10. Trooping With Crows
All growing boys suffered fits of mood, Aunt Susanna had told Benvolio. Uncle Tiberio had concurred in this, and had even told some stories about himself and Benvolio's father when they were young. The words had helped, and Benvolio always loved to hear things about his parents, but they did not completely ease the worries in his heart.
The first worry was for himself. Benvolio had tried to tell himself that his unnatural love for Mercutio was a simple childish fancy, born of concern and friendship, and that it could ease now that Mercutio's father was gone from Verona. Now that no one was hurting Mercutio, Benvolio would be free to turn his eye to the comely maidens of Verona, as Romeo did. But instead of abating, the strange love grew and even mutated. All the other boys talked of the soft skin and bosoms of the maidens they occasionally saw. Benvolio joined in these discussions, albeit mostly to listen, but found that his gaze traveled somewhere quite different.
A glimpse of a maiden at church or at a dance pleased him in the same way that a painting or a fine piece of furniture pleased him. But when he allowed himself to admire his friends' legs in their fashionable hose, or, even more rarely, the decorated bulge of a codpiece, his heart pounded, his stomach fluttered, and what happened lower down than that was even more embarrassing. It took Benvolio only a short time to hit upon the solution of carrying a book or two wherever he went. If he could not use the philosophy to cool his ardor, he could at least hold the book so as to conceal it. He developed a reputation among his friends for being a scholar, but he did not mind. It was certainly better than letting them know the truth.
Benvolio's second worry was for Mercutio. He had thought that, with Rinuccini's banishment, Mercutio would return to the joyous, playful boy he had been, long ago before the earthquake. After all, he lived in the palace, the ward of the wealthiest and most powerful man in Verona. The Prince seemed to set very few rules, for Mercutio could wander the streets at will and do whatever struck his fancy, without so much as a whisper of reprimand. Any other boy that Benvolio knew would have been ecstatic at the chance to live like that just for a week. But Mercutio was often unhappy, and sometimes outright distressed, for no reason that he could name.
The strange melancholy would come upon him suddenly, sometimes in the middle of a game or a story. Sometimes Mercutio would walk away from the group for a little while, regain control of himself, and then return. Other times, he would fly into a rage. The most frightening times of all, he would start speaking loudly and quickly, often about dark, uncomfortable things, as if he could build a wall of words to seal himself off from the world. When Mercutio had worked himself up into such a strange temper, he sometimes lashed out at any boy who came too close. Romeo was the only one who dared to take Mercutio's hands and talk to him in soft, gentle tones until he was calm again. Benvolio envied Romeo his courage and hated his own cowardice in those moments.
There was one thing that he could do, however, and he did it with his full heart, defending Mercutio's behavior from the tongues of other boys.
"I do not know that it is wise to associate with him any more," Vincenzo said one day, after Mercutio had wandered off. "He has become a madman, and that is dangerous."
"He is not mad," Benvolio said hotly. "There is something troubling him."
"Something that he will not tell us?" Pietro laughed. "His friends?'
Benvolio could think of plenty of secrets that one might not want to share with one's friends. "I do not tell thee everything that I think."
"Thou dost not fly into fits with no cause," Vincenzo pointed out.
"Perhaps he is not fully mad," Pietro offered, "but he is touched. What if he goes mad later on?"
"What if our company is all that keeps him from going mad?" Benvolio retorted.
It was clear that they would not find a satisfactory answer to the question that afternoon, so they dropped the issue. Mercutio returned to them shortly afterwards, and the conversation drifted towards the taverns that the boys had recently begun to frequent.
The evening after Candlemas was cold and rainy, as early February in Verona tended to be. Romeo, Benvolio, Vincenzo, Pietro, Salvatore, and a few of their pages and other friends had all gathered at their favorite tavern. Mercutio was not with them, having an obligation at the palace that night. None of the other boys missed him; indeed, his absence was the reason they had gathered. After the innkeeper had brought them a round of drinks, Romeo leaned forward to signal the official beginning of their meeting.
"Mercutio will be sixteen on Thursday," he said. "His family never marked birthdays, and I do not know that the Prince has ever done so, either, if he even knows when it is. But we should think of some way to mark it amongst ourselves."
