The Master of Verona

Thirty-Seven

Surrounded by an armed escort of twenty men, the coach from Verona moved swiftly. At Soave they encountered Vicentines guarding the road. Giovanna and Dante were informed that the battle was indeed won, but there was no word yet of the missing children. Jacopo, all excitement, asked to borrow a horse and ride at the front of the small party. This was arranged and, thanking the Vicentines for their news, the lady ordered her men to press on without delay.

Dante was now alone with Cangrande's wife in the carriage. The downpour beating down on the roof effectively drowned out polite conversation. When the lady said something Dante was forced to ask her to repeat it.

"I said, do you find that great men are incapable of fidelity?"

This was definitely not a path the poet desired to travel. But he couldn't not reply. "There is much to be said for the powers that lead a man to greatness — strength, will, grace, intelligence, the ability to persevere against all odds, ambition — a great man must embody all these in great quantities to survive the pitfalls of this world." A flash of lightning outside. Dante waited for the roll of thunder to pass. "An excess of these lead to other excesses."

"If these great men are so intelligent, why do they not understand…?"

"I never said they were wise, my lady, only intelligent. Wisdom is not innate in greatness. It can only be gained through the trials of a man's life."

"Is infidelity admirable?"

"Certainly not."

"But you were not cruel to the promiscuous in your great poem," observed Giovanna of Antioch.

"God punishes, not me," replied Dante. "To the matter of fidelity — think of Odysseus. He took lovers all his life. Yet there is not a couple more revered for their fidelity than the King of Ithaca and his Penelope."

After a moment Giovanna said, "I have no children."

Dante nodded. "And it is a mark of his affection for you that he has not set you aside."

"Yet." Her voice was harsh. "Not set me aside yet. I suppose I should be grateful." She drew a curtain aside to stare out at the storm. It was Dante's impression that she was weeping, but he did not choose to look.

Vinciguerra was dozing when Cangrande entered the smoke-filled room, his sister in his wake. "I understand I have another sibling. I rejoice. You must now tell me where I may effect a touching family reunion. I have no more time for these games."

"Ah. In that, too, you are quite like all your charming siblings. No, no games. But I will not tell you where they are." Vinciguerra was determined to enjoy this last confrontation. "I have spent some time thinking about what my lady Nogarola has told me of star charts and prophecies. She clearly believes such nonsense. But I wonder — do you?"

"We are men of the world, Vinciguerra. This world, no other."

"That is hardly an answer. But I think you do. I think you believe in the story of the mythical beast who will transform the world. Certainly it consumes your brother. You both long to be that beast. So why not kill this child to begin with? He is nothing but a threat to you."

"If he is the Greyhound," said Cangrande with a sour look at his sister. "There is some debate on that point."

"But why take the risk?" demanded the Count. "Why let him live?"

Cangrande smiled, but it was a cold smile. "For the same reason your Pathino has not, and will not, kill him. Sanguis meus. He is blood of my father's blood. Now tell me where they are."

The Count swelled in his triumph. "They are as well hidden as if the earth had swallowed them. You will never see them again."

"What did you say?"

The Count froze mid laugh. Blood loss and spite had made him say too much. Now Cangrande's smile was warmer, friendlier. "What was that you said out on the battlefield, Count? Pathino had 'gone to ground?' And just now — 'as if the earth had swallowed them.' For a man of few words, that is a remarkable metaphor. Come, Kat. Perhaps we'll have that family reunion after all."

Where the devil is Ferdinando? The question nagged at Pietro's brain.

Time was running out. He had to try something. If he didn't move soon, he'd be no use at all. After a morning of battle and riding followed by hours of sitting in this damp cave, Pietro's limbs were stiff. In spite of the fire that blazed before him he was cold.

The real question was, what was there to do? Bare-chested, barefoot, weaponless and tired, he was in no position to do much of anything. Pathino still sat with Cesco in front of him, the long miseracordia held loosely in his right hand. Even if Pietro could move, get a weapon, act somehow — as long as the other man held the child, there was nothing to be done.

Pathino was gnawing on some smoked bacon. He'd removed Cesco's gag so he could feed the boy too. Surprisingly, Cesco found his voice. Across the fire he asked Pietro, "Why d'you like funny hats?"

Pietro blinked. "Sorry?"

