Twenty-One

 

Verona

Tuesday, 23 July

1325

 

“I’m damned. Cesco is the Grehound?”

Morsicato was seated on a stone bench beside Pietro, across from Antonia and the Moor, both resting in the center of a walled yard belonging to the church of San Zeno. The burning summer sun beat relentlessly down upon them, and Pietro longed for the shade of the nearby arcade. But in the middle of the grassy square, they could see any approaching parishioners or clergy. As long as they kept their voices low, their words would remain private.

Pietro had learned long ago that houses have ears. Servants were unwitting spies, and in Verona’s close confines there was no telling who else could be listening. Needing the council of Cesco’s inner circle, Pietro had found a modicum of privacy in San Zeno. He would have preferred the interior of the church, but that far the Prior was not willing to go. In spite of his knighthood, Pietro was still anathema, and courtesy to the Scaliger only extended so far. Indeed, the Scaliger himself was excommunicated at present, barred from entering any but his own private chapel of Santa Maria Antica – though that edict had yet to be tested. Pietro supposed he was fortunate in owning a master who also laboured under Papal disapproval. Pietro’s knighthood should have been revoked the moment he lost God’s favour. His retention of the name Knight of the Mastiff meant he could demand certain concessions, such as the use of San Zeno’s yard and the entrance of al-Dhaamin within these holy confines.

Whom to invite to the meeting was almost as hard as determining a location. Antonia and Tharwat were a given. They knew every detail of Cesco’s history. But Pietro balked at Castelbarco or Bailardino. Conspirators against Mastino, yes. But they were only in Cesco’s camp out of loyalty to Cangrande. Already Bail showed unwillingness to believe ill of his brother-in-law, even when the tapestry was torn aside. So Pietro crossed them from the list.

The same went for Nico and Petruchio. Then there were Montecchio and Capulletto. There had been a time when he would have trusted both implicitly. That was before a woman had torn their friendship asunder. The worst part was that together they were a wonderful pair, a force to be reckoned with. Separately, they were lessened, diminished, their potential reduced to mundane levels. Pietro knew that if he reached out to one, the other would take umbrage. So they were both out.

That left the doctor. Certainly Morsicato had earned the right to be there. Privy to so much already, the doctor was ignorant of only one crucial fact – that Cesco was the fabled Greyhound of prophecy.

Probably, amended Pietro. With Cesco, nothing was certain.

For years Pietro had kept back this bit of information for the doctor’s safety. But Cesco’s destiny was the vital factor in divining Cangrande’s motives. Therefore the doctor had to be told.

Pietro began by reciting the prophecy of Il Veltro – not his father’s version of it, but the one Cangrande himself had declaimed so long ago:

To Italy there will come The Greyhound.

The Leopard and the Lion, who feast on our Fear,

He will vanquish with cunning and strength.

The She-Wolf, who triumphs in our Fragility,

He will chase through all the great Cities

And slay Her in Her Lair, and thus to Hell.
He will unite the land with Wit, Wisdom, and Courage,
And bring to Italy, the home of men,
A Power unknown since before the Fall of Man.
He will evanesce at the zenith of his glory.
By the setting of three suns after his Greatest Deed,
Death shall claim him.

Fame eternal shall be his, not for his Life, but his Death.

 

The next hushed words out of Pietro’s mouth were to the point. “First, doctor, you must know this – Cangrande is not Il Veltro. The prophecy actually refers to Cesco. We didn’t tell you to keep you safe. Cangrande’s jealousy borders rationality, and he’ll hate anyone who even hints that he is not the Greyhound.”

Morsicato asked Pietro to repeat his statement, and in a close whisper Pietro recited the words directly into the doctor’s ear. “Cesco is the Greyhound.”

To his credit, Morsicato did not reproach them with his exclusion from this information. He did look a little gruff, but his answer was to the point. “No wonder he hates the boy so.”

