Thirty-One

 

 

Darkness had fallen. Bats were beginning to glide through the air overhead, unseen but present. Horses had been stabled, chickens cooped, and the detritus of a day’s work in the Rienzi household stowed safely away.

Nestled in a secluded part of the yard, covered in leaves and bracken, Cesco watched the main house. He’d slipped away from the hunting palace, excusing himself perfectly – he’d told the doctor he was tired, told Pietro that he was avoiding Katerina, and insisted Detto deserved time alone with his mother. He’d then dressed in hunting greens and browns as ragged as the ones Lia had worn as Death, and ridden out on a horse borrowed not from the stables but a traveler, who would find a purse far richer than the horse he’d lost.

He’d arrived just before dusk and headed straight for the perfect perch to observe the house – he’d seen it that morning. So far he’d seen the father now and again through the open windows. He seemed to like his solitude, and took interruption badly. The son was often visible as well, strutting about and offering petty orders to those who couldn’t help but obey.

The girl had appeared only once, coming into the yard to draw water from the well. Cesco might have hissed to her, but her father had called her in. The paterfamilias seems on edge. Cesco wondered what she’d told him, if anything. Perhaps it was just Rienzi’s habit to be protective of his daughter. But instinct told Cesco that this was uncommon, that the father was going to unusual lengths to fortify the house.

Well, there was an attack on their forge. They’re on their guard, lest Cangrande’s enemies strike again.

It was reckless to come. He knew it. In many ways he didn’t know why he had. This had never happened to him before. He felt like a man in a fog, feeling his way along a treacherous street. All through the morning he’d replayed their confrontation in his head, sure he’d been an ass. How does one woo? His examples were extreme. Cianfa Donati was an antithesis. He’d often seen Cangrande order some woman to his rooms, but he’d never witnessed the Scaliger honestly try to win a woman. Oddly, his best example came from the Veronese Petruchio and Paduan Kate, married some dozen years now. Yes, they veiled their love-talk in banter and barbs, but their fondness seemed genuine. It was the best example he had.

He’d sought her out last night not because he’d wanted to. He’d been unable not to. The scene had played out, with him playing the role of an ass, a cad, a bounder. Arrogant, preening peacock, she’d called him. Every word was a sword stroke, as if they were dueling. Only he wished to be stabbed. He just couldn’t bring himself to drop his guard.

Then he’d done it. Said the thing that cost him more than he could have dreamed. He gave voice to his desire. May I see you again? In answer, she had laughed in his face.

He’d said something, he didn’t remember what, and retreated to curl into a ball in his bed and relive that awful moment over and over. Sleep hadn’t come, so he’d lit a candle and written a note that was part apology, part justification, part pontification. But he penned it in code. If she wanted to read it, she’d have to spend the time to decypher it. Which alone meant that he mattered. Are these lovers’ games? I feel both a fool and alive.

He’d relived his humiliation all morning, taking out his anger upon Donna Katerina, who surely deserved it. Then he’d seen the note, in her own hand. In his own code. She’d broken it, and written back.

He held the note tightly in his hand. It was too dark to read it, but he’d memorized it:

 

Odysseus,

The answer is yes. Tonight. Come in Death’s weeds. My window will be open. I don’t like waiting.

– Penelope

 

Cesco obsessively wondered what she had in mind. He felt shameful exciting stirrings, both physical and emotional, when he laid eyes on her again, even at a distance, even drawing water from the well. His hands shook, his mouth dried up, and his manhood grew stiff, forcing him to shift as a slight dampness emerged around the tip. Dear God, is this what passed between grandfather Dante and his Beatrice? Is this the way it’s done?

He knew all about the physical act of love, but had denied it to himself. Not that there hadn’t been opportunities. Many a noble had tried to buy Cesco with their daughters or wives, hoping to bind the Emperor’s favourite, who also happened to be the heir to a rich and strong Italian city. Some of the girls had even been beautiful. But the price was too high. A moment of pleasure, or worse, of becoming one of those smitten, besotted men who chase after a woman like a dog after their own tail, making fools of themselves.

