Fourteen

 

Trento, Italy

6 January 1327

 

The reports from England kept all of Europe grimly entertained. Queen Isabella and her lover-champion Roger Mortimer had forced King Edward to flee to London, effectively penning him in his own city. Already the queen had gotten her son Prince Edward appointed Keeper of the Realm, and arranged a marriage between the lad and the Countess of Hainault. A month later Isabella’s forces captured her husband and placed him in Kenilworth Castle. Tales of the king’s degradation at the hands of his wife were surprisingly inventive. In his letters, William Montagu confirmed that at least three of them were true.

With the whole of Europe caught up in the scandalous coup, several statesmen missed what was happening in India. It was not, however, lost on the banks and tradeguilds. Like the Byzantine Empire, India was suffering the Turk. Sixteen years after their initial attack, Muslim armies reinvaded Halebid, the wealthy capital of the Hoysalas, turning the city into a shambles. The Hoysaleswara Temple, dedicated to Shiva, was left unfinished for a second time, after a total of eighty-six years of work. The walls of the temple, covered with an endless span of gods, goddesses, animals, birds, and dancing girls, were guarded by a Nandi Bull. But this Bull, it was said, had turned his back when the invaders came.

Already concerned over the financial upheaval in England, this attack filled the money-men with a real fear of a loss of trade with the East, the major investment plan of many since Marco Polo’s return. Bankers from Bruges to Constantinople curtailed their speculation in Eastern markets. Yet the major local resource prized by the Turk was something no European had ever bothered with – the berries known as qahwa which, steeped in water, provided a soothing and energizing drink. Goats had been said to dance on their hind legs when given the plant from which the beans grew.

Of nearer interest to Verona was the ongoing unrest in Padua. After the unsuccessful coup d’etat under Paolo Dente last year, Marsilio da Carrara had recalled his cousin Ubertino and banished all of Dente’s followers. There had followed a veritable reign of terror. Armed to the teeth, Ubertino’s men swaggered through the streets of Padua while honest citizens hid in their houses or fled. Not bothering to even disguise themselves, brigands daily committed every kind of injury to the populace – assault, violence, robbery, kidnapping, rape, and murder. As a man walked along a street he’d find a sack thrown over his head, himself carried off to a Cararresi stronghold and held for ransom from his family or guild. Every morning at least one corpse was found lying in the gutters or in the center of the piazzas. No one was ever brought to trial for their deaths.

To anyone perceived to have wronged Ubertino or Niccolo da Carrara, retribution was swift. The judges who’d ordered Ubertino’s exile were gruesomely executed, their records burned. The convent of Santa Agata was sacked, the nuns savagely violated. It was commonly known that Niccolo de Carrara had led the pillage, but only his less important followers were even charged, and none were convicted.

During all this the Capitano of Padua, Marsilio da Carrara, kept himself aloof within his palace, looking after his own interests. The people pleaded with any authority for aid. Heinrich of Carinthia, to whom the Paduans had always run for help against Cangrande, sent a representative to stabilize the city. But Heinrich’s only aim seemed to be how much money could be wrung out of Padua before it swallowed itself in flame. Many noble Paduans like Petruchio’s father-in-law, Baptista Minola, became expatriates in Venice or Ferrara, leaving the poor city to the Carrarese and Heinrich’s German soldiers.

Meanwhile things were calm in Verona. Cangrande’s heir was seen everywhere and heard nowhere. Gone were the rampant escapades of the past year. He appeared now only in the company of Cangrande or one of a very few great men of the city. Still considered a prodigy, there were now reports of humiliating failures – he’d missed an easy target at the butts; he’d slipped off his horse on a long ride; he’d fallen into a river during a hard crossing. These were so out of character that Pietro whisked off a worried letter to his sister.

Antonia’s reply was bitter in its brevity. What did Pietro want of her? She saw very little of Cesco. What little she did see worried her. She wrote of the return of his skeletal thinness, of his first spots, of the wasted circles under his eyes. Morsicato was doing what he could, but he was barely keeping his wife alive and had little of his art to spare.

Cesco wrote snatches of greetings here and there. Typically, he did not mention his own health. He pointed out failings in their new code and provided bits of information the network had somehow overlooked – somehow in the midst of his hawking the boy was cultivating his own sources of intelligence. Of his relationship with Cangrande he said not a word.

Thus did the year 1326 came to an end – at least in Verona where January, not Easter, was considered the start of the New Year.

But however the year was counted, that Twelfth Night was momentous. That was the day the Emperor Ludwig IV arrived in Innsbruck on his way to Trent.

