by David Blixt
I thank you for your years of kindness, ask your forgiveness, and beg you to follow Mastino in all his just and wise commands. Please see my marriage annulled. For yourself, live, wive, thrive, and forget I ever existed. It seems I never did.
Francesco della Scala
Detto was thunderstruck. “It's not true.”
“Isn't it?” asked Morsicato.
“Of course it's not!” snapped Pietro.
Detto turned the letter over, searching for hidden marks or code. “What's he thinking, writing this?”
“That's what we've been discussing,” said Antonia.
The blood had fled Benedick's face. “What does he mean, conspired with me?”
Tharwat's rasping voice sawed the air of the hot chamber. “We believe it is a warning. With the note came letters of safe passage for you and me. Yours directs you to Sicily, and is valid until the final day of this month.”
“Cesco must have cut a deal,” said Pietro. “Our lives in exchange for his confession of guilt. Mastino plans to include you two in his list of charges against Cesco, so you are allowed to flee.”
“But where has he gone?” beseeched Detto, who was hurt that there was no mention of him. “And what could make him sign this? He's the Prince of Verona now! He could have Mastino executed!”
Morsicato pointed. “Just what I was saying! Why run? Running removes all his power!”
“Because he knows what you learned tonight,” said Tharwat. “Mastino has known all along that Cesco is not Cangrande's son.”
“What?!” cried both Detto and Benedick.
In the most cursory fashion, Pietro explained. “Mastino's waited for years to reveal this. Cesco's handing the city over to him.”
“Why?” demanded Benedick. “Even if it's true, even if he's not Cangrande's blood son, he's as good as. No one would believe this, not after Cangrande acknowledged him as his heir, named him in his will. Verona is his for the taking. Why leave it?”
“Because he doesn't want it,” said Pietro.
“Or rather,” said Antonia, “he wants something else more.”
“The girl,” sighed Tharwat. “He's gone for the girl.”
“I think so,” said Pietro. “If he's not Cangrande's son, then Rosalia is not his sister. He'll rush to her and head across the Alps before anyone can stop him.”
While Benedick looked even more confused, Antonia raised an objection. “But he's married! So is she!”
“His marriage has not been consummated. Nor, I doubt, has hers.” Though Pietro had promised not to tell, the situation had altered. “When she married Tiberio, she was already pregnant.”
“You knew?” said Detto.
“You knew?” countered Pietro.
“I saw her the night of the Palio. She gave me a letter for him.”
“So that's how he got the coin back,” mused Pietro. “I had wondered.”
Morsicato slapped his hands together, cutting off their speech. “Which is neither here nor there! If he's gone to get the girl, we must ride and bring him back.”
“Must we?” asked Tharwat. “His letter does not say so.”
“But it's a letter filled with double-intentions,” said Pietro, taking it back from Detto. “He identifies himself as heir to Cangrande, the Greyhound. Does he mean Cangrande was the Greyhound, or that he means to be? He explicitly and repeatedly calls Cangrande his father – something he's never done before. Cangrande wouldn't let him.”
“It's a sign that he knows,” said Antonia.
“I think so,” agreed Pietro. “He also invokes God, something he isn't prone to do. Then he basically says he's getting his heart's desire.”
“He also orders you to follow Mastino,” said the doctor. “That can't be real.”
“But the very next line he asks to have his marriage annulled. If he's going to run off with Rosalia, it's a very practical request.”
“This will crush Maddelena,” said Antonia sadly.
“She's young, she'll forget him.”
“No one will ever forget him,” said Antonia.
“But that's just what he asks us to do!” said Pietro. “No code, no hidden meaning that I can see. Is he serious? Does he truly want us to let him go? It has to mean something more!”
Antonia put a hand on Pietro's shoulder. “He also enjoins you to be happy, to marry, and live. Maybe he means just that.”
Pietro turned to Tharwat. “You said there was going to be a separation.”
The astrologer nodded. “This is it. But we have not yet endured the third death Girolamo predicted. Cangrande. Katerina. One more close blood relative to Detto will die.”
