Fortune's Fool, page 24
part #3 of Star-Cross'd Series
“Tharwat. Tell me about your youth. What happened to you?”
There was a long silence from the next pallet. Pietro began to regret the question. He was about to apologize for prying when, in a soft voice, the Moor began to tell his tale.
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“Tharwat is not a Moorish name. It is Persian. Though born in Spain, I was raised among Persians, given into their care by my parents in repayment of a debt. Normally no Persian would have soiled his hands with a Moor, but these were men in dire need of strong backs, and even at five years I was strong.
“As for their need – I do not suppose you know much of the history of the fortress of Alamut? It was built sometime before the year 900 by a Daylami king. Alamut means ‘eagle’s teaching,’ for when the king saw a bird perch upon the rock high above him he saw the strategic value of such a position.
“But it wasn’t until two hundred years had passed that Alamut became home to the hashishiyya – the Order of Hashashins, what you call Assassins. The founder of the Order, the great and wise Hasan-i-Sabah, took the fortress by guile in the year of your lord 1090 and remained there for the next thirty-five years until his death.
“As a Nizari Muslim, Hasan was considered an apostate by the Seljuk Turks who surrounded Alamut. But he was devoted to his faith. He exiled all musicians from his city and had his own son executed for consuming alcohol. A cultured man of great knowledge and learning, Hasan was well versed in mathematics, astronomy, magic, and alchemy.
“He was also a master of the revolution. Though not a military man in the sense of a leader of armies, his fidai – the faithful – were more feared than any conventional force. They used only the hand-held dagger, and never fled their deeds. In the time of Hasan it is said that over fifty men died at the point of a fidai blade, and several cities came to be controlled by Hasan without an army ever lifting a sword.
“Though Christians the world over tremble at the tales of the Assassins, I know of no use of the fidai against a Christian leader. The structure of the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller, Islam’s foes, rendered assassination useless. Murder one Christian knight, another would step into his place, just as skilled and probably more zealous than his predecessor.
“No, it was against the Seljuks and the Mongols that the fidai had their great successes. But the wrath of these foes, long in coming, was dreadful. It was the Mongol lord Hulegu’s army that came some seventy years ago to Alamut. My heart breaks to think of that time, as it does when I imagine the barbarians sacking Rome. In Alamut, water ran through channels of solid rock to be stored in great wells carved from the mountainside. Trees planted by Hasan’s own hand produced food to feed each mouth. And the library – where else had the learning of two worlds, east and west, been stored? Paradise.
“All destroyed. All gone. When years later I laid eyes on Alamut I could only imagine its former glory. The Mongol could not bring down the mountain, but he did what he could. Nothing was let live, or stand except the castle. Nearly two hundred years of Nizari history erased from Persia.
“But not from the world. Some Nizari survived, fleeing across Egypt, where they were persecuted, and to Spain, where they were tolerated. And here the few fidai remaining made their plans to regain the fortress of Alamut.
“I was born some sixty-four years ago near the mountain of Alhambra in Granada. Having too many children and too little wealth, my parents passed me to the Nizari in return for some service. I was perhaps five years old. At once my training began. Though the fidai were determined to regain Alamut, they knew they could raise no army to rival the Mongols. So they decided to rise the way Hasan had risen – through fear.
“It was at seven years that I first tasted the hashish which, mixed with herbs and a mere trace of opium, gives the user a sense of euphoria. I know now that the fidai used it to create a passion in me for their cause – I believed I had seen the face of God.
“But though much of my training was in stealth and murder, they remained faithful to Hasan’s other teachings. When I was given my first lesson in astronomy I showed an aptitude. In only a few weeks I knew all the names and, along with methods of murder, it was decided to initiate me into the more mystical practice of astrology.
“My studies were interrupted in the year 1274 when we began the slow journey to Persia. There my mentors joined other escaped Nizari and formed an army. The next year we attacked by stealth and took Alamut back from the Mongols. I was twelve, and covered in glory.