♦ ◊ ♦

 

This was the first time an emperor had visited Italy since the unfortunate Heinrich had died besieging Rome in the company of the poet Dante. Hearing of Ludwig’s arrival, Ghibelline generals and nobles flocked to Trent from all over Lombardy to greet their lord and master.

Last and greatest among their number, Can Francesco della Scala, son of Alberto I, Capitano del Popolo and Podestà of Merchants, Imperial Vicar of Vicenza and Verona, arrived on the Ides of January. The impoverished Emperor had less than a hundred knights in attendance at the great Trent city hall. Cangrande brought many more, all expensively decked out in matching capes and spurs.

That the Emperor was irked was evident from the first seconds of their audience. He sat upon his great throne on the dais in utter stillness, watching Verona’s lord approach in opulent procession.

Friend and foe alike agreed that Ludwig der Bayer was well-featured – full-sized yet trim, clean shaven with a rosy complexion. His hair was curly, a remarkable reddish-blonde. If his chin was a little too small, his strong neck and shoulders compensated the lack. Between his Hapsburg nose and the strong line of his brow, his oversize eyes were piercing.

It was on his personality that reports differed. Friends spoke of the smile that was ever on his lips, while Guelphs spoke at length of his querulousness. Ghibellines swore he liked a good jest, while the papal envoys reported his restlessness and impulsive nature. But all could attest to his boldness, and to the charisma that radiated like heat from a hearth-fire.

As Cangrande reached the dais and knelt, Ludwig did not immediately bid him rise. “Ah, François du l’Échelle.” The Emperor spoke in French, stroking the gilded bear-teeth hanging about his throat. It was said that those teeth were plucked by his own hand. “Bienvenue à notre présence.”

Cangrande replied in the same language. “I was baptized Francesco, lord, so well you may call me François. But I hope my lord will know me by my more familiar name – Cangrande.”

“Yes. Der Hund. The mythical Greyhound. It is a shame we have not met before now.”

“I regret it extremely, lord, but my actions in the field protecting your interests have held my attention.”

“Our interests? Our interests are clearly yours, since you do so well by them. Perhaps you could lend us a doublet for our coronation. We are sure we own nothing so fine.”

Still on his knees, Cangrande shifted his cape to one shoulder, revealing the gilt doublet in its entirety. “Your Grace is too modest. But of course, what is mine is yours.”

“Ours? To do with as we please? So said so done is well. But what if we found that Verona was mismanaged? Could we then replace the Capitano?”

Cangrande shrugged. “The office is an elected one, as my lord is well aware. Voted by the people of the city through their representatives.”

“Yes, Capitano is elected. Imperial Vicar is not. It is bestowed.” Ludwig looked to the banner at Cangrande’s back, held high by a wiry boy still shy of manhood. Atop the embroidered ladder sat the two-headed imperial eagle. “You are free with the title.”

Cangrande stood without bidding, causing a stir among the assembled nobles. “The title was bestowed upon me by the great Heinrich, your noble predecessor. It has been my honour to carry it these many years. Yet in many ways it is a hollow title, my lord.”

The Emperor gazed at the lord of Verona for a long time, lips and brow set in a withering frown. “How, hollow?”

“The Imperial Vicar of the Trevisian Mark is meant to be overlord of Verona, Vicenza, Mantua, Padua and Treviso. Yet regrettably there is no force in the imperial decree. Verona, I was already lord of when the noble Heinrich invested me. I have had to fight for the rest. Vicenza I gained right away, and Mantua too is under my dominion.” This raised several eyebrows, as Passerino Bonaccolsi was the titular head of Mantua. “But Padua and Treviso hold out to this day. They deny imperial authority, deny they are a part of the Mark, of the Feltro, of your domain.”

Ludwig was grave. “Fifteen years of war and still you have not swayed them. Tell us, do they deny our authority, or yours?”

“Ours combined, my lord. It was my hope that you might grant a specific order commanding Padua and Treviso to bow to my authority, that I might rule them for you, in your name.”

“And if we deem it wise to invest another of our subjects?”

Cangrande flashed his perfect teeth for all to see. “Who else knows the players and the game so well? It takes an Odysseus to blind the Cyclops in his den.”

As if summoned by magic, a whiplike man with one eye sewed shut appeared at the Emperor’s side. This was Berthold von Neifen, Count of Marstetten and Ludwig’s right hand. When years earlier the Emperor had needed a general to lift a papal siege on Milano, he’d sent Berthold. At court, the Count of Marstetten was the Emperor’s chosen champion. Thus the Scaliger’s cyclops reference was a carefully calculated insult.

