The Master of Verona (65 page)

But then he realized Theodoro had already given him a clue. They were heading for Padua, which meant the seal's owner was a Paduan. Or resided there.

Glancing over at the Moor, lit now by the stars and the occasional torches in the street, Ignazzio said, "When can you tell me his name?"

"When we are gone from this place."

Ignazzio nodded. "All the more reason to pray to San Antonio for a safe journey." With that the astrologer kicked his heels, urging his mount down the cobbled decline.

Milazzo was not so much a town as a seaside getaway for the wealthy. Situated on a bluff just north of the road between Palermo and the city of Messina, its only true claim of notoriety was in being the place where San Antonio was shipwrecked a hundred years before. The Patron of Lost Things, the Poor, and Travelers, Antonio held the distinction of receiving the second quickest ordination as saint in church history, a mere 352 days. The holy man who held the record, ironically, was a Veronese. Always Verona and Padua, vying for dominance.

San Antonio's cave was at the bottom of the bay, far below the castle. The bluff the town was built upon was known as the Head of Milazzo. If that were literally true, the cave would have been the nose, with the mouth opening out onto the rich blue water.

The cave could only be reached on foot, by a panoramic stair cut into the stone facing. Ignazzio dismounted at the plateau leading to the stairs and began tying the lead of his mount to a spindly tree.

The Moor was gazing at the starlit water and the small vessels bobbing along the quay. "It may be prudent, this time of day, to sell our mounts and hire a fisherman's boat for the night."

Ignazzio was pleased by the notion — he had no desire to risk the lonely ride to Messina. He handed his horse's reins to the Moor. "Excellent. I shall meet you here."

With that, the astrologer lifted the hem of his robe and began the descent.

Having at last found a willing fisherman — pleasantly also a Moor — Theodoro returned to the appointed spot later than he had expected. He was surprised, therefore, when he did not find Ignazzio waiting for him. He looked about the plateau for a place to sit, sure that the young astrologer was taking his ease. There was an impression in the cliff face just opposite the carved stairway. The top jutted at such an angle that no light penetrated its depth.

Something about the shadow made him draw his dagger. Stepping closer, he heard a sound until now drowned by the slap of the surf below. It was a gibbering whimper, made by a voice he knew.

Placing the blade near at hand, the Moor knelt down and sent his hands questing into the shadow. At once he encountered flesh. It recoiled from his touch. "No-o-o!" cried a ghostly version of Ignazzio's tenor.

"It's me," said the Moor.

"Oh Master!" Ignazzio grasped the Moor's hands and dragged himself gasping into the starlight. "I'm sorry — so sorry..!"

"Who did this?"

Ignazzio doubled over in pain. He was covered in blood, which seemed to be coming from his midsection. "S-scarecrow! He was here — waiting! For months, he said! He knew we'd — we'd come here — bankers —"

"Hush." Most of Ignazzio's clothes had been ripped away by some kind of blade, revealing the small, pudgy body. "You need not speak."

The astrologer shook his head. "No — you have to — he, he said I — I had something of his! He searched me — I'm sorry, tell them I'm so –" Ignazzio's scream became a long whimper. "He took it, he took it!"

"I know." The Moor had already seen the absence of the medallion with its twisted, twisting cross of pearls. He was busy examining the wound. A curved knife or sickle of some kind. Stabbed in the groin and torn upward almost to the breastbone. It was a marvel Ignazzio had lived so long.

The dying man moaned, twisted. In a voice that was more complaining than grieving, he cried, "I never saw this in my stars!"

The Moor sat and cradled Ignazzio's head in his arms. "The stars show the path, but not each step."

"Oh dear God, dear Christ! It hurts so..!"

"Shhh. Through this pain, there is peace."

Ignazzio stared up with pleading eyes. "Master, I have served my purpose. Have I your goodwill?"

The Moor nodded. "You have. That, and my thanks."

"Then spare me, master! Spare me this — indignity!"

Theodoro of Cadiz, one of many names this Moor used, leaned forward and kissed his pupil's forehead. Then he put one hand on each side of Ignazzio's head and, taking a shallow breath, he pulled up and to the left. There was a sound like splintering brush, a rattling exhale, then the shivers and convulsions that follow such a death.

So. The medallion was worth more than they had thought. It was worth murdering for. Not only that, worth the effort of tracking them here. Or rather, waiting. Was he crouched nearby, listening still?

The Moor wasted no more time. He laid his pupil's corpse across the mouth of San Antonio's cave with enough gold to pay for a decent funeral. Then he returned to the fisherman and boarded the rickety boat. Halfway to Messina he changed their destination. He disembarked in a small village and immediately disappeared into the Moorish community there. It was time to blend in, discard Theodoro and resume an old identity. Perhaps even his real one.

But first he must write to Pietro. The boy needed warning. Their enemy was on the move again.

In June Cremona's Cavalcabo had stepped aside as ruler to be replaced by Giberto da Correggio, a rabid Scaliger foe despite the fact that his niece was married to Bailardino's brother. Annoyed by this appointment, the Scaliger and Passerino Bonaccolsi returned to their western war and laid siege to Cremona by land and water. Jacopo was not sorry to be among those left behind.

There were those who were sorrowful, though. One was Bailardino, who regretfully refused to war against a relation — though it gave him an excuse to stay at home and play with his new son Bailardetto, just a year old.

