terrible scars on his neck. He made me the best chart I have ever seen. And it was so true – right up to now. I plan to be buried with it. My map to the heavens.”
A warning look from Dandolo prevented Girolamo from mentioning that the Moor in question was at that moment within the city. Where Tharwat went each morning was a mystery even the pendulum could not answer with precision. Somewhere in the Jewish quarter, the area on the map called the Yellow Crescent. He thought that Dandolo too might have been trying to trace the Moor's movements, with even less success.
Whatever the reason for the Moor's continued presence in Venice, Girolamo was grateful. They had spent the last few evenings in deep discussion of their mutual arts. Most often when trading talk with other diviners, he heard tricks for finding clues for desired answers, or ways to manipulate the pendulum to make it swing in the correct direction. Deceits. Girolamo had used his fair share of them when pleasing some idiot with a fat purse. But his gift was real, and he did not appreciate methods of deception, however useful.
With the Moor, though, the talk had been of that invisible curtain, the veil between the world they could see and the world that existed just at the edges of sight. Theirs were different experiences, but of a similar nature, and both were fascinated to find someone with a real talent. The last one Tharwat had met had died over a decade before, he said. “In my arms.”
Not that talent was particularly rare. Both had met men and even women who had a vague sense of that other world. But the ability to sense that world and translate that sense into language was so rare, Tharwat was able to name only a dozen men in his life who had owned such talent. For Girolamo, he had known only one before now, a member of a merchant family in Genoa called Mario Giustiniani. Disowned by his family, he had plied his trade around the south of Italy and discovered Girolamo's talent by what had seemed chance.
“In truth, his pendulum brought him to me, so that he might train me,” Girolamo had explained. It was not something he would have said to another man, but the Moor had not looked skeptical or shocked. “He was aging, and wanted to pass along his knowledge to one who shared his gift. I had nothing else, obviously. A mere beggar with an itching finger. It was Mario who taught me what the itch meant, and how to obey it. He also warned me of its dangers.”
“I had a similar experience,” Tharwat had told him. “Pain and suffering, followed by the revelation of a gift and a wise teacher to guide me through it. What became of your mentor? Is he still living?”
“No,” said Girolamo. “His cousin married into another banking family, and he was able to return to Genoa before his passing.”
“What family?”
“Adorno.” The Moor's eyes had shifted at that, and Girolamo had nodded. “You feel it too?”
“Yes. A powerful name.”
It was moments such as that, moments of inexplicably shared understanding, which made Girolamo lament the Moor's coming departure. Tomorrow, the day after, one day soon Tharwat al-Dhaamin would leave Venice to meet Ser Alaghieri, and Girolamo would remain here, safe. Even had he been invited, the diviner would not have dared venture into Vicenza. Donna Katerina was there, and her husband searched for him.
But Girolamo did not want the Moor to leave. It was more than just the shared skill. For Tharwat was the only man he had met in fifteen years who did not shy away from looking into Girolamo's ruined face.
He heard a shuffled step and a knock on the door, and at once said, “Come.” The Moor entered. “Any luck?”
“Yes,” said Tharwat, unwrapping the muffling folds of his cloak and scarves. “But no help.” He said no more on the subject, instead crossing to warm himself by the glowing brazier.
“There is fish,” offered Girolamo.
“Thank you. My last meal in Venice, at least for some time. I leave tomorrow.”
Girolamo ducked his head, muttering low wishes for a safe journey. He focused on his fish, but could no longer taste it.
“I understand why you would not wish to leave here,” said Tharwat. “But if I can guarantee your safety, would you consider joining me?”
Girolamo was pleased, but wary. “Can you guarantee my safety?”
“I think so. Let me speak to the lady. If all is safe, I will send to you. You may, of course, choose not to come. But I have valued our time here. I think the stars brought us together for a reason. I would like to explore that.”
Girolamo looked up from his fish. “I would like that as well.”
♦ ◊ ♦
THE HUNT THROUGH the city was brilliant, with the quartet dodging their pursuers, throwing off the scent of dogs, clambering through windows and under buildings. They used tunnels no one knew about, remains left by the Romans a thousand years past. Cangrande had rest
ored the ancient baths under his palace, but other than that had paid little attention to the old Roman streets beneath the current city. Some of those streets still existed, and Cesco led the way to exploring them. So it was a double adventure, and ended in a day all four would treasure.
