The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  "I can't see as well as I used to," replied Dante, taking the scroll and passing it to his son. "Could you assist me, please?"

  That aroused Pietro's suspicions. Dante never admitted his eye trouble in front of anyone, even servants. No, there was some other reason for making his son read the scroll. Taking the rolled sheet and breaking the seal, Pietro read by lantern light:

  On this day February 9 in the Year of Our Lord 1315

  the Eldest Living Son of the Noble House of Alaghieri

  Baptized in the name of Christ's Apostle Peter,

  will before the whole Assembled Nobility of the Ancient Country of Verona

  be made a Cavaliere under the Authority of the Great Lord of that City,

  the Imperial Vicar, Can Francesco della Scala.

  "What does it say?" asked the father who already knew.

  "I–I'm to be knighted! Today!" Eyes wide, he looked up, first at his beaming father, then at the Grand Butler. He'd had hopes, of course, but as the days grew closer to the festival it had seemed he was to be passed over. He'd reconciled himself to the disappointment, which was perhaps why he protested. "But — it's too late! There have to be days of fasting — confession, prayer!"

  Dante smiled. "It is Lent. You've been praying and fasting already. I imagine you'll be allowed to confess this morning before the festivities begin."

  Pietro rose, reaching out to grasp the crutch that had over the past five months become an extension of his being. He thanked the Grand Butler, and Tullio said several kind words in return before stepping back before a veritable parade of servants bearing gifts.

  Jacopo awakened when the first chest crashed home at the foot of their bed. He sat up in a groggy haze as it was opened to reveal a complete suit of armour and all the small arms appropriate to knighthood. Pietro paid particular attention to the sword, a single-handed double-edged blade that was almost the twin to the Scaliger's own. "From his own swordsmith," d'Isola informed Pietro.

  Next came the chest of clothes that would be Pietro's uniform for the day. Jacopo gasped at the suit of purple and silver before realizing there was no matching suit for him. "You mean I'm not being knighted too?" Nearly four years Pietro's junior, he again started the refrain he had been singing ever since October. "Why didn't you take me with you? You hate me!" With that dramatic pronouncement, Poco ran from the room. Dante and Mercurio both sniffed, united in their disdain.

  Cangrande's gifts were more than generous. In addition to the armour and clothes there were two cloaks lined with fur, one of rabbit and one of wolf. There was also a trunk full of the utility needs of a knight, from grinding-stones right down to socks and candle wax. All expensive, all for him.

  Trapped at one side of the last trunk, wrapped in linen, was a small bundle. Pietro lifted it gingerly. Unwrapping it, he found a book. He angled the embroidered leather cover to the light. It was the Book of Sidrach, hand-copied in beautiful Latin script. Pietro lifted the cover to peer inside. In the frontispiece there was an inscription:

  A Man may control his Actions, if not his Stars — Cg.

  "Wise words," said Dante, leaning over his shoulder. "A private message?"

  "Just a conversation we once had," said Pietro, closing the cover. The book was a popular tome of universal knowledge, from court etiquette to deadly poisons. His father had often decried such collections, but Pietro was sure they would both read it cover to cover, Dante claiming he was merely looking for mistakes.

  Looking at this incredible largesse, these kind gifts, Pietro felt a wave of bitterness sweep over him. Not because he wasn't grateful, but because the main gift, the arms and armour, were filled with sad irony. The armour would never get used. The weapons would hang in a place of honour. Untouched. Unused. Unblooded.

  Sighing, Pietro used his crutch to tap the lid of the nearest trunk closed and he looked at Cangrande's Grand Butler. "Thank Lord della Scala for me, but — "

  D'Isola cut across him. "The Capitano has sent something more. A letter, and a gift." Handing over a sealed note, he then walked to the windows that opened out onto the Piazza della Signoria. Pietro watched as the double shutters were unbarred and pulled wide. It was dark, but there were torches flickering just beneath the window.

  At d'Isola's urging, Pietro hobbled over towards the window. His leg hurt worst in the mornings, stiff and weak at the same time. He had taken to soaking it in hot water or wrapping it in warm cloths. He had even started visiting the baths in the cellar, soaking for hours in the warm waters beneath the mansion. He'd created a whole regimen of care based on observations given him by the doctor Morsicato.