The lean Count with the sewn eye was a head smaller than the Capitano of Verona, and the Scaliger had more knights in the great hall, if not more men. The Emperor waved a restraining hand at Berthold. “If you know the game so well, why have you not won?”

“Like poor opponents, the Paduans do not know when it is better to lay aside their queen and capitulate. They need to actually be placed in check. One way to do so would be to change the feather in my cap and become a Guelph. I’ve had offers, your Majesty, many offers. From Florence and its allies. For my aid in their cause, they would grant me Padua and Treviso. The Pope offers even more.” Stirs among the Emperor’s many retainers, but no change of expression from Ludwig himself. “But I would rather have such an honour from your hand. In return for which I am pleased to part with these trifles.”

He waved a hand and four chests were brought forth and upturned, spilling their contents on the slate floor. Gold discs piled higher and higher, some showing the side that bore a lily, symbol of Florence, some displaying the obverse bearing that city’s patron saint.

As the last gold florin clattered to the floor, Cangrande said, “Two hundred thousand. A fair display, I think, of my loyalty. Think of it not as payment but as a minor donation to your Majesty’s cause, one that I will better once Padua is mine.” It was a blunt gesture, but perhaps better so, had not the Scaliger added a coda. “Then perhaps you could afford such a doublet as mine.”

The Emperor shot out of his throne as if launched by a catapult. “You dare!”

“I dare much.”

“Majesty!” cried Berthold in outrage as several men stepped forward to lay hands upon the Scaliger. Verona’s knights moved to block them. As yet no weapons were drawn, but it was only moments away.

There was a sudden ripping sound, a great rending of fabric. Cangrande cried out in surprise and dismay. Two more quick cuts of the knife and the fabulous doublet was off the Scaliger’s body and tossed to crumple in a heap atop the pile of coins at the Emperor’s feet. The offending knife followed it closely.

“There, your Majesty.” The new voice spoke in fluent German, notably in the Emperor’s own dialect. “Another gift from Verona. My master looks far superior without it, as the court women no doubt agree.”

“Who speaks?” demanded the Emperor in his own tongue.

Stepping out from behind Cangrande, Cesco knelt. The empty sheath at his hip told of the knife that had performed three swift cuts – one up the back, one under each arm – loosening the ostensible object of contention.

The Emperor peered at the boy. “Step forward, you!”

Cangrande spoke in a different Germanic dialect. “He is a mere page, my lord,” he said, laying a hand upon Cesco’s shoulder.

“Then he should be swift to obey his overlord,” said Ludwig.

Cangrande’s jaw set, but he released his grip. The boy stepped over the ruined doublet to prostrate himself before the Emperor in a pose of complete submission.

“Your name, boy.”

Cesco’s head remained completely bowed, talking to the stone floor, but his words were clear. “My name, your imperial Majesty, is not my own. I fear to bring disgrace upon my master should I utter it.”

“How can such a quick-thinking and comely child disgrace anyone? If anything, it is your master disgraces you. We asked your name.”

“I am told I was baptized Francesco, your highness.”

“Like your illustrious Capitano. But you have doubts?”

Cangrande broke in. “My page is precocious, lord. He—”

The Emperor sniffed. “Learned from his master, I’m sure.”

“Your highness—” began Cangrande.

“Lord della Scala, perhaps in your court men have leave to speak at will. But this is the Imperial Court of the Holy Roman Empire, and we do not address you at present.” The Emperor returned his gaze to Cesco. “Tell us, young Fran-chess-ko, how you come to speak in our native tongue.”

“I have heard it spoken in camp here, my lord.”

The Emperor raised his brows. “And you learned to speak it so flawlessly? Look at us. Yes,” said Ludwig slowly, glancing back and forth between Cangrande and Cesco. “We have heard tell of an heir to der Hund. Is it possible that you are related to this arrogant, insolent man?”

“I am as proud to claim him as my father as he is to claim me his son.”

Seeing consternation raging across Cangrande’s face, the Emperor smiled. “Fran-ces-co. François, in French. That is the same as our Franz, no? Tell us, Franz der Hund, what you think of your father’s demands.”

Cesco blinked in surprise. “The humble Capitano of Verona would never make demands of your illustrious lordship! He speaks out of his passion to champion your cause. If I may, your Grace, setting aside all familial loyalty, I must tell you that the Capitano is the most able leader of men in Lombardy.” Cesco’s brow furrowed artfully. “Perhaps he lacks the false-modesty that causes men to hide their lights under a bushel, and thus is not as equipped for such an august gathering as this. He is a plain man, a soldier, more comfortable in the saddle than the salon.”

The Emperor cast an eye over the Scaliger. “Plain is not the word we would have chosen. Arrogant. Posturing. Peacock, perhaps.”