“What?” demanded Detto.
As the Moor explained, Pietro squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip so hard he nearly drew blood. I want to fight! I want to reach up into the sky and tear the stars apart with my own two hands. At last I understand Cangrande…!
But no. It was Cangrande who had set all this in motion. So many lies, so many deceits, postures, falsehoods, traps, and schemes – all to defy the stars. While Katerina fought just as hard to ensure they came true. Was there no way to avoid their damning influence?
Pietro had once read a pithy piece of writing in the journals of an obscure Roman his father had found in a library in France. 'When you see Fate, Fate sees you as well.' Even drawing the stars' attention was to draw their ire. It did not do to meddle with them. The best thing was to ignore they even existed. Look at the road ahead, and find the straightest path.
Pietro stood. “Tharwat – pack. You and Benedick must be gone within the day. Antonia, go to Cesco's house and prepare Maddelena and the staff to leave at dawn, heading to…”
“Padua,” answered Tharwat. “He had me buy his mother's house. It will be safe for her there.”
Pietro nodded, puzzling. How had Cesco foreseen the need of a safe place for his wife?
Detto asked the only question that mattered to him. “What about Cesco?”
Pietro tried to show a calm he did not feel. “We know where he'll be. In the morning we can send after him. But Detto – he may not want to come back.”
Detto nodded, but his mind was far away. As soon as he left the room, he went to join it.
♦ ◊ ♦
AT DAWN, THE PEOPLE GATHERED in the Piazza dei Signori for the reading of Cangrande's will. Pietro stood alongside the bereaved Bailardino, as well as Castelbarco, Nico da Lozzo, Carrara, Montecchio, Capulletto, Ervari, and so many other famous faces. Of Cangrande's family, Mastino and Alberto were there, and Rizzardo and Verde. So were Berto and Barto. Noticeably missing was the Heir, which fed the rumours that had begun in the night.
“Where is Francesco della Scala?” insisted Castelbarco in his best public voice. “We cannot read out the will without the Heir!” His eyes were on Mastino, but that man was not speaking at all.
After much confusion, a groom said the Prince had taken a horse in the wee hours of the night and ridden like the Devil was after him. That was when the most dangerous rumours started to fly.
“Come!” cried Mastino, beckoning the whole Anziani towards the Domus Nova. “Let us discuss this matter in private.”
Following, Pietro looked all around him, hoping Cesco would appear as he always did, looking cocky and assured and in complete control of the chaos he had caused.
But Cesco did not appear.
♦ ◊ ♦
BY MID-MORNING Detto's horse was lathered with sweat. He'd departed Verona in darkness, making sure he wasn't seen. Riding all night towards the Alps, at first light he'd started searching for someone to direct him to Tiberio's holdings.
The night had been warm, and he was in his shirtsleeves, his doublet hanging from a knot in his saddle. But he was clean and fit, sitting atop a fine horse, with a sword strapped to his side.
Seeing men out picking grapes in a vineyard, Detto called to them. Most pretended not to hear him, but one had looked up. Reluctantly he answered Detto's calls. “Can you tell me the
way to the Tiberio estate?”
The man said nothing, but pointed.
“Has another fellow come this way? About my age, a little shorter, curly brown hair. Seen him?”
The man shrugged, and Detto allowed him to return to work. Riding on, he took the sloping rise that Pietro had ridden in December. The wind was not so desperate now, offering only a welcome breeze to cool the sweat gathering along his spine.
Dismounting, Detto climbed the hill on foot, leading his tired mount behind him. After a bend in the road, he spied the fortress-like estate, intimidating and forbidding. As he drew near it, he resumed his doublet, lacing the hard leather closed at his chest and sleeves. He put his feathered cap back on his head and fixed his cape bearing the Nogarola crest across one shoulder. Mounting, he cantered up to the open gates.
