The Master of Verona

Four

The good humour on the loggia gave way to hunger as smells wafted in from the dining-hall. The mingled scents of wine, spiced meat, melting cheese, and warm bread soaked in olive oil had all men salivating.

Pietro was singing a ribald chorus with the groom's friends and hoping his father wasn't listening when he noticed a woman in the great doorway. She was older than he might have expected, but lovely, done up in the new fashion, with her dark hair in wavy curls framing her oval face. Dressed in hanging panels of brocaded gold and burgundy, she glided into the room. Giovanna of Antioch, great-granddaughter of Emperor Frederick, sister of Cecchino's mother, and wife to the Capitano of Verona.

Removing himself from the cluster of men, Cangrande strode over to her, the wiry greyhound dogging his heels. She went up on her toes and spoke in his ear.

At the corners of the doorway beyond her, two children appeared. Pietro nudged Mariotto and whispered, "I thought Cangrande didn't have an heir."

"Not by his wife, anyway," replied Mariotto dourly. Realizing he'd spoken aloud, he coloured. "I apologize. Those are his brother's sons, Alberto and Mastino."

From Mariotto's indicating nods, Pietro learned that Alberto was the larger of the pair. A pleasant-looking child, about eight or nine years old, he seemed embarrassed to be where he knew he shouldn't. The youngest man in the room was probably Pietro's brother at fourteen years, almost a man, also a guest. Alberto knew the world of adults was still outside his sphere.

Just behind him, prodding him onward, young Mastino looked to be about six. Undoubtedly Scalageri, his face bore all the easy magnificence that graced his uncle. Yet in watching him, Pietro saw a little devil at work. Mastino pressed his brother on into the room. When Alberto wasn't scolded, little Mastino strode boldly past his pliable older brother. He stood on his heels, hands on hips, looking around the room as if he owned it. He was a genuinely gorgeous child.

Cangrande bowed to his wife, stepping back as she addressed his guests. "Gentlemen, lords, and honoured guests! The wedding feast is prepared!" A cheer. "I regret to say, though, that my husband has shamed me. Shamed me, his loving wife, by offering his nephew a feast that far outstrips the one for our own nuptials all those years ago. He has done me shame by offering to you what he never gave to me. So you must all assist him by making sure there is no evidence left!" Laughter, more appreciative cheers.

Cangrande draped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Someone, assist the groom to his seat at the head of the table. He seems to have found the liquid courage he needs to face his wedding night — if only he can remember what to do!" With an accompanying roar the group broke apart and prepared to move into the feasting hall below.

A hand slapped Pietro's shoulder. "Nice job of wriggling."

Pietro didn't bother to turn. "You're just jealous, Poco. You couldn't have done it." As a boy, Pietro had had such trouble with his brother Jacopo's name that he'd reversed the sounds, turning it into Poco. As Jacopo grew older, the nickname became an appropriate joke — he was short for his age. He'd also inherited their father's protruding lower lip, which set his young face in a perpetual pout.

"Who needs Aristotle?" asked Poco.

"Anyone with sense," came the voice that made them both stiffen. Dante's fingers clipped his younger son a light flick on the ear. "Pietro, who is your new friend?" Pietro told him. The poet looked surprised and uttered a mysterious, "Interesting."

"Why interesting?" asked Pietro.

But Dante was already heading towards the door. "Come along, Jacopo. Pietro, I'll see you downstairs."

Cowed, Poco trailed closely behind as Dante made for the exit. The bridegroom was being physically carried out the same doors by three friends while a fourth friend plied him with bread and water. Little Mastino and Alberto followed, poking the groom in the ribs to see if they could make him vomit.

Mariotto and Pietro hung back from the crowd of guests wandering out to their various suites to change for the meal. It would be at the least another half hour before they were all seated and able to eat, and Pietro recognized it as the perfect time for Mariotto to approach the young Capuan he was obliged to befriend.

The fellow was staring out the arched palisade at a rider galloping into the courtyard below. The Capuan's doublet and hose were very fine, but showed a reckless neglect around the elbows and knees. His muscles looked as slack as a sackful of horsefeed, which is to say not at all. Hearing footsteps on the marble behind him he turned, face haughty. "I'll be there in a minute." He must have thought they were servants.

