8. Things Have Fallen Out
Mercutio's body healed quickly from this latest assault, and he was able to run and play again within a few days. This did not surprise Benvolio. What did surprise him, and what grew to be a cause for alarm, was that Mercutio seemed to lose his appetite. He had always been small and thin, but had happily accepted treats when they were offered, and had been as eager as anyone else for the meals that the friars had provided at the old Latin school. At the birthday feast, Mercutio had helped himself to generous portions of food to fuel his joyous dancing. But over the course of the following month, he lost all interest in food, even in the sweets that Benvolio sometimes begged from the kitchen and brought to him.
This latest affliction puzzled Benvolio, and worried him as well. He himself was constantly hungry, and Romeo was little better. Uncle Tiberio had explained that it was part of growing up. He would not permit them to overindulge at mealtimes, for that was unseemly. However, Benvolio suspected that he had told the cooks to feed the boys whenever they asked, for there always seemed to be at least a few tasty scraps available in the kitchen when they grew hungry between meals. Most of Benvolio's friends who were around his age felt the same way. But Mercutio turned away from food. Romeo and Benvolio invited him to dine at their house, and they could see that he made an effort to eat, so as to please and honor his hosts, but his heart was not in it.
Romeo had remained friendly with Friar Lawrence, and sometimes visited him in his cell. He returned from one of these visits and told Benvolio about something he had heard at the monastery. "A long time ago," he said, "there were saints who could live on nothing but the wine and bread of Communion. Is that not astonishing?"
"Most astonishing," Benvolio said, "but Mercutio is not so devout as such a living saint."
But Romeo's mention of saints had given Benvolio an idea. From then on, whenever he was at Mass, he made sure to offer a special prayer to St. Anthony of Padua for Mercutio's well-being. He was not certain that his prayers did much good, however, as Mercutio persisted in turning away from food, and grew alarmingly skinny. Some nights, Benvolio wept himself to sleep at the prospect of watching someone he loved so dearly fading away before his eyes.
He had still not told anyone about how his feelings for his friend had changed, for he could not imagine what he might say, nor to whom he might say it. Romeo was wrapped up in loves of his own, and Uncle Tiberio and Aunt Susanna were wrapped up in their own business. Benvolio was certainly not about to say anything in the confessional, not after the lecture he had received when he had shyly confessed to touching himself at night before he fell asleep. And he could not even think of telling Mercutio, for he could not know whether Mercutio would laugh at him or knock him down.
One night, Benvolio dreamed that there was a party. Music played, and Mercutio danced to it, as golden and shining as the dawn. Benvolio watched him, utterly drawn into the joy in Mercutio's bright blue eyes, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world when Mercutio extended a hand to draw Benvolio into the dance. In his dream, Benvolio was an expert at the galliard, and he danced with Mercutio, the two of them in perfect, precise rhythm with each other. When he woke, his heart was pounding, and his bed linens were damp and sticky.
If the world of dreams was exciting and a little bit frightening, the world of reality matched it. Now that they were growing up, Benvolio and his friends had somewhat more leisure time than they had had as children. They were not yet old enough to carry swords in the street, but they were permitted to roam for a short time, several days in the week. They were meant to socialize and practice interacting with adults in the world beyond the home, but for the most part, they met in the piazza and showed off new tricks and feats of skill and daring that they had learned.
This showing off inevitably led to difficulties whenever Tybalt appeared with his own friends. Tybalt insisted on either mocking every trick that the Montague boys could do or attempting to cow them with tricks of his own. Sometimes, a punch would be thrown, and all the boys would gather around the two combatants, hooting and hollering. Mercutio, though he was kin to neither family, was involved in as many of these scraps as any of the Montague boys, and he fought more ferociously than any other boy.
It was not that he never had cause; Tybalt seemed to delight in quarreling with Mercutio, and had learned exactly how to insult Mercutio to goad him into a fight. "Is that thy brother?" he asked loudly one Sunday, pointing at Valentine, who was playing not far away.
"It is, as well thou knowest," Mercutio answered, eyeing Tybalt suspiciously. Benvolio sent up a silent prayer that Tybalt would not try to torment Valentine, an exercise that invariably sent Mercutio into a shrieking fury.
"How old is he now?" Tybalt mused. "Six? Seven?"
"Eight. Almost nine." Mercutio's eyes had narrowed to slits.
"He is as pretty as any maid, with those golden curls and angelic blue eyes," Tybalt said with a sneer that he no doubt intended to look sophisticated. "'Tis a pity that thou hast not such looks."
