12. The Mad Blood Stirring
Even after the other summers of Benvolio's childhood faded and ran together into a bright haze of memory, the events of his eighteenth summer remained stark and distinct in his mind. The old man, who sometimes did not recall what he had done an hour previous, and who could not always keep names in his mind, never forgot the hot days in July when his world turned inside out.
Mercutio had been in a strange temper for much of the week, wild and irritable. His appetite was poor, and he claimed that he could not sleep in the heat, which Benvolio found all too easy to believe. Mercutio had even snapped at Valentine, something he rarely did. Benvolio wondered at that, since Mercutio normally treated his brother with a tenderness he showed to few other people. Valentine shrugged it off easily enough, however.
"The heat gives him nightmares," he said, when Benvolio asked him about Mercutio's foul mood. "He woke me with his cries several nights ago, and I am sure that was not the only dream he has had of late."
Romeo, utterly besotted with a maid by the name of Rosaline, was no help at all. His latest fancy had grown into an obsession, and he stayed alone in his chamber for days on end, brooding. The only good result of that was that Romeo managed to avoid taking part in yet another outbreak of violence with the Capulets that completely destroyed a Sunday market and left old Abram with a twisted knee and a lacerated scalp. Benvolio found himself praying desperately for cooler weather.
Sneaking into the feast at the Capulet house seemed like the perfect diversion. Mercutio, although he and Valentine had both been invited, agreed to accompany his friends in their masking party. At first, it was entertaining, as they capered through the streets by torchlight, singing and laughing. But even as Mercutio spun a fairy story for his friends, one of his fits of despair came upon him, and he fled into the empty darkness of the piazza. Romeo's courage, gentle hands, and soft voice saved the situation, and they made it to the party without further incident. Benvolio swore to find out which of the pages had foolishly used a drum to goad Mercutio further into his frightening dreams and see that the boy received a scolding he would never forget.
The party itself provided another revelation for Benvolio. The Capulets had engaged a singer, a pretty boy with a decent voice who entertained the guests with a love song. All of the young women at the party were enchanted, none more so than Helena Pergolesi, the maid that Benvolio told his friends he loved. He used the opportunity, as she stood lost in the music, to study her face and figure and try to determine why she, alone among women, caught his interest. It was not until Benvolio glanced away and saw Mercutio slouching against a pillar with a drink in his hand that he knew the true reason.
Helena Pergolesi was tall and thin, with a sharp glance and a face that, while not quite beautiful, caught the eye and made one want to study it. In fact, Benvolio realized, shock crashing over him with the force of cold water, she looked like nothing so much as a female version of Mercutio. All along, Benvolio had taken his desire for the youth he could not have and transferred it to a maid whom he could yet win, if he had the wit and will to do so. Of course, he had neither, which only increased his frustration.
Mercutio came to him when the minstrel stopped singing. "Tybalt has spied Romeo," he said. "He is in a furious dudgeon. Old Capulet bade him be calm and keep the peace, but I know not how much longer he intends to do so. Hast thou had thy fill of wine and dancing?"
"Ay." Benvolio roused himself to gather the rest of their party together and depart. Many of the guests chose the same moment to leave, and in the confusion, Benvolio lost sight of Romeo. He and his friends called out, but received no response. By that time, he had had enough wine that he did not care any more. Romeo was a grown youth with enough common sense to stay out of Tybalt's path. He could take care of himself, and Benvolio could return home to bed.
Morning dawned as oppressively hot as before. There was no sign of Romeo, and Uncle Tiberio and Aunt Susanna were concerned. Benvolio volunteered to search for his cousin. On his way out the door, he spied a page in the livery of the Capulets. The page gave Benvolio a barely veiled look of contempt, dropped a letter into his hand, and left. The letter was addressed to Romeo, and Benvolio recognized Tybalt's scrawled handwriting. He remembered Mercutio's quiet warning to him the night before, and his heart sank. Uncle Tiberio and Aunt Susanna had no need of any further cause for alarm, so Benvolio crept back inside and slipped the letter underneath Romeo's door.
In truth, Benvolio was still feeling the disappointment from the party the night before, and he did not expend much effort searching for Romeo. He was already hot and weary by the time Mercutio found him in the street. They tarried for a while in the shade of the balcony in the building where Verona's aldermen met, and Benvolio told Mercutio about the letter that Tybalt had sent to Romeo.
"A challenge, on my life," Mercutio said, suddenly intrigued.
"Romeo will answer it."
Mercutio suddenly turned a sunny, almost adoring smile on Benvolio, and Benvolio's heart pounded in his chest. "Any man that can write may answer a letter," Mercutio said, as if he were begging permission to fight Tybalt himself.
