The Master of Verona

Twenty-Four

Verona

10 February 1315

It had been a long fortnight for Antonia Alaghieri, who had never traveled long distances before. The jostling of the carriage often made her ill. The time of year made roads less reliable. New snow crunched beneath the horses' hooves. Her anxiousness to join her father had her peering out of the little windows every few minutes, staring at the landscape until her cheeks froze.

Despairing of a decent tip, the driver of the hired gig was eager to rid himself of this troublesome child. Had he not been promised a huge sum when he delivered her unmolested to Verona, he would have left her and her two servants in one of the inns along the road. Or simply on the road. Anything to ditch the little harpy.

The sun was perhaps two hours away from its zenith when Verona's famous forty-eight towers came into view. Discarding comfort, Antonia leaned frantically out of the window to see. If she had come from the north, she would have been able to look down on the city. Coming from the south, she was blind to all but the vaguest impression as they passed through the gates.

That Verona was similar to Florence somehow surprised her. Like the city of her birth, it was cleft by a river. Yes, the roof tiles were of a slightly different hue, and there were more towers and fewer palaces. Many buildings seemed new, but intermingled with enough aged ones to give a sense of gravitas.

It was certainly as busy as Florence. There were crowds of people everywhere. Her driver called around for directions to the palace of the Scaligeri. Twice they were turned the wrong way before someone gave them proper instructions. They ended up crossing a bridge that must have been more than a thousand years old, yet was solid as ever.

Antonia was studying the cityscape when a young couple riding in the other direction drew her attention. The girl was about Antonia's age, but beautiful. Raven hair and pale skin, full lips set in a bewitching smile. The boy beside the girl was handsome, too. Just a touch older, it made them look perfect for each other — girls always looked more mature than boys their age. His dark hair was longish, but overall he was well-groomed. His clothes under the riding cloak were quite fine.

Following them were two more young men. Something in the line of the chin of one proclaimed a relation to the girl — distant, but evident. The other wore the grey robes of a Franciscan.

The small party seemed in a hurry, with both the lay men looking around furtively. The girl was trying to hide inside her hood. Noticing Antonia staring, she pulled the hood tighter about her face. In moments they had crossed over the bridge and out of sight. Antonia mentally shrugged and went back to looking at her father's new home.

It was an hour before noon when the carriage pulled up to the stables of the Scaliger's palace. A groom ran to fetch a steward. In moments, servants arrived to remove her three small boxes of luggage while Antonia paid the driver herself. He looked curiously angry when he realized she had been carrying the money with her all along, thus confirming her suspicions that, had he known, he would have robbed and murdered her. With that idea fixed firmly in her head, she in turn confirmed his suspicions about the tip. Grumbling, he remounted his gig and cantered off.

The palace servants led her and her followers across a beautiful square and into a grand building — not the main palace, she was informed, but the original Scaliger domicile, the Domus Bladorum. As they entered her father's rooms, she was nearly frantic at the prospect of meeting her father for the first time. All through the journey, excitement had fought fear within her. She recognized that her coming here would forever alter her relationship with her father. Until now she was the beloved confidante, far away, faceless — safe. At a distance he could impose on her features the visage of his lost love. Meeting might destroy his illusion, ruin the bond she'd struggled to form from the time she was seven.

Nevertheless, disappointment set in when she discovered the rooms empty. Dante's steward said, "Your father has gone to view the Basilica of San Zeno. Ser Alaghieri-"

"Who?"

"Your brother Pietro, miss," said the steward. "You won't have heard, but he was knighted yesterday. Your brother accompanied my master, but said he would be calling on Lord Nogarola this afternoon. Young master Jacopo did not return last night." Years of reading between the lines allowed Antonia to guess what the steward was implying but neither commented on it. "I shall settle your possessions in the chamber we've set aside and instruct your servants to their new duties here while they inform me of your requirements. Would you like a refreshment?"

She did not, preferring to find her father at once. The steward offered to guide her but she declined that offer as well. Setting off back the way she had come, she promptly got lost. Turning one corner then another, trying to retrace her steps in the unfamiliar city, she finally admitted she had no idea where she was.

Turning about, she collided with a man on crutches who was coming the other way. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" She reached out to steady him. Despite the wooden splints encasing one of his legs, he was a full two heads taller than Antonia. "Please forgive me. I was careless."

"Don't worry about it," he said easily. "I'm still getting used to these things."

There was an awkward pause as his eyes narrowed and he examining her closely. "Beatrice, right?"

She took in a little breath. "I am the daughter of Dante Alaghieri." For the past week she'd practiced using the other pronunciation without receiving a smack on the back of the head.

