by David Blixt
♦ ◊ ♦
AFTER FINALLY FALLING asleep in her mother's arms, Giulietta was awakened by her nurse bursting into her room. The little girl's annoyance turned to panic when she perceived through the darkness that Angelica was weeping. “Madonna! Madonna!”
Tessa rose at once. “What's the matter?”
“He's gone! Alack the day, he's dead!”
Giulietta's eyes welled at once. “My father?”
“No, no no no! Worse. Far worse.”
Giulietta was confounded. What could be worse than her father's death? But then she saw her mother's grim expression and gasped with horror.
♦ ◊ ♦
CESCO AND DETTO came hurtling through one palace window just as Mari and Antony swung in another, knocking over servants and onlookers alike. Capulletto started to fall backwards out of the window, but Montecchio caught him by the wrist and righted him on his feet. An ironic righting of a long-remembered wrong.
Having just returned, Cangrande held two green ribbons as he looked from one pair of naked racers to the other. “What is the final message?”
Shivering and bleeding, Cesco and Detto opened their mouths just as Mari and Antony chorused, “The only ass here is you!”
“And so it is!” cried Cangrande with good humour. “It is not every day that my people get to call me an ass with my full approval!” Cangrande eyed the shivering, panting figures of Antony and Mari. “But, ladies and gentlemen, I'm torn! Should I award the prize to two young men accustomed to working together? Or should it go to the pair that had more to overcome, including their pride? Who deserves it more?”
Standing in the door, holding his aching side as he shivered, Pietro felt a sunburst of hope. Could this be it? Was this the moment that all was mended? Opening his mouth, he shouted, “Capulletto and Montecchio!”
The cry was taken up by the whole loggia. “Capulletto and Montecchio! Capulletto and Montecchio!” The cheer went on and on, with laughter and praise for the naked pair, huddled under blankets beside a brazier, grinning like children and laughing as they had of old.
Cangrande waved for silence. “Ser Francesco, Ser Bailardetto, what do you say? Do you contest the will of the people?”
Detto shared a glance with Cesco. “Give it to them?”
“Yes, do,” said Cesco. “All unknowing, they allowed us to finish. Let the victory fall on them!”
As the mostly feminine crowd applauded, Mariotto and Antony stood side-by-side to receive the ribbons of victory. “May this begin a new era,” Cangrande said to them.
Pietro wasn't the first to reach them with his congratulations, but he made up for it in warmth, ignoring the pain in his side as he hugged both tightly. “About damned time!”
Under three blankets, Cesco made his way through the congratulatory mob to stand beside Pietro. “I suppose it's because of the title that you had to voice your opposition to my victory.”
Pietro noticed an ugly gash along Cesco's collarbone. “What happened?”
“We were assaulted.” Cesco noted Pietro clutching his right side under the sopping cloak. “You?”
“Bowled over by a drunk. Who assaulted you? Were they arrested?”
“Probably angry Paduans trying to get their own back. I'll send some guards for them now. Two at least aren't going anywhere. But I want to talk to any survivors. And I have an appointment later. Where are my clothes?”
Cesco and Detto departed the loggia to dress, so they missed Mastino and Carrara arrive with news of Montagu's murder and Aiello's flight. Cangrande ordered Aiello's men arrested until he could decide their fate. “And find that treacherous Scot,” snarled the Capitano. “I should have known he'd be the flaw in our celebrations.” He glanced over at the victorious duo and smiled thinly. “Though it seems as if nothing could spoil their night.”
Wrapped in more warm blankets, Mari shook his sopping head, flinging water everywhere. “Watch that!” laughed Antony.
Throwing his hair back, Mari said disbelievingly, “We won.”
“We did at that!” crowed Antony. “Just like old times. If we tried, we could—”
But what they might have done went forever unspoken. At that moment Gianozza pushed through the throng to throw her arms around Mari's neck, kissing him repeatedly. “Darling, I'm so proud of you!”
Pietro had never liked Mariotto's wife. He found her insipid and self-centered. But never before now had he actively hated her. Seeing what was happening, she could have stayed back. But no, she had to thrust herself into the moment like the lead in the theatre, demanding center stage.
