The Master of Verona (21 page)

"No, she's with her brother. They've been closeted all day with his closest advisors."

"I'm still new to Verona. What can you tell me about the Scaliger and his family?"

The knight-doctor gave him a quick glance. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything. Are there more in their family?"

"Their father, old Alberto della Scala, had three sons by his wife. Two have died. Bartolomeo and Alboino. And there were two daughters, Donna Katerina and her sister Costanza, who is the eldest of the lot."

"Is she still alive?"

"Oh yes," said the doctor, finally discovering the fat maggot in his beard and replacing it in Pietro's wound. Pietro quickly closed his eyes. "She resides at the palace of her second husband, Signore Guido Bonaccolsi, brother to Passerino."

Eyes firmly shut, Pietro felt the process of wrapping begin. "Passerino Bonaccolsi. He's the Mantuan lord. Someone told me he's Cangrande's best friend."

"They're close, but I'd have to say the Scaliger is closer to my patron, Donna Katerina's husband. But then Bailardino helped to raise him. The day he married Katerina he accepted her little brother as a squire..."

Listening to pieces of della Scala family gossip, Pietro tried to puzzle out Katerina's age. If Katerina was just married when she took her brother in, she was at least twelve years her brother's senior. As close as he could guess, that put her somewhere between her thirty-fifth and fortieth year. Twice his own age.

Morsicato frowned as he tried to list all the famous names. "Their cousin Federigo. The Mantuan lord Bonaccolsi. Lords Montecchio and Castelbarco, of course. And the Paduan Nicolo da Lozzo. Bishop Guelco. Oh, and the new man in Verona, Cap-something."

"Capecelatro," supplied Pietro, intrigued that Antony's father was being included. A cynical voice wondered how wealthy he really was.

"That's right. Oh, and your father, of course! I'm sorry, he should have been first."

Pietro laughed. "You're forgiven. My father isn't known for his diplomacy either."

The doctor chuckled dutifully and leaned back. "There. Is that comfortable?"

Lying through his teeth, Pietro said it was. He knew he couldn't actually be feeling the maggots wriggling, yet he had to force himself to lie still. "Who else?"

Morsicato pulled a face. "I heard they've invited the two captured Paduans, Il Grande da Carrara and his nephew."

"That ass," growled Pietro involuntarily.

The doctor nodded. "And a Venetian ambassador called Dandolo."

That made Pietro sit up. "A Venetian? What's he doing here? Is Verona going to war with Venice?"

"I have no idea," said Moriscato, holding up his hands. "Now sit back. I've told you all I know. Except…"

Pietro gave him an urging look. "Yes?"

Morsicato looked rueful. "Well, it's just that I was passing the door not long ago and it sounded like—"

"Like what?"

"Like they were playing at dice."

"Dice?"

"That's what it sounded like. And Donna Katerina was ordering more wine for them all."

Pietro digested this for a moment, then had to laugh. The fate of three cities, perhaps more, decided over dice.

As the doctor gathered up his instruments and poultices, Pietro asked, "When is her husband due back?"

"Two days, perhaps three."

If I were wed to Katerina I would never leave her side
. "Well, thank you for looking after me. And for the news."

Morsicato actually bowed. "My honour, lad. Not often we see such bravery. Your father speaks of it to everyone."

Pietro blinked at that. Before he could muster a proper response the doctor was gone to other duties.

Brave?
Was Morsicato lying? Pietro's father certainly hadn't used that word to him! Tight-lipped in public, the poet had launched into a caustic diatribe the moment they were alone. What words had he used?
Not brave.
Stupid
, yes.
Foolhardy
, certainly.
Thoughtless heedless jolt-head determined to land in an untimely grave
, that was still ringing in his ears.
But brave?
No, Pietro was sure that word hadn't been mentioned.

He wondered if Katerina thought he was brave. He wondered about Katerina a lot. He found himself acutely resenting the shadowy figure of her absent husband. Insanely, he was also jealous of her relationship with her brother. However acrimonious, their deep connection was obvious. In the lady's disdainful treatment of her brother he saw a depth of feeling he'd never witnessed before.

An itching in his leg —
in
his leg! — reminded him of the maggots, and he shifted it closer to the brazier that was pleasantly toasting his right side.
Maybe I can smoke them out
.

