Thirty-Two

 

 

Cesco’s return to the imperial court created a sensation, as he’d brought with him three of the most famous religious thinkers in the world. He sent Detto ahead to inform Cangrande, who in turn informed the Emperor of the whereabouts of his wayward page. An obvious story was concocted – that, hearing of the flight of his three Avignonnese friends, Ser Alaghieri had written to his foster son, and Cesco had scampered headlong and heedless to help. This convenient tale allowed both Emperor and Scaliger to gloss over the burning of the forge, which was lamented by both as a most regrettable accident. There were much larger issues looming.

As the Emperor was still visiting Pisa, it was a shorter ride to intercept him. Pietro had not been back to Pisa since the death of his father’s old patron, Uguccione della Faggiuola, who’d been exiled by his backstabbing protégé, Castruccio Castracani. Faggiuola had died ten years before, besieging Padua with Cangrande. Pietro and his father had both attended the funeral for the gregarious, affable, long-haired warlord.

For Pietro, Pisa was a city full of youthful memories. He’d lived here for months, studying with a youth called Lucentio who’d later gone to Padua to continue his education and ended up marrying the sister to Petruchio’s wife. Life was so full of odd and improbable coincidence.

The ride had been entertaining and joyful, with Cesco and Occam arguing over the moral value of physical, overt actions versus acts of will.

“A man may sin in his heart,” argued Cesco, “but surely unless he commits the sin, he has done nothing wrong.”

“Ah, has the young master forgotten that the Lord forbids covetousness of neighbour’s property and wives?”

“Of property,” corrected Cesco, a twinkling smile in his eye. “It was the blessed Sant’Agostino who edged in another commandment against what was said to be his own failing. I commend his creativity, merging the first and second commandments to make room for his own – but I wonder if he did not perhaps go too far, making a commandment to remind himself not to be lustful.”

“An excellent point, and most amusingly stated, but entirely peripheral to the question at hand. The Lord prohibits both the action of stealing and the desire to steal, or covetousness. Therefore we may logically deduce that it is the desire to steal that is sinful, the acting upon it merely the consequence of human weakness. Therefore morality exists not in deeds, but in the desire to do those deeds.”

“If deeds have no morality, then what do you say to a man who desires to steal, but overcomes his base desire and refrains? Is he not to be commended? Admired? He has resisted temptation.”

“Would it not be better not to feel temptation at all?”

“Would it not be lovely to fly?” retorted Cesco. “Wishing a man’s nature to be else than it is seems folly. Men are men, and feel as men, weak as God made us. If we do not act upon those feelings, do not commit the sin, are we not saved?”

“Not if you sin in your heart.”

“Am I to understand that wanting to do a thing is as bad as actually doing it?”

“That is precisely correct.”

“Then I thank you from the bottom of my sinful heart! Since I’m already condemned for the sins of my heart, there is no earthly reason not to make them the sins of my hand.”

“That is not my point at all.” Occam turned to Pietro. “I see why you like him. But couldn’t you raise him to be less perverse?”

Enjoying the debate, Pietro shrugged. “I did try.”

“It’s in my nature,” replied Cesco with mock ruefulness. “I cannot quell my tongue, because it is attached directly to my brain, which is a four-horse cart racing day and night across uneven ground. I enjoy it when someone rides up alongside and keeps pace with me for even the briefest times.”

“A racing cart with what destination?” asked Occam.

“Won’t know until we get there.”

♦ ◊ ♦

 

When Pietro arrived at Cangrande’s borrowed palace with Cesco and the fugitive ecclesiastics, an exultant Scaliger kissed him on both cheeks. “You’re going to be excommunicated again!”

Pietro half laughed. “I’m hoping I’m too small to notice. You’re quite cheerful.”

“They came to Verona! I shine with reflected glory. I admire your talent for picking important friends. This only adds to the notion that Verona is the new Athens, the center of the world.”

“The center of the world was at Delphi,” said Cesco. “Where the Omphalos was located. The belly-button of the world. I’d like to see that. Is it an innie, or an outie?”