"You like funny hats."

Pietro had to grin. "How on earth do you remember that?"

"Shut up," muttered Pathino, tearing into a bite of bacon.

Pietro shivered again. "Mind if I stoke the fire?"

After considering, Pathino lifted the dagger to Cesco's face. "No tricks."

Pietro lifted a half-burnt branch, stirring up the fire and sending sparks up to vanish against the earthen ceiling. As he prodded the flames he watched Cesco. "How are you?"

"Dog tired," said the boy.

Dog tired? What did that mean? Where had he even learned the phrase? Besides, he didn't look tired. His eyes blazed as bright as the fire. What was he trying to say?

Pathino noticed Pietro's hesitation. The dagger became actively menacing. "Sit down. Now."

Pietro retreated slowly, lowering the piece of wood he'd used as a poker so that it was unthreatening. He left half of it out of the fire, the end protruding towards him. Cesco's gaze, even with a blade against his cheek, held the same scorn as yesterday when Pietro had been unable to solve the puzzle. Slowly the boy's eyes moved down to the body of the dog. Blood was still seeping from its skull…

Pietro saw Mercurio's chest move. Pathino's blow hadn't killed him.

That was it. He looked across at Cesco, who grinned at him.

Now it was just a matter of when.

Gianozza was huddled in a ball, raindrops pounding on her head and back. She was wet despite her hood, and cold. Her ankle kept her from doing anything more than rocking back and forth.

Slowly she realized where she was. It was not far from here to the cave she had shown Antonia, in front of which she and Mariotto had become properly married.

She considered limping to the cave. It would be dry. She might be able to make a fire. But then she recalled the creature that had scared them from the cave. It was probably still there. Besides, if she went now, Antonia would return to find her missing. And there was her ankle.

In an unaccustomed moment of practicality she chose to stay where she was, patting the dog Rolando who burrowed against her for warmth. This was no pleasant summer rain. This was what it must have been like during the Great Flood, when God wiped the face of the earth clean of evil. She closed her eyes. Perhaps the rain will wash away my sins as well.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw a figure across the clearing. A man on horseback. He was massively built, with a large farmer's chest and arms. He was also wearing a farmer's straw hat, wide and drooping under the heavy fall of rain.

Dismounting, the man began walking towards her. Ankle protesting fiercely, Gianozza struggled to her feet, drawing Antonia's knife. "Stay back!" she called, waving the weapon in front of her. "I have a knife!" Beside her the dog growled.

The man said, "Giulia, I could never hurt you."

Gianozza's hand slowly lowered. "Antony?"

"What are you doing out here, in this weather?" Capulletto was indignant on her behalf.

She slipped the knife into its sheath and leaned her back against the tree. "I — Antony, I heard about your challenge to Mariotto." He stiffened. "I rode out to find you, stop you. But my horse tripped. Antonia went to find help."

He removed his cloak and added it to her coverings. "You came looking for me?"

Gianozza could smell him, a raw musk, purely male. She wrinkled her nose, then looked into his eyes. "It must stop, Antony. I'll do anything you ask, but it has to end. He's your friend."

"Friends don't do what he did."

"No. People do what he did. Friends forgive."

"You don't understand."

Gianozza laid a hand on his arm. "I do. I truly do. It's my fault."

His voice choked. "I never felt anything — never felt things so much, so strong, before you. Just that one night, that one happy night — I was the best I could remember being. I was the man I always wanted to be." He turned his head upward, allowing the rain to beat on his face.

"Will you be that man if you kill Mariotto? My husband? Is that the act of a man who wants my happiness?" Antony shrugged, and she took hold of his face. "Ser Capulletto, I didn't reject you for you. I fell in love with your friend."

Antony's voice was bitter. "Of course you love him. He has everything — looks, name, friends, a kind father. He's the oldest, he won't have to scrape a living together of his brother's leavings. So of course you married him! He's got everything. And now he wants to be friends again. Friends! Well, he won't have that! He won't get me, too!"

Gianozza stepped back, only to cry out. "Oh! My ankle!" This utterly unmanned him, and he helped her to sit again on the earth. When he was kneeling beside her she said, "Antony, how much of this is really about me?"

"You don't understand." His breathing came in ragged bursts. Gianozza's own breathing was shallow, compared to the bellows his lungs had become. They were very close now.

