8. Both Alike In Dignity


Benvolio had dismissed all of the servants, so Mercutio went himself to summon Valentine and Silvia. When he called upon them, Valentine was pacing the chamber as Silvia sat and watched. Upon seeing Mercutio, Silvia leaped to her feet.

"Thank God thou hast come," she said. "I am nigh to fainting from befuddlement as I watch my husband in his courses."

"What news?" Valentine asked hoarsely. "Hast thou seen him?"

"Ay, I have," Mercutio replied. "He is nothing at all like Father. He spoke kindly to me, though I destroyed his fantasy of a wise and kind brother."

A tiny, hopeful smile fluttered across Valentine's face. "I hope that he will not resent me overmuch, then, for having what he does not."

Mercutio smiled and flung an arm around his brother's shoulders. Silvia clasped Valentine's hand, and together they walked to the chamber where Ottavio awaited them.


Just inside the door, Valentine went completely still upon catching sight of his uncle. But Mercutio's arm was still around his shoulders, and he felt no tremors in his brother's body. "Uncle," he said, "may I present my brother Valentine and his lady wife Silvia."

Ottavio bowed. Valentine remained frozen in place for a moment, and then his breath caught, and he returned the bow, his movements stiff and hasty. Ottavio gave him an encouraging smile and stepped forward, though he was wise enough now to move slowly and not extend his hand immediately. "My brother's sons," he murmured. "Let me look upon you together."

There was silence for a while as Ottavio gazed upon them. Mercutio dearly wished that he knew Ottavio's thoughts in that moment, but Ottavio's face was a mask. At last, Ottavio stepped back and smiled once more. "It is a miracle," he said softly. Then he turned his attention to Silvia.

"A thousand pardons, dear lady," he said. "My thoughts have been arrested by my kin, and I have not yet given thee a proper greeting."

Silvia blushed and dipped a fine curtsey. "It is an honor to meet such an eloquent poet. I was most impressed by the lament of Arianna."

Ottavio laughed. "The honor is mine, lady, but I thank thee for thy kindness, though I am sure there was better poetry in thy husband's wooing."

"Nay, he is a plain speaker," Silvia said. "The poetry dances in his eyes when he gazes upon that which he loves."

Valentine blushed mightily at this praise, and some of the tension began to drain from his posture. Ottavio let out a hearty laugh and extended his hands to Mercutio and Valentine. "You cheer my heart," he said. "I grieved to hear of my brother's cruelty, but I am consoled in making acquaintance of his sons. I begin to understand how difficult a thing it was that you should look upon me and see me as myself and not my brother's shade. In you I see tremendous courage, and it is my honor to name you my kinsmen."

Slowly, a brilliant smile lit Valentine's face. With a glance at Silvia for courage, he stepped forward to embrace Ottavio, who clasped him to his chest as though Valentine were his own son returned from a long journey. Mercutio rejoiced to see such a bold step from Valentine, and even more when he realized that no fear for his brother's safety arose in his own heart. Valentine broke the embrace after a few moments, but did not flee.

Benvolio ensured that there were sufficient goblets of wine and handed them around. "Now that we have become kinsmen, let us talk as friends," he suggested.

Ottavio raised his goblet. "An excellent offer. I would know all that there is to know about the family, and about the home in Verona I left as an infant."

Mercutio nodded to Valentine to begin. Valentine's smile took on the haze of warmth that indicated that his thoughts had turned to his children. "Our Lady above has blessed Silvia and me with a daughter and a son, Marietta and Girolamo. Marietta is three years of age, and Girolamo is but one, but already they are strong and fearless children."

"Marietta's cheerful prattle lightens my days," Silvia added, "and Girolamo has just begun to walk and run about in his sister's wake."

Ottavio smiled. "I am glad to hear of them, and I shall remember their health in my prayers. I am certain that they are beautiful."

"They are," Valentine replied, "for there is much of their mother in them." Silvia blushed and hid her face in her hands for a moment.

"And what of the house?" Ottavio went on. "I have no memories of it, yet I know the tales that my mother told of my infancy in my father's house, of the fruit trees that blossomed in the spring and filled the courtyard with their fragrance . . ." His voice trailed off, and his dream-filled smile faded.

Mercutio saw a look of strangled horror on Valentine's face, and knew from the churning in his stomach that he bore a similar expression on his own. Benvolio clasped his hand beneath the table, caressing the wrist with his thumb. The gesture served to calm Mercutio's suddenly racing heart, but it could not stop the flood of memories that flowed through him, of all the times that he or Valentine had been beaten or suffered worse punishment because of some slight to those trees, real or imagined. After Giacomo's death, Mercutio had more than once considered having the orchard chopped down and burnt. Though he was glad now that he had not done so, it did not make his memories hurt any less.

"The trees still stand, and they are loved and cared for," Benvolio said, and Mercutio glanced up in unexpected gratitude. "The house stands as well, though its former owner would not know it. Today it is a home for Verona's orphans and foundlings. They are fed, clothed, and sheltered, so that they may be apprenticed to a trade or go into service and make their own way in the world."

