by David Blixt
“Except that, if you interposed yourself, you might have prevented the damage. Your pendulum can find poison, can it not? You could have saved Lord Bonaventura.”
The cripple shook his head defensively. “Only if I was holding the cup. And the pendulum doesn't always answer the questions I ask! It tells me what it wants me to know.”
“You are mistaken. It tells you what you want to know. It will not respond to questions when you are afraid of the answers.” Tharwat drew a long breath. “You have a gift, Girolamo. One perhaps greater than mine. Certainly of more immediacy. But knowledge is only useful if acted upon. And that requires courage. If you find yours, come to me. I will be in Verona, attempting to stave off this future you saw.”
“You can't,” insisted Girolamo flatly. “Three deaths. The pendulum doesn't lie.”
“Did it name those who will fall?”
Girolamo looked away. “No,” he admitted.
“Which means, deep down, you are afraid to know. But you see, there are many with a close blood tie to that young man. Some are worth saving. Others less so.” Tharwat rose to his feet. “I would rather choose which of them will fall than let the stars decide. One thing I have learned in my life – the future is open, until it is past.”
♦ ◊ ♦
FOR DAYS THE PALIO was all anyone could speak of. A stabbing, an attempted kidnapping of the Heir (again!), the near-reconciliation of Capulletto and Montecchio, the death of poor Capulletto's wee heir. It was enough to set tongues wagging.
After months of revels and foreigners, life was at last returning to something resembling normalcy. Venders set up their stalls in the Piazza delle Erbe, and tradesmen went about the business of their guilds. There were cheerful greetings, all in a Veronese tongue.
At the same time, nasty rumours began to bubble up, tales of Paduans being harassed, waylaid, knocked down. None of it so far amounted to much, but wearing a feather on the wrong side of one's cap or speaking without rolling one's 'r's became less and less advisable within Verona's walls.
Despite this, there was a sense of wellbeing in the air. The rains had banished the unnatural chill of that horrible winter. Spring came early, and labourers worked with their sleeves rolled to the elbow, their vests unlaced. Women went about without heavy mantles over their gowns. No one had realized how terrible the winter had been until it was behind them.
Cesco was occasionally seen in public, mostly trotting back and forth between his home and the palace. He was remarkably unquerulous. Some thought him frightened by the attack on his person. Others speculated that his spleen had all been building towards the Palio, and that having won both of the races (everyone knew he'd allowed the other pair to claim victory), he had no more need to ruckus. Not until Treviso, at any rate.
Only one voice was unequivocal in condemnation. The Abbot of San Zeno maintained his stance that the Heir was possessed by an evil spirit. Just look at those suffering all around him!
This particular morning, Benedick went to the house on the via Pigna, only to discover the master absent. Thibault was there, reluctantly packing his few belongings for his return to his uncle's house. Hearing Benedick's intent, he volunteered to take Cesco's place. Thibault was in no hurry to return to the via Cappello.
Along the way they collected Salvatore and the Bonaventura twins. At the river's edge they all donned leather armour and set to shows of swordsmanship.
“Christ,” said Thibault after a couple of passes. “Here I thought my mood was foul. I've never seen your blade so quick.”
“Eager for Treviso.” Benedick was a head taller than the young man, who was about to turn fourteen.
“As am I, though I doubt I'll be allowed.”
Still waking up, Salvatore splashed river water onto his face. “What happened to Donna Beatrice?”
Benedick lunged, forcing Thibault to leap aside, parrying. “Nothing happened to her.”
Petruchio sat kicking his heels on the edge of the bridge. “I hear Don Pedro's party is departing today.”
Twisting his blade in a deception, Benedick said nothing. Undeceived, Thibault caught the attack on his false edge and slid into a counter-thrust. “Wish I were going with them. Do you think the Spanish prince requires a squire?”
“You're too fair,” said Hortensio, stretching his wrists and ankles for his turn. “You'd burn under a Spanish sun.”
