by David Blixt
The procession was filled with famous men, most of whose faces until now were unfamiliar to Trevisians: Carrara, Nogarola, Camino, Aldrighetto, Castelbarco, Novello, Bonaventura, Montecchio, Capulletto. The once and future Capitano da Treviso, Tempesta, rode near the front of the huge body of knights, as did his friend Avogaro.
The head of the parade was reserved for the Scaligeri. The bastards Barto and Berto were young and handsome. Alblivious was his genial self, free and open and guileless. Mastino was bedecked in his finest armour, almost richer than Cangrande's own. But he lacked the Houndshelm, the most fearsome mantle in Italy.
Dressed in golden armour that blinded onlookers in the bright summer sun, Cangrande carried the Houndshelm in his lap for all to see. His tall horse was draped with the caparison of his house and offices, a cloth so full of honours that it was almost indecipherable. But the ladder was clear. So too the eagle embroidered in gold. The silver hound seemed to be racing as it flapped with the movements of the horse's legs.
Cangrande carried no sword, no spear, but instead the staff of lordship, marking him as Treviso's new master. Over the staff, as upon his head, was a chaplet, signifying peace.
But where was that famous smile? Those not dazzled by the reflected light saw Cangrande looking grave and austere in his saddle, and they worried at the absence of his renowned allegria. Had they held out too long, angered him too much? How much would their defiance cost them?
His heir, too, looked grim. Riding at the Scaliger's side, he was dressed in plainer style than either Cangrande or Mastino, though still in armour that would cost the average nobleman three years' rent. He waved from time to time, and sent the occasional wan smile into the thronging crowd. But his face was closed, his eyes turned inwards, unwelcoming, ungracious.
In reality, it was all Cesco could do to stay in his saddle without vomiting. His stomach roiled, his bowls churned, his esophagus worked to swallow the heavy saliva filling his cheeks, drowning his tongue. Taut as a hunting hound, his stomach, jaw, and buttocks clenched lest one should revolt and lead to a complete overthrow. Waxen-skinned and sweating, only the strongest effort of will kept him upright.
Smile! He forced himself to wave. There was nothing to be done at the moment. He'd already asked Morsicato to find him after the parade. Until then, there was naught to do but smile.
The parade ended at the palace of the Bishop of Treviso, where Cangrande was to stay. The Scaliger dismounted, climbed the steps, and turned to face the crowd.
And there it was! The smile that was now as famous as Caesar's luck, as Hercules' strength, as Odysseus' cunning. The Scaliger had entered the city grave and reserved, only to reveal now, like a master showman, what all longed to see. His perfect teeth shone as bright as his armour, and his eyes danced like angels before the fall.
Feeling his stomach turn over, Cesco willed the moment to end so he could get inside and find a chamber pot.
Waving the cheering crowd to silence, Cangrande made a show of piety. “O King of Heaven, you who are worthy of glory, I praise and thank you, because you have sated my mind, which has so long yearned to unite Treviso with her sisters! Together we shall form a new constellation in your Heaven, one that will outshine the stars of old, and write a new destiny for all Mankind!”
He stood there, under the cheers of thousands of voices. Women on balconies, children on their fathers' shoulders, tradesmen, nobles, clergy, peasants, merchants – all shouted the praise of this, the greatest of his line. “Sca-la! Sca-la! Sca-la!”
Cangrande offered a final wave to the people before turning and entering the bishop's door. Once out of sight, in the shade of the cool interior, he pitched forward onto the floor.
Thirty-Nine
CESCO QUICKLY SHUT the doors, locking out the rest of the procession. Cangrande lay shivering and shaking on the tiled floor. Suddenly he retched, and vomit flew forth as if shot from a trebuchet. Cesco took a step back, but the smell caught him and he turned to spew forth the contents of his own stomach on the other side of the entrance hall.
Under the eyes of horrified servants, Cangrande and Cesco glanced at each other. They both flashed the weakest of grins. “Apologies,” said Cangrande.
Cesco groaned. “You owe me new hose.”
Cangrande started to laugh, but the tightening of his stomach muscles caused him to begin retching again. Still in his armour, he knelt on all fours, heaving and heaving long past the time when there was anything left to heave.