"Ah, good day," said Pietro. "I'm, ah, my name is Pietro…"

"He's Pietro Alaghieri of Florence." Mariotto made sure to pronounce it correctly. "The son of the great poet Dante. I'm Mariotto Montecchio."

"Veronese?"

"Just like the best horses, I was born and bred right here."

After a brief pause, the sandy-haired stranger realized he had not reciprocated the introduction. "I'm Antony — Antonio Capecelatro, second son of Ludovico Capecelatro of Capua."

"Well met, Antony. We were wondering if you'd care to explore the city with us."

Antony frowned. "I thought you said you lived here?"

"I do," said Mariotto.

"Don't you know it already, then?"

Mariotto was flustered. "Well, yes — I do. But Alaghieri here is new to Verona. So are you. I thought we might go out after dinner and explore the city together. Maybe we can find some contests or games to take part in."

"Games?" said Antony, livening up. "Are there games here?"

"All the time, when the Capitano is in residence. He commanded games for tomorrow. Didn't you hear?"

The Capuan was skeptical. "All princes do that — and they're always pitiful!"

Mariotto smiled knowingly. "You haven't seen Cangrande's games. He held a Corte Bandita three years ago, and eight men died. Three more lost an eye apiece." His own eyes gleamed. "There are cat-battings and bear-baitings. And there's the Palio every year. The toughest race in Italy."

The Capuan was intrigued. "Inventive, is he?"

"You have no idea," said Mariotto. "Now, do you want to come with us tonight — or would you rather wait here with the old men and the women?"

Antony clapped Mariotto on the shoulder. "I should throw you over the balcony for that, pipsqueak!"

Eyes beaming, Mariotto said, "Try it! Look, we can find our supper in the city, and perhaps meet some women. Tomorrow there'll be knife fights and wrestling matches on the bridge — maybe even a goose-pull!"

To a mental list of Mariotto's attributes, Pietro added fickle. Feeling himself being relegated to the role of tagalong, he said, "Maybe we can have a swimming race in the Adige." Swimming was one arena Pietro excelled in.

Antony reached out a hand to grip Pietro's shoulder. Though not taller than either youth, his bulk and wide peasant hands made him seem gigantic. "I will follow you two to the end of the earth, if it means not another minute of poetry — no offense, Alaghieri."

"None taken," laughed Pietro, moving out of range of Antony's grasp and surreptitiously rubbing life back into his arm.

One of the huge falcons let loose a cry. The birds were all still on their perches, waiting for the Master of the Hunt to return them to the aviary. Having been disturbed by the noisy dance, they were still fidgety.

"Do you want to see my bird?" asked Mariotto. He raced over to the far end of the loggia where a young sparrow hawk, just growing to maturity, was sitting. "Dilios!" The red hawk twisted its blindfolded head towards its master's voice. Montecchio reached out a hand to lift the creature from the stand. He unhooked the tether on its leg and transferred the hawk to his own arm. "He's still small enough that I can hold him without protection." He indicated his arm, which bore only the sheath of leather from the light-coloured farsetto. Had the bird been grown, it could have easily pierced Mariotto's arm with its pounces. "Here, Dilios. There's a good boy."

"Dilios?" said Antony, puzzled. "What kind of name is that?"

"Greek." Mariotto produced the new jesses Pietro had bought him.

"The only survivor of Thermopylae," supplied Pietro.

Antony look a little embarrassed. "I'm a dunce about literature." Mariotto and Pietro shared an amused look.

Montecchio had just begun placing the new jesses on Dilios' leg when a door slammed, causing all the hawks and falcons in the hall to cry out. The three youths turned to see Cangrande della Scala stalking into the empty palisade, a parchment in hand. His air of languid amusement was gone. In its place was the crisp, clipped stride of the general.

Trailing behind the Capitano was a dust-covered messenger, no more than thirteen years old, breathless and exhausted. No one came to wash his hands or stop his shoes leaving tracks across the marble. Behind them capered Jupiter, the Scaliger's greyhound, tail stiff, head low.

Something was happening. With a quick look among them, the trio of youths quickly slipped behind the nearest curtain. Mariotto used the loop that hung from Dilios' blindfold to clamp his beak closed. From their hiding place at the far end of hall, they watched and listened.

