One
Verona
Saturday,
26 November 1328
Verona’s enduring war
with Padua ended not with a clash of steel, but a peal of bells. Wedding bells.
The leading families of each city were sealing their recent bond of peace in matrimonial bliss,
a double ceremony tying the kindred of Cangrande della Scala, Capitano da
Verona, to that of Marsilio da Carrara, Capitano da Padua.
But whatever talk there
was of union and partnership, one family would clearly dominate. Just as it was
women marrying Cangrande’s male relations, so Padua was vowing to love, honour,
and obey Verona. After fifteen years of war, punctuated by brief periods of
truce, one city had achieved a decisive victory by wedding the other.
The blessed date was set
for the 26th of November, and the two months prior were a frantic
rush unparralled in the history of either city.
To start, Carrara surprised
everyone by recalling all the Paduan exiles save two. Padua’s internal strife
had been far more destabilizing than the war itself, rising to such a crescendo
of violence and betrayal that it was preferable for Carrara to hand the city to
the enemy than to trust his own family. Thus his cousin Niccolo did not receive
a pardon.
Nor did the poet
Albertino Mussato, who’d savaged Marsilio’s disastrous rule and even this
recent salvation. Mussato’s continued exile entirely suited Cangrande, who had
never quite forgiven the poet for the literary tongue-lashing he’d delivered the
Scaliger in the play Ecerinis.
The double wedding
promised to be the grandest event in Veronese history – quite a statement, as
Cangrande kept a lavish court. But for this, no expense was spared.
Delightfully, many needs were supplied by gifts from other cities. Verona’s
allies – Mantua, Bergamo, Cremona, and Vizenza – all sent presents of food,
drink, and expensive wedding trinkets, while Lucca donated huge rolls of their
famous cloth. The most surprising gift came from the Venitians. In the place of
the traditional gold cup for the bride, they sent two heavy goblets of flawless
blue glass, one for each couple. One might even think they approved.
These signs of respect were
evidence of Cangrande’s growing pre-eminence. By conquering Padua, the Scaliger
had arguably become the most powerful man in Italy, and the way it had been
done – peacefully, reasonably – only enhanced his stature. Cangrande was now
the undisputed leader of the Ghibbelline party, controlling all the Feltro – almost.
There was no gift from the Trevisans. They were too occupied in fortifying
their walls.
But the certainty of war with
Treviso was overshadowed by the incredible goings-on inside Verona. Men from
the guilds capered in the streets as if it were Carne Vale, dressed in silks
and linens dyed every colour the rainbow could offer. Entertainers of every
stripe descended on the city in droves, housed at the Scaliger’s expense. Actors,
musicians, painters, poets, magicians, dancers, riders, and jugglers were put
to work at once, with impromptu plays, shows, and concerts at all hours, in
every square.
Verona already owned a
reputation for games, races, and contests. The hunts during the late Cecchino
della Scala’s wedding were fabled in song and story, the annual twin races
known as the Palio were legendary, and the tourney two years past had been as
exciting as the ancient bouts in Rome’s Colosseum. But these wedding celebrations
promised to show them all up as cheap and tawdry masques.
Cangrande had always been
praised for his open-handed ways, but now florins and ducats flowed as if
carried down the Alps along the Adige River. Not that he spent his own money,
or even much of the city’s. As the bride, Padua was forced to offer a substantial
dowry to defray the cost of these nuptual extravagences.
After weeks of revels and
sport, the promised day arrived. The private stages of the marriage, the impalmamento and sponsalia, had already been performed.
Today was matrimonium, the ring-day,
a ceremony that was particularly Italian. Germans and Frenchmen exchanged rings
upon betrothal, but in Italy the ring set the seal on the marriage.
Verona was packed
to bursting. Nobles from France, Germany, Brabant, Burgundy, Aragon, Sicily,
Zeeland, Denmark and other nearby nations flocked for the event, only to find
the city already teeming with citizens from all over the Italian peninsula.