Pietro shook his head. “Hate is too easy. He pities Cesco, maybe even loves him. But his goal is control. Hence faking his own death to lure Cesco back to Verona. But there is more to that story, which we only learned last night.” Briefly, Pietro outlined everything they’d learned from Borachio.

At the end Antonia patted Pietro’s knee. “I’m glad you let him live.”

The doctor scowled at her. “I’m not. Damned poisoner!”

“Shh! Keep your voice down.” Pietro glanced at the monks, obtrusively watching from the arcade – the Moor’s presence unsettled them. Or is it me? “We need to decide what to do next.”

Morsicato seemed surprised. “Obvious. We go to Venice, find the house.”

“And do what? Storm in, demand to know who the man in the masque was? Even if it’s not carnevale, masques are common in Venice. Everyone who wants to go unrecognized wears one and no one thinks twice about it.”

“We could watch the house…” Even as the doctor spoke he saw the hopelessness of it. They didn’t even know for whom they’d be watching.

Pietro nodded. “The house is irrelevant, because we already know who the man in the masque was.” The others looked at him expectantly. He made a gesture with his hands, as if to say, Isn’t it obvious? “The Scaliger.”

“Cangrande?” asked Antonia, bewildered. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Who else could have known he was going to fake his own death two days before it happened?”

“If it was he,” said Tharwat, more careful than the others not to use names, “that means he hired the drunkard.”

“Yes!” hissed Pietro, glad that at least the Moor saw the obvious.

“Which means it was he who wanted the boy poisoned.”

“Yes.”

The Moor shook his head. “I doubt that.”

Pietro’s mouth hung open. “Of all people, you know what he’s—”

“What does he gain if Cesco dies? His father’s curse on his head.”

“Not if he believes in the Greyhound prophecy. He knows the boy won’t die.”

The doctor chimed in. “Even if that’s true, Tharwat’s right. It doesn’t make sense. You say the Capitano staged his death to lure the boy back to Verona. Fine. What does he gain from poisoning Cesco? Why lure him out, only to make him helpless?”

Pietro recalled Cangrande saying almost those exact words. “It might amuse him to bring the fabled Greyhound low. Show us all he’s mortal.”

Antonia shook her head. “He would have admitted it. To you, at least. Oh, maybe not right out. But he would have let you know it was he. From what you’ve told me, he wouldn’t be able to resist. Did he?”

Pietro’s silence answered that question.

“Is fecit, cui prodest,” said Tharwat softly. The man who profits does the deed. “The Capitano does not profit from this. And the drunkard said the masqued man had a Venetian dialect.”

“The Scaliger once pretended to be a Spaniard and fooled me for days. He even pretended to be a woman on the road to Ravenna! He could easily mimic a Venetian accent.”

“I don’t see the gain,” said Tharwat.

“Nor I,” said Morsicato.

Pietro was adamant. “No one else knew!”

“Surmise, not fact,” said Tharwat.

Pietro fumed. Yes, the Moor was technically correct. But the truth was so obvious! Cangrande! It has to be Cangrande!

The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but aren’t we missing the obvious name?” Everyone looked at him. “Mastino. Who stands to profit more from Cesco’s death?”

“It a point,” admitted Antonia.

Pietro shook his head. “This family – the curse of not spilling family blood weighs heavily on them. They’re indoctrinated with it from birth. You should have heard Pathino back in that cave. He was a bastard, never knew his father, yet he believed in the curse with every fibre of his being.”

Tharwat arched his brows. “That is as true for Cangrande as Mastino and Pathino. Moreso, perhaps.”

Having depended on Tharwat’s support, Pietro felt angry at being checked at each turn. When Antonia said, “We need to know more,” frustration got the better of him, and he snapped, “That goes without saying!”

“Calm down. I mean specifically about the rumour that Cangrande was dead. How did he start that rumour? And how did this masqued Venetian know about it ahead of time?”

Pietro could see the others needed logical proof. “Fine. Let’s run down the list of suspects. Mastino.”

