The Master of Verona

Nineteen

The snow outside the palace had begun falling in earnest, and Pietro was glad to step into the warm feasting hall. The beginning of the month-long deprivation had not dampened the spirits of the men within. There were dozens of men in cheerful conversation, a few in a corner singing. Apparently the women were dining elsewhere. Pietro was surprised, but grateful. He had no wish for the Scaliger's sister to see him at this moment — he hadn't embraced his role as butt that thoroughly.

Being Lent, there were no decorations, but the dozen torches reflecting off mirrors threw a festive light around that not even the most pious bishop could object to, dancing and shimmering along the painted plaster walls.

Carrara strode into the hall as if he owned it, the Triumvirs close behind. At the far end of the hall Cangrande spied the four young men entering and, standing, raised his goblet. Taking the cue, the assembled Signoria raised their cups to the winner and the loser of the first Palio. They also drank to the duo that had tied for runner-up.

Pietro left his friends to join his father and brother at a low trestle across from the Scaliger's seat. The moment he sat, Mercurio leapt up and licked his face, the Roman coin at his collar slapping against Pietro's chin. "Hey, boy! I'm fine, I'm fine!"

"He's almost as glad to see you still walking about as I am," someone said cheerfully. Pietro pushed the dog away and turned to see Ser Dottore Morsicato. "Always a good testimonial to one's skills, having a patient live." He greeted Pietro's father, then told Pietro to find him later. "I want to see how it's healing. And you can tell me all about the Palio, you young fool. No sooner do I fix them up then they're off risking their necks again…" The doctor's forked beard bristled as he walked away.

Pietro resumed his place beside his father, Mercurio curling up at his feet. Dante was in the midst of a conversation with Bishop Francis, but paused to reintroduce his son. Pietro was congratulated on surviving the race, then was left standing next to the handsome young monk he'd noticed that morning. The two began chatting amiably. The monk was called Lorenzo and he worked in the Bishop's herb garden when he was between the hours of office.

Suddenly Dante turned with gleaming eyes upon Lorenzo. "Sebartés!"

The young brother lost all his colour. "P-pardon, my lord?"

"Your accent!" said the poet. "You're from the Sebartés region, are you not?"

"My — my mother was born thereabouts, I believe. I have never been." Brother Lorenzo looked like a cornered rabbit. "My lord Bishop, the Scaliger is waiting."

With an indulgent smile Bishop Francis allowed the young monk to lead him away, nodding to Dante as he left.

"Curious fellow," observed Dante. "There's deep water in Brother Lorenzo."

Pietro looked at his father. "Where is Sebartés?"

"In lower France, north of Spain, about two hundred miles from Avignon."

Pietro chuckled. "Maybe he's afraid they'll make him pope."

Instead of laughing, Dante said, "You didn't tell me you intended to ride in the race."

Pietro's throat closed. "I didn't know myself."

"Well. I'm pleased you're unhurt," said the poet, sipping at his wine.

"Thank you," said Pietro, discarding any intention of describing the race. "What has your day been like?"

As Dante launched into an account of his hours with the Scaliger, the servants rushed to bring forth the first course — stuffed anchovies and sardines and another strange-looking fish. After a lengthy prayer in which the Scaliger bid everyone pray to the Virgin for the souls lost this day, they began to eat.

In the second place of honour, Giacomo da Carrara masticated the odd-looking fish carefully. Looking past his nephew, he addressed the Scaliger. "These are delicious. How does one prepare them?"

Cangrande's head snapped around. "Where's Cardarelli? Damn, probably in the kitchens." He thought, then snapped his fingers. "I know. We have a gourmand in our midst." Cangrande craned his neck until he spied Morsicato. "Giuseppe! O, Doctor? Take your head out of your urinized cups and answer something for us!" Seated far down with the Scaliger's personal physician, Morsicato looked up. "Il Grande wants to know about the preparation of fish!"

Morsicato's great barrel of a chest swelled. "I asked Cardarelli that myself. You put the fish in hot water after making them rovesciata — which means removing the bones and head without piercing the belly skin, spreading the skin with a stuffing, and closing the fish so that the flesh is on the outside. You begin by grinding marjoram, saffron, rosemary, sage, and the flesh of a few fish. Fill the anchovies or sardines with this stuffing so that the skin is next to the stuffing and the outside in. Then fry them up."

Across from Pietro, Bailardino Nogarola was smacking his lips. "Never in my wildest culinary dreams would I imagine opening a fish from the back. What's the benefit of that?"

Morsicato's left hand stroked his forked beard sagely. "Well, certain fatty fish — and this inside-out technique is used only for suckling pig and fatty fish — will render some of its fat when exposed to direct heat. The results are excellent from the standpoint of flavour."

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 podestàs 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."

"It would please me greatly."

Cangrande rose. "A noble Veronese family has been resurrected! Let it be known from this holy festival day onward that the noble family of Capecelatro has taken up the fallen mantle of the Capelletti! Raise your cups and drink to Ludovico, Luigi, and our own Antony! Long live the Capulletti!"

There was a roar of approval, redoubled when Gargano Montecchio fell on the neck of the newly dubbed Capulletto. They embraced and kissed as friends. The only one who looked aghast was Antony's brother Luigi. Antony himself brimmed over with delight. He fairly leapt over the table to take Mariotto in his arms, lifting him up and dancing him around in a bear hug.

"At least we can be sure there will never be a feud between our sons," said the new Capulletto.

