The Master of Verona

Thirteen

Florence

25 December 1314

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.

"Antonia," whispered Gemma, "there are some friends we must greet. Behave yourself."

The or else was implicit. Wishing Aunt Gaetana well, Antonia emerged into the piazza outside just as a gust of wind dislodged some snowmelt, peppering the lingering parishioners with wet. Some cursed, some laughed. Unsure of her mother's mood, Antonia wrapped herself tighter in her wool shawl and followed Gemma into the crowd. Antonia was not tall by any standard save one — her mother. Gemma was a tiny woman, birdlike, with hair dyed black and teased into curls. Her short legs never covered much ground, and on this of all mornings Antonia had to take care not to outpace her.

"Buon giorno, Signora Scrovegni! I hope you are feeling better? Splendid. Signora Boundelmonte! Are you on your feet so soon?" Gemma was wearing her public face. In these busy public streets she was the long-suffering wife of that foolish poet Dante. So patient, so loyal. Impoverished by his exile, forced to live off her relations, only recently returned to her proper sphere. "Monna Giandonati! You look like a ray of sunshine-!"

Antonia was swept into embrace after embrace as the entire Donati clan descended upon them, kissing cheeks and exclaiming. Gemma was the daughter of Manetto and Maria Donati, a name that carried great clout in Florence. Antonia never quite understood her mother's great affection for the Donati family. It was Gemma's late cousin Corso who had been responsible for Dante's exile. But family was complicated. Corso's brother Forese had been Dante's close friend and the namesake for Gemma's own brother. Indeed, Corso's father-in-law was the poet's most recent patron, the Pisan ruler Uguccione della Faggiuola.

Both mother and daughter kissed their relations, who had sat nearer the front of the church and thus been allowed to exit earlier. Some cousin exclaimed, "We saw you two tucked away like thieves at the back. That will never do! You must come up and sit by us! Why, just yesterday Nanna Compagni was quoting poetry at me and I was able to wipe her eye by saying 'That's nothing! I'm related to Dante Alighieri!' What do you think she said? She gasped and began asking me all about your husband."

Another said, "Oh yes, we really must have him recalled! It's a shame that such a genius isn't able to perform for us in person. He does performances, doesn't he?"

Feeling her face screwing up to make a tart reply, Antonia quickly turned away and ran straight into her uncle Forese, who was saying, "Yes, I've read it twice! Even memorized the good bits. Though I disagree with my namesake. I quite like the bosoms one sees in the city. On a soggy morning like this the women make sure to paint their nipples! Though I'm glad my niece is too young for such displays," he added, sending an inappropriate wink Antonia's way.

"Oh uncle," she said. "Watch out or I'll have my father putting words in your mouth."

"He's welcome to, sweetie, just as soon as I'm dead!" Laughing, Forese turned his back on her.

"I can't wait," muttered Antonia.

Her uncle continued to speak. "It's a shame her brother is fighting on the wrong side. Word is he fought bravely up in Vicenza. Got a wound, did my nephew, a good wound to show from it. I hear it's disfiguring, just horrible. I'm so proud. Would never have thought it of him."

Antonia wouldn't have thought it of Pietro either. She couldn't imagine her bookish brother even riding a horse, let alone wielding a sword. He'd written once since September, hardly mentioning the battle and completely omitting his own part in it. Maybe there was news of Pietro in the package at home…

She was drifting, her mother might notice. Turning back she found herself facing a portly man in his mid forties, not of her family. He was grinning down at her, and she couldn't help smiling back as she curtsied. "Good morning, Signore Villani. Are you returned? How does Christmas find you?"

Giovanni Villani bowed. "I am indeed returned from Flanders once more, the bearer of secrets of trade, innuendo political, and gossip grave. As for Christmas," with his back leg still bent he gave a furtive look to each side, "it finds me hiding from the Peruzzi, as usual. The youngest keeps hounding me to put money into some mad venture or other. This time it's an artist, I think. But how does Christmas find you, my formidable foe?"

Antonia looked slyly up at the portly dark fellow. "I don't know what you — "

"Oh, you know full well. The parchment, girl, the parchment! Here I am trying to write an account of the world without the parchment to write upon. You've bought it all up for your father's infamous Inferno! If you were older, or a man, or far less clever, I would set my hounds on you." He grinned.

Young Antonia was amused. She truly liked Signore Villani — a rare compliment. "I don't think your complaint is with me. You should talk to the Villoresi parfumerie."

"Fiends! Despoilers! If men took time to bathe they wouldn't need these fancy perfumes, and our poor parchment would be left alone." Perfume makers often burned parchment to create their pleasing aromas. "Damned biblioclasts! I tell you, there is nothing so vile as the destruction of a book."

"I quite agree."

