The Master of Verona

Now it was a week before the attack on Vicenza, and rumours were flying. None of them mentioned Padua, but all of them revolved around the massing of troops for some new offensive Cangrande was planning. Hearing the rumours, Luigi Capulletto stalked through the halls of his father's mansion in a foul temper. Slamming doors and careless of those in his path, he pushed his way into Ludovico's bedroom, which doubled as an office. Each day found the old man less able to walk on his gouty leg, and the summer heat wasn't helping.

Seeing his heir hurtling towards him, the elder Capulletto grunted. "What are you so hot about?"

With an effort of pure will Luigi stilled himself, though his fingers itched to wrap themselves around the fat man's waddled throat. "Uguccione della Faggiuola is gathering a force of men. Something's happening and you know what, don't you?"

"I may," said the old man.

"And you're sending Antony to go to war with Uguccione!"

"Yes," rumbled Ludovico.

"No!" Luigi slammed his fist against the wall. "No, Father, no! As much as you may want him to be, Antony isn't your heir! I am! Remember me, your wife's first son? Just because Antony makes you laugh doesn't mean he can run your affairs. Hell, you can't run your affairs! Maybe Cangrande would be interested in why we really left Capua. If that story got about, you'd sure feel the pinch, wouldn't you?"

Ludovico had started sputtering long before Luigi reached the peak of his tirade. As the son continued to shout curses and epithets, the old man leapt out of bed and hopped two steps forward on his good foot. Luigi saw the blow coming but for once didn't feel like taking it. He grasped the swinging arm and threw his father backward to land in a heap on the floor. Half disbelieving what he'd done, Luigi stood shaking.

Ludovico lifted himself onto the bed, there being nothing wrong with his arms. "Young fool! You think you'll get my money after that?"

"Hang the money! This isn't about money! Why, Father? Why Antony?"

"He makes me laugh." Old Capulletto coughed up a ball of phlegm that he spit into a canister two feet away. "That's all you give me."

"I gave you a grandson!"

"Yes, I am aware," sneered Capulletto. "He looks like his mother. At least he'll be pretty, he'll make the Guarini girl happy."

"That's all we are to you, isn't it? Cogs in the machine! Me, my son, Antony and that stupid business with the Carrara girl — all of it grist for your mill, fodder for your ambition. Well, you're there, Papa! You've made it! Land, money, respect! Isn't that enough? What comes after?"

Ludo snapped his fingers at Luigi. "That's why Antony. He never has to ask what comes after — he knows! He sees the possibilities, the openings, the way to greater heights. Example: if you'd put your wife forward a little more, you could have had that new water forge the Scaliger's building. But instead Rienzi gets it, all for the price of his wife's virtue. The Great Hound. Heh. That man certainly deserves his name." The old man dissolved into laughter that quickly turned to coughing.

Luigi didn't even wait for the spasm to subside. "You want me to sell my wife to the Scaliger?"

Through watery eyes Ludo sneered at his son. "Small enough sacrifice for such a reward."

Luigi's jaw locked shut. He felt like tearing apart the ancient heap that was his father with his bare hands. Instead he said, "I demand you send me to Uguccione to represent the family."

"You demand, eh? Very well. I shall send you — to serve under your brother. No, don't gainsay me! It's this or you don't go! You shall serve your brother. After all, he's a knight. What are you? A country squire, little more. You'll serve him and like it."

It was insulting, it was humiliating. But Luigi had what he wanted — an opportunity to prove himself. He turned on his heel and walked straight-backed out into the hall.

Antony was leaning against a wood-paneled wall outside. "Jesus, Luigi, I told you-"

"Go to the devil!" Then Luigi remembered his best weapon. "How is young Menelaus lately? Heard from Paris?"

Face ashen, Antony gave his brother the fig and stormed off. Pleased, Luigi went to find his son.

Theobaldo was napping. Letting the anger flow out of him, Luigi stood beside his son's crib and stroked his thin icy hair. His son, wholly his. Two years old, and still Luigi was loath to let even the nurses near the boy. He would have kept his wife away from the child too if he could. The bitch. Another one of his father's great schemes. But at least she had given him his son. Theobaldo. It was a family name — the old family, their true family, before his father had leapt at borrowed nobility. Look how well that turned out, Papa. You bought your way into a feud!