Sessione 11 -- Civil Hands Unclean

In fair Verona where we lay our scene,

From Venice canals chasing shad'wy schemes,

Where Byzantine gold subverts the state,

To Genoa's star-crossed city of fate.

Fancy, Nico, Volpeo, Gianna, and Guido came at last out of the long road from Venice and Mantua, weary from the whispers of plague and the memory of walking dead along the way. The city rose before them like a bright stone crown set with red-tiled roofs and busy stalls, a jewel of the Genoese mercantile realm. The square thronged with merchants and townsfolk, hawkers and idlers; rumor and laughter mingled in the clear late-morning air, as if this place were still sheltered from the grim shadows that had fallen upon lesser towns.​

They entered Verona’s heart with a purpose. Somewhere within its counting houses and palaces dwelt Capulet, the Genoese merchant whose name had come to them in dark whispers, a man said to be entangled in Byzantine plots and the clandestine movement of weapons. Their task was not a simple slaying but a more delicate labor: to gather proofs, trace networks, and unravel the hidden threads that bound Capulet to distant Constantinople. The city itself was no mere backdrop to this work. Its noble houses were divided into factions and feuds, and a wise traveler would walk carefully, for favor with one might bring enmity from another.​

Guido and Fancy, mindful of the plague, turned first to the high stone church that crowned the northern edge of the square like a stern watcher. Within, the noise of the market faded to a gentle murmur, and the light fell through high windows in dusky shafts. A few worshipers knelt by votive candles, their faces still in contemplation. Moving between altar and font like a well-fed sparrow fluttering about its nest was a round, cheerful friar, humming to himself as he swept and set things in order.​

Guido greeted him courteously and spoke of their need. They were travelers, he said, who had encountered both plague and undead upon the road, and they wished to acquire holy water if such might be spared. The friar peered at them with mild surprise but no suspicion. He asked if they had containers; Guido produced four empty vials they had carefully kept. The friar bade them light candles and offer their prayers while he went to the baptismal font. Fancy, who understood the ways of both heaven and men, made sure he saw her place a gold piece in the candle slot before she knelt; Guido did the same, and the small gesture set a kindly light in the friar’s eyes.​

When they had finished their prayers, he returned with all four vials filled and pressed them into Guido’s hands. Guido thanked him and spoke plainly of the walking dead on the roads and the use he had already made of holy water to heal and to drive back unquiet corpses. At this the friar’s countenance grew grave. He confessed that the plague had been a dreadful thing in the countryside and that several nearby towns lay under quarantine, yet Verona had thus far escaped a great outbreak. Fancy stepped forward, tears glimmering at the corner of her eyes as she spoke of caravans they had met, of those struck down and turned, and of the fear that stalked her own companions. The friar laid a hand upon her arm and agreed that many who fled were in truth carrying the doom with them, scattering sickness as they sought safety. Still, he said, if they were destroying infected undead and doing what they could upon the road, they were doing the Lord’s work. He was glad to provide holy water, he added with a wry smile, if it meant he himself need not go out and face such things. They left him with bows and blessings, sensing no charge demanded beyond their offering at the candles.​

While they spoke with the friar, the life of the square went on. Volpeo, never one to ignore the call of his stomach, hunted for street food and soon found a tented stall. As he drew near, the smells assailed him in a kindly fashion: skewers of roasting chicken, a rich beef stew, sweet and savory pastries, and zeppole fried fresh in bubbling oil. He ordered zeppole, and the vendor poured a paper cone of the hot, sugar-dusted pastries for a gold piece, a price he declared worth every coin as he bit into the soft interior under its crisp shell.​

His idle remark that there had once been a baker she knew in Verona, a Capulet, stirred the vendor’s memory. He said that Capulets there were, and pointed out an older gentleman standing just beyond the tent with a small entourage, though he himself did not recall any Capulet ever baking bread. He called across the stall, “Capulet, did you ever run a bakery?” The older man scoffed and turned away, answering coldly that he did not deal in food but in imported dry goods and other such things.​

Volpeo, drawn as always to the scent of opportunity, approached. He greeted Capulet with the easy air of one used to the edges of commerce and hinted that he did some accounting work for those with mercantile interests. At the mention of such services, all geniality drained from Capulet’s face for a moment; then, schooling his features, he dismissed some of his young attendants. One in purple moved to hustle Volpeo away, but Capulet stayed his hand and chose instead to speak privately. Volpeo admitted that he cared little what was imported so long as he kept himself in zeppole and arancini, and Capulet, catching a glimpse of the sword beneath his cloak, observed that men of good taste were often interested in weapons. He mentioned that he was busy that day, making preparations for a large banquet, but invited Volpeo to make an appointment at his office the next day, giving him an address among Verona’s counting houses and shops. When Volpeo gave the name Cartiforba, Capulet made a visible note of it in his mind, and the two parted under a thin veil of mutual courtesy.​

