by David Blixt
"Maybe I could go out and hire some bodyguards — or some thugs," he added eagerly, "to beat up Marsilio!"
Dante's face became flinty. "Though your sense of injustice does you some small credit, you can't possibly imagine that I want our family entangled in a feud of our own. There is quite enough of that idiocy rampaging through the world. Even Cangrande cannot halt it. Pfah!" The poet threw up his hands in disgust. "It will be our ruin! O, Italy, enslaved to a brothel of reasonless passions!"
Antonia rushed into her father's study and started lighting lamps. "Father, sit down. Put this to good use. Jacopo, if you're determined to do something, be useful and have some water heated for Pietro — he'll want to wash when he gets back." Taking her father by the hand, she led him to the table littered with his scratchings. Not knowing what his habits were, she simply laid out a the quill and headed for the door.
"But Father!" protested Poco from just inside the study door. "Carrara's had it out for Pietro since Vicenza!"
"Jacopo, Father's busy!"
"Don't tell me what to do, Imperia!"
"Don't call me that, Poco!"
"Oh, I can't write at all!" shouted Dante.
Antonia rounded on her brother. "You see?"
"Shut up, Imperia!"
Antonia slammed the door on him. "I'm sorry, Father. I'll make sure he's quiet."
From the table Dante waved his left hand in the air in frustration. "It isn't just Jacopo, it's the whole situation! I almost watched my only — I almost said my only remaining son, and that's not true. But Pietro is my heir and I almost watched him die tonight. And for what? I am as angry as I am proud. He's developing a strong need to see justice done, and I'm afraid of what that will do to him in this unjust world! Cangrande understands — oh, why could he not be emperor? Meanwhile the church consents — consents! — to trial by combat! How the Lord can approve such an infamy, I'll never understand!" He shook his head. "I cannot continue in this frame of mind. Virgil just met Sordello, and they are supposed to speak of poetry, then go to the Valley of the Princes. No, I'm too angry to write!" He threw his quill aside.
"Nonsense," soothed his daughter, lifting the quill and tucking it back into his fingers. "You've written me often saying the work you're proudest of was never planned, but extempore. If the wind is blowing you towards invective, use it. You can always remove it later on, but if you are moved, it would be a shame to lose what your muse gives you."
Dante nodded, slowly at first, then with more determination. "Quite. I'll make ears ring from coast to coast — and I'll let these feuders know how they spoil our fine land!" He lifted the quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write in that cramped hand that Antonia knew so well. 'Ahi serva Italia, di dolore ostello…'
She watched for a few seconds, then slipped out of the study and took a deep breath. It's good I came. He does need me. Another daughter might have been hurt that her long-removed father had not sat down with her to effect a proper reunion. But not Antonia, who had the rare experience of a dream-come-true being better than the dream itself.
Poco was gone, though probably not to have a bath warmed. Antonia spoke to a servant and ordered it done. Unable to start unpacking until her father was finished writing, she sat on the edge of a bed and reflected upon the day.
Absurdly, she found herself thinking of the short loud fellow, Bonaventura's cousin. Ferdinando? What kind of name was that? She spent a surprising amount of time thinking over the retorts she should have used during the duel.
She was still reimagining the verbal conflict when she heard the outer door open. Dante's manservant greeted someone, and a moment later Pietro emerged from the passageway and into the main chamber, his young greyhound by his side. Pietro gave her a tired smile. "Welcome to Verona."
Not knowing what to answer, she stood. "Are you all right? Is the Capitano very angry?"
A strange expression passed over Pietro's face. There was sadness around his eyes, but also a strange excitement. "Come here, let me look at you. Good God, you're all grown up."
She studied him in return. He very different from the bookish boy who'd left Gemma's house three years before. He was wearing his hair shorter and there was stubble on his chin, though it was brown, not black like their father's. It was his eyes that were most altered. Bright, yet concerned, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
Suddenly moved, she rushed over and hugged him close. Gasping a bit, he hugged her tight for a moment, then patted her on the back. "I'm fine, really. Or I was."
