The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  These words were borne from them to us.

  Mariotto paused when he heard a snuffle from the connecting chamber. "Gianozza?" He pressed his faced against the carved grille that separated them. The door to the penitent's cell opened and he heard the girl flee from it at a run.

  Oh no! No no no! I've upset her! Was it my reading? Did I do something? Did I not do something? Should I go after her? She's Antony's bride. How can I chase her? God, how can I not?

  The door to his cell opened. The gust of air made the candle gutter then die. Quickly the girl stepped inside and closed it behind her, engulfing them both in pitch darkness. She collapsed weeping into Mariotto's arms. "What?" he asked frantically. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  She buried her face into his doublet, fingers clutching him in desperation. "It's so beautiful!"

  Mariotto rocked her in his arms, pressing the top of her head with his cheek. That he did not kiss her then was probably the single greatest act of self-denial Mari had ever performed. He desperately wanted to shift in his seat, lest the girl notice exactly how excited she had made him. But he could not deny himself the pleasure of her weight in his lap. And an unworthy part of him wanted her to know how excited he was. As long as she wept he daren't caress her as he wished to, but he could stroke her hair, her neck, her shoulders.

  After a time the girl's tears ceased to flow. She pressed her face into his. "I'm so sorry, Ser Montecchio. You must think me a foolish girl."

  "Mariotto. Please, call me by my name. And no, not foolish, never that."

  "Do you mind if I stay here?" she asked in a small voice. Mariotto found himself unable to answer. She settled in against him and he smelled once more the sweet orange blossoms. He drank it in as the gods of old drank nectar.

  His hands began to stroke her back again, this time more insistently. In the tense, excited silence, the girl asked suddenly, "Who are they?"

  "What? Oh! Her name is Francesca. Her lover is named Paolo. They were both murdered by her husband."

  "Tell me their story," she said. He tried to relight the candle but she forestalled him. "You tell me. I'd much rather listen to you than Dante."

  Trembling, he obeyed her. "Francesca da Polenta of Ravenna was married to Gianciotto Malatesta da Verrucchio of Rimini."

  "Gianciotto?" The name meant, literally, John the Lame. "Was he?"

  Mariotto nodded, just as if he'd been in Florence thirty years before. "Yes. His body was twisted while his brother Paolo's limbs were straight. Both of them were brave and virtuous, and fought side-by-side in many battles. Around the year 1280, Gianciotto sent his little brother to Francesca's father to offer a marriage contract. When Paolo arrived in Ravenna, Francesca mistook him for her future husband and agreed to the match. When she arrived in Rimini, she was presented with Paolo's older brother with the twisted limbs. They married, of course, but his business kept him away from home and he always left Francesca in the care of his younger brother."

  "And they… they had a liaison?"

  At this precise moment Mariotto saw the beauty Pietro's father had given the story of the two lovers. "They were sitting, reading a French romance — the story of Lancelot and Guenivere." In the darkness, her face close to his, Mari was having difficulty finding words. "They — I can't say it as well as the poem, but they were so excited by the story, so moved in emotion and spirit, that when they looked at each other they couldn't help…"

  Her mouth found his. Or perhaps his found hers. The kiss was tentative at first, then she pressed harder. He responded, pulling her close. Their hands clutched at each other in the darkness. Breathing in the smell of her, his lips moved from her mouth to her neck. She gave a wonderful little moan. Encouraged, his fingers traced a line from the base of her neck to her shoulder, from there to her breast. She shivered and said, "Oh Mariotto, Mariotto, be my Paolo…"

  "My Francesca, my Julia…."

  A thudding against the doors of the church made them both start. Gianozza wrenched herself off his lap and out the door of the confessional before Mari could even speak. He heard the side door of the church open and slam shut. The drunks at the main doors carried on past the church, not knowing the moment they had ruined. Shaking, Mariotto sat lamely in the priest's seat and wondered what in God's name he was supposed to do now.

  Gianozza fled through the revelers to the palace door, where she was admitted at once. Running up the stairs, she didn't stop until she reached the small chamber adjoining her uncle's guest suite. She bolted through the door into the lit room, expecting and deserving a scolding from her unfeeling chambermaid.

  The room was indeed occupied, but not by a woman. Reclined deep in a chair, head in hands, legs splayed out before him, was a comely knight holding his face as if he thought it might fall off. As she closed the door his head came up.

  The hungover Marsilio da Carrara gazed blearily at his breathless cousin. "Where the devil have you been?"

