7. 'Tis But Thy Name


Supper that evening was a trial for Mercutio. He knew that he must eat, for he would be of no use if he fainted upon greeting Ottavio. But he had no stomach for food, and even less desire for wine that might blur his head at a moment when he would need all of his wit. Fortunately, Benvolio understood his dilemma, and did not judge him, but gently pressed him to eat, selecting the lightest, choicest morsels for his plate and coaxing him with honeyed words until at last Mercutio could bring himself to swallow.

They did not tarry long after the Duke had left the table, but made their excuses and hurried back to their chamber. Benvolio ordered that a bottle of wine and sufficient goblets be brought to them, and then dismissed the servants. The gilt chamber clock upon the mantel indicated that it was close to eight. Mercutio closed his eyes and tried to recall the beauty of the music drama that Ottavio had had a hand in creating.

A knock on the door drew him from his reverie. Benvolio laid a calming hand on his shoulder and then went to the door. Mercutio could hear him greeting their guest in pleasant tones, and rose to his feet. Benvolio opened the door wide and ushered Ottavio Rinuccini into their chamber.

Now that he knew to anticipate the shock of resemblance, Mercutio found that he could look Ottavio in the eye without flinching visibly. He saw that, while Ottavio did indeed bear a striking resemblance to Giacomo, the imitation was not exact. Where Giacomo's features had been blunt and powerful, Ottavio's were somewhat refined. The lines around his eyes came from laughter rather than fury, and his eyes held no rage or lust, but curiosity only. "Uncle," Mercutio said, the word emerging as a choked whisper.

Ottavio stepped forward, raising a hand, but letting it hang in the air, its intent uncertain. "Mercutio," he breathed. "My brother's son. Art thou well?"

"Ay." Mercutio's knees shook treacherously. "Nay. I know not. How . . . how art thou here? How art thou who thou art? How did I not know of this, of thee?"

Ottavio gave a wry smile. "That is a tale that is not long in the telling, but one that should not be hurried, either. As much as thou wouldst know me, so I would know thee, though it appears that I have the advantage in this matter."

Benvolio gestured to a chair. "Let us look to our comfort, if this tale is to be told at length," he said. Ottavio seated himself, and watched as Benvolio guided Mercutio to another chair. Benvolio did not sit, but stood at Mercutio's side, a strong and familiar presence. Mercutio ruthlessly suppressed the urge to slip his hand into Benvolio's.

"Who art thou?" Mercutio asked. "My cousin Claudio has told me that thou art mine uncle. But my father told me my heritage when I was a boy, and yet he spoke no word of his brother."

"Half brother," Ottavio replied. "I do not wonder that Giacomo spoke no word of me, though I see that it might have been better if he had. I knew him not, though I am told that he held me in his arms on the day of my christening and that I played at his feet as a babe."

"He must have been thy elder by many years," Mercutio said, "for thou dost resemble him as I knew him in my childhood. I wonder that he did not recall thee."

Ottavio laughed. "I cannot imagine that he forgot, for all the ill will he bore me and my lady mother. He was full twenty years of age at my birth, and he did not forgive my mother for wedding his father instead of himself. Had Giacomo had his way, I should have been thy brother and not his."

Mercutio could not suppress a shocked gasp, but disguised it as a laugh. "That is thy fortune. Thy mother was not my father's mother?"

"Nay. Thy grandfather, my father, wedded twice. His first bride, Serafina, gave him Giacomo. After Serafina's death, he took the Florentine gentlewoman Ginevra Zirondi to wife, and that lady is my mother."

Mercutio leaned back in his chair and did not speak for a moment as he tried to digest what he had just heard. Giacomo had occasionally spoken of his own father, and had described him as dissolute, a shameless libertine given to greed and the mindless satiation of his boundless appetites. More than once, he had accused Mercutio of having inherited the same perverse and wanton desires, and Mercutio still burned with shame at the memory of what his father had done to him on those occasions. He shut his eyes against the thought. When he opened them, Benvolio was kneeling at his elbow, and Ottavio was looking at him with an expression of puzzled concern.

"Canst thou continue?" Benvolio asked, his voice low.