At the appointed hour of capitulation, the failed hunters offered their praise to the successful quarry, then the knights brought the two boys home, right next door to Cesco's abode. As he passed it, Cesco knocked on the death door. No one answered.
Inside, Casa Montecchio was in a mild frenzy, with Gianozza ordering the servants to start hunting the streets for her wayward son. Arriving in the yard, the two young boys were clutched to her chest as if she had feared them lost at sea. Cesco stared up at the evening sky while Detto explained the innocent nature of the game and Romeo and Benvolio described the excitement, the thrill, the genius of it.
Lady Montecchio wept her relief. Her husband, who appreciated boyish adventures, was delighted and praised the quartet for such an inventive (and harmless) sport. Cesco and Detto departed the Montecchio house with smiles and waves following them, Romeo and Benvolio clamouring to do it again tomorrow.
“I don't like him,” said Gianozza stiffly, running her fingers through Romeo's hair as if he'd been gone a year.
“I do,” said Romeo, breathless with his own defiance.
♦ ◊ ♦
NEXT DOOR, CESCO was greeted by little Maddelena, who was red-eyed. Dahna was attempting to restrain her, but she broke free and raced forward to halt just before her husband, hands upon her hips. “Francesco, you have to get rid of Vito!”
“Get rid of Vito?” echoed her husband. “Why, has he been distracting Dahna again?” Vito was exceedingly handsome.
“He slapped me!”
Cesco's frown held more than a hint of anger. “Why?”
Maddelena flushed and repeated, “He slapped me.”
“On your face?”
Maddelena bit her lip. “On my wrist.”
“Where was this?”
“In the kitchen. It's my kitchen, you said so!”
“Yes, but it's his domain. Were you touching something hot?”
“No.” Then she confessed, “I wanted a sweet, that's all.”
“A sweet?”
“Some of that pine nut brittle he makes for you.”
“You were trying to steal a sweet?”
Maddelena sensed this was going badly. “I – I wasn't – he struck me! He said it was only for you, and that he'd make something else for me. But I wanted to taste it!”
“I thought you didn't like it,” said Francesco.
She flushed again. “You like it.”
“And you want to like what I like. That's very sweet. But unnecessary.” He ruffled her hair. “You are yourself.”
Feeling better, she dragged him into the sitting room and listened to him talk about the game of hide-and-seek he had just played, and his swim earlier in the day, and his new horse that he was enjoying so much. As he spoke he absently flipped an empty cup between his hands. Noticing that her eyes never left the cup, he snatched up three balls of yarn and began to juggle them in the air.
Maddelena clapped her hands. “Higher! Higher!”
Enjoying Maddelena's delight, he said, “Want to see what they see? Detto, come here.”
Before she knew what was happening she was flying in the air, tossed back and forth between her husband and his cousin. She squealed in gleeful terror, and when they put her down she grabbed Cesco's hands. “Again! Again!”
After the third time through this exercise, she grabbed him about the neck and swung around to his back, legs kicking for purchase. Half-choking, Cesco dashed about the room in a mock attempt to throw her off before collapsing onto the floor on his belly. “Peace, wife! I am not a pony!”
She hopped off to crouch beside him, gazing into his face, her expression greedy. “Can I have a pony?”
“Only if he can juggle, too.”
“Ponies can't juggle,” she informed him. “They don't have hands.”
“Really? It must be very sad not to be able to juggle. You should learn to juggle for them.”
Maddelena nodded seriously. Kneeling beside him, she tucked her feet under her skirts and placed her hands properly in her lap. “Husband?”
Cocking an eye at Detto, Cesco sat up straight. “Yes, wife?”
“Do you like me?”
He ruffled her braided hair. “What a ridiculous question. Of course I do!”
Maddelena ducked from under his hand. “I wasn't sure. I'm so little.”
“True. You should try to grow some more. Luckily, I like children. They never lie about anything important, and they don't pretend to be something they're not.”
Maddelena's little brow furrowed. “What if I get older?”
“You will,” said Francesco. “Even I cannot beat back time – though for you I'd try.”
She liked that. “Will you still like me when I'm old like you?”
That sent him into peals of laughter, and even sad Detto was smiling. “If you're still like you are now – sweet and honest, clever and blunt – I'm sure I will.”