As I am now? He put that thought aside.

Unsure how to proceed with the fairer sex, Cesco chose to embrace the example of his foster-father. He didn’t need to be told that this rumour of Pietro fathering a bastard on a friend’s sister was absurd. Cesco knew that if such were the case, Pietro would have married the girl straight off. Pietro wanted no entanglements, and nothing to sully his reputation.

Whereas Cangrande’s reputation was thoroughly sullied, much to men’s approval. Odd how men admire a rutting dog more than a virtuous celibate.

Sex was part of the challenge Cangrande had laid down. From their first interview three years ago, the Scaliger kept hinting that Cesco should take a girl to bed. Did he wish to make Cesco despise love-making, and so lessen its power? That was possible. Perhaps even clever. Many men were undone by their lusts.

Or did Cangrande fear Cesco did not like women? Sometimes Cesco fretted over that as well. There had been times this last year when he found himself aroused in exclusively male company. But it was rarely the shape of men that drew him to attention. It was always when he watched a knight perform a brave feat, or an acrobat make a daring leap, or a singer pluck his heart from his breast like one of his lute’s strings.

Talent. Intelligence. Cleverness. Daring. These were the qualities that attracted Cesco. And in Lia, they all converge.

Hidden, waiting for the rest of the household to bed down, he had a great deal of time to kill. He divided his attention between reliving the previous scene and planning the coming one. It was not his habit to script himself, but he was unable to stop.

He tried to force his mind back to Katerina and the star-chart. How he’d hungered to open that scroll! Casting it aside was perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever done. He knew – knew – the answer to many mysteries lay within. But he’d seen a matching hunger in Katerina’s eyes, and she was not on his list of people to gratify. Only one person was on that list today.

It was finally dark enough. Lights extinguished. The house had gone to bed. Emerging, Cesco stretched his aching muscles, then clambered over the low wall and started to circle the outskirts of the yard. At the back of the house, three flights up, Lia’s window was wide open, and entirely dark. Feeling weightless, Cesco imagined he could fly right up to it.

Fancy was not the same as cleverness, so he forced himself to wait an extra ten minutes, crouching beside the stable and listening to the snores of the boy within. Finished counting, Cesco briskly crossed the yard to make a few preparations, in case he needed a quick escape. Then he hoisted himself onto the lowest windowsill and set his fingers and feet to finding holds.

He slipped halfway up, his foot scraping down the wall. He caught himself and hung by his fingers, listening. Nothing – no barking dog, no whispered offers of help. Still the invitation of the open window above. Silently he found his feet and continued to climb. His trembling was more excitement than exertion.

Barely a minute after he’d started, he grasped the sill. He heard the rustling of bedclothes inside the room. With a rush of anticipation he pulled himself into a crouch on the window.

The room was shadowed, the only light coming from the stars outside. He let one foot down onto the floor, moving towards the bed.

“Penelope?”

The figure shifted, making the bed itself creak, groaning under a weight. Instincts flaring, Cesco pulled the hood closer, further obscuring his face. In rough German he said, “Thank God your oaf of a father isn’t very bright. He’ll never know about this.”

Like a wraith rising from a grave, the figure in the bed stood, the coverlet flying across the room. Starlight lanced the sword in the figure’s hand. “She’s not here, despoiler! Arsonist! Murderer!”

It was the brother, angry angry Adamo. Ducking, Cesco kept to his Germanic guise. “It’s not what it looks like, mein herr. Well, it is – but my intentions are entirely honourable.” Cesco threw his back against a wall as the sword pierced the plaster just inches from his head. It stuck there. Laughing, Cesco lashed out with his foot, taking the wind from the irate brother. But young Rienzi kept hold of his sword, which tore free from the wall and sliced along Cesco’s left shoulder.

Gasping, Adamo reeled across the room. Backlit by the window behind him, he held his sword high. “We were warned – you German bastard. The Greyhound’s heir sent – sent a warning that your master – had threatened my sister.” While Cesco frowned in utter confusion, Adamo raised his voice. “He’s here! He’s here!”

