The Master of Verona Read online

  "I should be so lucky," groused a man in his twenties, muscular and broad-shouldered, handsomely bearded. Absentmindedly tricking with a scrap of rope, he smiled even as he complained, "I'll never get married!"

  The groom cried, "Of course you won't, Bonaventura! You've managed to get on the wrong side of every father in Verona!"

  "I know it!" growled the grouser, hunching forward, the rope suddenly lifeless.

  Someone else joined in. "Ever since your father — God rest his blessed soul — kicked off, you've been on a rampage! Wine, women, and song!

  "Not too many songs, I think," said Cecchino. "Mainly wine and women."

  "Don't forget his hundred falcons!"

  The fellow called Bonaventura groaned. "If I don't marry soon, I won't have any money left!"

  Cecchino shrugged. "Well, you better start looking outside Verona's walls."

  "There's a world outside Verona's walls?"

  "You best hope so. If not, you'll die a bachelor." The groom's eyes were taking on the sly look drunks get. "Maybe we'll win this war with Padua soon. Then you can go there and steal a wealthy Paduan heiress."

  The rope began to dance again as Bonaventura grew thoughtful. "A Paduan heiress..."

  "Oh, yeah, the women there have the biggest..." Cecchino sighed. "But I'm married now! Ah, Costanza!" The jeers began anew.

  A hand descended on Mariotto's shoulder. "Son. A moment." Pietro looked over to see a man with Mariotto's good looks, weathered and grown more patrician and grave. It was a proud face, and a handsome one, but sad.

  Drawing his son aside, Lord Montecchio spoke softly to Mariotto in a manner that young Alaghieri knew all too well. Pietro decided perhaps he ought to join his father's conversation. Just to be safe.

  As he shuffled back through the circle of adults he could hear the abbot speaking vehemently. They had evidently abandoned the topic of the papacy, for the object of the abbot's ire was now Dante himself.

  "There cannot be more than one Heaven! Even the pagan heretic Aristotle affirms that this cannot be so. The very first lines of his ninth chapter on the heavens states it irrefutably."

  "Thank you." The poet's lugubrious lips formed a sinister, lopsided smile that Pietro knew well. Dante Alaghieri did not suffer fools gladly. "You have just made my point. There cannot be more than one Heaven, you say. But you then refer to the plurality — the heavens. How are we to reconcile this?"

  The abbot, who bore a vague resemblance to the Scaliger, sputtered. "A figure of speech — the heavens refer to the skies, not the greater Heaven above!"

  The little man with the bells spoke. "I am surprised, lord Abbot, that you are so public with your confessions."

  "What?"

  The little man flipped over to stand on his head. "Reading the Greek is heresy, and punishable by death. You must have friends in high places." The abbot blushed. "But I will join you on the pyre, for I too have read his works — worse, I've read The Destruction. As I recall, dear Abbot, Aristotle had a numerical fixation not unlike our infernal friend's here. But whereas Monsignore," he nodded to Dante, "obsesses in noveni, the Greek was more economical. Did he not say there were three 'heavens?'"

  "Bait someone else, jester," replied the abbot. "He was acknowledging the common uses of the word. Aristotle then goes on to insist that there is only one Heaven, for nothing can exist outside of Heaven."

  Cangrande sat eagerly forward, perfect teeth flashing. "Now I'm ashamed I haven't read Aristotle. Does that mean we are now in Heaven? Doesn't seem we have much to look forward to." The low ripple of amusement in the crowd was mostly genuine. The Scaliger ran a hand over the shoulders of a hound, his eyes narrowed. "I am interested, though, in the idea of three in one. Was it an early prophecy of the Trinity? Should we count Aristotle among the Prophets?"

  The abbot snorted. "No doubt Maestro Alighieri would agree. He certainly made a saint of that pagan scribbler Virgil. So many pagan poets and philosophers got fine treatment, while good churchmen were lambasted. But you missed one, Alighieri! I didn't notice the Greek philosopher Zeno in your journey through Hell."

  The aquiline lips curled beneath the black beard. "That doesn't mean he isn't there. There are so many souls, I did not have time to name them all. If there is anyone you are particularly curious about, I'll inquire on my next visit."

  The crowd erupted. Only Pietro knew how hard Dante was working to maintain his composure. Embedded in his many fine qualities was a discomfort in crowds. Over the years he'd learned to mask it with an acerbic wit.

  Above the noise the abbot leveled an accusing finger. "You, sir, are a pagan, posing as a Christian."

  "Better than an ass posing as a lamb of God." Beneath a fresh spate of laughter Dante's head turned. Oh no, thought Pietro as his father crooked a beckoning finger. "My lords, this is my elder son, named Pietro for San Pietro himself. Son, remind our host, what were the three types of heaven Aristotle named?"

  Pietro wanted to hide himself in the fluttering drapes. This is my punishment for being late. And for the hat. First the Abbot is put down for calling Virgil a scribbler. Now it's my turn. Not far off he spied his little brother's large grin. Shut up, twerp. Endeavoring to recall his lessons, Pietro took a breath. "The first he uses is closest to what we mean by Heaven. It is the seat of all that is divine."

