The Magicians of Caprona

Victory that faileth never,

Friendship that no strife can sever,

Lasting strength and peace for ever,

For Caprona’s city fair.

See the Devil flee astounded!

In Caprona now is founded

Virtue strong and peace unbounded—

In Caprona’s city fair.”

Every one of them was wondering what the real words were.

They came home for the family celebrations, and there was still no word from the Duke. Then Christmas was over. New Year drew on and passed too, and the boys were forced to realise that there would be no invitation after all. Each told himself he had known the Duke was like that. They did not speak of it to one another. But they were both bitterly disappointed.

They were roused from their gloom by Lucia racing along the gallery, screaming, “Come and look at Rosa’s young man!”

“What?” said Antonio, raising his worried face from a book about the Angel of Caprona. “What? Nothing’s decided yet.”

Lucia leapt from foot to foot. She was pink with excitement. “Rosa’s decided for herself! I knew she would. Come and see!”

Led by Lucia, Antonio, Paolo, Tonino and Benvenuto raced along the gallery and down the stone stairs at the end. People and cats were streaming through the courtyard from all directions, hurrying to the room called the Saloon, beyond the dining room.

Rosa was standing near the windows, looking happy but defiant, with both hands clasped round the arm of an embarrassed-looking young man with ginger hair. A bright ring winked on Rosa’s finger. Elizabeth was with them, looking as happy as Rosa and almost as defiant. When the young man saw the family streaming through the door and crowding towards him, his face became bright pink and his hand went up to loosen his smart tie. But, in spite of that, it was plain to everyone that, underneath, the young man was as happy as Rosa. And Rosa was so happy that she seemed to shine, like the Angel over the gate. This made everyone stare, marvelling. Which, of course, made the young man more embarrassed than ever.

Old Niccolo cleared his throat. “Now look here,” he said. Then he stopped. This was Antonio’s business. He looked at Antonio.

Paolo and Tonino noticed that their father looked at their mother first. Elizabeth’s happy look seemed to reassure him a little. “Now, just who are you?” he said to the young man. “How did you meet my Rosa?”

“He was one of the contractors on the Old Bridge, Father,” said Rosa.

“And he has enormous natural talent, Antonio,” said Elizabeth, “and a beautiful singing voice.”

“All right, all right,” said Antonio. “Let the boy speak for himself, women.”

The young man swallowed, and helped the swallow down with a shake of his tie. His face was now very pale. “My name is Marco Andretti,” he said in a pleasant, if husky, voice. “I – I think you met my brother at the bridge, sir. I was on the other shift. That’s how I came to meet Rosa.” The way he smiled down at Rosa left everybody hoping that he would be fit to become a Montana.

“It’ll break their hearts if Father says no,” Lucia whispered to Paolo. Paolo nodded. He could see that.

Antonio was pulling his lip, which was a thing he did when his face could hold no more worry than it did already.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve met Mario Andretti, of course. A very respectable family.” He made that sound not altogether a good thing. “But I’m sure you’re aware, Signor Andretti, that ours is a special family. We have to be careful who we marry. First, what do you think of the Petrocchis?”

Marco’s pale face went fiery red. He answered with a violence which surprised the Montanas, “I hate their guts, Signor Montana!”

He seemed so upset that Rosa pulled his arm down and patted it soothingly.

“Marco has personal family reasons, Father,” she said.

“Which I’d prefer not to go into,” Marco said.

“We – well, I’ll not press you for them,” Antonio said, and continued to pull his lip. “But, you see, our family must marry someone with at least some talent for magic. Have you any ability there, Signor Andretti?”

Marco Andretti seemed to relax at this. He smiled, and gently took Rosa’s hands off his sleeve. Then he sang. Elizabeth had been right about his voice. It was a golden tenor. Uncle Lorenzo was heard to rumble that he could not think what a voice like that was doing outside the Milan Opera.

“A golden tree there grows, a tree

Whose golden branches bud with green…”

sang Marco. As he sang, the tree came into being, rooted in the carpet between Rosa and Antonio, first as a faint gold shadow, then as a rattling metal shape, dazzling gold in the shafts of sunlight from the windows. The Montanas nodded their appreciation. The trunk and each branch, even the smallest twig, was indeed pure gold.

But Marco sang on, and as he sang, the gold twigs put out buds, pale and fist-shaped at first, then bright and pointed. Instants later, the tree was in leaf. It was moving and rattling constantly to Marco’s singing. It put out pink and white flowers in clusters, which budded, expanded and dropped, as quickly as flames in a firework. The room was full of scent, then of petals fluttering like confetti. Marco still sang, and the tree still moved. Before the last petal had fallen, pointed green fruit was swelling where the flowers had been. The fruit grew brownish and swelled, and swelled and turned bulging and yellow, until the tree drooped under the weight of a heavy crop of big yellow pears.

“…With golden fruit for everyone,”

Marco concluded. He put up a hand, picked one of the pears and held it, rather diffidently, out to Antonio.

There were murmurs of appreciation from the rest of the family. Antonio took the pear and sniffed it. And he smiled, to Marco’s evident relief. “Good fruit,” he said. “That was very elegantly done, Signor Andretti. But there is one more thing I must ask you. Would you agree to change your name to Montana? That is our custom, you see.”

“Yes, Rosa told me,” said Marco. “And – and this is a difficulty. My brother needs me in his firm, and he too wants to keep his family name. Would it be all right if I’m known as Montana when I’m here, and as – as Andretti when I’m at home with my brother?”

“You mean you and Rosa wouldn’t live here?” Antonio asked, astonished.

“Not all the time. No,” said Marco. From the way he said it, it was clear he was not going to change his mind.

This was serious. Antonio looked at Old Niccolo. And there were grave faces all round at the thought of the family being broken up.

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” said Elizabeth.

“Well – my great-uncle did it,” Old Niccolo said. “But it was not a success. His wife ran off to Sicily with a greasy little warlock.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to!” Rosa said.

The family wavered, with the tree gently rattling in their midst. Everyone loved Rosa. Marco was clearly nice. Nobody wanted to break their hearts. But this idea of living away from the Casa—!

Aunt Francesca heaved herself forward, saying, “I side with Elizabeth. Our Rosa has found herself a nice boy with more talent and a better voice than I’ve seen outside our family for years. Let them get married.”

Antonio looked dreadfully worried at this, but he did not pull his lip. He seemed to be relaxing, ready to agree, when Rinaldo set the tree rattling furiously by pushing his way underneath it.

“Just a moment. Aren’t we all being a bit trustful? Who is this fellow, after all? Why haven’t we come across him and his talents before?”

Paolo hung his head and watched Rinaldo under his hair. This was Rinaldo in the mood he least admired. Rinaldo loud and aggressive, with an unpleasant twist to his mouth. Rinaldo was still a little pale from the cut on his head, but this went rather well with the black clothes and the red brigand’s scarf. Rinaldo knew it did. He flung up his head with an air, and contemptuously brushed off a petal that had fallen on his black sleeve. And he looked at Marco, challenging him to answer.