The Master of Verona

Three

The Benedictine bells were just finishing the call to Sext when two panting teens raced up the inner stairs of the great Scaliger palace in Verona. Attaining the top, they skidded to a halt at a demure distance from the open double doors. Listening, they heard arguing and laughter echoing down the hall. They grinned at each other in relief. They were not too late.

An understeward came bustling forward. "Master Montecchio, welcome. Your father and brother are already within." He glanced at the other young man with an inquiring inclination of his head.

"This is my friend, Pietro Alighieri," said Montecchio.

"Alaghieri," said Pietro automatically.

"Right, sorry. Pietro Alaghieri. He's the son of-"

"Of course," said the steward, unable to entirely hide the sign against evil he made behind his back. "Your esteemed father is also within. If you will both doff your boots, I have slippers waiting by the door. You are the last to arrive."

This statement renewing their panic, they hastily removed their boots in favor of soft-soled, pointy-toed slippers.

Montecchio said, "I've always heard your name as Al-ee-gary. What's this Al-ah-gary business?"

Pietro shrugged. "It's my father biting his thumb. Alighieri is the Florentine pronunciation. Since the banishment, he's insisted on the older pronunciation — Alaghieri, after our ancestor, Alaghiero di Cacciaguida."

Mariotto nodded as if he were truly interested. "And your brother came with you?"

Pietro grunted as he struggled with his right boot. "Jacopo."

"What's he like?"

Familial pride battled honesty. He settled on saying, "He's fourteen."

"Ah. No brothers here, just a sister. She's all right, if a little quiet. Aurelia."

"Mariotto and Aurelia?"

"Actually, Romeo and Aurelia. My mother named us — or so my father tells me. I never knew her. She chose Romeo as my baptismal name, but he wanted to honour his father, so I am Romeo Mariotto Montecchio. Call me Romeo and I'll murder you." He finished fitting his own slippers on and stood up tall. "Ready to face the lion's den?"

If it were a lion I wouldn't be so terrified. "How do we explain being late?"

Mariotto clapped Pietro on the shoulder and together they made for the grand hall. "Some things you just have to take a deep breath and live through."

Just before they reached the door, Pietro halted beside a fresco on the wall by the door. It was one of a set of five, each depicting a man on horseback, behind whom flew the banner of the five-runged ladder. The five men showed a great deal of resemblance, but it was to the last, closest to the door, that Pietro gazed at.

"Our lord," said Mariotto approvingly.

Pietro peered at the glazed paintwork. If you didn't know the man, the fresco might have been deemed flattery. Mounted on a great destrier, mace in one hand, sword in the other, head free of his hound-shaped helmet, Cangrande was fiercely beautiful, his face full of dark joy. Above his head, alongside the banner of the ladder, flew a personal banner with a greyhound racing across an azure field. The artist had added some dark spots to the banner, signifying the blood spilt in battle by this magnificent cavaliere.

But it was the actual paint that had Pietro's interest. "This is excellent work."

"It surely is," nodded Montecchio, looking close. "The neck of the stallion is just right, and also the length of the mane… Oh — sorry. My family breeds horses. These were painted by Giotto di Bondone." Pietro startled Mariotto with an abrupt laugh. "You've heard of him?"

"Better," said Pietro, "I know him! He's a friend of my father's. Sort of. We visited him often in Lucca." Pietro opened his mouth, then shut it, visibly resisting temptation.

Knowing he was missing something, Mariotto made an open gesture with his hands. "What?"

Pietro shook his head. "Have you ever seen Giotto's children? As sweet as can be, really nice. But they're repulsive. Girls as well as the boys. Ugly as sin. Well, we're eating supper in their house one night when my father asks how a man who paints such beautiful frescoes could make such ugly children."

"Oh dear God! What did Giotto say?"

Pietro did his best imitation of the cheery painter. "'My dear fellow, I do all my painting by daylight.'"

Smothering their laughter, they entered the salon.

Somewhere near Torre di Confine, a lone rider reined in before an inn. Young and frantic-looking, he leapt from his sweat-streaked horse and called for a fresh one. A stable boy emerged from beside the inn, hunk of cheese in hand. At the same moment the inn's proprietor, a burly man with one arm, sauntered out the door.

"Need — a horse," said the young rider.

The stable boy looked on, bored, as his master gave first the youth then his horse an appraising look.