Even the Emperor had overlooked his festering discontent with the Scaliger to
send some of his favoured knights and courtiers. One of the bridegrooms had
been his personal page for over a year, and Ludwig da Bayer still held out hope
to woo the young man to his court permenantly.
Excitement rippled
through the air even before the breaking of day. All men knew that Manuel the
Jew, Cangrande’s aged Master of Revels, meant this to be his swan song, the
pinnacle of his career. This caused a vibrating anticipation for a day planned
to the smallest detail.
It began, as all weddings should, with music. At
first it was simply a select band of strings to greet the pre-dawn light. The musicians were placed on balconies and rooftops across the city, filling the air overhead with their sustained airy notes. After
an hour the fifes joined in, livening the jostle and bustle of the eager crowd.
More wind instruments followed and finally, scant minutes before the procession
began, drums. But these drums were not situated in the open air. Rather, they
were placed below the earth, in the excavated Roman ruins beneath the Piazza
della Signoria and the Piazza della Erbe. Thus the throbbing pulse seemed to
rise from the very earth itself.
The streets were packed,
ripe targets for the various low thieves and rascals who knew how to cut a
purse, steal a ring from a finger, or strip a man of his best knife without
giving the slightest sign. For practical reasons, only knights were allowed to
go armed. Knights, and the city guards, resplendent in their bright yellow and
blue garb. On their striped tabards each bore the seal of the great Scaligeri
house, the ladder with the two-headed eagle at the top and the snarling hound
at the base. Their halberds were bedecked in garlands, demonstrating the
victory of peace over war that these marriages symbolized.
Suddenly the drums
stopped, and the air shuddered in a blare of trumpets. The doors to Cangrande’s
new palace were flung wide and twenty small, angelic children issued forth, strewing
rose-petals in their wake, followed by the most skilled acrobats and jugglers the city could offer. Next came the priests and monks, holy men
without family to elevate them to notoriety. Solomn as they could manage, some
could not help smiling, their joy mirroring that of the souls under their care.
Then the gentry appeared,
the mounted knights and nobles from both cities. They rode in matched pairs,
one Paduan riding to the left of one Veronese. This was no traditional parade,
with the most important at the head, but more in the mode of an ancient Roman
Triumph, building man after man to the most illustrious.
Yet they started strong. Leading
the way were Baptista Minola, whose son-in-law was Veronese, and Gugliermo del
Castelbarco, Cangrande’s most valued senior statesman. They were followed by
Nico da Lozza, who long ago had traded Padua’s colours for Cangrande’s, and his
cousin Schinelli, who had refused to change sides. Blood enemies, they now
smiled for all the world.
More famous Veronese faces,
paired with their Paduan opposites. Some of the loudest cheers were for
Petruchio da Bonaventura, he of the mad Paduan wife. Bonaventura rode beside
his lifelong friend, Hortensio Alvarotti, namesake of Bonaventura’s second son.
They chatted and waved, clearly well-pleased that they could now live in public
as well as private amity.
Some men had no link,
were placed together only to honour their status. Others were more awkward, as
the pairing of Antonio Capulletto with Ubertino da Carrara. Capulletto had once
been betrothed to Ubertino’s cousin, only to have her run off with his best
friend. It was an eternally-festering sore, causing a quietly simmering feud. But
Antony, no one’s fool, put on a brave face for the crowd.
Not far behind Capulletto
rode that same former friend. As Mariotto Montecchio was wed to a Paduan
noblewoman, he was among the last duos to issue forth from the Scaligeri
palace. His partner for the ride was a relation by marriage, Tiso da
Camposampiero, though they had never met outside a battlefield.
Nearing the ultimate set
of riders came four of Scaligeri sympathy, tied by blood and marriage. Antonio
and Bailardino da Nogarola, along with Bail’s two sons Bailardetto and
Valentino. They were paired with four of the Papafava clan, who were tied to
the Carrarese much the same way the Nogaola family was to the Scalageri.