"Tybalt, go hang thyself."
"Thou hadst best watch him closely, Mercutio," Tybalt said, "lest he become catamite to some great lord."
Benvolio put out his hands to restrain Mercutio, but Mercutio shoved him aside and leaped on Tybalt. "Take back thy words, Prince of Cats!" he snarled. After a few blows from Mercutio's hard, bony fists, Tybalt surrendered. Mercutio shoved Tybalt's nose in the dust for good measure, then stalked off, his head held high. After Tybalt's gang had fled the piazza, Mercutio sat down on the steps of the church and trembled a little.
"My brother is no man's catamite," he spat, "nor will he ever be, as long as I live." With that, Mercutio wrapped his arms around his knees, and refused to say anything else about the incident.
Benvolio fought back his immediate impulse to put his arms around Mercutio, for he knew that Mercutio would shy away from such an attempt at a loving touch. Instead, he sat next to his friend and tried to convey his love and painful worry over Mercutio's increasingly troubled behavior by thought alone.
So their thirteenth summer wore on, cooling gradually into autumn, and then into winter. Benvolio took care to enjoy every moment he could spend in Mercutio's company, and accepted his friend's wrenching changes of mood with steady good grace. On good days, Mercutio was as lively and imaginative as ever, bursting with new ideas and prattling on about whatever notion had come into his head. On bad days, he was sullen, angry, and fearful, apt to quarrel at the slightest provocation. Some of the Montague boys were wary of him, claiming that he was going mad, but neither Romeo nor Benvolio believed them, and they made sure to stay close to Mercutio through the bad days as well as the good ones.
One morning, shortly after Romeo's fourteenth birthday, he raced into Benvolio's bedchamber and yanked the covers off the bed. Benvolio sat up, and rubbed his eyes. "Romeo, what dost thou want of me?" he asked. "It is too early to rise yet."
Romeo paid no attention, but climbed onto the bed and knelt before Benvolio, his whole body quivering. "Thou wilt never guess what I have heard today," he said. "I woke up early to use the chamber pot, and as I was setting it outside the door, I heard several maids talking amongst themselves. One of them said that she had gone to the public well, and she heard from another servant that Signior Rinuccini was banished from Verona last night!"
At this, Benvolio came fully awake, and he stared at Romeo. "Thou knowest not what thou sayest," he gasped. "That was but idle gossip, overheard from servants. It cannot be true."
But it was true. Later in the morning, Romeo and Benvolio heard Uncle Tiberio complaining about the disruption in Verona's business world. Signior Boccardi, their tutor, explained that, even though Uncle Tiberio had chosen not to do business with Rinuccini, he had known plenty of men who did, and the disruption to their business affected his. Romeo nodded sagely, as if he understood. But the look that he shot Benvolio beneath his lashes showed that they worried about the same thing. After an hour of lessons, Signior Boccardi sighed, and closed his book.
"I see that I am the only one whose mind is on schooling today," he said. Benvolio blushed, and tried to apologize, but Boccardi waved it away. "Far better to deal with such problems as they come," he said. "Follow me, young masters."
He marched Romeo and Benvolio directly to Uncle Tiberio's study and knocked on the door. At Uncle Tiberio's word, he nudged them inside. "Good my lord," Boccardi said, "your son and nephew would have a word with you. I fear they shall be of no use to me until they have unburdened themselves to you."
Uncle Tiberio looked up from his accounts. His expression was one of surprise, but Benvolio could see no anger. He nodded, and Boccardi sketched a quick bow and left the room. Uncle Tiberio turned to the boys. "Well? Speak, children. What is it that troubles your minds so that you cannot apply yourselves to your books?"
As always, Romeo was quick to make a declaration. "We know about Signior Rinuccini, Father, and we are worried about Mercutio and Valentine," he announced. "What has become of them, now that their noble father is banished? We do not know the cause of this banishment, nor where he has gone, nor what may become of our friend and playmate."
Uncle Tiberio sat back in his chair and regarded them for a long moment. Finally, a smile wormed its way out of his beard. "I see that I can no longer keep the news of the world from you," he said. "I had hardly intended to join the crowds besieging the palace for news, but perhaps I must, for it seems mine are not the only associations to have an effect on the smooth running of the household. Therefore, we will have a lesson in civic actions. I shall go to the palace, and you will go along to learn how one petitions a prince."
As Uncle Tiberio had guessed, they had to wait their turn in a long line that stretched outside the palace. "Do all these men wait on the Prince's pleasure?" Romeo asked.
