The Master of Verona (91 page)

"Something like that. The boy must go."

"To protect him from me? From my evil designs? I didn't realize we were in the theatre! From what are you protecting him?"

Cangrande didn't look up from his sword's edge. "From the weight of your expectations."

"Stop posturing!" Katerina's unbandaged hand shot out to encompass his wrist, stopping the stone's repetitive motion. "Put away your props, Francesco. The best actors don't need a crutch."

Obediently, Cangrande slid his father's sword into its scabbard. Touching the hilt with two fingers, he said, "I wonder, how much does it gall you that you will never wield this?"

Katerina hand fell to her side. "Do you hate me so much?"

"To this day you remain the single most important person in my life. I am what I am because of you." All unexpected, tears came to the lady's eyes and Cangrande's voice became relentlessly harsh. "Unfair, Donna Katerina. Tears are unbecoming."

"They are a woman's weapon," she said, trying to quell them. "And as you pointed out, I am a woman. I use what I have. Francesco, everything I did was for you."

The Scaliger coughed, or sputtered, or cried. He bent over, clutching his stomach as if struck. Then he flung his head back and stumbled to a turret for support. Only when the light of the moon reflected on his perfect teeth was his expression recognizable as a smile. "Kat, you're priceless! If you'd take the job, I'd fire Manuel in a heartbeat. All for me? For
yourself
!"

"You admitted you want to be the Greyhound."

A stabbing finger. "Not half as much as you wanted me to be."

"I wanted the best for you," protested Katerina.

The Scaliger slowly slid down the stone wall, ending flat on the rooftop with his legs splayed out before him. "The best would have been to let me grow unmolested! If love was too much to ask, then at least indifference!" Calming himself, Cangrande returned his voice to one that would not distress the guards far below. "There is a tale, Pietro, of a thane of Scotland — Donwald, a loyal servant to the true king. He was told by some mystic hags that he would someday be king himself. That very night he and his wife murdered honest King Duff while he slept. Here's my question — would he have done it had he not heard the prophecy? Would it not have happened in any case? Why not sit back and allow Fate to run its course?" Cangrande winked at Pietro with dark humour. "A man may control his actions, but not his stars. It has become my motto, I will blazon it through the sky." His gaze shifted to study Katerina coldly. "You would slay the king in his bed to bring the future to you. I would serve the king as best I could, and wait to see Fate unfold itself."

"More fool you, then."

Cangrande extended an accusing finger. "That! It is that which ultimately convinces me that, in your heart of hearts, you don't believe in the prophecy. You work too hard to make it come true."

"If I believe too little, then you believe too much."

"Perhaps." The Scaliger stood and began pacing the length of the roof. "Pietro, you wondered at my expression tonight? You thought I was overjoyed to see Cesco dead. It wasn't that at all. It was because Fate had failed. Destiny was wrong. Cesco was not the Greyhound. The stars were fallible. Everything that Katerina pins her hopes on was less than dust in the wind. That's what you saw: for a single moment, I felt free — free to finally step up and claim the destiny I've wanted, tasted, since I could think or hear or walk." He stretched his arms towards the sky. Pietro looked at the power in those limbs as they quested to pluck at the stars themselves. "I was told it was mine. From the time I was born until I became a man, I was told I was destined to be something great. I wasn't rejoicing in the death of the boy — I was seeing my future open up again."

"But he's still alive," said Pietro harshly.

The arms fell. "And so the walls reappear to hem me in once more. Cabined. Cribbed. Confined. I am not the Greyhound. I never will be. But I want it, Pietro, I can taste it. That's what she did. My loving sister was so utterly afraid of not fulfilling her destiny, her part in a myth, she tried to make me into something I'm not. She let
me
live a lie to soothe
her
own need for power."

Tears were streaking down her face, but there was no hitch in the lady's breath. "It was not I who took the dream from you."

"True. But I blame you for giving it to me in the first place."