"No," he said over his shoulder. "No horse for him. To judge by this one, he'll kill it."

The breathless rider clutched the innkeeper's one arm, gasping as he gave his news. At the same moment he spilled his purse at the innkeeper's feet.

Whether it was the news or the gold, the innkeeper changed his tune at once. The rider was brought some stout ale while the inn's best horse was saddled. The young messenger shivered the whole time, looking as though he were about to weep. He was certain he'd barely escaped with his life, and was equally sure that each moment of delay brought a whole army in his wake.

In ten minutes he was on the road again, a fresh wineskin hanging from his belt, digging his heels harder and harder into the new horse, leaving the innkeeper to call his neighbours together to decide if they should flee.

Sunlight spilled in through billowing curtains of the arched loggia to frame the lord of Verona and his honoured guests. The open side of the long covered balcony faced east, providing a magnificent view of the Adige River.

It was not, however, the view one first noticed upon entering. Cangrande della Scala would stand out in any gathering. His chestnut hair was sun-bleached a dark gold and hung to frame his muscular jaw. Well over six feet tall, practically a giant, he possessed enormous energy. Even in repose his movements were crisp and economical. As much hawk as hound, thought Pietro.

Both kinds of animals were scattered among the crowd. A fraction of Cangrande's hawk collection was here, at ease on wooden stands that bore the marks of their pounces. Several guests were attempting to feed the blindfolded birds without losing fingers.

At the Capitano's feet were a pair of wolfhounds. Huge, with long narrow faces, they looked the most feral of creatures until Cangrande reached out a hand, whereupon they became puppies, craving attention from their master.

One dog lay before them in the position of dominance. This was a fine, wiry greyhound with the characteristic long face and curved teeth. Cangrande tossed him a little something, and he fetched it back quick as a wink. As he settled in again to gnaw at it at his master's feet, Pietro saw his back-cloth was embroidered with the silver ladder and imperial eagle — the della Scala family crest. Under the cloth the beast's fur was long and slightly matted, showing it was one of the tougher breed of that dog known as the veltro — a term also synonymous with bastard. For those who called Cangrande 'Il Veltro', there was always that extra, amusing, connotation.

Seated in the place of honour to the Capitano's left was Pietro's father. Born Durante Alighieri di Fiorenza, he was now known to the cultured world as the poet Dante. A head and a half shorter than the young lord of Verona, he suffered mightily in comparison. His movements were jerky and incomplete, his breathing audible. His frame was mostly hidden beneath a gonella, the comfortable long gown favored by scholars, and his head was covered by the hooded cappuccio. Both garments were of black and scarlet, expensively dour colours. Like Pietro, Dante possessed a patrician face with an aquiline nose and large eyes. His jaw was large too, and the lower lip protruded a bit past the upper. But unlike his brown-haired son, his hair and beard were thick, black, and shiny.

As Mariotto and Pietro stood in the doorway of the loggia, servants rushed over to wash their hands. Watching them approach, Pietro saw the need for the slippers. The palace floor was not covered in the usual straw rushes, but bare marble. Great care was taken to keep mud and filth outside. The dogs must drive the servants insane, thought Pietro.

As the servants tended to them, Mariotto whispered, "There, in the deep green, that's Passerino Bonaccolsi, Podestà of Mantua — it's said he's Cangrande's best friend, but there's politics there, so you never know. Next to him, in the fur, that's Guglielmo da Castelbarco-Stick-in-the-Mud. He recently became the armourer for our army, and makes a nice bit of money from it. The one playing with the bread knife is Federigo della Scala — a remote cousin. He's a little quiet, but he defended the city brilliantly this summer. And there, standing just behind the Capitano, is Nicolo da Lozzo, but Cangrande just calls him Nico. He's young, only a little older than the Capitano, and he's the army's second-in-command. The post was given to him as a reward for deserting Padua, and he's doing very well with it…" Mariotto continued naming all the powerful men gathered in this room. Pietro took in each one with interest, though he doubted he'd remember many names. Bonaccolsi he'd heard of, and da Lozzo. For the rest, some of the surnames were familiar. Those denied the regal daybeds either stood or sat on cushioned boxes and stools.