Infuriatingly, Morsicato now reversed his position. “He couldn’t have known, or he’d’ve been better prepared to challenge the will. Cesco would never have made it to Verona.”

Pietro looked at the others. “Agreed?” They nodded. “Who else?”

“Cangrande’s wife,” said Morsicato, his voice overlapping with Antonia’s as she said, “Giovanna.”

Pietro pointed, as if dotting a name on a list. “Madonna della Scala. Certainly, she’s tried it before. Tharwat?”

“No.” The Moor was firm. When both Antonia and Morsicato began to argue, he said, “I believe her when she says she had nothing to do with it. Though, after his last performance, she might be thinking of it now.”

“But she’s the obvious person to benefit,” protested Antonia. “If Cesco died, Paride would be next in line—”

“After Mastino, Alberto, and Federigo,” completed Pietro. “That’s too many bodies to climb over. She had better chances at law, and in court there were greater threats than a bastard son. Who does that leave?”

“Pathino?” suggested Antonia.

Pietro resisted a shiver. Gregorio Pathino had played a part in many nightmares these last ten years. Thankfully Tharwat answered that. “Even if he knew that Cesco was alive, how would he know about the fake death?”

“That goes for everyone,” said Pietro. “Which brings us back to Cangrande—”

“Wait,” said Antonia. “Wait. Clearly the Venetian didn’t know where Cesco was, or else he would have attacked him in Ravenna. No?”

“That’s right,” said Pietro, the first real doubt coming home.

“Unless,” said Morsicato, snapping his fingers, “the villain wanted Cesco killed just as he came to light.”

“Who benefits from that?” asked Tharwat.

“Cangrande’s enemies. Kill the heir just as he rears his head. Someone knew this was about bringing Cesco to Verona, and wanted to stop it. What if – what if this was less about the boy and more about hurting the Scaliger?”

“Scaligeri, you mean,” said the Moor. “All of them.”

It was a new thought, and Morsicato diagnosed it as he would an unknown disease. “We naturally focus on the boy. But what if he’s only a part of it? This could have been aimed at Cangrande – the whole family, maybe.”

Antonia frowned. “Which means they’re all in danger. Do we warn them?”

“Do we warn him, you mean,” said Pietro.

“Yes.”

Stubbornly Pietro shook his head. “I’m still not convinced he wasn’t behind it. It could have easily been him behind the screen. The man was seated, so as not to give away his height…”

Antonia was his equal in stubbornness. “I cannot accept it. It doesn’t make sense.”

Pietro threw a glance at Tharwat, hoping for eleventh hour support. The Moor inclined his head. “Anything is possible. But knowing the workings of his mind, I do not think it likely.”

“Fine. How about this – we investigate the events around his fake death without talking to him directly. We can do that, surely.”

“It would be easier to ask him.”

“And if it was him behind the screen? He’ll know that we can link him to Borachio, and who knows what he’ll do then.”

“Have us killed,” said Morsicato at once.

“Or removed some other way, yes.”

“What’s your solution, then?” demanded Antonia. “Kill him?”

“Before he kills us,” said Pietro. “Yes.”

The others stared at him. Antonia and Morsicato clearly thought he was mad. Tharwat was unreadable.

“Kill Cang– kill him?” gasped Antonia.

“Yes.”

“Last night you refused to commit murder,” said Tharwat.

“I also said I would murder to protect the boy. The drunkard is no longer a threat. He is.” Pietro wanted to press his point further, but refrained. They had all the same pieces he did, they could reach their conclusions.

The Moor spoke first. “If it was he, then I agree.”

The doctor was chewing his beard. “Me too. If.”

Antonia was staring at her brother as if she had never seen him. “I didn’t know you would ever break the law.”

“I would risk everything, even my immortal soul, for my family.”

That was it, of course. Cesco was their child. No matter who his birth father was, they had raised him. They were the ones who loved him.

Antonia was a long time in giving her assent, but at last she nodded. Then, just as Pietro was about to ask how they go about it, she said, “If we can prove it.”