The man nodded. "You look a little like him." At that moment the sandy-haired brute became her favorite person in the world. Other than her father, of course. "I'm a friend of Pietro's. My name is Antony, Antony Capulletto."

Her brow furrowed. "I've heard of Pietro's friend Antony. But I thought that the surname was different."

"Until yesterday, it was! We took it up last night. It's an old name, but all the Capelletti died out years ago. I'm still getting used to it."

"Oh." He had a bald way of talking that was difficult to deal with. "Do you know where my father is, or where my brothers are?"

Her heart sank when he shook his head. "I'm surprised Pietro's out, what with his wounds and all."

"I thought his leg had healed."

"Oh, his leg's fine. I mean the cuts he got from the leopard." Antonia looked at him in shock. "Oh! You don't know! Shit — I mean… oh hell! Look — it's like this…" He quickly outlined the previous night's adventures, concluding, "He was fine when he went up to bed. He probably just wanted to get out. Hey, I'm looking for someone, too. We can search the palace together — if you don't mind walking about with a cripple."

Antonia fell into step beside him, grateful to have a guide. Socially, Capulletto was not particularly graceful, but he was charming in a rough way. She could understand why her brother liked him.

Something was slung in a small case over his back. In shape it looked like a book. "What have you there?"

"Oh, yes! If we find your father, he can sign it for me. It's a copy of his book. I bought it this morning for Gianozza."

Capulletto instantly went up in Antonia's estimation. He was clearly smitten with this girl Gianozza — her name peppered their conversation. She learned that Antony's leg had been broken the night before, in a footrace that his friend Mariotto had won. "Though if I hadn't hit my shin on something, I would have won easily. Bad luck." He obviously bore Mariotto no grudge for winning. But the same couldn't be said of the winner of the horse race — Antony couldn't disguise his dislike for the Paduan named Carrara.

Gianozza, Mariotto, Marsilio — those three names were the cornerstones in young Capulletto's conversation as they strolled. Antonia made no connection with the three fine riders on the Roman bridge.

Eventually they came across a man Antony knew and the Capuan arranged for her to be taken to San Zeno's. To her father.

Being a sensible fellow, Pietro had intended to spend the better part of the morning in bed. But Dante had been up early with the discovery that his younger son hadn't been home all night. "Out whoring," said the poet grimly. Pietro suggested that they ride out and look at San Zeno, the church he'd passed during the horserace. Intended as a distraction, Dante father accepted it as such. Tullio d'Isola arranged for a guide, and they set off.

"I hear you're a hero again," said Dante as they rode.

"With the scars to prove it," said Pietro.

"Serves you right. Besides, nothing should come easy." He paused. "Still, I'm glad you saved the boy."

"Me too." Pietro suddenly recalled his appointment with Donna Katerina and informed his father that he had to leave their jaunt a little early.

Dante was sanguine. "San Zeno sits next to the river. I can watch the water and write." He patted the satchel at his hip. "I came prepared, you see. In case the hero was needed to slay another giant."

Not knowing how to reply, Pietro walked on, Mercurio pulling hard on his leash. Pietro wore a heavy cloak to disguise him, but the crutch and the dog gave him away, and people waved or cheered him as he passed. Dante made several noises of impatience, but was smiling nonetheless.

Their guide pointed out a synagogue, and they paused several minutes to examine it. Verona owned a large Jewish population but, with the exception of Manuel, Pietro had rarely seen any outside the marketplace. In other cities, of course, Jews were easily recognized by the yellow stars they were forced by law to wear. Here there were no such signs, just the odd caps they wore of their own volition. With so many other types of men in much more outlandish dress, Verona's Jews did not stand out.

Dante and Pietro spent two chilly but instructive hours inside the basilica of Verona's patron saint, looking at tombs, frescos, windows, and the famous doors. Then Pietro limped back towards the Piazza della Signoria in plenty of time for his meeting with Donna Katerina.

Aching, stiff, cold, wishing he'd ridden Canis and cursing the dog that strained forward, Pietro knocked on the door to the Nogarola house. It stood across the street from Santa Maria Antica, at the back of the main Scaligeri palace. He was greeted warmly by Katerina's servants, and after they took his cloak they admitted him into an upstairs sitting-room with fires blazing. The doors to the balcony were open to provide ventilation for the smoking braziers.

The room was well ordered for one that housed so rambunctious a child. Perhaps because he wasn't walking yet. The staff had to be dreading the day that tiny Cesco became ambulatory.

The child himself was in evidence, sitting with a new nurse on the far side of the chamber. The girl was trying her best to entertain him with coloured puppets with wooden heads. They were carved in the style of classical allegorical figures. The boy seemed particularly fascinated with the crimson head of Malice, banging it against a tiny tiger. Well, thought Pietro, it looks a little like a leopard...