Mercutio nodded, though he gripped the arms of his chair so hard that he feared to leave his mark upon the wood. "Ay. Now that I have begun, I must know all." He fixed his gaze upon Ottavio once more.

Ottavio's eyes flicked back and forth between Benvolio and Mercutio, but at last, he sighed and leaned back. "There is little more that I can tell thee," he said. "My father died when I was a babe of three years, and my mother returned with me to her kin in Florence, where I grew to manhood. We had little, as the bulk of my father's property derived to my brother Giacomo, but my mother managed to acquire tutors for me, and I learned to compose poetry for the Medici court. It was there that I made acquaintance of Claudio Monteverdi, who has set my poor words most gloriously to music. When he received the commission for this wedding, I begged leave to accompany him, for I had heard from my mother that my cousins the Borsas resided in that city, and I resolved to know more of my father's family. I was saddened to hear that my brother had died ere I could re-acquaint myself with him, but my sadness was tempered when I heard that he had left behind two sons."

He ended this speech with a smile at Mercutio that was kind and almost apologetic. There was silence for a moment, as Mercutio absorbed the remainder of Ottavio's tale. He wished that he knew what Matteo Borsa had told Ottavio about Giacomo, for the poet seemed a gentle man, and Mercutio hesitated to shatter the idolatrous image of the worshiped older brother that clearly shone in Ottavio's imagination.

Benvolio poured wine into two of the goblets, and gave one to Ottavio. "The tale is well told, and merits refreshment," he said. He set the other one before Mercutio. "Drink, Mercutio, just a little. It will strengthen thee."

Ottavio held his goblet, clearly waiting for his host. Mercutio took a small sip of his wine, just enough to be polite, and Ottavio took a grateful swallow of his own. He had been most kind and generous with his tale, Mercutio noted, and he had merited the same in return. Mercutio took a deep breath and thought frantically about how best to begin his tale.

"I am thy brother's elder son," he heard himself say. "My brother Valentine awaits my call with his wife, the lady Silvia."

Ottavio nodded gravely, and his glance strayed to Benvolio.

Mercutio hesitated but a moment. "This is Benvolio Montague. He is our foster brother."

Ottavio pinched his lips together as if considering a move at chess. "He is more than that, is he not?" Benvolio stiffened, but neither he nor Mercutio denied Ottavio's guess. Ottavio looked from one to the other and nodded. "I am a Florentine and I work in the theaters," he said. "A poor poet would I be if I did not know true love when it stood before mine eyes. It is a part of life, as much as any other. You have naught to fear from me on that score."

Benvolio let out a sigh of relief and moved to wrap an arm around Mercutio, who leaned into the embrace. Ottavio smiled.

"That is better," he said. "That is how you are meant to be. Come, nephew, pray continue thy tale. Thou hast a brother."

Mercutio nodded. "Ay. Our mother was the lady Donatella, sister to Escalus, the Prince of Verona. She died when I was but seven years of age. An earthquake took her, and my father did not marry again. I know not wherefore, though I suspect that he may have feared losing the patronage of the Prince. He was one of the wealthiest men in Verona, and we wanted for naught."

"Save only the love of a mother," Ottavio murmured.

Mercutio forced himself to swallow the tears that threatened to emerge. "My mother's soul is with God, and I count her fortunate," he choked out. "My father . . . Uncle, if I may call thee so?"

"Ay."

"My father was not a good man. He was ruthless and cruel and thought only of his own desires and welfare, sparing none. He spent the last six years of his life in exile in this city for the crimes he committed in Verona. I was a lad of fourteen when last I saw him alive, and the next time I laid eyes upon him was at his funeral these eleven years past." Mercutio was shaking now, and it was only Benvolio's soothing caresses that kept him from flying apart.

Ottavio looked deeply grieved at the news, but the light of discovery dawned behind his eyes as well. "Even now, he is not dead to thee," he said slowly. "Thou didst suffer his cruelty as a child."

Mercutio could not speak, but he nodded.

Ottavio sighed, but he did not seem angered. "I would that such news could cause me to scoff and disbelieve," he said. "But thou hast now answered one of the riddles surrounding my brother's life. My mother refused to speak of him to me, saying only that we were well rid of him. But there is more that thou hast not yet told me," he went on. "I will not force thee to recite Giacomo's sins, but I beg of thee, tell me at the least what it is that calls forth terror when thou dost look upon me."

