Six

 

 

For several days after the brawl in the street, Antonia’s routine was exactly as it had been, but her distraction kept her from understanding when others spoke to her. Mistakes were made in the copying, and she avoided the solitude of the monastery library entirely. Every male voice seemed to resonate with the calm, businesslike violence of her rapist.

She felt outside herself, and there was a dark part of her that wanted to scoff at her own reactions. Her first thought after he’d left was that she did not have the energy to be a victim. She knew for a certainty she had done nothing wrong. This had been a calculated assault on Cesco, she was only a side issue. Somehow that was more insulting. Whoever he had been, it hadn’t been about the sex but the violence.

As smart as she was, she tried talking herself out of everything she was feeling, and grew disgusted with herself when she could not put those feelings aside.

On the sixth night after the event (that was how she counted time now, how many days since she had been attacked, how many hours since her virtue had been torn from her), Cesco reappeared. Exhausted as ever, his inquiry after her health seemed perfunctory. She made a fuss over him, passed along Katerina’s note, and let him sleep again in her arms.

By the mid-night bells he was gone. She walked shakily to join the other sisters in prayer, but when the chanting was over she did not return to her bed. She remained on her knees in the chapel all through the night, right up to Prime, every noise jolting her from fervent prayer. When the sun rose, she felt victorious.

The next night she locked her door and wedged a chair against it. She was awakened by a weight on top of her, a filthy cloth shoved into her mouth. This time there was real violence to the attack. She tried to fend him off with the knife she’d been carrying for seven days, but he took it from her with contemptuous ease and held it against her throat. This night he stayed to assault her twice more, in different ways. She wept and fought and screamed futilely into rag. He said nothing, which somehow made it all the more horrible. His occasional grunts and the violence of his body spoke for him.

She was rescued by the bells, when he lifted her to her feet and shoved her bleeding and fouled into the hall. When she finally had nerve to return to her cell, he was gone. Yet their mingled scents lingered in the air, making her retch.

That day she almost asked Mother Superior to move her into the common cells with the other sisters. Yet she refrained. It would remove her from danger, yes. But so too would it remove any possibility of Cesco finding her alone. She sat in her cell all day, turning the matter over and over in her mind until she felt faint.

No quarter. It was a message. Not for her - she wasn’t important enough. It was for Cesco. He was to be allowed no respite, no relief.

Could she tell anyone? Tharwat or Morsicato would protect her, surely. The stealthy Moor might even be able to trap her rapist and murder him as he slipped out. But if this was done by Cangrande’s orders – something she couldn’t rule out – the repercussions would be endless. The murder would give the Scaliger a pretext to remove the Moor, thus stripping away another layer of Cesco’s protection. And who was to say it would end with the man’s death? She couldn’t even be certain it was the same man between the first and second night.

Worst of all, Cesco might learn of it. This was something her brilliant boy did not need on his conscience. Despite his nature, she did not doubt his love for her. She feared that this might achieve what the hawking had not – break his spirit.

No quarter.

Could she tell Abbess Verdiana? No. Perhaps her own abbess, whose bark was far worse than her bite. But this old woman, as suspicious as she was concerned with reputation, would certainly repudiate her and throw her out, not only from the nunnery but from the Order entirely.

She knew Pietro would come to her aid in an instant. But if her brother returned to Verona, he’d find a price on his head within the month. Poco was preparing for his new training in Florence, of all places. He would depart at the start of July, after the tourney. Though he would surely stay if asked, she could not imagine telling him.

She pondered telling Fra Lorenzo, but after some thought ruled it out, too. What could he do, an herbalist friar? Unless it was to give her a draught of some potion to ease her nights between. That, at least, she could ask for. She had already called upon him for the means of ridding herself of any pregnancy, claiming it was for someone else. Her character was such that he did not doubt her.

At noon she roused herself for prayers, working hard on her grooming before emerging from her cell. Her attacker had been careful – her bruises were all in places that did not show. Only her haggard, sleepless, fearful eyes betrayed her.