“Our victory was short-lived. The following year our forces fell to the Mongol army. But during that sole, bliss-filled year I pursued almost nothing but astrology. There was a Persian whom I hadn’t known in Spain, an old man who had been let live by the Mongols as harmless. He took me into his home and taught me all he knew of trines, sextiles, and oppositions. It was ancient knowledge culled from Greek, Roman, and Arab sources, and it all came together in this single man. And through him, in me. It was under his guidance that I drew my first star-chart, and with him that I saw the course my life would take.
“That idyllic year ended with the Mongol’s return. They laid siege to the castle and we fell almost at once – we were killers, not soldiers. Most of my brothers died in the battle or else threw themselves from the rocky slope to their deaths. But I was young and frightened so I hid.
“I was found, of course. They tortured me for days, but asked no questions beyond my name. I was a child, I knew nothing of value. They were merely amusing themselves.
“Worse than their torture of me was their cruelty to my master. They had heard he had embraced the Nizari’s return and so they plucked his eyes from him, took his fingers, his teeth, his manhood. I gave him what comfort I could, but could do nothing to ease his soul. He died in my arms without knowing me.
“I believe they grew tired of me – by submitting to their cruelties without protest, I gave them little pleasure. The day after my master’s death they took me out onto the cliff before the castle. There a forge had been built. From the forge they removed a thin collar of metal. They said that since I was so devoted to that place, I should have a wedding band. They called me the Arūs, the bridegroom.
“They held my arms and forced me to my knees. I do not remember much of what followed. I do remember weeping, but I am quite certain I did not plead. I would not grant them that satisfaction. Once the burning collar was locked about my neck they released my hands so that they could watch my struggles. But I denied them their pleasure. In unknowable pain, I ran forward and threw myself from the rock of Alamut, hoping to end my suffering by dashing my brains out on the rocks below.
“I remember quite clearly cursing the old man who had helped me make the chart for my life. The chart had shown a long life, with a purpose. I knew when I leapt that my life was over. I was certain that the stars lied. But of course, they did not.
“I have no memory of how I survived. I awoke in a house, taken in by a goat-herd whose wife nursed me to health. They asked no questions of me, but had they I could have given them no answers. My voice was almost entirely gone. It was years before I could speak in any meaningful way. But the fall had broken the burning collar, sparing me.
“I lived in their house and gave them loyal service until together we deemed the debt repaid. Then I left them to return to the castle. Using all the knowledge the fidai had given me, I settled my debt there as well. Not only mine, but that of my fallen brothers. And my master. I used the name they had given me. The Arūs. I’m told it is still a name to frighten men in that part of the world.
“That done, I left Persia, traveling west for the land I once called home. But in the stews of Alexandria I was taken by slavers and sold into bondage. I toiled on a pirate’s ship for a year, rowing, and here my knowledge of the stars became useful. The ship’s master often consulted me with his charts. I guided them so well that I was eventually given my liberty.
“I journeyed with them for a time more, relishing the freedom of the sea. It was with these pirates that I first came to Venice, where I did some charts for the Doge’s family. This was when I first met young Katerina and her father, the great Alberto della Scala. This was before the birth of her youngest brother. They asked me for their charts, and I obliged them. Then I left Italy, not knowing what seeds I had sown in Katerina’s mind.
“Upon leaving Venice I finally returned to the land of my birth. When at last I saw Granada again, my family did not know me. Nor did I know them. I was a man now, and they feared my size combined with my upbringing. So I left again, taking ship for wherever the winds blew me.
“I returned to Verona in time to witness the birth of Alberto’s third son by his wife. He was christened Francesco della Scala, and already there were signs of greatness in him. I was asked to make this child’s chart, and did so, not knowing the trouble that would bring us all so many years later.
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“That child was Cangrande. The rest you know.”