  "Correct. And the second?"

  "Next, he uses heaven to encompass the stars, the moon, and the sun. The heavens of astrology."

  Pietro hoped his father would expound and expand, but all he was rewarded with was a curt nod. "And the third?"

  "The third... it's… well, ah –"

  "Yes?"

  Pietro took a chance. "It's — it's everything. The whole universe. It's the totality of the world, everything in and around us. Just as all the pagan gods were only aspects of Jupiter, or Zeus, so all living beings are — are aspects of heaven."

  Dante gazed at his son. "Crudely put. But not inaccurate."

  Relief. Thank God Antonia isn't here. Pietro's sister would have quoted it, exactly. In Greek.

  Cangrande's voice was rich and deep. "Sounds like Bolognese rhetoric. The body, the body, the body is all. So, my dear Abbot, it seems Heaven is all around us. Is that your argument? Are we indeed inside Heaven without our knowing it?"

  Before the abbot could answer, the fool in silk raised his head. "I don't know about your faith — I try not to learn more than I have to of the divine carpenter — but mine says that man was created outside Heaven. And that Lucifer was cast out of Heaven for warring against Jehovah. How can you be cast out of the infinite?"

  "God logic!" sneered the abbot. "We need no theology here, however fashionable. What is, is!"

  Dante pressed his lips tight. "The fool raises an interesting question. Aristotle was, of course, discussing more the nature of physics than that of astrology. But we have strayed. I did not say that there was more than one Heaven. I said that the heavens were written, and must be read. I apologize for my use of the word 'heavens'. I should have said 'the stars'."

  The abbot stamped his foot. "I object to the idea that the — that Heaven is a book! No doubt you think it is written in the vernacular as well?" Pietro's father had written L'Inferno in the tongue the churchmen called vulgare, eschewing the Latin of the scholars. He maintained that vulgare was what the Romans had spoken a thousand years before, while the Church Latin was far removed from the common speech of all Italians, past and present. Ironically enough, when writing his treatise praising the common tongue, he'd used Latin.

  In place of defending vulgare, Dante said, "The Book of Heaven is written in a universal language, for it is our universe. It is the language spoken by all the world before the Tower of Babel. When God created the planets and stars, he gave us a map of our fate. By reading the stars, we create ourselves. It takes a willful act upon the part of the reader to interpret that fate. You would know that if you were a true pastor."

  Before the abbot could reply, Cangrande leaned forward, r
adiating intensity. "You're saying that how a man interprets the stars affects how his life will run?"

  "Yes."

  The bishop shook his head. Unlike his neighbour the abbot, he spoke in reasonable tones. "Pardon, but that seems to mean there is a fixed path to man's journey. That is predestination, and clearly contrary to church doctrine." At his elbow the abbot stamped a foot for emphasis.

  Dante smiled. "Imagine you are reading a book — any book. The author has written a lovely poem, with a picture clear in his mind. He describes a cloud-laden sky. When you read over his words, an entirely different picture comes to your mind's eye. Where for him the skies are full of puffy white clouds, you imagine them to be grey and full of evil portents. You are not wrong, the picture is your own. It is not, however, what the author intended. The act of reading changes both the poem and the reader.

  "Thus it is with the stars. Astrology is a science as much about man as about the celestial spheres. It is not enough to observe them. They must be interpreted actively. On those interpretations rest our fates, individual and collective."

  Cangrande's interest was palpable. "So the Lord has given us the song of each life, but it is up to us to sing it well?"

  One bored nobleman shifted his legs and said, "It's a shame, then, O great Capitano, that your own singing makes your dogs run and hide."

  "Truth from Passerino!" cried someone else.

  Cangrande was the first to laugh, and the loudest, but his eyes remained on Dante. "Well, poet?"

  An audition. Or a challenge. Or acknowledgement of a test already passed? "It is well put, my lord. It takes an act of will on both the part of the Divine Author and the humble mortal reader to create a destiny. God has made his will known — but are we intelligent enough to read it in his stars?"

  The abbot was about to continue the argument, but the Capitano had evidently heard enough. Canting his head to one side, he addressed his fool. "This talk of poetry has put me in the mind to hear some. Come, rascal, entertain us briefly before we dine."

  Pietro had met the short clown the night before. Emanuele di Salamone dei Sifoni, better known as Manoello Giudeo — Manuel the Jew — cynic, bawd, and Master of Revels for lord Cangrande's court. Throwing out the sleeves to set his bells jangling, he began to recite:

  Lady, God will say to me: "How did you presume?,"

  When my soul will be in front of him.

  "You passed through the heavens to come to me,

  And you rendered me through the likeness of vain love;

  For to me belong the praises

  and to the queen of the worthy kingdom,

  Through whom all wickedness dies."

  I will be able to say to him: "She had the semblance

  Of an angel that was of your kingdom;

  It was no fault in me if I placed love in her."

