The Master of Verona (25 page)

"How?"

"I'd hurt them where they'd feel it. I would block their merchants, levy fines and dues on their traders. Pope Clement showed me how. I would erode their trade."

"You'd side with Genoa?" said Pietro.

"No no! The Genoese deal with gold in one hand and a knife in the other. No, Pietro, once I have shown the world what I can do in war, I will awe them by what I can make of peace. I shall use your father's words as an example. His notion of empire. The only way mankind can prosper is through peace, and peace can only occur under a single ruler empowered by God to make war. That's probably the best definition of a strong government — one that's willing to go to war to maintain the peace."

"If that's true, why not make a treaty with the Paduans years ago?"

"I cannot appear weak. Nor could I betray my oath to the Vicentines."

Pietro shifted, resting his leg on the bench in front of him. "So you wouldn't've taken Padua?"

The blue eyes narrowed. "I didn't say that. As Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, I am supposed to have ultimate control, under the Emperor, over both Padua and Treviso. But since the imperial throne is vacant, I have no one to appeal to. I hear they're holding elections next month in Germany, but there are no front-runners for the throne. It'll be a mess." He grinned happily.

"So it would aid you," said Pietro, "if they would settle on an emperor."

"At this moment I am pleased with the way things stand. True, there's no emperor to help me, but by the same token, there's no emperor to hold me back, either."

"What does all this mean for Padua?"

Cangrande rubbed his hard hands together. "Eventually I have to take both Padua and Treviso. I know it, and so do they. I have the authority already, but only paper authority. Until they're mine I cannot step into the larger Arena. This damned rain means there will be peace, for now. I'll agree to it because it makes me look magnanimous and just. They'll agree to it because it buys them time." The
allegria
returned. "And because they have to. I just smashed the largest army they've ever had with fewer than a hundred men. Do you know, Pietro, how certain they were they'd win? In the tents and wagons they left behind we found goblets and dishes of gold, silver, beds with exquisite coverings and soft pillows, baskets and barrels filled with sweet delicacies. You'd be forgiven for thinking they were on their way to my nephew's wedding and not a war!"

Drawn into the great man's confidences, Pietro was paying close attention. However, it was difficult not to wriggle each time he felt his leg itch. Unwilling to shift his legs yet again, he contented himself with fidgeting his hands, running them across a few inches of the splintering bench, back and forth, hoping the texture of the wood might distract him.

It didn't seem to annoy the Scaliger, who now stood and walked to the open doorframe and stared out at the rain. "In any case, if the Paduan
Anziani
don't make peace, Dandolo will tell the Venetians to withdraw their money. Panicked and worried, they'll find their citizens in revolution again, the third time in a year. No, I expect that in a fortnight I will be sending my representatives to Venice to sign a treaty."

"Why Venice?"

"They have the power to enforce the terms and are officially neutral. Whatever their private inclinations."

"So why did you…" Pietro stopped himself.

"Why did I set out to make Dandolo the butt of the evening? Because he's one of the coming men in Venice. Because Venice and I are at loggerheads. Because I felt like it. Venice is still reeling from their tussle with the Pope over Ferrara — the excommunication of the whole city hurt their trade badly. If not for Dandolo they would be hurting still. I kept him humble because he has pulled off a great feat of diplomacy. Though the rumour is that the Pope made him crawl under the table and wear a dog's collar."

Pietro laughed. "So that's why you called him
Cane
."

"Yes. But this peace will be another feather in his cap, further advancing his candidacy to become the next Doge."

"Who suggested it?"

"Everybody. Once the rain started, taking Padua became impossible. Their natural defenses were swelling, my men were tired by the race to Vicenza. It had to be peace." The Scaliger leaned his back against the stone frame of the door. "The terms were proposed by Giacomo da Carrara. He came to us yesterday with the whole thing laid out. He knew granting me Vicenza was the concession I needed. We spent the rest of the day working out the rest."

Pietro leaned forward. "How can he make terms? He's not the
Podestà
."

"He's a smart fellow, our Il Grande. He'll go far. There's no central authority in Padua. I think he means to change that."

"How?"

"By making himself indispensable. Like Dandolo, he's the coming man. Il Grande is now the architect of a peace that will save his city from the deadly Scaligeri. I imagine within five years he'll be fully in control of Padua."

"So you're putting in power the man charged to defeat you."

"In a way, yes."

"I got the impression the two of you were becoming friendly."

"I like him very much. His nephew, too."

Pietro chose not to remark on Marsilio. "But if you want to rule the Trevisian Mark, you'll have to take Padua eventually."

"Even if I didn't plan on making my title a reality, I'd take Padua. I have to. It is a point of honour."

"In spite of the treaty?"

"Oh no. When I attack Padua I'll be sure to have a
cause juste
. As in this war, I'll find some legal pretext to take them down."

"But you'll be going up against Il Grande."

"Yes."

"Whom you like."

"Yes."

"What will you do then?"

"I will grind him into the dust."

There was nothing to say to that. Feeling the gusts of wind that blew into the church through the unbarred doorway, Pietro sat thinking for a time. Finally he said in a low voice, "Lord, if we're not here to invade the city, why are we here?"

"I promised you a picnic," responded Cangrande, gesturing grandly at the remnants of their meal. "Besides, this is a beautiful church. Look at the craftsmanship! I don't doubt that when you and I are long forgotten this house of God will still be standing."

A fierce gust of wind thrust into the church, blowing out the candle by the open door. Drops of rain struck Pietro's face, stinging like nettles. He breathed in the wet night air and waited until the Scaliger had relit the candle. "Lord, you didn't answer my question."