It was well known that
young Detto had ridden to secure one bride of today’s brides. Dressed in purple
and gold, a sign of great honour ahead, his head should have been high. Yet he
looked utterly sad. He did not wave or smile, but kept his eyes fixed rigidly
upon his father’s back, as though drawing strength from his sire’s gregarious,
warlike bulk.
Next came the only rider
without a mate. The rumoured architect of this grand peace, Ser Pietro
Alaghieri had been given the great honour of riding in solitary prominence. Known
as a knight of scrupulous honour, and recently returned to the light of God, he
was said to be the Scaliger’s most trusted confidant. Hadn’t he been given the
care of raising Cangrande’s secret heir? Hadn’t he gone to Avignon to plead the
Scaliger’s reinstatement by the Pope? Hadn’t he been wounded fighting the
Paduans, and yet devised this victorious, glorious peace? Moreover, was he not
the son of the great poet Dante, who had braved Hell in order to achieve
Heaven?
Certainly his son looked
as though he’d shared his father’s journey, so grim and tired and sad all at
once. Like Detto before him, he looked braced more for a funeral than a
wedding.
Ah, but the next pair
bore smiles that angels would have envied. Cangrande della Scala and Marsilio
da Carrara rode side by side, dressed in the colours of their cities, but
reversed – the Paduan wore Verona’s gold and azure, while Cangrande was draped
in the crimson and white of Padua. Both were handsome, and Cangrande had shed
some of the weight he had gained in recent years, making him look even younger
than his modest thirty-eight years. Just three years younger, Carrara was dark
of hair and of eye. Handsome, he still paled in comparison to the great man
beside him.
It was not years that
gave the Scaliger such a dominance, nor was it his position as the victor.
There was something innate in the man, something grand and eternal, that drew
every eye. It did not hurt that his flawless smile was famous the across the
known world, or that his chestnut hair frames orbs of such unearthly blue that
women had made fools of themselves just to be seen by those eyes. Decisive,
cunning, foresighted, generous, forgiving, proud, able, and charming, Cangrande
was such a man as to come along one in a generation, a dozen generations. With this
victory, the world had begun to recognize that fact. And fear it.
Both lords were hung with
so much gold as to dazzle the eye – even the stitching of their gloves seemed
to be of gold. Neither was armed in the slightest, not even a knife at their
belts, so secure in the peace they had made. A peace that would be forever
signified by the mingling of their kindred.
Lastly came the two bridegrooms,
dressed in perfectly matched embroidered farsettos and capes. Not gold but
silver, head to spurs, with the deepest and most expensive black to accent
their luster.
The elder by six years, Mastino
della Scala was now twenty and had all the handsomeness that youthful vigour
endowed. Moreover, his dark hair was cut short, making him look both Romanesque
and quite martial. One might have mistaken Mastino for the son of Carrara, not
the nephew of Cangrande. Mastino was mounted on a pure white stallion that even
the horse-loving Montecchio had been forced to admire.
Beside him, on an equally
white steed, rode Francesco di Cangrande, the bastard heir of Verona. Cesco’s
curling chestnut hair was grown on the longish side, nearly long enough to tie
back. He had a more crooked smile than Cangrande, curling up on the left side
and pressed tight on the right. It was a wry smile of amusement, not of joy,
and would have looked out of place on any other fourteen year-old. But Cesco
owned something of the Scaliger’s presence, and already his daring was
renowned.
Since his dramatic
re-entry into Verona three years earlier, the city had watched him grow, until
just this last summer he had guided the city through the aftermath of a
terrifying earthquake with remarkable ability and assurance. Better still, the
feud between Cangrande and his bastard heir seemed to have ended. For the first
time, Verona’s future seemed not only bright, but repleat with promise. There
lacked only a victory over Treviso. Then, with the Feltro united, with the
support of the Emperor and respect of the Pope, with control of the Alps, with
an experienced and eager army, with Cangrande to lead and with Cesco as the
promised future, Verona’s possibilities were limited only by imagination. The
city so beloved of Charlemagne could easily become the new Paris, the new Rome,
the new Athens. Verona would become the center of the world.