Benvolio smiled back, taking care not to seem too eager, lest he inadvertently reveal his great secret. "Nay, he will answer the letter's master how he dares, being dared."
Mercutio seemed disappointed for a moment, but it passed, and he was soon entertaining Benvolio by hobbling about as if he were seventy instead of eighteen. Just as Benvolio forgot his original intent to find Romeo, his cousin appeared, in high spirits, still wearing his fine clothes from the night before. In response to Mercutio's idle scolding, Romeo lobbed a few gibes at him. Soon they were laughing and teasing, and Romeo had been tacitly forgiven for abandoning his friends.
The rest of their friends joined them in the piazza, and Benvolio's wish for some entertainment to take their minds off the weather quickly came true when the Capulet family's old nurse hove into their sight. Her long robe dragged in the dust, and her veil billowed absurdly in the breeze, and she flirted so shamelessly with Romeo that Benvolio could not keep from laughing when Mercutio mercilessly twitted her dignity until she sat on the steps of the church, quivering with rage.
"That will pay her back for striking me with her broom," Benvolio said, as they ran off.
"Why, when did she do that?" Mercutio asked.
"Some years back, but I have not forgotten the clout that woman gave me."
"Poor Romeo!" Mercutio cried. "Think what a clout the old bawd might wish to give him. Shall we turn and go to his rescue?" He struck a pose as a knight of old, preparing to charge forth to challenge a dragon.
Benvolio laughed. "Nay," he said. "It is no more than Romeo deserves. Let us find a tavern instead, for I am hungry."
The rest of the boys agreed, and they ambled off in the brilliant sunshine.
By midday, their high spirits had evaporated. Mercutio had accompanied Benvolio to the tavern readily enough, but he had choked and turned away from the food placed before him. Hungry, but either unwilling or unable to eat anything, Mercutio quickly descended back into the foul mood that had claimed him too often recently. Benvolio endured his sniping, worried and not wishing to leave Mercutio alone in such a state. He wanted to return to the shady balcony of the aldermen's building, but Mercutio was restless and roamed the streets, paying no heed to Benvolio's repeated suggestions that they find shade.
Mercutio, still grumbling, headed for the fountain, and Benvolio followed, glad of the chance to splash his face with cool water. His relief evaporated when he spied Tybalt and his gang strolling into the piazza. Benvolio could not tell whether or not Tybalt had mischief on his mind at the moment, but he had not forgotten the letter that Tybalt had sent to Romeo in the morning. For the first time that day, Benvolio was glad that Romeo was somewhere else.
Mercutio, who never cared about keeping his clothes neat if there was water begging to be played in, had stepped into the fountain, and was busily splashing around. The activity caught Tybalt's attention, and Benvolio suppressed a groan as the Capulet gang sauntered over to the fountain. Mercutio and Tybalt tossed thinly veiled insults at each other, more from habit than anything else. Benvolio tried to swallow his nervousness. Mercutio seemed in no hurry to leave his cool bath, and Tybalt seemed equally disinclined to get himself wet. Eventually, Tybalt would think of an excuse to move on.
However, as fate would have it, Romeo chose that moment to appear, bounding down the steps of the church, clearly burning up with some news to share with his friends. Benvolio could hardly believe his eyes. Romeo had finally changed into a fresh set of clothing, which meant that he had been home. If he had been home, he had to have seen the letter that Benvolio had left in his chamber. And if he had seen the letter, Benvolio could not fathom what Romeo intended, striding towards Tybalt with a smile on his face.
Tybalt did not waste his opportunity. "Romeo," he said, "the love I bear thee can afford no better term than this. Thou art a villain."
Mercutio whistled. Benvolio tensed. After such an insult, there was bound to be a fight. He hoped that he would be able to break it up before the commotion attracted the attention of the Prince. It was too hot for such an effort.
Fortunately, Romeo seemed to feel the same way, and responded amiably even to Tybalt's continued challenges. He even went so far as to clasp Tybalt's hand in a sign of good fellowship. Tybalt looked puzzled for a moment, then sniffed his palm. "Eeyucch!" he cried, and made a show of washing his hand in the fountain, as his friends looked on and laughed. Egged on by their laughter, Tybalt shoved a great handful of water at Mercutio, splashing Benvolio as well. Benvolio stumbled back from the surprise.
Mercutio glared at Tybalt, the assault on his person and his friend igniting his already dangerous temper. Tybalt's laughter rang in the piazza, and he turned to leave. Benvolio tried in vain to restrain Mercutio, but Mercutio shoved him aside and climbed out of the fountain, furious and dripping wet. "Tybalt, you rat-catcher!" he called.