"I should enjoy a birthday gathering," Salvatore said. His family was known throughout Verona for being scrupulously up-to-date on the latest trends and fashions, and Salvatore took birthday parties almost for granted.
"But what can we do?" Benvolio asked. "There is hardly enough time to arrange a grand celebration. Aunt Susanna is already planning for Romeo's and that is in April."
"I suppose it need not be a grand feast," Pietro mused. "After all, it will be only us his friends. We should do something that we all enjoy."
"We do that every time we meet," Salvatore said. "This must be something special, for Mercutio's birthday."
Vincenzo sat up a little straighter, a wide grin spreading across his face. "I have just the thing!" he announced. "Pietro and I had some confidence with Mercutio not three days ago, and he revealed that he has never lain with a woman."
"Neither hast thou," Romeo said, puzzled.
Vincenzo laughed. "But thou and I are not yet sixteen. What better gift for a boy of sixteen years than a night with a well-trained jade?"
The others at the table considered the possibilities of such an event, and sighed in envy at the mere thought. Benvolio frowned. He knew that he would not appreciate such a gift, which already put the lie to Vincenzo's assumption. He did not know whether or not Mercutio would appreciate it. Mercutio joined in their discussions of female beauty amiably enough when his opinion was asked, but he never seemed especially interested, and always tried to steer the conversation to some topic besides the arts of love.
"Perhaps Mercutio might prefer an evening in the company of his friends," Benvolio suggested. "We could visit several of our favorite taverns, and stand him his wine."
Pietro nodded sagely. "Those are both most excellent ideas," he said. "Let us adopt them both. We will collect money amongst ourselves and spend the evening carousing together in good fellowship, then escort Mercutio to the house of the nearest bawd, so that he may finish the evening on Olympus's peak."
Benvolio's dissent was drowned in the din of the other boys' agreement.
When Thursday arrived, the Montague boys swung into action. Without directly saying so, they had all conspired to keep the details of the evening a secret from Mercutio, saying only that they desired to keep him company for a few hours. At the first tavern they visited, they revealed that the gathering was to celebrate his birthday, and Mercutio cried out with joy at the prospect. The boys toured through four of Verona's taverns, sampling the best wines that the city had to offer.
By the fourth tavern, everyone was relaxed and in high spirits. Benvolio propped his head up in his hands, and enjoyed the buzz and whirl of the wine in his head. Mercutio was laughing heartily at something Salvatore had said, and Romeo sprawled happily across an entire bench. Perhaps this birthday celebration would be a success after all.
Vincenzo stood up and gestured to the tavernkeeper. He placed enough money in the man's hand to pay their bill, then clapped Mercutio on the shoulder. "It is time for our next visit," he said.
Mercutio smiled, and accepted Vincenzo's help rising from the table. "Another tasting? That is too kind. I shall float away on a tide of Verona's finest vintages."
"Thou wilt find this establishment most stimulating," Vincenzo said. "I wager thou wilt never forget it."
"Oho! Then this must be a pretty place indeed! Lead on." Mercutio followed Vincenzo out the door, the rest of the boys trailing after.
They wandered through the streets in a loose knot. Romeo and Pietro sang, loudly and out of tune, the pages giggled, and Benvolio strode along, all of his joints marvelously loose. Mercutio did not pay any attention to where they were going, content to let his friends lead him, as they had been doing all evening. It was not long before they entered a neighborhood known for its bawdy houses. Vincenzo selected one and steered the group towards it. "That is our next resting place!" he cried.
Mercutio stopped walking and looked around to get his bearings. Slowly, he took in the houses with women standing in the doorways, brazen and disheveled, their faces boldly painted. Muddled as he was from wine, it took several moments for the nature of their destination to make an impression on him. His loose, delighted smile faded into an expression of astonishment and disbelief.
"We are in the stews," he said. "Wherefore came we this way? I had expected another tavern."
"No, gentle Mercutio," Salvatore said, a sloppy grin on his face. "The time for wine is past. Behold the second half of thy birthday gift."
"Thou may'st choose the fairest of all the jades and pass the night with her," Vincenzo said, holding up a small bag of coins. "The lady shall make a man of thee tonight."
