The Master of Verona

Eleven

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?"

"A play," said Mussato happily. "Seneca would be proud."

"A play? In Seneca's style?" cried Dante. "Fascinating."

"God!" implored Asdente. "Here I thought we might get a good conversation going — death, treason, murder, war. But no! Poetry! It always comes back to poetry. Pah!" He spat as if he were eager to be rid of the word.

Dante ignored him. "So this is to be a dark Tragedy?"

"A Tragedy for the people of Verona, as dark as my mind can make it."

"And I'm the villain of the piece?" asked Cangrande proudly.

"Oh, no, no! I'm setting it back in the days of Ezzelino da Romano, when he was ripping up the countryside like you are now. The play will show what happens when a tyrant is let to rule over us. Your name will not be mentioned."

The Scaliger raised his glass to Mussato. "When it is finished, you must send me a copy. I'll fund the first production."

"Figures," growled Asdente. "Everybody knows you enjoy hanging around with actors and other parasites."

"And you, my sweet Asdente, and you."

Amid the jeering and laughter the first course arrived, and for a short time everyone was occupied with plates of armoured turnips, a dish of ash-baked turnips covered in spices, cheese and butter. Pietro was grateful for the activity. Extremely uncomfortable in this august company, he was well aware the only person near his own age and rank was staring murder at him from across the table.

Swallowing a turnip, Il Grande pointed his knife at Dante. "Tell me, Maestro Alaghieri. You were once a devout Guelph."

"How devout can a White Guelph be?" interjected Marsilio.

Il Grande ignored his nephew. "Now you live at a staunchly Ghibelline court and were a supporter of the late Emperor. I admit exile would sour me against my home, and I can certainly understand how a bad pope can make one jaded about the Church. But do you really, truly believe that the Emperor should not be subject to the papacy?"

"I do."

"Oh God," muttered Asdente, rolling his eyes at his neighbour Dandolo. "Here we go. Popes and emperors."

"It's what this war is about!" cried Marsilio da Carrara.

"It's not," growled Asdente. "It's about land and taxes, like everything else."

"I think you underestimate men, Ser Scorigiani," said the Venetian Dandolo. "For some it is as you say. But to many men this issue matters."

Cangrande pointed an accusing finger. "Says the man whose country takes no position. You are certainly a politic politician, Dog Dandolo."

"But he's correct." Il Grande leaned back and regarded Dante. "It matters to men like me. So how, Maestro, do you get around the Biblical argument? Genesis says two lights, a greater and a lesser, one for day and the other for night. Science tells us that one is reflected light. So if the pope's light is the sun and the emperor's light is the moon, the emperor must derive his power from the pope."

Dante smiled thinly under his beard. "That is indeed the common argument. But broaden your horizons. God, infallible, created man as a dual creature — one part divine, one part earthly. The pope's dominion is over the divine, the soul, the spirit. But he has no authority over the temporal part of us. That is the emperor's domain."

"But isn't the flesh subject to the soul?"

"Not necessarily. What is true is that flesh is corrupt, we wither and we die. Yet the spirit remains incorruptible. The two are separate by their natures, ergo God has set us two goals: Beatitudenem huis vitae et beatitudenem vitae eterne. I believe the emperor's authority must be derived directly from God Himself, as he is charged with maintaining order and peace during this testing time of humanity, for it is while we wear this weak flesh that we can prove our true devotion. If anything, the emperor's charge is the more important, because the one essential for man and reason to reach their full potential is lasting peace. Only when the whole world is governed by one man whose power comes directly from God above can humanity have the calm it requires to return to its state before the Fall."

Marsilio da Carrara sneered. "And from which demon did you hear this nonsense?" The other faces around the table frowned, including his uncle's.

"Nonsense?" interjected Pietro. "I'd like to hear you do better defending the corruption of the Church!"

"I don't talk," sneered Marsilio. "My voice is in my sword."

"A shame that isn't true," retorted Pietro. "If you were half the swordsman you are a braggart…"

Dante abruptly turned towards Cangrande and waved a hand in front of his face. "My lord, I think we require another brazier. There are a couple of gnats buzzing around in here that need smoking out."