  Morsicato and his maggots had saved Pietro's leg. If not for the days of discomfort with them gnawing at his decaying flesh, he would have been another amputee walking about on a wooden stump. For this, he was infinitely grateful. He was still a whole man.

  But above his knee the muscle had shrunk, pulled in on itself. Morsicato speculated that, with time, he might get around without a cane or crutch. But never without a limp, and never without pain.

  Still, he was not as badly off as his father kept telling people. He could walk. He could even run, after a fashion. A skipping sort of gait he'd discovered chasing Mercurio around a table. It was more a run-hop that involved a hip twist in midstride, but it propelled him forward fast enough to catch his puppy, a major feat no one had witnessed. Nor had they seen him almost bite through his lip at the pain.

  But the fact remained that Pietro would never take part in another battle. There was no use for a soldier who couldn't stand, couldn't put weight on his leading leg. Which made the Scaliger's generous gifts utterly useless. He couldn't accept.

  Grasping the window's edge for support, Pietro leaned out. The torches below were held by two grooms and reflected off the snow in the piazza. In the reflected light, Pietro saw two animals. The first beast made him smile. It was the rust-coloured palfrey he had ridden on the night he and Cangrande had snuck across the Paduan border.

  But the second animal took Pietro's breath away. Much larger than his palfrey and black as the night itself. Heavily muscled, it was standing rigidly still, forbidding and dangerous.

  A destrier. A thrill ran through Pietro. Dear God! A warhorse! The true symbol of a knight.

  A breeze ruffled the note in his hand. Sliding his forefinger past the wax seal, he discovered it was a promissory note, declaring that Ser Pietro Alaghieri would receive a silver Veronese solidus a day in perpetuity. He did the math. That meant that every twenty days he would possess the equivalent of a pound of pure silver! His eyes opened wide as he looked up at the Grand Butler, smiling serenely back at him.

  "In confidence I will tell you, Ser Alaghieri, the Capitano made no other such gifts." He nodded at the note. "I can also pass on to you a message from his own lips. He offers you a commission in his army as banneret whenever you wish."

  "I–I…" Pietro couldn't find words. A banneret! The banneret was a man who led a whole squadron of knights. Was the Scaliger serious?

  The Butler leaned out the window and gave orders for the horses to be taken to the Scaliger's own stables until such time that the young lord would find suitable arrangements for them. He then closed the shutters, saying, "You have the Scaliger's permission to use his private chapel for your confession. The priest is waiting." Smiling, he bowed himself out.

  Pietro was dizzy. For a moment he allowed himself to be carried away in the thought — Pietro Alaghieri, leader of men, knight of the Mastiff, world-renowned soldier and swordsman.

  "You cannot accept, of course," said his father, bringing Pietro's wild imaginings crashing down.

  "What? Why not?"

  "Oh, take the knighthood. It would be insulting to our host to refuse it, or these gifts. But you will not accept any money, nor will you take up the commission to lead men. Don't look at me that way, boy. You know I'm right."

  Pietro began to protest, then realized his father wasn't being cruel, just honest. The commission was be
ing offered out of charity. Out of pity. Pietro couldn't accept. Honour forbade it. "Yes, you're right."

  "Now, now." Dante rapped his son on the head with his knuckles, then mussed his hair. "You're being knighted today, son. I'm — well, I'm proud, is what I am. Yes, I'm proud of you." Pietro looked up, startled, and Dante hurried on. "So go make confession, then get back here and get dressed in this ridiculous frippery. You'll want to make sure the hat fits perfectly, I imagine."

  Pietro laughed and nodded. Dressing quickly in his own clothes, he left his proud father in the Domus Bladorum and stepped out into the crowded Piazza della Signoria, the puppy trotting along on a leash ahead of him. Not able to see in front of him through the mass of people, Pietro used the landmark towers of the square to navigate. He no longer needed Mariotto to name the buildings for him. There was the Palazzo del Ragione with its tower, the Domus Nuova, the Palazzo dei Giurisconsulti, and other smaller buildings angling for a space between the palace Cangrande's uncle had built and the one his father had ordered, just recently finished, on the southeast corner of the square. Called the Tribunale, Cangrande had brought in the famous Micheli to finish it, and it outstripped the palaces the architect had designed in Mantua and Treviso.

