The Master of Verona

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.

Vicenza

17 August 1316

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.