"No more warmth, please," said Il Grande, shooting his nephew a dark glare. "There's enough hot blood in the room already." Marsilio sank back and glowered. Pietro held his eyes, trying to look hard-bitten.

Asdente watched the two of them with pleasure. "Ah, youth. The young make the best soldiers. They have so much energy!"

"Because every little thing matters," said Bonaccolsi, pushing back a plate and licking his fingers. "A molehill becomes a mountain."

Il Grande smiled. "It is fortunate then that we Paduans are not governed by a single youth. I wonder that Verona can cope."

Cangrande grinned. "Young though I am, my wisdom is as Solomon's, because my light is not reflected. It is my own."

A second course arrived, an almond fricatella, which consisted of crushed almonds strained through milk and rosewater, then added to ground chicken breast, meal, egg whites, and sugar. While Pietro and Marsilio continued to glare at each other, the rest of the table fell to with gusto.

Cangrande resumed civilized discourse. "I would like to renew a debate we were having while you gentlemen" — here he indicated the Paduans — "were storming the walls of San Pietro. We were discussing the role the stars play in our lives."

Predictably Dante spoke first. "The significant phrase here is 'Ratio stellarum, significatio stellarum.' Pietro?"

Clearing his throat, Pietro spoke to Marsilio as if explaining to a child. "Ratio stellarum, significatio stellarum — the order of motion versus the significance of that motion. Ratio — the stars circle above the world in an ordered pattern. Significatio — that pattern has a purpose…."

"There's a leap of faith," muttered Asdente.

"It's rude to interrupt, Vanni," chided Cangrande, but Pietro was grinning — the sneering Marsilio had turned away.

"Ser Scorigiani does have a point," observed the Venetian Dandolo. "Is it wise to assume a purpose to the motion of the stars? Why that only? Why not the motion of the clouds, or the flight of an owl?"

Il Grande shook his head. "That's paganism."

Dandolo chuckled. "I suppose it is."

"Is it?" asked Mussato. "Or would we be wise to look for God's will in all His creation?"

Cangrande's grin created creases on each side of his mouth. "Dear Lord, do Dandolo and I have something in common? Tell me it's not so. Still, as potential excommunicants we would, I suppose. I know it's hard to believe, but I once believed I was a good Christian. As I get older, I worry. I often get caught up in this — what did Abelard call it?"

"Theology," supplied Mussato and Dante at once.

"Yes! 'God logic.' And am regularly chastised for it by clergy near and far."

Bonaccolsi thumped the table with his fist and pointed. "Perhaps by the time you can shave you will have already worried yourself grey, hound!"

As the Mantuan roared at his own joke, Cangrande sighed then continued. "Monsignor Carrara, have you noticed that no matter how often they are derided, some ideas can never be extinguished? The ancients believed in the power of the stars. So do we. Ours are even named for the old Roman gods, and they have much the same power. They live in the sky, choosing life or death for the mortals who are merely pawns to their amusement. Some refer to our God the same way."

Pietro said, "You are no one's pawn, lord. You just proved it." There were murmurs of assent from the Veronese.

"Did I?" The Scaliger waved a hand at the ceiling upon which rain pelted down. "Look outside and tell me what I achieved."

"You can't blame yourself for the rain," said Asdente. "Luck, nothing more. Good for us, bad for you."

Cangrande shook his head. "Luck? Or Fate? Ask the stars, Vanni! Perhaps it is God's desire for Padua to remain independant. Perhaps I will never…" His voice trailed off, silence lingering in the wake of his words.

"What is this?" asked Dandolo abruptly from the far end of the table. "The great Greyhound doubting himself?"

When Cangrande did not reply, Mussato cleared his throat and said, "The Church tells us the science of astrology is God's plan made manifest."

Il Grande shook his head. "What if the stars are not the celestial book of Fate? What if the ancients were correct? What if the stars are active participants in our lives?"

"They are." All eyes turned to Dante. "It is not paganism. The stars do exert influence over us. They make plants grow and wither. They create imbalances in the mind. Venus arouses the loins, Mars the sword."

Cangrande stirred. "I am told Mars was in the House of Aries when I was born. Does that mean I was destined to be a soldier? What if I had denied that fate? What if I had said no?"