Mariotto paused, looking at a broad-shouldered man with long hair braided at the back of his head. The deep blue of the ribbon that held the braid distracted the eye from the traces of silver and white that were mixed with the black and deep brown. Pointing to him, Mariotto said, "I don't know who that is."

Pietro was pleased to know something his companion did not. "That's Uguccione della Faggiuola, my father's current patron. He brought us here to renew father's introduction to the Scaliger — though I think he wants to use us to impress Cangrande. He needs an ally in the north."

Looking wise, Mariotto nodded. "Ah."

"He also bought me my old hat."

Mariotto grinned. Uguccione looked up and gave Dante's son a cheerful nod. Pietro was in the midst of waving back when a prickling sensation crept up his spine. Eyes traveling a few feet beyond the Pisan lord, he saw his father's gaze fixed upon him. A muscle below the poet's left eye twitched as his eyes flickered up a fraction to take in the new hat. Pietro felt his blood drain to his knees.

Dante and Cangrande were debating with a young abbot, a bishop whose aged gonella swept the floor, and a midget with a wide nose and dark skin. This last was dressed extravagantly, with bells on his cuffs in an outlandish parody of style. Moving closer, Pietro strained to filter out the overlapping conversations along the loggia to hear the discussion.

The elder clergyman was saying, "…Clement is dead. The Church should move to reclaim the papacy from Philip!"

"What does the nationality of your pope matter?" asked the garish midget in an innocuous tone.

Pietro's father and the bishop both responded with varying degrees of heat. Their sentiment was the same, but Dante expressed it better. "My dear misguided juggler — through converting the noble pagans of ancient Roma to Christianity, God chose Italy to be the seat right royal of his faith. Rome is the true home of the papacy, and the office belongs to an Italian! You are a Jew. Compare the exile of the papacy in France to the Babylonian Captivity, and you will perhaps grasp the significance."

"Or the captivity of the Jews in Rome after the destruction of the Temple?" asked the motley fool wryly. "Besides, Italy is a myth! An intellectual's conceit. A philospoher's fancy. Or a poet's."

"A dream of truth is no fancy, fool."

"Yet the last Italian pope was no friend to you, poet."

"True, fool, but a French pope is friend to no one."

Mariotto tugged Pietro's sleeve and together they drifted towards the raucous sounds of those nearer their own age. The bridegroom was at their center, answering war questions put to him by a large, well-muscled fellow with a thatch of unruly sand-coloured hair. Cecchino related the events of the fall campaign, and the failed attack on Padua. But the majority of the groom's friends were only interested in plying him with liquid courage and eliciting love poetry from him. "Ah, Constanza!" sighed Cecchino, earning a chorus of catcalls. Pietro and Mariotto joined in.

"I should be so lucky," groused a man in his twenties, muscular and broad-shouldered, handsomely bearded. Absentmindedly tricking with a scrap of rope, he smiled even as he complained, "I'll never get married!"

The groom cried, "Of course you won't, Bonaventura! You've managed to get on the wrong side of every father in Verona!"

"I know it!" growled the grouser, hunching forward, the rope suddenly lifeless.

Someone else joined in. "Ever since your father — God rest his blessed soul — kicked off, you've been on a rampage! Wine, women, and song!

"Not too many songs, I think," said Cecchino. "Mainly wine and women."

"Don't forget his hundred falcons!"

The fellow called Bonaventura groaned. "If I don't marry soon, I won't have any money left!"

Cecchino shrugged. "Well, you better start looking outside Verona's walls."

"There's a world outside Verona's walls?"

"You best hope so. If not, you'll die a bachelor." The groom's eyes were taking on the sly look drunks get. "Maybe we'll win this war with Padua soon. Then you can go there and steal a wealthy Paduan heiress."

The rope began to dance again as Bonaventura grew thoughtful. "A Paduan heiress…"

"Oh, yeah, the women there have the biggest…" Cecchino sighed. "But I'm married now! Ah, Costanza!" The jeers began anew.

A hand descended on Mariotto's shoulder. "Son. A moment." Pietro looked over to see a man with Mariotto's good looks, weathered and grown more patrician and grave. It was a proud face, and a handsome one, but sad.

Drawing his son aside, Lord Montecchio spoke softly to Mariotto in a manner that young Alaghieri knew all too well. Pietro decided perhaps he ought to join his father's conversation. Just to be safe.