"I had no choice! It was my destiny! My fate is to raise
Il Veltro
! I am supposed to be the—"

Cangrande's voice filled with contempt. "You are! You have what you wanted! If Cesco
is
the Greyhound, you've shaped him, his mind, his thinking! He'll bear your brand forever! Do you think he will ever forget you? Do you think he could? Or is it recognition you crave, when he is grown and a figure of international fame? Is that the part you see yourself in? Caesar's mother? Christ's? Well, Madonna Aurelia Maria, you've done your part. Now it is time for Cesco to go to people who will love him."

Katerina gasped. "I love him!"

"Yes, you do." Cangrande touched the hilt as his hip. "As I love my sword. It is a tool. But unlike you, without it I am my own person. I do not define myself by my sword alone. You love all your tools, Katerina, but only as much as they are of use to you. No tool can transform you into that which you are not. Believe me, if you discovered this minute that Cesco was not the mythic savior, you would forget him as easily as you forgot me."

Katerina's voice was small. "I never forgot you."

"Well, you can now. From this time on, I want nothing more to do with you."

He had delivered the killing stroke. Yet in doing it he'd exposed the chink in his own armour. Katerina was too tired, too spent by the fortunes of the day and the violence of Cangrande's feelings, to notice. She did not recognize as Pietro did that Cangrande was inviting her to protest, to plead, to beg, to yell, to clamour to be a part of his life still. It was her opportunity to refute everything he'd said.

Instead she said, "May I visit him? May I have that, at least?"

In that moment, she lost. Pietro watched the closing of a door that would never again be opened. The Scaliger was victorious once more. Yet how bitter, to win by losing all.

"Yes. You may cling to your precious destiny. But never in the open, and never for long. We cannot let you be traced there. No one can know where he has gone. We must rumour it that he is dead, or driven mad, or spirited away by demons. Or all three."

The lady had regained some of her composure. "I understand."

"Don't fret, dear sweet sister. It is not too late to be a mother yet. There are your own children, who will not trouble you, for they are merely mortal. As are we all. You can instill in them a deep and abiding belief in the Church, or the stars, or the pagan gods, if you like. And if you're worried that little Cesco will take after me, you can be sure that with Pietro, the Greyhound shall grow to be all you wish him to be, without either of us ruining him."

"No."

Brother and sister turned to face Pietro, who had retreated to the roof's edge. Face half in shadow and half in light, he stared at these two people he had respected, loved, for so long. "No."

Cangrande bowed his head. "Ah, Pietro. You're quite right. We've forgotten our judge. We submit to your wisdom. Who is the victor? Who is at fault? What should be done with the boy? It is for you to say."

One after another, Pietro's illusions were falling away. He stood here more naked and alone than he had been in the cave. "Listen to you — both of you! This can't be about your personal war, or your place in history! Neither of you is interested in the boy!"

Katerina stepped nearer. "Pietro, think about what you've heard tonight. If you refuse, Francesco will only find someone else, someone nowhere near as brave and honest as you."

Pietro kept shaking his head. "No."

Cangrande picked up where his sister left off. "You're correct. Our feelings about the boy are coloured by our own demons. You're the selfless one. You've risked your life to save him how many times? With never a thought to yourself. He must go with you."

"Demons is right," said Pietro coldly. "No one would believe me if I told them what lies under the della Scala skin. No. I won't be a part of your games anymore. You tried to — you would have killed my father? Morsicato, Tharwat? Cesco? You can't pass a child off to me and declare a victory. No. I refuse." Without another word, he turned and limped to the stairs. In moments he was gone.

Brother and sister watched him go. The Scaliger let out a long sigh. "It worked."

Katerina's eyes opened a fraction. "You knew he was there?"

"Yes."

"You also knew I'd come after you, so you staged the scene?"

"
Alterius non sit, qui suus esse potest
.
He's quite correct. We're monsters, you and I."

"We are what the stars make us."

"We are what we will be."

"He'll hate you, you know."

Cangrande shrugged. "Any birth takes pain."

Katerina strode to her brother. Her left hand in bandages, she couldn't embrace him. Instead, she kissed his cheek. "Does this end our war?"

Cangrande put his hands on her shoulders. "Are you dead? Am I?"

Stepping back, Katerina nodded her understanding. "You know, you still surprise me from time to time. With all your calculating and your infinite rage, I often forget your nobility."