"We're all so proud of you," she said, stepping back. Then added, "But Father also says he's, well…"
"Angry? I don't doubt it. Where is he? And where's Poco? I expected them to be waiting to pounce."
"Father's writing, Jacopo's off somewhere."
"Looking to avenge my honour, right? Just what we need."
"I think he's feeling the need to step out of his big brother's shadow."
Pietro appeared surprised. "I've never had a particularly large shadow. Father's is much more impressive."
"That depends on who you talk to. I imagine all the girls of the city think you walk on water tonight."
"That's Jacopo's area of expertise." Pietro sat down on a bed. "Well, he won't have to worry about my shadow for much longer. I'm going away."
Antonia blinked as if he'd just grown a second head. "What?"
"I'm going away," he repeated simply.
"But I just got here. You just got here!"
Pietro patted the bed beside him and she sat down. "It's something I have to do. The Scaliger is like Father. Proud and angry both."
"For fighting the Paduan?"
"Yes. He could have had the same end result without my risking my life. And I also made him look foolish in front of the Signoria. Oh, he didn't say so, but I know it. I didn't intend to, but I chipped away at his power a little tonight. This is a story with legs. Having me at court will be an embarrassment for the next little while. And I'm going to be persona non grata with the Paduans. With the peace newly established, I can't stay here."
The reasons all made sense, but Pietro made it sound rehearsed. "There's something you're not saying."
Pietro frowned, which crinkled the corners of his eyes. "No. That's everything."
"But he's not exiling you? Your knighthood isn't revoked?"
"Nothing like that. It will just be better for him if I go away for a while. And better for father! With my embarrassing Cangrande in front of the Paduans and the Signoria, I could create a problem for the family."
That Antonia grasped immediately. It made sense to her in the way nothing else could. "I'll be sorry to see you go."
"I'll be sorry to leave. I love it here. And I'll miss my chance to see you deal with publishers! I hear you scare the living daylights out of them."
Antonia started giggling and quickly stopped, embarrassed. It wasn't a grown-up sound, and she had to be an adult. Especially now. "I don't suppose you'll take Jacopo with you?"
"God above! I already have one lame appendage to drag along. Don't wish another on me."
Antonia looked down at his right leg. "Does it hurt?"
Pietro shifted so that the limb stretched out full length in front of him. "Like the devil himself was sticking it with hot needles. But I have to tell you, if this is the price I pay for the life I have now, I wouldn't have it any other way."
"You were able to run tonight."
"Amazing what fear can motivate," he laughed.
She studied him. "You really are very brave. No offense, but I wouldn't have thought it."
He grinned at her. "Me either. Things just — happen. No one wants to look less than what we want to be. I think there's a real truth there. Bravery is not wanting other people to think you're a coward. I know I push myself to do lots of things that I'd never do in my right mind if people weren't watching."
"Father says you have a strong sense of justice."
"Father talks too much," declared Pietro
, but very softly. "What about you? How was the trip? And how is everyone back home?"
Antonia told the tale of her journey, then went on to relate all the Florentine news she could remember. Most of her time was spent describing the wrangling over the new Duomo. Twenty years of work, and it was still hardly more than a frame. There was talk of having Giotto do some painting for it, but the joke was that he'd have to draw his grandchildren a sketch to work from, it was taking so long.
She spoke of old friends of his. Several of them were getting married, or already had. "Do you ever think of getting married?"
Pietro shook his head. "Not in the foreseeable future."
"Tell me. This desire to go — does it have to do with your friends?"
Pietro sighed. "Yes and no. I'm really angry at Mari, but…"
"But?"
"But it's easier to talk to him than to Antony. I mean, when we're all together, it just feels right. The Triumvirs. If I'm mad at Mari for anything, it's for breaking that up."
"Poor Ser Capulletto. I met him this morning. He showed me around."