Flushing, Mari gently disengaged himself, settling his wife into the crook of his arm. He extended his other arm in a gesture of friendship.
Pietro watched Antony's eyes fix on the outstretched hand, then rise to gaze at Gianozza. Capulletto's own hand came up, but to rip at the knot on his wrist with fingers and nails. The moment he was free, he rose and walked away. The whole room watched him go, feeling only a sliver of Pietro's disappointment.
Mariotto's son Romeo, who had a better sense of timing, now raced over to hug his father in congratulations. Mari tousled the boy's dark hair, but continued to gaze after his former friend.
Confounded, Cangrande was about to call after Antony when one of Capulletto's servants appeared at the door. Antony saw him and scowled. “What the devil do you — what's the matter?” The lad's eyes were red with weeping. Antony took a step backwards. “No. No. Please tell me, no—”
The lad shook his head. “He's gone, m'lord. Gone to Heaven.”
Antony released a howl that was barely human. Suddenly no one felt like reveling. They all knew what it meant. Antony's young son, so strong and thriveful, had chosen this chilly, raining night to follow his brothers.
“Oh! Poor Antony!” Gianozza buried her face in Mariotto's shoulder.
Antony turned to look at her. It was as though he were looking at the life denied him – the wife he loved, the son he could not seem to keep. His face a grotesque masque, he left the loggia with slumped shoulders, hardly able to breathe.
Pietro followed him out into the frescoed hall, unsure what to say. When he placed a foot upon the stair, he winced again. Taking his hand out from under his cloak, he marveled that the damp on his side should be so warm.
In the light of the braziers he saw the crimson on his fingers and palm. Twitching involuntarily, he looked around him in confusion before toppling down eight stairs to the tiled landing, blood oozing from the knife wound between his ribs.
Thirty-One
THE ENSUING FIGHT between Mariotto and his wife was destined to become a thing of legend. Challenging her decision to ruin such a moment, Mariotto berated her thoughtlessness. Gianozza countered by reproaching him for discounting her love, which superseded all boundaries. She accused him of no longer loving her. As proof she cited their recent lack of lovemaking, a detail that offered the crowd especial delight.
Romeo tried to come between his feuding parents, but he was whisked aside by his aunt Aurelia, who sent him off in the company of his cousin Benvolio.
Mari decided that discretion was the better part of valour. His wife was enjoying the spectacle they were creating, and the best way to end her enjoyment was to end the encounter. Still naked under his blanket, he stormed from the loggia, the victor's ribbon hanging from one shoulder.
Thus it was Mari who found Pietro's unconscious form on the stairs. Hearing his shouts for aid, the whole palace was roused to an uproar. Had there been an attack within the palace walls?
“He was clutching his side when he came back,” observed Salvatore, looking uncommonly frightened. “He said a drunkard knocked him down.”
Morsicato appeared from below, where he and Fracastoro had a sickroom prepared – there were always broken bones and cuts to sort out after the Foot Palio. Ashen-faced, Morsicato snapped, “Quickly! Bring him this way!”
Alone among the men carrying Pietro, Cangrande remained when the doors were shut
. Once the cloak had gone, the doctors saw Pietro's whole side was drenched in blood. As Morsicato began cutting Pietro's clothes away to find the wound, Cangrande said softly, “Someone will die for this.”
♦ ◊ ♦
UPSTAIRS, MORE RACERS appeared through the loggia's open windows, all repeating the phrase that would normally tickle the Scaliger's humour. Instead they spoke the awkward motto to his wife, presiding in Cangrande's absence.
Don Pedro and Benedick arrived just ahead of Bailardino and Val, but after the Bonaventura clan. Jubilant, they recited the phrase of victory. As they were pressed with covers and hot wine, young Petruchio demanded, “Why all the long faces?”
They heard of Capulletto's victory, and his loss. It was sobering. Then they were told of the near-mortal injury given to the new Count of San Bonifacio. Bail bolted at once from the chamber, while the Bonaventura twins leapt up. “This has to be connected to father's death!”
“Yes,” agreed Verde della Scala, still waiting for her husband to return. “Round up all the drunks and torture them to reveal the names of their wine shops.”