A wide smile crossed her face. Good. He liked her. Now she could ask him why he was sad. But first she leaned forward to kiss Francesco the way her nurse always kissed her, on the eyelid.
Suddenly she found herself hurled backwards against a chair. She slid to the floor, the breath knocked from her body. She opened her eyes to see Francesco staring down at her, aghast.
Then he was gone. Detto called for her nurse before chasing after his friend.
It was only when she was alone that she began to cry, weeping full-bodied tears and wailing like the child she was. Nor would she tell Dahna what the problem was. She just bawled until she fell asleep. Her husband had left the house and did not return all night.
The next morning, Maddelena received presents: two new dresses, a lovely painted doll from France, a stuffed bunny with long floppy ears, and a real live pony named Boco. And Vito was preparing all her favourite dishes.
She was overjoyed by the gifts, of course. But she never saw Francesco all that day, and he sent no message. Maddelena understood the gifts were his way of saying he was sorry.
She was the one who was sorry. She'd done something wrong. She'd made him sadder. She tried to wait up that night to apologize, but fell asleep long before he got home.
In the morning she rode her pony. That afternoon, keeping it a secret from everyone but her pony, Maddelena began to teach herself to juggle.
Thirteen
THE PEOPLE OF VERONA were growing tired of revels. Constant merrymaking seemed as tedious as toil. But the promise of poetic hellfire lured even the most weary citizens into the public square to hear Dante's works read aloud by his heirs.
To make up for the secrets kept from Poco, his two Alaghieri siblings brought him in to discuss the publishing venture, and to help choose which part of L'Inferno was most likely to bring Cesco out of his torpor. They settled on the fourth canto, devoted to philosophers and poets, relegated to the least horrible place in Hell.
“The crowd will be disappointed,” said Pietro. “No horrors, no grotesque tortures.”
“Well, it does have something the unwashed will appreciate,” observed Poco. “An earthquake.”
Antonia pulled a face. “You shouldn't joke. It was horrible.”
“It was Cesco's finest hour,” countered Pietro. “He rallied the city and helped stave off panic. Hopefully they'll remember it, and think of him fondly.”
Apparently the Scaliger was placing equal faith in the healing power of a poetic Hell. “Both public and private chastisement have proved less than fruitful,” he told Pietro, “so let us take advantage of the boy's flair for dramatics and hope something can stir him beyond a fight or a pair of breasts. Though we should refrain from inviting him. It's the best way to ensure he comes.”
The setting for the reading was not the Piazza dei
Signori, but rather the Piazza del Comune just to the south. Smaller, it was more enclosed, allowing voices to reverberate off the buildings. Massive braziers were set all around the square, and the snow had been swept away. Cheery spices were burnt to improve the biting air, and the piazza was dotted with trees ornamented with apples.
A stage was set on the western end, with a podium to rest the text upon and three chairs for the poet's family. Cangrande himself was stationed not upon the stage, but rather on a raised platform of his own, seated upon a backless chair in the pose of a Roman consul, signifying his role as audience, not performer.
The crowd's size was impressive, Pietro noted. Nearly as many as at a public execution. Men perched in windows, atop the crenellated roof-edges, upon every plinth and pedestal. Women came with stools to rest upon, and children sat upon on their fathers' shoulders.
One such child was young Romeo. Montecchio had brought both his son and his nephew Benvolio, the two youths still glowing after their adventure the day before.
Less happily, he had also brought Romeo's mother. It was to be expected. L'Inferno had brought Mari and Gianozza together in the middle of the night of that long-ago Palio. Lord, was that almost fifteen years past?
More surprising was the presence of Capulletto and his wife. At fifteen, Tessa Guarini in Capulletto was now at least close to a respectable age to be so swollen with child. Perhaps this time Antony's son would survive past crib-age. Odd that their girl child, born when Tessa was just twelve, should have lived when their two boys had died within days of their birth. Morsicato always says girl babies are hardier than boys. Which makes no sense, being the weaker sex.
But were they weaker? Attempting to distract himself to quell the stage-fright roiling his bowels, Pietro considered the women he knew: Katerina, Antonia, Giovanna, even Gianozza and Tessa there – all were formidable forces in their own ways, capable of surviving what would kill most men. Was it Original Sin that made them so hardy? Or had God granted them an extra strength to endure their inferior position in His great plan? Perhaps we should revise our notion of weakness.