“You want proof? Fine. I have an idea.”

Quickly he outlined the plan he had conceived the night before. Antonia looked dubious, but Tharwat was brisk. “It is a good plan. One way or another we will be certain, and may proceed from there. But it must be done in public. Someplace away from the court.”

“Capulletto’s ball,” said Morsicato at once. “Cangrande will be there, and we can confront him away from his guards.”

“Risky timing,” said Pietro. “But better than trying at the palace or on the street.”

“And in the meantime,” said Tharwat, “the doctor and I will travel to Mantua and track down this apothecary. It bothers me, the instruction to purchase the poison in Mantua. There are enough disreputable apothecaries in Venice. Why add forty miles to the trip to procure the foul means of murder? I can only think that the apothecary is important. He may know something.”

Pietro suddenly snapped his fingers. “Mantua! We can find out the events of those missing days without asking Cangrande! I know who we can ask!”

“Who?”

“Passerino! Lord Bonaccolsi was with him the whole time!”

“Excellent,” said the Moor, nodding.

Visibly relaxing, Antonia said, “Somehow I always forget he exists – he’s so eclipsed by the Scaliger. But Passerino is a good man, and thinks this was an excellent joke. He’ll want to tell the tale.”

“Yes. But not until the party. We can’t let the Scaliger know we’re nosing around until we can confront him.”

Morsicato held up a hand like a student. “Pietro, you may have thought of this, but how do we get the drunkard into the party without the Scaliger knowing?”

Pietro smiled. “I have an answer for that, too.”

 

♦           ◊           ♦

 

Soon Pietro was crossing to the opposite end of the city, from north-west to south-east. His destination was an entirely different house of God, San Francesco al Corso. A modest establishment, as befit an Order that embraced poverty and humility. It was impressive only for its sheen, as the sun reflected off unadorned white walls and white paving stones leading to the open front door. This was not a church of massive grey stone. Nor was it made of the ubiquitous rose-marble and yellow brick that so defined the city. It seemed to glow, and in daylight hurt the eyes. Perhaps that was why so many of the brothers had squints.

Pietro came at it from the side, following the path to the garden. Even the gravel was white, and Pietro’s feet kicked up chalky clouds with each step. I mar God’s path, he thought, wondering if it were true.

It was too fine a day for such thoughts to linger. Light filtered down through trellised arbors wound round with bright green leaves. The white marble pillars holding up the trellises were thin, almost apologetic for being there at all.

The man Pietro sought was in San Francesco’s garden. Once handsome, he clearly spent a great deal of time outside. His skin was dark with sun and his eyes had the smiling crows-feet of long days spent squinting. His hands were hard, his fingernails encrusted with soil. The knees of his brown robes were deep in the dirt as he instructed a teenaged acolyte in the nature of Nature. The sun reflected off the tonsured skin on their heads, but the elder man’s hadn’t been shaved in several days. Clearly he wasn’t as careful about his appearance as once he’d been. No longer in the spring of his Orders, the thirty year-old still had a spry step and a genial smile.

Seeing someone approach, the friar paused until the hazy figure resolved itself. “Ser Alaghieri?”

“Good morning, Fra Lorenzo.”

“Benedicite,” said Lorenzo in cheerful welcome. “Is your young charge with you?”

“He’s at home, mending. Reading, probably.”

“Delighted to hear it.” Fra Lorenzo cuffed the young man beside him. “See? Learning is a meal to be devoured, not a torture only inflicted on prisoners of youth. Ser Alaghieri, are you out for a stroll or do you have a specific destination?”

“I’m where I want to be.” Pietro stepped into the shade of the garden wall. “I was hoping for a word, but there’s no hurry. Please finish your lesson.”

Lorenzo nodded. “Thank you. Brother Giovanni, stop staring at Ser Alaghieri. You’ll make him self-conscious. Now, as I’ve said before, all creation is made for the express good of Man. No, that does not mean that everything is universally good. But there is nothing that exists on God’s earth that doesn’t have the capacity for good.” His fingers brushed the rough twinned leaves of a tiny blue-stemmed plant. “Take this, for example. What’s it called, do you know?”