"Well, if it makes things any better, word is he's leaving tomorrow to visit his uncle, who's in Padua conducting some business. In fact, he was invited to a wedding there. But I doubt he'll go. We'd talked of crashing the wedding in masques, and that won't be happening. Besides, he can't be too keen on marriage at the moment."
"Maybe he'll find another girl."
"The way he acts, his Giulia was the only girl for him."
"I thought her name was Gianozza."
"Not to him. She'll always be Giulia, the perfect woman. Though how she could be perfect and break his heart I'll never understand."
"You don't believe in true love?"
Pietro studied her. "Do you?"
"I think father's right…"
"Shocking!"
"…love has to lead to something greater than earthly passion."
There was a knock at the door. The steward answered it and admitted a tiny man with unmistakably Semitic features. "Manuel," said Pietro, standing to embrace the visitor like an old friend. "May I introduce my sister, Antonia. Antonia, this is Emanuele di Salamone dei Sifoni, Cangrande's Master of Revels."
Antonia took the hand with little grace. She was a good church girl and believed much of what was said about Christ's killers. The stories of baby-eating were probably exaggerated, and she'd never seen one with actual horns on his head. But the rest made her want to count the fingers on her hand as she quickly withdrew it.
Her hesitant reaction made the man chuckle. All the more sinister, she thought. But then he turned to Pietro, saying, "Cangrande has asked me to pass on the name of my cousin who lives in Venice — he'll be able to help you with whatever you need. Just tell him you're coming from me. No, I mean it. Use my name. He likes to play games with new people, and he has a real chip on his shoulder. An ass, but a man of his word."
"I'll be careful," her brother assured the Jew. "What's his name?"
"Shalakh."
Pietro tried to work his tongue around the strange sound. "Shy..?"
Manuel threw up his hands. "Gentiles! Here, I've written it down, along with the street he lives on. He should be in a good mood. His daughter just turned four last week. Give them all my best will you?"
"I will," said Pietro, taking the little slip of paper and tucking it away in his shirt.
The jester's eyes were full of mirth. "Do you remember the song? I've composed some new verses." To Antonia's amazement, he began to sing a cappella:
Here you have feasts
With many blond heads
Here you have tempests
Of love and to love.
They find maids
Always fresh
To prepare trysts
To amble and go about,
One says 'So',
And the other 'Also So',
And the other 'Stay Here'
That soon I'll be back.
"Very funny," said Pietro dryly.
There was a crash as something was thrown against the inner door. Manuel said, "Oh, is the old man scribbling again?"
That was it. Antonia said, "I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave."
The little man grinned. "God forbid I should disturb his devoted muse. Pietro, take care of yourself. Like the song said, you'll be back, I have no doubt." Manuel turned to Antonia and bowed, twirling his hat at the end of his fingertips. "Enchante, mademoiselle. I'm sure I'll see you soon. Your father and I often like to play a game of chess in the evenings. Feel free to join us." With another farewell to Pietro, he departed.
Seeing the face Antonia was making, Pietro laughed. "He's fine! A good man. And, yes, he's one of father's closest friends here. So it's no harm for you to like him."
Antonia coloured. To divert the conversation, she seized upon something she had heard. "Venice?"
Pietro shrugged. "To start. Then I'm off to the University of Bologna, I think."
A brief jealousy flared in her. "To study what?"
"I'm not sure. Medicine, perhaps. Or else law."
"When are you leaving?"
"Not for a couple of days," he told her. "I have to hire a groom to come with me and look after my horses, and maybe a page. I don't know. Wednesday, maybe. Thursday at the latest." Despite her every effort to keep them in check, he must have seen the tears welling in her eyes. "There's still time. Now, sit down. I have to tell you all about father's routine."
Pietro did not in fact depart Verona until sunup on Friday, the preparations having taken much more time than he'd imagined. On a kind recommendation of Cangrande's wife — who seemed to take pity on him — he'd hired a twelve-year-old boy named Fazio, the child of one of her servants, to act as combination groom and page.
