The Master of Verona (26 page)

The Scaliger had to raise his voice to be heard over the still-rolling thunder. "Has he received baptism?"

"He has."

"And christening?"

"He has. His name is –"

"I know what his name was. He will have to go through it again."

"Fine." Standing, the lady produced a sealed letter. "All you need is here."

The Capitano tucked the letter away inside his doublet. Abruptly the lady turned and strode the length of the chapel, passing Pietro. She lifted her soaked hooded cloak from where it lay, dropping the thick dry one the Scaliger had given her.

From the altar Cangrande said, "What will you do?"

As she turned her head Pietro thought he could just make out the colour of her eyes as the candlelight flickered across them. They were a shade so dark as to almost be black. "I? I shall disappear. But I will be watching."

"If you ever need—"

She almost laughed as she cut across him. "I shall not come to you."

"He will be well guarded. Always, Maria. You have my word."

The lady's hand swept over her face in a violent motion. Pietro realized she was scrubbing away tears. He looked away from her, busied himself by tucking the coin into his purse. She did not deserve to be stared at in her grief.

There was a swirling of the layers of her skirts, then she was gone.

Pietro stared into the darkness.
This can't be it
.
Tell me this wasn't our secret mission.
Recalling a piece of conversation he'd heard between Cangrande and Katerina, he leapt to the obvious conclusion.
A by-blow! A bastard!
The battle, his wounds, Mari and Antony's daring, Nogarola's lost arm, so many dead — all for this? This daring and dangerous midnight invasion of Padua through a storm that could still murder them on the return, not to take the city, but to collect the Scaliger's illegitimate son! All this talk of just cause, of Fate, bad luck, the stars, his grand plans, all sacrificed on this altar of pride or — what? Blood? The need for a son, even one from the wrong side of the sheets? Pietro was aghast.
How could he?

Unable to hide his incredulity, Pietro said, "This is why you didn't invade Padua."

Back near the altar, Cangrande stood beneath the large stone cross, the wriggling bundle in his arms. "Shhh." Looking down into the face hidden in the folds of the bundle, his visage was shadowed from the light. "Yes."

Pietro could hardly draw breath. "Why?"

"This was more important. Come and see."

Rising, Pietro limped over to the altar. Cangrande lifted the covering from the child's face, and Pietro looked down at the fine cheekbones, the fair hair, the perfect chin. There could be no doubt. This child was a Scaligeri.

The Scaliger shifted the bundle into the candlelight, allowing them both to see the boy's open eyes. Though he was fussily opening and closing his mouth like a baby bird, he stared back wide and unafraid, his eyes two orbs of brilliant, startling green.

"I am sacrificing nothing, Pietro. I am doing only what is necessary. Trust me."

Smothering his disbelief and indignation, Pietro bowed his head. "I do, lord."

"Thank you." Cangrande turned the child towards him, staring into those vivid eyes. He let out a long breath. "
O sanguis meus
. What adventures lie ahead. God forgive me."

There are moments in the lives of men that impress themselves on the witnesses, coming back in dreams, both sleeping and waking. In years to come, the details of the battle at Vicenza would be half remembered, half imagined in exaggerated glory. But this moment, the Scaligeri lord standing beneath the old stone cross in a dank and humble church and looking into the child's eyes — this moment would haunt Pietro the rest of his nights.

"What is his name?"

For the first time since viewing the child, the Scaliger pursed his lips in a thin smile. "He will be called Francesco."

Three months saw the effect of the Paduan defeat at Vicenza reaching many places. In Venice, Ambassador Dandolo returned and made his report to the newly formed Council of Ten. While relating many trade secrets he had bought while staying in Vicenza, he expressed his concern that should Verona ever renew hostilities and win, the Serenissima would be in jeopardy. He was heeded, and at his advice steps were taken against the day Cangrande should grow too powerful.

In Padua, Il Grande had a parade thrown in his honour. It was generally agreed that his skilled diplomacy had saved the city. At the same time his nephew Marsilio was being talked about as the flower of Paduan honour, and his tales of Verona's latest bastard kept his friends enthralled.

Indeed, it was not the war's end but the bastard that had people talking. The official story was that the Scaliger's sister, the beautiful and lively Katerina Nogarola, had adopted a child. One day she was another barren wife, the next she was foster mother to a boy not six months old.

Returning home to find a baby in his wife's arms, her husband had taken it well enough. Lord Nogarola was said to be fond of the infant in an avuncular way — which, if the rumours were true, was precisely the relationship. The gossips denied that it was his own bastard adopted by his wife. Why? Because the night before the child appeared, the Greyhound had vanished entirely from the palace. The next morning his servants had found his discarded clothes, soaked completely through.

Many people delighted in the news, and most of these were friendly with Verona. Cangrande's enemies sighed in bemusement, reconciling themselves that yet another Scaligeri was being bred to torment them. They took comfort was in imagining what the Scaliger's wife had to say about it.

But at the end of November, one event removed all other news from prominence. With a suddenness that unnerved everyone in Europe, news come from the royal court in France. The curse of Jacques de Molay, the last of the Knights Templar, had come true. King Philip the Fair, ruler of France, maker and breaker of popes, scourge of Paris, was dead.

As Dante's sons packed the effects of their Lucca lodgings for the move to Verona, the poet received a letter from his friend Enguerrand of the locality of Coucy in Picardy. The facts as Enguerrand related them were quite in the realm of the supernatural. King Philip had suffered no accidents or injuries to his person since falling from his horse some weeks earlier. A man in his prime, he suddenly dropped to his knees on a bright November day and began to foam about the mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then he pitched forward and screamed. And screamed. Still screaming, he was taken to bed and there he stayed until he left the mortal world. De Coucy related to Dante that the king was unable to utter words, though many were the final phrases attributed to him. Enguerrand closed his letter by adding:

It will be a matter of future history whether or not Jacques de Molay's curse upon the King's line down to the thirteenth generation comes true. Though I feel in my bones it will.