Montecchio eyed his son with pride. "I expect not. Ludovico, I appreciate what you have done. It has removed a blight from my honour."

"I'd heard of the sad business once or twice before." Ludovico's chins unfolded as his head bobbed up and down. "Besides, it all works out rather well. The house I have in town is in the Via Capello! Now it's named for me!"

Listening close by, Pietro Alaghieri had an unworthy thought. There's the real cause of his ready acceptance of the new name. By becoming a Capulletti, Ludovico Capecelatro has ennobled himself and his heirs. He'll let his distant relatives cling to the Capecelatro name. Suddenly he can cloak himself with the rights and power of an ancient family. He's got the money. Now he has the name.

But there had been a slight difference in the pronunciation between Capelletti and Capulletti. The Greyhound was clever to make such a distinction, one Ludovico had probably missed. This new line of the ancient clan would always be marked as tenants, not owners, of the title, their name always denoting their point of origin.

Mari was rubbing his ribs where the rechristened Antony Capulletto had hugged him. "Perhaps with a new name your marriage contract is void!"

"Aw, did you have to go and spoil it?" groused Antony, his face transforming in an instant. "I'd forgotten about the stupid woman."

"That's right!" said Giacomo da Carrara, not taking any offense. "We have a betrothal to affirm." He turned to Ludovico. "This act of honour makes me doubly glad to send my niece's daughter to join your family. She's here, dining with the women. My lord, may I send for her?"

Cangrande waved his hand in assent. "Of course! What better moment than this? Marsilio, here, taste this wine."

Il Grande sent a page scuttling off through the huge double doors. Antony plopped down beside Mariotto with a deep sigh to let all and sundry know of his exasperation. "I bet she's cross-eyed."

"Maybe a harelip?" speculated Mari, amused eyes twinkling.

"Who knows? She can't be much. Her uncle's pretty eager to rid himself of her. Dear God, what could be worse? Married at eighteen!"

His dismay was understandable. Though eighteen was an acceptable age for marriage, it was customary to let young men grow into their twenties and even their thirties before burdening them with a wife. For women it was quite different. The trend was moving towards earlier and earlier wedding beds for girls, to the point of betrothing daughters at ten and marrying them off at fourteen or fifteen. It was fashionable among older men to marry young girls, barely initiated in the women's mysteries. Pietro knew it was a fad his father deplored. It was why Pietro's sister was still unwed — too many new mothers died in childbed because they were brought to bear too young. But marrying young assured virginity, that prized possession.

As he contemplated his doom Antony eyed his friend. "You will be my best man?"

"Your second, you mean? Of course I will. If only to make sure you go through with it. Otherwise I might have to rid the world of another Capulletto."

Antony's frown became more intense. "Does it bother you? Me having the name of the family that murdered your mother?"

Mariotto took in a sharp breath. He wasn't quite ready for Antony's insightful bluntness. "Whatever you call yourself, you're my friend. The Capelletti were dishonoured by their actions. You will restore the title to a place of honour."

"With you beside me." They drank to their friendship.

Pietro leaned close to his father as he scruffed Mercurio's ear. "What do you think of all this, Pater?"

The heavy beard turned, the eyes above it blinking. "I'm not sure. It is a wonderful gesture. But it was God's will that the Capelletti be destroyed. Is it His will that they be reborn? I can't help thinking of Eteocles and Polynices."

"Who?"

Dante frowned, severe disappointment etched into his long face. "The children of Oedipus and Jocasta. I swear, how can you appreciate poetry if you have no sense of the players?"

"Sorry. What about them?"

Dante huffed a moment longer, then continued with his point. "After they learned the truth about their father's incest, the two brothers forced him to abdicate. In return, Oedipus cursed them to be enemies forever. Such curses have strength. They alter the course of nature, they challenge God, who is alone in meting out justice." The poet glanced over at Pietro's two friends. "I think they should consult a good astrologer before embarking on such a venture. Or better still, a good numerologist. For Lord Montecchio is quite correct. Names have power. And through their history the names Capelletto and Montecchio have made themselves synonymous with enemy."

Pietro pulled a face as he swallowed a scoff. Mari and Antony were the best of friends, closer than brothers. Nothing could change that.

He was about to say as much when he felt a gust of chill air against his neck. Until now the doors to the great hall had been closed due to the weather. Now they opened to admit a delicate figure swathed from neck to toe in fur.

Heads turned. The doors were closed behind her as a servant approached her and removed her robe. The removal of the fur revealed a brocaded gown of deep blue. Her head was covered behind the hairline, allowing a just a glimpse of dark hair before it was swallowed in a gauzy haze. The pins holding the veil in place were in the shape of rosebuds, simple and finely wrought.

Conversation ceased throughout the firelit hall. Men sat as if turned to stone just for gazing at her. But she was certainly no gorgon. Her hair was raven-black and long, if the length of the mantle was anything to guess by. Her skin was fair. Her nose was thin and delicate. Under the full lips her teeth were straight and white. Yet in spite of her smile there was something sorrowful in her expression. She had a fragile elegance, as if she might shatter with a breath. A man could hardly help wishing to be the one who rescued her from that state, protect her from the cruel world outside. She was a damsel in distress, Guenivere waiting for her Lancelot.

Above her high cheekbones the eyes were luminous. They were eyes to sink into, die for, kill for.

This was Gianozza, great-niece of Il Grande, cousin to Marsilio, and more lovely than Helen on the night Ilium burned.