When the kiss happened, it was as tender and soft as anything she'd ever experienced. Almost reverential, as if he feared offending her.

"I want you," he whispered in her ear. "I love you, Giulia."

She pulled back from him. "Giulia?" It was a name she had never heard herself called.

"You're my Giulia. The perfect woman." He leaned in to kiss her again. This second kiss was more passionate, and Gianozza felt herself kissing him back. Oh, what bliss! What joy! She was -

Francesca. Francesca and Paolo, the illicit lovers. The damned lovers.

Wrenching herself away she stared at him in horror. "This isn't the — no! No, Antony! Listen to me! We can — we're supposed to be friends now, that's all — "

"How now?" said Antony, frowning sharply. "What is this to you, a game? I'm serious, girl! You are all that I want in this life! You are my everything! You are my Giulia!" She pulled away from him, and for a long moment he stared at her. Then he cried, "Damn it! Does he get everything? Then give him this!" Drawing out a silver knife he gripped it tightly, tears running down his face.

What he was about to do, she never afterward could guess. She was certain he would never have harmed her, or told herself she was certain. Would he have given her the knife? Hurt himself with it?

Whatever Antony intended, she was saved from it by the sound of horses approaching. Antonia had found a group of five men, led by Benvenito. "Gianozza, are you all right?"

Gianozza gazed at Antony, who stood still in the rain looking back at her. Then he turned away. She called out, "I'm fine!"

Antony stayed long enough to ensure she was safe. Then he clambered up into the saddle and rode away. Gianozza watched him go. Just before he passed out of sight she saw his gloved fingers open, releasing the silver dagger. It fell, landing point first in the muddy earth.

Antonia was kneeling beside Gianozza. "What happened?"

"I made it worse! I made it worse! I told him not to — he's supposed to listen, to love me enough to listen-"

Antonia sighed. "What did you think would happen, Gianozza? That if you played the scene right, all would be forgiven? This isn't a play, or a poem."

Gianozza wept. Eventually they persuaded her to mount a horse. All the long ride back towards Castello Montecchio, she repeated one thought over and over. "This isn't how it was supposed to happen."

They did not see the man who'd been watching, who now came forward to take up the silver dagger.

In the cave they heard distant hoofbeats. At first Pathino grinned. "I'm sorry, Ser Alaghieri, but I'm afraid the Count won't let you walk alive from this place. Perhaps if you beg."

The sound multiplied. Four or more horses trampled the earth not far away.

"Was he bringing friends?" asked Pietro.

"He could have brought some Paduans with him," protested Pathino feebly.

"And have them kill him when they learned this whole enterprise was a feint for him to kidnap a Veronese child? I doubt it." Pietro stood up. "It's time."

Immediately Pathino leapt to his feet, dragging the child up with him. "Don't!"

"You know what I think? I think the Count has been captured, and in exchange for his life he's given them you." Pietro reached out an open hand. "Give up now and I won't let them hang you." Subtly he edged his left foot closer to the protruding half-burnt stick. Mercurio's eyes were open now, though his whimpers were too soft for Pathino to hear.

Pathino glanced wildly about, then smiled again as the hoofbeats rode back the way they had come. Pathino's relief brought back his awful version of Cangrande's smile. "You won't let them hang me? How generous. But I think it's time I do something about you, Count or no." He brandished the knife.

Pietro made a show of sagging. His next move would have to be bootless, and he'd pay for it later — if he survived.

Now.

Pietro stepped into the fire. With the flat of his foot he kicked the half-burnt stick through the air towards the spaventapasseri. Pathino's hands flew up to ward off the flaming embers, and Cesco dropped to the ground and rolled away. Cursing, Pathino grabbed, his fingers clutching only air. Dagger in hand he turned on Pietro, still across the fire pit.

Pietro shouted, "Mercurio! Avanti!"

The great greyhound rose from the pool of its own blood and threw itself through the flames. The long mouth clamped down hard on Pathino's left hand in a spray of blood. The bastard Scaliger screamed as the weight of the dog yanked his arm down. The hound pulled, driving his teeth in with a savage growl.

Pathino plunged his long thin dagger into the hound, piercing its eye. Mercurio's jaw went slack and the greyhound fell to the earth without a rattling whisper.

From somewhere in the darkness a young voice screamed, "M'cur-o!"