"Then, please, stop destroying the book inside my head. I must have parchment! Oh, but I like writing on parchment. Each time you turn a page it rumbles like thunder. My words are so portentous — that's portentous, dear, not pretentious — it seems appropriate. Like Jove. Alas, without it I'm forced to use paper. Eeugh!" Villani shivered, throwing out his arms as if ridding himself of an insect. "Hemp. Boiled underwear. The pieces of animals even the Minoli won't eat. I swear, my fingers shrivel away at the merest touch. I'll catch a plague from paper, I'm sure of it."

"Nothing of the kind," said Gemma, descending upon her daughter. "My husband spent years composing on paper. Or in the leaner years in chalk upon the walls. There is nothing disreputable about paper, not in these enlightened times. Paper is the new standard. Antonia, don't you agree?"

Antonia didn't, but said she did. Villani looked scandalized. "But, madam, writing is a sacred act! Do we not call Christ, he who was born on this day, Logos? He is the word! Did not San Giovanni eat the book the angel gave him? Was it not sweet like honey in his mouth? Could such a book be written on paper?"

Antonia couldn't help herself. "Signore Villani, you forget. When it reached his stomach it was bitter."

His eyes twinkled. "Did it transubstantiate, then? Parchment in the mouth, paper in the belly? I must ask the cardinal. But, ladies, are you alone this morning? May I see you home?"

Gemma declined the offer. "Gagliardo di Amerigo and his son have offered to accompany us, along with my cousin Cianfa. We have kept them waiting too long. Send my regards to your wife, Signore Villani!"

The portly fellow swept his hat off in a bow, then turned and let out a kind of yelp. "Ah, Peruzzi, my dear fellow, where have you been hiding?"

Antonia was still smiling when her mother reintroduced her to the wealthy Amerigo father and son. She curtsied before them, and the father said, "I've never seen you looking so fine, my dear. It can't be the weather, so it must be you! Boy!" He tapped his son hard on the head. "The lady is looking fine, isn't she?"

"Is she? Oh, she is! Yes, you are!" Amerigo's son made a hasty leg to her. "Sorry, I was listening to your cousin. He's just back from — where in Greece?"

"Anatolia," said an unfamiliar man. Was he her cousin? "Bursa, to be precise. I was there trading. Travel is fine, but it's good to be home, even if there are homely cousins to escort." He had already examined Antonia with a bored gaze. "Come, shall we go? I have plans for the evening."

They began to navigate the streets, quite a chore these days as most were torn apart and under reconstruction. It was part of a city plan to straighten out the curved streets so that the city would look to God like a wheel, with spokes coming from a central hub, thus conveying to the Almighty a sense of good government.

Hopping over gaps in the cobblestones or crossing plank bridges, Antonia found herself not needing to employ her bag of tricks to dissuade her mother's latest choice of suitors. Young Amerigo paid her no mind, agog over her cousin Cianfa's doings in the Christian city of Bursa. Neither the pesterings of Gemma nor the pointed comments of the elder Amerigo could regain his attention. Thus Antonia reached home having neither abased herself or displeased her mother. Making up her mind to dislike cousin Cianfa, she admitted she was thankful for his company. Perhaps he could call every time a new suitor arrived. Though she suspected she would have to pay him for his trouble.

Bidding their companions farewell, Gemma and Antonia entered the house Durante Alighieri had been born in. Over the door was painted the family crest, half green, half black, with a silver bar across the center. Simple, elegant — and, according to Gemma, undistinguished. They entered by the addition on the side of the house, the second door for callers added the year Dante had joined the Arti of Physicians and Apothecaries. He hadn't had any interest in such pursuits, but in Florence one had to belong to a guild in order to take part in public life. His membership, combined with the marriage his father arranged for him, had allowed him the political career that had ruined his name.

Like the city, the Alighieri home was undergoing a spate of new construction. The family name now rehabilitated, Gemma was adding room after room to to the original four-story tower until its interior rivaled anything in this quarter. The exterior would still lack a stable, so horses would continue to be hitched to the rings hanging from the stone wall out front. It wasn't part of Gemma's design to appear to live in luxury. From the outside it would remain a humble home, one more cross to bear.

The door had hardly closed when Gemma began a diatribe against fickle young suitors, though she quickly changed her aim to cousin Cianfa. "Just back after all the trouble he gave his family. They had to pay through the nose not to have him exiled, did you know, yet your father is still banished. Is that fair? I don't think so! And Cianfa's still the same — oh, thank you, Gazo." As the steward helped them remove their coverings, Gemma gave him instructions for their Christmas meal. The domestic set obediently off, leaving Antonia standing by her mother in the high-ceilinged entryway.

Though Antonia remained absolutely still, excitement shone in her eyes. Gemma heaved a sigh. "Go ahead, open it. Tell me if anything else has happened to Pietro."