Uncle Tiberio nodded. "It is hardly usual for a citizen of Verona to vanish suddenly, in the grey hours before dawn. Only once have I seen a man of high rank chastised so ruthlessly. He had committed a most savage and unnatural murder, and the Prince announced his crime before all the men of Verona before causing him to be put to death."
Benvolio swallowed the knot of fear that formed in his stomach at the mention of murder. "Why has the Prince made no announcement about this?"
Uncle Tiberio gave a grim little smile. "Perhaps he has not yet had the opportunity. I fear that these crowds have been besieging him for audiences all day."
It seemed an eternity of moving from line to reception hall to antechamber until a secretary finally came to them and said that the Prince would see them. Uncle Tiberio looked Romeo and Benvolio over to ensure that they were presentable. "Follow me close," he said, "give your Prince the deference that is his due, and speak not unless you are spoken to." With that, they entered the Prince's public study.
Prince Escalus himself sat at an ornately carved table. He glanced up when Uncle Tiberio and the boys entered, and Benvolio saw that he looked weary, his face bristling with stubble, and prominent rings beneath his eyes. Uncle Tiberio bowed, and Romeo and Benvolio followed suit.
"Montague," the Prince said. "Yours is a face I had not expected to see this day. I would sooner expect you if aught had befallen Capulet, your ancient enemy." His eye fell on the boys. "Have you brought your sons as well? That is no less unusual."
Uncle Tiberio coughed, then put a hand on each boy's shoulder. "This is Romeo, my son and heir, and this one is Benvolio, the son of my late brother Lucio, but no less dear to my heart. Indeed, it is on their behalf that we seek audience today."
The Prince seemed startled, and his eyebrows crawled up his brow as he turned his gaze on the boys. "This audience already differs greatly from those I have already granted this day. That alone is sufficient to interest me." His gaze moved from Romeo to Benvolio and back again. "Romeo, son of Montague. Tell me, what interest do you have in the affairs of Giacomo Rinuccini?"
Romeo gulped, and glanced up at his father. Uncle Tiberio nodded to him, and he turned to face the Prince. "It is not interest in Signior Rinuccini, my Lord, but interest in his sons. I – that is, my cousin and myself – we are – Mercutio is our friend, my Lord, and we would know what is to become of him and his brother Valentine. If they are to be banished, without a chance for farewells . . . " Romeo's voice trailed off, and he bowed to cover his shyness.
The Prince sat back in his chair, and regarded them solemnly. His face was a blank mask. Benvolio could not tell whether or not they had angered him with their petition. He wanted to squirm, to stand on one foot, or run away, but he bore up under the Prince's gaze. The only way to find the answers he so desperately wanted was to endure it. At last, the Prince nodded, and his expression softened just a little.
"Romeo and Benvolio," he said. "You would risk much for news of a boy and his brother."
"Mercutio is our friend!" Benvolio burst out.
Uncle Tiberio seized his arm. "Silence, Benvolio, when the Prince speaks!"
The Prince raised one finger, and Benvolio bowed as an apology. After a long moment, the Prince spoke again. "It is well for Mercutio that he has such friends as yourselves. Since you have braved our displeasure to ask, here is the reward for your actions. Mercutio and Valentine are still in Verona; indeed, they are here, in the palace, as we speak. Their father's sentence of exile does not fall upon their heads. They will live here as my wards, even as does County Paris, their kinsman."
Benvolio let out a breath he had not known he was holding, and Romeo shivered all over. "May we see Mercutio?" Romeo asked.
"Mercutio will see no one today," the Prince replied. "He is stricken with fever, and a physician keeps watch over him."
All of Benvolio's relief turned to horror. "What has happened? He will not die?"
There was a long pause. Finally, the Prince took a deep breath. "Mercutio's fate is in God's hands now. If you would contribute to his welfare, then I would ask you to return to your home and pray for his soul."
Uncle Tiberio bowed, and nudged Romeo and Benvolio to do the same. "Many thanks for this news, noble Prince," he said, and steered the boys out of the study and onto the street.
"There are your answers," he said, as they made their way home. His tone was harsher than Benvolio was accustomed to hearing, but his expression was gentle, and he patted their shoulders as he spoke. They passed through the piazza, where St. Peter's church stood. Benvolio's steps slowed, and Romeo cast a longing glance at the door. Without a word, Uncle Tiberio nodded, and followed them up the steps and into the church where they could begin their prayers.