"The same way you did. You managed it better than I did." Villafranca nodded towards his left ankle, visibly swelling. "Broken, I think. Shall we go in to see the good doctor together? Mind you, first thing Fracastoro will do is squeeze the piss out of you. Then he'll smell it, taste it. If he's really upset he'll set it out for the flies, and if they like it, well, that's when you're in real trouble."
Pietro squinted at the square. "Cangrande?"
"Searching for the kidnapper with all my men. My orders are to look after you. Don't worry. I fancy he'll find us when he's through. Let's get you to the doctor." Pietro started to protest. "Young man, neither of us is in any condition to give chase to a snail, let alone that creature. Come inside like a sane man and get drunk."
In the confused aftermath of the foiled kidnapping, Mariotto Montecchio left the Scaliger palace only to return twenty minutes later, armed with a book. Making his way through the buzzing crowds in the Piazza della Signoria, he slipped into the church of Santa Maria Antica through the small western door. Had his thoughts not been elsewhere, it might have occurred to him to wonder at the state of his soul for bringing a book called L'Inferno onto holy ground.
Closing the door on the excited revelers in the square, he looked around. It was dark in the intimate church, and he couldn't see anyone. He shook the snow off his cloak and crept forward, his boots leaving damp patches in his wake. Ahead there was a dim light where a single candle flickered. His hands on the book were shaking. He rounded the pillars, then stopped.
"Gianozza?"
The girl was kneeling, and she crossed herself before turning to him. "I thought if I was found, it better be in prayer. Then I'd just say I'd come for confession."
"What could you have to confess?"
Blushing, the girl came to take his hand. "I came here to meet you. That could be a sin."
"I'm glad you did." His face inches from hers, his breath felt very warm.
"I'm glad, too," she whispered, looking up past his eyes at the snow clinging to his handsome black hair. "You poor man. You must be frozen stiff."
"I don't think I'll ever be cold again."
"That's pretty of you to say."
He felt her breath on his cheek and closed his eyes. "So, this is courtly love."
"What?"
"Loving an unobtainable woman."
"Am I unobtainable? I thought I was brazen." For an instant her cheek was against his face. He felt the flicker of her eyelash against his skin. Then with breathtaking speed she stepped back and pulled him by the hand towards the confessional.
"What are you-?"
"I want you to read to me, Cavaliere. If I'm going to listen, I can't be looking at you. I'll never hear a word you say." She nodded him through the door reserved for the priest.
Mariotto's heart was so full he didn't even protest as she closed it behind him. She had already lit a candle and placed it in the cell. Another door slid shut, and the girl was in the penitent's chamber. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
Mariotto bit back his first three demands for repentance. "Say three Hail Marys and come kiss me."
"Oh, Father! If you can't come up with anything better than that, you'd best start reading."
Dutifully Mariotto unlocked the book and opened the binding. The frontispiece was signed by Pietro's father, inscribed to him. Turning the page, he began to recite. "Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita…."
The Constable's prediction was correct. The Scaliger returned to the palace after an hour. By now the salon-cum-infirmary was nearly empty. When Cangrande erupted into the room he found only Antony, Pietro, and Villafranca, each lying on backless couches pushed close together to ease the sharing of a bottle. The bloodied cushions under them declared the couches would never again be fit for guests. Doctors Fracastoro and Morsicato had tended their wounds and were waiting to see if more came in. Off in a corner lay Marsilio da Carrara, drunkenly spread-eagled on a daybed.
"I hope there's some wine left." Cangrande was still shirtless, but the blood had been washed off by the snow that had melted as it touched him.
The men lying prone shifted to face him, and the two doctors took him by the arms and sat him down. The Scaliger looked at Antony and Villafranca. "A matched set. With those splints, you two should be bookends."
"I'd do a better job at that than I did as constable tonight," groused Villafranca.
"Stop fretting, I'm not going to sack you."
Pietro sat up. "Did you catch him?"
Cangrande was thoroughly disgusted. "Disappeared! Completely gone. Vanished. I'm beginning to think he's a ghost."
Pietro voiced the speculations they had been sharing. "He might have had an accomplice, or a rented room."
"There's a door-to-door search going on in the entire Roman quarter. But why do I have the feeling it's not going to turn this man up? He's a magician!"
"Necromancy isn't the only explanation," observed Morsicato, poking at a slash in the Scaliger's shoulder. Fracastoro slapped Morsicato's hand — Cangrande was his patient. The Vicentine doctor withdrew, giving his fellow practitioner the fig as he did.
Villafranca said, "Many people do dislike you, lord."
"Hmph! Don't see why." At his doctor's urging, the Scaliger lay down on a free couch. As Fracastoro began to prod at him in earnest, medical tools ready at hand, the Capitano closed his eyes but didn't wince. Only when the doctor paused did he repeat his demand. "Damn you, Aventino! Aren't you going to offer me any of that foul stuff?"
"Of course, lord. I just wanted you to ask for it." Fracastoro lifted a wineskin and handed it across.
"How now, how now!" protested Antony. "That's not what you offered us!"
"You don't pay my keep," smiled the Scaliger's personal physician.
Pietro asked, "How is Cesco?"
Cangrande took a deep draught from the skin before answering. "Sleeping, I hope. He didn't seem badly hurt. A few bruises from where the bastard gripped him. Nothing more."
"And where is your shadow?" asked Villafranca of Cangrande.
"The Moor is guarding Katerina's house. He'll be there all night."
Villafranca looked angry. "I can have men placed there — men who won't let them get within a mile of the boy."
"Do what you like. It will make no difference to him."
"Feh," grunted Morsicato dismissively. "The Moor. He once told me that I would travel to far-off places and make a name for myself abroad."
Cangrande glanced at the visiting doctor. "What's wrong with that?"
"I hate traveling," confided Morsicato. "I get seasick."
The Constable, nursing his pride as well as his ankle, drained the closest bottle. "Speaking as we are of prophecies, does this business have to do with the oracle, you think?"
Cangrande shrugged, then winced. Morsicato said, "I heard she was murdered. What did you do with the body?"
Villafranca said, "I hired some actors. They saw her burned."
"You should have called us," chided Morsicato, gesturing towards himself and Fracastoro.
The Constable shook his head. "She was beyond saving."
"What he's saying," interjected Fracastoro reprovingly, "is that we might have been able to tell you something about her death. Lord knows between us, we've seen enough battlefield wounds. It might have given you a clue to her murderer."
"Oh. I'll remember in the future," said Villafranca with a belch.
"I think we know who the murderer is, in any case," said Cangrande, making a face as Fracastoro started sewing up a wound. Morsicato opened his mouth to suggest something, but a withering glance from the other doctor reduced him to watching. No one would tend Cangrande's wounds but his personal surgeon.
"The spaventapasseri," said Pietro.