“It looks like spinach,” said the young brother.

“Do you want to eat it?” Lorenzo plucked one of the leaves free. “Smell this.”

Brother Giovanni quickly turned up his nose. “Ew!”

“It tastes worse than it smells. Now, use your head. Name a plant that I might be interested in that looks like spinach.”

“Umm.” The novice gave a quick glance to Pietro, who shrugged.

“I’ll give you one more hint. While it’s poisonous to small animals when it’s fresh, heat removes the harmfulness.”

John took a guess. “Mercorella?”

“Good, good.”

“I was right?”

“No. Well, a little. Part right in name, wholly wrong in fact.” Lorenzo held up the sprig. “This is Dog’s Mercury.”

“Dog’s Mercury? Like a Dog Violet or a Dog Rose?”

“Yes. Why do we call some plants Dog?”

“Because they don’t – they lack the attributes of the regular species.”

“Correct!” Fra Lorenzo twirled the stem to bring a leaf to the front. “You can tell this is the commoner male by the leaves – more pointed, less serrated than those on the female, which have longer stalks.” As the novice started looking for the female, Lorenzo clucked his tongue. “Sadly, male and female are rarely found together. They don’t get on well.”

“Then how do they thrive?”

“A surprisingly excellent question! They rely on the wind and, though I have yet to observe it, I think insects. Meanwhile they increase their numbers by spreading their rootstocks and stems. Rather like a man of considerable influence who lacks in potency of the loins.” The novice reddened, causing Lorenzo to chuckle. “It flowers from March to May, and seeds in summer. The Greeks called it Mercury’s Grass, and the French call it La Mercuriale. Its name comes from an ancient legend that the pagan god Mercury came down and revealed its medicinal properties to man. Do you have any idea what those properties might be?”

“Ah. Poisonous. Um, good as a, a dye…”

Lorenzo gave Brother Giovanni’s tonsure a light slap. “Don’t guess.”

“Was I wrong?”

“No. But I can still tell. To an adult, Dog’s Mercury isn’t necessarily deadly. Rather, it is an irritant. It will make you vomit, feel drowsy, or maybe twitch a bit in your face and extremities. As far as dyes go, the leaves and stem produce a muddy kind of indigo when steeped in water. It’s permanent, but expensive, as a fair amount of alum is needed to bind it together. However, that’s not what I asked you. I asked for the medicinal properties.” Lorenzo sighed. “By the panic on your face, I see you haven’t a clue. Fine. Listen. Learn. Hippocrates commends it for women’s diseases – used externally, of course. If swallowed in a very watery concoction, it’s a fine purgative. A solution of powdered leaves is good for sore eyes and pains in the ears. And if you’re smart enough to pluck it while it’s in flower, you can mix it with sugar or vinegar and create an excellent poultice for warts and ugly sores.” Lorenzo stood and brushed himself off. “Now, here’s the trick I use to keep my plants straight in my mind. I think of them as people. In time they become old friends, or at least passing acquaintances. So, Dog’s Mercury or, as we shall call him, the Mercurial Dog. First, picture him physically. Blue eyes, feathery hair. He’s smaller than his fellows and has extra arrogance because of it. He’s not murderous, but neither is he friendly. A little prickly, he makes you uneasy when you’re around him. But as he ages, he has hidden depths, and grows to a man of great, if unseen, influence.” Hearing Pietro chuckle, Lorenzo said, “Ser Alaghieri, do you have anything to add?”

“I am only astonished at how well your little device works. I feel like I know him. But I imagine him with curling hair and a wicked smile. And his eyes are green.”

“Indeed?” Lorenzo was amused. “You are fortunate in your imagination. I always end up seeing faces of people I have known. Giovanni, can you picture him, too? Good. Keep him in your mind and make sure you never eat him. Now go back to the abbot and tell him what you’ve learned today. Ser Alaghieri has been very patient, but I don’t think he’s here to speak with you.”