  Beside the Tribunale was Pietro's destination. The church of Santa Maria Antica. Built around the year 1000, it owned a distinctive Veronese facing, consisting of alternating bands of light-coloured brick and stone. The church tower was surmounted by a fine square belfry, dimpled with mullioned windows and topped by a roof of conical brown tiles, now covered in snow. This was the Scaliger's private chapel, and where the family buried their dead.

  Pietro stumped towards the chapel, Mercurio leading. Pietro's new fashion of wearing breeches that tied below the knee (to hide the puckered scar so easily visible through hose) had the added benefit of being quite warm. He could see his breath, and his crutch kept slipping on the ice, jerking him off balance. He hoped that his heavy cloak hid his clumsiness. He certainly needed it in the chill air.

  In the crowded square, everyone was trying to stay warm. One figure in particular caught Pietro's eye. At first his height made Pietro think it was the Scaliger, but this fellow was twice as broad as Cangrande, with shoulders as massive as blocks of marble. Whoever he was, he must have really been feeling the cold. Under the heavy drapes of his cloak, hood, and scarf, none of his skin was exposed to the open air. He was loitering not far from the church, and Pietro had to skirt around him to reach his destination.

  Pietro was about to enter when he heard Mercurio huff out a breath. Suddenly the hound was straining on his leash past the door, dragging Pietro along behind him into the small churchyard. The animal stopped to sniff at a large rose-marble box. An open-air crypt. Four sarcophagi stood along the outside of the church, the oldest perhaps only thirty or forty years old, the newest less than five.

  Mercurio snuffed around at the nearest with an excited air. Pietro tugged the leash to stop the pup from disturbing the dead, but the animal leapt up with his paws, knocking snow off the marble slab. Pietro put a hand inside the dog's collar and yanked him back. His eyes caught the words now uncovered by snow:

  LEONARDINO MASTINO DELLA SCALA D.1277 — CIVIS VERONAE.

  So this is the enigmatic first lord of Verona. Mastino della Scala the First. Not a grand epitaph, but Pietro found himself moved by the simplicity.

  Moved, but cold. "Come on, Mercurio." The dog followed Pietro back to the entrance to the church. Passing under the stone lintel of the church, Pietro pushed open the wooden door of the small western entrance. Hooking the dog's leash to a chain near the door, he hastened to remove his hat and gloves. Stepping into the aisle, he knelt in genuflection to the altar, dipping his fingers into the font beside him to make the sign of the cross. He then turned to his right, where the confessional booth stood. Finding it empty of both penitent and absolver, Pietro looked around the deserted church. It was bright and cheery, even in this dark night, the alternating cream and red lifting the eyes up and up to the magnificent cross cut in the ceiling. Having been in one church or another almost every day of his life, Pietro had never seen a chapel so — cozy. There was a warmth here that was both surprising and joyous.

  Pietro was gazing upward when a rumbling voice echoed around the room. "By God! It's one of the Triumvirs of Vicenza!"

  Startled, Pietro coloured and bowed. "Lord Nogarola."

  Bailardino Nogarola strode forward. Upon arrival in January, he had finally been introduced to Cangrande's brother-in-law, then visiting from Vicenza. Flaxen-haired, barrel-chested, with a bristling beard, he was nothing like what Pietro imagined Katerina's husband to be.

  "Damned cold, isn't it?" demanded Bailardino, stamping his beefy feet and slapping his own shoulders bracingly. "But the Palio will take the snap out of it! Isn't that right?"

  "I don't know, lord," said Pietro. "I've never seen it."

  "You'll do more than see it, lad! Today you experience one of the wonders of the modern world! You may have to go become a hermit afterward, because nothing else can compare. Except, of course, next year's race!" Bailardino glanced at Pietro's crutch. "I wish I had one of those. Women love war wounds. Look at my brother. With two arms he couldn't find a lass to give him the time of day. One-armed, he's swimming in tail. I expect it's the same with you, right, lad? A dozen mistresses all clambering over each other to stroke your wound. And the adjacent demesnes, eh?" Bailardino shook with laughter.

  "No, lord." Pietro was smiling in spite of himself. Bailardino's cheer was infectious. Which made it all the more staggering that Katerina was married to him, or that Cangrande liked him so well. They were cool people, where Bailardino was an inferno of back-slapping camaraderie. But Pietro had never yet seen Katerina and her husband together. Perhaps they were different with each other.