The moment they entered, Mercurio bolted from Pietro's side to press his nose into Cesco's face. The boy giggled as the young hound snuffed at him and began licking his face. Cesco's tiny fingers grasped the coin at the hound's neck.

"Mercurio! Heel!" Pietro called to no avail.

"Let them play." Katerina sat by the open balcony doors holding a small loom. In a long patch of sunlight two chairs were set out facing her. One was occupied, with a servant hovering over the high back. Pietro blinked. The servant was the Moor.

The occupant of the chair rose. He was in his middle years, told only by the touch of grey at his temples. Well dressed and well made, he might have been handsome but for the fact that he was all chin. The cleft in it was the size of Pietro's knuckle and Pietro had an absurd desire to see if it fit. It was a moment before Pietro registered the outstretched hand. "Ser Alaghieri, congratulations. You had quite a day — but then, I could have told you that!" One eye above the monstrous chin dropped in a wink.

"And you are?"

"Who am I?" The short man turned to Katerina. "You haven't-? I mean, madam, when you called upon me, I thought you would trumpet it from the-"

"Pietro, may I introduce you to Ignazzio da Palermo, astrologer and diviner to kings and princes. Theodoro of Cadiz you have already met."

"Yes." Pietro crossed to take the Moor's hand. "You saved my life. Thank you." As the Moor inclined his head, it was as difficult not to stare at the scarred neck as at his master's chin.

Katerina gestured to the open chair. As he sat, Pietro noticed three scrolls lying out on a table. Each was made from long, thick parchment sealed with yellow wax, the colour that best revealed signs of tampering. It looked as if the seals had been covered again with a light layer of honey. What were these papers that they required such precautions?

Katerina turned her head. "Marianna, put Cesco in his crib. Luciana, please stoke the fires a little. Then you may both leave us. We shan't need you. If the fires require tending I shall prevail upon my guests."

With a wary glance at the dark-skinned Moor, the nurse carried the child to a wooden crib with high barred walls. Little Cesco was up on his feet in a moment, holding onto the bars of his cage for support and reaching though the bars for Mercurio, who followed him. He'll be walking soon. Look at him. He isn't even wobbling.

Both girls bowed their way out of the chamber, closing the doors firmly. Pietro heard them whispering as they walked down the corridor. Katerina said, "They're still upset about Nina. As are we all. Are you well?"

"Quite well, lady. Thank you."

"No, thank you." She set her loom aside. "Ser Alaghieri, you have taken several wounds for a cause that you don't understand. We are about to remedy that. It is time to bring you into our little circle. What we discuss now only five people in the world are aware of. My brother is one. The boy's mother is another. Ignazzio and Theodoro here. I myself. No one else — not my husband, no one — knows what we are going to tell you today."

Pietro flushed. "I–I'm honoured."

Katerina held up a warning hand. "There is a price. By hearing this, you will be obligated to help us shape future events. I don't put you under this obligation lightly, for an obligation it is. If you wish to decline hearing-"

"Madonna," interrupted Ignazzio. "This is unfair. He will be incapable of saying no. He will also be unable to retreat before you, for fear of losing your respect. The stars have chosen him. Having been chosen, it is foolish to offer him escape. He will not take it, and the offer can do nothing but act as a salve for our consciences."

"You are right, of course. Shall we begin?" Katerina lifted one scroll and handed it to Ignazzio. Placing a board across his lap, his fingers broke the honey-covered seal. It was hard work, because honey was prone to crumbling.

At last Ignazzio unfurled the wide parchment on the makeshift desk and Pietro saw multicoloured lines, various signs of the zodiac, and several small notations in Greek and Latin. A star chart.

"This was made this many years ago," said Ignazzio, "for a newborn son, the third son of Alberto della Scala by his wife."

Pietro remembered Cangrande mentioning a star chart, and what that chart said. "Donna Katerina, your brother once told me he'd consulted Benentendi-"

"Benentendi!" scoffed Ignazzio. "A charlatan! Why, he wouldn't-"

Katerina cut across him. "Pietro, how much do you know of astrology?"

"Some. My father insisted I have some formal training when I was younger."

The astrologer gestured to the parchment before him. "This chart is plain and clear. Francesco della Scala — Cangrande to you — is destined for great things. Probably the most important of his aspects is the fact that Mars is in the house of Aries, which creates both his great skill as a leader and his recklessness, his need to prove himself in personal valour. Interesting, too, is the position of Saturn. It is also in Aries, one of the few contradictions in the Capitano's chart. In that placement, Saturn usually leads to a serious self-doubt in leaders. In the Scaliger it seems to have had an opposite effect, probably because it shares the house with Mars. It has led the Scaliger to reject fear in its entirety."