"This happened this morning?" The Capitano's eyes scanned the few written lines again and again, ripping every ounce of meaning from them.

"Just — before dawn," gasped the rider. "Ant- Ant-"

The Scaliger looked up. "When you can! Don't waste my time!" The youth cowed, Cangrande's tone softened. "Get your breath back, then tell. You did well getting this past the enemy. A minute more won't break us." The parchment was glanced at once more. A wry grin came to the thin lips. "Good for you, Ponzoni. I didn't think you had it in you."

Mariotto frowned, then turned to his new friends and mouthed the word Padua.

Cangrande turned his full attention to the messenger. "I'm going to put some questions to you. You will answer with nods. Understand?"

The young rider started to speak, then caught himself and nodded.

"Vicenza's suburb is taken?"

Nod.

"They put up a fight?"

Shake.

"They went willingly?"

A hesitant, almost fearful, nod. There was no change in the face that questioned him.

"Antonio Nogarola is in charge in the city?"

Nod.

"Bailardino must still be in the north."

It wasn't a question, but the young messenger nodded anyway.

"Has he fortified the inner city wall?"

A nod, but there was some hesitation.

"He was just ordering it when you left."

A vigorous nod, then the lad opened his mouth. His breath had returned. "Not only the walls — Ser Nogarola ordered the houses in San Pietro fired — to deprive the enemy of cover."

"Excellent!" He clapped a hand on the messenger's shoulder. "You've done well. One more question — was there any sign of the Count of San Bonifacio?"

"They say he lead the assault into the suburb."

Cangrande swore, then patted the boy on the shoulder. "What is your name, youngster?"

"Muzio, lord."

"Muzio, you've completed your charge. You may now have any bed in the palace, including mine. Just repeat what you told me to my master-at-arms below. Ask for Nico da Lozzo. Tell him I said to muster as many men as he can and ride to Vicenza." His eyes flickered to a wineskin hanging from the lad's belt. "Is it full?" Without being asked the boy unslung it from his belt and handed it to the Capitano. "My thanks," said Cangrande, gripping the skin in one hand while the other made a fist to gently prod the boy's shoulder. "Now go tell Nico what you know. And tell him I've gone already."

Full of new energy, the boy made to run off when the great man touched his shoulder. "One last question. Is the wife of Bailardino Nogarola well?"

"She was when I saw her, lord. She was helping Signore Nogarola give the orders."

"Of course she was. Go now, lad."

The sound of the boy's footsteps echoed among the empty loggia. For a moment the great man stood alone. He lifted the wineskin to his lips and drank off the contents in a single pull, then tossed the empty bladder aside.

In a flurry of movement the Scaliger approached one of the perches. His hands moved among several of the birds waiting there. They made noise as he released the tether from one of them. It was the same merlin he had petted earlier. With a light step, the blindfolded bird was on his shoulder.

To the seemingly empty hall Cangrande said, "If you're coming, try to keep up." Then he disappeared behind the billowing curtains of the nearest arched window.

Jupiter began to whimper as the three hidden watchers cautiously emerged. Save for the greyhound and the falcons, they were quite alone.

Glancing around, Antony said, "Where the hell…?"

"Was he talking to us?" wondered Mariotto.

"He didn't know we were here," said Antony with certainty.

Pietro dashed to the arch Cangrande had disappeared behind. The lord of Verona was gone. The only thing here was the greyhound, straining against the railing to the balcony. Looking at the cobbled street one level below, Pietro said, "He jumped."

"What?" Mariotto and Antonio joined him, arriving just in time to see a golden-headed blur race out from the stables below them, heading east down a private street. Not bothering with stairs, Cangrande had found a horse and started out for Vicenza.

Pietro shared blank looks with Mariotto and Antony. Then in inspired unison Mariotto and Antony imitated Cangrande, leaping off the balcony to the stables below, Mariotto still bearing the bird on his arm.

Pietro thought they were both crazy. But already he had swung his own legs over the rail and was dropping down to the cobbled street. In seconds he was joining them in their search for horses.

Above them the greyhound raced for the door, down the stairs to the stable, determined not to be left behind.