To distract himself he continued piecing together the mosaic of Cangrande's family. At the top of the family tree was Cangrande's uncle, the first Scaliger ruler of Verona, called Mastino. Then Mastino's brother, Alberto, and his three sons and two daughters. Two of those sons, Cangrande and Katerina's brothers, were dead. Pietro remembered his father talking warmly of Bartolomeo and disdainfully of Alboino.

Dante had also spoken with open hostility towards the late Abbot of San Zeno, father of the current one.
A bastard of Alberto's, wasn't he? I wonder if there are any other by-blows out there, any bastards with the Scaligeri blood
.
Mariotto hinted that way.

There was a thought there, something nagging at his memory, a conversation between brother and sister — but he couldn't grasp it. With a sigh he sat back, closing his eyes and focusing on the rain, feeling the heat of the brazier gently warming him…

There was a scraping sound. Pietro opened his bleary eyes and found the Scaliger moving a chair at the brazier's other side. "Forgive me. Do I bother you? Were you dreaming?"

"Just dozing," said Pietro, shaking his head clear.

"Mmm. These days when I dream, I dream of rain." Cangrande settled lanquidly into the cushioned chair and stretched his legs. "I hope you don't mind if I make use of your brazier. Supper will be served soon." Cangrande reclined, fingers steepled at his lips, eyes on the rain.

"Are the conferences over?"

"Yes. Everything is settled."

Dying of curiosity, Pietro bit his tongue. They sat together for a time, both staring into the shimmering wall of water that pounded the cobblestones beyond the lip of the roof. The sound was hypnotic, as was the shivering light from the brazier as it reflected off the rain. Pietro's eyes grew heavy-lidded again...

"Do you think your father is right?"

Startled by the question, Pietro roused himself. "About what, lord?"

"About the stars." The Veronese lord shifted in his seat so that he leaned towards the rain. It brought his face into view on the far side of the smoking brazier.

"I, ah — I don't know what you mean, lord," was Pietro's feeble response.

Suddenly Cangrande rose. "Come. We'll discuss it at supper."

"Me? At supper, lord?"

"Yes, you, at supper. It's a small party — your father, the Venetian envoy, Il Grande and his nephew, the poet Mussato, Asdente, and myself. With you, we'll make eight. We need another to make up your father's magic number, but who? Not Guelco — I've foisted him off on Mariotto's father, with the impressive figure of Signore Capecelatro as his second. And your two friends are off exploring the Montecchi stables, I believe, so they're out of reach. I know — I'll invite Passerino to join us, that will be nine. The Nine Worthies. Your father will approve. Come!"

Even with a crutch and a helping hand, it took time for Pietro to navigate the halls, and the others were already gathered when he and Cangrande arrived. The Scaliger greeted them genially, as if half their number were not sworn enemies with feathers on the right side of their caps and red roses pinned to their gowns. "Please, sit! This is an informal gathering. Now that we are no longer wrangling we can enjoy each other's company."

"Just tell Asdente to keep his dice to himself," declared Passerino Bonaccolsi genially. "I've lost a month's rents to him."

Vanni gave his ghastly grin. "Fine. We'll use yours."

Cangrande named everyone at the table to Pietro, ending with the only man Pietro didn't already know. "This is Francesco Dandolo, Venetian ambassador and co-owner of two of my names. He is a
Cane
, too. Isn't that right, Dandolo?"

The Venetian made a deep bow to Pietro, ignoring what was obviously some kind of jab. "Honoured to meet you, young man. I understand you acquitted yourself well in your first battle."

"That he did," said Cangrande before Pietro could answer. "And from a man once destined for the church! If things had gone apace, he might have been able to intervene for you with the pope!"

The Venetian saw Pietro's puzzlement and sighed. "I was entrusted with the task of removing the excommunication Pope Clement laid on the Serenissima, our noble city."

"That floats on a bog," remarked Cangrande. "And this noble man, to do honour to his home—"

"Come," interrupted Il Grande, "the meal waits."

Having already made the Venetian visibly uncomfortable, Cangrande was not averse to letting his story go. For the moment. To his credit, Dandolo maintained a dignified composure as he settled at the far end of the table.