"That is the thing I worry about most," observed Katerina. "He's never acknowledged fear."

"That's hardly a fault, lady." Pietro noted that, unlike his master, the Moor was not looking at the chart. Instead, he watched Pietro. Unsettling.

Ignazzio pointed to some lines for Pietro's benefit. "There are few sextiles, trines, and squares in his chart. Do you know what those are?"

"It's geometry, isn't it? The angles of one planet to another at the time of birth?"

"Correct. Different angles create different relationships between the planets. There were ten such relationships formed at the time of Cangrande's birth — fewer than normal. Most of them are minor — three trines, two conjunctions, three squares, one sextile, and one pure opposition. These last two are the most interesting. In Cangrande's chart, Mercury forms a sextile with Mars, giving him his sharp, strategic mind. But Mercury also forms an opposition with Uranus. He is aware of his talents, and must fight to retain his humility. It is interesting that Uranus, the creator of self-doubt, should have pushed this man so far in the other direction."

Pietro detected an unvoiced laugh from Katerina. Himself, he was feeling uncomfortable, as if he were spying on Cangrande just by looking at this chart.

The astrologer continued. "The Scaliger's sun sign is Pisces, the last sign of the Zodiac. It has created in him a strong sense of his stature. Not that he wishes to aggrandize himself, of course. More that — how to say — he wishes to receive his due."

"That's only fair," said Pietro.

Ignazzio rolled up the chart. "All in all, it is the chart of a capable, intelligent man with finite potential. Being finite, that potential will be achieved. My man Theodoro here was present at the hour of his birth, he took the signs personally. Cangrande will succeed martially and politically."

"But no more," said Katerina, retrieving the scroll.

"Then what he told me is true," murmured Pietro. "He's not the Greyhound."

Katerina looked at him sharply. "He told you that? When?"

"The night at the church, just before-" He paused, glancing at the Moor and the astrologer.

"You may speak freely," said Katerina.

"Just before Cesco's mother arrived."

The lady clucked her tongue. "That night must have been harder on him than I supposed. Because it's true, Pietro. My brother is not Il Veltro."

As understanding dawned, Pietro glanced over at the child standing in his crib, holding on to the bars to keep himself upright. Mercurio was curled up next to the bars of the crib.

I know what you are, now, thought Pietro. Aloud he said, "Cesco is Il Veltro."

"Yes," said Katerina.

"And no," said the Moor.

Antonia entered the Basilica of San Zeno shaking from head to toe. Not from cold, but excitement. As the sanctuary was empty save for some monks, she retreated into the attached garden beside the river. Here on a bench was a man with a dark beard, hunched against the biting wind.

The long, almost beakish nose made her heart stop beating. Years of studying portraits had made her familiar with all her father's features. But that beard! Pietro had written of it, but she hadn't really expected something so huge and black that reached almost down to his breastbone.

She nearly cried out and ran to him, but checked herself sharply. Compose yourself! He won't appreciate a little girl. Forcing a measured walk, she crossed to his side — not in front of him, which would have demanded attention — and stood quietly waiting for him to look up. He was writing. How wonderful! He was writing!

For Dante's part, he was in the midst of penning the sixth canto of the new poem. Part of his mind registered the presence of a mortal being at his side, but she shared the space with Virgil and Sordello and the bulk of his attention was engaged in their meeting. After a time he glanced at her in annoyance. "I don't sign manuscripts," he said brusquely. "No matter what you may have been told."

"I know, Pater."

He continued to write, trying to banish the girl from his mind. Ella non ci dicëa alcuna cosa (she's still there) ma lasciavane gir (what was it she said?) solo sguardando a guisa di leon (she called me Pater — does she think I'm a priest?) quando si posa…

His head came up and looked at the girl, squinting hard. Slowly he laid his quill aside. Nodding once, he said, "Well met, Beatrice."

From that moment on, had he given her the back of his boot or berated her in the foulest terms imaginable, it would not have mattered. He'd already set the seal on the happiest day of Antonia's life.

"What do you mean, yes and no?"

Katerina said, "I believe he is."

Pietro looked at the Moor. "You're not sure?"

Ignazzio answered for him. "It may be in his stars. It may not. Sadly, I was not present for his birth. None of us were." He took a newer scroll from Katerina and began the work of breaking the seal.

Pietro pointed out an objection. "So why — I mean, why did we go to get him before a chart was even made?"

Ignazzio gestured to Katerina. "I also created a chart for the lady when she was young. It was unequivocal. A child given into her care, a child that was not her own, would grow up to be Il Veltro."

Pietro studied Katerina's composed face. "You thought it was your brother."

"I hoped so."

"So you raised him as if he were going to be the Greyhound."