In another corner of the square, Nico stepped into a tavern with a red tiled roof and a polished bar. It was late morning, and the crowd was thin, but the place carried an air of good business. The bartender, proud of his city, offered mead or ale, boasting that everything in Verona was of the finest quality, “jewel of the Genoese crown” as it was. Nico took his mead and asked what news there was. The man spoke of the plague in the countryside, knocking on the bar for luck and noting that Verona had thus far been spared. If an outlander sought mischief, he said, one might find taverns, houses of music and companionship, and all manner of sporting challenges: wagers on foot races and swims across the canal, lifting contests and arm-wrestling once the place filled. Houses of companionship, he added with pointed tact, lay across the canal. One would know them by the narrow, foreboding alleys that most citizens avoided.​

As the party scattered thus through the town, a clamour rose suddenly from one of the side streets. Guido, Gianna, and Fancy heard it from the church steps, Nico from the tavern door, and Volpeo found himself in its very midst. A melon cart was overturned near an alley, melons rolling like fallen heads, as two men leapt over it with swords drawn, dueling in earnest. Around them surged some fifteen young men crying and shouting, cheering one side or the other. At first it seemed mere youthful madness, a street scuffle over pride. Volpeo stepped forward and spoke above the noise, warning them that if they wished to fight, there were rules. Before his warning could settle, one of the cheering crowd flung an arm out thoughtlessly and struck Volpeo on the nose with an elbow. The blow was more clumsy than cruel, but Volpeo’s temper flashed, and only an effort of will kept his sword sheathed as he promised that there should be no more “accidents.”​

Then the tumult broke like a wave before a rock, for a man in purple with armed guards rode into the fray. His horse bore the crest of Verona; a feather bobbed from his hat as he surveyed the duel. In a voice that carried through the square, he called them “rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,” commanded them on pain of torture to cast down their “mis-tempered weapons,” and declared that three civil brawls, springing from airy words, had thrice disturbed Verona’s quiet. If they ever troubled the streets again, he said, their lives would pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time, they were to depart at once on pain of death. At his words, the duelers sheathed their blades and withdrew, their followers dispersing. Volpeo saw the three young men who had earlier stood with Capulet skulk away, while three others returned to an older man the prince had also addressed.​

Recognizing that this must be the city’s prince, Volpeo stepped forward to speak. The prince turned to him with courtesy, apologizing that newcomers should witness such quarrels between noble houses. He urged them to take this for an exception rather than the rule, and in an effort to preserve Verona’s fair name, he went further. He invited Volpeo and his companions to the Capulet Masquerade Ball that very night, remarking in a sharp tone that, “I'm sure he won't mind me inviting you, after helping to cause this trouble today.” He added that if they had need of costumes, his household would be pleased to provide them. He glanced back at Capulet, who nodded gravely, then rode off with his guard, leaving the square once more to merchants and murmurs. The prince’s house, the largest in the city, would not be hard to find.​

Guido, who had questioned a bystander, learned that the young men were of the houses of Capulet and Montague, whose feuds were infamous and frequent. Nico, ever one to stir still waters, muttered warnings to members of each side as they dispersed, telling one to watch his back lest the other seek vengeance. The older man with the opposing youths was named Montague. Volpeo thought him worth knowing.​

Fancy, hearing this, watched Capulet and his entourage leave the square to the west. When they were out of sight, she turned her attention to Montague. She approached him with artful trembling (and a charm person spell), leaning lightly upon his arm and protesting that the whole affair had left her faint. She apologized for intruding upon him, named herself Fancy, and expressed her sorrow for his trouble. Montague regarded her with some incredulity, but she soon had him speaking. He complained that they had endured enough excitement for one day thanks to “these lunatics,” and Fancy murmured agreement, all the while drawing him on. When she jested aside with Guido that perhaps one of the young men had bitten his thumb, she did it softly enough to keep the tone light.​

Seeing a chance to deepen their influence, Fancy quietly bent her will and cast her charm upon him as they spoke of hot-headed youth. The spell took hold, and Montague’s reserve softened. She apologized if she had inadvertently offended one of his kin in her comments about the brawl. He reassured her that no offense was taken. As they talked, two young men came up behind her. One was sullen and melancholy, the other broad-grinned and irreverent. The cheerful one, whom Fancy would soon know as Mercutio, teased another companion named Benvolio for making him miss all the “fun” by babysitting “Mopey McMoperton,” jerking his thumb toward the gloomy youth Romeo. Catching sight of Fancy’s tail, Mercutio could not resist a crude jest about “tail” to be had in Verona, for which Fancy gently shifted her position to place her tail behind her, answering with quick wit. Romeo only sighed at his friend’s prattle about Rosaline, who, as Mercutio gleefully pointed out, had no tail at all.​

Fancy pressed Montague, under cover of her concern, for the roots of the feud and for any hint of Capulet’s dealings. He told her that she already held an invitation to Capulet’s feast, and with a telling phrase remarked that “Capulet feasts on Byzantine silver.” Mercutio, overhearing news of a feast, cried out that if Capulet were hosting a banquet, they too must go, for he had a taste for such “Byzantine silver.” Montague urged Fancy to be wary of Mercutio, saying that Verona was no place for those who wished to stay out of trouble and that if she truly desired peace, she should steer clear of Capulet and his doings. When she coyly hinted that both he and his lady might enjoy her company, he replied dryly that she had clearly never met Lady Montague. Still, he admitted that she would often find him about the city and seemed pleased enough by her attention.​

