The Master of Verona (92 page)

"Gift? What gift?"

The astrologer laid a hand on Pietro's trembling shoulder. "He has shown himself to be something less than what you imagine him to be. He has revealed a darker side, peeled back the layers of his persona to show you the person underneath. He has freed you from the thrall of worship."

Pietro glared at the Moor. "If that's true, why don't I feel grateful? And how do you know all this? Did you divine it?"

"Sometimes a well-tuned ear is far superior to the pendulum. Pietro Alaghieri, the master of Verona has given you a choice. Will you step up to the task the stars have lain at your feet and grasp your destiny, as I have mine? Or will you deny the child his brightest future out of your own need for independence?"

"Tharwat, I'm a puppet noticing his strings for the first time. Perhaps that's a gift, but how much happier was the puppet when he was unaware of the tugging?"

"Pietro, you are old enough to discard the notion that life is about happiness. This is your destiny. It is a worthy one. I am only helping you to embrace it." The Moor bowed his head and laid his hand on his heart. "I will go with you, if you like."

Pietro blinked. "You would?"

"I have nothing more to bind me to here. My place is with the boy. If you will have me."

Lifting his cane, Pietro started to walk away. "I'll think about it."

The astrologer watched him go. Then he went to pack his few belongings. The stars had already given him Pietro's answer.

Dante lay in bed, trying to breathe easy after his adventures. He was not the young man who had fought at the Battle of Campaldino. His wars were now waged with words, not swords. The sudden excitement had tired him to the point of turning his lips blue. Morsicato had ordered a draught to help him sleep, but Dante hadn't felt like taking it. He didn't want to be insensible just yet. There were things going on around him. He wished to be aware of the outcome.

Antonia rushed into the room. Seeing his still form she whispered in a frightened voice, "Father?"

Dante raised a hand. "Fine. Just resting."

"I was at Castello Montecchio when word came that you'd been attacked. There are rumours flying everywhere — you're dead, Pietro's dead, Cangrande's son…"

"All fine. There was some trouble, and the Scaliger has much to contend with. But I am well, the child is unhurt, and your brother — your brother is braver than I ever dreamed. But dear, in all the excitement, perhaps you haven't heard about poor Ferdinando." Drawing her down to sit beside him, Dante related the news that she most needed to hear.

She took Ferdinando's death soberly, at least outwardly. Dante tried to peer beneath her controlled expression, but failed. They had not been betrothed, not even courting. She said only, "I will pray for him. He was a good friend."

What Antonia did not know — and what Dante would never tell her — was that recently Ferdinando had come to Dante and baldly asked the poet's permission to court her. Since Ferdinando was not his ideal notion of a son-in-law, Dante had asked for time to consider. He was now ruing his delay. His children should be allowed whatever happiness they could snatch in this turbulent world.

She was looking particularly distant at the moment. Long convinced that all good parenting rose from the art of distraction, the poet changed topics. "My dear, I am considering taking up Guido Novello's kind offer and domiciling myself in Ravenna. Jacopo will consent, if with little grace. We shall be near Pietro again, and the University at Bologna would enjoy my lectures. When you are able, I want to hear your thoughts on the matter."

"Oh Father." Wrapping her arms about his neck, she wept, but only from her eyes. Her voice remained almost steady as she related the horrible state of affairs at Castello Montecchio. "Mariotto is swearing vengeance, Gianozza's weeping inconsolably, and Aurelia is just wandering around like a ghost. Capulletto has evidently fled back to his father. It's dreadful. I was wishing all night for nothing more than to escape them all and return to you!"
And now this,
she didn't add. She didn't have to.

Dante sighed. "It's settled, then. When all the wounds are healed, all the affairs settled, we shall accompany your brother back to Ravenna. I will have my family together at last." With unaccustomed feeling he hugged his daughter to him. "Verona is no place to be, now. I think there are dark times ahead. Especially for the Capitano. Tomorrow I shall inform him of our intent."

What drew him to the room Pietro could never later guess. He entered the salon that was once again a converted sickroom. The scents from the brazier were sweetly familiar. Before him was a man he'd glimpsed once, three years before, on a battlefield just south of the city. He lay white-faced and bloodless now, yet still retained an air of authority.

"Who's there?" asked the Count of San Bonifacio.

"Alaghieri. Pietro Alaghieri."

"Ah. My shadow. The wounds I bear, I understand, were delivered for actions on your behalf — half behalf. Do you have any oysters, child?"

"What?"

"My armour!" The old man clutched the scarred bloody breastplate that Pietro had discarded in the streets that morning. "The Pup brought it me. Thank Heaven — Father, I have it back! I'll bring it. It won't pass to my heir — my heir…" He was raving. Pietro took a step backward but the Count caught him by the wrist. "I hear you rescued the child. The little bitch-pup. Did you kill Pathino?"

"He escaped," said Pietro.

"Good, good. She'll be pleased. Once I'm dead — dead, down, but never forgotten! Never, you hear me! Never forgotten! Of course — of course, the irony is lost on you."

"Tell me."

The deep-set eyes were momentarily lucid. The fog lifted. "The irony is, I have spent all my life trying to bring down the Scaligeri when all I had to do was let them alone. They are perfectly capable of destroying themselves." Sweat poured down the Count's face. Spittle flecked the corner of his mouth.

Morsicato appeared, followed by a priest. The doctor frowned and told Pietro that he shouldn't be up here. The Count had to receive extremunction. The last rites.

