The Master of Verona

Thirty-Six

Having recovered as much composure as a dying man may, the Count of San Bonifacio greeted his guest with a smile. "My dear, forgive me for not rising. Would you like to start with thumbscrews? Have you any salt? Or would you prefer to unleash one of your brother's menagerie upon me? If I may choose, I think I'd take the baboon. I have never seen one."

"The jackal is more appropriate. Or the leopard. That was what Pathino tried to feed Cesco to — a leopard. He told you?"

"Some. I try not to rely too heavily upon his word. Is that wine?"

"It is."

He sniffed it warily. "Poppies?"

"Not much. Morsicato's own brew. When the pain leaves you, I will give you nothing but water. We must talk."

The Count lifted the sweet-smelling mixture of wine and drug to his lips and drank deeply. Wiping his lips he said, "Certainly, we shall speak. Let me tell you about my father."

"Fine. Then I will tell you of my son."

The cave's depth was surprising. The path was steep, and the twisting descent masked the distance down to the main chamber. Pietro was surprised to hear drips of water hitting a pool. Was there a spring down here? Or was the roof so saturated with the rain that water was seeping down into the secret stable below?

He smelled the fire before he saw the glow on the curved tunnel wall. How best to handle this? His cape was heavy with wet. His sleeveless leather doublet was stiff and cold. His shirt clung to his skin, hampering his movement. He stripped these off. He knew he ought to remove his breeches, but if he was running to his death he was going decently covered.

The water-filled boots were a problem. They sloshed as he walked. If he took them off, his bare feet would be at the mercy of whatever ground was down there. He couldn't do with noise, though, so he removed them as well. Barefoot and bare-chested, Pietro laid his cane carefully across the path. Then, gripping his sword in his good hand, he moved ahead, placing each foot with care.

Mercurio was tense, long curved teeth bared. Pietro edged around the corner, then quickly pulled back. The cavern opened up into a wide chamber. Tree roots hung down from the earthen roof. The ground dipped at the center of the chamber. It was full of water, creating a natural barrier to crossing to the far side. The water came from above, the soaking rain falling just like the Old Man of Crete's tears fell to form the rivers of Hell.

The fire pit lay beyond the water, at the far end where the earth rose again. By the fire's light Pietro thought he'd seen a horse and a couple of figures camped close to the flames.

How to cross the water unseen? More importantly, unheard? Even if Pietro could sneak across the water, how quiet would the dog be? Mercurio was amazingly well-trained — even now he held back, waiting for Pietro to make a move. Best get a second look. Pietro leaned out again.

Something had changed. There were no longer two figures by the fire. There was only one. The man. Where was the child?

Pietro pulled back, assessing his options. I could go slowly into the chamber, try and creep up. Or -

The hell with it. He turned the corner and ran, the balls of his feet the only things to touch the ground as he lumbered straight for the pool of water and the man beyond. Reaching the water he plunged in, creating great splashes in the murky liquid. His progress was slowed almost to a walk. Pathino was seated upright but unmoving, his back to his approaching attacker. Pietro's eyes scanned right and left. No sign of the child. Where was he?

Something was wrong. Pietro was making enough noise to wake the dead in their graves, but the man still didn't move. Pathino's horse was shying away, yet the kidnapper was rigidly still. Why?

Something's wrong. That isn't -

His legs caught on something just beneath the water's surface and he fell onto his face just steps away from the shore, cast onto the bank a scant three feet from the man by the fire.

Pietro's eyes rose to look at the shape, sitting within grasping distance. It was a dummy of straw and mud, covered with a cloak and hat. A lure to bring any would be rescuer across, prey to the tripwire stretched just under the surface of the dark waters. A trick used by the Montecchi horse thieves in their day, Pathino had discovered it and made it his own. The scarecrow's own scarecrow.

And you fell for it. But then where-?