“Alas, no,” said Pietro, patting the young novice on the shoulder as he passed. He waited while Lorenzo shook out his brown Franciscan robes from waist to ankle. He was barefoot according the rules of his Order. As he came near, Pietro breathed in the scent of freshly turned earth that by now had become the friar’s own. Gesturing at the wide enclosure filled with plants, Pietro said, “A long way from tending Bishop Francis’ little herb garden.”

Lorenzo scrubbed his hands on the chest of his robes. “God’s gift to me. I am blessed that I may put it to use.”

“Doubly blessed,” observed Pietro. “I hear even the Benedictines have swallowed their pride and asked you to instruct their young men.”

“Only in matters of plants. I am under orders – from both Orders – not to discuss wider theological concerns.”

Pietro cocked his head at the word theology. “I thought that both Franciscans and Benedictines frowned upon applying logic to God.”

Lorenzo returned him a helpless smile. “Officially, yes. But in practice, it’s what we’ve always done. And I like the word. Theo Logy. God Logic.”

In the smile was the young man Pietro had met ten years before. Time may have broadened his shoulders and added weight to his frame, as tended to happen with Franciscans. But his eyes were still the colour of a cloudy sky, his hair still raw black. His long, solid chin was now hidden by a bristly beard, which had the effect of making him less pretty than he had been. No longer could the women of Verona refer to him as another Brother What-A-Waste.

Indeed, if the rumours were true, Fra Lorenzo was one of the few members of any order who did not have a woman stashed away somewhere. It was noted that he always had time for the young men in need of work, or a kind word. Which gave rise to other whispers. Monastic life was the target of much speculation, and all too often the rumours of indecency between the brothers were true.

But Lorenzo didn’t seem to be that kind of friar. His vow of chastity seemed as sincere as his other vows. His devotion to rules ensured that he would never rise to become a Bishop. But that, too, seemed to be fine with the man, who was happiest in his herb garden tending to God’s creation.

Finished with his rough grooming, Lorenzo said, “How is Cangrande’s son enjoying Verona?”

“He is as eager to soak the city in as a sponge for water.”

“You say he’s reading – books from the Chapter Library?”

Pietro nodded. “He’s interested in learning as much as he can about the city.”

“That library is indeed magnificent. Even I have found a few treasures in the collection. Several translations of Hippocrates’ notes on herbs. Though the common joke around the monastery is if you handed me a book, I’d try to plant it. Ha! Tell me, what kind of poison was it?” Pietro blinked, and Lorenzo gave him a shrewd smile. “I am not a fool. Fracastoro employs me as his personal apothecary. The brotherhood approves because he’s the Scaliger’s personal physician. When he sends to me for information about three separate poisons on the very night that the boy arrives, it does not take a monumental intelligence to divine the cause.” Lorenzo patted Pietro’s shoulder. “Don’t concern yourself. I know how to keep a secret.”

“I’m well aware of it,” said Pietro pointedly. “You see, I know a few secrets myself.”

“Obviously! You raised the Capitano’s son for nearly a decade and not a soul got wind of it. No small feat.”

Hating himself a little, Pietro edged closer to his real reason for seeking out this holy man. “You know, it’s funny, what sticks in the memory. As I remember it, you had only just arrived in Verona when we first met.”

“True,” said Lorenzo easily. “Ages ago.”

“And now you pass for a native. Your accent is entirely gone.”

And there it was. Just a flicker, but finally Pietro had prodded the man in a sensitive place. For the space of a single breath, Fra Lorenzo’s face transformed from genial openness to wary suspicion. Then it was gone, vanishing as soon as it had appeared. Fra Lorenzo tried to laugh. “I wasn’t aware I’d assimilated so thoroughly.”

“Of course, they speak Occitan in Sebartés as well,” continued Pietro. “The transition could not have been too hard.”

