The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  “Those things are all facts,” young Pietro had protested.

  “Are they? Or are they the way we perceive them? Reality is not factual. It is based on an agreement between minds. You and I concur that the sky above is blue. So do most men. But say there is a man who says the sky is red, a bleeding red that pressed down on us.”

  “He's mad,” said Pietro at once.

  “What if he's correct, and we're all wrong?”

  “That many people couldn't be wrong,” Pietro had protested.

  “Of course they can,” Dante had scoffed. “Groups of people make the worst thinkers. But you see what I mean about perception being an agreement. We all agree that the sky is blue, and therefore we define reality. Just so with Hell. Most men agree that Hell exists.”

  “The Bible tells us so.”

  “There was a Hell before there was a Bible. For the Greeks, it was the Underworld. Tartarus, as far below Hades as the Earth is below Heaven. If you had never read the Bible, you would still fear a Hell. It is part of our agreement as living men.”

  “So a man who denies the existence of Hell can avoid it?”

  “No,” Dante had replied. “No more than a man who denies the sky is blue can change its colour. As long as the whole believes, the world remains the same.”

  Relating this conversation now to Cesco, Pietro was surprised to find how much had stayed with him. “Father said that perception does not actually belong to an individual. Because you're correct, the senses can lie. Only when we pool our perceptions can we define what is real.”

  Cesco scowled, not in anger but in thought. “So one man, even if he sees a truth, cannot change the world? And here I thought Truth was the ultimate power.”

  “It is. And you're wrong. One man can make a difference. Not by seeing a Truth, but of convincing others. Christ, of course. But also Plato, Socrates, Aristotle. Your beloved Democritus. They changed the world with their truths, and continue to do so. For centuries Aristotle was lost, only to be found again. The shift is on-going, but as long as one man has the power to change the minds of men—”

  “—he can reshape reality.” Cesco smiled. “So if enough men believed man could fly, he could fly?”

  “I don't think it will ever happen,” said Pietro wryly before turning serious. “But I also don't underestimate the power of belief. Which, after all, is another word for faith.”

  Pulling a face, Cesco sat forward. “What if someone convinces the world of a lie?”

  “Then the lie becomes real,” said Pietro. “Whether it is factual or no. So long as men agree, the lie will shape their world.”

  Cesco was silent for a time, brooding. “I'm supposed to bring about a new age.”

  “That's what a prophecy says. Which will only be true if enough men believe in it. There are plenty of prophecies that have not come true.”

  Cesco sounded hopeful. “So the future can change?”

  Pietro opened his palms. “How would we know?”

  Falling back into his pillows, Cesco flashed a small smile. “It would be easier if nothing was real.”

  Pietro reached out a hand and squeezed Cesco's arm. “I know.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  EASTER ARRIVED ON the 23rd of April. Pietro walked carefully beside his brother to the church at the bottom of the hill. La Spezia was a rich town, one that had been building of late. New structures made from sandstone absorbed the sun, which was brighter here than in Verona. Even in this remarkably cold winter it had barely snowed, and now banks of flowers showed their shoots as they absorbed rain and sun, reaching for the sky.

  The church was named for the local saint, San Giuseppe. Pietro had come down for Palm Sunday, and again for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Now that Cesco was past the worst, Pietro was trying to walk each day. It was amazing to him that a wound in his side could steal strength from his whole body. His limp felt more pronounced than it had in years, and he frequently had to stop to catch his breath.

  The service celebrating the rebirth of Christ was joyful. Most men wore new doublets, as was acceptable this time of year. Lent was over, and life could begin thriving again. Husbands could again partake of their marriage beds, though that was one thing few ever gave up for Lent.

  Returning to their villa, Pietro was alerted by tracks in the dirt outside that they had missed a visitor. Over-cautious, he sent Poco to the side entrance before entering the main door, his hand upon his sword.

