The Master of Verona (41 page)

From down the table Nico da Lozzo called, "Does it bother anyone that the doctor is an expert in cooking flesh?"

"It amazing he's an expert in anything, the way he lives in his cups."

"I happen to have an exquisite taste in wine," replied Morsicato tartly.

"No wine is better than Verona wine!" said Bailardino, thumping the table.

"Personally," said Dante, "I agree with Diogenes the Cynic. I like best the wine drunk at the cost of others." There were several choruses of 'Hear, hear,' around the hall.

"'No poem was ever written by a drinker of water,'" observed Il Grande, raising a cup to salute the poet.

Dante returned the gesture. "Monsignore knows his Horace. It is a shame he does not also know his nephew's tailor, that he might have him flogged."

Pietro choked on his drink. Others hid their guffaws with coughing. Il Grande smiled indulgently, resting a hand on Marsilio's arm as the youth made to rise. "What has become of Masurius Athenaeus — 'Wine seems to have the power of attracting friendship, warming and fusing hearts together.'"

Dante shrugged. "
In vino veritas
."

Cangrande snapped the fingers of both hands in front of him. "This is the way it should be! I am surrounded by the best and the brightest! It has been too long since I had so many distinguished visitors. Maestro Alaghieri, when was it that we two last dined in this hall?"

Pietro sensed an attempt to rein in his father — or else goad him. Never mindful of the social niceties, Dante gazed upon his patron in thin-lipped amusement. "You abandoned us at your nephew's wedding, so let me see — not since your brother Bartolomeo, God rest his soul, occupied the place you now hold."

Men crossed themselves in fond memory of the man who had been Dante's first patron in exile. Bailardino lowered his head and spoke soundless words of blessings. Everyone had liked Bartolomeo.

Leaning back to allow a servant to place a platter before him, Cangrande's eyes took on a wicked glow. "God rest his soul, indeed. But I think you are mistaken, dear poet. I remember when my brother died, you spoke quite eloquently at his funeral. You were here some months after Alboino took his place. Surely you dined here before you left us."

Dante pretended to remember. "Ah, yes. The bones."

Cangrande's
allegria
widened. "Quite so. The bones." He raised his voice so that all could hear. "You may not believe this, but once upon a time I was given to practical jokes."

"
Ma, no
!" chorused several voices.

Cangrande waved a hand in acknowledgment. "I know, I know, it's hard to imagine. But when Maestro Alaghieri was first with us here, I tried his patience. Alboino was giving a feast. I made sure that the servants took all the bones they cleared from the dishes and placed them under Dante's seat. As a consequence, when the table was cleared there was a mountain of bones beneath him, with the dogs circling eagerly." Cangrande shrugged. "I was very pleased with myself. I had found the poet somewhat insulting the day before."

"I can't imagine," murmured Pietro. Poco sniggered into his sleeve, and Dante's spine stiffened slightly.

Cangrande hadn't heard. "But our infernal friend here had the last word. What was it you said?"

The poet succumbed to his love of an audience. "I said, '
Cani
chew their bones, but I, who am no one's bitch, leave mine behind.'"

Having never heard that particular story, Pietro chuckled along with the rest.

"Ah, the fabled Alaghieri wit," said Bailardino.

"Even today that wit was in evidence," said Mariotto's father from a nearby table.

"Yes," snorted Bailardino, "and about Verona's latest distinguished citizens. What was it he called you, Ludo? The baby Capuan?"

Across the table Ludovico Capecelatro coloured slightly. Before he could reply, however, the poet filled the gap. "Capulletto," said Dante. "I called him Monsignor Capulletto."

"That's it!" Bailardino slapped his knee. "'The Little Capuan!' I love it."

Dante rarely softened any witty statement, yet he did this one. "It means something more than that, really."

"Of course it does," said Cangrande, nudging his mentor-turned-friend. "You don't remember the Capelletti family?"

"I surely do!" snorted Bailardino, who was slightly drunk. "They were a shore on my assh a decade before you were even born, rashcal. But they all died out or were killed — when was that? Barto was still alive, I remember."

"The last three died the year I first came to Verona," said Dante.

"Right! They were part of that shtupid feud with the — oh, sorry, Montecchio. It was your father, wasn't it, who put the last of them to the shword in a duel?"