“I burn here,” replied Thibault. Not naturally poetic, he thought the remark was quite good, and was disappointed when no one praised him. If Cesco had said it…
“A day of departures,” continued Salvatore. “Paride and the Scaliger's wife leave for France as well. We'll have to be finished and clean before they go. Unless you have somewhere else to be?” added Salvatore innocently.
“Nowhere,” grunted Benedick. He shouted in triumph. “That's a hit!”
“No!” cried Thibault.
“A hit,” declared Salvatore.
“A hit,” agreed Hortensio.
“I didn't see,” admitted Petruchio.
Furious, Thibault touched blades, then brought a blow angling for Benedick's head. “Not going to say good-bye?”
Benedick beat this stroke away. “No.”
“Good for you,” called Hortensio. “Watching you these past weeks, I thought you were falling in love!”
“What? No!” said Benedick defensively as he retreated from a lunge.
Thibault recoiled from his deep stance. “That was a hit.”
Uncaring, Benedick rounded on the others. “I'm a confirmed bachelor, as you all well know! I just – I enjoy her mind.”
Under the others' derisive hoots, Salvatore clucked his tongue. “Tch! That's when love's arrow pins you to the wall. Trust me, I know!” They spent some moments abusing his relationship with Vittoria. The twins had finally reconciled themselves to it, and rumour said the banns would be read sometime next week.
Points even, Thibault withdrew, giving his partner breathing space. Salvatore picked up a loose stone with his free hand and plopped it into the Adige. “So – why are we here?”
“I need the practice,” said Benedick, a little too innocently.
“You certainly do,” agreed Thibault with a nasty smile.
Salvatore glossed over this. “Why so far from home?” They were by the Ponte Navi, close to the stews from which Benedick and Salvatore had first met Cesco.
“No reason.” Hating being so transparent, Benedick raised his sword to Thibault. “Come on.”
As Thibault engaged again, Hortensio grinned. “It's odd, isn't it, Ser Salvatore. If you're leaving the palaces, this is the easiest southbound bridge.”
“Is it?” asked Salvatore in mock surprise. “By God, it is, and that's a fact!”
“Here's another fact for you,” said Petruchio, still kicking his heels, “the other southern bridge is only accessible via this road.”
“You're right, Ser Petruchio! If I were waiting for someone heading south, this is the place I'd choose to wait.”
They were using single-handed swords. Benedick switched hands suddenly, making Thibault jump back. He seemed impressed. “Hm! Are you naturally ambidextrous?”
“Yes,” said Benedick as he pressed Thibault back along the water's edge, up towards the bridge.
Thibault feinted right, then struck left with a much faster hand-switch that almost made the Paduan fall on his back avoiding it. “I taught myself.” He waggled the blade in front of Benedick's nose. “Look upon it. Look upon it.”
“Of course,” continued Salvatore, “if one was going to, say, Spain, one might go north over the Alps, through France, and so down.”
“That's true,” mused Hortensio. “But not if you were stopping in Sicily en route.”
“No,” said Petruchio, “in that case, one would take ship in Genoa or Ostia and relax the whole way.”
Benedick's eyes flicked up to the road. A carriage was approaching.
“This isn't challenging enough,” he said, flicki
ng his point to make Thibault retreat. Turning, Benedick swung at Hortensio, who barely parried in time. Suddenly Benedick was facing two men at once, switching from one to the other with a furious series of blows.
Salvatore drew his blade and charged, while Petruchio jumped down from the bridge to join the fray. Driven back along the water's edge, Benedick's face furrowed in concentration, holding his own against four enemies. He waded out to ankle depth to keep them from surrounding him and called a challenge. Blocking Thibault's stab, he swept the blade around to catch Petruchio's slash at his leg. Hortensio lunged, but fell in the water. Salvatore came to pummel him in the ear with the pommel of his weapon, but Benedick caught it with his free hand.
Sopping, Hortensio emerged from the water. Rather than attack, he glanced over Benedick's shoulder. “She's past. Get him.”