Mercutio closed his eyes and thought of those children, allowing the images of their smiling faces to chase his darker thoughts from his mind's eye. "They are not the children of the body, as are Marietta and Girolamo," he said, as much to himself as to Ottavio, "but they are children of the heart. I would not see them discarded in the streets like so many kitchen scraps."

"I see," Ottavio said after a moment. Mercutio opened his eyes and saw that Ottavio was regarding him and Benvolio with an expression of mingled sadness and grave respect. "I see," he said again, glancing at Valentine and Silvia.

No one knew quite what to say for a few moments. At last, Ottavio rose. "There is much more that I would learn, but I would not wish to weary you with endless tales," he said. "The hour grows late, and I would think on that which I have already learned. My deepest thanks for the confidence that you have placed in me." He favored them with another smile, though one tinged with sorrow.

They rose to see him out. Ottavio bowed to his nephews and Benvolio and kissed Silvia's hand. "It has been my honor to meet with you," he said. "I would do so again ere the festivities conclude." With a final bow, he left the chamber.

Valentine and Silvia waited only until the sound of Ottavio's footsteps had died away before they bade Benvolio and Mercutio good night. Even in the dim candlelight, Mercutio could see that, despite his embrace of Ottavio and the pleasant conversation, Valentine was pale, and fine droplets of sweat stood out on his brow. He embraced both Benvolio and Mercutio in turn, and Mercutio could feel fine tremors, though he could not be certain whether he or Valentine was shaking. "He is not Father, ragazzo," he murmured low in Valentine's ear.

"I know," Valentine replied. "But I am not yet certain who he is, and my mind is awhirl."

"Mine as well," Mercutio said, and released him. Valentine took Silvia's hand, and together they returned to their quarters.

It was only when Mercutio wished to go to the basin and wash his face that he discovered that his legs would not hold him any more. He sank trembling into Benvolio's embrace and remained there for a while. He did not weep, though a few silent tears rolled down his face. He lay with his head cradled on Benvolio's shoulder, surrounded by his lover's warmth and the scent of his body.

"He was right, caro," Benvolio said, and Mercutio placed his hand on Benvolio's chest to feel it thrum in time to his words. "Thou art a man of great courage, to face him knowing that his visage calls forth thy darkest fears."

"I had to know."

"Ay. And there is more that thou must know. But not tonight." Benvolio dropped a soft, dry kiss on Mercutio's brow, then picked up the hand that rested on his chest and kissed that as well. "Today is past. Wilt thou sleep in the bed with me, or in the truckle?"

Mercutio frowned. "I know not. I would have thee at my side, but I would not sport with thee. The bed is too large, but it does not feel just to claim the truckle for myself and leave thee to warm thy bed alone. I would just as well fall asleep here, in thine arms, and wake where thou wilt place me."

Benvolio laughed a little. "That is no solution, caro," he said. His body twisted for a moment as he glanced at the beds. "The truckle is small, but I think that it is not so small that thou and I could not both find rest there. Thou dost not occupy much space, after all," he added, wrapping his arms more securely around Mercutio's thin frame. "And thou mayst rest assured that I shall not force unwilling sport upon thee."

"Thou hast never done so," Mercutio agreed with a little smile. "An thou wilt sleep willingly in so confined a space, let it be so."

For answer, Benvolio kissed him again, and they broke their embrace just long enough to prepare themselves for sleep. The truckle bed was just large enough to hold them both. They twined arms and legs together, and Mercutio drew the covers over them. He was pressed firmly against Benvolio's side, seemingly surrounded on all sides by his consort. With such swaddling, he thought, he might well be able to fend off whatever dreams would come to plague him in the night.


They did not see Ottavio the next day, though Mercutio did not wonder or take offense at this. It seemed that everyone had need of some time apart to consider what they had learned of each other. Mercutio allowed his friendship with Claudio Borsa to resume, and Claudio was tactful enough not to pry into Mercutio's dealings with Ottavio. In fact, the next time that Mercutio even caught sight of his uncle was the day after, sitting between Benvolio and their little friend Eleonore with the rest of the Mantuan court enjoying the enormous mock naval battle that Duke Vincenzo had caused to be performed in the lagoon.

The spectacle was grand and absorbing, and Mercutio thrilled at the mighty roar of the ships' cannons, though for this display they were loaded only with straw and salt. He could well imagine the glories and the terrors of these ships set against the Ottoman fleets, and he kept Eleonore amused by narrating the battle for her as though it were real, giving fanciful names and histories to the ships' captains. He only noticed Ottavio because Benvolio spied him in the crowd and pointed him out. There was no opportunity to seek him until after the battle was over, by which time Ottavio had vanished. Mercutio could not decide whether or not he was sorry about that.

