The Master of Verona (19 page)

"There are other children, are there not?"

The brother's voice was almost amused. "You are unusually delicate. Yes, there are. Two, at least. But girls."

"Well, then. Hide this one among the others. What is one more?"

"Interesting that she sent to you, not me."

"She knows the prophecy as well as we do."

"I see I have no choice. Will you help?"

For a heartbeat there was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire in the blackened brazier.

"Thank you, Francesco. Of course I will."

"Don't thank me," he said bitterly. "I am only a tool of Fate."

Opiate-aided sleep reclaimed Pietro. He dreamed of a greyhound pursued by a pack of hyenas. Pietro twisted as in his dream the greyhound was brought down at the base of a collossal theatre, an ancient arena, staining the steps with blood.

II

Italian cities were reflections of local geology, each one owning a distinctive character based on local stone. Verona was made mostly of rose marble and brick, Padua banded marble and cold stone. In Siena one found a burnt red colour everywhere. Bologna was terra cotta, and Assisi was the colour of fresh salmon. Venice, with no local geology, was constructed from all of them, at great expense.

Self-proclaimed fountainhead of freedom, the city of Florence was composed of brown stones and clay tiles, lending it a no-nonsense air. Unlike many other city-states, Florence was not a cult of personality. It was a city of ideas. 'The mother of all liberty,' it covered 1,556 acres enclosed by three sets of walls and filled with nearly 300,000 people.

Straddling the River Arno, the birthplace of Dante Alaghieri was currently enjoying a light breeze from the north. Clouds slid across the sky, growing ever darker. The break in the heat was welcome as the thick crowds clogged the streets, stopping at the tents that lined the wide walkways. This was market day, citizens bantering and bartering with members of the various guilds in order to find the best use for their precious florins.

The coin of Florence was one of the most stable currencies in the world, perhaps because it did no homage to king, pope, or emperor, but to the city itself. One side bore the city's symbol, the lily. The other depicted John the Baptist, the city's patron saint. Thus the florin survived unaltered during sieges, riots, or coups, passing from hand to hand and making Florence's economy grow astronomically.

A man called Mosso was sadly too busy to strangle that final florin from his customers. One of the great booksellers, his was not a mere tent but a fine wooden stall covered in awnings, erected each morning and deconstructed each night, at some cost. His precious wares needed the best protection from the elements. True, a few of his books were cheap prints from woodcuts, but the majority were hand-printed tomes, painstakingly copied by master scribes. All were of immense value. An edition of the Bible sold for a small fortune, so that only the richest men had copies — fitting, as they were the only ones with the Latin to understand it.

The cause of Mosso's consternation stood before him, an unlikely representative for the unlikeliest of best-selling poets. Not knowing how to begin, the bookseller tried small talk. "A cloudy day. I hear they're being drowned up north."

The author's representative wasn't interested in the weather. "How are sales?"

"It's going well — better than well, splendid. I'll be sold out in another week."

"I
told
you."

Mosso held up a hand. "Yes..."

"I
told
you to order more," insisted the representative.

The bookseller bit back what he would usually tell a prickly proxy — to take a running jump in the Arno. Instead he again forced himself to agree. "Yes, you did, didn't you."

Pointing to an expensive book bound in engraved metal, the representative asked, "Is this the new edition of Paolino Pieri?"

"His
Cronica
, yes," said Mosso fastidiously. He had to ask for more copies. They both knew it. The demand was incredible. A hundred copies gone in a day! His whole stock was almost gone. Worse, illicit copies were undoubtedly being made at this moment. He had to get more.

Yet it galled him, so he tried to talk around his problem. "What I can't figure out is why everyone wants it, when all he does is insult the city."

"He does quite a bit more than that." The
Cronica
was laid aside and a leather-bound copy of
Gesta Florentinorum
was unlocked instead.

"All that stuff about Fiesole — that's aimed at us."

"I'm surprised you noticed."

Bristling, the bookseller brought indignation into his voice. "Talking about the plant that springs out of their shit, begging your pardon, and turning into a nest of malice, a — what was it? A—"

"'A city full of envy.' Canto Six." The representative's eyes studied the calligraphy of the fine Latin letters, an art rediscovered by Brunetto Latini, just twenty years in his grave. Unfortunately he was burning in Hell among the sinners against nature and its goodness, according to the only authority that mattered.

"Yes!" cried Mosso. "Full of envy? For what,
him
? His writing? He's got talent, but too much hubris by far!"

Though Dante's representative didn't look up from the hand-painted letters, the eyes had stopped scanning. "Hubris?"

Mosso realized his error. "I didn't mean…"

Slam! The
Gesta Florentinorum
dropped to the countertop. "For God's sake!" Mosso nearly screamed as he scooped it up. The thing was worth a small fortune, and he'd had to pay up front.

Dante's representative was unrepentant. "If you find it so intolerable, then you shouldn't be required to sell it. I'll give the contract to the Covoni. Return whatever copies you have left and I'll reimburse you three-quarters." The representative turned to leave, pushing past the buyers who now hurried to get their copies before they vanished.

Mosso was out from behind his stall as swift as quicksilver. "Whoa, whoa there, little miss. I didn't mean to insult you or your—"

"You're blocking my way," observed Dante's representative, her eyes level with Mosso's breastbone.

"Don't go to the Covoni. They'll take a month getting organized and by then the demand will have died down."

The voice was icy. "Will it?"