At Vespers that night she joined the other sisters in singing a theody, the second psalm of the hour, the hundred and twenty-third of the bible. Mechanically, she sang:

 

Nisi quia Dominus erat in nobis, dicat nunc Israel:

nisi quia Dominus erat in nobis.

 

But the next lines shook her from her thoughts, and a trembling purpose filled her as she sang.

 

When men rose up against us:

perhaps they had swallowed us alive.

When their fury was angry against us:

perhaps water had swallowed us.

Our soul hath passed through a brook:

perhaps our soul had passed

through an intolerable water.

Blessed be our Lord:

which hath not given us for a prey to their teeth.

Our soul as a sparrow is delivered

from the snare of the fowlers.

The snare is broken: and we are delivered.

 

Tears on her cheek, she found her voice. She would not be done in by this. She would rescue Cangrande’s falcon from the snare. If solace was denied Cesco in every other quarter, she would continue providing it.

No matter the cost.

♦ ◊ ♦

 

A balmy midnight, the thirtieth day of June. Being the eve of the tourney, the Scaliger hosted a feast for the visiting knights, and there were a few preliminary jousts, premieres commençailles, to whet the crowd’s appetites.

Thus Cangrande was too busy to keep a strict eye on his heir. Longing to watch the events, Cesco used this time to slip away to a deserted cellar chamber of the palace, just off the old Roman baths. Concealed in a corner with his tallow candle, he huddled down to write a long letter to Uncle Pietro in Avignon.

Typically, he began with a bit of news utterly divorced from his immediate self:

 

From Egypt has come a crushing blow to the scholars of antiquity. The Lighthouse of Alexandria, fabled in poem, song, and story, is no more. Wholly functional for over a thousand years, the marble edifice was leveled in an earthquake. Those familiar with the authors of ancient Rome are pulling their imagined togas over their heads to mourn.

But their dour spirits can do nothing to dim the excitement surrounding this tourney. The Scaliger is not participating, due to his eternal injury. He’s certainly playing a minor wound for all it’s worth. I believe he’d let it fester if he didn’t fear losing the whole arm. Perhaps he plans to mimic his sister and have a miraculous recovery when it is least expected. Though after rising from the dead last year, he’s set the bar rather high.

Speaking of Detto’s mother, I believe I already mentioned the invitation I received through our beloved Suor Beatrice, promising me a weapon to use in my hawking to ward off my tormentor. A greater lure was never known and I confess I was curious. But I put off answering for almost a fortnight so I could parse the underlying intent. You haven’t yet told me why you harbour such deep suspicions of her, but I imagine she must be very like her brother, since it was she who raised him. You say she raised me as well in my first few years, a time I barely remember. But I find myself mirroring you – I don’t trust her.

Divining her invitation had a motive other than my welfare, I determined to lay a trap for them both. I called on Donna Katerina yesterday, during the night. I did not tell her I was coming, I just climbed in through the second floor window – as her house was the scene of my convalescence last summer, I remember it well. I found her alone, reading, though I suspect she had been waiting for me every night this last month. She greeted me and we bantered as you might expect. It was a type of dueling I’ve learned well, but she has mastered it. Yet I learned a great deal even before we reached the topic of the weapon.

She broached the subject obliquely, asking what I knew of astrology. I informed her that I was raised in close proximity to one of the foremost astrologers in all the world, and dull as I am I had picked up a few tricks. She then asked me if I knew my birthdate. I said I knew the month, but not the day. Oh, did I not tell you, Nuncle? Yes, I know I was born under the sign of Gemini. So much for your efforts to keep it a secret. But she offered to tell me the day, and produced several scrolls.

I can see you stiffening as you read this. Why? Do you know what is in those scrolls? I think you do. I think they are the reason you’ve kept me in the dark as to the date of my emergence into the world. Well, Nuncle, you may relax. I never saw what was charted in them, for at that precise moment we were interrupted by the Capitano.

This was my trap, you see. I thought I might learn more in witnessing a failed attempt at secrecy, so I allowed myself to be trailed to her door. I was alone with her for all of five minutes before Cangrande himself was demanding entrance.