The ripples this stone cast in the international pond were wild and unpredictable. King Philip had been brother-in-law to the heiress of the Latin Empire of Constantinople. He had been connected by blood and commerce to the kings of Naples and Hungary. The kings of England and Minorca had been his vassals. After the English defeat last summer at Bannockburn, Philip had allied himself with the new Scottish king, called the Bruce. In fact, his political alliances had reached as far as the mystic Orient. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, the moment his death became known, men everywhere looked for ways to profit from it.

In Italy, the
cause célèbre
was the return of the pope to Rome. With the French king dead, it was suddenly possible, even likely. Thus it was the topic of the Christmas sermon in Florence, delivered by the visiting Cardinal Deacon Giacomo Gaetani Stefaneschi, who purchased Grace by spending a great deal of his sermon praising the life of Pope Celestine V. His Latin was scholarly and beautiful to hear.

Dante's daughter Antonia knelt, her eyes closed in what was supposed to be prayer for an end to the Avignon papacy. But her thoughts were fixed on a package that had arrived yesterday from Lucca. From her father.

The moment it had come she'd whipped off the covering, expecting a packet of letters. Instead she had discovered a small wooden box with yellow leather tacked in place by fine brass studs. The box was wrapped in twine and sealed with her father's ring.

Rushing off to find a knife, she had returned to find her mother waiting, the box stowed on a high shelf. "You shall wait until Christmas morning."

Perverse. Unfair. But Antonia hadn't argued, knowing her mother would only further delay the unwrapping. Now she knelt between her mother and her aunt, pretending to listen to the sermon while wondering what was in the package. To her right, Gemma di Manetto Donati
in
Alighieri knelt stiffly, back perfectly straight, head properly bowed. It would have taken a keen eye to see the pinch she gave her daughter as the girl began to sag back onto her heels. Antonia bolted upright and fought the impulse to rub her bottom.

She was aware of the eyes on her, and resented them. It was natural, now that her father was both famous and rich, that she should have suitors. But it annoyed her. Where had they been when her family was poor, beggared, hardly able to survive? Now that
Dante
and
genius
were being uttered in the same breath, fathers with eligible sons were beginning to call at the house. So far she had managed to frighten them away by embarrassing them. As her mother frequently pointed out, the fact that she was involved in the publishing business was a mark against her marriage prospects. Her intelligence was another. So when suitors called, she made sure to discuss her negotiations with Mosso, throw in a quote from Homer or Virgil, or recite a history lesson on the man's family that was never to his advantage. Discomfort led to rapid departures and a certainty that no amount of gold was worth the bride that came with it.

Her learning came from her free time in a house of books. Most girls lamented not being men, but Antonia would not have changed her state for the world. Boys didn't have free time. Men of noble birth had to split their attentions between learning, riding, hawking, swordplay, war tactics, and a hundred other pursuits. Even her brother Pietro! Before being catapulted to the position of heir he'd always been found with his head in a book or scroll. But still he'd undergone the most basic training in arms. Whereas Antonia's time was focused solely on learning. It was either that or weaving, and her weaving was atrocious.

Still, there was one class of boys who did not have those active pursuits, who read as much as she. Those second and third sons of the nobility who entered into the church had no need to learn arms. Antonia imagined their lives filled with only study and prayer. It was the life for which Pietro had been intended, before Giovanni's death. Now it seemed a warrior's life was in store for him, something no one had ever foreseen. Antonia was alone in thinking it was his loss.

Of course, Jacopo should have taken Pietro's place in studying for the Church, but no one was foolish enough to suggest it. He wasn't suited to such a life.

No
, thought Antonia,
it's up to me to heed God's call
.

It was not unusual that at the tender age of thirteen she thought idyllically of a religious life. Fearing the marriage act, it was the perfect alternative. In the cloister she foresaw no chores, no duties save to love God and read. She longed for such a life. Antonia's hope was that, left to his own devices, her father would leave her unwed. But her mother — stern, rigid, unforgiving Gemma — wanted her betrothed. For the good of the family, of course. Gemma imagined an alliance with a rich count or even one of Dante's noble patrons. As the poet's star rose, Antonia grew in attractiveness. Time was running out.

The only salvation was the long-dreamed-of summons. Her father might send for her.
But it will have to be soon, father, soon! Else mother will have me married off to some idiot who doesn't read!
It was the worst insult Antonia could conjure. Not reading meant a man lacked imagination, culture, intellectual curiosity. There was no nobler pursuit in this world than the written word. After all, it was her father's chosen profession.

She almost missed the cue to rise and follow her mother to the altar for Communion. Christmas always made wine sweeter and bread less dry. Then, with final words from Bishop Venturino thanking their visiting cardinal deacon for officiating, the crowd dispersed.

Aunt Gaetana patted Antonia on the head and softly said to Gemma, "Sister, will I see you at Francescino's for dinner?"

"No, sister," said Gemma. "I regret to say we have plans. Tell your brother we wish him a happy Christmas."

Gaetana shook her head. Antonia's mother never associated with her husband's family. The shock of the exile and the ensuing poverty had made her overly vigilant in regards to her social perception. Her birth family had been on one side of the political debate, her husband on the other. Her family had won, so while she did not repudiate Dante's half brother and sister, she was never seen with them outside of church.