“Cesco was assaulted,” added Salvatore from not far away. “He's gone to question the men. He'll get the truth.” Young Hortensio's answering scowl was not for the words, but the sight of the Paduan holding his sister's hand.
Not far off, Signor Benedick was unlooping the rope at his waist. “An unfortunate end to an excellent race, my lord.”
Huddled under a blanket, Don Pedro lifted his steaming goblet in sober salute. “There might have been another injury tonight – Lord Nogarola's son. Quick thinking.”
“It was nothing – ah, the lady.” Donna Beatrice was approaching through the jostling crowd.
Flushing at his nakedness, Don Pedro accepted her congratulations and swiftly excused himself to go dress. That left Benedick standing before her, shivering under his single blanket. “I didn't win.”
“I disagree. You seem to have won the Prince's approval.”
“Just his?”
“Indeed? Perhaps when you've dressed, we should see if you've won anyone else's.”
Benedick grinned boldly. “Why wait?”
Who started the kiss was unknowable, but they maintained it for a long time. Then she slipped her hand into his and together they departed for a place more private to continue their wordless debate.
♦ ◊ ♦
ONE OF THE MEN had died, one had escaped, but two of the attackers were still near the muleskinner's, breathing but immobile. Cesco had them transported to the basement of the Giurisconsulti.
The Bonaventura twins were standing outside the building, faces fierce. “Cesco, have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Your uncle Pietro has been stabbed,” said Hortensio bluntly.
There was no visible change in Cesco's features. So how did the temperature drop around them? “Dead?”
Elbowing his brother, Young Petruchio was quick to shake his head. “Not when we left. The doctors were tending him. But he's lost a lot of blood.”
“Someone stabbed him in the street,” added Hortensio. “He didn't even realize it.”
“I talked to him,” murmured Cesco. “He was dying right in front of me, and I never knew.”
“No one knew,” replied young Petruchio, hoping to ease the blow. “Not even Ser Alaghieri.”
“I see.” With a disturbing suddenness, Cesco was brisk. “Detto, do you mind forgoing the interrogation?”
Summoned from thoughts of the Rienzi family, Detto straightened. “What do you need?”
“Armed guards at my door, and at Ser Alaghieri's – I should say, the Count's. Hortensio, Petruchio, I entrust that to you. Detto, Antonia must be told. And a message sent to the Moor. Address it to Maestro Cadiz in Venice, it will find him, wherever he is.”
“What about…?” Detto let his voice trail off.
Cesco drew a breath. “That can wait. Go now – and go together. There is an assassin out there, and this one is no friendly Moor.”
They went. Turning, Cesco reopened the cellar door and told the guards to get out. Alone, Cesco advanced on the chained prisoner to his left. To the one on his right, he said, “Watch.”
It did not take much. The battered men were Paduans, that much was clear by their accent. They pleaded no knowledge at all of the attack on Ser Alaghieri. They claimed to have been hired by a woman in her middle years, lean and hawkish, with brown hair streaked with iron.
It was not a description that resonated. “Who was she? Answer me!”
“I don't know!” howled the tortured man as the broken bones in his fingers shifted.
“If you were not part of the attack on Ser Alaghieri, what about your actual commission. You were supposed to kidnap me.”
“Yes!”
“Where were you to take me?”
“We don't know! We were to meet someone on the road north, by Quinto. They'll be gone by now. Someone was to pay us and take you.”
“To where?”
“To where the girl is!”
“Tch,” said Cesco reprovingly. “You said it was a woman.”
“Not her,” shouted the injured man. “We were supposed to tell you – if we were captured, tell you. Your great love. She is waiting with your mother, in the stars. Come alone.”
Cesco staggered back, ashen-faced. Lightning-quick he produced his dagger and stabbed the nearer man in the shoulder, twisting the blade. “Say that again! Say that again!”
Screams prevented words. It was the uninjured prisoner who said, “Your great love! That's what she said! She was taken tonight, same time as you were meant to be!”
“By whom!” Pushing the tortured man aside, Cesco withdrew the bloody dagger and advanced on the other. “Give me a name! A name!”