As Tharwat finished his tale, Pietro sat in silent awe. He sensed that this story had never been told, and at the same time knew there were pieces missing. But just this much was stunning, and he wrestled with this new insight into his old friend. “These faithful…”
“The fidai.”
“Yes – they did this to you. They used drugs to win you to their cause.”
“Yes.”
“How could you – how could you use the same methods on Cesco?”
“It was only a part of the training. A system devised over nearly two hundred years. Without one part of the training, it falls to ruin. I am certain that my training has helped him survive this last year, just as I am certain he is no addict. He knows the proper dosage to create energy, stamina, euphoria. He also knows the dangers of over-indulgence. You know him – he will walk a razor’s edge but never cut himself.”
“Unless he’s pushed,” answered Pietro.
Fourteen
Trento, Italy
6 January 1327
The reports from England kept all of Europe grimly entertained. Queen Isabella and her lover-champion Roger Mortimer had forced King Edward to flee to London, effectively penning him in his own city. Already the queen had gotten her son Prince Edward appointed Keeper of the Realm, and arranged a marriage between the lad and the Countess of Hainault. A month later Isabella’s forces captured her husband and placed him in Kenilworth Castle. Tales of the king’s degradation at the hands of his wife were surprisingly inventive. In his letters, William Montagu confirmed that at least three of them were true.
With the whole of Europe caught up in the scandalous coup, several statesmen missed what was happening in India. It was not, however, lost on the banks and tradeguilds. Like the Byzantine Empire, India was suffering the Turk. Sixteen years after their initial attack, Muslim armies reinvaded Halebid, the wealthy capital of the Hoysalas, turning the city into a shambles. The Hoysaleswara Temple, dedicated to Shiva, was left unfinished for a second time, after a total of eighty-six years of work. The walls of the temple, covered with an endless span of gods, goddesses, animals, birds, and dancing girls, were guarded by a Nandi Bull. But this Bull, it was said, had turned his back when the invaders came.
Already concerned over the financial upheaval in England, this attack filled the money-men with a real fear of a loss of trade with the East, the major investment plan of many since Marco Polo’s return. Bankers from Bruges to Constantinople curtailed their speculation in Eastern markets. Yet the major local resource prized by the Turk was something no European had ever bothered with – the berries known as qahwa which, steeped in water, provided a soothing and energizing drink. Goats had been said to dance on their hind legs when given the plant from which the beans grew.
Of nearer interest to Verona was the ongoing unrest in Padua. After the unsuccessful coup d’etat under Paolo Dente last year, Marsilio da Carrara had recalled his cousin Ubertino and banished all of Dente’s followers. There had followed a veritable reign of terror. Armed to the teeth, Ubertino’s men swaggered through the streets of Padua while honest citizens hid in their houses or fled. Not bothering to even disguise themselves, brigands daily committed every kind of injury to the populace – assault, violence, robbery, kidnapping, rape, and murder. As a man walked along a street he’d find a sack thrown over his head, himself carried off to a Cararresi stronghold and held for ransom from his family or guild. Every morning at least one corpse was found lying in the gutters or in the center of the piazzas. No one was ever brought to trial for their deaths.
To anyone perceived to have wronged Ubertino or Niccolo da Carrara, retribution was swift. The judges who’d ordered Ubertino’s exile were gruesomely executed, their records burned. The convent of Santa Agata was sacked, the nuns savagely violated. It was commonly known that Niccolo de Carrara had led the pillage, but only his less important followers were even charged, and none were convicted.
During all this the Capitano of Padua, Marsilio da Carrara, kept himself aloof within his palace, looking after his own interests. The people pleaded with any authority for aid. Heinrich of Carinthia, to whom the Paduans had always run for help against Cangrande, sent a representative to stabilize the city. But Heinrich’s only aim seemed to be how much money could be wrung out of Padua before it swallowed itself in flame. Many noble Paduans like Petruchio’s father-in-law, Baptista Minola, became expatriates in Venice or Ferrara, leaving the poor city to the Carrarese and Heinrich’s German soldiers.