Mercutio looked from the bag of coins to Vincenzo's leer, a strange expression on his face. He glanced at one of the women, then turned back to Vincenzo. "I would as well visit another tavern," he said.
"What, wilt thou recuse thyself after we have gone to the trouble to bring thee here?" Vincenzo laughed. "Go to! I say thou shalt."
Mercutio glanced around at his friends. The smile was definitely gone from his face, and he seemed to be struggling for words. "It is . . . truly kind of thee to look after my welfare thus," he managed. "But I have no desire for such sport tonight. Go thou in, if thou wilt, and I shall wish thee joy of it."
"What?" Vincenzo said with a wine-soaked laugh. "Shall we know thee for a coward, then? Surely thou canst face the secret parts of a woman with courage."
Mercutio backed away from Vincenzo, and fine tremors began to course through his body. "Please, I have no desire. Not tonight."
"Thou art no babe in arms, therefore do not behave like one. They are only whores, thou wilt find thy courage soon enough." Vincenzo nodded to Pietro, and they each took one of Mercutio's arms to escort him into the house.
At their touch, Mercutio's body went rigid, and his eyes snapped open. "No!" he cried. "No, I will not! Let me go!" Before any of the other boys could move to stop him, he twisted free of Vincenzo and Pietro, striking Vincenzo in the chest and planting his elbow in Pietro's chin in the process. He pushed past Romeo and Salvatore, and fled into an alley.
For a moment, the revelers stared after him, stunned. The women, who had been watching from their doors and windows, said nothing. Salvatore helped Pietro to rise. Romeo was the first to recover his wits. "I will go after him," he said. "In such a mood as this, who knows what evil he may commit upon himself." He seized a torch and sprinted away. Benvolio hesitated only a moment, then followed after.
Distressed, and under the twin influences of wine and the demons in his own mind, Mercutio had not gone far. They found him at the other end of the alley, crouching on the pavement, his head in his hands, a stream of incoherent words dribbling from his mouth. With the courage that Benvolio had always envied, Romeo approached Mercutio and knelt down before him. He reached out hesitantly to touch Mercutio's jaw.
Mercutio gasped, and started violently, but Romeo clasped the sides of his head and forced Mercutio to look him in the eye. "Peace, Mercutio," he said softly. "It is only Benvolio and I." Slowly, so as not to startle his friend further, Benvolio moved to kneel next to Mercutio.
"Breathe slowly," Romeo commanded. "We will not injure thee. Thou need'st not enter a bawdy house tonight."
"Vincenzo . . . " Mercutio murmured.
"Vincenzo is an ass," Benvolio said. "He ought to have listened to thee, but he did not. I shall see that he makes thee an apology."
Finally, Mercutio relaxed a little. "I hate birthdays," he said. "I have had too much wine, and my head aches as though it would split in twain." He fumbled in the dim light for Benvolio's hand, and gripped it as though it were a rope tossed to a drowning man.
"Perhaps the evening is best ended here," Benvolio suggested gently. "Wouldst thou permit us to escort thee home?"
Mercutio nodded, and stood up. He swayed a little, and Romeo put an arm around his waist to steady him. For once, Mercutio did not object to the touch. They set off through the dark streets together, lighted by the torch that Benvolio now bore in one hand. Mercutio still clasped his other hand, and squeezed it occasionally for reassurance. They did not speak until they reached the palace.
"Wilt thou be well?" Romeo asked.
Mercutio nodded. "I will, and I will see you both tomorrow." He turned to go up the stairs to the door, then paused and looked back. "Thank you," he said. "For thinking of my birthday."
Neither Romeo nor Benvolio knew what to say to that. Instead, they waited silently as Mercutio mounted the steps, spoke to the night guard at the door, and entered the palace. Then they set off for their own home.
"I wonder why he grew so angry," Romeo said after a while.
Benvolio shook his head. "Nay, that was not anger; at least, not entirely. It was fear. Didst thou not see? He was terrified."
Romeo frowned. "It was simply a bawdy house filled with whores. What possible cause for terror lies therein?"
For that, Benvolio had no answer.