  He found his three companions perfectly well. Tharwat was reading the borrowed Virgil while Morsicato washed a tunic he had spilled wine upon. Cesco was curled in a ball, a bolster over his face, groaning slightly, but no worse than when they had left. “Who was here?”

  “Christ,” said Cesco from under the bolster. “He came to say He has risen. You just missed him.”

  “A messenger from the Scaliger,” said Morsicato. “He's marshalling his forces and wishes to have an answer before the Ides of June.”

  Pietro opened the side door and waved his brother in. “What's the question?”

  “Will we be ready to fight,” replied Cesco. “At the moment, I'd ride into battle just to escape the smell.” Valuing privacy, they had not hired anyone to do their cleaning, and focus on Cesco had kept them from more menial chores.

  “Truth is truth,” said Morsicato, wrinkling his nose. “Too damn close in here.” He crossed to the far wall and threw open the shutters.

  Having peeked out, Cesco recoiled behind his bolster. “So many doctors forget that patients are people, too.”

  Pietro asked Morsicato, “What did you tell him?”

  Morsicato shrugged. “That we'd send word when there was word to send.”

  “He means when he's decided if he has to burn just the bed or me with it,” offered Cesco.

  “I thought your head hurt,” snapped the doctor.

  “It hurts whether I talk or no.”

  “Then show respect for my frayed nerves.”

  “You? There's not a dragon alive could fray your nerves.”

  “There's no such things as dragons.”

  Beneath the bolster, Cesco snorted. “And you call yourself a learned man.”

  Most of the afternoon was spent discussing the publishing venture that Poco was nominally heading. Cesco engaged in this purely literary diversion, speaking late into the evening of what manuscripts would be suitable for publication.

  The day was marred by sad news, relayed by Antonia. Manuello Giudeo, he of the magic music and wicked tongue, had died on a visit to Fermo.

  “I told him not to retire,” said Morsicato. “Sixty-eight years old, with nothing to do? I'm surprised he lasted three months.”

  “I wonder what will happen to his writing,” mused Cesco.

  “What writing?”

  “Love poems. He told me he introduced the sonnet to his tribe, with no small success. And apparently wrote his own version of the Commedia, but for Hebrews. I asked him to translate it for me, but he never got around to it. Now he never will.” Cesco sighed. “Sixty-eight! That's a race well run.”

  “We should all be so lucky,” agreed Morsicato.

  “Truth,” said Cesco, “is truth.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO WOKE in the middle of the night. Thirsty, he sat up and reached for the pitcher that was beside him. But his desire was intercepted by Tharwat, who poured and passed him the cup.

  “Ironic,” murmured Cesco. “Years ago, you gave me hashish to help me recover from poison. Now it's the hashish poisoning me.”

  Even for the Moor, what followed was an uneasy silence. Cesco cocked his head and badgered in Arabic, “What plagues thee now?”

  There was another long pause before Tharwat spoke. “Dost thou forgive me?”

  It was a serious question, and Cesco answered it seriously. “For what precisely? The training thou didst give? Thy failure to learn more of my mother? Or the charts?”

  “For them all together.”

  “No. I don't forgiv
e you.” Cesco paused maliciously. “Because there is nothing to forgive.”

  Pouring a second cup of water, Tharwat seemed to accept this. “It has been months. Thou hast not spoken of the charts.”

  “This humble soul was waiting for an opportune moment. It never arose.”

  “Doubtless thou wilt have questions.”

  “Several.” Cesco launched the topic with the obvious points, moving on to more abstruse ones. Finally he came to the heart of the matter. “So one chart is removed. Leaving two.”

  “At least two. There were many portents that night, and none recorded accurately.”

  “But basically two. Despair, and struggle. Hope is gone.”

  “Yes. Hope is gone.”

  Laughing, Cesco switched momentarily to Italian. “The Devil damn thee black! Oh wait, he already did. One final question. Had Donna Katerina asked, wouldst thou have shown the charts to my poor young self?”

  “I would have burned them before allowing thee to see them.”

  “But why? The work is thine.”