Cangrande glanced at Cesco. “A protrusion, I think. An intrusion is always unwelcome.”

“Even from Marathon, with news of victory?”

“Alas, if only you had been as fleet as he, my forge would still be standing.”

Cesco slipped from his saddle to bow deeply. “It was the will of Fortune, of Providence. Had I been as swift as thought and prevented the deed, you’d have a rift with the Bavarian. Count this as a blessing. He cannot but feel the churl, filled with after-the-fact regret, as you bring him three wonderful weapons against his mortal enemy the Pope after he treated you so poorly. It gives you the moral high ground.”

“That explains my confusion – the terrain is so very unfamiliar. Ser Alaghieri, won’t you introduce me to your friends?”

As Cangrande honoured Michael of Cesena, charmed Bonagratia, and vigourously fenced with Occam, Pietro studied him. Older, but younger. The physical heaviness of two years ago was gone. Lean, hard, and happy, his eyes danced again. In the years following Ponte Corbo and his sister’s stroke, the Scaliger had lost his purpose. Pietro recognized now that he was a sword honed only in battle. Without like steel to clash against, it rusted and tarnished. Since Cesco’s advent, his sister’s return, and the arrival of Ludwig, he had found all the challenge his heart desired, and was flourishing.

What happens when there are no more challenges? How far will he go to seek out stimulation, prove his supremacy?

♦ ◊ ♦

 

That night at the Duomo of Pisa, before a huge assembly of Italian, German, and French dignitaries and nobles, Emperor Ludwig welcomed Michael of Cesena, Bonagratia of Bergamo, and William of Occam into his company under the delighted eyes of the Colonna brothers and the nervous shifting of the new anti-Pope. Last month Ludwig had taken his friend, a defrocked priest named Pietro Rainalducci of Corbario, and proclaimed him Pope Nicholas V. The new Pope was in his sixties, and looked massively uncomfortable. He’d come to the clergy late, after separating from his wife at the age of forty, and eighteen years under orders had not prepared him for the role he was now forced to play.

It was a remarkably Franciscan affair, as the few Dominicans who deigned to rub shoulders with the Emperor at all had all abjured the taint of welcoming three notorious heretics who refused to accept that Christ had owned property.

Ludwig spoke first. He began by thanking his young protégée, Franz der Hund, and his two fathers, Lord Cangrande della Scala and Ser Pietro Alaghieri, for escorting the trio of Franciscans to his welcoming arms. If Ludwig harboured suspicions that Cesco had meant to betray him, they were not in evidence. He then moved on to speak of the great achievements of these three refugees, and the eternal shame of those who denied their dedication to God and His divine plan.

After he was finished, all three Franciscans made speeches. Bonagratia began, receiving laughs as he cheerfully whipped the crowd into a fervor against the Avignon pope.

Occam’s speech was welcome for its brevity. He knelt before the Emperor and said simply, “Tu me defendas gladio, ego te defendam calamo.”

Pietro had exceptional Latin, and effortlessly translated Occam’s admirably succinct statement. Defend me with the sword, I will defend you with the pen.

Last of all, Michael received Ludwig’s embrace, then turned to the crowd. “Today, the prophecy of Paul to Timothy is fulfilled. ‘The time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears; and they shall turn away their ears from the truth, and shall be turned unto fables. But watch thou in all things, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.’ So we have done, my fellows and I. We have abandoned the new Babylon, where the one and only head of the Holy Roman Church, Jesus Christ, is held in captivity, bound with chains of gold. High Priests and Elders, Scribes and Pharisees, behave now just as they did when they crucified the Savior. They have banished we three worshippers of Christ. But we are not without hope. The Lord’s hand is not shortened. He works through His agents, proved with the elevation of the rightful head of the temporal arm of His Will on Earth, the Holy Roman Emperor before us, Ludwig IV, God bless, preserve, and keep him. Under his rule, we live in trust in the Most High that the new Babylonian Captivity will end, that the whole Church will resume its rightful seat upon the Rock of the Faith, Peter’s seat upon Vatican Hill. But if this be not God’s Will, yet I am sure that neither death, nor life, sword, spear, angel, devil, nor any other creature, will separate us from the love of God, and from the defending of the Christian Faith!”

