Note: This will be a relatively long introductory note, but then, Caro is a long piece of fiction, so I suppose this is proportionate. There are a few things I'd like to say about the story before we get going.
Caro has a number of different sources and inspirations. The primary inspiration is Franco Zeffirelli's 1968 film adaptation of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Character designs, interpretations, and bits of business can all be traced back to this particular interpretation and staging of the play. There are also elements inspired by professional criticism and interpretation of the film as well as one or two elements from other sources. I welcome any questions and discussion regarding references or my own artistic choices in this story.
Although Caro is very rarely explicit, it does deal with difficult subjects, including child abuse, in a serious way. If you feel that this subject matter disturbs you, feel free to stop reading and go do something else. I won't be offended.
Caro is set in the same fantasy version of Italy that Shakespeare used and that Zeffirelli filmed. It is not exactingly historically accurate, though it does make an effort, and there are some surprising historical truths to be found here. As to medical accuracy . . . for the most part, it works. I might have taken a few liberties here and there, but we are dealing with a canon that allows for a forty-two-hour, death-imitating, side-effect-free knockout drug. Any stretching of medical truth that I've done has to wait in line after that one.
So. All that said, here is Caro. Enjoy!
1. Shake, Quoth The Dovehouse
Slowly, Benvolio sat up, dazed, covered in dust, with the sound of the church bells still ringing in his ears. For a moment, he could not remember what day it was, or how he had come to be sleeping in the middle of the street in broad daylight. Had there been a holiday? He remembered people running and shouting, and all the bells in Verona had been ringing. His head pounded, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
All at once, his memory came back. There had been an earthquake. His mother had sent him off to early Mass with a coin for the poorbox and old Tomasso to look after him. He had strutted through the streets proudly, feeling just like a grown-up lord, even though he was all of seven years old. He had skipped and pranced, and had run a few steps ahead of Tomasso, and then it had happened. A rumble like thunder had filled the air, the ground had begun to shake beneath his feet, and the church bells had begun to ring. That was the last Benvolio remembered.
Not knowing what else to do, he scrambled to his feet and looked around. The familiar streets of Verona suddenly looked strange and threatening. Chunks of brick and stone lay scattered all around, and people lay on the ground, bleeding. Some moaned in shock, some lay silent. Tomasso lay on the ground next to him, in a wide pool of his own blood. Benvolio shook him, but he did not move, and his eyes stared blankly at the sky. Benvolio wanted his mother, but he could not remember how to get home. He almost began to cry, but caught himself in time. He had just had his First Communion a few months past, and his father had sat him down after the service and explained to him that he had now reached the age of reason, and that it was time to start thinking and acting like the little man that he was.
A large pile of rubble blocked one end of the street. Benvolio turned around and began to walk in the other direction. He picked his way carefully over rocks and the occasional body until he came to the end of the street. The next one seemed clearer, and Benvolio followed it easily. He passed several groups of people hurrying on their way, but none of them seemed to notice a small, lost child, not even one who had reached the age of reason. Presently, he came to the piazza, and stopped cold in his tracks.
The little covered stalls that usually lined the eastern side of the piazza on market day lay broken and twisted all around, the vegetables and sale goods scattered all over the place. Chickens and ducks ran and flapped freely. It looked like the time a fortnight ago that his family's retainers had brawled with the Capulets and the Prince had come to break up the fight. He and his cousin Romeo, just returning from confession, had hidden themselves underneath a crate of eggplants and watched the fight with a mixture of horror and fascination. Afterwards, their mothers had run frantically through the chaos, searching for them.
"Benvolio!"
He turned around at the sound of his name, hoping against hope that his mother had come for him.
His mother was not there, but Benvolio smiled anyway. Mercutio, his best friend in the world besides Romeo, walked across the piazza to his side. Mercutio was just as filthy as Benvolio was, and he held his little brother Valentine, who was two, and usually sticky, by the hand. Valentine's white-blond curls were gray with dust, and he looked up at Benvolio with round, frightened eyes.
"Art thou well?" Mercutio asked. "Thy head is bleeding. Come, let us go to the fountain, and I will wash the dust from my eyes and the blood from thy face." He grabbed Benvolio's wrist and marched him and Valentine over to the public fountain on the west side of the piazza.
The basin of the fountain had cracked in the earthquake, and the water spilled out, filling the depression that surrounded the basin. Valentine squirmed and tried to reach the water, but Mercutio held him fast. "No, Valentine," he said. "Thou art too little to go in the water. Hold Benvolio's hand a while, and I will make it safe for thee."