A grotesque creature rose from a cleft in the earth hidden from the firelight. Pietro rolled back into the water as a long broadsword flew at his head. The first blow missed Pietro's neck by three inches. The creature shrieked, already pulling the blade free of the damp earth. Tangled in the tripwire, Pietro lifted his sword in a frantic defense. Pathino's sword scraped along Pietro's hanging parry, sending brief sparks into the shadow between them. The scarecrow's teeth were bared in a vicious grimace as he dragged his blade back for a thrust that would pierce Pietro's chest. Swallowing water and struggling, Pietro couldn't move fast enough.

Pathino let out a cry of triumph that turned into a scream as Mercurio leapt up to close his teeth on Pathino's wrist. The kidnapper pummeled the dog with his other fist. Mercurio took the blow and landed gamely, ready for a second pounce.

By now Pietro had gotten his legs under him, his feet sinking into the soft muck under the water. Pathino let fly a third strike and Pietro ducked, thrusting with his own sword. But now Mercurio got in the way, leaping up to stagger Pathino back. Pietro's killing blow instead glanced off Pathino's thigh.

The pommel of Pathino's sword came up and down, shattering the dog's skull. Mercurio crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his head. The injured hound tried to right himself, stumbling helplessly towards the fire.

Pietro screamed and Pathino barely turned in time to parry his vengeful blow. Stumbling back, the scarecrow pitched a handful of dirt into Pietro's eyes. Turning his head, Pietro only caught a few specks in his left eye. Already he had his sword moving up to block the descending skull-strike. He half felt, half saw Pathino's blade bite into his own. Pietro surged upward, knocking his opponent's weapon aside as he swung for his belly.

The scarecrow jumped back a second time, watching Pietro's stroke hiss past his middle. He kept dodging backward until he reached into the cleft neatly hidden by the fire pit. From it he dragged Cesco, bound hand and foot with a rag stoppering his mouth. Tossing his sword aside Pathino drew his miseracordia and held it to Cesco's throat.

Pietro halted, but didn't lower the point of his blade. His eyes flickered down to the child in Pathino's grip. Bound, the boy looked dazed.

Both men panted for breath. Pathino said, "Drop your sword."

"You can't escape. Give him to me and I'll let you walk out of here."

"I said drop your sword." Pietro hesitated, and Pathino pressed the flat of the thin dagger into the child's flesh. It drew no blood, but that could change with an ounce of pressure, a flick of the wrist.

"You can't hurt him," said Pietro. "The Count would never forgive you."

"You have no idea what the Count wants with the boy. Drop your sword."

Reversing his blade so that it pointed down, Pietro rammed it into the soft earth.

"Now step away from it."

Pietro obeyed, easing sideways, putting the fire pit between them. Pathino remained where he was, holding Cesco upright in his grasp. "Sit down." The knife left Cesco's throat as the kidnapper gestured to an old crumbling log close to the fire's edge. Pietro sat, trying to hide his shivers. His bare arms and chest dripped with cold water, and though he warmed himself by the blaze, his eyes remained locked on the scarecrow.

Pathino lowered himself onto a rock on his side of the fire. He roughly shoved Cesco down to his knees, then pulled the boy's head up. His knife remained ready. Cesco's wide eyes were looking curiously at Pietro.

"Everything will be fine," Pietro told him.

Pathino's expression was smug. "For him, perhaps. I wouldn't take a wager on your own life, though. Who are you?"

"Someone who's wanted to meet you for a long time." He was imagining how Cangrande would handle this situation. "How did you know I was here, by the way?"

"Answer for an answer, boy. Like eye for an eye."

"Pietro Alaghieri."

"Ah. Ser Alaghieri. I should have known. To answer your question, I saw your sword reflecting the firelight."

Pietro nodded, too tired to feel foolish. "This is one of the old Montecchio caves, isn't it?"

"Yes. I grew up near here. I found this cave as a boy, and always remembered where it was. Though I had a scare last week as I was setting up. Two girls came in to explore."

"Did you murder them, too?"

"Hardly. I merely pretended to be an animal and scared them off."