"Thou didst hit thy mark well," Mercutio said softly. "It is my cruel fate that my mother's face is nearly faded from my memory, but my father's face dances before me whenever I close mine eyes. I guess that thou hast never seen my father's likeness."

Ottavio shook his head. Mercutio broke Benvolio's embrace and rose. He went to the dressing table and retrieved a small hand mirror, which he gave to Ottavio. "There is thy brother," he said. "The resemblance is uncanny, especially since you were born of different mothers."

Ottavio stared into the mirror for a long moment. Grief and understanding chased each other across his face. "I understand now," he choked out. "At the theater yesternight, our eyes met, and I thought that thou wouldst faint dead away. It was a blow to me, and I knew not what to make of it. But now I begin to understand. Thou didst know nothing of me, and when I turned, it was my brother and not I who appeared before thee."

Mercutio knelt at Ottavio's feet. "Thou hast my sincere apology."

"The fault is thy father's; I hold thee blameless," Ottavio replied. "I would not ask more of thee than thou art willing to give, but . . . I would know."

He looked so sorrowful that Mercutio's heart ached for the dream that he had destroyed. "My father was a man of violent delights, and he took pleasure in inflicting pain upon others. My brother and I were the objects of his fury, the infant prisoners of his rage. When I could no longer shield him from the worst harm, I stole him."

"Stole him?"

"I stole my brother, and I took him to our uncle the Prince, who in his mercy forgave us that crime and exiled my father to his kinsmen here in Mantua. I know not all of what he did when he dwelt here; perhaps my - our Borsa cousins can tell thee more tales of that time. But his anger did not abate, that I do know. Even now, there are streets in this city where thou and I cannot walk, for the mention of our name would bring ruin upon us. And that is all to the account of my father."

Ottavio was silent for a while, gazing upon Mercutio's face. Mercutio did not flinch beneath that regard, nor did he reach for Benvolio's hand, though he knew that his consort stood nearby and would happily give comfort if Mercutio requested it of him. But this moment belonged properly to Ottavio, and Mercutio would give him the time that he required to come to terms with the tale that he had heard.

At last, Ottavio nodded, and gave Mercutio a gentle smile. "I thank thee, kinsman," he said. "Though this tale of my brother's life saddens me, still I am glad that I have heard it. And I am glad that thou didst not keep it from me, thinking perhaps to spare me shame."

"I have not told thee all of what my father did," Mercutio said.

Ottavio waved this remark away. "The details matter not. Thou didst not dissemble when thou didst speak of his character, and that is the heart of the matter. I came to Mantua to learn of my brother, and I have done so. My brother was a cruel man, but I know this of him now, and as terrible as that knowledge is, it eases my heart."

Mercutio let out a sigh of relief. Ottavio laughed.

"What, didst thou think that I would blame thee for the tale that thou didst tell?"

Mercutio opened his mouth to reply, but could not bring himself to meet Ottavio's eyes. Ottavio's laughter faded.

"Ah. Thou didst think so. Well, I know who is at fault in that. Rise, nephew. I shall tell thee to thy face that I hold thee blameless. I am not my brother, as thou hast seen, and thou art not thy father. Though we are his kin, we are not his imitations. Thou art a good man, a man of courage and honesty, and those virtues are entirely thine own."

He extended his hand to Mercutio, and Mercutio took it. Ottavio's hand was large, warm and dry, and he raised Mercutio to his feet, but did not touch him further. Mercutio smiled at him.

"I thank thee, Uncle. I confess that I had feared to meet with thee, but now I am glad that I have done so."

Ottavio bowed his acknowledgement, then turned to Benvolio. "Thou art to be commended as well, I think," he said. "Thy love appears as a powerful restorative. Care for him well."

Benvolio smiled even as a blush crept across his face. "Forever," he murmured.

Mercutio gave Benvolio's hand a quick squeeze. "I think it is time," he said to Ottavio. "I shall fetch Valentine and his wife, and so thou shalt see the other half of my father's legacy."