Not that he was anything less than his suave self. And we were not there long. He clouted me on the ear for neglecting my duties, then chided his sister for ‘seducing the boy as you seduced his keeper.’ Does that refer to you? Now that’s a story I long to hear! I hope it is salacious, but somehow I doubt it. Rather, I imagine Donna Katerina was the woman you loved from afar who had feet of clay. You’ve hinted as much.

It might seem that my snare was a failure, but not so. I learned more from the Capitano’s face than I could from a hundred scrolls. When he saw those rolls of parchment, the air seemed to drain from the room. So my star-charts frighten and enrage him. Interesting. It is indeed a weapon – though one I must be careful about using. As long as he believes I have not read them, he will treat me carefully. If I do read them, as Katerina desires, I may gain a weapon only to lose the war. A threat is far superior to a blow. Ask Damocles.

Thus you may rest assured, the secret is still a secret. For the moment. If the Scaliger hawks me too hard, I may resort to perusing those scrolls. I suppose it lies in my stars.

 

Cesco laid his quill aside and flexed his fingers. The cypher came so easily to him he barely had to think of the encoding. Instead his mind was engaged with the matter of his birthday, which Katerina had in fact let slip. June 17th. Passed unremarked just two weeks earlier, it meant he was now twelve years old. Infuriatingly, the extra year had added very little to his height.

It was thanks to Mastino that he could fix the month of his birth. A year ago, just a fortnight after he’d arrived in Verona, he’d been introduced to a lady with an odd lilting accent. Donna Maria. Taking her for one of Katerina’s attendants, Cesco had ignored her words until Mastino informed him that this Maria was in fact his mother. Since then he’d reconstructed the conversation until he had it sound for sound, gesture for gesture.

You must have been born under it to have such a strong attraction.

Mercurio. He suits you, my boy.

Mercury, the ruling planet of the Gemini sign. Cesco reached into his shirt and withdrew a collection of rough astrological charts. They’d been sketched in darkness during snatches of stolen time. Each bore the mark of Gemini. Most were now useless – and damning. If Cangrande found them, he would assume Cesco had indeed seen Katerina’s charts. Reluctantly, Cesco put his hard work to the candle’s flame and set them alight.

Picking up his quill, he continued to write:

 

It does make me wonder, why more than one chart? Surely I was only born once! Or was I put back in the oven like an unfinished loaf of bread? One would think my mother would have objected. I must ask Morsicato if he has heard of such a thing – if I ever see him. He’s in Vicenza still, doting on his wife. She doesn’t improve, doesn’t decline. She exists in a state of discomfort. In that way—

 

He almost finished the line with ‘she is like Suor Beatrice.’ But he instead made a reference to himself and his hawking. He still debated mentioning his growing concerns for Antonia. Over the couple weeks Suor Beatrice had turned sour. Oh, not towards him! If anything she was over-enthusiastic for his presence, coddling him, covering him with unaccustomed kisses and hugs. But there was a new furtiveness to her behavior, an unwelcome timidity in her eyes.

I wonder if Fra Lorenzo knows what the matter is. Sadly, he and the good friar were not on the best of terms at present. Encountering him that morning, they had passed bland words, until suddenly the Franciscan had grabbed Cesco’s face in his hands, pulling at his eyelids. Cesco had recoiled, hands beating the friar away. But the holy man had seen everything he needed. “I know that look in the eyes. You’re a lotus-eater.”

“Names are unkind, Frater. All things in balance. It is part of a discipline I learned at the foot of one of my many keepers. I applaud you for your perspicacity.”

“Does your doctor know?”

“Yes. He, too, disapproves. But how else can I endure my hawking? Heracles couldn’t have done it, and he was half a god. Have no fear, I know the risks.”

“I doubt it.” Lorenzo’s voice had been grave. “If you continue, you will abuse it, and it will consume you.”

“Too late.” Flushed with anger, Cesco had stormed off. He needed no reminding of his failures. They lived in him, he carried them everywhere.