"Yes."

"But you had his chart."

Katerina's eyes grew flinty. "Is that an accusation?"

"No! No, lady, I just… I'm just confused-"

The Moor's voice rasped painfully out of the scarred throat. "The chart said he would be a great man within Italy."

Katerina shook her head. "No, don't soften it. Pietro, I never told my brother he was the Greyhound. I never told him he wasn't. Because of his name, because of his extraordinary skill, people talked. If he listened, it is no fault of mine. I raised him, Pietro, as I saw fit. I believe I was successful. He reached his potential and more. If he assumed he was the mythic hero, it did no harm."

No harm? A man raised to believe himself a creature of destiny, only to discover his destiny belonged to another. It was a miracle he hadn't turned out to be a monster.

Katerina's lips turned down. "You will be gratified to learn the noble astrologer and his major domo here disagreed with me. When Francesco turned fifteen he was shown this chart, against my express wishes. After that, my relationship with my brother became somewhat — strained." Rising, she crossed to a brazier and prodded it with a poker. "But if that is the price I must pay, I will. It has always been my opinion that we must take an active hand in our fates. I intend to raise Cesco in the same manner I raised my brother — as if he were the Greyhound. If it proves not to be true, as it did with Cangrande, again there is no harm done." She used to poker to point at the new parchment now spread over Ignazzio's lap. "But look at it, Pietro. Look."

Pietro did. Immediately he could tell there was something wrong about it. Painted lines crossed each other, as in Cangrande's chart, but double thick, and double in number. This was because so many of the planets shared the same positions. The sun, Mercury, and Venus were all in the first house, clustered together. The latter two formed strong relationships with the moon, which was in Aries, while the sun formed a sextile with Leo. Other lines criss-crossed the chart, forming oddly beautiful geometrical patterns. He suddenly wished he knew more about the subject.

Ignazzio nodded. "Odd, is it not? Such clustering is rare."

"What does it mean?"

"It means that this person's character is full of contradictory impulses. The child's sun is in Gemini, ruled by Mercury, which is also in his first house. His personality, therefore, resonates with the traits of that planet. He will be restless, and will dabble in all manner of trades and experiences. He will be free, swift as quicksilver. He will prize his wit above all else.

"But then there is the moon — the first contradiction. It is in his eleventh house, in Aries, and also forms a strong relationship with Mercury. He will not be ruled by reason, but by dreams. It will cause unbalance in his emotions. He will be detached from them, as if in conflict between his mind and his heart. But because of the moon's similar relationship with Jupiter, he will suffer from an excess of emotion. Among the many ill-effects that may cause, the worst is that it may — may — dampen his ambition."

Pietro again glanced at the child in the crib who was paying no attention to the adults, fiddling with the bars on the far side of the crib, pulling at them and swinging himself back and forth, teasing the hound who jumped about with delight.

Ignazzio drew Pietro's attraction back to the chart, tracing a finger along one line much interwoven with those about it. "Let us look at his own planet, Mercury. It was in Cancer at the hour of his birth, and in his first house. The sign will cause him to be extremely susceptible to outside influences. The house will make him adapt quickly to any situation…"

Sign by sign, house by house, they went through the child's chart. Pietro was amazed at the number of times the words willful, inventive, intuitive, witty, quick, and aggressive came up. But always were the warnings that pitfalls lay in the realm of emotion. Temperamental. Anxious. High-strung. Fickle. He would suffer from periods of extreme apathy. He would have difficulty choosing any single path. Prolonged relationships with anyone were problematic, most notably his relations with women. Venus was especially dangerous to the child as he grew to manhood. There were three deep loves, but only one marriage. As with them all, he had to use his strong will to dominate these faults within him, or else fall victim to their influences.

Behind them all was Mercury.

"Here you are," said the astrologer, pointing at a symbol.

Pietro straightened. "Me?"

"At least, I believe this is you. You have saved his life. If I am correct, you have a lasting influence on him. You are destined to be a major part of his life." Sitting back, Ignazzio sent a quick glance to the Moor. "That concludes the basics. There is nothing," he emphasized, "to indicate he will not overcome these faults. But there are many pitfalls before the child. More by far than the Capitano ever owned." A finger unfurled to trace a spot on the chart as yet untouched. "Now we move on to portents of the day itself. As you may have heard, there were many favorable omens when the Scaliger was born. Theodoro observed them. But no one here was present for the birth of this child. Nor have we been able to find a reliable witness to the events of that night."

"When was he born?" asked Pietro.

Katerina had taken up her loom again. "He was born in the middle of the night, in Padua, on the Ides of June."