Cesco dropped his good shoulder and threw himself against the door just as two burly men-at-arms tried to come through it. Predictably, Adamo came at him, hacking downwards in a heavy blow. Cesco rolled away from the blow, knocking Adamo into the door and elbowing the young Rienzi in the neck as he passed.

“You can’t get away!” shouted Adamo as Cesco hopped up to the windowsill, then was struck dumb as Cesco leapt into space. Then he was struck again as the door flung wide and his father rushed in, lantern in hand.

Falling, Cesco pulled up his legs and threw out his arms. A line from Paradiso had him laughing. O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall? His grandfather would be so proud...

Cesco landed in the hay cart he’d rolled beneath the window for just such an escape. The hay cushioned his landing, but he barked one elbow painfully against the side of the cart. No time for injuries! Your legs work fine! He rolled over backwards and landed on all fours, raising little clouds of dust. Pushing off the ground, he ran for the low stone wall surrounding the yard.

From above came Rienzi’s shouts. “After him! To horse! To horse! Despoiler!”

Cesco kicked up his heels, mind racing. ‘The Greyhound’s heir sent a warning.’ They don’t know it’s me. In fact, I’m the hero - if I survive. ‘Come in Death’s weeds,’ she told me. Ha! Clever. And how did she know I’d pretend to be a German when I sensed danger?

Because it’s what she would have done. Brilliant. I like this girl more and more, thought Cesco as behind him the house blazed light and the dogs were loosed.

He vaulted the wall one-handed, coming down into a pile of bracken – the same pile he’d hidden in. His temper flared for a moment as he kicked himself free, then he was laughing again. What a stupid way to die.

Dodging behind a tree, he paused there, panting and thinking. He had to make for his horse, a mile to the south. That meant circling the house again, which would take time on foot. Especially if they had the dog after him. He touched his shoulder. It wasn’t a bad cut, but the cloth was damp with his blood. Was he dripping any? Had he left any behind? If he had, a good hound would track his scent easily.

No, better to steal one of their horses and ride away in style. She wants panache, I’ll give her panache . Scrambling up the tree, he waited.

Rienzi was mounting in the yard, a firebrand in his hand. “This is the Emperor’s minion, an arsonist lapdog who nearly killed Carlo and Agapeto! Now he’s tried to insult my daughter. I don’t care if the Greyhound wants him alive, I want him dead! D’you hear me, you bastard? You’re dead!!”

“We’ll catch him, father.” Adamo mounted his own horse and raised a second firebrand. “Come on!”

The men spread out in search of Cesco’s trail, thinking he was trying to escape them. Cesco waited until the bulk of the hunters had moved off in various directions, then crawled further out on the limb of the leafy tree, hoping it wouldn’t sway. He waited until he was over the path out of the yard, a good fifteen feet off the ground.

Lia’s brother came along behind the dog, who was scanning the earth for traces. By the light of the torch in his hand, Adamo’s eyes swept right and left, but never up. The moment he was directly below, Cesco flipped down to hang by his hands, then dropped right behind Adamo in the saddle. His right elbow clubbed the young man in the ear, sending him toppling out of the saddle, while Cesco’s left hand plucked the torch from the falling Adamo’s grip. Cesco didn’t bother with the reins but kicked his heels into the mare and bolted off, bearing the torch high over his head. “Horrido! Horrido!” shouted Cesco, mocking them with the Germanic hunting cry he’d heard so often these last eighteen months.

“Adamo! You fool!” cried old Rienzi as his son sputtered in the dirt. “There he goes! After him! After him! Get up, fool boy!”

There were three riders ahead on the path ahead of him, but they were facing the wrong way. Cesco thundered at them, swinging the firebrand overhead, making their horses scatter as he threaded through them. One swung at him with a sword but missed. Behind him other riders whirled about and spurred in pursuit. Old Rienzi gave his son a hand up and they rode double as they chased the bobbing, flickering light of Cesco’s stolen torch.