Bonifacio said, "Come back and see me, boy, when I'm dead. I have stories to tell. I have a secret. It's one secret no one else knows. Not even your master! It's only mine. All mine. Two secrets, twins, entwined snakes! The
caduceus
! When I'm gone, someone has to know. I want to tell someone — someone who will suffer in the knowledge — someone who will, can, when the time is right, tell Cangrande the truth of it—"

"Then tell me now."

"No, no, no! You'll tell him too soon! Too soon! I have to have my secrets! Their lies killed me, so my lies have to live to kill their lies! And you, too, boy! You wore my armour! They told me! From beyond the grave I'll haunt you! Down, down down!"

Morsicato pushed Pietro aside. "Go. He won't be lucid again."

Exiting, Pietro made his way down the stairs to the open loggia he knew so well. He dropped down onto a stool, tired beyond all reckoning. In the garden a firefly blazed to life, momentarily visible in the dark night. Pietro tried to predict where it next would be when it glowed again. He was wrong, so he guessed again. He was wrong a second time and it became a game, a silly, stupid, mindless game that Pietro enjoyed because it kept him from thinking.

Somehow he knew when the Scaliger took up a position over his shoulder. He felt no need to turn his head. "Tharwat has made a strong case. The Count as well, though he didn't know it. Was that part of the plan, too?"

"The decision is yours."

"Is it?"

"Grow up, boy." Cangrande's voice was flat. Affectless. Unmusical. A scroll tube was dropped beside Pietro's stool. "Here. I just finished writing this." Pietro knew what was in it — a formal acknowledgement of Cesco as the heir to Verona. A stroke of the pen more dangerous than any of steel. Pietro didn't pick it up.

Cangrande said, "Your father and sister are upstairs. Tell them what you like, but you need to take them with you. The doctor as well. Whatever your decision." Pietro heard the crunch of the booted heel. Cangrande was gone. Pietro was alone.

Or so he thought.

Unseen, the boy had been creeping through the grass for minutes, stalking the firefly. All at once he sprang up and clapped his hands gently around the segmented insect. It glowed in his grasp, making two of his knuckles shine. The hands lifted. When next the firefly glowed, it cast light upon the delighted face of a child.

Watching, Pietro thought of his dream of yesterday morning. He thought of prophecies, star charts, the accumulated weight that lay upon those tiny shoulders. Unbidden, words came back to Pietro:
Live a life that is worthy of respect and honour. Protect the innocent
. Pietro's choice was already made.

Grinning at his glowing hands, Cesco opened them. The firefly circled into the darkness, winking like a star. A second glowing ember flew across its path. They hung in the air like lovers before disappearing into the night.

Fine

Now that the story has been launched, a few notes.

My sources were many and varied. The major ones were Barbara Tuchman's A DISTANT MIRROR, Alison Cornish's READING DANTE'S STARS, ASIMOV'S GUIDE TO SHAKESPEARE by Isaac Asimov, and a collection of differing versions of
Romeo & Juliet
(ironically published by the Dante University Press). This last includes works by Masuccio, Luigi da Porto, Bandello, and, of course, the Bard of Stratford. Then there was the first volume of NARRATIVE AND DRAMATIC SOURCES FOR SHAKESPEARE, which reprints Arthur Brooke's (long, awful, boring!)
Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet
.

Most important for historical data was A. M. Allen's century-old A HISTORY OF VERONA. Though Ms. Allen takes much legend as pure fact, her analysis of events and insights into the people and the politics are fascinating. She also has several lovely turns of phrase, making her book an enjoyable as well as informative read. I am indebted to the Newberry Library in Chicago and the University of Michigan Graduate Library in Ann Arbor, both for their copies of this book and the several other diamonds of data in the historical rough. For hunting down a copy of my own, I have to thank Barnes and Noble Online for their used and out-of-print book search.

I also quite enjoyed PADUA UNDER THE CARRARA by Benjamin G. Kohl, again thanks to University of Michigan.

For details of Dante's family history, I relied greatly upon DANTE e GLI ALLIGHIERI a VERONA, by Emanuele Carli. For more personal information, I was honored with an interview with Count Serego-Alighieri, the direct descendant of Pietro. Visiting him on the vineyard bought by Pietro in 1353, my wife and I found him gracious and generous with his time and his knowledge of his family's history. With a wonderfully Italian casuality, he gave us many details of his family's history and guided us around the mansion that has housed Dante's kindred for nearly seven hundred years. And the wine grown on the estate is superb.

Though I've read the Longfellow, the Oxford, and the Penguin translations of THE INFERNO, the one by Robert and Jean Hollander flows better than any other, and their commentary is magnificent (though not for the faint of heart).

For the duel in the book, I went to the fifteenth-century fight master Hans Talhoffer, whose illustrated manual of swordfighting and close combat has been used for centuries. This was where I discovered the oval shield-spear I put in Pietro's hand.

At the eleventh hour I discovered a tome that is to be treasured — the DANTE ENCYCLOPEDIA. In spite of the occasional error (the Lucius Junius Brutus that killed the Tarquin was decidedly
not
the son of the Marcus Junius Brutus who murdered Caesar!), the vast effort of compiling so much knowledge regarding the Infernal Poet and his scribblings is to be commended and savored.

Harriet Rubin's DANTE IN LOVE came in during the final edits to give me a little period flavor — which side of the hat Guelphs wore their feathers on, etc.

Many of my other source texts were in Italian, German, or Latin. When this is the case, it behooves one to read these languages with something that resembles fluency. Though my Italian has improved greatly, I was still often forced to rely on translators. For their work in this capacity, I must thank Sylvia Giorgini (Italian), Professor Martin Walsh (German), and my old high school chum, Professor John Lober, for his help with a bit of Latin.