  So soft, so dulcet was the recitation of this simple, humorous love poem that all other conversation on the loggia died away.

  Cangrande threw his head back and sucked in the autumn air. "It is you who presumes, Manuel! I am home from battles, toil, and dreariness. I want jollity! Music, Manuel, music!"

  The silken dwarf bowed, a comical sight in itself. From somewhere a rebec and bow appeared and instantly a sprightly jig filled the hall. This was not a poem of lofty aims. The Jewish fool hopped in step, causing the bells on his sleeves to ring in time with the music. When he sang it was in the coarsest Veronese dialect:

  Indeed a crown

  Verona wears,

  This trumpet blown

  This deed declares!

  Warhorse and charger,

  Fighting man, banner,

  Cuirass and sword,

  All a-charging!

  Hear the tramp, tramp,

  Foot soldiers stamp.

  Tramp tramp tramp tramp tramp!

  Hear how they go!

  As he bellowed, he mimicked the soldiers he sang of, and the palisade echoed with roars of approval. He then threw his hips forward and his shoulders back, imitating Cangrande's stride. The Capitano's chest heaved and his eyes watered. Even the grizzled bishop tapped his toe on the marble floor in time with the rhythm. The greyhound by the Capitano's feet watched the bishop's toe, ready to pounce.

  The falcons caw caw

  The hounds grr grr

  The greyhounds grr rr rr

  So they can have their sport!

  Enjoying the song as much as anyone, Pietro looked about to share it with his new friend. But Mariotto was standing close to the elder Montecchi, and his body language indicated he was put out.

  Here are great sports

  For all and for few

  And I've seen a joust

  Played with firy swords!

  Clapping hands encouraged Emanuele to move in wider and wider circles through the crowd as he rushed about imitating the butting of rams. Dante, politely sitting and gazing out the window, flinched as the jester dashed by.

  Pietro slipped away from his father's side to join Mariotto. Sotto voce, he asked, "What's wrong?"

  "I was supposed to greet the son of another visiting noble as well as you." He shook his head. "Seems like a –"

  Detecting a snobbery that, in truth, didn't surprise him, Pietro said, "Like a what?"

  "See for yourself. He's over there." He pointed to the burly youth who had been asking the bridegroom about war. The fellow was obviously enjoying the improvised song, stomping his feet and clapping loudly.

  For love is in the hall

  Of the Lord of the stair

  Where even without wings

  I seemed to fly!

  "He's from Capua," whispered Mariotto. "His father is thinking about relocating the family business here."

  "His family's in business? I thought –"

  "Yes, I know. They are noble. But it's a nobility that cost them."

  "Ah." Mariotto didn't have to say more. The greatest blight on the nobility was the sale of noble titles by kings, popes, and emperors. When a noble died without heir, the local ruler was able to take the defunct title with the land attached and sell it for a profit to any wealthy, ambitious member of the merchant class. Often living as nobles before nobility was granted them, these gente nuova dressed in noble fashion, kept house, ate, read, traveled exactly as the nobility did. A disgrace to be sure, but a growing practice nonetheless.

  There was another side, of course. Though the nobility was loath to admit it, the influx of new blood into their ranks often helped maintain their thinning numbers. Many who were noble today came from ignoble origins — such as the della Scalas. No one was ever crass enough to point that out, though.

  "I'm to show him around the city," said Mariotto.

  "You ought to charge a fee." The attempt at levity fell on young Montecchio's ears with all the aplomb of a wounded duck. "What if I joined you?"

  Mariotto looked up. "Would you? Would your father let you?"

  "It might take some doing, but I think I can arrange it." Pietro grimaced. "We might have to bring my little brother with us."

  Mariotto brightened. "My thanks, nevertheless…,"

  The noise rose to a deafening pitch, drowning out Montecchio's words. The Master of Revels was bringing his song to a crashing end.

  And this is the lord

  With great valour,

  Whose grand honour

  Is spread on earth and sea!

  Cangrande didn't wait for the accompanying music to stop. He jumped to his feet and embraced the diminutive genius, kissing him on both cheeks. Then he turned to Dante, still unmoved by the revels around him. Eyes twinkling, the Capitano said, "I am astonished that this man who plays the fool has gained the favor of all, while you who are called wise can't do the same."

  Dante Alaghieri looked up at the lord of Verona, face devoid of expression. "You should not be astonished that fools find joy in other fools."

  At which Cangrande fell in beside the poet and laughed until he cried.

  The lone rider had tears stream
ing from his eyes when he was stopped at Verona's Ponte Pietro, the bridge leading east. "Where's the fire, lad?" asked the captain of the guard.

  "I know him," said the seargent-at-arms. "Muzio. He's a page to Lord Nogarola's brother."

  Realizing this might be something serious, the captain's tone grew more brusque. "What's happened?"

  The boy couldn't speak. He reached for a wineskin at his hip, but a soldier got to him first with a flask of spirits. The boy coughed, then croaked out his news. "Vicenza. It's burning!"

  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.