"You didn't have to pretend. What's the plan?"

"You'll sit there until we're joined by my patron."

"You mean the Count of San Bonifacio." When Pathino didn't respond, he said, "Then what?"

"Then, I imagine, you will die."

An idea occurred to Pietro. "The Count's dead. Killed at Vicenza."

Was that a shadow of fear? "You lie."

"Sadly, no," said Pietro, sounding much calmer than he felt. "I took his armour for myself to wear and impersonated him before his men."

Pathino's voice carried nothing but scorn. "Then where is it?"

"I shed it when I started after you."

Clearly disbelieving Pietro's words, Pathino said, "I guess we'll just have to sit here to find out. By midnight the Count should be with us."

"A long wait."

"If you wish to save some time and open your wrists, I won't stop you. I may even bury you, though not on holy ground of course."

"And lose the pleasure of speaking with you?" The bravado rang hollowly in his own ears. He directed his gaze to the boy. "Cesco? Detto's fine."

In spite of the knife resting on his collarbone, Pietro saw the child visibly relax.

"So, Ser Pietro Alaghieri, cavaliere of Verona," hissed Pathino, "tell me — what do you want to spend your last hours speaking of?"

Shivering, Pietro said, "I want to know what brought you here."

The rain beat down on the tiled roof of the Nogarola palace, but didn't drown out the captive's words. "…and he died a broken man, longing for nothing more than to return to his childhood home. Your uncle and your father took control of Verona, destroying the natural order of things. We have no kings here, no Caesars. No one man can be allowed to rule over his fellows."

"Yes, I can see how the Bonifaci suffered all those centuries as unelected rulers of the Feltro."

The Count sneered. "My family rose to the top because of ability."

"I'm sure the hoarded wealth of generations had nothing to do with your prosperity."

"Ability shines in my family."

"As it does in mine. Not just in my brother. There's Cesco."

"Indeed there is, indeed there is. Or there was."

"So, to avenge your father, you'll murder Cangrande's heir?"

The Count made a face. "Nothing so simple as that. When I heard about the boy I saw new possibilities. Nothing else could have moved Pathino to my side."

"Pathino, yes. Why would you want him? He made a hash of that first kidnapping attempt."

"True. He barely escaped with his life, I hear. To be fair, though — " Vinciguerra had to break off for a bout of coughing blood into a napkin. "To be fair, none of the others I sent were successful, either. They couldn't even get close."

"I would say the two who tried to kill him got fairly close."

The Count looked puzzled. "I never tried to have him killed. That would have spoiled my plans."

"Then your minions were confused — they hacked his bed to pieces."

"When was this?" demanded Vinciguerra.

"August of last year. Tell me that, at least, was a mistake."

An odd expression spread over the old man's face. "I sent no one in August — or July or September, for that matter."

Katerina believed him. That meant there was someone else's hand at work — someone subtle enough to hide his intent to kill the boy under the guise of yet another kidnapping attempt.

From the Count's expression, he'd reached the same conclusion. "You know who it is," observed Katerina.

"I might," confirmed Vinciguerra. "But believe me, lady, I wanted no harm to befall that boy. In fact, I swore an oath to Pathino that he would not be hurt."

"Why? What is he to Pathino?"

The Count grinned. "Can't you tell? Didn't you see it when you met the man? I mean, he's thin and has lived a hard life. He's quite a devoted man of faith, wears a hair shirt. All that adds years to a man's face. But still…"

"What are you talking about?"

"You asked what Pathino was to the boy. I'll do one better. I'll tell you what he is to all you Scaligeri." The Count paused, savouring this.

"He's kin."

"I never knew my father well, but my mother took great pride in him. The great Lord of Verona. Just like your beloved Cangrande, my father ran about the Feltro sowing his filthy seed in every wench that caught his eye. My mother was a local girl destined for a good marriage before he took her and used her for his lust. Then he tossed her aside for another whore, leaving her pregnant and alone. Oh, there was gold, of course. Devil's payment, the Devil's due for the Devil's deed. But did he ever confess it as a sin? The pious man, so pious that he burned the Paterene heretics in Verona's Arena — the same place you fought that ridiculous duel — did that pious man of faith ever confess the act that brought nameless me into the world, a shame to my mother?"