"No," replied Gargano Montecchio grimly. "It was me."

There was an awkward silence, broken by Mariotto saying, "Those bastards deserved to die."

Lord Montecchio sighed. "They weren't bastards, son. They were men from a noble line, who gave this city many consuls and
podestà
s in their time. It's important that we remember that."

"Why?" demanded Mariotto.

"Because they are no longer with us. The worst thing you can do is destroy a man's name." He turned to address the room at large. "Names have power. Ask the Capitano, he knows. Men live and die, their sons live and die. Deeds are forgotten — wars, romances, all of it. The only legacy we have is our names. I took that from the Capelletti. There are none of them left, no one to carry on a once noble house."

From his seat far down the table Antony said, "I've never heard of this feud. What was it all about?"

Gargano Montecchio furrowed his brow. "No one seems to remember the exact cause. About a hundred fifty years ago, there was some minor squabble over something — land, a woman, who knows? Whatever it was, it set the two families at odds. It wasn't until the Guelph and the Ghibelline strife really started that we came to blows."

"That's no surprise," said Marsilio da Carrara. "The Capelletti were dedicated Guelphs."

Carrara's uncle, unable to deny the truth of the statement, deflected it. "They were a fine and noble house — though if I recall rightly, they were fiercely Veronese. They fought against our city alongside the Montecchi."

Gargano bowed his head. "Monsignore is correct. It was quite a duality. They loved their city and hated its politics. But my young lord might have forgotten that Verona has only been tied to the imperial cause for eighty years. Before that the Montecchi were as firmly Guelph as you yourself."

"What about the duel?" Antony clearly wanted to get to the good part.

But Lord Montecchio had his own reasons for starting at the beginning. "It began to get violent a century ago. At the time the Capelletti were strongly tied to the counts of San Bonifacio." There was a stirring around the table at the mention of the name. "My ancestors opposed the policies that those two families were introducing into government. In the fall of 1207, with the aid of the second Ezzelino da Romano and a Ferrarese noble named Salinguerra Torelli, my family took over the city."

"Not for long," said Cangrande.

"No. The San Bonifacio family was a powerful ally for the Capelletti. A month later Ezzelino and my ancestors were exiled from the city. With them in exile was young Ezzelino da Romano the Third, the man who would grow into the Tyrant of Verona. Because the Montecchi had shared his exile, we were his natural allies when he eventually rose to power. When he changed sides from Guelph to Ghibelline, my family went with him, but the Capelletti remained staunchly in favor of the pope."

"That was around the time my great-uncle Ongarello della Scala was a consul," the Scaliger put in. "1230 or so."

Lord Montecchio nodded. "Then there was the sack of Vicenza. As a Paduan possession, Ezzelino the Tyrant treated it brutally. The Capelletti were outspoken in their opposition. Ezzelino exiled them as traitors, but when Ezzelino was slaughtered, they were recalled."

"By my uncle," said Cangrande. "Mastino, the first della Scala to be named Capitano."

"Yes. Verona was in turmoil and Mastino della Scala stepped in to calm matters. He recalled the San Bonifaci, too, but they refused to enter while Mastino lived. Mastino granted the Capelletti reparations for their losses and promised to keep my family in line." Gargano shrugged. "Both sides were full of hate. It was mindless. I know. I was born maybe five years after the Capelletti were recalled. The loathing for that family pervaded every fibre of our house here in the city. Out in the country, far from them, it wasn't nearly as bad. But I remember seeing a boy my own age once when I was out walking though the city with my family. My father pointed to the boy and told me that I should be wary of him, he was a Capelletti. I remember actually spitting at him. His name was Stefano." Gargano shook his head in disbelief. "It was absolutely without reason, mindless. What had that boy ever done to me? How had he hurt me or mine?"

"He did, though," said Cangrande softly, "eventually."

The long-faced noble nodded sadly. "Yes. But I provoked it. By everything I ever said or did with regards to that family, I helped cause it to happen."

"What happened?" It was hard to tell who actually said it first, so many voices had chimed in. This was better than a poem or a ballad or an ode. That Montecchio was reluctant was fascinating to them all, even his son. This was what men longed for — tales of duels, feuds, honour.