The hunted horse weaved in and out of the trees, causing the firelight to vanish for seconds at a time. At one of these their prey must have ducked, for the light sank down and stayed low. A minute later the horseman seemed to grow indecisive, slowing before making a turn, then shying away from a second turn at the last moment, losing more precious ground.

“We’ve got him!” called Adamo as he held on to his fat father for dear life.

The riders spread out, denying the bastard any chance of doubling back. But the instant they came level with the running horse they knew something was wrong, and a moment later they saw why. The firebrand was stuck firmly in a loop of rein around the saddlehorn, pointing straight up to heaven. The saddle itself was empty.

Rienzi’s men regrouped. It was only when they took count did they discover one of their number was missing. He’d been at the back of the pack.

Retracing their route they found the man unconscious on the ground. His horse was gone.

“God damn it! Find him! Find the bastard!!”

♦ ◊ ♦

 

Riding his third stolen mount of the day, Cesco was chuckling until he reached the place he’d left his first, the one that bore his saddle-bags with his own clothes and sword.

It wasn’t there.

Dismounting, he turned about, looking in every direction. This is the place, I’m sure of it…

On the branch where he’d tethered his mount he noticed something glimmering in the moonlight. A hair-broach, clipped around a slip of paper. He took it down and read:

 

Try the clearing – and learn to take better care of your horse.

 

Cesco’s jaw shot out as he pulled a face somewhere between a grin and a grimace. “O, I like this girl so very much, I may just have to kill her.”

Careful to avoid Rienzi’s men, he rode towards the clearing by the Adige where they’d first met, her knife to his throat. It took some little time to find it, and when he arrived he found that same knife buried in the ground right where Cangrande had been sleeping. Around the haft was another scrap of parchment, tied with an expensive ribbon. Dismounting, Cesco stood for a moment, scanning the forest from cover. Seeing nothing in the wood waiting for him, he took the risk and ran forward. Every moment he half-expected the girl to shoot her crossbow at him from cover. But no bolt came.

Cesco plucked the knife out of the ground and tore the note free. The moon above was bright enough to read by if he squinted.

 

Poor bird, how you are beguiled. How you wish fowl were fish – smoked salmon, perhaps.

 

Cesco tucked the note in the pouch at his belt. Returning to his horse, he retraced the path to the ruins of the bridge. Smoke still rose from the structures on either end.

He rode back and forth, resisting the urge to call out for her. When he spied something on the grassy slope on this side of the water, he dismounted again and slid down the rise in the ground. It was an arrow, the same kind she’d shot at Susanna, driven deep into the damp earth. About the shaft just below the fletching was wrapped another note:

 

A fish on a hook makes poor sport. Swim home, little fish. Know ye not that they which run in a race run all, but one receiveth the prize?

 

Closing his eyes, Cesco shook his head. She can’t let the game end now – she wouldn’t. Tucking the note into his shirt, he pried his sword up from the ground. Wiping it on his sleeve, he looked around. There had to be something more.

There was. A quarter mile down the riverbank, on this side of the water, was a hut, well out of sight of the road. It was well-made, but humble, with part of the roof fallen. Not habitable for any long stretch of time.

Cesco eyed it with a smile. If I were ending the game, I’d want to watch and see how the fool reacts.

Leaving his stolen horse, Cesco sauntered towards the hut watchful for signs of another message or another ambush. Reaching the hut without sign of either, he scanned the ground. Signs of a horse. So. Mayhap the game isn’t done. He opened the hut door.

The room was spare. A small truckle-bed, a table, a chair. Not even a firepit for cooking.

Cesco saw the note neatly folded and standing on edge. Unfolding it, he read it by the moonlight streaming in through a hole in the roof:

 

Odysseus,

I couldn’t wait forever.

Penelope

 

Outside Cesco heard horses and the cries of men and knew he’d been found again.