“What? No, wait, I-” Stripped of his weapon, Benedick found himself lifted in the air, a Rakehell on each limb, and repeatedly dunked head-first into the river. But he was content. They had made him look good for Don Pedro. And anyone else riding with him.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE DEPARTURE OF GIOVANNA and Paride was accomplished with little fuss. No grand ceremony or feast. In the inner courtyard of the Scaliger palace, amid the heavy retinue of guards and ladies that would accompany them to France, only family gathered to see them off. And not even all of them.
Verde wished her aunt well, conveying her sisters' adieus with her own. Mastino and Alberto gave Paride a fine new traveling cloak and some oil for his saddle.
“Be well,” said Cangrande, formally kissing his wife goodbye. They had been married twenty years, more than half of the Scaliger's life.
“And you,” she answered. “No more Ponte Corbos.”
“Ha! No. Treviso has no bridge so treacherous.” Turning, the Scaliger grasped Paride by the shoulders. “Despite the plethora of women in Paris, you should avoid marriage while away. A doubling of your name might bring unfortunate consequences.”
Inured to jokes about his name, Paride was looking around, his brow knitted. “No Cesco?”
Cangrande snapped his fingers. “How thoughtless of me! I ordered Cesco to ride to Padua this morning. He was furious, as he wished to see you off. But duty calls. You understand.”
Paride nodded, knowing it was a lie, knowing Cesco was somewhere in the city. Just not here. Climbing onto his horse beside the carriage, he forced a smile. “Tell him not to burn down the city while I'm gone.”
♦ ◊ ♦
“A SECOND RAKEHELL GONE,” remarked Poco, watching through a window as the carriage and its escorts passed. “First Rupert, now Paride. Antonia says Thibault is returning to his uncle's. And those two mercenaries are back in their camp with Otto, preparing for Treviso. Cesco will have to hold recruitment parties, and look back on these as the halcyon days of glory.”
“Halcyon days rarely last.” Not yet allowed to sit up, Pietro lay propped up on bolsters, a chamber-pot close to hand. “Everyone talks about the great days when Mari and Antony and I were all together. It was hardly six months, yet it lives on in everyone's memory. The same will happen with his merry band. Change is inevitable.”
“Paride won't be changing for weeks to come. Looks like they're not taking much in way of belongings.”
“I imagine Donna Giovanna plans to purchase everything once they arrive. Fortunately she has a bottomless purse,” said Pietro, who knew how pricey Paris could be. But the boy deserved some kind of indulgence.
“Stop scratching!” snapped Morsicato from across the room. His back was turned.
“I'm only scratching my face!” retorted Pietro. Unshaven for the first time in his life, his face was constantly itching.
Poco rubbed his own chin. “I tried growing a beard once. I won't repeat what father said about it. Don't laugh, yours is no better! How are the maggots?”
“Don't! Or I will start scratching.” Laughter made Pietro wince. “No sign of Cesco?”
“He was seen this morning, according to Antonia. Stopped off in the kitchens for bread and water. But no one knows where he disappears to.”
It was awful to miss the brawling, but Pietro did, as he had no idea what the quiet portended. “Detto's with him?”
“Yes. Has he not been here?”
“Twice since I left the palace. Each time no more than a few minutes. Doesn't want to tire me, he says.” Thinking of sleep, Pietro yawned uncontrollably, which his brother took as a sign to exit, closing the door behind him.
♦ ◊ ♦
FOR ANYONE LOOKING, Cesco was in the most unlikely place in all the city – the Basilica of San Zeno. He sat for a long time in the confessional, silent. Then he crossed down the stairs to the underside, with its ornate tombs. He liked the darkness. He sat with Detto, talking softly of nothing at all, sharing the sweet pine nut brittle that he so liked.
So it had been each day since his return from the other San Zeno's. He had come to sit where Lia had sat, conversing with the empty space in the confessor's seat. Then he had stopped by other places, places of meaning only to him, reviving memories until now buried.
One place he had not been back to was La Rosa Colta. Detto wondered if by staying away he was trying to protect that dark-skinned girl. Somehow he didn't think so.
Today when they arrived at the church, the Abbot of San Zeno asked Cesco to have a proper confession. Cesco had offered him only the fig.