He had been seen, for there were two men standing at the gate to demand his name. He offered it, wondering what he was walking into. Had Cesco come and gone already? Had he spirited the girl away? Or was he in hiding in the grounds, waiting for nightfall? He'll murder me if I spoil his plans.
Summoned, the hulking form of Bramo Tiberio stalked from the house and across the yard. “What do you want?”
Detto tried to think of an oblique phrasing, but Tiberio wasn't a man to answer oblique questions. “I'm looking for the Scaliger's heir.”
Grinding his teeth, Tiberio pointed back down the hill to the church Detto had passed on foot ten minutes earlier. “Down there, greeting my wife.”
Not knowing what to say, Detto offered a very formal “Thank you,” then turned his steed around and walked it down the hill again. He could feel Bramo's eyes scorching his back.
There was already a horse here, hobbled at a post near a gate. Hitching his own mount, Detto removed his hat and crossed onto holy ground, listening for their voices. But all was silence. Before him was the door to the small church, ajar. Entering the dark confines, he could feel the emptiness of the building, the lifelessness. He saw a statue, and recognized it at once. San Zeno.
There was a side door, through which the slanting sun sent a beam that looked almost solid in the gloomy nothingness. Detto passed through it squinting. Under the glare, Detto could see several rude and old stone monuments, roughly but lovingly carved into angels, urns, or crosses.
Even before he heard it, Detto was chilled to his core, his mind rebelling, blood draining from his knees. From somewhere on his left, around the corner of the church, there came a whimper like a dog that's been beaten. Unwilling, Detto set one foot in front of the other and turned the corner.
Cesco's arms were wrapped around a fresh, massive stone cross, his face pressed against the monument.
The first time he tried to speak, Detto's voice failed him. Swallowing, he was able to offer a single word, more breath than sound. “Cesco.”
Cesco did not open his eyes. “She was waiting. My fault. Odysseus never had the sense of a sundial. I'm late. And now, so is she.”
Kneeling on the other side of the headstone, Detto read the inscription, new and stark:
Rosalia Rienzi in Tiberio
Daughter, Wife, and Mother
Died June 12th, 1329
Mother—
“She couldn't wait,” said Cesco in a dreamy voice. “I'm always late, you see. Late. I will soon be the late one.” His head nestled against the stone, scraping the skin of his forehead. “The late Francesco. Better never than late.” And he began to recite:
Little soul, you charming little wanderer,
my body’s guest and partner,
where are you off to now?
Somewhere without colour, savage and bare;
You’ll crack no more jokes once you’re there.
Detto noticed a smear on the stone under Cesco's grip. Brow furrowing, he reached out to grasp Cesco's arms, twisting the palms towards him.
They were covered in blood.
Wrenching his hands free, Cesco turned and pressed his back against the headstone, his life spilling from his wrists. “Leave me be!”
Detto scrambled around the stone. “Don't be a fool! Let me help you!”
“Help me see her!” shouted Cesco. “Help me explain!”
Struggling out of his leather farsetto, Detto began ripping at his shirt to make bandages. “She's gone!”
“No! I can still see her! She's innocent, we both are! We're not damned to Hell—”
“There's no such thing as Heaven or Hell!” Holding strips of cloth, Detto reached for the bleeding wounds, but before he could wrap either wrist, Cesco punched him in the mouth.
It was a weak blow, and Detto rolled with it, then grabbed a handful of Cesco's hair. With a shout he slammed Cesco's skull into the headstone.
Cesco fell sideways atop Lia's grave, blissfully still.
Breath coming in gasps, tears on his cheeks, Detto knelt and began the desperate work to stop the flow of blood. With heartfelt curses, he bound the long gashes on Cesco's wrists. “You don't get to give up, damn you! It's not your choice!” Finished at last, he sagged to the ground, weeping.
A while later he carried his friend's limp form to the gate. He was about to heft Cesco up across the saddle of Mastino's horse when he felt a presence. Turning, he saw Tiberio gazing beadily at him from the shade of a tree. “So he wants to die for her. How poetic. Why didn't you let him?”