“Who closed that damn door?” growled Bailardino, bursting in from a side entrance. His annoyance turned to concern as he saw his best friend's armour covered in bile, while Cesco sat with his back against the wall, breathing shallowly. Throwing aside his gauntlets, he raced forward and knelt. “Are you injured?”
“No,” said Cangrande with a weak grimace. “Too much mixing of wines and ales, and perhaps some bad beef. There was a lot of celebrating last night.”
He was clearly speaking for the benefit of the frightened servants. This was not the work of bad food.
Morsicato appeared, his creased eyes quickly taking in the scene. Practical in a crisis, he asked Cesco, “Can you walk?” Cesco waved his assent, so the doctor knelt on Cangrande's other side. Using a knife he made fast work of the ties and straps holding the outer armour in place. Then, with Bail's help, he got Cangrande upright and asked the way to the Scaliger's room. Cesco followed, with Detto appearing to steady his arm.
With the aid of both his doctors, Cangrande slept all that day, and all the next. When he did wake, he woke puking and excreting torrents of liquid. His bowels seemed to have become water, and he had to be cleaned again and again. Despite candles and burning herbs, the room smelled like a latrine.
The first rumour that was spread said Cangrande was busy at work setting the city aright. The second, the one given to the Trevisian, Veronese, and Paduan nobility, was that he was dead drunk. Thus no one questioned when Fracastoro and Morsicato entered his room with buckets of water, or when they heard retching noises from within.
Cesco's own room was not far away. Morsicato checked on him throughout the night, but was far less concerned. The young man slept soundly without aid, whimpering only occasionally as his stomach contracted. He awoke thirsty, and craving food. An excellent sign.
At noon the second day, Cesco rose from his sickbed, looking stronger. He bathed and dressed himself, and was steady on his legs as he entered the Scaliger's sickroom. There he saw Fracastoro and Morsicato, the first fluttering, the other sitting still and watching.
Drawing close, Cesco looked down on the Lord of Verona, shivering and twisting under the blankets. “What is it?”
“It could be dysentery,” said Fracastoro.
“No,” said the other doctor, his voice flat. “This is poison.”
“Are you certain?” asked Cesco.
“No,” said Fracastoro.
“Dead certain,” said Morsicato. The tone spoke as much as the choice of words.
Cesco objected. “But my symptoms were just the same, and I recovered.”
Morsicato lowered his voice. “You have eaten a steady diet of poison these last three years. Your body has a tolerance his does not.”
Crossing to the unoccupied side of the bed, Cesco sat on a stool. Reaching out, he took the large hand into his own and began to rub. He looked at Morsicato. “That's right, isn't it? It's what you told Detto to do.”
“That's right,” agreed Morsicato heavily. “But not necessary. Not now.”
Cesco did not stop caressing the Scaliger's hand. “Who knows?”
“Bailardino. Castelbarco. A couple of his personal servants – we called Tullio from Verona. Fracastoro. Me. And now you.”
“What about the Count of San Bonifacio? Tharwat?”
“I sent a letter to Venice, in code. But it won't reach him. After it had gone, I received word from al-Dhaamin that he's on his way to Genoa to look at ship manifests.” He spoke obliquely, but Cesco understood.
<
br /> “Well then, who's been managing the public? The transition?”
“Bailardino, Carrara – and Mastino.”
“I should go, then,” said Cesco.
“I suppose you should. After all, you're his heir.”
There was a strangeness in the doctor's tone that brought Cesco's chin up. “You think I did this.”
Morsicato flushed. “Did I say–?”
“No, but you wondered. You're just shy of accusing me.”
Morsicato started gnawing his beard with his upper teeth. “I just – I wonder what people would say. You're both poisoned, but you recover? It will be suspicious.”
“A cobbler should not judge above his last. I am, alas, innocent,” said Cesco, squeezing Cangrande's hand once more before rising to his feet. “There is nothing I want less than this. Our race hasn't finished yet, his and mine. So keep him alive, doctor. No excuses. Death is not an option.”