Benvolio took Valentine's hand, which was grimy as well as sticky today, and watched as Mercutio collected loose pieces of stone and built a rough pool near the overflowing fountain. He splashed some water into the pool and smiled. "That is better," he said. "There is a pool that is just thy size. Now thou canst splash and play, and the giant salamander will not pull thee down to the bottom of the fountain and drown thee before I can save thee."
Valentine giggled, and Benvolio smiled, too. Hearing Mercutio invent yet another fantastical monster made the day seem almost normal again. He lifted Valentine up and carefully deposited him in the pool. Mercutio dipped his hand in the water and scrubbed some of the grime off of Valentine's face and then his own. Then he left Valentine to play in his pool and led Benvolio into the deeper puddles surrounding the fountain.
"I was going to Mass with Tomasso," Benvolio said, "and then the earth rumbled, and I fell down. Tomasso is dead. I do not know the way home."
"Thy fall must have addled thy brains," Mercutio said. He pulled a large white handkerchief from his sleeve, dipped it in the water, and pressed it against Benvolio's forehead. "It is good for thee that I have found thee. I know where thy home is. I will take thee there."
The cool, wet handkerchief felt good against Benvolio's head, and the throbbing ache began to die down a little. "What about thy own home?" he asked. "I would not want to keep thee from thy mother and father."
Mercutio bent down and splashed water on his own face, then flicked a few drops at Valentine to make him laugh. Then he leaned close to Benvolio. "I will take thee home. It will be no trouble. My father is away doing business in Mantua, and my mother is dead."
"What?" Benvolio pulled the handkerchief from his head and stared at Mercutio in shock.
Quick as a flash, Mercutio pressed the handkerchief against Benvolio's mouth. "Hush!" he commanded in a harsh whisper. "Do not speak another word. Valentine does not know, and I do not wish him to find out, for if he does, he will start to weep, and if he starts to weep, then I . . . I will start to weep as well." Mercutio's lower lip began to wobble, but he caught himself just in time, and thrust his chin out bravely, as if he were far older than seven.
"What happened?" Benvolio whispered. "Why is thy mother dead?"
Mercutio turned away and splashed more water on his face. "We were in the orchard, and Mama was in the flower garden. After the earth stopped shaking, we went to look for her. She was lying on the ground with a pair of shears stuck in her bosom. I told Valentine that Mama was hurt, and that we were going to go and fetch her a surgeon. It was not a lie," he added, seeing the look of horror on Benvolio's face. "She was still breathing a little when we left. I think she is likely dead now, and no surgeon in the world will be able to help her. But I beg of thee, Benvolio, do not tell Valentine. I do not know what I would do with him if he knew that Mama is dead."
Benvolio gulped and nodded. "I will keep thy secret," he said. "But he will have to find out sometime."
"Sometime," Mercutio agreed. "But not now. How is thy head?"
"Better," Benvolio said slowly. "It does not hurt as much."
"Good. Then let me tie it up, and then Valentine and I will take thee home."
Mercutio rinsed his handkerchief mostly clean of Benvolio's blood, wrung it out, and tied it around Benvolio's head. Then he waded out of the puddle and pulled Valentine out of his pool.
"No!" Valentine cried. "More pool!"
"We are going to Benvolio's house now," Mercutio said. "Thou must come with us, or else I will have to leave thee all alone here in the big piazza."
Valentine looked properly horrified at that, and seized Mercutio's hand. "No!" he repeated, more firmly this time. Mercutio flashed a smile at Benvolio, and the three children walked out of the piazza. As soon as they started walking, Benvolio found that he did remember the way home, but he did not send Mercutio and Valentine away. He was just as happy as Valentine not to be left alone on this terrifying day, and he suspected that Mercutio was glad of the distraction as well.
They picked their way carefully through the damaged streets until they came to the big block where Benvolio's house abutted his uncle's grander one. The walls of both houses were cracked, but there did not seem to be as much damage in this neighborhood as in the piazza. Benvolio walked up to the gate and paused. He could hear voices just beyond the gate, screaming and wailing. He thought that one of the voices sounded like his uncle Tiberio.
"Lucio, Lucio," the voice cried. "Alas, my brother Lucio, and Floria, too!"
Lucio and Floria were Benvolio's father and mother. He wondered what had happened to make his uncle cry out like that. He turned to ask Mercutio what he thought, and saw that Mercutio was clutching Valentine tightly, looking as if he wanted to weep. Benvolio's stomach began to feel queasy. He swallowed, and reached up to open the gate.