"I mean, it may have — I mean, no, no, of course it won't, but –" Mosso grasped at anything he could think of to retain this contract. "Their books aren't in order! Everyone knows that the author never sees the full amount agreed to! Copies go missing and are sold under the table while they claim the loss—"

"Better that than a man who insults the book in front of prospective buyers. Please step aside."

Mosso looked about at the throng of people here in the street, all here to purchase this very book, all listening with glee to the scene he was creating. He couldn't lose this contract! Grabbing the girl by her shoulders he pulled her into the lee of his stall. "Listen, little girl! We have a binding contract, you and I! I am the sole supplier for this quarter, and if you try to break it I'll have you in court!"

There was a light misting in the young lady's eyes, no doubt fright from being so roughly handled. But her expression became, if anything, more resolved. "Do. In the meantime release me or I'll have you up on charges for assault!"

The bookseller was trembling more than the girl as he let her go. "Please — my wife — she'll murder me if I lose this contract…"

Dante's representative gazed at him, mouth thin. Finally she said, "You will triple your order, and another ten percent of the profit returns to the author." She waited for his nod of agreement, which he bobbed uncertainly at first, then more rapidly, before informing him that a clerk would be by later today with the new contract to sign.

Mosso sagged in relief. "I'm really very sorry." She stared pointedly at him until he moved aside and allowed her to pass. As she resumed her brisk pace, Mosso called after her, "Those bits about the Sienese were really very funny…" She disappeared in the crowded street and Mosso groaned inwardly. He'd begun the battle to keep his pride and had ended up losing a fair chunk of gold. But it was difficult to acknowledge that his head for business was not as good as that of a thirteen-year-old girl.

Glancing at the youth manning his stall, Mosso snarled, "What are you looking at? Get back to work!" Resuming his own place behind the counter, he began to call his wares. "The
Inferno
! Dante's
Inferno
! Get it here, and here only! The only seller in this quarter and the best price anywhere! Read the greatest epic since Homer! More daring than the
Odyssey
, more exciting than the
Aeneid
! Go to Hell with Dante, Florence's lost son…"

Around the corner from Mosso's shop, Antonia Alaghieri paused at the edge of the Ponte Vecchio, leaning against a wall and breathing hard. That she had won the negotiation with Mosso only made the experience more frightening. Her mother would certainly disapprove — '
unladylike'
would be the word. Brushing her mousey-brown hair from her face (for she was too young to hide her hair in public), Antonia daubed her eyes and composed herself.

Overhead the sky was heavy with clouds. They framed the nearby Martocus, a famous statue that was the sole remains of the ancient god of war who had been the patron of Florence long before John the Baptist was born. Canto Thirteen declared that, because the city had turned its back on Mars, he would plague them with strife forever. It was through that strife that the Great Injustice had entered Antonia's life.

As she always did, she looked to the enraged and broken marble face of the Martocus and whispered, "Forgive them. Please, forgive them, and bring him home." In her mind's eye she conjured up the cover of the Pisan publication, the one bearing a stamp of an engraving of her father's face. It was as close as she could come to picturing his face, for she'd never actually laid eyes on him, having been a babe in arms when the great poet was forced to leave Florence forever.

Yet not knowing his face wasn't the loss it might have been. She knew his writings and, through them, him. Poems, epistles, canziones — and especially his letters. Early in his exile Dante had corresponded perfunctorily with his wife, not even acknowledging Antonia until, at the tender age of nine, she'd enclosed a note in one of her mother's replies. Her note commented on a poem Dante had sent to be delivered to his copyist in Florence. Antonia had read it and secretly corrected a reference in it before it went to the copyist — he'd referred to the wrong Caesar when citing Catullus, saying that the Roman poet had lived in the days of Augustus. It was clearly a mistake, for Catullus was famous for his wicked satires of Caius Julius Caesar. Antonia made the correction, then wrote directly to her father to apologize for tampering with his work.

The letter that arrived three months later — addressed to her! — was curt:

The correction was, it seems, justified, for the mistake was not mine but your brother Giovanni's, whose understanding of dictation is more lacking than his grasp of hygiene. For the sake of the poem, I am grateful, but you must understand how wary I remain of any tampering with my words. Never do it again. Your loving father, et cetera.

This letter, a few scant lines from a man who was known to fill pages with irrelevant gossip, became Antonia's most prized possession. Wanting to reply immediately, she was wise enough to refrain until she had another literary subject to address.

She hadn't long to wait. A fortnight later, Cecco Angiolieri stole lines from an early work of Dante's to use in his own new poem. Antonia wrote to inform her father, who sent back a furiously scathing diatribe regarding Angiolieri's talent and wit to be published in Florence. This he addressed not to his wife, Gemma, but to Antonia. From that day forward his daughter became his connection to his Florentine publishers.

Over time his letters grew a shade longer, and by the time she was ten he was treating her as equal to his many other correspondents. "I do miss her," he lamented on the eve of Antonia's eleventh birthday, just after the death of her brother Giovanni. In a mournful mood, the poet was referring not to Antonia's mother but to the woman who had possessed his soul from the time he was seven. Beatrice Portinari.

The bringer of blessings has been dead more than two decades, longer than I can fathom having lived. Though she survives in my mind and in my words — much of which was written to be read by her — with each passing day it grows harder to remember her face. I suppose I grow old. My eyes begin to fail me. But to have my innermost eye blinded by time, that is a cruel trick. I know she is a cherished soul in Heaven, but my earth is poorer for the lack of her. Only when I write to her can I feel her presence. And of late I cannot take up my pen to write to her, for I feel she is truly dead.

Antonia's response was simple. It read:

In the future you may address me as Beatrice.