It was an excellent speech, and Pietro would have been more impressed had he not seen Occam standing, eyes closed, lips barely moving. He was reciting the speech in time with Michael. Which meant that Occam, the great thinker, had written it for Michael, the great orator.

Looking at the assembled crowd, Pietro saw a pair of familiar faces – his boyhood friend Lucentio, looking fit and able, with his ancient father Vincentio the merchant. Pietro made a mental note to renew that old acquaintance.

But it could not happen tonight. There was too much demand for his company. Immediately following the ceremony, Pietro was embraced by Cardinal Sciarrillo Colonna. “I told you I’d see you soon! I’m sorry your master would not allow you to attend the coronation – but it’s allowed you a much more lustrous entrance! Well done!”

Pietro thanked him. “But it was hardly more remarkable than your own advent! I thought you entirely ensconced in Avignon.”

“I can only whore myself for so long. It is not a place for mending the soul. As your friend Cardinal Gui has learned. I’m told he returned from his Italian mission a much less strident presence. I am not certain if that was due to his adventures there, or his encounter with you. But he is not as fearsome as once he was.”

Good. Aloud, Pietro passed that by. “I confess, your Eminence, when I heard that the Emperor meant to appoint a pope, I was certain he’d choose you.”

“What, and risk me someday slapping him in the face? Or myself? No, he wanted a man of straw, a mild, weak-willed religious simpleton.”

“He seems to have chosen his man correctly, then.”

“Oh, Rainalducci – or Pope Nicholas, as we must now call him – is at heart a good man. Not a venal bone in his body – which I think is why his wife threw him out. But let’s not mistake, the Emperor was not choosing a head for the Church. He was choosing a puppet, through which he can attack Avignon. Do you think I would consent to such a role?”

“Even if you would, you would find it impossible. You’d cut your strings right off.”

Sciarrillo laughed heartily. “I would at that! Even if it meant collapsing in a heap. Now, where is that boy of yours? I’ve met him often, and he always amuses me. He has a mouth made for slapping!”

“Or kissing,” said Cesco, appearing. “I have been conversing with your lay brother, Lord Stefano. We were trying to decide how to replicate the Pisan drainage system on Roman roofs.”

Arriving in Cesco’s wake, Lord Stefano looked entirely at his ease. He was a Roman to his core, and even in Pisa he exuded a calm ownership of the court around him. The four of them spent a deal of time conversing, then the elderly Colonna brothers moved on to hold court over other men. As they departed, Cesco shook his head. “When I met Stefano I began to understand the longevity of the old Roman Empire. A nobleman born. I look at Ludwig and there is no comparison. Colonna should be emperor. It’s in his blood.”

“And if he were killed, Sciarrillo would be Caesar in his place, slapping everyone. For every good emperor of the blood, there were five bad ones. Heredity cannot supplant ability.”

“Thank heavens, then, that I have the ability and the blood. And thanks to you, that blood is now legitimate. I am no longer a bastard.”

“You will always be il veltro.”

“Il veltro del Veltro, you mean,” said Cesco, laughing.

Pietro smiled wanly. The time was coming when he was going to have to tell Cesco. If he didn’t, Katerina would, as a weapon against her brother. Pietro was certain that was why she’d come to Caprino.

And why shouldn’t he know? There’s no betrayal, no disillusionment here! Unlike Cangrande, Cesco is the Greyhound! Every sign points to the chart that says he’ll be the savior, not to the dark one where everything goes awry, where his talents are wasted, where his worser nature takes control.

But there was always the third chart, the one Pietro had suggested, the one with two falling stars, crossing in the middle of the heavens. So long as that one existed, taunting them, it was best not to show him any. Soon. Soon.

