The Master of Verona (22 page)

"A play," said Mussato happily. "Seneca would be proud."

"A play? In Seneca's style?" cried Dante. "Fascinating."

"God!" implored Asdente. "Here I thought we might get a good conversation going — death, treason, murder, war. But no! Poetry! It always comes back to poetry. Pah!" He spat as if he were eager to be rid of the word.

Dante ignored him. "So this is to be a dark Tragedy?"

"A Tragedy for the people of Verona, as dark as my mind can make it."

"And I'm the villain of the piece?" asked Cangrande proudly.

"Oh, no, no! I'm setting it back in the days of Ezzelino da Romano, when he was ripping up the countryside like you are now. The play will show what happens when a tyrant is let to rule over us. Your name will not be mentioned."

The Scaliger raised his glass to Mussato. "When it is finished, you must send me a copy. I'll fund the first production."

"Figures," growled Asdente. "Everybody knows you enjoy hanging around with actors and other parasites."

"And you, my sweet Asdente, and you."

Amid the jeering and laughter the first course arrived, and for a short time everyone was occupied with plates of armoured turnips, a dish of ash-baked turnips covered in spices, cheese and butter. Pietro was grateful for the activity. Extremely uncomfortable in this august company, he was well aware the only person near his own age and rank was staring murder at him from across the table.

Swallowing a turnip, Il Grande pointed his knife at Dante. "Tell me, Maestro Alaghieri. You were once a devout Guelph."

"How devout can a White Guelph be?" interjected Marsilio.

Il Grande ignored his nephew. "Now you live at a staunchly Ghibelline court and were a supporter of the late Emperor. I admit exile would sour me against my home, and I can certainly understand how a bad pope can make one jaded about the Church. But do you really, truly believe that the Emperor should not be subject to the papacy?"

"I do."

"Oh God," muttered Asdente, rolling his eyes at his neighbour Dandolo. "Here we go. Popes and emperors."

"It's what this war is about!" cried Marsilio da Carrara.

"It's not," growled Asdente. "It's about land and taxes, like everything else."

"I think you underestimate men, Ser Scorigiani," said the Venetian Dandolo. "For some it is as you say. But to many men this issue matters."

Cangrande pointed an accusing finger. "Says the man whose country takes no position. You are certainly a politic politician, Dog Dandolo."

"But he's correct." Il Grande leaned back and regarded Dante. "It matters to men like me. So how, Maestro, do you get around the Biblical argument? Genesis says two lights, a greater and a lesser, one for day and the other for night. Science tells us that one is reflected light. So if the pope's light is the sun and the emperor's light is the moon, the emperor must derive his power from the pope."

Dante smiled thinly under his beard. "That is indeed the
common
argument. But broaden your horizons. God, infallible, created man as a dual creature — one part divine, one part earthly. The pope's dominion is over the divine, the soul, the spirit. But he has no authority over the temporal part of us. That is the emperor's domain."

"But isn't the flesh subject to the soul?"

"Not necessarily. What is true is that flesh is corrupt, we wither and we die. Yet the spirit remains incorruptible. The two are separate by their natures, ergo God has set us two goals:
Beatitudenem huis vitae et beatitudenem vitae eterne
. I believe the emperor's authority
must
be derived directly from God Himself, as he is charged with maintaining order and peace during this testing time of humanity, for it is while we wear this weak flesh that we can prove our true devotion. If anything, the emperor's charge is the more important, because the one essential for man and reason to reach their full potential is lasting peace. Only when the whole world is governed by one man whose power comes directly from God above can humanity have the calm it requires to return to its state before the Fall."

Marsilio da Carrara sneered. "And from which demon did you hear this nonsense?" The other faces around the table frowned, including his uncle's.

"Nonsense?" interjected Pietro. "I'd like to hear you do better defending the corruption of the Church!"

"I don't talk," sneered Marsilio. "My voice is in my sword."

"A shame that isn't true," retorted Pietro. "If you were half the swordsman you are a braggart…"

Dante abruptly turned towards Cangrande and waved a hand in front of his face. "My lord, I think we require another brazier. There are a couple of gnats buzzing around in here that need smoking out."