The astrologer continued. "I arrived in Venice at the start of the Roman year. I first made my way to Vicenza to interview the lady and meet the child. I then set out for Padua, where I interviewed several men in my own profession. I have been unable to create a clear picture in my mind as to the movements of the lesser stars that night. Several observers have said that a star fell from right to left — that is, east to west — at about the hour of the boy's birth. That would be a great omen, one of the finest the boy could have. This chart is based on that observation. It creates stability for all these contradictions and amplifies his traits. He will thrive. He will attain a greatness unknown in this land since the Caesars. I have no doubt that if that was the omen, the child will find nothing but success."

Katerina said, "Based on that chart, he will certainly be the Greyhound."

Pietro heard an unspoken omission. "I take it that isn't all there is to say."

"No," said Katerina, lowering her loom to hand across the final parchment. "There is another side to the coin."

Ignazzio spoke as his nails scrabbled at the last seal. "That last chart was based on the reports that the star had fallen from east to west. I have one man whose opinion I trust more than the others. He insists that a star did cross the sky that night, at that hour. But he swears that it passed from west to east." He unfurled the final scroll. "This is the chart based on that report."

The houses and planets were all the same as in the last chart, but the relationships were subtly changed. Lines crossed at stranger angles. All the green and blue lines of the last chart had become red and yellow.

"How is that possible?" asked Pietro. He'd never been so interested in astrology in all his life. "The planets didn't move."

"They didn't have to move. This falling star changed their meaning. Take Aries in the twelfth house. On the former chart it would cause him to be placid, slow to anger. That was based on the movement of the star coming from the east. But here," he pointed to the symbol of Aries on the chart, "his anger grows irrational. The house does not move, nor do the stars. But their influence is altered dramatically." He went through and showed a dozen places where the change of direction created differing interpretations. In each instance, where in the last chart the darker impulses were overcome, here they were dominant.

"The core elements remain the same," the astrologer concluded. "He will be a leader of men, a warrior of surpassing excellence, a thinker. But who he will lead, whom he will fight for, and what he will think are uncertain."

"All because we can't determine the direction of the star that crossed the sky that night?"

"Yes."

"Is there any way to tell which it was?"

The Moor said, "We wait and see."

As the scrolls were furled for resealing, Katerina gazed intently at Pietro. "I want to see this child's future be the brighter of the two laid out here. Do you agree?"

"Of course. But what can I do?"

"Just know, Pietro. You are in his chart. You are a part of his life. You have to know what is at stake. The Greyhound is destined to usher in a new age of Man. Cangrande is not the Greyhound. Cesco is — or may be."

Pietro had to ask. "Does the Capitano know I'm here?"

Katerina frowned slightly. "My brother and I disagree about how destiny is created. He wants the boy to find his own way, and for us to simply allow this to happen. I disagree. I think we should act in every way as if the first of those charts is the correct one. We should foster all the good traits in him, and sharply curtail the lesser ones. It is what your father says — we must actively interpret the stars." Pietro opened his mouth, and Katerina said, "The answer is no, Pietro. He does not know we have told you."

Pietro thought for a few moments. "Is there any way the kidnapper could know? Is this connected to the murder of the oracle?"

"You heard her prophecy," said Katerina. "A tortured youth who will cause Verona's destruction? She was paid to say it, so I have no fear about it coming to pass. But her allusion to a child indicates that someone knows how important Cesco will be. The question is who."

"And why," said Pietro. "I mean, what would someone gain by kidnapping the boy? Why not just kill him? Ransom?"

"More like to have a hand in the destiny of Italy," said Katerina.

"To thwart the stars," said the Moor.

"Or just to take revenge on Cangrande," said Ignazzio.

Struggling with another question, Pietro turned to the astrologer. "This might sound foolish."

Ignazzio patted Pietro's shoulder. "There are no foolish questions save the one unasked."

"Uh, right. I was just wondering — what if there were two stars?"

The astrologer blinked several times. "What?"

I knew it was a stupid question. "Never mind."

The Moor darted out from behind Ignazzio's chair, crushing Pietro's shoulder with his grip. "Speak."

"Ahh. Well — that night, the night Cesco was born. If there were two stars, what would that mean?"

Ignazzio was leaning around the Moor to listen. "Two. One from the east and one from the west."

Stupido, stupido, stupido. "That crossed in the sky, yes. Would that change anything?"

A stunned expression hung on the astrologer's face. The Moor released Pietro's shoulder and crossed to stare into the brazier. Katerina and Pietro both watched Ignazzio, whose eyes seemed unfocused.

The Moor said, "From the mouth of babes."

Ignazzio roused himself. "Donna, forgive me. Ser Pietro has seen in a single hour a possibility I have not seen in weeks. I should be flogged."

"Never mind," said Katerina hungrily. "What would it mean?"