As he shuffled back through the circle of adults he could hear the abbot speaking vehemently. They had evidently abandoned the topic of the papacy, for the object of the abbot's ire was now Dante himself.

"There cannot be more than one Heaven! Even the pagan heretic Aristotle affirms that this cannot be so. The very first lines of his ninth chapter on the heavens states it irrefutably."

"Thank you." The poet's lugubrious lips formed a sinister, lopsided smile that Pietro knew well. Dante Alaghieri did not suffer fools gladly. "You have just made my point. There cannot be more than one Heaven, you say. But you then refer to the plurality — the heavens. How are we to reconcile this?"

The abbot, who bore a vague resemblance to the Scaliger, sputtered. "A figure of speech — the heavens refer to the skies, not the greater Heaven above!"

The little man with the bells spoke. "I am surprised, lord Abbot, that you are so public with your confessions."

"What?"

The little man flipped over to stand on his head. "Reading the Greek is heresy, and punishable by death. You must have friends in high places." The abbot blushed. "But I will join you on the pyre, for I too have read his works — worse, I've read The Destruction. As I recall, dear Abbot, Aristotle had a numerical fixation not unlike our infernal friend's here. But whereas Monsignore," he nodded to Dante, "obsesses in noveni, the Greek was more economical. Did he not say there were three 'heavens?'"

"Bait someone else, jester," replied the abbot. "He was acknowledging the common uses of the word. Aristotle then goes on to insist that there is only one Heaven, for nothing can exist outside of Heaven."

Cangrande sat eagerly forward, perfect teeth flashing. "Now I'm ashamed I haven't read Aristotle. Does that mean we are now in Heaven? Doesn't seem we have much to look forward to." The low ripple of amusement in the crowd was mostly genuine. The Scaliger ran a hand over the shoulders of a hound, his eyes narrowed. "I am interested, though, in the idea of three in one. Was it an early prophecy of the Trinity? Should we count Aristotle among the Prophets?"

The abbot snorted. "No doubt Maestro Alighieri would agree. He certainly made a saint of that pagan scribbler Virgil. So many pagan poets and philosophers got fine treatment, while good churchmen were lambasted. But you missed one, Alighieri! I didn't notice the Greek philosopher Zeno in your journey through Hell."

The aquiline lips curled beneath the black beard. "That doesn't mean he isn't there. There are so many souls, I did not have time to name them all. If there is anyone you are particularly curious about, I'll inquire on my next visit."

The crowd erupted. Only Pietro knew how hard Dante was working to maintain his composure. Embedded in his many fine qualities was a discomfort in crowds. Over the years he'd learned to mask it with an acerbic wit.

Above the noise the abbot leveled an accusing finger. "You, sir, are a pagan, posing as a Christian."

"Better than an ass posing as a lamb of God." Beneath a fresh spate of laughter Dante's head turned. Oh no, thought Pietro as his father crooked a beckoning finger. "My lords, this is my elder son, named Pietro for San Pietro himself. Son, remind our host, what were the three types of heaven Aristotle named?"

Pietro wanted to hide himself in the fluttering drapes. This is my punishment for being late. And for the hat. First the Abbot is put down for calling Virgil a scribbler. Now it's my turn. Not far off he spied his little brother's large grin. Shut up, twerp. Endeavoring to recall his lessons, Pietro took a breath. "The first he uses is closest to what we mean by Heaven. It is the seat of all that is divine."

"Correct. And the second?"

"Next, he uses heaven to encompass the stars, the moon, and the sun. The heavens of astrology."

Pietro hoped his father would expound and expand, but all he was rewarded with was a curt nod. "And the third?"

"The third… it's… well, ah — "

"Yes?"

Pietro took a chance. "It's — it's everything. The whole universe. It's the totality of the world, everything in and around us. Just as all the pagan gods were only aspects of Jupiter, or Zeus, so all living beings are — are aspects of heaven."

Dante gazed at his son. "Crudely put. But not inaccurate."

Relief. Thank God Antonia isn't here. Pietro's sister would have quoted it, exactly. In Greek.

Cangrande's voice was rich and deep. "Sounds like Bolognese rhetoric. The body, the body, the body is all. So, my dear Abbot, it seems Heaven is all around us. Is that your argument? Are we indeed inside Heaven without our knowing it?"