“I assure you, great one, this Apollo is no pavone. If his valet chose an extravagant attire for today, the Capitano barely noticed it, so great was his desire to meet with you. It was, after all, his idea to call this gathering and attain at last your right of coronation.”

If the rest was art, this last was true enough. But the Emperor was still angry. “Perhaps he issued the invitation to supplant us before our own followers.”

An uncomfortable ripple passed through the crowd. The Emperor had spoken aloud what everyone had already deduced. Truth be told, there were many in the assembly who wondered if it might not be for the best. But it having been said, Cangrande’s death was almost a certainty.

Cesco just laughed. “Giant he may be, but he is no Ephialtes, to test his spirit against mighty Jove’s. There is no need to have him bound, great one.”

The Emperor frowned. “Is that a reference of some kind?” A man stepped forward and whispered in Ludwig’s ear. This was the favoured imperial poet, Hugo von Trimberg. Upon hearing the poet’s explanation, the Emperor’s face lit with delight. “L’Inferno! Oh-ho! Is this the child fostered with the great poet Dante? Tell us, boy, can you recite?”

Cesco bowed deeply. “If your highness pleases, I can even put his Comedy to music.”

The Emperor took in a great breath, eyes darting between the Scaliger and his heir. “It would please us greatly. Do you require an instrument?”

Cesco’s answer was to open his mouth and begin singing. The notes were high, clear and strong. But the words were not what Dante had written. Cesco was translating the opening Canto of L’Inferno to the Emperor’s own style of German.

Ludwig coloured with pleasure. The court, seeing his evident delight, smiled and cooed. The Emperor had a new favourite.

Fuming, Cangrande listened closely. His own German was pure, bearing little relation to the Bavarian style favoured by the Emperor. Hence he’d followed only the gist of the rapid exchange between Ludwig and Cesco. But he understood that the boy was pleading Verona’s case – something Cangrande was loath to hear. For Ludwig was quite correct, Cangrande’s intention had been to march in and establish his dominance over the Emperor from the first moment. Everything had been calculated, down to the offensively rich doublet.

Everything except the boy’s intercession. At first Cangrande thought his heir was aiming for simple humiliation. Now he perceived that Cesco’s planning had been as careful as his own. The perfect imitation of the Emperor’s tongue. The literal laying bare of Cangrande. The loyal defense of a master he was clearly at odds with. The casual reference to Dante’s poem, drawing out a new line of conversation. Now the song, showing off the boy’s invention and musicality at once. Out-flanked, the Scaliger immediately forged new tactics. The first was to wipe the scowl off his face and display instead an amused tolerance.

Ironically, the first Canto of L’Inferno carried Dante’s version of the Greyhound prophecy. Even showing Cangrande up, the boy was literally singing his master’s praises – or so everyone believed, including Cesco himself.

Cesco concluded the first Canto and the Emperor burst into applause. The whole court followed suit, remarking what a clever boy the Scaliger had. Cangrande clapped with the rest while Cesco lowered his head with a modest smile.

“So inventive, so vibrant.” The Emperor turned his head. “Berthold, have you ever heard the like?”

The man with the sewn eye shook his head. “Never, my lord.”

“You, Hugo?”

“Nor I, my lord,” said the Emperor’s pet poet.

Ludwig crossed to lay a bejeweled hand on Cesco’s shoulder. “Boy, will you bestow your time with us?”

Cesco appeared flattered but uncertain. “If my master the Capitano can spare me.”

“We think he can be persuaded to.” Ludwig turned to Cangrande. “Thank this boy, Hund. He is why you leave here unhindered. Leave the gold as well, for his upkeep and ours. And perhaps when next we meet you will have taken a lesson from your heir on how to petition an Emperor. You may go.”

It was an order that Cangrande could not courteously refuse. “I beg a word with young Francesco before I depart.”

The word ‘beg’ was appreciated, and so the wish was granted. Cangrande leaned forward to kiss Cesco on either cheek. Ruffling the boy’s hair a little more roughly than appeared to the watchers, he said softly, “I was a fool not to factor you into this interview.”

Cesco grinned up at him. “A mistake I trust you won’t make twice.”

“Count on it. I expect detailed reports.”

“If you can figure out the cypher.”

Turning away, Cangrande bowed low to the Emperor and backed out of the hall at the head of his retinue. The moment he was outside he chuckled, gave a meaningful look to his friends, and sauntered away as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As if this had been his plan all along. As if he had contrived all this to plant his spy in the Emperor’s camp. They admired him all the more.

Tonight he would begin lessons in the Emperor’s dialect.