Hearing their eagerness, Lord Montecchio looked to the Scaliger with an appeal, and the Capitano took up the tale for him. "After the Mastiff died, the feud began to burn hot again. My father was a great man, but he lacked the fearful presence of my uncle. He wasn't able to scare the two families into obedience. Nor did fining them do any good. They fought and they fought — in the streets, in homes, in workshops, in markets, afield — wherever they encountered each other. They could hardly leave their homes without a duel beginning. For a time my father actually repealed the right to trial by combat.

"When he died, the feud exploded. The men of the latest generation began dueling in the streets wherever they met." Cangrande looked at Mariotto. "Your father must have been an excellent swordsman to have lived through that period."

Mariotto blinked. He had never seen his father lift a sword in practice, only when leaving to take his place in Verona's armies.

"In any case," continued Cangrande, "the citizens were up in arms. No one was safe. My brother Bartolomeo was Capitano then. I remember him considering exiling both families. Then, one night in early summer, a fire broke out in the country estate of the Montecchi."

Antony was at the edge of his seat. "What fire?"

Mariotto turned his head. "My mother burned to death that night."

Lord Montecchio put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Mariotto was a toddler when she died, and his sister was an infant. Excuse me. It's just — I doubt you remember her, how beautiful she was." There was an awkward pause as Lord Montecchio wept. There was no shame in it, he made not a sound as the tears streamed down his face.

At last he composed himself. This part of the tale was for him to tell. "So. There was some evidence that it had been started by Stefano and his brothers, the only Capelletti men still living. But it wasn't enough to take to the Giurisconsulti. So I spoke to Cangrande's brother, who was Capitano then. I had not only lost my wife, Mariotto's mother, in the fire, but my father as well. Somehow I convinced Cangrande's brother to restore the right to trial by combat. Then we arranged matters. My two uncles and I called the three remaining Capelletti to the Arena at dawn. There was no fanfare, no crowd. A handful of nobles, like our distinguished poet here, were invited to act as witnesses. Of the Montecchi, I was the only youthful one. All three Capelletti men were in their prime. Both my uncles fell bravely, fighting well to the end and slaying one Capelletti before they died. It was up to me to avenge the deaths of my father, my uncles, and the mother of my children." Montecchio looked up and for a moment there was something other than remorse and regret in his eyes. There was a fire that echoed the fire of that day, the embers of a rage that would never fully leave him. "I did."

Lord Montecchio gazed around at the assembled nobles. His eyes stopped on Dante. "You remember."

"I do," said the poet. "It was my first time in the Arena."

Pietro suddenly recalled a remark his father had made months before about
"…that unfortunate business with the Capelletti and Montecchi."

Bailardino was saying, "I remember hearing about it in Vicenza. It should have been a song. Why was that ballad never written?"

"I didn't hire the minstrels," said Montecchio grimly. "I didn't want it written. There are more important things in this world than fame."

"Indeed," came a rumbling voice. "Honour is one."

Ludovico Capecelatro stood. Gargano Montecchio looked at the father of his son's friend. "Yes. Honour. I upheld my honour, and the honour of my family. I would do it again in a moment. I have no regrets for my actions. That is not the source of my shame. Do you understand that?"

"I think I do," said Capecelatro. "My family had a similar feud with the Arcole family in Capua. It died out on its own, over time. But I do understand. Hate's a poor reason for men to lose their lives." It was strange to hear the large man in the sumptuous furs speak with such gentleness.

Montecchio walked to stand close the newest Veronese nobleman and addressed the assembly. "I know that Maestro Alaghieri meant his comment as a joke. But it started me to thinking. I want you, all of you, to remember the nobility in the name Capelletti. Theirs was a proud line. Their deeds were no better or worse than mine. If I had died, my son would have carried on my family name. The Capelletti had no sons, no heirs. They are lost to history — unless we can resurrect them."

He looked first at the Capitano, then at Ludovico Capecelatro, who seemed to understand. He stood and gripped Gargano Montecchio by the arm. "I have brothers in Capua and cousins in Rome. My family name is in no risk of being lost to history. If the Capitano is willing, and if it would please you, I would gladly take up the old name of an old Veronese family that is in disuse."