Pietro had already scooped up his sword and was running around the fire pit. Pathino freed his blade from the dead dog and lashed out at Pietro's face. Taking the slash across the back of his hand, Pietro heard the next cut whistle past his ear. He rolled, putting distance between himself and Pathino. Leaping to his feet, he twisted around to lunge at his enemy.

Only Pathino wasn't there. The bastard was running to his horse, tethered just a few feet away. He slashed the leather ties and clambered into the saddle.

Sword raised, bellowing like the devil himself, Pietro limped towards the horse. But he was too slow. Pathino kicked and the beast jumped. His scalp brushed the ceiling of the cave where it dipped low, pushing through the dangling roots of the giant tree above. Then he was around the fire, angling towards the cave's exit.

Pathino had forgotten the tripwire. The horse's forelegs caught it, sending both Pathino and his mount headlong into the muck. Struggling to free himself of the flailing horse, the firelight exaggerated his scarecrow figure into a grotesque form in the shadows on the cave walls.

Pietro jumped the tripwire and splashed after him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cesco, free of his bonds, running towards the dead dog.

A flash of reflected firelight brought his attention back to Pathino. He still held the miseracordia and he swung it wildly. Pietro's sword had a better reach, though. He thrust with it and Pathino had to leap backward in the knee-high water, scrabbling to keep his feet.

"Damn you!" cried Pathino, turning and racing for the mouth of the tunnel. Pietro slogged after as best he could, knowing that it was hopeless. He was too slow. Pathino would be free in moments.

Behind him came a splashing sound. Pietro threw a glance over his shoulder. Cesco was in the water, chasing Pathino too. Turning back, Pietro saw that Pathino had stopped in the tunnel.

Cangrande's bastard brother gave his pursuers a look of wild delight. His left hand came up, grasping something, then yanked down hard.

Pietro paused as he heard a horrible sound from above. Wooden beams hidden in the roof just above the doorway shifted. They creaked and groaned for a moment, the noise they made sounding like earthen screams of agony.

Then the beams fell.

It was an old trick, designed by the ancient horse thieves to seal off the cave in times of trouble. In desperation, they could leave their stolen mounts and hide all evidence. But now it worked too well. The heavy rainfall had softened the earthen roof above. Almost half of the cave shifted, then came crashing down.

Down upon Pietro and Cesco.

Reaching the open air, Pathino looked about him and cursed. He'd hoped that Alaghieri had left his horse hobbled right outside the cave, but there was no sign of it. "Of all the damned…"

Damned. Yes, that was the right word. He was damned. He had hoped that only the entrance to the cave would fall. But now he had broken the one rule of his family. He'd killed his father's blood kin. He would certainly burn in Hell.

Stumbling down the path, away from the collapsed cave and into the forest, Pathino tried to orient himself so that he was traveling north, but without the sun it was difficult.

After ten minutes of walking, he heard hoofbeats. Ducking behind a tree and clambering up into the low branches, Pathino held his thin knife white-knuckled in his grip as he waited for the rider.

A lone horseman approached. Obviously a noble, with a fine beast and delicate tabard. Pathino had grown up in these parts, he recognized the Montecchio crest. He climbed higher in the branches just as the knight turned towards the cave. The mounted man's face under the cheek pieces was hidden. That worked for Pathino, as did the rain. With the water hitting the metal shell, the rider didn't hear the snapping twigs above him as Pathino dropped, landing hard on the rump of the horse. The rider cried out and began to turn. Wrapping his left arm over the rider's neck, Pathino slid the knife's point into the man's right armpit, just where the front and back plates gapped. The rider's life ended with a gasp.

Pathino struggled to free his dagger, then tossed the corpse from the saddle, fighting to remove the feet from upturned stirrups that dragged the body along with the cantering horse. Done, he turned north and rode for Schio. In an hour he would turn east for Treviso. It was only twenty miles from Treviso to Venice. From the great port he could take ship for anywhere in the world. For now that he was damned, what did it matter where he went?

Yet — yet he wasn't through. He was the Greyhound, he felt it in his bones. With or without the boy, he would carry out the plans he and the Count had made. He would redeem the blood that flowed through his veins, and in so doing, he would redeem himself before God.

The boy's death, though regrettable, meant nothing in the end.