Transformed from obedient daughter to exuberant child, Antonia ran across the rushes, skidding to a halt beneath the box on the shelf. She was just decorous enough not to scale the doorframe. Instead she found a stool, clambered up, pulled the package down, and sped to the large sitting room upstairs.

Wood was already smoldering in the brick pit in the middle of the room, and holiday cinnamon and cloves smoked and snapped in the fire. It was otherwise blessedly quiet. Between the streets and the construction of the new Duomo, the Republic of Florence was a daily cacophony, but on Christmas Day the workers were at home and the city was at peace.

Antonia used a poker to slit the twine that held the box. She was careful of the seal, keeping the impression of Dante's ring that resembled a coin of blue wax. The coin bore the Alaghieri family crest with the letters D.A. across it. She had a collection of these wax coins, and this one she set far from the fire so it wouldn't melt. Then she pushed back the lid of the box.

The first thing she saw was a fur. Lifting it out she saw it was not an expensive one, inexpertly cut from an animal who had seen some hard living. Beneath the fur lay two little sealed bundles of paper. One bore Pietro's seal, the other her father's. Which to read first? Her instinct was to savor her father's by reading it second. But by rights she should read his first, being the word of the paterfamilias. Such things mattered.

No, she decided. It's Christmas. I will take both letters slowly.

She broke the seal and twine binding Pietro's letter and unfolded several pages. A long one! She often resented her brother's customary brevity. Pietro was often able to tell her facts about their travels that her father had left out, but without enough detail to satisfy her. After he had gone to join Dante in Paris, Antonia had been insanely jealous. Acutely aware of her own role in Dante's life, it never occurred to her that her brother might not recognize, or appreciate, his own.

Still, Pietro was a better correspondent than Jacopo, who had not written at all. She settled in to read:

9 December, 1314 Anno Domini

Mia Sorellina,

Greetings from Lucca, on the eve of our departure. We're packing our rooms here. Why, you ask? Well, remember when I wrote in October (or didn't you get that letter?) that the lord of Verona had asked to become Father's new patron? It's a handsome offer — housing, a hefty income, and the promise of readings and publications, all in return for Father's visible presence at court.

As you might imagine, it was the 'visible presence' that tripped up Father. He's not one for public displays, he tends to get moody and let his tongue run away with him. While at the same time he loves being the center of attention, which means he can't just sit in a corner and laugh with the rest of us.

But after weighing the choices, Father made the decision at last and we're leaving soon for the Scaliger's court. Father claims he's doing it so Cangrande will make me a knight, but I think it's because he admires Cangrande as much as I do. Martial yet cultured, witty and decisive. I know all good Florentines revile him, but really he's quite amazing. He certainly took time to be kind to me, he and his sister both.

Anyway, we're leaving Lucca none too soon. The natives are grumbling. I think they've finally interpreted Father's lines about Pisa — though I honestly don't know how they could have missed them! I keep expecting to wake up in the middle of the night and find our rooms on fire. All in all, it's a good thing to be leaving.

Our host Uguccione took the news of our departure hard. His own fault — he sent us to visit Verona. It may be that he is disappointed to lose his poet-in-residence. Now that Father is gaining international fame, I think Uguccione planned to tout his patronage to the skies. It might have helped smooth his rough edges. Even his own people call him a power-hungry and avaricious tyrant. I think he wants to be known as a patron of the arts. I'm amused that a man who hates to read and can barely write his own name takes such pride in "owning" a poet, as he put it.

At least he's pleased in Father's choice of new domiciles. Verona is more to his liking than Polenta. Oh yes, Guido Novello has been urging us to settle down in his court. But Lord Faggiuola says that Novello is a fop who likes paintings and poetry more than warfare — an accurate description, I think, but there could be nothing more insulting as far as our Pisan host is concerned. On the other hand, Uguccione speaks of Cangrande in the most lavish terms. He says if he ever leaves Pisan employ, he will take up residence in Verona.

(That might be sooner than we all think, by the way. As I mentioned, the locals here in Lucca don't have a favorable opinion of our host. His most recent troubles have something to do with bankers and England, I didn't really understand it all.)

Uguccione is correct, of course, about Cangrande. He's like a lamp, I swear. He lights up any room he enters. I've never met a man so very alive!

Thank you for the scarf. It is chilly in Verona this time of year — at least, I hear it is. I haven't been in the north since the end of October. But it was already growing quite cold. I was discussing the temperature with the Donna Nogarola's physician, Giuseppe Morsicato — I mentioned him before, I think. He's the one who treated my wound in Vicenza. He says he's made a study of temperatures in the past, and he is of the opinion that the world is growing colder. He says in Roman times the winter was shorter, and there was nowhere near the amount of snow we get now. If he's correct, I wonder what it means? Father is sure there is religious significance. No doubt he is correct, but neither of us can fathom what that significance is. If the world is growing colder, does that mean that humankind is moving towards heaven, or are we drawing nearer to the fiendish realm? He is leaning towards the latter, seeing as how the center of the Nine Rings is filled with ice. I would like to hear your thoughts.