Before the abbot could answer, the fool in silk raised his head. "I don't know about your faith — I try not to learn more than I have to of the divine carpenter — but mine says that man was created outside Heaven. And that Lucifer was cast out of Heaven for warring against Jehovah. How can you be cast out of the infinite?"

"God logic!" sneered the abbot. "We need no theology here, however fashionable. What is, is!"

Dante pressed his lips tight. "The fool raises an interesting question. Aristotle was, of course, discussing more the nature of physics than that of astrology. But we have strayed. I did not say that there was more than one Heaven. I said that the heavens were written, and must be read. I apologize for my use of the word 'heavens'. I should have said 'the stars'."

The abbot stamped his foot. "I object to the idea that the — that Heaven is a book! No doubt you think it is written in the vernacular as well?" Pietro's father had written L'Inferno in the tongue the churchmen called vulgare, eschewing the Latin of the scholars. He maintained that vulgare was what the Romans had spoken a thousand years before, while the Church Latin was far removed from the common speech of all Italians, past and present. Ironically enough, when writing his treatise praising the common tongue, he'd used Latin.

In place of defending vulgare, Dante said, "The Book of Heaven is written in a universal language, for it is our universe. It is the language spoken by all the world before the Tower of Babel. When God created the planets and stars, he gave us a map of our fate. By reading the stars, we create ourselves. It takes a willful act upon the part of the reader to interpret that fate. You would know that if you were a true pastor."

Before the abbot could reply, Cangrande leaned forward, radiating intensity. "You're saying that how a man interprets the stars affects how his life will run?"

"Yes."

The bishop shook his head. Unlike his neighbour the abbot, he spoke in reasonable tones. "Pardon, but that seems to mean there is a fixed path to man's journey. That is predestination, and clearly contrary to church doctrine." At his elbow the abbot stamped a foot for emphasis.

Dante smiled. "Imagine you are reading a book — any book. The author has written a lovely poem, with a picture clear in his mind. He describes a cloud-laden sky. When you read over his words, an entirely different picture comes to your mind's eye. Where for him the skies are full of puffy white clouds, you imagine them to be grey and full of evil portents. You are not wrong, the picture is your own. It is not, however, what the author intended. The act of reading changes both the poem and the reader.

"Thus it is with the stars. Astrology is a science as much about man as about the celestial spheres. It is not enough to observe them. They must be interpreted actively. On those interpretations rest our fates, individual and collective."

Cangrande's interest was palpable. "So the Lord has given us the song of each life, but it is up to us to sing it well?"

One bored nobleman shifted his legs and said, "It's a shame, then, O great Capitano, that your own singing makes your dogs run and hide."

"Truth from Passerino!" cried someone else.

Cangrande was the first to laugh, and the loudest, but his eyes remained on Dante. "Well, poet?"

An audition. Or a challenge. Or acknowledgement of a test already passed? "It is well put, my lord. It takes an act of will on both the part of the Divine Author and the humble mortal reader to create a destiny. God has made his will known — but are we intelligent enough to read it in his stars?"

The abbot was about to continue the argument, but the Capitano had evidently heard enough. Canting his head to one side, he addressed his fool. "This talk of poetry has put me in the mind to hear some. Come, rascal, entertain us briefly before we dine."

Pietro had met the short clown the night before. Emanuele di Salamone dei Sifoni, better known as Manoello Giudeo — Manuel the Jew — cynic, bawd, and Master of Revels for lord Cangrande's court. Throwing out the sleeves to set his bells jangling, he began to recite:

Lady, God will say to me: "How did you presume?"

When my soul will be in front of him.

"You passed through the heavens to come to me,

And you rendered me through the likeness of vain love;

For to me belong the praises

and to the queen of the worthy kingdom,

Through whom all wickedness dies."

I will be able to say to him: "She had the semblance

Of an angel that was of your kingdom;

It was no fault in me if I placed love in her."

So soft, so dulcet was the recitation of this simple, humorous love poem that all other conversation on the loggia died away.

Cangrande threw his head back and sucked in the autumn air. "It is you who presumes, Manuel! I am home from battles, toil, and dreariness. I want jollity! Music, Manuel, music!"

The silken dwarf bowed, a comical sight in itself. From somewhere a rebec and bow appeared and instantly a sprightly jig filled the hall. This was not a poem of lofty aims. The Jewish fool hopped in step, causing the bells on his sleeves to ring in time with the music. When he sang it was in the coarsest Veronese dialect:

Indeed a crown

Verona wears,

This trumpet blown

This deed declares!