Tybalt paused. "What wouldst thou have of me?"
"Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives, that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight!"
Romeo tried to pull Mercutio back, but met with as little success as Benvolio. Mercutio had never in his life turned down a chance to fight Tybalt, especially if Tybalt had attacked or humiliated one of his friends, and today was no exception. Tybalt, just as eager, took up the challenge.
After the first tentative exchange of thrusts, Benvolio found that he could breathe again. As he had hoped, it was far too warm for a serious brawl. Both Mercutio and Tybalt appeared to be playing for honor rather than fighting for life or death, and the loser would pay in humiliation, not blood. Mercutio, wittier and quicker than Tybalt, shone at this kind of game. All the onlookers had to do was keep an eye out for the Prince and ensure that neither combatant lost his head and inflicted serious injury on the other. Mercutio would put on a good show, puncture Tybalt's arrogance and hand him his dignity, and all would be forgotten by tomorrow. All they had to do was wait, and enjoy the spectacle.
But Romeo had other ideas. Even after it was clear to Benvolio that no one's life was at stake, Romeo persisted in trying to stop the bout. Several times, Vincenzo or Salvatore had to pull him back, lest he come between the blades by accident and be hurt. Within minutes, Mercutio had established himself as the victor, having seized Tybalt's sword, leaving Tybalt with nothing but a pitchfork for defense.
He kept Tybalt's sword until even Tybalt's friends began to taunt him. "Make haste, Tybalt," Petruchio laughed. "We cannot wait all day!"
Mercutio tossed the rapier back to Tybalt, who fumbled the catch. The sword clattered on the ground, and Tybalt wrung his hand. Pietro pointed. "Mother's baby's dropped his sword!"
The Montague boys cheered as Mercutio strode back to the fountain, striking a victory pose on the ledge. The Capulets followed, and in the sudden swarm, Benvolio lost track of Romeo. He thought he saw Tybalt approaching for another quick thrust, he heard Romeo's voice and saw him approach the combatants, and then Vincenzo and Salanio moved in front of Benvolio, and he could not quite see what happened, and then Tybalt and his friends turned tail and fled. The Montagues chased them, hooting their victory.
Benvolio ran after them for a few steps until he was sure that the entire gang was gone from the piazza. Tybalt had never run so quickly from a fight, and for a moment, Benvolio wondered if Romeo had indeed managed to get himself between the blades and taken injury.
The Montagues and their supporters and pages were cheering and congratulating Mercutio. Vincenzo and Pietro had somehow managed to lift him up on their shoulders, though Mercutio was shouting at them to put him down. They did so, and Benvolio caught a glimpse of Mercutio's face, twisted in distress. Benvolio thought he knew why. Although Mercutio had learned to tolerate casual body contact among friends, he had never liked being manhandled. The best thing to do now was to get him away from the crowd and let him breathe.
Benvolio shoved his way through the group just in time to see Mercutio curled up on the ground, twisting his body as if he were in pain. "I'm hurt!" he gasped.
Perhaps he had turned an ankle parrying Tybalt's last thrust while standing on the edge of the fountain. Benvolio smiled at him. "What, art thou hurt?"
Mercutio looked up at the sound of Benvolio's voice. His face was gray with pain, and Benvolio could see that he held his handkerchief clutched to his chest. A chill washed through Benvolio, but Mercutio forced a smile that was more than half a grimace. "A scratch," he laughed, "a scratch."
Benvolio did not believe him for an instant. Mercutio had endured vicious beatings for much of his life, and a real dueling scratch would hardly have been enough to leave him doubled over, pale with shock.
Romeo squatted down beside Mercutio and smiled. "Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much."
"No!" Mercutio said, brushing away Salvatore's attempt to pull him to his feet. "'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door –"
Benvolio never knew what prompted the sudden surge of courage within him. All his life, he had stood helpless as the boy he loved was beaten and betrayed. Now was his chance to change that. He knelt down and put his hands on Mercutio's shoulders. "Let me see it," he said, in a low voice that carried through the shouting around them. "Let me see this scratch of thine."
Mercutio fell silent, and his hand holding the handkerchief trembled. Gently, Benvolio reached out and pried Mercutio's hand away from his chest. What he saw made him recoil in horror. What Mercutio had called a scratch was a deep, clean-edged stab wound that bled freely. A man could die from that sort of wound.
Mercutio gasped for breath, and Benvolio choked down a surge of sudden grief. He was not ready to lose Mercutio, not to something as petty as a street fight. Through the pounding in his ears, Benvolio heard his own voice, stronger and calmer than it had any right to be.
"He needs a surgeon."