♦ ◊ ♦
A HAMMERING ON the door of Cesco's house roused the steward Fidelio. Unaware of any danger, he opened the portal to be greeted by a huge figure holding a snuffling bundle in his arms. “Get Suor Beatrice. Now, please.”
Summoned, Antonia came quickly down the stairs, fearful of some mishap during the Palio. Instead she was greeted by Andriolo, the Capulletti groom. In his arms he held a weeping child. “Her brother died tonight. She can't be in that house. My wife is distraught. Can you and Dahna…?”
“Of course!” said Antonia at once, reaching out to accept the three-year-old. “O, poor thing! Come along, Giulietta. We'll bring you to Maddelena. She'll be so happy to see you.”
She hadn't climbed five stairs before the door burst open again to reveal Detto, gasping for breath. “Ser Alaghieri – the Count, I mean – he's been stabbed. In the street. He's at the palace. Cesco wanted you to know.”
Numbed, Antonia handed the little girl to Vito the cook and hurried off to dress. By the time she returned, armed guards flanked the outer doors. Accepting Andriolo's offer to escort her to the palace, she passed quick words with Dahna, who promised to see both little girls settled safely in Maddelena's room. Then Antonia threw herself into the hammering rain, racing towards the palace, where her brother lay bleeding his life away.
Pleading another errand, Detto entrusted her to Andriolo's care. Antonia hardly noticed, so focused she was on reaching her brother's side and finding out who had done this thing.
♦ ◊ ♦
RETURNED FROM THE RACE, Fra Lorenzo dried off, feeling absurdly pleased with himself. He and Fra Giovanni had finished in the middle of the pack, very respectable for two holy men who weren't getting younger.
His pleasure vanished as he learned all the night's terrible news. The feud had almost mended? Still nourishing a seed of guilt for his part in its start, he tried not to curse Lady Montecchio for her thoughtlessness. She should have been named Narcissa – always it was about her. Lorenzo heaved an inward sigh as he imagined her diatribe on the morrow. At least he was not her confessor, a blessed relief.
As to the more dire news, Lorenzo could not resist an un-Christian sense of satisfaction. Se
r Alaghieri had received a measure of Divine Judgment for his threat of blackmail.
Lorenzo chided himself, recalling that when facing Bernardo Gui, Alaghieri could easily have traded Lorenzo's life for his own. Yet no members of the Inquisition had arrived in Verona to root Lorenzo out. Besides, Suor Beatrice had suffered enough, she did not deserve to lose her brother. Forcing himself to set his grudge aside, Lorenzo made the sign of the cross and offered up a prayer for the new Count.
Dry and decently covered, his kirtle cinched, Lorenzo procrastinated a moment longer, telling himself he was allowing his feet to warm. In truth, he did not want to go to his next appointment. So when he heard a child sniffling, he seized the chance to investigate.
Romeo Montecchio was huddled in a corner, arms wrapped about his knees. He was clearly in the aftermath of a great cry, his breath stuttered and hiccoughing.
Lorenzo knelt beside him. “What ails you, lad?”
Romeo wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving trails behind on the fine suede. “Nothing!”
“Only imbeciles weep over nothing, and you're far from an imbecile. It's your father and mother, yes? I hear they quarreled.” Romeo shrugged, a gesture that the good friar genuinely despised. “A shrug is not an answer, young man. Even in trials, we must put words to our ailments, or we are no better than beasts.”
“Yes,” moaned Romeo. “They quarreled.”
“As most couples do. You don't know how blessed you are, to have parents who have not quarreled before your eyes until now. Seven years of harmony is a blessing of two thousand five hundred and some odd days. And do you weep, when you have lived such a blessing? I would call it rank ingratitude.”
“I don't want to go home.”
“Ever, or tonight?”
“Tonight.”
Lorenzo nodded gruffly. “Understandable. Look, I have someplace to be. Why not come help me secure my plants, then you can curl up in the vestry and sleep. I'll tell your aunt.”
What impulse prompted him to bring the boy to this meeting, Lorenzo could not afterwards say. As an ally? As a shield? As a witness?