  Twenty-Four

  Verona

  10 February 1315

  It had been a long fortnight for Antonia Alaghieri, who had never traveled long distances before. The jostling of the carriage often made her ill. The time of year made roads less reliable. New snow crunched beneath the horses' hooves. Her anxiousness to join her father had her peering out of the little windows every few minutes, staring at the landscape until her cheeks froze.

  Despairing of a decent tip, the driver of the hired gig was eager to rid himself of this troublesome child. Had he not been promised a huge sum when he delivered her unmolested to Verona, he would have left her and her two servants in one of the inns along the road. Or simply on the road. Anything to ditch the little harpy.

  The sun was perhaps two hours away from its zenith when Verona's famous forty-eight towers came into view. Discarding comfort, Antonia leaned frantically out of the window to see. If she had come from the north, she would have been able to look down on the city. Coming from the south, she was blind to all but the vaguest impression as they passed through the gates.

  That Verona was similar to Florence somehow surprised her. Like the city of her birth, it was cleft by a river. Yes, the roof tiles were of a slightly different hue, and there were more towers and fewer palaces. Many buildings seemed new, but intermingled with enough aged ones to give a sense of gravitas.

  It was certainly as busy as Florence. There were crowds of people everywhere. Her driver called around for directions to the palace of the Scaligeri. Twice they were turned the wrong way before someone gave them proper instructions. They ended up crossing a bridge that must have been more than a thousand years old, yet was solid as ever.

  Antonia was studying the cityscape when a young couple riding in the other direction drew her attention. The girl was about Antonia's age, but beautiful. Raven hair and pale skin, full lips set in a bewitching smile. The boy beside the girl was handsome, too. Just a touch older, it made them look perfect for each other — girls always looked more mature than boys their age. His dark hair was longish, but overall he was well-groomed. His clothes under the riding cloak were quite fine.

  Following them were two more young men. Something in the line of the chin of one proclaimed a relation to the girl — distant, but evident. The other wore the grey robes of a Franciscan.

  The small party seemed in a hurry, with both the lay men looking around furtively. The girl was trying to hide inside her hood. Noticing Antonia staring, she pulled the hood tighter about her face. In moments they had crossed over the bridge and out of sight. Antonia mentally shrugged and went back to looking at her father's new home.

  It was an hour before noon when the carriage pulled up to the stables of the Scaliger's palace. A groom ran to fetch a steward. In moments, servants arrived to remove her three small boxes of luggage while Antonia paid the driver herself. He looked curiously angry when he realized she had been carrying the money with her all along, thus confirming her suspicions that, had he known, he would have robbed and murdered her. With that idea fixed firm
ly in her head, she in turn confirmed his suspicions about the tip. Grumbling, he remounted his gig and cantered off.

  The palace servants led her and her followers across a beautiful square and into a grand building — not the main palace, she was informed, but the original Scaliger domicile, the Domus Bladorum. As they entered her father's rooms, she was nearly frantic at the prospect of meeting her father for the first time. All through the journey, excitement had fought fear within her. She recognized that her coming here would forever alter her relationship with her father. Until now she was the beloved confidante, far away, faceless — safe. At a distance he could impose on her features the visage of his lost love. Meeting might destroy his illusion, ruin the bond she'd struggled to form from the time she was seven.

  Nevertheless, disappointment set in when she discovered the rooms empty. Dante's steward said, "Your father has gone to view the Basilica of San Zeno. Ser Alaghieri-"

  "Who?"

  "Your brother Pietro, miss," said the steward. "You won't have heard, but he was knighted yesterday. Your brother accompanied my master, but said he would be calling on Lord Nogarola this afternoon. Young master Jacopo did not return last night." Years of reading between the lines allowed Antonia to guess what the steward was implying but neither commented on it. "I shall settle your possessions in the chamber we've set aside and instruct your servants to their new duties here while they inform me of your requirements. Would you like a refreshment?"

  She did not, preferring to find her father at once. The steward offered to guide her but she declined that offer as well. Setting off back the way she had come, she promptly got lost. Turning one corner then another, trying to retrace her steps in the unfamiliar city, she finally admitted she had no idea where she was.

  Turning about, she collided with a man on crutches who was coming the other way. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" She reached out to steady him. Despite the wooden splints encasing one of his legs, he was a full two heads taller than Antonia. "Please forgive me. I was careless."

  "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.