  “May my hands be removed before I do another such. Thou wilt be great, little dancer, but great men should not be aware of their futures.”

  “Some say fore-warned is fore-armed.”

  “Some do indeed. Yet it is one thing for a man my age to know the hour of his death. It is quite another for one of thy tender years.”

  Cesco's voice was strained. “I am married.”

  “I know.”

  “Not for love.”

  “Is that so? Didst thou not marry one to spare another? Was not that love? Do not presume to understand the stars, dancer. They are more deft with words than even thee.”

  “Dost thou mean to say the stars lie?”

  “I do.”

  “Then thou liest, for they do not! They hang, hang in the sky. And may they hang for the lies they tell. Now shut thy ever-flapping mouth, shadow mine, and let decent people sleep.”

  “Sleep then, dancer. Tomorrow will be here, will you or no, and we must all face it.”

  Cesco mimed slapping the sky. “If it comes too early, I'll face it with the back of my hand, thus.”

  Thirty-Five

  IN THE FELTRO, war was in the air. While the forces of Verona sharpened their swords, drilled their horses, and oiled their war machines, the citizens of Treviso girded themselves for the inevitable siege. It had to come. Amazing it had been delayed so long. Cangrande had been anointed Vicar of the Trevisian Mark fifteen years past, yet he could not fully claim that title without ownership of Treviso.

  In recent years Cangrande had been picking off Trevisian castles, one by one. Last summer, with the bulk of his forces on the Paduan border, a few of Cangrande's ablest commanders had still managed to strip the Trevisians of Ceneda and Cavolano. But even that had not lured the Trevisian army out from behind its walls. He'd tried taking the city by stealth, but his agents had been thwarted and hanged.

  The buffer to all-out war had been Padua. Those on-going hostilities had spared Treviso the brunt of Cangrande's wrath. Knowing this, the Trevisians had supplied Verona's enemy with money, arms, and men, helping Padua resist Ghibelline aggression out of pure self-interest.

  That war was now over. Worse, it was over without heavy losses for either army. Worser still, those two armies had merged, becoming a force no one in their right mind would choose to engage.

  But until the previous April, Cangrande had lacked the all-important legal reason for war, the cause juste. Scrupulously correct, Cangrande never entered into a conflict without some pretext on his side.

  In this case, he claimed to represent the true rulers of Treviso. Two years earlier there had been a governmental coup d'état when Guecello Tempesta had seized the reins of power and exiled all those who threatened him, turning Treviso into a near-autocracy.

  While with the Emperor in Marcaria, a band of those exiled by Tempesta had come to Cangrande begging for aid. Benevolently acceding to their requests, Cangrande had his pretext for war.

  Waiting for orders, Verona's forces trained. The common thought was that it was enough to assemble an impressive body of men, arm them, and point them towards the enemy. But Cangrande had read the works of Vegetius and followed the old Roman's dictates. Under the command of men like Otto the Burgundian, Verona's soldiers trained and trained and trained until they were among the most elite in Europe.

  Years ago, when he'd first brought his program of training in line, the majority of his soldiers had balked – being mercenaries, they were unwilling to do anything out of the normal line. But he'd raised their pay for their troubles, and after a few years they discovered that their training allowed them to raise their rates wherever they went. That was when they embraced Cangrande's regimen with whole hearts.

  Scattered among the foreign condottieri were loyal Veronese commanders. Mastino was in Mantua, practicing with the finest cavalry Verona possessed in hopes of making himself an even better horseman. Alblivious was with him, eager to prove he was good for something more than amusement. Castelbarco was given the garrison at Peschiera. In lieu of the injured Pietro, Bernardo Ervari was given command of San Bonifacio to train his men. Nico da Lozzo was up near Schio. Bailardino, Lord of Vicenza and the oldest and most experienced of them all, remained in his city with the largest of Cangrande's forces.