If no one that day recalled
the words uttered by an oracle thirteen years before, could they be blamed?
Indeed, was there ever blame for what the stars had ordained?
* * *
“I really must thank you
again, cos,” said Mastino over his shoulder as he waved to his half the crowd.
“I rather think you
should practice restraint,” replied Cesco without a break in his own smiling
cheer. “You have an expectant bride who doubtless will already be disappointed
in her wedding night. Restraint might keep you from ruining it entirely.”
Mastino laughed off the
insult. “But that’s just what I must thank you for! Taddea is a lovely girl.
Ripe, noble. Rich too. And of the purest lineage! All you have to do is look
and know whose daughter she is. Yes, pure Carrara from hair to heel. Who could
ask for more?”
“Who indeed?” queried
Cesco lightly.
“And it was you that
brought us together. I will forever be in your debt.”
At that Cesco turned away
from the crowd to look upon his cousin. With a joyful smile and wide eyes, he
shook with laughter. “O no, cos! Trust me, it is I who am in your debt.”
Mastino frowned. Wasn’t
this just the response he’d been angling for, needling the younger man one last
time before the vows? Yet Cesco’s laughter did not seem feigned, nor did it
force its way through gritted teeth, as it might from any normal man in his
position. No, Cesco’s laughter was wild, untethered, free from care. And that
was somehow more frightening than the threat the words themselves promised.
Mastino now regretted
that he had not been here in Verona for most of the last two months. He had no
way of knowing what was in the little bastard’s head now. For the first time,
he worried what form Cesco’s revenge might take.
The brat needn’t have
gone through with the wedding at all. That was none of Mastino’s doing! All
he’d done was drag a hidden truth to light. That he’d meant to wield it as a
weapon of his vengance – for his dead friend Fuchs, for the usurpation of
Mastino’s rightful place as Verona’s heir, for a hundred slights both public
and private, for simply living at all – none of that meant anything. What did
motives matter?
And with the truth out,
why the devil had Cesco forced himself to partake of this mad, laughable,
shameful marriage? Cangrande would have been perfectly pleased to call it off.
Mastino, too, would have preferred to have this wedding day all to himself.
What had possessed the boy to go through with it?
That was the most fearful
thing about the bastard. He could not be predicted.
As Cesco’s amused eyes
lingered upon him a fraction longer, Mastino felt an involuntary shudder, and a
light sweat crept across his shoulders and neck. Well, I have one more weapon at my disposal. If you come after me,
little cos, I will make you wish you had never been born.
* * *
As the distance from the
palace to the cathedral was not long enough for a proper spectacle, the triumphal
procession took a round-about track, looping west to the Arena, then north to
the river’s edge. From here, cheered by crowds lining both banks of the river,
they followed the water west until they reached Verona’s Duomo, the Cathedral
of Santa Maria Matricular.
Like the fabled entryway to San Zeno, Verona’s Duomo was
designed by the architect Maestro Nicholò. While not as famous as that of
Verona’s patron saint, the century and a half old cathedral was an austerely
beautiful structure.
Like most
great churches, the Duomo had a roofed porch in front of the main entrance
called a protiro. The roof was supported
by two massive pillars rising from the backs of two winged griffons. Between
the pillars and above the door was a painted Madonna and child with the Magi
and shepherds, as well as images of hunting scenes and prophets. Just below the
painted holy scene were three stone medallions bearing the virtures of Faith,
Charity, and Hope.
Behind the
pillars, finely worked blind arches cascaded out from the doors. Each arch bore
its own prophet, making ten in all. The church was also symbolically protected
by two painted paladins, Roland and Oliver, from traditional Charlemagne
chivalric cycles.