"No more warmth, please," said Il Grande, shooting his nephew a dark glare. "There's enough hot blood in the room already." Marsilio sank back and glowered. Pietro held his eyes, trying to look hard-bitten.

Asdente watched the two of them with pleasure. "Ah, youth. The young make the best soldiers. They have so much energy!"

"Because every little thing matters," said Bonaccolsi, pushing back a plate and licking his fingers. "A molehill becomes a mountain."

Il Grande smiled. "It is fortunate then that we Paduans are not governed by a single youth. I wonder that Verona can cope."

Cangrande grinned. "Young though I am, my wisdom is as Solomon's, because my light is not reflected. It is my own."

A second course arrived, an almond fricatella, which consisted of crushed almonds strained through milk and rosewater, then added to ground chicken breast, meal, egg whites, and sugar. While Pietro and Marsilio continued to glare at each other, the rest of the table fell to with gusto.

Cangrande resumed civilized discourse. "I would like to renew a debate we were having while you gentlemen" — here he indicated the Paduans — "were storming the walls of San Pietro. We were discussing the role the stars play in our lives."

Predictably Dante spoke first. "The significant phrase here is '
Ratio stellarum, significatio stellarum
.' Pietro?"

Clearing his throat, Pietro spoke to Marsilio as if explaining to a child. "
Ratio stellarum, significatio stellarum
— the order of motion versus the significance of that motion.
Ratio
— the stars circle above the world in an ordered pattern.
Significatio
— that pattern has a purpose...."

"There's a leap of faith," muttered Asdente.

"It's rude to interrupt, Vanni," chided Cangrande, but Pietro was grinning — the sneering Marsilio had turned away.

"Ser Scorigiani does have a point," observed the Venetian Dandolo. "Is it wise to assume a purpose to the motion of the stars? Why that only? Why not the motion of the clouds, or the flight of an owl?"

Il Grande shook his head. "That's paganism."

Dandolo chuckled. "I suppose it is."

"Is it?" asked Mussato. "Or would we be wise to look for God's will in all His creation?"

Cangrande's grin created creases on each side of his mouth. "Dear Lord, do Dandolo and I have something in common? Tell me it's not so. Still, as potential excommunicants we would, I suppose. I know it's hard to believe, but I once believed I was a good Christian. As I get older, I worry. I often get caught up in this — what did Abelard call it?"

"Theology," supplied Mussato and Dante at once.

"Yes! 'God logic.' And am regularly chastised for it by clergy near and far."

Bonaccolsi thumped the table with his fist and pointed. "Perhaps by the time you can shave you will have already worried yourself grey, hound!"

As the Mantuan roared at his own joke, Cangrande sighed then continued. "Monsignor Carrara, have you noticed that no matter how often they are derided, some ideas can never be extinguished? The ancients believed in the power of the stars. So do we. Ours are even named for the old Roman gods, and they have much the same power. They live in the sky, choosing life or death for the mortals who are merely pawns to their amusement. Some refer to our God the same way."

Pietro said, "You are no one's pawn, lord. You just proved it." There were murmurs of assent from the Veronese.

"Did I?" The Scaliger waved a hand at the ceiling upon which rain pelted down. "Look outside and tell me what I achieved."

"You can't blame yourself for the rain," said Asdente. "Luck, nothing more. Good for us, bad for you."

Cangrande shook his head. "Luck? Or Fate? Ask the stars, Vanni! Perhaps it is God's desire for Padua to remain independant. Perhaps I will never…" His voice trailed off, silence lingering in the wake of his words.

"What is this?" asked Dandolo abruptly from the far end of the table. "The great Greyhound doubting himself?"

When Cangrande did not reply, Mussato cleared his throat and said, "The Church tells us the science of astrology is God's plan made manifest."

Il Grande shook his head. "What if the stars are not the celestial book of Fate? What if the ancients were correct? What if the stars are active participants in our lives?"

"They are." All eyes turned to Dante. "It is not paganism. The stars do exert influence over us. They make plants grow and wither. They create imbalances in the mind. Venus arouses the loins, Mars the sword."

Cangrande stirred. "I am told Mars was in the House of Aries when I was born. Does that mean I was destined to be a soldier? What if I had denied that fate? What if I had said no?"

Asdente said ungrudgingly, "You are the best soldier in Italy."