Asdente said ungrudgingly, "You are the best soldier in Italy."

"Thank you for that, Vanni. But I had a good teacher." The Capitano slapped his hands together. "Even that! Was Bailardino put in my path by the heavens to create my destiny? What if I had said no? Could I have said no?"

Asdente looked puzzled. "Why would you have wanted to?"

The Scaliger was earnest. "Because then we would know that we have a choice in our own lives. Free will."

All the men at the table sat quietly for some time, chewing upon their meals and their thoughts. At last Francesco Dandolo spoke, his voice a dreamy whisper. "Have you ever been to sea? Being Venetian, I find the best example of the power of the stars is at sea. Upon the water, the stars are both the guide and the enemy. They give the sailor a map to his destination while at the same time they stir the seas he sails on. They show the path, at the same time creating obstacles to that path."

Cangrande's eyes narrowed as he listened. "They show the prize, then strip it away."

Hoping to avert the Scaliger's curiously ill thoughts, Pietro turned to Dandolo. "The stars don't always make the seas rough, do they? Couldn't they create a smooth course just as easily? Why must they be the enemy?"

The Capitano's head swiveled. "Quite right. Why must they?"

Il Grande chose to follow an earlier thought. "Still, the choice is theirs. The stars choose which men to aid, which to oppose. What does it say about the men they befriend? Are those men more capable, or less?" His eyes met Cangrande's. "Which did they do for you, lord Capitano?"

"I don't know," replied Cangrande. "Some men would say they favor me."

"But what do you say?"

Cangrande pursed his lips. "Can a man ever know the Lord's will?"

"It would arrogance to try," observed Mussato. "His will is a mystery. Man's fate is up to God alone."

"But that denies free will," countered Dante, "a concept that the Church does allow for. A man takes active participation in deciding his own fate. Or else what's the point of living?"

Mussato leaned as far forward as his injuries allowed. "Ah, but what if he chooses a different interpretation of that fate than God intended? A man meant to be a soldier becomes a farmer. Will the stars oppose him? Will God?"

The Scaliger pointed. "What do you say, Pietro?"

Pietro hadn't realized his expression had altered so much as to draw attention, and he was too embarrassed to share his thought. "I–I don't know. I do know that my father has a very strict view on astrology."

The Scaliger threw Dante a sly glance. "I know. Soothsayers get tossed into the infernal ring reserved for fraud."

"There is a specific distinction," corrected Dante. "A soothsayer is not an astrologer, but a reader of entrails. That is superstistion. Astrology is a science, one I adhere to. But, like priests, there are good and bad astrologers. The only astrologers I condemn are the ones who try to alter the will of Heaven, or else try to curry favor by creating prophecies out of whole cloth."

"Poor Manto!" cried Bonaccolsi. "Dante, throw us a bone!"

"I did — hers."

There was some little hilarity at this remark, but Cangrande was undeterred. Clapping his hands together, he divided the air in front of him. "Where is the line, poet? As someone who finds himself accused of being a figure from a prophecy, it concerns me deeply. What separates the active interpretation you advocate from the willful disobedience you deplore — or, should I say, He deplores?"

Dante wore his best enigmatic expression. "I suppose it comes down to the will of the Lord."

The Scaliger's mocking grin grew wide as he shook his head in disgust. "As always, poet, you wax eloquent on broad themes but on specifics remain cryptically obtuse."

Dante spread his hands. "Of course, my lord. What else are poets for?"

The supper went on, course after course, and conversation wandered into easier topics, no less hotly debated. There were discussions of battle tactics, of women, of politics, of wine. The meal ended with a second fricatella, apple this time, and a vigorous debate over the fate of the Knights Templar. Their order had finally been stamped out earlier in the year by King Philip IV and his puppet pope. Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, had been sentenced to burn at the stake for heresy. Before falling to the flames he proclaimed his innocence and declared that God would be his avenger, calling down a curse upon the French king and his issue down to the thirteenth generation. His last words were a summons for both King Philip and Pope Clement to meet him at the seat of God's judgment before the year was out.