“That wasn't smart,” observed Detto as the fuming abbot stormed off.
“I'm not interested in finding God.” If his words were rebellious, Cesco's tone was soft. “And even if I were, I wouldn't go to the abbot. He doesn't deserve the satisfaction.”
Detto did not respond. He spent most of his time in silence. He had said too much already.
Used to his cousin's mercurial swings, he was not foolish enough to mistake Cesco's stillness for calm. For six months he had raged, beating at every target, punching both below and above with abandon.
This silence was different. As though the wild destructive force, so eager and free, and been turned inward. Against itself.
After a time, Cesco suggested they dine at home. Passing by the Casa Montecchio, they were waylaid by young Romeo. The boy began as usual, with an invitation to wordplay. “Ho, the loverly lover!”
Cesco's head snapped around, his expression so raw that Romeo at once began to tremble, his lip to quaver. There was no more hiding behind masques, it seemed. “Why lover?”
Blanching, Romeo shook his head. “I only – I met the lady Rosalia. At the church. She was kind. But sad, as lovers are.”
“As lovers are,” repeated Cesco. “I envy you, boy. It seems everyone saw her but me.”
Shocked by the lack of playfulness, the blunt plain-speaking that one never heard in Cesco, Romeo responded in kind. “My father asked, if I saw you, to carry a message. He would like to see you.”
“I will wait while you fetch him.”
Romeo darted off, fretting that he had said or done something to give the lady's secret away. But he hadn't – he knew he hadn't. Finding his father, he chose not to return to the gate, but instead sought his mother.
Outside, Mariotto talked to Cesco for five minutes. Cesco was reticent until Lord Montecchio mentioned that he had planned to ask Count Alaghieri's advice.
“You know better than to trouble him just now,” snapped Cesco. “Very well. Tonight after dark. Have him ready. Best apply some colour to his hair. Saffron and sulphur will do.”
Crossing to his own house, Cesco pulled a face. “Detto, best send word to the others. And ask Benedick to supper.”
“What reason shall I give? A race?”
Cesco shrugged. “What does it matter?”
Entering his home, Cesco's attentions were immediately claimed by his wife. “Giulietta's cousin is gone!” she informed him plaintively.
Cesco nodded. “Good.”
“The one you called the cat,” insisted Maddelena. “He's gone.”
If she expected him to tease the absent Thibault again, she was disappointed. He said merely, “Everyone goes away.”
“The men haven't gone away.” She was referring to the guards stationed at the door since the night of the Palio. “Why?”
Cesco knelt. “Well, Maddelena, you know there are men in the world who wish Verona ill. Bad men, enemies of the Greyhound.” She nodded gravely. “Well, these men are guarding you against them.”
“Why me? It's the Greyhound they don't like.”
“It's impossible to imagine it, but say there was someone who didn't like you.”
“My sisters,” she said at once.
“Very well, your sisters. Let's say Sibilia wanted to make you do something for her. What would she do?”
“Hit me,” said Maddelena.
“But she can't do that, because she can't reach you. Instead she steals something you love. Do you have a favourite toy, or pet?”
“My bunny!”
“What if Sibilia took your bunny, and you had to do everything she said or you wouldn't get it back.” Maddelena's face bunched up in indignation. “That's right. Well, some people think you're my bunny. But I'm luckier than you. My bunny is clever and can think and run and yell for help. And you know that, just like if anything happened to your bunny, you'd come to rescue it?”
“Her.”
“Her. All I'm saying is, I'd do the same for you. But a clever bunny is one that doesn't get caught. So you need to be my clever bunny and not let anyone steal you away. Understand?”
Lip trembling, Maddelena nodded several times. Dahna rushed forward and scooped her up. “No one is going to take your bunny, sweetheart. My lord, you're scaring her.”
“Not as much as she might have been the night of the Palio,” snapped Cesco, rising. “Now, my bunny, don't be frightened. These men around our house are here to guard your bunny against your sisters. I gave them special orders to look after her, and you.”