"Benvolio! No! Do not go in!" His aunt Susanna came flying around the corner, her hair undone and streaming behind her. Romeo, sporting a fresh black eye, arrived only a moment later, and seized his mother's skirts. Aunt Susanna pulled Benvolio away from the gate.
"Do not go in, Benvolio," she said. "Come, I will take thee to our house, and thou mayst visit with Romeo for a while. I am sure that Cook can find some treats. Mercutio, wilt thou and thy brother come inside as well?"
Mercutio looked stricken, then slowly shook his head. "No, Lady Montague, though I thank you for the offer. I still have an errand that I must perform." He reached out and gave Benvolio's hand a quick squeeze, then squatted down in front of Valentine. "Climb on my back, Valentine, and I will give thee a horsie ride."
Valentine, exhausted from walking so far, climbed on Mercutio's back, and Mercutio stood up, wobbling a little. Aunt Susanna frowned at him.
"Art thou strong enough to carry him, Mercutio?" she asked. "Thou art not yet very big."
"I am big enough to take care of my brother," Mercutio said. "Farewell." He managed a watery smile for Benvolio and Romeo, then turned and walked away, bouncing Valentine as he went.
Aunt Susanna watched him go, then took Romeo and Benvolio firmly by the hands and. "Come inside now," she said. "Play in Romeo's chamber until someone comes."
Neither Romeo nor Benvolio felt much like playing, and they clung to Aunt Susanna's hands. Aunt Susanna sighed, and brought them into her personal sitting room. Her maids were picking fallen jewels and embroidery supplies off the floor, and Romeo's nurse pushed furniture back into place. When Aunt Susanna walked in, the servants made reverence, and the nurse immediately began to fuss over the children.
"Oh, the poor poppets," she said. "The little master has a black eye, and young Benvolio has been hurt as well! God's lady dear, something must be done." The nurse pulled a small bottle from her apron pocket, and poured a few drops of something pungent-smelling onto a cloth. She gave the cloth to Aunt Susanna, and Aunt Susanna held it over Romeo's eye. The nurse then untied the handkerchief from Benvolio's head and clucked at the laceration she found there.
"This wants a poultice of comfrey," said, and bustled off to make it. One of the maids hurried upstairs, and returned with little almond cakes for Romeo and Benvolio. Romeo gobbled his cake down, but Benvolio found that it stuck in his throat. The nurse returned with the comfrey poultice and bound it to Benvolio's head with clean, dry bandages.
"Wilt thou eat thy cake, Benvolio?" Aunt Susanna asked.
Benvolio shrugged, and nibbled at the edge to show willing, but he had no stomach for almond cakes. "What happened to Mama and Papa?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be, but wanting to hear the words anyway.
Aunt Susanna sighed. "They were out on their balcony, taking the air," she said. "No other part of the house was damaged, but the balcony shook loose of the wall, and fell into the courtyard. Thy parents were killed in an instant, Benvolio. They did not suffer, and they are with God now."
Benvolio forgot all about being a little man, and began to weep. Romeo slid off of Aunt Susanna's lap and put his arms around his cousin.
"Do not be afraid, Benvolio," he said. "Thou canst live here, in our house. Thou canst share my chamber and my bed. Thou wilt not be alone."
A small part of Benvolio was glad to hear that, but he kept on weeping. He was only vaguely aware when Uncle Tiberio came into the sitting room, picked him up, and carried him away to bed.
For the next week, funeral processions filled Verona. There were enough deaths that the Prince commanded the people to combine funerals and processions so that the dead might all be interred promptly. As it happened, Lucio and Floria Montague shared a funeral with, among others, Donatella Rinuccini, Mercutio's mother. Benvolio saw him in the church, standing between his father, Giacomo Rinuccini, and the Prince.
"Why is the Prince standing with Mercutio?" Romeo asked.
"Lady Rinuccini was his sister," Uncle Tiberio replied. "Mercutio is his nephew. Now, hush. Thou must show respect for the dead."
The funeral took a long time. The priest chanted in Latin, and the sweet smell of incense hung in the air, almost enough to cover the stench of death that hung over Verona. Benvolio tried to be a little man, and did not weep out loud, but he could not stop the tears that ran down his face.
Afterwards, the mourners followed the biers out to the cemetery. Just before the processions divided to go to the different family tombs, Benvolio caught sight of Mercutio again. He darted over and gave back Mercutio's handkerchief, freshly laundered.
"Thanks," Mercutio whispered, and tucked the handkerchief into his sleeve. Benvolio took his hand and squeezed. The two boys' eyes met, and they found that they did not need to hunt for words, for each saw his own sorrow reflected in the other's eyes.