Warhorse and charger,

Fighting man, banner,

Cuirass and sword,

All a-charging!

Hear the tramp, tramp,

Foot soldiers stamp.

Tramp tramp tramp tramp tramp!

Hear how they go!

As he bellowed, he mimicked the soldiers he sang of, and the palisade echoed with roars of approval. He then threw his hips forward and his shoulders back, imitating Cangrande's stride. The Capitano's chest heaved and his eyes watered. Even the grizzled bishop tapped his toe on the marble floor in time with the rhythm. The greyhound by the Capitano's feet watched the bishop's toe, ready to pounce.

The falcons caw caw

The hounds grr grr

The greyhounds grr rr rr

So they can have their sport!

Enjoying the song as much as anyone, Pietro looked about to share it with his new friend. But Mariotto was standing close to the elder Montecchi, and his body language indicated he was put out.

Here are great sports

For all and for few

And I've seen a joust

Played with firy swords!

Clapping hands encouraged Emanuele to move in wider and wider circles through the crowd as he rushed about imitating the butting of rams. Dante, politely sitting and gazing out the window, flinched as the jester dashed by.

Pietro slipped away from his father's side to join Mariotto. Sotto voce, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"I was supposed to greet the son of another visiting noble as well as you." He shook his head. "Seems like a — "

Detecting a snobbery that, in truth, didn't surprise him, Pietro said, "Like a what?"

"See for yourself. He's over there." He pointed to the burly youth who had been asking the bridegroom about war. The fellow was obviously enjoying the improvised song, stomping his feet and clapping loudly.

For love is in the hall

Of the Lord of the stair

Where even without wings

I seemed to fly!

"He's from Capua," whispered Mariotto. "His father is thinking about relocating the family business here."

"His family's in business? I thought — "

"Yes, I know. They are noble. But it's a nobility that cost them."

"Ah." Mariotto didn't have to say more. The greatest blight on the nobility was the sale of noble titles by kings, popes, and emperors. When a noble died without heir, the local ruler was able to take the defunct title with the land attached and sell it for a profit to any wealthy, ambitious member of the merchant class. Often living as nobles before nobility was granted them, these gente nuova dressed in noble fashion, kept house, ate, read, traveled exactly as the nobility did. A disgrace to be sure, but a growing practice nonetheless.

There was another side, of course. Though the nobility was loath to admit it, the influx of new blood into their ranks often helped maintain their thinning numbers. Many who were noble today came from ignoble origins — such as the della Scalas. No one was ever crass enough to point that out, though.

"I'm to show him around the city," said Mariotto.

"You ought to charge a fee." The attempt at levity fell on young Montecchio's ears with all the aplomb of a wounded duck. "What if I joined you?"

Mariotto looked up. "Would you? Would your father let you?"

"It might take some doing, but I think I can arrange it." Pietro grimaced. "We might have to bring my little brother with us."

Mariotto brightened. "My thanks, nevertheless…,"

The noise rose to a deafening pitch, drowning out Montecchio's words. The Master of Revels was bringing his song to a crashing end.

And this is the lord

With great valour,

Whose grand honour

Is spread on earth and sea!

Cangrande didn't wait for the accompanying music to stop. He jumped to his feet and embraced the diminutive genius, kissing him on both cheeks. Then he turned to Dante, still unmoved by the revels around him. Eyes twinkling, the Capitano said, "I am astonished that this man who plays the fool has gained the favor of all, while you who are called wise can't do the same."

Dante Alaghieri looked up at the lord of Verona, face devoid of expression. "You should not be astonished that fools find joy in other fools."

At which Cangrande fell in beside the poet and laughed until he cried.

The lone rider had tears streaming from his eyes when he was stopped at Verona's Ponte Pietro, the bridge leading east. "Where's the fire, lad?" asked the captain of the guard.

"I know him," said the seargent-at-arms. "Muzio. He's a page to Lord Nogarola's brother."

Realizing this might be something serious, the captain's tone grew more brusque. "What's happened?"

The boy couldn't speak. He reached for a wineskin at his hip, but a soldier got to him first with a flask of spirits. The boy coughed, then croaked out his news. "Vicenza. It's burning!"