  Lord Nogarola had come from a curtain that hung in front of an alcove that held the church's tiny baptismal font. Now the Scaliger emerged, his head uncovered. For a moment he looked grim, then he caught sight of Pietro. "Ser Alaghieri! I take it you've heard. God bless and keep you on this, your day. Has Bail been harassing you badly?"

  "Only telling him how to make the most of this, his day."

  "Don't listen to him," said Cangrande. "Age has touched him."

  Not knowing what to say, Pietro bowed, his crutch clacking on the cobblestones as he used it for balance. Mercurio trotted to the end of his leash to be petted, and Cangrande crossed to scratch at the pup's muzzle. The Scaliger was dressed for the festival in a burgundy farsetto under a fine robe embroidered with red and white pastoral patterns. The only ornaments on Cangrande's clothes were tiny silver rosebuds along the fringes of each piece. Similar rosebuds adorned the folded cuffs of his boots. Bailardino's clothes were flashier, but also more comfortable — a doublet that laced down the front and an over-robe made of heavy black bear fur.

  Still playing with the dog, Cangrande said, "You don't have to bow to me in here, Pietro. Only to God."

  Bailardino shook his head. "He did the same to me. You'd think he wasn't the darling of every lass in the land!"

  Rising, Pietro said, "That's Mariotto."

  Cangrande laughed, but Bailardino pressed his point. "No, goddammit, really, I tell you, a wound is guaranteed sex! Pull up your breeches to show a girl that knee, and she'll pull them off you to see the rest."

  Pietro flushed, but he was smiling hugely. It was simply impossible not to like Bailardino.

  "Bail," chided the Capitano. "We are in a church."

  Bailardino was unrepentant. "The Lord appreciates sex. Wouldn't've made it so fun if he didn't."

  Cangrande sighed. "Pietro, Tullio's been to see you?"

  "Just now, lord," Pietro confirmed. "Thank you."

  "I'm sorry it's so long in coming."

  "It's wonderful, lord," said Pietro wholeheartedly.

  "You've come for confession, I imagine."

  "What, is he supposed to confess to you?" asked Bailardino.

 
"Yes, lord," answered Pietro.

  "Good. I cannot have a potential leader of men not conform to the all rules of knighthood. Many wink at them," he nudged Bailardino in the ribs, "and some of us fail, but we all must try."

  Pietro took a breath. "Lord, I'm very grateful for the charity you've bestowed on me." Cangrande frowned and Pietro hurried on. "But I cannot accept the commission. Or the promissory note." There! He'd gotten it out.

  Cangrande's face was grim. "Why, may one ask?"

  "Because I can never fulfill the terms of the commission, and therefore I would be taking money under false pretenses."

  Scaliger and Nogarola shared an amused glance. Nogarola said, "Is there such a thing as an honest pretense?"

  Cangrande rose. "Your objection is nonsense, Pietro. The money is not extravagant. And it comes from my own purse, not the coffers of the state. So there are no pretenses, false or otherwise. Consider it payment for services already rendered. A solidus a day is a small price to pay for my life."

  "Too much, by half," muttered Bailardino. "I wouldn't part with a florin for it."

  "If you refuse me this," continued the Capitano, eyes twinkling, "I will be greatly offended. You'll be telling me my life is worth nothing. Besides, how else are you going to pay for the upkeep of your horses?"

  "They are beautiful," Pietro admitted.

  "The warhorse is a direct descendant of my own. When I'm not riding him, I have him covering some of Montecchio's mares. Now, as to the commission — in that, too, I am quite serious. It isn't the holiday you may think. A banneret is a leader of men, but those men must be his own. He pays them, he commands them, he takes responsibility for their behavior. You are welcome in any army I ever command, as soldier or civilian. But to be a banneret you must raise your own force, train it, and command it."

  Pietro gestured helplessly to his crutch. "Lord — how can I? I'm…"

  Bailardino clucked his tongue. "Are you sure you want him, Francesco? He seems a little thick." He laid a hand on his shoulder. "A knight is a mounted soldier, son. He does very little fighting on foot. In fact, only an idiot jumps off his horse." He dug his elbow into his brother-in-law's ribs.