Pietro was trying to piece this story together. "You're talking about Cangrande's father."

Pathino gave him a tainted smile. "Alberto della Scala, yes. Five children in wedlock, dozens out. I have prayed all my life for God to forgive the stain of my blood, the soil of my progenitor, of a man who appointed one of his own bastards to the holy office of abbot. That he is remembered for his piety is an abomination against the Lord."

Pietro was still grappling with the concept. But looking at Pathino now in the flickering flames, there were signs. The cheeks, the chin. The eyes. "Cangrande is-"

"My brother, yes. Or rather, my half-brother. We had different mothers, thanks be to God."

"But… if he's your brother, tell him so and he'll see to you."

"I'm sure."

"No, I mean he'll welcome you. Nothing is as important to him as family. I've seen…" Pietro stopped speaking.

"Yes?"

There could be no harm in saying it. "I saw him give up victory over Padua to take in that boy there. That's how much his family matters to him."

Pathino remained silent. The dancing light played over a face that might have just as well been made of marble. Finally he spoke. "So, to claim his bastard he gave up a great victory. A noble deed, almost atoning for the sin of siring the bastard in the first place. Yet it kept him from greatness. It proves that he cannot be the Greyhound."

Pietro blinked, leaning forward. "The — what do you mean?"

"You know the prophecy? Good, that's good. God has ordained that the Greyhound will bring about another age of man. Everyone believes that your precious Cangrande is that man. But there is a hint in the name itself. Veltro. Greyhound. The bastard. Think about it. It has to be a bastard. Only a bastard, born in sin, can transcend that sin and win Christ's approval to help bring mankind to its senses, recreate the church in his image, and do away with the heathens once and for all. A world ruled for God by God's faithful. That is the new age of man, Ser Alaghieri. That is the secret behind the prophecy."

"So you kidnapped the boy to help make the prophecy come true, turn the Greyhound into the man you want him to be?"

"What? No. No! I kidnapped the boy to give him to the Count, or sell him into slavery, or anything." Pathino began to swell, to tower. In that moment he truly looked like Cangrande's kindred, but mottled, as if reflected in dark water. "When the Count told me that Cangrande had adopted his own bastard I knew it was a sign from God. The prophecy was threatened. Divine influence was split between the two candidates for His plan."

"Two?"

Pathino shook Cesco slightly. "Him, and me. I will be Il Veltro. I am the Greyhound."

When Antonia's message arrived at the Scaliger Palace in Verona, the lovely Giovanna da Svevia was being entertained in her husband's parlor by the poet Dante. Feeling sour, he was reading aloud to the female members of Cangrande's court. Not that most of them listened, which was only to be expected. Bubbleheaded ninnies, wives of minor nobles. Only Giovanna, great-granddaughter of the Emperor Frederick II, paid him any heed. Related by blood or by marriage to half the rulers of Italy, Germany, and Sicily, she had a fine respect for the written word.

Jacopo, present as a courtesy to his father, was presently making moon-eyes at one of Giovanna's attendants. The ones he'd already bedded and discarded were full of barely concealed malice. Dante was ashamed and slightly awed by his younger son's prowess with the ladies.

Their hostess was lively, cheerful and active for such a gloomy day. Dante himself was weary of court and looking for an excuse to escape. So the messenger bearing a note for Maestro Dante was a welcome interruption.

Seeing his daughter's hand, Dante imagined this had something to do with copyists' fees or foreign translations. And she was supposed to be on holiday. The girl was as hard a worker as her father. Pity her brother Jacopo was such a -

Reading the first paragraph Dante gasped. Jacopo saw the blood drain from his father's face. Forgetting the girl, he darted forward. "What? What's the matter?"