Meanwhile, Volpeo engaged more directly with Montague’s young men. He asked the onlooker who had elbowed him whether the other side were Capulets; the man confirmed it and indicated Montague’s patriarch nearby. Another bystander explained that the two houses had once been close friends but had fallen out over matters no one now clearly recalled, “business or personal,” and shrugged that in such circles there was hardly a difference. Volpeo sought out a young woman in the crowd and asked about the genesis of the feud; she said she had heard it was a business dealing gone wrong, but as a mere peasant, she did not trouble herself with the affairs of the great.​

It was at this time that Fancy’s keen eyes noticed a different sort of watcher. A young man in bright red, with a flamboyant hat and arms full of parchment, lingered on the edge of the square. He had been present during the brawl, observing closely, and now he hovered near Volpeo and the Montague youths, furiously scribbling notes whenever they spoke. His clothes bore no local crest, and his accent, when Fancy approached and complimented his “very fancy chapeau,” marked him as a foreigner from Britannia. He seemed socially awkward, torn between glancing at her and darting his gaze back to the young men whose every word he tried to capture.​

Fancy tried to read over his shoulder, but he snatched the pages away as soon as he realized what she was doing. Embarrassed, he apologized, and said he was being rude. When she pressed him gently and expressed interest in his work, he confessed that he was doing research, not the sort that would help her navigate the city, but research for plays. He was a playwright, he said, and Verona, with its feuding houses and sudden brawls, was a den of intrigue perfect for gathering plots. He had been following Capulets and Montagues for a week, scribbling down dialogue and scene ideas. He introduced himself as Liam, adding shyly that his friends called him Willie. Fancy, declaring herself an aspiring actress sorely in need of roles for one of her “particular voice,” asked to see his notes. He suggested they take a table in the tavern, and there he let her read.​

From Liam’s pages, she gleaned a few sharp-edged snippets that might later prove useful: “Lady Montague fears for Romeo amid Tybalt’s threats,” another note that “Father Montague mourns the endless brawls Capulets provoke without cease,” and a keen observation that “Mercutio’s tongue cuts deeper than swords.” He had little hard intelligence on smuggling, but his lines captured the temper of the city and the mood of its noble houses better than any dry report. Fancy, ever the performer, looked upon the young Briton with new interest.​

Elsewhere Gianna continued her practical inquiries. She spoke to a street sweeper, asking what lay at the root of the feud and how long it had troubled Verona. He counseled her not to take sides at all, warning her to stay out of the way of “the heavy-bred with lofty goals.” Yet he also confided rumors that Capulet had been working with Byzantium at the behest of the Genoese government and that this might be the true cause of the falling out between the houses.​

Nico, true to form, set out for the houses of “companionship” across the canal. There, among music and painted faces, he sought not mere dalliance but gossip. The women spoke freely of Capulet’s household, and their tone toward its young mistress was edged with envy. Capulet, they said, was intent on marrying off his daughter to a nobleman named Paris, who was currently in Verona for that very purpose. They described the girl’s cloistered upbringing and the grand prospects laid out before her, and contrasted them bitterly with their own lives: the husbands they had been pushed to marry before running away, or the lack of such prospects altogether. For all the levity and complaint, it was clear that this arranged marriage was a significant event in the city’s near future.​

As the day waned, the companions gathered again and considered their next steps. The prince had offered them costumes from his own household for the Capulet masquerade. Fancy, who already traveled with a mask and could dress herself as another person at will, did not strictly need one, yet she did not decline the chance to appear in greater splendor. Gianna was eager for finery, and Volpeo regularly donned both mask and costume; Guido and Nico saw the tactical advantage of disguises in a house full of rivals and strangers. The prince’s servants would see to the details, though their host asked only that they think well on how they wished to appear when they stepped into Capulet’s halls.​

Before the sun set, Nico sought one more sort of aid. Remembering the friar’s skills as an apothecary, he returned to the church and inquired after poisons or sleeping draughts. The friar would not traffic in deadly poisons, but for ten gold pieces, he offered Nico a sleep potion, a kind of “medieval ambien” that would leave its target insensible for a time. Added to the small store of poisons Nico already carried, it gave the party another silent tool for the intrigues to come.​

Thus did Fancy, Nico, Volpeo, Gianna, and Guido finish their first day in fair Verona. They had filled their vials with holy water against the plague and the undead. They had spoken with both Capulet and Montague, winning an appointment at the former’s office and the wary friendship of the latter. They had drawn the notice of a prince, been invited into a noble masquerade, and crossed paths with a young playwright from distant Britannia, who watched their steps with a mind half in Verona and half upon some stage yet to be built. Above all, they had learned that the feud between Montague and Capulet was not mere hot blood, but entangled with Byzantine silver and Genoese ambition. Night gathered over the city of fate, and the next chapter of their weaving with its star-crossed houses awaited them behind masked faces and candlelit halls.