“Sebartés? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Really? If I were to mention that a Frenchman called Arnaud Sicre was in the area, what would that mean to you?”

Another breath of hesitation. “Nothing. Who is he?”

“A religious bounty hunter. You must have heard of him. He’s the tool of a Dominican called Bernardo Gui.”

Fra Lorenzo doggedly shook his head. “Another name that means nothing—”

Pietro sighed. “Fra Lorenzo, that’s a ridiculous lie. Who doesn’t know Gui? But we’ll let that pass in favour of another name – Batto Tricastre. Does that—?”

With the suddenness of lightning from a clear sky, Lorenzo swung all his weight into a blow aimed at Pietro’s chin.

Pietro Alaghieri was no longer the untutored teen who had arrived in Verona eleven years earlier. Any moment not spent learning law was spent in practice with Tharwat, and his swordsmanship now rivaled even the proudest soldier’s. Training had honed Pietro’s reflexes. Instinctively, he caught the blow on his own forearm. Stepping forward, he placed his weak leg behind Lorenzo’s knee and unbalanced the friar by forcing that knee to bend. At the same time Pietro twisted his hips and shoved.

“Aaah!” Fra Lorenzo tumbled to the ground heavily enough to lose his wind, crushing the nearby crop of Dog’s Mercury.

Pietro stepped out of arm’s reach. “That’s some temper.”

“Wha – wha – wasn’t it deserved?” demanded Lorenzo, red-faced.

“Probably,” admitted Pietro. “I apologize.”

“Is Sicre – in the area?”

“In Spain, last I heard. As far as I know, he has no reason to come here.”

Lorenzo hauled himself to a sitting position. Face flushed with rage, his grey eyes were filled with panic. “What do you want?”

“To warn you,” lied Pietro. “If I know, you can wager that others do as well.”

Tears formed in the friar’s wide eyes. “It’s been so long…”

A couple of Franciscans came around the corner of the wall, both running. “Brother, we heard a shout—”

Lorenzo clambered up to his feet. “I’m fine. Slipped. Stupid of me,” he added, with a quick grin. It was convincing. The man was an accomplished liar. In moments Lorenzo had sent them off mollified, thanking them for their concern.

The instant they were gone, Fra Lorenzo turned back to Pietro. They held gazes for a moment, and there was something like hate in the holy man’s eyes. Then the friar made a helpless gesture. “Walk with me.”

They left the grounds of San Francesco, turning to walk along the riverside where there was less chance of being overheard.

“I’m curious,” said Pietro. “What would you have done if your blow had landed?”

“Tied you up, I suppose. Hidden you in the shade of the wall. Then I would have run.” The friar uttered a sour chuckle of self-disdain. “It’s something I’m good at. Running. How much do you know?”

“Enough. I wasn’t lying when I said my father remembered you. When the trials started five years ago, he recalled you came from Sebartés, and how panicked you were when he discovered it. It was not a difficult leap.”

Lorenzo sighed. “He was the only one who ever remarked it. It was because of him that I worked so hard to erase every trace of French from my accent. You say others know?”

Pietro shook his head. “I’ve never told anyone. But the Scaliger must know. I have no idea who else.”

Lorenzo was pensive. “If he’s known, he could have done something else long before now.”

Pietro didn’t reveal what he thought of the Capitano. “He’s a politician. He could be waiting until it’s of use.”

“True.” Lorenzo’s face was hangdog. “His father burned the Paterenes alive in the Arena.”

“From what I understand, Alberto della Scala was a fanatically religious man. His son is devout, but not cut from that cloth. He bears his excommunication with equanimity.”

“Whereas yours bothers you?”

“Every day.” It was a small enough secret to share, but Lorenzo could tell that it was something Pietro didn’t like to speak of. An attempt to build trust.