"Darling, let's not get carried away. Do you think he'll accept?"

"I don't see what choice you've left him. I wonder if he sees that."

"Pietro's eyes are open now. To many things."

"If I may ask — when did you choose him?"

Cangrande blinked. "That first day, here in the palace. Before you came in he was talking in his sleep. Something in his dreams, I think. It wasn't very clear. But when you told me the boy had been born, I knew he would need a champion."

Katerina cocked her head to the side. "He spoke in his dreams? Has he inherited his father's magic?"

The Capitano opened his hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know about magic powers, but I've seen Dante when he writes — he's in another world. And there is more to his writing than the choice of words. I think God brings about certain times in history, certain energies that merge in men — I don't know. Pietro has dreams. That is something he and Cesco share."

"And you."

"And you." The Scaliger started for the stairs. "Come. We both need rest."

"I'll sit up here for a bit. The sky is so lovely tonight."

Cangrande glanced upward. "Really? I find it oppressive. But as you will."

Katerina remained on the roof for some time, unable to move. The conflict had been far more draining than she'd ever imagined. Her heart was broken, but she was proud. Her brother was learning. Someday he might actually become a great man.

But not
Il Veltro
. That destiny belonged to another.

Turning a corner, Pietro was addressed by a rasping voice. "So. Now you know."

It was a long time before he answered. "Now I know."

Al-Dhaamin's head was thickly bandaged. "I owe you my life."

Pietro remembered the curved sword protecting his head and shoulders as he had ridden to rescue Cangrande. "Consider all debts paid."

"I am only sorry I could not be there when you truly needed."

"Oh? When was that? The cave? The coach? Or just now? For I'll tell you, nothing today compares with what I just heard. Oh, but I'm forgetting — you know everything already." Pietro laughed sourly. "They want me to take Cesco to Ravenna. But if Cesco is the Greyhound, nothing I do matters. If I don't take him, it'll all turn out the same. Right?"

"You know that is not so. Your faith denies predestination. I am inclined to agree. There is much talk of the stars' influence on men. No one ever speaks of man's influence on the stars. There is no relationship in the Almighty's creation that does not extend both ways. The boy may or may not be the Greyhound — that we cannot control. But what kind of man the Greyhound will be, that is open to our influence."

They stood gazing at each other. At last Pietro said, "You're a part of this, too. You let them play their little games, you encourage them. You play them off each other. What is it you want out of all this, Tharwat al-Dhaamin? What are you after?"

The tall, scarred man gazed down at Pietro. "I fear that by watching the battle between brother and sister, you have lost sight of the war. The struggle between siblings, the feud with Padua, the designs of Venice, the rancors of Florence, the hopes of the pope, the dreams of those who would be emperor — all those are as nothing to the fate of this boy. If he is the Greyhound, he can reshape the world as we know it. Who would not wish to be a part of such an epic design? It is a slim hope, I know, the promise of a promise. But who would hesitate to give up his life to bring such a new age to pass?"

"That's not an answer. What is it you want?"

Al-Dhaamin lips pressed together. "Ask yourself this — if I have made charts for the child, and for Katerina and Cangrande, is it not possible that someone once made a chart of my own poor life? That I, too, find a destiny that revolves around this child? That I have even found the end of my life intersecting at a place along his chart."

"You've seen your own death?"

"Possibly, yes. You played a part in that discovery. Had you not suggested that there were twin stars, I could not have made the chart that showed the intersection of my death and his life."

That was a chilling thought. But Pietro was sick to death of prophecies and star charts. "Do you think you can postpone your death?"

The Moor's chuckle was an eerie rumble. "Nothing can do that, my young friend. We die whenever the stars will it. It is futile to strive against them. The stars are powerful enemies." Pietro was quiet. "The Scaliger has no plans now to control the child's life. He's taken his revenge on his sister and placed the child where he is most likely to thrive while not growing to be a threat to himself. It is a remarkable act of self-abnegation, not to be confused with altruism. He has, for a brief moment, transcended himself. At the same time, he has bestowed his greatest gift upon you."