As the door closed behind Cesco, Morsicato shook his head. “Death is always an option.”
♦ ◊ ♦
THARWAT REACHED GENOA without incident. It took only hours to track down the ship's history. It had sunk ten years ago, but that was of little interest. It was an earlier voyage that had all the Moor's attention. What he found made his hands tremble with rage.
♦ ◊ ♦
AT NOON ON THE Twenty-First of July, Cangrande della Scala awakened clear-eyed. His first words were, “Is it poison?”
Fracastoro rushed to his master's side as Morsicato offered water. “We fear so.”
Cangrande drank, some of the water running past his cracked lips and down his face. Swallowing, his stomach clenched again. “Is there hope?”
“There is always hope,” answered Fracastoro, in a tone whose true meaning all patients know.
“What is the date?” Remarkably, when they told him, he smiled. “An auspicious day. My stomach has a thousand butterflies in it.” He groaned. “Or scorpions. May I sit up?”
Fracastoro aided him. Upright and bolstered with pillows, Cangrande spied Cesco sitting at the foot of his bed. “The wages of sin.” His voice was thready.
“Let love be without dissimulation,” said Cesco. “What do you require?”
“You, last of all. No, not an insult.” He licked his lips and accepted more water. “Give me – a moment to think.”
Cesco waited in silence as Cangrande collected his thoughts, then received his instructions. As he departed he pulled Morsicato aside. “This bodes well, doesn't it? That he can speak?”
Morsicato shook his head. “It is the last moment of clarity before the end. When you return, choose your words with care.”
Cesco vanished at a run down the hall. In short order he returned, bearing with him Tullio, Castelbarco, Bailardino, Mastino, and Carrara. The last three were asked to remain outside for a moment, while Cesco ushered Castelbarco and the Grand Butler into the chamber.
By now word had spread that the Scaliger was ill. No hangover lasted two days, and the concern emanating from the room was as pungent as the smell. Standing outside the chamber, Bailardino and Mastino pressed Cesco for information, and he repeated what the doctors had said.
After a few minutes Tullio d'Isola emerged, weeping openly. His fingers were stained with ink, and in his hand he held the seal of Verona.
Castelbarco came behind him, looking old. “Bail. Mastino. Marsilio. He wants you all.”
They entered the chamber, whose windows had been thrown open to the air. They were shocked by the wrecked frame of a man who had been so large – larger than life. Cangrande was now shriveled, a shadow of the great man who had, three days before, achieved his highest honour yet. They understood that today would be his last.
“O Francesco!” cried Bail, kneeling beside the freshly-changed bed and taking his hand gingerly in his own. Bail had practically raised Cangrande. Child to page, squire to knight, Bail had been Cangrande's guiding hand in the world of men, while Katerina had spent her powers on other parts in the Scaliger's shaping. Together for thirty-two years, more than half Bail's own life, Cangrande's passing would at once strip him of both a brother and a son.
Cangrande patted his old friend's hand with a smile. “Bail. I owe you more than I can – say now. There is no time left. Soon I will evanesce, and there are – matters to be concluded. Some after-math, a final reckoning. Marsilio?”
Breathless, Carrara knelt beside Bailardino. “Lord.”
“You are the two greatest men in the Feltro. You rule – two of her greatest cities. I must ask you – to carry on in my name.”
“Of course, Lord,” said Carrara.
“No,” protested Bail. “Not without you—”
Cangrande smiled. “The alternative is – not possible. Look after my people – and my bloodline. See that no evil comes to either.”
“Of course, Lord,” said Carrara.
Bail sat staring at the gaunt face, holding himself still lest the sob in his chest escaped.
“Good. Now, listen.” He gave instructions for the disposition of his soldiers, the best way to keep their loyalty in the face of this reversal. He then produced a letter sealed with the ladder crest. “Treviso must be ruled by one of my loyal generals, but Padua – I have a loyal man in Padua.” He pressed the crest into Carrara's grip. “I release you from bondage. Padua is yours.”
Looking at the letter in his hand, Carrara pushed it back into Cangrande's fingers. “I've tried to be my own master and I failed.”