The letter paused, then resumed in a slightly different ink.

Our bags are packed and we are about to embark to our new home in the old Scaligeri mansion, where the family lived before they ruled the city and Mastino built their great palace. A grand palace, like a Memory Place made real. The Capitano has harnessed the remains of a Roman bath in the cellar — apparently Verona's Piazza della Signoria is built over the remains of their old Roman forum. I have yet to visit these baths — somehow I am untrusting of a cellar filled with water. But Father visited them often during our last stay. It's all quite a change from the years of sleeping in barns or woodsheds with students and other vagabonds. I've decided that it's better to have money than not.

I don't have to tell you how excited Poco is about Verona — by the way, the fur is his Christmas gift to you. He's very proud, he caught and skinned it himself. "I'll send it to Imperia," he said — you've never told me why he calls you that. (Am I the only member of the family that doesn't have a nickname for you?) Anyway, the fur is from him. Hideous, isn't it? But I know you'll do something to make it bearable. Poco caught it during the hunt on our last day in Verona. Embarrassingly, it was held in my honour. As a token of his esteem, Cangrande presented me with the best of a litter of pups sired by his favorite hound, Jupiter. I've named him Mercurio.

Mari and Antony came to Lucca for a visit last week. As we were walking through the streets here, we noticed a group of older women nearby. They'd stopped in a small cluster and were pointing at me and whispering. Antony and Mari started making some dirty jokes and I told them it wasn't what they imagined, that the women thought I was my father. Mari said that was ridiculous, noting I don't look anything like him — the nose a little, and the high forehead. 'But he wears a beard!' he told me.

Since it's been so long you might not know it but Mari's right. Father has taken to wearing a long beard these last few years. He shaves it off whenever he has his portrait painted so he can look more like Virgil or Cicero — Roman, you know. He wants to be remembered as their heir, and since they were clean-shaven when they were painted, he is too. But he hates shaving. So, because I look more like his portrait than he does, people stare.

'They're mistaking you for him?' asked Antony. I told them to go over and ask. They did, looking over their shoulders at me like I was mad. After just a minute of conversation Mari and Antony burst out laughing. Grinning from ear to ear they returned and repeated their conversation with the old ladies. 'Do you see that man giving us his shadow?' one of the old biddies had said. 'He's the one that goes to Hell and back again, and brings back stories of fiends below.' Antony had asked how they knew it was me. They said that my fine hat marked me as the devil's own.

It was all funnier then, I guess. But it made me think. This will always be the way for us — known for our father, not for ourselves. They do say greatness skips a generation.

I cannot think of anything else to write. Tell Mother not to worry about me. My wound is healing. I thank you both for all your prayers on my behalf. They seem to have worked.

Another change in ink, then:

A delay has caused us to remain a little longer in Lucca. Father has had some sort of inspiration and refuses to budge until the fit has passed. I'll admit to being disappointed. I was looking forward to Christmas in Verona. I miss Mari and Antony. Their coming for a visit only showed me what fast friends they have become in my absence. They've been racing all over the countryside around Mari's estate, exploring and hunting. I'm jealous. The only people I've ever known were family, teachers, or Father's contemporaries. And now I feel like I'm missing my chance to have close friends of my own age. The two of them have become joined at the hip, and I'll be the tagalong, the third wheel on a chariot.

Listen to me whine like a mammet. It looks like we'll be setting out for Verona after the Roman New Year. So when you write back — and be sure to write back! — send the letters there.

Give my love to Mother, and give both Gazo and Laura my best wishes. Have a wonderful Christmas.

Tuo fratello maggiore,

Pietro Alaghieri

A strange letter! Pietro's thoughts were never that fragmented. It was far more like her father to jump from topic to topic — Dante enjoyed the freedom of letter-writing, as opposed to crafting poetry, two very separate endeavors in his mind. Pietro always knew what he was going to write long before he put quill to paper.

Jacopo was still an idiot, she saw with amusement. Pietro was right, the fur was truly horrible.

Pietro hardly mentioned his wound. Their mother had made a great show at church of lighting candles and praying for the health of her oldest living child. Antonia's prayers had been less obtrusive but no less ardent. Obviously from his letter he was up and around again. As for his — what was it, self-pity? — Antonia had no time for it. He was with their father, he was a hero, he could lump his sorrows.

Setting Pietro's letter aside she lovingly broke the seal on her father's letter. It too was a long one, she saw happily. She began to read:

Cara Beatrice,

I write you, my sweet, on the fifth day after the calends of December, a day before the ides, from Lucca, where my sons and I are spending the final moments of this momentous year. It has seen the death of a corrupt order of knights, whose curse has brought down both king and pope. It has seen the throne of the great empire of Charlemagne grow cold, with the last election divided and the fate of both claimants uncertain. It has seen the idea I had nearly fifteen years ago, the true life's work of a poor Italian poet, one-third done.