Cangrande stood half in the door, only one side of his face illuminated by the candle. "You're like one of my mastiffs, Pietro. Once you catch the scent, you don't let go." A moment passed. "We are here to beard the She-Wolf in her den."

"You said that before."

"You know the legend?"

"Pieces of it."

Face half in shadow, the Scaliger began to recite:

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.

Cangrande shifted out of the doorway and into the room. The candle was behind him now, and he became a dark shape lit only at the edges. "That's the part that everybody knows. There is a coda, however."

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.

"Like Christ, who is so often remembered more for the manner of his death than for what he did in life. I don't know about you, Pietro Alaghieri. But for my single self, I'd rather I was remembered for my life, not my death." Walking nearer, he lowered himself onto a bench. "Your father claims I am the Greyhound predicted. He believes I am the man who will unite this Italy and restore the unity of pope and emperor."

"You are," agreed Pietro.

"
I. Am. Not
!" Suddenly Cangrande's hand slammed down on the bench again and again. "Pietro, I'm not. An astrologer made a chart for me when I was born. I've seen it. I even called in the great astrologer Benentendi to confirm it. I am not this mythic Greyhound."

"But — your device, the banner –"

"It's the same dog my father used. The Scaligeri hound was created for Mastino. And I am, after all, Cane Grande." He flashed a brief, heartless version of his famous smile. "But I am not
Il Veltro
. I do not use the title. I have no right to it. When I ride into battle, it is to fight for my city and my honour. I will fight for God, if He asks." His voice became hard. "But I will not be the tool of Fate."

Thunder rumbled overhead. In a quiet voice Pietro said, "Why are — you hardly know me."

Cangrande's true grin returned. "Can't you tell? I want you to stay. I'm a good judge of character, Pietro, and you seem like a handy man to have around. So I'm seducing you — first, I give you political confidences, then personal ones." He sipped some wine. "Your father has expressed a desire to settle in one place. Have you thought about what you're going to do once he does?"

Pietro took in a breath. Honesty deserved honesty. "I have no idea. I was meant for the Church, but now that I'm the heir I have to find another career. I don't know what."

Cangrande's lips turned up at the corners. "I'm sure we can come up with something. In the meantime you can do something for me."

"Anything, lord."

"I want you to convince your father I'm not what he thinks I am."

Pietro shook his head. "He'll have you walking on water in the next volume."

"I'd rather turn water into wine, if it comes to that." After an awkward moment, he continued quietly. "Pietro, I know what I am. A man with gifts, yes, but no better than most, and quite a bit worse than the best I have known. How can a man live life as a myth? I tell you this — if I thought that I was truly the chosen champion of the heavens, I would fight it." His voice possessed a feverish quality. "Just to see her fail, I would fight it with all my might."

The Scaliger's hand edged closer to his sword — he'd heard it too. He gestured to Pietro to stay still, then stood, sword low by his side.

Someone appeared in the weak illumination of the doorframe. Covered in a hooded cloak, the figure was a full head shorter than Pietro, hunched over a bundle carried gingerly and close. There was something in the way the figure moved that reminded Pietro, inexplicably, of a Pietà.

"Donna Maria," said the Capitano, standing and leaving his sword behind. "You did not have to come yourself."

"Then we're both surprised. I certainly didn't expect you to come." The voice under the folds of the cloak carrried a strange lilt to it. Nor could Pietro place the dialect. There were hints of Paduan, but something more polished beneath. Italian did not seem to be her first tongue, though she was perfectly used to it.

Crossing to her side, Cangrande lifted one of the spare cloaks from off its peg as he passed. Seeing Pietro, the lady held up a forestalling hand. "You are not alone."

"I thought a witness might be useful. If ever you should need him, his name is Pietro Alaghieri." Pietro stood awkwardly and bowed. "You may trust him."

"I should tell you I am expected elsewhere."

Cangrande bowed. "Then we will not keep you."

Reluctantly she allowed herself to be guided past Pietro to the altar, far from door and rain. The Capitano lifted the drenched cloak off of her and, tossing it aside, covered her in the folds of the dry one. By the weak candlelight Pietro glimpsed dark hair coiled tightly against the lady's head. Woven into the braids were many pearls. She didn't glance up, but Pietro didn't sense fear in her. Something else was behind her furtiveness. Her head was bent over the thing she bore in her arms. She carried it like—

Like a baby
.

She was carrying a child. Now that he listened, Pietro could hear it murmuring. A baby? What was going on?

Cangrande and the woman rested themselves close to the altar, a decent space separating them. They spoke softly for only a few minutes, the Scaliger doing most of the talking. Once or twice he put a question to the woman and she answered. All the time she looked at the child in her arms.

Pietro was unable to hear their hushed words, nor was he meant to. Trying not to look like he was eavesdropping, Pietro continued to fidget, running his hands over the bench under him. His fingers encountered a thing protruding from the wood. Absently he began prying at whatever it was. The wood was old and after a few seconds the object came away in his hand. Examining it by feel alone, it felt like a disc, large, round, and flat.

Surreptitiously he lifted it to the light, keeping it low by his side. On one side there was an impression of a laurel wreath with the word
PAX
over it. Turning it over in his fingers he saw a helmet with wings, but it took some scraping with his nails to uncover the word at the top.

MERCVRIO
.

Lightning struck a mile away, illuminating the church with bizarre shadows behind their heads. As the accompanying thunder rolled overhead, the baby began to cry. The lady made a shushing noise as she removed the satchel holding it from around her neck. She seemed to be favoring one arm, as if sore. Hugging the child to her breast, she crooned some soft words meant for the infant alone. Kissing the bundled babe, she passed it over to Cangrande's waiting embrace.