The Master of Verona (51 page)

"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?"