It has also seen my oldest living son become a man. I must tell you, your last letter was insightful beyond your years. You appreciate that, having taken part in battle myself, I know the thrill of holding a sword, and the terror of the thousand deaths you die before you meet the foe. My son is braver than you know. That, however, is a topic I shall leave for the end of this missive, because I know you, my love, and you will be blinded with tears.

Our former host, Uguccione della Faggiuola, is distraught at our imminent departure. I fear we are abandoning him at a time of crisis. He has just suffered a terrible omen. His prized tame eagle has suddenly died. As the creature was in murderously perfect health just days before, many people are suspecting foul play (there is no pun in that, I tell you honestly — I abhor them! But, having written thus far, I am loath to begin again on fresh paper. Too expensive). There is even a rumour that I had a hand in the giant bird's death. But then, the citizens of Lucca have never recovered from the rumour — most amusing — that I am a sorcerer! They claim I have the Sight, the ability to see far off lands, and even the future, like some cheap oracular hooligan. Because on the page I consort with demons, travel to unearthly planes, and speak to the long dead, it is thought I must also belong to the Dark Orders that the Templars were accused of forming.

I take it as quite the compliment, I must say. For hundreds of years it has been thought that Virgil was a magician. He was said to have possessed a horse of bronze that, by its very existence, prevented all the horses of Naples from becoming swaybacked; a bronzed fly that, as long as it rested on his doorsill, kept the city free of flies; and an enchanted storeroom that would keep meat for six weeks without spoiling. It was said too that he had made a statue of an archer with bow drawn and ready. As long as the arrow in the statue's grip was kept pointed at Vesuvius it would not erupt. It would be interesting to learn, therefore, the position of that statue in 79 AD, would it not?

It was related to me by a local priest that my master, the noble Virgil, built the Castel dell'Ovo upon an egg. The castle will stand until the egg is broken. It was when I heard that tale I knew my sojourn in pretty Lucca must end.

That, and I can no longer bear living so close to the fetid city, the cancer of Italy, which houses but one pearl — you yourself. Since my return from France I have lived too close to the country of my birth, and the stench of that befouled place burns my nostrils. The single product of Florence that goes uncorrupted is my Beatrice.

Returning to the subject of magic, I have stated publicly my abhorrence of these rumours that persist about my person. I have done this both in love of all that is true and in hatred of all that is false. I am, after all, a loyal servant of God above. Yet it amazes me how superstitions persist in the minds of men. Pliny the Elder tells us that men in his day who bit the wood of a tree struck by lightning would not suffer from the toothache. He wrote those words before the explosion of the volcano, after the arrow was shifted. Yet the practice continues to this day! What creatures are men that they believe such things? Someday I will make a study of this phenomenon, to expose the roots of this idiocy.

Yet there is magic in this world — no one knows this better than I. Except, perhaps, Philip the Fair. But since he is no longer of this world, he offers no competition.

Speaking as I am of curses, one may be brewing in my new home. I wrote to you of Cangrande's little bastard. Il veltro del Veltro, as it were. The child adopted by Donna Katerina Nogarola. Well, a witch's hex lies over him like the sword of Damocles.

You gasp. You choke. You rear back in horror at the thought. Where did this curse originate, you ask? From the Scaliger's wife, say I. The blood tie to the Emperor Frederick has diminished over two generations, yet one can detect in Giovanna da Svevia's eye the gleam of that fiendish emperor's fire. Whereas Frederick fought only against three popes, his distant offspring must compete with a hundred mistresses all fighting for the Scaliger's favor. Of course, she is much older than he, and has turned a blind eye to the tomcatting of her canine husband. Until now, that is. With the evidence of Cangrande's philandering being flaunted before her eyes — by her own sister-in-law! — Giovanna has declared a silent war. And not against her husband. Like a jealous she-wolf, she has her teeth firmly locked into the back of Katerina's neck and is tearing mightily. It began with the invitations to Verona's Christmas feast, which I hear were mysteriously lost on the way to Vicenza. Then the new crib Katerina had commissioned was unexpectedly sold to another family at quite a loss to the maker — unless you count the payment he received from the Scaliger's wife. There are more, culminating in death by paper-cuts. Thus far Katerina has ventured no response. The whole court is waiting breathlessly for this feud to break into the open. If it does, my money is on the Scaliger's sister. She is a fascinating lady, as your brother has troubled himself to inform me no less than five times now.