Meanwhile things were calm in Verona. Cangrande’s heir was seen everywhere and heard nowhere. Gone were the rampant escapades of the past year. He appeared now only in the company of Cangrande or one of a very few great men of the city. Still considered a prodigy, there were now reports of humiliating failures – he’d missed an easy target at the butts; he’d slipped off his horse on a long ride; he’d fallen into a river during a hard crossing. These were so out of character that Pietro whisked off a worried letter to his sister.
Antonia’s reply was bitter in its brevity. What did Pietro want of her? She saw very little of Cesco. What little she did see worried her. She wrote of the return of his skeletal thinness, of his first spots, of the wasted circles under his eyes. Morsicato was doing what he could, but he was barely keeping his wife alive and had little of his art to spare.
Cesco wrote snatches of greetings here and there. Typically, he did not mention his own health. He pointed out failings in their new code and provided bits of information the network had somehow overlooked – somehow in the midst of his hawking the boy was cultivating his own sources of intelligence. Of his relationship with Cangrande he said not a word.
Thus did the year 1326 came to an end – at least in Verona where January, not Easter, was considered the start of the New Year.
But however the year was counted, that Twelfth Night was momentous. That was the day the Emperor Ludwig IV arrived in Innsbruck on his way to Trent.
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This was the first time an emperor had visited Italy since the unfortunate Heinrich had died besieging Rome in the company of the poet Dante. Hearing of Ludwig’s arrival, Ghibelline generals and nobles flocked to Trent from all over Lombardy to greet their lord and master.
Last and greatest among their number, Can Francesco della Scala, son of Alberto I, Capitano del Popolo and Podestà of Merchants, Imperial Vicar of Vicenza and Verona, arrived on the Ides of January. The impoverished Emperor had less than a hundred knights in attendance at the great Trent city hall. Cangrande brought many more, all expensively decked out in matching capes and spurs.
That the Emperor was irked was evident from the first seconds of their audience. He sat upon his great throne on the dais in utter stillness, watching Verona’s lord approach in opulent procession.
Friend and foe alike agreed that Ludwig der Bayer was well-featured – full-sized yet trim, clean shaven with a rosy complexion. His hair was curly, a remarkable reddish-blonde. If his chin was a little too small, his strong neck and shoulders compensated the lack. Between his Hapsburg nose and the strong line of his brow, his oversize eyes were piercing.
It was on his personality that reports differed. Friends spoke of the smile that was ever on his lips, while Guelphs spoke at length of his querulousness. Ghibellines swore he liked a good jest, while the papal envoys reported his restlessness and impulsive nature. But all could attest to his boldness, and to the charisma that radiated like heat from a hearth-fire.
As Cangrande reached the dais and knelt, Ludwig did not immediately bid him rise. “Ah, François du l’Échelle.” The Emperor spoke in French, stroking the gilded bear-teeth hanging about his throat. It was said that those teeth were plucked by his own hand. “Bienvenue à notre présence.”
Cangrande replied in the same language. “I was baptized Francesco, lord, so well you may call me François. But I hope my lord will know me by my more familiar name – Cangrande.”
“Yes. Der Hund. The mythical Greyhound. It is a shame we have not met before now.”
“I regret it extremely, lord, but my actions in the field protecting your interests have held my attention.”
“Our interests? Our interests are clearly yours, since you do so well by them. Perhaps you could lend us a doublet for our coronation. We are sure we own nothing so fine.”
Still on his knees, Cangrande shifted his cape to one shoulder, revealing the gilt doublet in its entirety. “Your Grace is too modest. But of course, what is mine is yours.”
“Ours? To do with as we please? So said so done is well. But what if we found that Verona was mismanaged? Could we then replace the Capitano?”