♦ ◊ ♦

 

Dawn was just breaking when Cesco wearily hauled his bedraggled hide into the Scaligeri palace at Caprino. After plunging into the river and swimming for safety, he’d had to come back on foot.

Greeted by servants, he told them tales of a midnight hunt for a wily prey, omitting the fact that he was speaking of himself. Having amused them, he was starting towards his suite on the second floor when a groom said, “Your horse is well, too, young lord.”

“My horse?”

“Yes, lord. The lad who you sent back with it told me it had to be ready for a ride today.”

Cesco blinked, then smiled. “A good lad. Did he stay?”

“No, my lord.”

“I see.” Cesco started walking again, then turned abruptly. “Where are my saddle-bags?”

“In your rooms, lord.”

Cesco thanked the groom and nearly ran to his rooms, his energy restored. Yes, there they were, lying across a chair. Tearing them open Cesco found one last note, written in a hand he now knew very well.

 

Poor Odysseus. Blown back to where he started. Stay where you are, come no more. Are you so eager for Death’s embrace? Very well. On the anniversary of the Vandalism of Rome, in the place of our second meeting, at dusk. I’ll be waiting.

 

But who will you be, wondered Cesco as he grinned to himself. Death, or Penelope?

Bundling up the note with the others, all now damp with running ink, Cesco fell into his bed. Vandalism of Rome. That was the second of June, the day the Vandals had sacked the city of Rome nine hundred years before. The place of our second meeting. That was the Arena in Verona, and the use of second also confirmed the date. Clever, clever girl. I must make ready a proper welcome…

♦ ◊ ♦

 

They returned to Verona the next day, the last of May. The letter to Cangrande might have reached him by now, but it was too soon to expect an answer, so Detto went to stay in the Nogarola house with his mother, while Cesco had Tullio prepare the Scaliger’s new palace for himself. “If I’m going to be in trouble, I may as well earn it.”

Pietro himself took up residence for the first time in his Verona house, though he spent most of his time at the palace with Cesco. “Thank heaven Mastino and Fuchs are with Cangrande.”

“After their disastrous invasion of Padua, he could hardly let them out of his sight this summer,” laughed Cesco.

“Have you written your apology to the Emperor yet?”

“I’m still composing it. In my head.”

The second of June dawned bright and clear as only an Italian morning can. Cesco awoke with the sun, full of anticipation. He’d laid out a map, and riddles, and a rooftop race to rival the one he’d run with Cangrande – he knew the city so much better now. And he also had access to the catacombs, the old Roman tunnels that ran beneath the palaces. He skipped down the stairs to his breakfast, and was positively glowing when he saw Ser Alaghieri enter, followed by three men in the robes of Franciscans. “Ah! Praise to thee, my Lord, for all thy creatures. Above all, Brother Sun, who brings us the day and lends us his light. Have some bread.”

“Francesco, I’m glad to see you up and dressed. There’s no time to waste. We have to ride.”

Cesco frowned. “Ride? To where?”

“Rome.” Ser Alaghieri gave him a lopsided smile. “I need a horse, and some discretion. Do you have either?”

“Both, I hope. And you may have them. But not me. I’ve some plans today, plans I’ve gone to great pains to—”

Ser Alaghieri cut across him. “Cesco, whatever game you have in mind, it will have to wait. This,” he waved his hand to one of the cowled men, “is William of Occam. This here is Bonagratia of Bergamo. And this is Michael of Cesena, head of the Franciscan Order. They have fled Avignon, running for their lives, and need an introduction to the Emperor. You’re going to give it to them.”

Looking at the august assembly before him, Cesco laughed so that he wouldn’t weep.

Before he left he penned a coded note that he entrusted to Detto, on pain of torture, death, ridicule, and the loss of friendship, to deliver to anyone standing in the Arena at dusk. The note itself read:

 

Poor foole. We are star-crossed, it seems. Against my will I am called to vandalize Rome myself. But I’ll be back. Besides, Penelope should be used to waiting.

 

In hindsight, it was a far better revenge than anything he’d planned. He rode to Rome whistling a cheery tune.