Cangrande pressed it back. “Take it. With Cesco and Bail behind you, you cannot fail.”
“In your name,” said Carrara. “I will be Lord of Padua in your name.” He glanced back at Cesco, leaning against the far door. “And in the name of your heir.”
“Good. That's good. Now go. I have to talk to my family.”
Carrara departed, looking shaken, trying to imagine the world they were about to enter.
Cesco shut the portal behind him as Cangrande gestured Mastino forward. “I have two – natural sons that must be trained – to bring honour to me.”
When Bail did not answer, Mastino said, “We will take care of them. I swear it.”
“Bail?” Bailardino nodded. “Good. Now Bail, I need you to go home. Kat. Kat cannot hear of this from anyone but you. Tell her—” He paused, searching for the words. “Tell her I go contented. Tell her that. I am content. And that I love her. Go. And God bless you.”
Bail was a long time going, lingering at the door, drinking in the last sight of the best friend he would ever have. The guiding star of his life was about to be snuffed out, leaving him without direction.
When Bail had gone, Cangrande asked for a private moment with Mastino. The doctors withdrew, and Cesco stepped outside, his face wary. When Mastino emerged, just a few moments later, he beckoned everyone in. “Tullio, Guglielmo. Cesco. He needs us all.”
Given water, Cangrande began to murmur softly to his steward. Over the next hour Cangrande conducted his business, making his dispositions through a weeping Tullio d'Isola, who never imagined out-living this Scaligeri the way he'd outlived Alberto's other sons.
Rapidly but with characteristic precision, Cangrande dictated the documents that were needed. He signed the order confirming Tempesta's possession of Noale, thus completing his agreement for the ownership of Treviso. Similar documents were made naming Nogarola and Carrara the perpetual rulers of Vicenza and Padua, respectively. Many more deeds and decrees were made, all with Cesco, Mastino, Tullio, Morsicato, Fracastoro, and Castelbarco as witnesses.
They had to pause for another bout of vomiting.
The last paper reaffirmed his will, declaring his natural son Francesco della Scala, now legitimized, as the sole heir to the captainship of Verona. Everyone signed it, including both Mastino and Cesco.
Shivering, Cangrande affixed his seal, then slumped back with a sigh. That last burst of energy had taken with it almost all his light. “Now, find me a priest. Then, Cesco – you alone.”
&n
bsp; They filed out of the chamber while the Scaliger retched over the side of his bed. Summoned, the Bishop of Treviso entered and Cesco closed the door after him, staying outside while Cangrande confessed.
When it was over and the Bishop gone, Cesco entered the room one last time, and alone. He shut the door and leaned against it. “Have you prayed?”
“I have,” said Cangrande, breathing shallowly. “Extra ecclesiam nulla salus. I have. All my sins – are confessed. Save one.”
“And that is?”
Cangrande wagged a trembling finger. “A secret.”
Despite himself, Cesco released a short laugh. “I detest your secrets.”
“You should. They're always – about you.”
Cesco walked slowly forward. “There's quite a gathering outside the palace.”
“I'm sure. Don't let anyone – defile me. I want a – proper burial.”
Cesco perched on the stool closest the bed, on the Scaliger's left. “You'll get it. With palm fronds and frankincense and myrrh, and a coronet of fire.”
Cangrande offered a wisp of his famous smile. “A shame I am not – a pelican.”
“True!” Cesco laughed more easily. “So – at the last, here I am. Would you like me to sing?”
Cangrande shook his head, a barely noticeable gesture. “Something I must say.”
“About Lia?”
Cangrande shook his head. “Maria.”
“My mother?”
“Yes,” gasped Cangrande. “Stop looking. If you love Verona – if you want your destiny, and mine – stop now.”
Cesco felt the urgency in the plea as Cangrande gripped his wrist with all the strength left to him. “Very well. I'll call off the hunt. But I want something in return.”
Cangrande closed his eyes. “You are – my heir. What more – do you want?”
“A different kind of acknowledgement. Less public, and worthless on the market. But priceless to me.”
“What?”
“You know.”
There was silence between them. At last Cangrande shook his head. “I have acknowledged you – in every way I am able.”