David Blixt - The Master of Verona

Dante shook his head. "He must have been stuck, or curled up in a corner."

Pietro wiped his eyes and face. "How could he be in there and not make a sound?"

"He was a remarkable child." The poet's voice trembled. "My lord, I am so sorry."

Dante was behind the Scaliger, as was Katerina. Only Pietro, prostrate on the ground, had a view of Cangrande's face. Pietro blinked in disbelief. Engraved on Cangrande's every feature was an expression of pure, boundless -

Joy. Ecstasy, raw delight, the face an angel might bear doing the bidding of the Lord. Only this face was delighting in the death of a child. Blood of his blood.

A giggle made them all whirl about. Stepping into the road from by the treeline was Cesco. With nothing worse than muddy knees and hands he stood in the light of the fire, smiling happily.

Dante goggled, Katerina let out a sighing sob, Pietro stared between the flames and the child. Then he looked to Cangrande.

The Scaliger's face was back to its old self. With a twinkle in his eye he bowed to the boy, who made a fine bow in return. Then Cesco ran forward to embrace his foster mother, who was too tired to deny him the affection he so clearly deserved. She wrapped her right arm about him and wept.

Later they would reconstruct his miraculous escape as something quite simple. The compartment under the seat also had a door leading to the rear exterior of the carriage, allowing the disposal of waste or stowing of luggage without disturbing the passengers within. Cesco must have forced the catch just as they halted, then dashed for the trees. That rear door also explained why the carriage went up in flames so swiftly — the two grooms had taken straw from a nearby hut and stuffed it into the compartment. What Katerina thought was Cesco moving about under her was really the murderers, planning their demise.

"It's a shame they didn't live," observed Cangrande. "We might have discovered who hired them."

"But we know, my lord," said Dante, blinking. Then he realized what he was about to say would be quite a blow to his patron. "I have a heavy tale to tell, my lord," he began, quickly outlining their deductions regarding Cangrande's wife, Donna Giovanna da Svevia.

When he was finished, the Scaliger turned away. "I see. That reminds me — Morsicato. He's nearby, unconscious. Rogue Paduan soldiers attacked us on the way here. He was knocked out, and I had to tie him to his horse to bring him along. If he's up to it, perhaps he can examine your wounds, Kat." The Scaliger vanished up the road.

With the two carriage horses, removed before the fire, and the two horses that bore Cangrande and the senseless doctor, they were able to slowly make their way back to Vicenza. Pietro rode one horse, Katerina another, Morsicato lay over Dante's saddle, and Cesco sat in Cangrande's lap.

No one spoke overmuch on that ride. For Pietro it was a ride filled with one thought, one image that returned over and over to his mind — Cangrande's expression when he thought that Cesco was dead. That horrible delight tormented Pietro's imagination the whole weary ride back to Vicenza.

Vicenza

22 May 1317

Perched atop the roof of the Nogarola palace, his back to a turret, Pietro stared down at the sleeping city. The wet rooftops of Vicenza glistened under the light of the moon and the stars.

He heard bells. Barely midnight. So much had happened since the dawn. He'd lived a whole life in the span of the rising and falling of one sun. Yet while his inner eye ran over all the events, in his ears he heard only a child's voice singing through tears of fright.

They'd been dropped into complete oblivion, he and Cesco. Without each other, neither would have survived. Never out of reach, always conversing or singing, they had kept away the korai, the gods the Greeks believed called men to madness. It had seemed eternal, though he now knew it was less than an hour. He also knew how close they'd come to running out of air altogether. He wondered if he'd ever be comfortable in enclosed spaces again. Hence the rooftop.

Cangrande had insisted they creep into town unseen. Until it was clear that there were no more threats to them, the Scaliger deemed it best to keep their arrival a complete secret. Once Morsicato, singed scalp bandaged, had seen to Katerina's arm, he'd sewn up Pietro as well. The doctor hadn't bled him, deciding Pietro had already bled enough to release any foul elements in his system. Pietro had refused to add any contents to the doctor's jordan , rightly saying he was too parched to produce a drop. But Morsicato had insisted on bringing forth the maggots once more, this time wrapping them into the gash across Pietro's left hand. Recalling how close that cut had come to his face, he tried not to imagine the maggots embedded in his cheek.

Dante had been granted a set of rooms, and Morsicato had given the poet a sleeping draught. Jacopo was still at the revels by the hillside. Antonia was off with Gianozza somewhere. Bailardino, one of the few who knew of their return to the city, had stopped by briefly to pay his respects, but spent the rest of the time divided between his frightened son and his pregnant, injured wife. Left alone, Pietro had wandered up here, leaning heavily on his bloodied cane.

He'd heard the news of Lord Montecchio's death with real anguish. By now it was also common knowledge that the girl had been out during the day, and had spoken to Antony. She said she had seen him drop the silver dagger before leaving her. Pietro's sister had confirmed this. So the damning piece of evidence against Antony was now gone. There would be no trial, no execution. Everyone now believed that Pathino had found the knife and used it to steal lord Montecchio's horse.

Everyone except Mari, of course.

Bailardino had brought that news back with him. He also brought word that they had found Ferdinando's body. Bonaventura's cousin had never reached Detto's hiding place, but had fallen into the covered pit, the same trap that Mercurio had saved Pietro from entering just minutes earlier. It seemed Ferdinando had survived the fall only to be kicked to death by his thrashing horse. A horrible death.

It's my fault. Why didn't I warn him about it? I saw it and didn't even think to warn him. My fault…

Behind him a trapdoor opened and someone climbed the stairs to the roof. Listening to the fall of footsteps he knew precisely who it was. In the shadow of the turret Pietro was invisible, and he decided to stay that way.

"A lovely night," remarked Cangrande. "How are you feeling?"

At first Pietro thought the Scaliger was addressing him. Then he heard Katerina's voice. "Tired. My hand will look somewhat like al-Dhaamin's neck."

Shifting in his shadow, Pietro saw both brother and sister. Even after such a terrible day, even with her hand wrapped in salve and bandages, the lady was as perfect as the very first time Pietro had seen her. She had resumed her usual attire, her gown's hem barely brushing the rooftop. Cangrande too was immaculate in fresh clothes, though his skin was still unnaturally dark.

"And Bailardino's next son?"

"The baby should be fine."

"Regardless, you should be in bed."

"Morsicato has prescribed complete rest, but that is difficult to achieve with the Count raving like a lunatic in my own chambers."

"So you came hunting for me."

"Tharwat kindly offered to sit with the Count and transcribe all his visions, in case there are some portents in the man's dying imagination. Is there any news of Pathino?"

"Yes, in fact. We traced him to Schio, where he traded Montecchio's horse for another. Another vindication for Capulletto. Pathino seems to be headed for Venice. From there he can take ship to anywhere in the world. We'll try to head him off."