Of course the rumours flew. Pietro had been in residence in Verona less than a month and already it was bruited about that he was being exiled, that Cangrande had thrown a tantrum after the duel and sent the boy packing. It damaged the Scaliger's reputation and only made Pietro appear more the tragic hero. Though it was also noted that Pietro spent a good deal of time during that week closeted with the astrologer and the Moor. Cangrande was said to be as displeased with them as with Pietro. The cause for this was unknown, though many heard about the murder of the oracle and wondered.
Dante was more prolific that week than he had been in months. Three whole canti were completed, including both the angry invective against Italy and a telling section in the Valley of the Princes having to do with father-and-son duos, good and bad.
On Friday morning Pietro was preparing his bags when Tullio d'Isola knocked on the door. In his arms he carried a neat bundle of letters, all signed and sealed. "The Scaliger wishes you to take these to the Ambassador Dandolo of Venice, with his compliments."
Pietro tucked the letters in the leather satchel slung on his shoulder. "Thank you, Tullio."
"I was also asked to deliver these to you, ser." The Grand Butler handed over two letters sealed with wax.
The first was from Antony, thanking him for sticking up for him with the Scaliger. His plain style mirrored the way he spoke. 'You're my one true friend. If you ever need anything from me — even my life — I'll give it in a heartbeat.'
"Poor Menelaus," said Pietro. Two days after the duel, Dante had quoted Homer at court, calling the girl Helen and young Montecchio Paris. The Verona wags had found this particularly apt, especially as Mariotto was banished to France (though sadly not Paris). So Antony was suddenly saddled with the nickname Menelaus.
The second letter was from Mariotto, in which he expressed his deep regrets that his actions had affected Pietro. It ended, 'I hope someday you'll understand, and we can be friends again.'
Pietro tucked both notes in with his belongings.
"There is also a letter," said the Grand Butler, "from Donna Nogarola. She left instructions to give it to you in person."
The day after the duel, Katerina had left with Cesco for Vicenza. Pietro's breath shudde
red a bit and he coughed to cover it. Opening the folded note, he read the brief message written in her fine hand:
Dear Pietro,
I know why you and my brother quarreled, and over what. I regret that I have placed you in a bad position. This exile will not last. You have my word on it.
Katerina
The paper held the faintest hint of lavender. Pietro tucked it in his shirt. "Say farewell to the staff for me. Brief though it was, they've made my stay more than welcoming."
"It was our pleasure," replied Tullio. He departed.
An hour later he mounted Canis and joined a small band departing the city. He and his new groom Fazio were not alone. Exiting the city with him were Ignazzio da Palermo and the Moorish servant. Their destination was also Venice, and they had offered to accompany Pietro that far.
Ignazzio and Theodoro led the way towards the Ponte Pietro, the eastern bridge out of the city. Pietro's destrier, newly christened Pompey, was tied to a lead that rested on Fazio's saddle. Atop Canis, Pietro lagged behind to allow Mercurio a last snuff at Dante. Father, brother, and sister were all there to see him off. Jacopo made a joke about the world ending if they were ever all in one place too long. Antonia and Poco both waved, but it was Dante's gaze that Pietro felt. The old scoundrel had a good nose, he could sniff out a lie. The poet knew something underhanded was going on, and was not pleased.
No doubt Katerina would have told him that Pietro was leaving because of the boy. That was true. But not in the way she thought.
Pietro hated lying to them all. But he couldn't very well tell them the truth, could he?
That he, the astrologer, and the Moor were off to hunt a scarecrow.
IV
The Exiles
Twenty-Eight
Calvatone
27 October 1315
Exhausted, the soldiers of Verona took their ease in one of the camps that surrounded the blackened walls of Calvatone. The fifth town to fall to Cangrande this month, it had been the hardest nut to crack. But this morning the town had surrendered, and the Scaliger had granted a single night for celebration before his forces moved on to the final goal — Cremona.