Deeply concentrated on recalling that scene, Cesco almost missed the sound of steps approaching. He stashed the sheet he was writing upon. Since there was no swift way to dispose of inks and quills, he had another sheet prepared. Like the one he’d been labouring upon, it was written in code. But this code was of his own devising. Early on he had simply written gibberish, but as time passed he decided that should he ever be discovered penning secret messages, they should at least be entertaining. So the fake coded letter was addressed to the Emperor Komenos of Trebizond, and related to a matter of gardening that, read properly, had a delicious double meaning.

The footsteps stopped and there was a knock on the door. Meaning it was not Cangrande, who would never knock. “Come.” Tharwat entered and Cesco pulled a face. “You allowed me to hear you.”

“You deserve as much privacy as you can earn.” He did not ask to whom Cesco wrote. He probably already knew.

“Let me put a seal on this.” Cesco produced the genuine letter, rolled it neatly, then poured wax from the tallow candle to form a rough seal. He leaned forward and used the coin at his neck to impress the wax. There was no other like it that he knew of. Pietro would know the letter was genuine.

Sitting back, Cesco handed the roll of paper to the Moor. “There. You can take it to Ser Alaghieri yourself.”

Tharwat frowned. “I will see it sent.”

“No, you will hand it to him.”

The Moor shook his head. “I am not leaving.”

“Three attacks in as many weeks. The last time the mob handed Cangrande an official petition for your head.”

“He declined.”

“This time. But he wants you gone, far away from me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the petition was his idea.”

“All the more reason to stay. Besides, the tourney begins tomorrow.”

“Exactly. The city teems with men, all of them good Christians, all of them with a taste for blood – they’re here for a tourney after all.”

“You are scheduled to joust. You ask me to leave you in peril.”

“No, I’m telling you to leave because you’re in peril. If you stay, you will certainly be attacked. By men who won’t be content to come after you with clubs and staves.”

“It is nothing I have not endured in the past.”

“You’re wrong. Bursa has changed everything. It may die down, in time. Ludwig will start a war with the Pope, or France will invade England. But at the moment everyone is mourning the loss of yet another Christian city. Even if you were not a Moslem, your skin marks you as heathen.You needs must leave.”

“I will not.”

“Of course you don’t think so. But if you stay you’ll be killed.”

Tharwat was ever obstinate. “I will not leave you.”

“You will if I ask you to. Don’t fret for me. I have Suor Beatrice for occasional respite, and the doctor in extremis. Now go, and Allah guide you.” Cesco made the Islamic salute from heart, head, and spirit. Then he held out the scroll.

Tharwat al-Dhaamin stood entirely still for a full minute, his eyes unfocused. Or perhaps they were focused on something Cesco could not see. At last he stretched out a hand and took the scroll. “Very well. I will see the doctor. You must have a continued supply of hashish.”

“He won’t like that.”

“All must endure the vicissitudes of fate. His burden will not tax him beyond his endurance.” The Moor moved to leave, then paused. In his painful rasp he spoke in Arabic. “Thou once asked a question.”

The boy matched the switch of tongues. “Once only? How very incurious I am.”

“Almost a year past, I offered thee an answer to any question thou couldst devise.”

“And I posed to thee what question I would be wisest to ask. My memory has not suffered the trials my stomach has.”

“I have thy answer.”

Cesco leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. “Oh?”

“Truly if I wore thy skin, I wouldst ask what occurred to make Cangrande send you to Ravenna with Ser Alaghieri.”

Cesco’s lips made a kind of half-frown. He unconsciously switched back to Italian. “A man kidnapped me, and Pietro was the one who… No. Clearly not. Your face speaks volumes.” Fatigue forgotten, the boy rose and began to pace. “But then why would – no, there’s more. Why that question, if it doesn’t lead to where I should go?”

“I cannot tell you more than I have.”

“Sworn to secrecy?”

“Yes,” said the Moor. “I am.”

Cesco’s smile grew. “Thank you again. Quite a bargain – two clues at the cost of one.”