On a side note about natural children — I regret taking delight in the demise of another man, but you know how satisfied I was by the death of the Scaliger's natural brother, Giuseppe, the despicable Abbot of San Zeno. Cangrande's father made this unnaturally natural child an abbot while he had one foot in the grave. He must not have been thinking clearly so close to the end, for never was there a more avaricious and spiteful man to hold the office of Benedictine abbot. But — I can scarcely credit it — his son is worse! I had an encounter with him on our first day in Verona, and he's another Ciolo degli Abbati, talented only in sponging what he can from the state and the church. Worse for Verona, the decent if ineffectual Bishop Guelco has been called to Rome indefinitely.

The good news, though, is that the Franciscans have sent a new and better man to lead their order in Verona, who brings with him a group of new initiates. Already the Scaliger is talking of moving most of the major services during the Palio away from the basilica of San Zeno and into the Duomo of Santa Maria Marticolare. This promises to put the collective noses of Verona's Benedictines quite out of joint. They are already enraged that the Franciscans have the Scaliger's ear in religious matters. Now the disciples of San Francesco seem to be winning the political war. Perhaps it is all in the name — Cangrande's baptismal name is Francesco. I can already hear the abbot ranting.

That is unfair, though. My new patron is an enlightened man and is creating a garden of culture and learning in Verona, a new Caput Mundi. It is fitting that he listens to the disciples of Francis more than Benedict. He is a modern man, struck in a modern mold.

In women's news, I was invited (but sadly could not attend) the long-delayed wedding of Verde della Scala (sister to the odious Mastino and the oblivious Alberto) to Rizardo del Camino, the twin of the wedding of Cecchino della Scala to Rizardo's sister that was so rudely interrupted back in September. Since there is now a treaty in place and peace looms at every corner, the wedding went forward at last. I must say, these attempts at strengthening political ties by marrying of one's young children is growing ever more cynical. I despair that my new patron shall have any good off either of these matches — del Camino will take the dowered lands and do as he pleases. Wait and see.

If I am reduced to writing of uninspired weddings, I have clearly prevaricated and procrastinated long enough. Cara mia, it is time you heard the worst. But I do not know how to phrase the words — I, who am said to have the power to control men's souls with my thoughts, cannot find it within me to soften the bluntest of cudgels — my son Pietro will never run again. The magnificent doctor of the Nogarola palace, a famous knight named Morsicato, working together with the Scaliger's own physician, Aventino Fracastoro, was able to save my child's leg, it is true. But he has a third leg now, the polished mahogany crutch that balances his movements. Pietro walks as slowly as I–I with my curved spine, bowed by the act of writing. And he has taken to wearing breeches, not hose, to hide the injury from view. Alas, nothing can hide the crutch and the horrible slowness of his gait.

He has not spoken to me of this cross he now carries. For all the world he has nothing but a smile. Yet that smile carries a wound of its own, one that I cannot imagine how to heal. When alone, he moons like a man in love, or struck with a fatal disease. He has tasted a knight's life and, finding it to his liking, discovers it suddenly denied him. It is a level of Hell I never envisioned. He is my son, yet he belongs among the Nine Worthies. I am consumed with admiration for him, both for his deeds and for his cheer in the face of misfortune. But I do not know how to help him, poor lad.

I have written to my friends at the University of Bologna — I imagine he'd be uncomfortable studying in Padua. I don't know if that is the answer. I am a man whose life is the written word, but is he? I can't send him away, the choice must be his, but how I wish to help him!

Can you advise me, Beatrice? How can I tell my son there is more for him in life than the cavaliere's sword? How can I heal the wound in his smile?

Distinti,

Dante A.

Antonia was indeed weeping when she finished her father's letter. Pietro — a cripple! And never a word of it in his own letter. How dreadful, how brave!

She tried to imagine her brother through her father's eyes. Dante had nominated him to stand with Hector, Alexander, Julius Caesar, Joshua, David, Judas Maccabeus, Arthur, Charlemagne, Godfrey Bouillon — the Nine Worthies. Instantly Pietro was transformed in her mind. No longer the plodding, pedantic boy she had known as a child, he now stood clad in golden armour, with a Roman eagle-banner in one hand, the longsword of Charlemagne in the other. Imposing upon that frame the crutch, he was transformed again into a noble sufferer. His wounds were glorious. Her brother was now a brother to Christ.

From that lofty perch it took a few moments more for her thoughts to return to earth. But soon her mind found its accustomed trail. If Pietro's going off to university, who will take care of father now? Not Poco!

