Act I, Scene I: The Brawl
(I wasn't Shakespeare in the previous chapter, and I haven't turned into him for this one, at least not last time I checked . . . hold on a second while I check again, just in case. Oh, nope. Still not Shakespeare.)
Summer days in Italy are astoundingly hot. It enflames the senses and makes for much irritability, even in the morning. Unable to stand baking in my sheets in my oven of a room, I ventured out into the Verona morning, where the early market was just beginning to commence.
The stirring passions were apparent in several servants I passed. Sampson and Gregory, two of the Capulet servants, were out accompanying ("escorting," as they put it, appealing to their low sense of honor) several maidservants to the market to buy fresh supplies for the Capulet breakfast. They were babbling on in their course language about how they would fight any Montague ruthlessly, from the female maidservants to Montague himself. I smiled at the two of them, pleased with their loyalty and devotion. I had left my manservant at home. After all, he is but a child, innocent and curious; more apt to get me in trouble than save me from it. Besides, he is friends with Juliet's nurse's servant, Peter, and I like to be benevolent and give them time together.
When I looked back to Sampson and Gregory again, they were throwing taunts and gibes at two Montague servants, denoted by their official red garb. They, two, had noticed the Capulet servants by their blue, and were making rejoinder rather aggressively. It looked harmless, so I walked on, but made mental note to return, just in case. I didn't want to miss a fight if there was one; in fact, I rather hoped there would be.
I was distracted by the arrival of my best friend, Petruchio, one of the outside noblemen in Capulet favor. He had ventured from his house early, and was already very awake (if I am choleric with a bad spleen, he is sanguine and takes in entirely too much air). He had spotted a pretty girl and wanted to show her out to me. Petruchio enjoys women, and with his boyish curls and winning smile he has reason.
"See that fair maid there-- aye, her. Be she not fair as day?" he sighed, almost femininely. It reminded me painfully of Romeo.
"Is that all thou ever thinkst of?" I sighed back, mocking him. "Thou sounds as pitiful as Romeo Montague."
Petruchio gave me a withering look. "Thou wouldst do well to have a loving thought once or twice."
"I see no logic in chasing about maids that will only play thee false and act perverse."
"That be how they show their affection!" Petruchio laughed, clapping his hand on my shoulder. "Tybalt, thou art of an age, thou shouldst be consorting with the ladies. Thou hast looks, blood-- and talent with sword," he winked.
I suppressed the heat rising in my face. "Looks, nay; I hath heard not any maid speak of me in such a manner." The only woman who has ever called me handsome was Juliet's nurse-- and that's small talk coming from a fat, foulmouthed widow with only four teeth.
"Thou looks not," Petruchio shook his head. "An thou were to show off thyself to the maids, I expect thou might find many quite taken."
I scoffed his compliment. "Who has thou heard speak of me?"
He opened his mouth, but could not bring a word to his lips. After a moment, he obliged with, "I direct thee try thy luck. I hast not seen thee at it. Why not with that fair maid?"
He motioned to the girl he had been watching. She was pretty, indeed, but I paid little attention. She carried a prudish air, with her nose in the air and her lips tight. I knew her immediately.
"That be Rosaline," I informed him, striking him bluntly back into reality. "She hath vowed to be chaste. Thou shan't have her."
Petruchio looked stunned. "Chaste? A fair maid such as she? 'Tis an outrage!"
I shrugged. "I heard tell a Montague boy tried to win her heart and failed." That moony Romeo was in fact still stuck on her; I had seen him already this morning, sighing and moping like a childish girl, sending pathetic simpers in the direction of Rosaline, who of course ignored him. I had never paid much attention to Rosaline until I heard that tale; now I had much respect for the girl that could cause a Montague such pain.
"She might prefer a Capulet," Petruchio elbowed me and winked. I sighed and shook my head. Then, suddenly, I heard a clang behind me like the clash of swords. I have tuned my ears to detect such sounds. I froze and listened intently, then seized the hilt of my sword. The servants must have started something! I wheeled around to join in.
"Where art thou going?" stammered Petruchio, whose senses were not nearly as adept as mine. Juliet once said I had the reflexes of a cat-- and then she thought it a great jest, as Tybalt is also the name of the prince of cats in that silly tale Reynard the Fox. So I earned a nickname: The Prince of Cats. It's endearing to those close to me, such as my aunt and cousin, but since the Montague boys have discovered it I have had no end to the grief.
"There's a brawl!" I shouted back to him.
"But what about Rosaline?"
"I'm a fighter, not a lover!"
Petruchio followed along after me, finally catching up, as his legs are slightly longer. "And 'twould be why all of your followers are men," he sighed with little breath.