The whole affair was forgotten until Clement dropped dead less than a month later. Pietro remembered the frantic editing, the numerous messages sent to all the hired copyists, as Dante added a prophecy of the pope's death to the nineteenth canto.

The men seated about the Capitano's supper discussed the prospects of the demise of the French monarch with surprising relish. Though all were skeptical of the Templars, not a one held a doubt as to the cause of their ultimate destruction. The Knights had fallen thanks to the greed of Roi Philippe le Bel — Philip the Fair.

Pietro listened, trying to absorb the thoughts of these great men. The whole evening had amazed him. Not just the debates, but the camaraderie. Not three days past Asdente had tried to split Cangrande's skull, but here was the Scaliger treating him like a beloved cousin. Il Grande was courteous and friendly and seemed to truly enjoy Cangrande's company. Mussato had visibly relaxed, relishing the evening as much as his injuries allowed. Even the sullen Marsilio had perked up when the talk had shifted to battles won and lost.

The only exception was the Venetian. Cangrande needled Ambassador Dandolo at every opportunity. Cheerfully, playfully, with a veneer of civility. But mercilessly.

Eventually the meal broke up. Marsilio da Carrara was the first to rise, perfunctorily asking his uncle's permission to retire. He didn't glance back as he left the hall. Asdente and Passerino headed back to the salon for a game of dice. Dandolo and Il Grande helped Mussato to his feet, from whence a bevy of servants conveyed him to his 'cell,' as Cangrande jokingly put it. No prison ever had the luxuries the Paduans were presently enjoying. The Capitano clearly believed in killing his enemies with kindness.

Cangrande was still talking to various servants when Dante approached his son. "How are you feeling, boy?"

"Fine, pater," replied Pietro, trying not to picture what was going on under the bandage on his leg.

"Good," said Dante gruffly. "Then I'm going to bed." He glanced up at his son's bare head. "The new hat?"

"Lost on the road," said Pietro.

"Mmm." With a pleased smile Dante departed.

Finished instructing the servants, Cangrande turned to Pietro. "Staying up? Then let us return to your perch on the porch."

Back under the portico, a fresh brazier beside them, Cangrande said, "You were fairly quiet tonight, Pietro."

"I didn't have much to add."

"Take it from one who knows, lying is a bad habit to fall into. You had plenty to say. And not just to Marsilio," he added wickedly.

Pietro felt his face grow warm. "I was the youngest there — "

"Marsilio only has a couple of years on you and you're infinitely better mannered. So, what was it you were thinking?"

"It — it's about — when you all were discussing the stars," said Pietro hesitantly. "You asked where the line was, between interpretation and willful disobedience. Perhaps — " He stopped short, his words inadequate to express the idea in his head. But the Scaliger was waiting. "Maybe it's a little of both. A man may not deny what the heavens have in store for him, as a sailor cannot control the waves. But he can choose what he does when the waves hit."

Cangrande seized the thought. "You mean that, though the stars may give him a map, it is up to him to follow it."

"Something like that," nodded Pietro. "But more than a map. Fate throws an obstacle in our way. We decide how to deal with it. That's our free will. We cannot fight Fate, but we can choose our reaction to it." Grinding to a halt, he realized how stupid he sounded as he watched Cangrande kindly turning his words over and over, as though they were worth considering.

When the Scaliger spoke, his tone was musing. "A man may be master of his actions, but not his stars."

"It was just a thought, lord," added Pietro hastily.

The Scaliger looked up from his contemplation. "And a fine one, Signor Alaghieri. I wish you had spoken it at supper. That sentiment far outstrips anything said by the warriors, diplomats, and poets tonight. You are wise beyond your years."

"This surprises you?" mocked a feminine voice from behind them.

"Ah, Donna Katerina." A glimpse of his sister was all he needed for his glib demeanor to return. "No doubt he is wise, but for the desire to see me yet living."

"Age may well temper that desire." Tonight her chestnut hair was held back by a single band of black.

Pietro managed to stand awkwardly. He was graced with a brief nod before Donna Nogarola again fixed her eyes on her brother. "If you are done wallowing, I have news."

"It is arranged?"

"It is. Do you wish me to go?"