Cangrande joined them on the Duomo steps, just below the nearly finished bell tower. “A thoroughly successful evening. Reunions abound, alliances strengthened, and an end to an idyll.”

“Was that Passerino you were talking with?”

“Indeed. I apologized for my laxity as his neighbour and friend, and he pledged a renewed love for me and all things Veronese. Such amiable amity! He is feeling the bite of my displeasure, though I doubt he suspects those are my teeth in his neck. His power is sadly waning. Last summer he lost his hold on Modena, and the Gonzaga clan is getting in everywhere. They have the money and their own army of mercenaries. See there? That’s Guido Gonzaga in the striped cape and slashed doublet. Rakish devil, is he not? Passerino is desperately trying to ignore his presence. Alas, too late. His friends, the Este family, might be thinking they’ve backed the wrong horse. I expect things to come to a head soon. To save himself and retain control of Mantua, he must either embrace me forever or rebel in earnest. My new good-standing with the Emperor does not make his decision any easier.”

“You sound sorry for him.”

“Do I? I suppose I am sorry he turned against me. But he had his shot, and out of friendship I’ve let him live. But a life free of stress? That’s too much to ask.” Cangrande looked to Cesco. “Ludwig and I spoke of you just now.”

Cesco looked rueful. “The ending idyll you mentioned. I assume that, though he has stated his gratitude in the warmest terms, the great Emperor has released me from his service?”

“He did it in the form of returning my hostage to me, an act of graciousness. He thanked me for the loan of you, and said that my dutiful service this last year has erased all doubts. This last event has set the seal on my loyalty. He has even offered to assist me in rebuilding my lost forge, of which he has heard so much.” Here was a dark smile for Cesco, who mirrored it in the spirit of mockery.

“Did he perhaps mention that I had tried to prevent his arsonists from achieving their goal?”

“On the contrary, he praised you to the heavens, and said that if ever you wish to join him in Germany, you are most welcome. He took great pains to express his deep and abiding relief that your disappearance had such a happy outcome for everyone.”

Cesco clucked his tongue. “Alas, I fear he doesn’t trust me anymore.”

“Why should he? When it came to a real choice, him or me, you chose me. I am as surprised as he.”

Cesco broke his leg, sweeping into a magnificent bow. “I hope to keep surprising you for all the days to come.”

Cangrande let that pass. “It does gall me that the forge goes unanswered. We cannot strike at the benevolent Emperor. But I would know the names of the men sent to do the deed?”

Cesco’s expression became sly. “You needn’t fear for them.”

“Are they beyond our reach?”

“Not at all. But you needn’t trouble yourself. I’ve taken care of meting out a touch of retribution.”

Pietro didn’t like the sound of that. Cangrande himself looked bemused. “What did you do?”

“Arranged for a measure of justice, is all.”

A shiver ran down Pietro’s spine. Had he been gone too long? Had the boy changed? Was cold-blooded murder now part of his character? “Tell me, right now, that you haven’t hired killers.”

Cesco’s smile became less placid, more active. “Of a sort. They are skilled in making men die.”

“Cesco—”

“Relax, Nuncle. Had the blacksmith or his apprentice died, I would certainly have had them torched in their lodgings. But as no one died, they are guilty only of burning down the source of Verona’s swords. I deemed it only just and right to give a burn to their swords as well.”

“What on Earth..?”

“I hired a pair of whores ripe with the pox to visit them, with the Emperor’s compliments. Their swords will be burning for years to come.”

Cangrande burst out laughing, drawing all eyes with his magnificent smile. Then he amazed everyone, Pietro most of all, by drawing Cesco into a fierce embrace and ruffling his hair. Cesco blinked in surprise, then ducked and the two of them began slapping and wrestling affectionately on the Duomo steps.

Pietro was laughing too, but there were tears in his eyes. Pathino was dead. Cangrande and Cesco were allies, perhaps even friends. Pietro was back among the saved. Who knew – could Antony and Mari bury the hatchet? At that moment, everything was right with the world and the future seemed to hold only brightness and light. Anything was possible.

Anything.