There was only one answer. I have to go. I have to join them in Verona. Finding her bottle of ink and a fresh sheet of paper, she began to write her reply…

Shortly thereafter Gemma Donati came looking for her only daughter. "Antonia? Franco and his brood will be joining us after all, so-"

But the girl wasn't in the study, having left the house to find a rider to bear her message to her father. Unknowing, Gemma picked up the two letters her daughter had left out. At first she was amused by the contents, then startled. "Oh, Durante…"

Gemma wept until she heard her daughter in the entryway below, arriving just as her brother-in-law rode up with his family. Daubing her eyes, Gemma rose and placed the letters just where Antonia had left them. She knew what her daughter would ask, and was tired of refusing. Gemma's attempts to find her daughter a husband were a desperate ploy to tie the girl to Florence, so that at least one of her children would remain with her. But she knew the power of her husband's words, made only stronger in Antonia by his absence. Realizing it was to be her last Christmas feast with her only remaining child, she descended the stairs with a slow, heavy gait.

Padua

The same moment Antonia was leaving church, the Count of San Bonifacio was entering one. Not a grand Paduan church, but a mean and humble one outside the city walls. Unknown to him it was the same one Cangrande had used as a rendezvous months before. On this holy day it had only two occupants. One, a frightened-looking priest, stood at the door. The other knelt in prayer by the altar. Nodding to the man of God, the Count crossed himself and sat down, resigned to a long wait. If he could enlist this penitent's aid, his cause might yet be won. He had the key to this man's spiritual vault. The Pup had given it him.

After hours of painful kneeling on the stone floor, the figure rose. And rose, and rose. He was as tall as he was thin, a grotesque figure made moreso by deliberate starvation. He crossed himself before turning about. "You didn't come here to pray," he said at once, accusing. "Your presence here is profane." His voice was deep and rich, odd to hear from such a strange figure.

"Merely secular," said the Count.

"I told you no," said the penitent.

"And I respected that," said the Count. "But things have changed."

"Your defeat is nothing to me." The man wore a medallion with an odd cross surrounded by pearls. Some pearls were missing.

"No reason it should. Still, you live so far from the city I wondered if you'd heard."

"Heard what?"

"Cangrande has taken in a son — a bastard son — and named him his heir."

The skeletal penitent remained entirely still, yet a change came over the chapel. Suddenly it was cold, as if a pall had swallowed the sun.

"A bastard heir?"

Seeing the fire in the penitent's eyes, the Count knew that at last he had found the wedge to drive the other man into action. Checking his smirk, he began setting his plan in motion.

Venice

The Count's was not the only wheel set turning because of the child. Late Christmas night, a ship was admitted past the bar and through the Lido, an unusual event after dark. It dropped anchor in a misty port off the Castello. Within ten minutes two cloaked figures were stepping from the arriving ship into a sky-blue gondola. The leading figure was short with the shoulders of a scribe. His shadow was built more like a mason or a soldier, tall and broad. As they settled into the bottom of the tiny gondola, its black-hatted oarsman pushed off and started angling them towards the Rio di Greci — Greek Street, a causeway of water entering the Castello directly opposite the small island of San Giorgio Maggiore.

They passed under the first bridge of the Greci in silence, but for the slapping of the waters against the gondola's sides. Here and there music or snippets of conversation floated by. At the second bridge, they were forced to stop. A deep-red and gold gondola had gotten turned, a mishap common with inexperienced polers. The figures in the immobile gondola were masked, and showed signs of drink. Some helpful fellows on the bridge had gotten sticks to aid them in turning, and now the unfortunate gondola was straightening out.

In the front of the sky-blue gondola, the smaller man asked, "Can't we get by them?"

The oarsman touched the wide brim of his hat and obediently shoved hard to angle them past the stalled gondola. Through no fault of his, the two bumped. There was a jeer from the masked men in the red-gold gondola, then another from the bridge.

Suddenly figures were leaping onto the sky-blue gondola from all directions. In an orchestrated move, the four men from the red-gold gondola threw off their cloaks, revealing shining weapons as they scrambled over. Their masks were firmly in place. Two more men vaulted the short stone balustrade of the bridge to land lightly, knives ready. They had donned hard-leather bauta masks as well, thus disguising their features entirely.

The oarsman of the sky-blue gondola dove into the freezing waters to preserve his life. Clearly the accident had been a sham. Whoever his passengers were, someone was out to murder them. This was the kind of ambush that left no survivors, and the oarsman valued his skin.

Back in his boat, the smaller man let out a yelp of surprise as he was forced to lie down by his companion, who rose to his full height. From under the taller man's cloak an arc of steel sliced the air, making the attackers jump and hiss in frustration.

The ambushers fought hard, but their numbers dwindled in the face of the tall man's falchion, a curved sword that ended in a wicked point. Having lost half their number and the element of surprise, one shouted, "The devil with this!" He dove into the water. His remaining companions hesitated, swore, then followed.

The driverless gondola drifted to the next bridge, the blue on its sides now flecked with crimson drops. Four men lay in its bottom. Two were screaming, one was whimpering, and one was entirely still. The final figure stared at the carnage as his upright companion wiped the massive blade clean.