Cangrande threw up his hands in mock horror. "What, have you tramping about in this weather, catching your death from the chill? That would never do. Bailardino would never forgive me."

"Then I owe my health to your fond feelings for my husband?"

"He raised me. I am the man I am today because of him."

"Perhaps I should thank him with a gift each year on your birthday. What should I choose?"

"A knife?"

His perfect smile was returned in kind. "My dear brother, you read my thoughts. But the knife that kills my husband would have to be sharpened on both ends, so it would cut out my heart as well."

As before, Pietro had trouble following the exchange. Their discourse was like an onion, each layer revealing another. It was impossible for an outsider to know what lay at the core. Something ugly, that was certain.

Katerina sighed. "So I am not to ride out tonight. Whatever would I do without your regard for me?"

"You shall never have to know, my sweet, for of all people, you have my fondest regard."

"So whom do you propose sending on so formidable an evening?"

"No one."

A frown passed over the lady's face. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Not at all. I do not propose sending anyone. I shall undertake the voyage myself."

The lady's disapproval was manifest. "You will be missed."

"If anyone asks, I am drunk. Or perhaps I've taken myself to pray in the chapel. Or at an orgy — in the chapel. I leave it to your imagination."

"My imagination often falls short of your reality. Nevertheless, I will play the spider and spin a web of lies for you. You should not go alone."

"Should, could, would, dear sister. I will have it my own way."

"Not if I say otherwise."

"Even then."

Their gazes locked, neither giving ground.

He didn't know where Cangrande planned to journey, nor why Donna Katerina wanted to undertake the trip herself. All he knew was he wanted to be helpful to them both. Almost before he realized it he was saying, "I'll go with you, lord."

Both Scaligeri turned and Pietro felt a frisson of unease as their eyes examined him. Still, he pressed on. "I'm well enough, and I've been going mad lying still all the time. I want to do something."

Brother and sister exchanged a look. Cangrande spoke first. "I would be glad of the company. With that said, I don't want you to worsen your injury or fall ill from a drenching. I have a long ride ahead of me. We wouldn't be back before morning. If at all," he added ominously.

"I would be honoured to aid you in any way, my lord."

"You didn't answer my question, Pietro."

"Perhaps you should ask one, then." Stepping close, Katerina laid a light hand on Pietro's sleeve. Her proximity was enough to make Pietro forget the chill rain. He could smell a hint of spiced malmsey on her breath, mixed with that wonderful lavender. "What we want to know is if you're well enough. Are you?"

"Yes, lady."

"This errand will be a secret, though its outcome will not. These events must always remain beneath the rose, as it were."

"Or herkos odonton, as the Greeks say," added Cangrande. "Within the hedge of your teeth."

Katerina examined her brother with wry disdain. "Peacock. I find the image of Cupid buying some fool's silence for a rose somehow endearing."

"And appropriate, if I am to play Cupid. But Pietro is no fool."

"No, he is not. May we trust you with this secret, Pietro?"

A secret mission! It's dangerous — dangerous enough to have the Scaliger asking about Fate and the stars. Something's happening that he's worried about. Something that's kept him from attacking Padua. This is what he's been waiting for! He's wrong, I am a fool — I doubted him!

Cangrande mistook Pietro's silence for embarrassment. "Sister, you are unworthy. Trust cannot be promised. It either is, or isn't. Twice now Signore Alaghieri has acted to my benefit. That is proof enough."

"I stand chastised." The lady removed her hand from Pietro's sleeve. "In any case, it is not my secret, is it?"

If it was a thrust, Cangrande did not parry. Pietro was beginning to notice how often her taunts — if that was truly what they were — went ignored. Instead Cangrande said, "What was it you came up with, Pietro? A man may control his actions, but not his stars."

"Actually, it was you who — "

"Tonight we shall test how fixed fate is. We shall see if the ordained comes to pass." A steely look hardened the ocean-blue eyes. "If my fate is indeed written, then the stars will see that my actions are still worthy of the Greyhound."

It was the first time Pietro had ever heard that particular title pass the Capitano's lips. Of all the names the Scaliger owned, the Greyhound was perhaps his most revered. It was unsettling, therefore, to hear him utter it with such loathing.