Panting, Detto lowered Cesco to the ground. “He's my friend.”
Tiberio nodded gravely. “I mishandled you, back in Verona. For that, and for the sake of your friendship, I'll give you one chance to take him from here. Take him, and swear you'll never let him return. If you don't, I'll grant his wish and kill him now.”
“I swear,” said Detto. “For us both.”
Tiberio nodded curtly. “This is a more fitting punishment anyway. Let the little cad live out his days knowing he killed her.”
Detto couldn't let his friend go undefended. “He loved her!”
“And then he left her.”
Swallowing back a thousand angry retorts, Detto shook his head and bent down to lift Cesco once more. Suddenly he paused. “The grave said mother. She died in childbed?”
The grizzled hulk of a man seemed to debate answering. “Yes. Tell him that was his only gift to her. Death.”
“And the child?”
“Born airless. Now get out of here.”
Feeling the weight of every step, Detto obeyed. He secured Cesco over one saddle, then mounted the other horse and led both away at a slow walk, back down the hill.
But not towards Verona.
♦ ◊ ♦
PIETRO RETURNED HOME from the Domus Nova, head low. Asked what had occurred, he shook his head. “He is condemned. A sentence of exile. Some urged death, but Mastino himself argued for mercy. He swayed them. He'll be installed as Capitano next week.”
“You didn't challenge him?”
“In private. He was surprisingly plain-spoken. Yes, it was a bargain twixt him and Cesco. He says he knows Cesco had no hand in the poisoning. He also offered to swear on anything I liked that he himself had no hand in it. He said that if Cesco had remained, his true parentage would have come out, and accusations of being under the control of foreign powers. Then he told me he didn't need to threaten Cesco. He just offered him escape, and a chance for happiness.”
“And Cesco took it,” said Morsicato. “I'm almost proud of him. Even if it lands us in the shit.”
“What proof do the Anziani have?” asked Antonia.
“All they need,” said Pietro. “They called on me to produce this note.”
“You should have destroyed it,” said Morsicato at once.
“Even if I did, Mastino knew it had been written. I'd have been called to testify to its contents.”
“Then lie, dammit!” Pietro shot the doctor a withering look that made Morsicato scowl. “Sometimes your damned ethics are a noose around all our necks.”
“I told the council I believed Cesco was acting under duress, and that I d
id not believe the accusations. Cunningly, Mastino said the same.”
“Why not tell them everything?” appealed Antonia.
“Because everything won't save him. He's not Cangrande's son. Tharwat and the doctor have been feeding him poison to build his immunity. He did have an Arab girl for a lover. It all looks so very bad.” Pietro looked around. “Where's Detto? His father is looking for him.”
“Why?”
Pietro dragged in a long breath. “Bail believes the poisoning story. It's not rational, and he'll come around in time. For the moment, if Detto is with Cesco, he'll be disowned. For real, this time.”
“If Cesco returns, how do we counter this?”
“We cannot,” said Tharwat. “The man who possesses the field wins the battle.”
The doctor slammed his hand on the table. “Then we have to get him back! If we move fast—” Morsicato stopped in mid-speech as the Moor shook his head.
“Try if you wish. His path is clear. He goes.”
“The parting,” said Pietro. “Which just goes to show that these damn charts can be wrong. If he's not coming back, then I'm going after him. There's nothing for me here.”
Antonia's voice was soft. “What about Dolce?”
Pietro felt a wrench in his chest at the very idea of leaving his beloved. He had already put his wedding in jeopardy by fleeing Pistoia. What he should do is return and throw himself on the mercy of Amidei. Yet he shook his head. “It's Cesco. I have to go after him. I have to.”
“Do as you like,” replied the Moor. “It makes no difference. Everything is written.”
“No,” said Pietro. “Some things are not in the stars. Some things we write ourselves.”
Forty-Four
Cesco woke to find himself in an empty wing of the Scaligeri palace at Rivoli. His head throbbed. His forearms ached. He felt sleepy, weak, and unwillingly alive.