Ignazzio leaned forward, pressing his hands together. His smooth demeanor had vanished. He seemed more like a student puzzling through an unexpected test. "We have no way of knowing."

The Moor turned. "My master means it would depend on which star was closer, and which further away. The angles of descent, while relatively unimportant singly, would be vastly important if two were involved."

Katerina arched an eyebrow. "I want that chart made."

"Charts. Two at least. More, with variations." It was the Moor, playing the role of haggler for his master.

"I don't care how long it takes or the cost, get it done."

"As you wish." Ignazzio stood and bowed to Pietro, his façade back in place. "You have my respect, ser."

"I — it wasn't…" Flustered, Pietro didn't believe he'd done anything wonderful.

Thankfully a noise rose outside, some commotion in the street. He looked away from the astrologer, listening to the shouts that came burbling up from beyond the shutters.

"What the devil…?" Katerina walked to the balcony, Ignazzio and Pietro trailing her.

In the street below people were huddling in clumps, whispering, some scuttling back and forth between the islands of men. Some looked shocked, others tittered with glee. The overwhelming majority seemed to be amused, if rather darkly. For perhaps a hundred fifty men and a fair number of women something was deliciously exciting.

The doors to the suite opened and Bailardino came striding in, looking no worse for his long night drinking. "Well here's a coil! It'll cause some joy in Padua, I guarantee it!"

"What's happened?" asked his wife.

"You haven't heard? It's all the rage. Young Montecchio has eloped!"

"What? With whom?" asked Katerina.

Pietro leaned heavily against the wall. He didn't have to ask. Mari, what have you done?

Bailardino was mirthful. "With Capecelatro's little bride — the little Carrara girl! She scampered away this morning with her cousin to meet Montecchio and a priest!"

That opened up Pietro's eyes in a hurry. "Marsilio was there?"

"Acted as witness! So the rumours say, anyway."

"Where did this story originate?" Katerina obviously doubted its authenticity. Pietro didn't, but he was interested in the answer.

"The Carrara boy sent a note to his uncle immediately following the wedding and ordered his page to read it out in front of Cangrande and the court!" Bail chuckled. "He's got balls, does that Paduan. His uncle was furious! Giacomo can't rebuke him too strongly in public, though I imagine there will be hoarse voices in their suite tonight."

Pietro voiced the only question that really mattered. "Does Antony know?"

"How can he not? The whole city is buzzing with it. Old man Capecelatro must be pulling out his hair. He was telling me last night how delighted he was with the match, that he wanted to bring Padua and Verona closer together though this alliance."

"Well, this will do that as well," said Katerina evenly. "There are few families more at the heart of Veronese politics than the Montecchi."

"Capecelatro won't take this sitting down, you can bet on it," Bailardino said with a grin.

"Not Capecelatro," said Pietro, shaking his head. "Not anymore."

Bailardino snapped his fingers. "You're right! Now that's irony for you." Frowning, Bailardino noticed the astrologer for the first time. "Oh, you're here, are you? You probably think it was inevitable? Your precious planets spin at the right moment and Montecchio gets an itch in his pants?"

"I'm not sure it had anything to do with the stars," said Ignazzio.

"Oh, you're not?" Bailardino's dislike was palpable.

"More likely it was numerology. Names have power. When a man takes upon himself a new name, he changes. So too does his fate."

"Horseshit," growled Bailardino.

"This is an old argument," soothed Katerina. "It does nothing about the problem at hand. What has my brother done to quell this potential disaster?"

Bail turned his back on the astrologer. "He sent a messenger to Montecchio's castle with a summons for Mariotto to appear at the court. Until then, there's nothing he can do. It's up to the Capulletti now. How they respond will determine everything."

While the older occupants of the room stood discussing events, Pietro returned to his seat. A foul lump was growing in his belly. I saw it coming and I did nothing. How can I face Antony?

Something lapped Pietro's hand. Mercurio was pressing his muzzle into Pietro's palm. The hound had finally left little Cesco. Pietro's eyes flickered left to the crib and he blinked.

The crib was empty.

Oh God! Cesco's gone again!

Before he could even voice an alarum something tugged at his sleeve. Pietro saw Cesco looking up at him. Little Cesco, aged less than one, standing upright without aid. In his hand he held one of the puppets he had been playing with.

Pietro's eyes returned to the crib. All the bars were in place. How did he get out?

The wooden puppet head banged against Pietro's shoulder. The boy's face brightened as Pietro took it from him. Task done, Cesco turned and walked to the balcony. He didn't toddle. He didn't wobble. He walked. It was an easy movement, well-practiced. As if -

As if he's been doing it for weeks.