"Wait." Scanning the brief single sheet again, Dante spoke to his hostess. "My son is in Vicenza."

"Your other son? The noble Ser Alaghieri? How wonderful!"

"Yes. But it seems he's joined my Lord della Scala, your husband, on another of his idiotic — I mean, wild flights of martial endeavor."

"May I?" Giovanna took the paper and read over the few well-shaped lines. "So, that's where my husband is. He forgets to tell me these things."

"But surely, lady," said Dante, "this is good news."

"Indeed." Aware of the anxious looks from the women around her, she said, "The Paduans have broken the treaty. They have tried to take Vicenza. If we are to understand our esteemed poet's daughter, the attack has been beaten back and Verona is victorious."

The women clapped their hands in relief. A couple of them wept. Alone among them Dante knew the second part of the message and was pondering what, if anything, there was to be done about it. "A great happiness, lady."

"Yes," said Giovanna. "Francesco does love his surprises. But what a joy that your son has returned to Verona! He seems determined to regain his lost glory. He's out searching for a missing child as we speak."

Dante blinked. He hardly thought that the lady would make that part of the message public. It was followed by the inevitable voices, all asking the same question. "What child?"

"It hardly matters," said Dante told them. But Giovanna surprised him when she said, "In the confusion of battle, Donna Katerina's son has been kidnapped. Bailardetto. And her foster son as well. I believe his name is Francesco."

There were many knowing looks mingled with the utterances of surprise and horror. Jacopo leapt to his feet. "Cesco! And Pietro is looking for him? Father, we have to go help!"

Dante knew full well the social perils of leaving this lady to join in the search for her husband's bastard son. But again the lady herself solved his dilemma. "We will all go. Send for my grooms, have them arrange a carriage and gather an escort. We ride to Vicenza. Immediately."

"This was a terrible idea."

Antonia's horse trotted beside Gianozza's, the rain falling steadily over them both. Their whole beings were focused on not falling from the sidesaddles. In the dark afternoon Gianozza's horse did not see the rabbit hole in its path. Gianozza shrieked as the horse stumbled and she fell skidding across the ground.

Antonia slid out of her wet saddle and landed running on the sodden earth. "Gianozza!" She reached her companion's side. "What's the matter?"

"My leg! My leg is broken!" cried Gianozza. Rolando whined in empathy.

It didn't look broken to Antonia, who was admittedly no great judge. She looked up to see Gianozza's horse limp away, whinnying pitifully. "I guess you're both lame." It was perfect. Trust the girl to end up a crippled and helpless heroine. "Can you ride on the back of mine?"

"No, no. It hurts!"

"I could walk," offered Antonia. Again Gianozza shook her head. "Do you want me to get help?" The girl nodded. Antonia took the knife from off her belt and placed it in Gianozza's lap. "Just in case you need it. And keep Rolando close!" She started towards her horse. "I'll find someone!" Climbing back into the saddle, Antonia spurred off in the direction she'd come.

Pietro silently digested Pathino's claim, wondering if it could be true. "If you're related, prove it."

Pathino reached into his shirt and withdrew the medallion. "This was a gift from a great Scottish warlord to my father. He passed it on to me. If I ever needed to prove whose son I was, this would do it."

"So that's why you had to have it back. But why didn't you ever..?"

Pathino was amused. "Why would I throw myself into a nest of vipers? No, it was far better to bide my time and let my siblings die off, one after another. Bartolomeo and Alboino are dead. Cangrande cannot last much longer, he has too many enemies. Then I would have stepped forward to claim my father's legacy to make up for his sinful ways."

Pietro tried a new tack. "You hate your father for being sinful. But what about you? You've committed murder. Not on the battlefield. You murdered the nurse in Verona — the one you stabbed in the chest."

"A tragedy. I prayed for her."

"Decent of you. What about Fazio? Have you already prayed for him?"

Pathino shook his head in honest sadness. "Poor fool. He made a scene by begging. He didn't understand why he had to die."