Pietro found himself at the table's middle. Close on his right sat Il Grande, and directly across the table sat Marsilio da Carrara. That one refused to speak or even look up, which suited Pietro fine.

On Pietro's other side Albertino Mussato had been given a wide leeway for his splints. The historian-poet bore a broken leg, a broken arm, and a fierce knob on the top of his head. Down the boards, Asdente sat bolt upright in a straight-backed chair, a fresh bandage wrapped about his head like a turban.

Pietro's father and Mussato were acquainted, having both attended the crowning of the last Holy Roman Emperor in Milan. As they sat, Dante asked after Mussato's head wound and Albertino grimaced. "Hard to say if it's addled my brains or not. I'm able to write, but someone else will have to read it to see if it makes any sense."

Cangrande took his place at the head of the table. On his right sat Il Grande, on his left the Mantuan lord Passerino Bonaccolsi. "I'll read your writing happily, Albertino. Marsilio, the wine stands by you." Young Carrara grudgingly passed the wine.

"You may not enjoy my new piece," warned Mussato. "It's a screed against you."

The brilliant smile leapt forth. "Really? Will it be good?"

"Oh, it will be excellent. But, my dear Dante, I have yet to congratulate you —
L'Inferno
is the finest epic since Homer."

"Well, Virgil, at least," corrected Dante. He had been placed across from Mussato, no doubt to let the two poets converse on their craft. As the company settled itself there was some technical talk between them regarding canticles and cantos, publishers and copyists. Mussato was grandiose in his praise, though Pietro thought he was forcing it a little.

Cangrande was busily chatting with Il Grande, but Passerino Bonaccolsi turned to add his praise to the
Inferno
. "Wonderful! Though I do take umbrage over your treatment of dear sweet Manto. We Mantuans keep Virgil near to our hearts, and to hear him excise her son Ocnus entirely from the birth of our city — well, I wouldn't come visit for awhile, is all I can say."

This
, thought Pietro,
from a man whose own father is treated harshly in the story. He's more upset by father removing the magic from the founding of Mantua.

Dante answered blandly, invoking God's gifts, not his own. Mussato said, "Don't you mean 'the gods'? That's what your beloved Virgil says, with the words you put in his mouth."

Dante looked pained. "My poor pagan mentor never knew Christ's glory, since he died before the birth of our Savior. He refers to the divine in the only terms he would have known. But just because they were so unfortunate as to not know the true Divinity does not mean they were incapable of glimpses of truth."

Mussato glanced at the Scaliger. "That's true of a lot of people today."

Asdente grunted. "We had a fellow on campaign who could read — he was probably killed yesterday, come to think of it. Each night he'd scare the younger soldiers by reading aloud from your poem. I really enjoyed seeing them shit themselves from fright. 'That's what you'll get,' I told them, 'for impiousness and fornication!' Kept them out of my hair for months. Ha!" cackled the Toothless Master.

"Indeed," said Mussato, glossing over his fellow Paduan's rough manners, "your use of
contrapasso
is brilliant. Bertran de Born, carrying his own head! A marvel! I mean to steal it to use against the Greyhound there. For God's sake, someone, pass the wine. My head's killing me."

As the wine was passed again Dante leaned his forearms on the table. "Tell me, what form will your screed take? Epic?"

Bonaccolsi said, "For Cangrande? I'd be surprised if you could fill three stanzas with his life story. Look at him! Still a stripling! If he were a fish, I'd throw him back!"

"A damned lucky stripling," snorted Asdente into his wine goblet. The metal bowl made his voice reverberate. "He always gets what he wants."

"Now, Vanni, that's a blatant lie," grinned Cangrande. "I don't always get what I want. If I did, then you'd be Veronese and my sworn man to the death. Padua couldn't stand without you."

Asdente chuckled. "Padua could stand against anything in the world — except you, Pup!"

Cangrande beamed. "Pup! Now there's a title I haven't heard for a while! And how does the great Count of San Bonifacio?"

"Not so well, I imagine," said Il Grande. "After this, he'll have to admit that his Pup has grown into a proper hound."

"With teeth for tearing," added Mussato. "I'm lucky my right hand can still scratch a few lines."

"Which brings us back to my question," said Dante patiently. "What form?"