Pietro ran his fingers over the puppet in his hand. The tiger puppet. Near enough to a leopard. How astute was this child? How had he gotten out of the crib? And how long had he been hiding the fact that he could walk? For he had been hiding it, Pietro was certain.

The conversation stopped as the other adults noticed the little boy walking over to the balcony rail. Bailardino shouted, "The little imp! Kat! You never told me he could walk!"

Katerina stared at her foster son. "I didn't know."

At the balcony Cesco turned and grinned. Ignoring the three men, he looked only at Katerina. The lady met his eyes, then she deliberately sat down and lifted her loom to continue weaving.

The child's face fell. Turning again, Cesco's small hands gripped the carved stone railing of the balcony. The slats between the rungs were just wide enough for his body to pass though…

Mercurio barked sharply. Pietro saw the child's intent and leapt forward, but stumbled on his bad leg. The Moor was faster, catching a handful of the child's shirt between the fingers of his right hand. Pietro was there moments later, reaching around and over the railing to grasp Cesco, twisting in the Moor's grip.

Angry, intent on being free, the child kicked and hit. To the mingled relief and disappointment of the crowd below they brought the child over the railing and back into the room.

Holding Cesco hard against himself, Pietro turned to Katerina, who said, "Thank you. Obviously we should keep rooms on the ground floor from now on. And I'll ask the carpenters to construct a new crib."

Thwarted, Cesco began to wail. He shook his tiny fists and wriggled violently. As the lady lifted him out of Pietro's arms his fighting became more frantic. Katerina ignored him. "Pietro, would you be kind enough to carry a message to my brother? Tell him, please, to reconsider calling Ser Montecchio to court just yet. Though I agree the young man must account for his actions, I believe that doing so now would only add fuel to the flames."

Pietro bowed formally, eyes not on the lady but on the furious child who beat at her breast and chin as best he could, a tempest in her arms. Yet he never kicked her pregnant belly. Bailardino made to take the child up, but the lady shook her head. "No, Bail. He is my cross to bear."

The Moor scooped up the scrolls. "With your permission, Donna, I shall remove these and have them resealed."

Katerina nodded, hands pinioning the wrestling child. Pietro lifted his crutch from the floor and began towards the exit. At a loss, Bailardino walked over to a carafe and poured himself a drink, downing the goblet's contents at a gulp. "Would you like a glass, Kat?"

"Yes, if you please. Oh, Pietro? Remember, as before…"

Pietro nodded. "Herkos odonton."

The lady smiled thinly. "Just so."

Pietro had to pull hard on Mercurio's collar. Ignazzio and the Moor followed him out, the little man bowing several times to Katerina. When the door was closed behind them, both Ignazzio and Pietro released a shared breath. "I've never seen anything like that."

"I'm not a subscriber to possession," said Ignazzio. "But still…"

"Was it like that with Cangrande?"

It was Theodoro who shook his head. "No."

As they descended the stairs, Ignazzio said, "You may regret being drawn into this little circle, young ser."

"Maybe," said Pietro. "But now I have to go and find out how much damage my friend has done."

"How will the spurned groom take his loss, do you think?"

"Badly," said Pietro with certainty. "Very, very badly."

"So there will be war, at least between these two young men, if not their families. How will you fare, caught between such animosity?"

Pietro shrugged. "If I'm closer to one, it's Mariotto. But Antony is completely in the right. Mari has behaved atrociously. Honour dictates that I side with the Capulletti family."

"But that is not where your heart lies."

Pietro shook his head. "How can I say?"

The Moor looked at him gravely. "You should get away. Travel, make a name for yourself."

"What about all this?" Pietro gestured at the room they had just exited.

"Theo's quite correct," said Ignazzio. "Who knows when they will need your services, or in what capacity. You can do nothing better than build a thriving career for yourself. It would also remove you from this current difficulty with your friends."

Sound advice, honestly given. Pietro decided that perhaps the Moor was not to be feared. Respected, definitely, but not feared. Still, he shook his head. "It would be cowardly."

"We saw you last night, and again just now. Cowardice is not a trait you own."

Pietro glanced at the Moor. "If you don't mind my asking — someone called you the Arūs. What does it mean?"

Theodoro shook his head. "Nothing. Merely a name given me long ago. Excuse me, I must dispose of these scrolls and help my master dress."

Ignazzio said, "Why don't you wait for us? Then we can go attend the Capitano together."

Pietro agreed. Alone in the hallway outside Ignazzio's chamber, Pietro recalled the Scaliger's words in that rain-soaked church:

How can a man live life as a myth? If I thought that I was truly the chosen champion of the heavens, I would fight it. Just to see her — to see them fail, I would fight it with all my might.

At the time Pietro had thought Cangrande had been talking of himself. Now he knew better.