Pietro trembled again, but not with cold. "What a fine figure you'll cut before God, the slayer of women and boys. Did you kill the oracle, as well?"

"No, I had nothing to do with that. I wish I had, the heathen bitch. The nurse, yes, I confessed to that sin and was forgiven. But the whoring soothsayer was killed by the Count's partner."

Pietro squinted at him across the flames. "Partner?"

A laugh. "You know so little. Yes, the Count's partner had the oracle killed. The message sent, the messenger had to die. Otherwise she might reveal the partner's name."

This partner is the one who has access to Cangrande's seal. "I'm going to die anyway, so tell me — who's this partner?"

Pathino smiled, a horrid version of Cangrande's famous grin. "That would be telling."

But another odd suspicion was forming in Pietro's mind. "You're willing to kill women and children. So why didn't you murder Detto? Why haven't you killed him yet?" He pointed to Cesco, on his knees under Pathino's blade.

Pathino was silent for a very long time. Suddenly he spat into the fire. "My father was a clever man. He told all his whores of a curse on his bloodline. I don't know who began the curse, or how. Perhaps it was Alberto himself. It may be he feared one of his sons doing him ill. Perhaps it was a guilty conscience, or simple foresight. But whatever the curse's origin, we are not allowed to take the life of anyone who shares our blood. Sanguis meus, the old bastard said. Blood of my blood. Anyone who does will suffer death untimely, and eternal damnation." Pathino shivered. "I will not be damned to fulfill my destiny. God would not ask it of me. That is why I did not kill Nogarola's boy — he is my nephew, through Cangrande's bitch of a sister. And that is why I will not kill this one."

"But you will be damned, Gregorio. Is that even your real name? You've committed murder today, and you will not have a chance to confess or even pray before Cangrande comes here to kill you." Pathino just laughed, and Pietro pushed more. "Think on this. One hour. That's the head start you had. Four hours. That's how long it took me to catch up to you, even though I had to trace you back and forth across the river. One minute. That's how long it will take for Cangrande and his merry men to notice the signs I left for them — a broken twig, a sword slash in the base of a tree. I figure it'll take them about three hours to trace us here. How long have we been sitting here? Any minute you'll hear the hoofbeats of a thousand knights — and I mean real soldiers, not cowardly backstabbing, woman-murdering scum like you." There was consideration on Pathino's face. Perhaps even concern.

Pietro pressed his advantage home. "I'll make a deal with you. Give up now, and I'll let you pray before they hang you. You can ask forgiveness. That way you won't be damned. Your soul will fly to Heaven. Now, give me the boy."

It almost worked. But Pietro made to stand too soon. Pathino's dagger pressed against Cesco's face just below the eye. "Don't you move! I may not be able to kill him, but I'll take out his eyes. I mean it."

Cesco was still, not even blinking. He made sounds that the gag muffled, but his eyes were on the blade that threatened his skin. Pathino shook him. "How would you like that, nephew? I hope you're not afraid of the dark, because you'll live in blackness forever. How does that sound?" Pathino's head snapped up again to snarl at Pietro. "The Count wants him alive? Fine. But he'll be blind. Is that what you want? Is it?"

"No." Almost a whisper.

"Then sit down. Sit!"

"Listen-"

"No! No more talking. We'll sit and wait for the Count to get here. And you better hope that your master missed the trail you left. If not, my beloved brother will get his son back, mutilated and scarred. Even dear sister Katerina won't be able to look at him without vomiting."

Pietro opened his mouth to let an insult fly, but Pathino drew the knife lightly over Cesco's skin, making a small cut just under the eyebrow, off to the side. Blood trickled down the small face.

Cesco didn't move, but made a sound almost like a growl. Pietro saw the child staring past Pietro at the ground nearby. Again the boy growled. Pathino shook him once, with real violence. "You shut up, too."

Cesco looked straight at Pietro, green eyes direct and imploring.

What's he trying to tell me?