The beaming Bishop was waiting, with the whole Franciscan
Order on hand to witness the rites. There were Dominicans as well, most
notably the sisters of Santa Maria in Organa. At their fore, standing beside the
Abbess, was Suor Beatrice. Before beginning her cloistered life, she had been Antonia
Alaghieri, combination mother, aunt, and big sister to Cesco della Scala. The
brisk autumnal air was sharp enough to bite her in the throat and sting her
eyes. A good excuse to let fall the tears welling behind them. And why should
she not cry? Didn’t people cry at weddings?
But her tears wouldn’t be
for joy. They would be for a broken heart.
What made it worse is
that Cesco had been avoiding Antonia in all but the most public settings.
Whenever she called, he contrived to be absent or asleep or busy with some new
hawk, or sword, or horse. She thought she knew why, and was as gnawed by guilt
as he.
Two years before, Antonia
had been violently and repeatedly raped in an attempt to hurt Cesco, separate
him from those that cared for him. Whenever she gave the boy comfort, she was
punished in the most violating way. Worse, she had never known who had done it
to her. But she had remained silent, choosing to keep that horrible knowledge
from Cesco.
She had thought that,
through confessing to her Abbess and Fra Lorenzo, she had made peace with the
event. Then, just two months ago, as he had returned from the Venice meeting
where the peace had been brokered, Cesco had sent her a curt message saying
only that the man responsible was dead – Fuchs, Mastino’s erstwhile companion.
He had kidnapped Cesco and tried to sell the fourteen year-old into slavery.
Cesco had escaped, but not before ending Fuchs’ life.
Antonia’s rage at the
revelation of who had done this to her was dwarfed by her failure to protect
Cesco from this terrible secret. Why had she endured it, if he knew? He now avoided
her, unwilling or unable to hear her words of thanks, of regret, of sorrow. She
knew him well enough to understand that he was taking the responsibility upon
himself, blaming himself for her plight. And to say truth, she was secretly
grateful for his avoidance, for she did not know what she could possibly say to
salve his guilt.
But she wished they could
agree to let the past lie, so that she could comfort his present. Her brother
Pietro had confided the truth about what had happened in Padua, the disastrous
secret about Cesco’s proposed bride. Antonia wanted to hold the boy in her arms
as she had when he was small, absorb his pain and rage. But he was no more
willing to share his pain than she had been to share hers. In the end, Fuchs
had won – he’d driven her little boy away from her.
Not that he was so little
anymore. As if adversity had thrown a lever within him, over the past two
months he had grown a full two inches. He’d always lamented his lack of height.
But now his Scaligeri heritage, always present in his face, was beginning to
show in his stature. It had also made him even thinner than his usual wiry
frame. His face looked longer. Even the scar above his eye seemed to have
stretched. But the thinness didn’t make him look weaker. It made him seem
harder, stronger.
He truly is the Greyhound, thought Antonia with real sadness.
It was the prophecy at
the heart of all the strife in their lives. Attributed to the British wizard Merlin, so popular in
French songs, it carried an awesome prediction:
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.
These very lines were the inspiration for
Antonia’s father, creating the opening scene in the first book of his Commedia, entitled L’Inferno. In it, the character of Dante had started his journey
through Hell because he was frightened by the leopard, the lion, and the
she-wolf, the last of whom was said to mate with men ‘until the Greyhound shall come, who’ll make her die in pain.’
But there was a second
part to the prophecy, a coda that her father had never known:
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.
To her father, to the world, Cangrande was the Greyhound. He
himself had believed it for years. Yet it seemed it was not the Scaliger but
young Cesco who was destined to slay the she-wolf, whatever that was, and be
remembered for his own death. Antonia stared at him and prayed God to preserve
him. Heaven knew that none of them had been able to so far.