They walked in silence for a time. At one point Lorenzo bent down to pluck a plant growing along the water’s edge. He studied it hard, as if hoping it contained the answer to his problems. Finally he said, “How can I help you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your motives are not altruistic. You’re not here to warn me of impending danger. If you wanted to betray me, you would have done so. You need me. There’s no other reason to reveal your knowledge. So get on with it. But I warn you, I have very little influence with the Pope.”

“I’m not here to extort your help,” said Pietro, working hard to be persuasive. “The opposite, really. I’m going to trust you with a secret of mine. I wanted you to know that I can keep secrets. Besides, as you point out, I’m an excommunicant. What do I care about heresy?”

It was a lame attempt at humour, and Lorenzo’s stare chilled Pietro. “A secret of yours?”

“You already guessed that Cesco was poisoned. We caught the man who did it. He was hired by someone in Venice, but I think that someone was really from Verona. The poisoner can’t identify the man’s face, but he can recognize a voice. It’s my suspicion that the man will be at Capulletto’s feast next week. What we need to do is sneak the poisoner into Capulletto’s house in some disguise so he won’t be recognized. If he hears the right voice, he’ll tell us and we can bring the real villain to justice.”

“How do you know you can trust the poisoner?”

“We don’t. We need someone with him at all times.”

“And that’s why you’re—”

“—asking if you’ll help.”

Lorenzo considered for a time. “Why do you think it will be someone at the feast?”

“He said the man was noble, well-spoken. All the nobility of Verona will be at the feast.”

“Except Montecchio,” protested Lorenzo pointlessly.

“I seriously doubt Mari ordered the death of Cangrande’s heir.”

Lorenzo sighed. “What do you have in mind?”

“Disguise him as a vagabond friar visiting Verona, and have him accompany you to the feast.”

“That might be a problem. I don’t usually attend such things. Especially not at Capulletto’s house.”

“They’ve been throwing these celebrations for ten years. You’ve never been?”

“I have avoided Ser Capulletto’s company ever since I caused the rift between him and Ser Montecchio.”

Pietro understood. “You didn’t cause the rift. You married Gianozza to Mari in good faith. No one blames you.”

“That’s not to say I don’t deserve some blame.”

“Then leave it to God. If Antony doesn’t hold you responsible, I don’t see why you need to hold him at arm’s length.”

“What if I say no?”

“To what?”

“To all of it.”

“Fra Lorenzo,” said Pietro haltingly, “I have a sister in the Order. I was raised to join it myself. I may be an excommunicant, but I have nothing but respect for the Church. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“There are many who would see it as their duty to the Church to betray me.”

“I am not one of them. I try not to judge a man without evidence.”

They reached a street leading back to the Franciscan monastery. Lorenzo stopped. “You have me over a barrel. I’ll aid you in your deception, but only because it will aid the child and the Capitano.” The friar studied Pietro from head to toe. “You know, I always understood you to be an honourable man. I watched you fight a duel once. I even cheered for you because you were in the right. I mourned your excommunication when I heard of it because I thought you were the wronged party. But now I see the Pope was guided by the Lord in making his decision. You are in league with the Devil.”

Barbed words. Pietro answered in kind. “Of the pair of us, I’m not the one the Pope would like to see burned at the stake.”

It was past the hedge of Pietro’s teeth before he could stop it, and at once he tried to mend his gaffe. “When he was five, Cesco asked me a question. ‘Uncle Pietro,’ he said, ‘how do you put your talk back in your mouth?’ I wish I had an answer now. That was unworthy. I apologize.”

The friar just stared, mouth set in a deep grimace.

After an uncomfortable silence, Pietro said, “I’ll send my sister to you. She knows nothing of your secret. Nor does anyone else. I mean it. I will not betray you.”

Lorenzo said nothing. There was nothing to say. But Pietro made a last stab at amends. “You told Brother Giovanni that everything on earth has the potential for both good and evil. Consider this me doing evil for a good cause.”

Fra Lorenzo studied Pietro as he would a weed in his garden. “Matthew 7:17. Every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. It says nothing about good fruit from an evil tree.” Turning, he left Pietro standing at the water’s edge with the thought.