Poles appeared and knocked the craft roughly to a stone and tile jetty. Wounded in calf and wrist, the larger man ignored his injuries as he helped his companion find footing on the stone steps. Some citizens reached for the little man, pulling him along into their ranks and comforting him while eagerly asking what the fracas had been about.

"I have no idea," the little man told them.

Thinking his brave companion might have a better answer, they made to pull him along as well. But as the man sheathed his curved German blade, his wrist became visible between the glove and the sleeve. One Venetian saw the man's skin and recoiled. "A damned blackamoor!"

There were hisses of distaste and disgust. Instantly the tide changed and people began to wonder whose side was in the right, the survivors or the ambushers.

"Call the constable! Take him to the gaol!"

"The devil with that! He killed a Venetian! Let's string him up!"

"Right! The gallows, not the gaol!"

"What about this one?" demanded someone of the littler fellow, who promptly found his hood pulled back until the knot under his chin choked him. The violence subsided when they saw a pale face growing paler by the second.

The mob on the jetty grew, more torches heralding the new arrivals. There was talk of tarring the black man. The little man tried to protest but the crowd paid no attention. Through it all the larger man stood with perfect stillness, his gloved hands in plain view, his breathing eerily steady. Blood continued to trickle down his leg, pooling in his boot.

Rubbing his throat, the little man tried to intervene. "My name is Ignazzio da Palermo. This man is my servant!"

"Man! Monster, more like." Emboldened by the large man's stillness, one fellow stepped out of the crowd and reached up to yank off the concealing hood and scarf. His fingers had just closed on them when he uttered a choked sob and fell to his knees, clutching his throat. The crowd tensed, knives and clubs at the ready, but the large man's hands were still empty. He'd simply struck with his open palm.

But the crowd's eyes were not on his hands. The bold Venetian had dislodged the muffling hood and scarf, revealing skin that was dusky black, not ebony, marking him as Spanish. He was a Moor.

The flickering torchlight light caught the Moor's neck. Someone gasped. Criss-crossing it were lines of white and pink, raised above the level of his natural skin. The bands were linear, created by some man-made implement. Running the entire circle of his neck, a single blistered scar made a horrible kind of collar about the Moor's throat. In some places it was bubbled, in others it was worn. It was a very old burn scar, and it made the man who had survived it even more fearsome.

The aggressive Venetian retreated into the crowd, gasping and sputtering as his eyes streamed, obviously calling for vengeance but unable to make the words come out clear.

The Moor placed a hand on the hilt of his falchion. "We have done no harm. We defended ourselves. Let my master pass." His voice rasped as if the words were scraped by a rusty spoon from somewhere deep within.

The little man called Ignazzio crossed to the Moor's side. "Theodoro and I are stopping in Venice for the night only on our way to Vicenza. We have been the victims of a crime. We demand an audience with the authorities at once. Disperse and bother your wives, not us!"

The crowd was muttering again. Then, as if on cue, came the stomp and clink of official boots. The crowd parted for the two dozen men-at-arms. The man who led them was easily one of Venice's most recognized faces. Francesco Dandolo was a hero in the Serenissima and still young enough to have great days ahead.

The choking man had recovered enough to step in front of the approaching Dandolo. "Ambassador, this — creature just assaulted me! He…"

Dandolo pushed past him to give Ignazzio and the Moor a deeply respectful bow. "Ser Ignazzio, we have been waiting on you at the doge's palace this last half-hour. I heard of an altercation along your route. I hope you are not hurt."

"Theodoro is," said Ignazzio angrily. "We were attacked in our gondola — an ambush by professionals, no less — and now these fools are waylaying us!"

Dandolo gave the scene an appraising glance. Turning to the captain of the men-at-arms, he pointed into the bloody gondola. "Take the living to the gaol at once. Use whatever means necessary, but find out who put them up to it." He turned sharply and pointed to the aggressive Venetian still rubbing his throat. "Take him as well. Don't kill him but thrash him soundly." The man gasped, his watering eyes now wide with horror. Dandolo turned back to Ignazzio. "Unless his offence warrants worse?"

"No," said Ignazzio grimly. "He was abusive, but Venice has given us worse welcomes."

"Very well. Take them away." Dandolo looked at the Moor, busy replacing his scarf and hood. "Does your man need a doctor?"

Ignazzio turned to the Moor, who shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Then please," said Dandolo, bowing again, "allow me to escort you to the Doge personally. He is eager to consult with you."

Ignazzio followed Dandolo without sparing the crowd a single glance. The large Moor trailed a few paces behind. The mob took a collective step back. Some may have been discontented, but all were unified in their wonder. Who were these men to be treated so solicitously by Dandolo and the Doge?

One found his courage. Stepping out, he called to Dandolo's receding back, "Ambassador, who is this man? Where is he from?"

Over his shoulder Dandolo said, "Disperse, citizens, before you're unlucky enough to find out!"