But Ottavio did make his thoughts known later. Benvolio and Mercutio returned to their chamber to find Ottavio's page waiting for them with a letter and a small pouch. These he pressed into Mercutio's hand, bowed, and left. The letter bore what was clearly Ottavio's seal in purple wax, and Mercutio opened it carefully so as to preserve the seal whole. The letter was short but heartfelt.

To my newfound kinsman Mercutio,

Allow me to express once more my honor and gratitude for the peace that thou hast given me. Though it may seem strange, considering the nature of thy tale, I find that peace comes to me from knowing my brother at last. No more is he a figure of vain fantasy, a dark name whispered from my mother's lips as the evening shadows fall. Though I find that he was a cruel man, still my heart is eased, for I know now that he was a man, as human as thou or I.

Still, I cannot but be moved to hear the tales of the suffering that thou and Valentine did endure at Giacomo's hands. I am honored by thy courage, and I wish thee nothing more than the best in life. Upon further consideration, I am glad to know the fate of my father's house. I shall seek out my lawyer upon my return to Florence, and I shall make thee a gift in furtherance of this thy charity, which I would call the better half of the vengeance that thou must surely desire upon Giacomo. In the meanwhile, I beg thee be honored to accept this small token of my gratitude, and know that thou mayst call upon me freely shouldst thy fortune contrive to bring thee to Florence.

Ottavio

Inside the pouch was a signet ring, similar to that which had sealed the letter, though smaller.

Mercutio examined it, unsure what to think of the gift. The only signet ring he owned was the one that he had been given as a small child, which no longer fit his finger. That ring he kept in a box in his study at the Hospital, and used it to seal his business correspondence, preferring to use the signet of the royal family, his mother's house, for his personal letters. This ring that Ottavio had given him must have been part of his meager inheritance from his father, Mercutio's grandfather. It was large enough to fit an adult finger, so that Mercutio could wear it on official occasions if he chose.

He slipped the ring on his finger and considered the effect. It looked adult and dignified on his hand. It proclaimed his allegiance to the House of Rinuccini, but it did not bear his father's taint. Mercutio could look upon this ring and read his uncle and his grandfather in its etched surfaces, two men who had also endured Giacomo's destructive presence in their lives. Perhaps he might even keep it as his own and bestow his child's ring upon Girolamo. Although, he thought, not until Girolamo had reached an age where he would not attempt to swallow his uncle's gift.

Benvolio took Mercutio's ringed hand in his own and admired it. "It suits thee well, caro," he said. "Thou mayst acknowledge thy kin with pride, for not all of them are evil."

Mercutio nodded, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "Ay, I shall acknowledge them. But I still do not like this city."

Benvolio embraced him. "We must remain here only a few days longer, and then we shall return home. In the meantime, we may enjoy the entertainments and perhaps, an thou wilt, seek out Ottavio for further conversation."

"Ay, I should like that," Mercutio said. "But there is one other I must seek out first. Since I have spoken with mine uncle, I fancy that my courage has become strong enough to permit it."

"Shall I accompany thee?" Benvolio asked.

"Only if thou so desirest," Mercutio answered. "I think that I am now strong enough to do this alone if thou wouldst rather seek thy leisure elsewhere."

Benvolio smiled and kissed him, and let the matter drop there. And indeed, when the day that Mercutio had selected arrived, Benvolio gave him a firm embrace and went to attend a joust with Francesco and his gentlemen. Alone, Mercutio went to the salon where he had arranged this meeting.

Matteo Borsa was already there, sipping at a goblet of wine. He rose and embraced Mercutio and poured a goblet for him. Mercutio took it and sat down on the cushioned bench at the old man's side. He smiled at his cousin, and there was no fear in his heart.

"Tell me," he said, "about my father."


END


Afterword: Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story! As promised, here is a list of where the characters come from. Matteo Borsa is an import from Verdi's Rigoletto, where he is a minor tenor role. His son Claudio is my invention.

As for the next set of characters, I would note that they are analogues to their real-life counterparts, as characters in historical fiction tend to be. Duke Vincenzo is an amalgam of the Duke from Rigoletto (a tenor, who sings the famous aria "La donna รจ mobile") and the real-life Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga of Mantua, whose second wife was his cousin Eleonora de' Medici. They had five surviving children, four of whom you've met in this story. Francesco, the eldest, really did marry Margaret of Savoy in 1608, and it's a safe bet that his brothers Ferdinando and Vincenzo were at the wedding, as well as his littlest sister Eleonore. His other sister, Margherita, had previously been married to Henry II, Duke of Lorraine.

Finally, Ottavio Rinuccini was a real person. When I originally wrote Caro, I needed a surname for Mercutio and Valentine, and I stole his without thinking much about it. Later on, I realized that Ottavio was very much alive during the period in which I had set the story. He has the distinction of being the first opera librettist, though I don't know much else about him, since the only biography I could find is written in Italian. The history I've given Ottavio's character here is entirely made up; I'm sure the real Ottavio Rinuccini had a much more pleasant life and family!