As the knights all arrived, they dismounted and their horses
were led away. There was young Detto, looking as crushed as a faithful hound
that’s lost its master. Not far behind him, Antonia saw her older brother step
out of his stirrup and onto the cobbled stones. His face was grim as he met her
eye. They both had the same sunken hearts. But there was nothing for it. They
had to plunge ahead with the travesty of matrimony.
Antonia watched Cangrande and Carrara dismount. The first
day she had seen Marsilio da Carrara, thirteen years before, he had been
engaged in a duel with her brother. So she had little liking for him. But it
was the smiling and waving Cangrande who had earned the bulk of her ire. It was
his fault, of course, that Cesco had been brought to Verona too early. His fault
that Cesco had been tasked past enduring. His fault that Cesco’s heart was now
a wreckage, perhaps never to be mended.
Cesco did not show it,
though. Arriving just behind the Capitano, he waved and grinned as if he were
the victor of some great battle, his cousin and fellow-bridegroom by his side.
Antonia had to tamp down
her revulsion at the sight of Mastino. Though he’d denied it, she was certain
he had known of Fuchs’ crimes, condoned them, perhaps even ordered them. Bile
rose in her throat as she imagined him laughing as Fuchs related the details –
how she had fought, cried, tried to strike back. She knew it was an
un-Christian thought, but if it were ever in Antonia’s power to do Mastino ill,
she would welcome the chance.
Stapping down from their
snowy mounts, Cesco and Mastino climbed the three short stairs to the church
doors. Antonia could have almost reached out and touched Cesco as he passed. The
main duty of the clergy was to witness the oaths exchanged, and verify that
neither couple had an unacceptable degree of consanguinity. This last task had Antonia
feeling quite ill. She shot a glance at Mastino, whose eyes glowed in malicious
delight.
Cesco showed nothing but
a resplendent smile as he received his blessing from the Bishop. Then the doors
were opened and from within the great cathedral emerged the bridal party, with
the families of both girls dressed in lavish fashion. Antonia had expected
Cesco’s future father-in-law to look grim, but he appeared to have already been
drinking, for there was a sloppy smile plastered across his face. Here came
several more children, bearing the precious Venitian bridal chalices. Antonia
half-willed one of them to trip, break the glass vessel, and so curse the
marriage. Could she use superstition to prevent it from happening? Alas, both
children were lamentably sure-footed.
The music reached a
fevered pitch, heralding the arrival of the brides themselves. Both were heavily
veiled, dressed like the grooms in matching cloth of silver and black, save for
the single ribbon of blue to indicate their purity.
Mastino’s intended was
the first to be greeted by her future husband. Taddea da Carrara allowed her hand
to pass from her cousin Marsilio to her new master. Mastino kissed the
proffered hand and then stepped close to lift the veil, showing his bride to all
the people of Verona.
It would have been
perfect had she been beautiful. But she had the too-tight face of her famous
father, the late Il Grande da Carrara. Her whole head was longer front to back
than it was tall, making her short-chinned and hawkishly-nosed. In her father,
the features had made him stern and serious. In the daughter, the effect was
just the same. The smile on her face seemed strained and out of place. But she
had been expertly painted, and she had one attribute eternal to beauty – youth.
All eyes turned to Cesco
as he stepped forward to greet his bride. She was holding back shyly just
inside the cathedral doors, balking at this, the ultimate moment. But Cesco
knelt before her and said something, flashing her a smile that had very little
wryness in it. Antonia could not hear what he said, but it made the girl laugh.
Standing, he held out his hand for her to take. She slipped her fingers into
his, and together they stepped forward for all to see. As Cesco reached across
and lifted her veil the crowd cheered, many were the sighs of 'aww' and 'how
precious' from the combined citizens of Padua and Verona.
If youth was any measure
to gauge a bride’s beauty by, Cesco’s betrothed was the fairest in the land.
She was all of five years
old.
THE PRINCE'S DOOM – Coming Fall 2013 from Sordelet Ink!
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