Another disappointed soul was Giuseppe Morsicato, barber, surgeon, and knight. He had not been at Calvatone, which he lamented, for they had certainly needed his skills. This year his master was not taking the Vicentine army out on campaign, and so Morsicato was forced to sit around the palace, wasting his days nursing cases of heatstroke and overindulgence.

This particular evening found him at the Nogarola palace looking after an ailing squire. The youth was stricken with a summer fever and there was little to be done other than make him sleep. Morsicato's favored mixture of poppy seed juice and crushed hemp seeds would make the boy rest until his fever either broke or killed him.

It promised to be a long night, and he was hungry. Morsicato's wife had been asleep when he'd gotten the call and so hadn't ordered the maid to send food with him. Typical of Morsicato himself, he simply forgot. That was the way it always was — the urgencies of his profession overrode all practicality. Now, having seen the squire and tended him as best he could for the moment, the balding doctor with the forked beard made his way down to the kitchens of the Nogarola palace.

He spent twenty minutes scrounging food from the cupboards, ending with a good cold pheasant leg and a hunk of hard, crusty bread. He tried to find something other than wine to sop the bread in and was rewarded with some broth, which he spooned into a large wooden bowl. Having been a soldier, this was a meal he could appreciate. It was similar to a campaign supper, which was appropriate — most of the doctoring he'd done in his life had been on one battlefield or another.

It had been after his first battle (dear God, decades ago) that he'd learned how to set a broken arm, bind a broken head, and saw off a limb that would otherwise grow gangrenous. His amateur skill and steady stomach was noticed and he'd been trundled off to Padua to learn medicine. It was noteworthy that even during the flare-ups of the interminable war with Padua, any Veronese wishing to study medicine could go and learn. There were never enough doctors — especially ones skilled in battlefield treatment. It was his luck that he was good at all aspects of war.

I ought to be with my patient
. He gathered what was left of his meal and climbed the stairs chiding himself for his thoughts of war. His first knighthood had had nothing to do with battle. He'd been doctoring on loan to the late emperor's army when he'd restored the adopted son of one of Heinrich's men. As everyone knew, the rescued boy had actually been Heinrich's own bastard. The Emperor had been grateful enough to create Giuseppe Morsicato a knight of the Order of the Knights of Santa Katerina at Mount Sinai. Morsicato's twin knighthoods by Cangrande and the
Anziani
of Vicenza had followed shortly thereafter, given out of a kind of piqued pride, so now Morsicato carried three Orders of Knighthood on his shoulders. All for saving a bastard son of a bastard ruler.

His mind came inexorably around to progeny, and bastard heirs. One in particular, under this very roof.

Thinking of the boy, Morsicato decided to check on the little scoundrel. Passing his patient's door, he continued on down the hall until he reached Cesco's door. Something was odd, but it took him a moment to realize what was missing. There should have been a guard here. Instead there was a closed door lit only by the moon shining in the casement at the end of the hall.

Something glistened on the tiled floor. Not even a pool. A few drops, nothing more. But he was a doctor. He knew blood when he saw it.

Laying his dish aside, Morsicato glanced about. No weapons hung on the walls because the little imp had proven too successful at prying them down. Morsicato only had the thin knife he used for probing wounds. It would have to do.

Leaning his ear against the door, he heard a rustling, then a whisper. "Where are you, my little puppy? Come out and play."

The voice was playful. The drops on the floor were not. Morsicato wondered how many there were and where they had hidden the body of the guard.

He could try the door. But if he made noise they'd be warned, and he'd have to break it down anyway. And noise was his friend, not theirs. Stepping back, he lowered his left shoulder and ran, bursting the door open with a great rending of wood. Knife ready, Morsicato stumbled into the chamber, looking about quickly.

They had a covered lantern. It was the first thing he saw, and almost the last. A blade came at him and he threw himself aside. The Scaliger would have rolled, or blocked it, or done some dazzling feat of physical prowess. Morsicato barely avoided being gutted, stumbling into a table. He dropped to his rump and ducked under the table as the second blow came. "
Aiuto! Aiuto
!" he hollered, kicking at his attacker's shins.

There was a shuddering vibration over his head, then the table lifted into the air. Morsicato was struck in the head as the table was tossed aside by a second man. Morsicato threw himself forward and lunged out blindly with his knife. He felt a jolt as his blade met flesh. A kick from the second man jerked his arm, twisting the knife. Someone yelped and fell on him. They struggled while the other man kicked them both.

Morsicato heard footsteps in the distance, many of them, pounding their way towards Cesco's room. He'd awakened the household. Extricating themselves, Morsicato's foes ran to an open window. Morsicato tried to follow, but one of the villains knocked the lantern off its resting place, spilling oil and fire across the floor. Morsicato cringed back from the burst of heat. Grabbing a tapestry off the wall he threw himself down to smother the flames. At once he was engulfed in pitch blackness.

The darkness was brief. Torches from the hallway created flickering shapes on the wall in the room. Then the chamber was filled with armed men — two knights with swords, some servants with chamber pots poised for throwing, a page with a sword much too big for him to wield usefully.

Bailardino appeared, shoving his way to the front. His expression was one of disgust. "What the hell is it? What's he done now?"

"Two men –" gasped Morsicato. "No guard — I tried to —"

Instantly Bailardino changed his tune. "Get a light in here!" The torchlight showed a room that had been thoroughly ransacked. "Bloody hell." Bail issued orders to search the courtyard and the surrounding streets at once. The knights and the page ran out, encountering more men in the hall and recruiting them for the chase. More lamps were lit, and Morsicato tried to assess the damage.