"Thank you for that, Vanni. But I had a good teacher." The Capitano slapped his hands together. "Even that! Was Bailardino put in my path by the heavens to create my destiny? What if I had said no?
Could
I have said no?"

Asdente looked puzzled. "Why would you have wanted to?"

The Scaliger was earnest. "Because then we would know that we have a choice in our own lives. Free will."

All the men at the table sat quietly for some time, chewing upon their meals and their thoughts. At last Francesco Dandolo spoke, his voice a dreamy whisper. "Have you ever been to sea? Being Venetian, I find the best example of the power of the stars is at sea. Upon the water, the stars are both the guide and the enemy. They give the sailor a map to his destination while at the same time they stir the seas he sails on. They show the path, at the same time creating obstacles to that path."

Cangrande's eyes narrowed as he listened. "They show the prize, then strip it away."

Hoping to avert the Scaliger's curiously ill thoughts, Pietro turned to Dandolo. "The stars don't always make the seas rough, do they? Couldn't they create a smooth course just as easily? Why must they be the enemy?"

The Capitano's head swiveled. "Quite right. Why must they?"

Il Grande chose to follow an earlier thought. "Still, the choice is theirs. The stars choose which men to aid, which to oppose. What does it say about the men they befriend? Are those men more capable, or less?" His eyes met Cangrande's. "Which did they do for you, lord Capitano?"

"I don't know," replied Cangrande. "Some men would say they favor me."

"But what do
you
say?"

Cangrande pursed his lips. "Can a man ever know the Lord's will?"

"It would arrogance to try," observed Mussato. "His will is a mystery. Man's fate is up to God alone."

"But that denies free will," countered Dante, "a concept that the Church does allow for. A man takes active participation in deciding his own fate. Or else what's the point of living?"

Mussato leaned as far forward as his injuries allowed. "Ah, but what if he chooses a different interpretation of that fate than God intended? A man meant to be a soldier becomes a farmer. Will the stars oppose him? Will God?"

The Scaliger pointed. "What do you say, Pietro?"

Pietro hadn't realized his expression had altered so much as to draw attention, and he was too embarrassed to share his thought. "I — I don't know. I do know that my father has a very strict view on astrology."

The Scaliger threw Dante a sly glance. "I know. Soothsayers get tossed into the infernal ring reserved for fraud."

"There is a specific distinction," corrected Dante. "A soothsayer is not an astrologer, but a reader of entrails. That is superstistion. Astrology is a science, one I adhere to. But, like priests, there are good and bad astrologers. The only astrologers I condemn are the ones who try to alter the will of Heaven, or else try to curry favor by creating prophecies out of whole cloth."

"Poor Manto!" cried Bonaccolsi. "Dante, throw us a bone!"

"I did — hers."

There was some little hilarity at this remark, but Cangrande was undeterred. Clapping his hands together, he divided the air in front of him. "Where is the line, poet? As someone who finds himself accused of being a figure from a prophecy, it concerns me deeply. What separates the active interpretation you advocate from the willful disobedience you deplore — or, should I say, He deplores?"

Dante wore his best enigmatic expression. "I suppose it comes down to the will of the Lord."

The Scaliger's mocking grin grew wide as he shook his head in disgust. "As always, poet, you wax eloquent on broad themes but on specifics remain cryptically obtuse."

Dante spread his hands. "Of course, my lord. What else are poets for?"

The supper went on, course after course, and conversation wandered into easier topics, no less hotly debated. There were discussions of battle tactics, of women, of politics, of wine. The meal ended with a second fricatella, apple this time, and a vigorous debate over the fate of the Knights Templar. Their order had finally been stamped out earlier in the year by King Philip IV and his puppet pope. Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, had been sentenced to burn at the stake for heresy. Before falling to the flames he proclaimed his innocence and declared that God would be his avenger, calling down a curse upon the French king and his issue down to the thirteenth generation. His last words were a summons for both King Philip and Pope Clement to meet him at the seat of God's judgment before the year was out.

The whole affair was forgotten until Clement dropped dead less than a month later. Pietro remembered the frantic editing, the numerous messages sent to all the hired copyists, as Dante added a prophecy of the pope's death to the nineteenth canto.