"I don't see Romeo Montague dripping with women, either!" I snapped.
"He's not a Capulet," said Petruchio, emphasizing the name as if it were a holy title.
"Nor," I said stiffly, "am I."
Petruchio shut up.
By the time we reached the scene of the crime, there were five partakers and things were heating up quickly. I scanned over everything: the two Capulet servingmen, two Montague servants, and Benvolio-- ah, I had a match! So like a Montague, too, to dishonorably tip the scales so that the fight was weighted unfairly towards the Montagues.
I approached my rival slowly but surely, to be positive he saw my leering grin. "What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee, Benvolio, and look upon thy death!"
The threat drained the color from Benvolio's round face and his sword fell feebly to his side. "I do but keep the peace!" So like him, effeminate and weak. "Put up thy sword, or manage it to part these men with me!"
Disgusting. As if I, Tybalt, most reputed swordsman in Verona, would put my tool to a use such as that?
Peacekeeping? And-- the disgrace-- help a Montague? It made me laugh, cold, cruel, and mirthlessly.
"What, drawn and talk of peace?" I motioned to his sword, which was indeed out, rather hypocritically. "I
hate the word," I looked deep into his frightened eyes, "as I hate Hell, all Montagues, and thee." I pulled
out my sword and drew into positon. "Turn thee, Benvolio, and look upon thy death!"
I lunged for him, and his eyes widened in fear. He flung up his sword automatically and began to defend
himself, sweating profusely at his brow. His fighting was pathetic and yet he was working all he could to
parry my thrusts. I was in complete control. Once I found his rhythm, I began to toy with him, rather as a
cat does a mouse-- another allusion to my name. I flicked a bauble off his doublet and even knicked him
on the arm just for show. He faltered and cringed at the tiny dribbles of blood that began to seep through.
From all around us came the shouts of townsmen; I had arrived just before the real fray. Petruchio came to back me up, matched against a Montague- loving commoner. Soon all of my usual cronies were at my back, fighting for the Capulet name and adding their own sweet music to the thrilling clang of sword against sword. I felt the thrill of the fight, the valor of fighting for the name, the energy I was so full of at all times. This was the only release.
However, with the ruckus came attention from the Prince's hired partisans. The old fool, disapproving of our rivalry, had hired unwitting citizens to "serve him" and break up any fights that arose. Most of them were commoners out of favor with both families, making an attempt to redeem themselves through the even more noble prince. I despised them.
"Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!"
Their shouts rang out as they dashed into the battle, ruthlessly knocking swords from the duelists' hands with their rough, dishonorable clubs and staffs. I dancing lightly away from them, keeping my focus on Benvolio. Nevertheless, even the best swordsmen is no match for several men with clubs. I saw Petruchio go down-- his weapon was knocked away and when he stooped to pick it up he was knocked sharply in person. Soon I was one of the only brawlers left standing, backing the timid Benvolio further and further away. He obliged, dripping with sweat and bleeding profusely from his arm, which had turned out to yield a better cut than I had expected.
Finally, two men closed in on me at once (two against me and none for Benvolio; dishonorable wretches!) and attempted to beat me down. They had nearly got me locked between them when Benvolio took the advantage and sliced into my arm. When I looked up from the wound, which bore a remarkable resemblance to his, I saw him sneer. I had underestimated his capacity for revenge-- though he had carried it out when I was incapable of defending myself. Dirty, rotten Montague! My temper swelled; I felt the blood surge through my veins and I struggled to free myself, but to no avail.
"What noise is this?" boomed a voice. I managed to free myself enough to turn behind me and see Lord Capulet himself marching genteelly to the edge of the square, his wife at his side. "Give me my longsword, ho!"
"A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?" cried my aunt, worried that he was too old for this fighting. She did not hold him back, however. She knew the severities of family honor.
"My sword, I say. Old Montague is come and flourishes his blade in spite of me!" Sure enough, Montague had entered from the opposite side of the square.
"Thou villain Capulet!" he cried, taking up his own weapon. Lady Montague (I immediately understood her relation to Benvolio) seized his arm to hold him back. "Hold me not, let me go!" he shouted, shaking her off.
"Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe!" she admonished. So it was true; both were resistant to make the first move. Only servants-- and I-- were foolish-- or brave-- enough to start a fight. The entrances of the patriarchs had caused enough upheaval to reignite the fight. I raised my sword again, and Benvolio saw me just in time to raise his own. Our peacekeepers attempted to force us back in order again, but I danced out of their way; I knew how to avoid them now.
I did not stop again until the Prince entered.