  Surprisingly, Rizzardo da Camino, the importunate husband of Cangrande's niece Verde, appeared with a hundred horsemen and a large body of foot. All paid for by his wife's jewels. She was determined to make him a man of substance, a force to be reckoned with. That, at least, Cangrande could respect, even if he could not respect the man himself. But soldiers were never unwelcome – so long as they were in someone else's pay.

  For that reason the Scaliger also accepted the young knights of Verona into his plans, despite their wintertime tomfoolery. In only one respect did Cangrande check Cesco's plans. He had not grouped the Rakehells together for their training. Instead the Scaliger sent them to various outposts in his domains.

  Having squired for Lord Nogarola, Hortensio and Petruchio were back with him in Vicenza, in command of troops twice their age. With them was Detto's brother Valentino, knighted before he was a squire and now trying to cram the training he'd never had. Cangrande's two bastards Barto and Berto were working hard to learn the rudiments of warfare in, of all places, Padua, under Marsilio da Carrara.

  Of the original Rakehells, three would not be partaking of the coming war. Paride was in France, and Rupert was again with his uncle, the emperor. The other missing member was Thibault Capulletto. Forbidden by his uncle to join the war, he was not a knight, and also not yet a man, so could not determine his own course. Though he protested, he was kept firmly within doors while Antony himself rode off to prepare the men under his command.

  Shut up in his uncle's house, Theobaldo Capulletto spent his fourteenth birthday the same way he did every other day – practicing attacks out of his fight-books until the light failed, then curling up and savouring the hot tears of rage for the injustices of the world forced on him. At least, until one night when Tessa arrived to comfort him by finishing what they had once started. That was a wonderful revenge.

  Cangrande allowed the Cesco's two pet Paduans to go to Illasi and train with Yuri and Fabio under Otto. The Burgundian put them through their paces, and more than once Benedick was tempted to open his mouth and curse at the short, grizzled warrior. But he was soldier enough to recognize the excellent training he was receiving. His only real resentment was that Cesco and Detto were not undergoing similar trials. But then, they were noble, and rich. They could afford to skive off.

  For Cangrande, the great man was everywhere at once, riding from one group of soldiers to another. Leaner than he'd been in years, his allegria flashed for every man under his command. Trading jests with the lowest foot soldier, his manner was of a man in utter control of his destiny.

  May arrived, and the Trevisians expected to see the banners of Verona, Mantua, Padua, and V
icenza come marching over the hill, carried by the largest army seen since the days of the Romans.

  But as May crept into June without an attack, they allowed themselves to hope. For they had heard of a snag in the fabric of the Scaliger's plans. As feared, Parma was under siege, Rolando Rossi fighting off the same Guelph forces that had taken Pisa years earlier.

  Technically, Parma was not part of Cangrande's domain. But the fact that it was presently ruled by his heir's uncle-in-law made it seem so. In practical terms, the Scaliger had to rescue Parma or else fear an attack on his southern flank just as he secured his eastern one.

  He was unwilling to split his forces. Once, perhaps. But he was no longer the daring young commander who would hazard all upon the throw of a die. His wound and rout at Ponte Corbo had altered his tactics. These days he never entered the field without outnumbering his foes at least three to one. Never again would his life be in danger on the battlefield. He had too much left to prove.

  Treviso was an impossibility until Parma was safe. If Rossi lost, Cangrande would need his army to defend his own lands. So he fretted and sought some easy solution. When none came to him, he summoned Marsilio da Carrara from Padua for a conference where he laid out his dilemma in bald terms.

  Concluding, he said, “You were a devout and loyal Guelph for years, and are still in good standing with the Church despite your defection to my cause. You know these men, fought beside them. And our mutual relative Rossi is in command of Parma. Surely you can negotiate a peace.”

  Carrara's eyes reflected his pleasure. This would be a welcome boost to his reputation – if he could pull it off. “I know the Guelph Legate, I can make him come to the table. But to win him, I require some aid.”

  “From whom?”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “I'M SUMMONED,” said Pietro, reading over the Scaliger's message.

  “Treviso?” Cesco was now able to sit at table for meals like a human.