by David Blixt
Above the signs, in row after row of low balconies, men capered and shouted to friends below, watching the course of various arguments and fistfights, making loud bets as to the outcome.
Mariotto easily navigated the shops and stalls, using shortcuts through alleys and leaping over barrels that blocked their path. Pietro followed him down a sidestreet perfumed with mulled wines and spiced meats. Trying to keep up, Pietro continued to make the proper protestations. "Actually, I was on an errand for my father."
Mariotto grinned. "Something devilish?"
Pietro laughed because he was expected to. "I have to order him some new sandals."
Mariotto turned to walk backward. "What happened to his old ones? Burned in the hellfire?"
"No," said Pietro. "My brother."
Montecchio nodded as though the answer made sense. "We'll head to the river and circle around to Cobbler Lane on the way back to the palace — you cannot deny me the opportunity to replace your cap. It would stain my family's honour to let this injustice go unanswered!" He whooped as he whirled off into the crowds, Pietro in his wake.
Behind them came the sound of the human tongue in disjointed harmony. Each traveler spoke his or her native language, rendering the air thick with a war of French, English, Flemish, Greek, and more. Interlaced in the tumult were the harsh, sharp sounds of German — Veronese speech owed at least as much to German as it did to Italian, and the local dialect was redolent with its accents.
Over the noise Pietro said, "Why are you out this morning? Aren't you in the wedding party?"
"Yes! I did my best, but I couldn't talk him out of it! Cecchino, poor fool — just a couple years older than us and already tied down to a wife! But until the feast there's nothing but servants racing about the palace and women cooing about how lovely it all was. I had to escape."
A roar of approval from the men around them caused them to raise their eyes to the highest balconies of the building nearby. Several young women had emerged and draped themselves over the railings, their garments falling revealingly open. One girl waved at Pietro and flashed something pink from beneath her bodice. Pietro blushed and waved shyly back. I shouldn't be shocked, he thought. This is the market plaza, after all.
Grinning, Mariotto said, "I could arrange an introduction."
Pietro avoided that. "In Florence they're forced to wear tiny bells."
"You don't say."
"Yes. There's an old joke about churches and prostitutes — the bells call a man to repent what the bells call a man to do." This earned the first genuine laugh from his newfound friend.
Montecchio never stopped talking as he led a merry chase down the long street. Figuring that Pietro would soon be sent to hunt for tools linked to his father's profession, he made sure to point out where to find the best wax for sealing, the best cut quills.
They reached milliner row, close to an ancient tufa wall which stood in stark contrast to the rose marble and red brick all around them. These were the old walls, built by the Romans or their forebears — no one knew for certain, as the first true inhabitants of Verona were lost to memory. Regardless, the walls existed, enclosing the oldest and richest part of the city. What good they would be if attacked, Pietro wasn't sure.
Twenty minutes later he was once more appropriately, if ostentatiously, hatted. He'd settled on a puffed-out burgundy affair sporting a thin green feather just above the left ear — the Ghibelline ear. Feeling rakish, he followed Mariotto to a string of cobblers where he ordered sandals to be ready for the poet the following day.
The sun was directly overhead, which meant the bridal dinner was nigh. Mariotto unfettered his infectious grin. "We'd better get back. My father asked me to be amusing for Maestro Alighieri's children."
"Alaghieri."
"That's what I said." He clapped a hand on Pietro's shoulder. "To tell you the truth, I was dreading it. Thank you for being nothing like what I imagined the son of a poet to be."
Again Pietro smiled because he was supposed to. Inside his skin he shuddered. That's the question, isn't it? What is the son of a poet — of any great man — if not less than. Inferior. Useless.
To cheer himself up, Pietro looked for a way to repay Mariotto's kindness. Being lost and alone in a new city was nothing unusual for him. Having a friend was. When they were five minutes from the palace, traversing the Plaza delle Erbe once more, he spotted the perfect gift. "Wait here!" Dashing off through the crowd only to reappear a few moments later, he gave an elaborate bow, twirling his new hat between his fingers in a flourish. "For you, signore."
With his free hand Pietro offered a pair of fine corded leather straps. From one end of each hung a solid silver vervel for engraving the owner's name.
Montecchio's eyes lit up. "Jesses! Oh no, really, Alighieri, it's too much." Now it was his turn to protest feebly.
Pietro was helpless to stop his embarrassingly lopsided smile. "Your hawk should be as well dressed as you are."
Mariotto admired the small tokens. "Tomorrow we'll go riding along the Adige and see if the fellow will fly at all."
Pietro nodded. "I'd like that." If father will let me.
A bell began to ring to the south, then another to the east, and Mariotto's eyes grew wide. "We're late!"
THREE
The Benedictine bells were just finishing the call to Sext when two panting teens raced up the inner stairs of the great Scaliger palace in Verona. Attaining the top, they skidded to a halt at a demure distance from the open double doors. Listening, they heard arguing and laughter echoing down the hall. They grinned at each other in relief. They were not too late.
An understeward came bustling forward. "Master Montecchio, welcome. Your father and brother are already within." He glanced at the other young man with an inquiring inclination of his head.
"This is my friend, Pietro Alighieri," said Montecchio.
"Alaghieri," said Pietro automatically.
"Right, sorry. Pietro Alaghieri. He's the son of—"
"Of course," said the steward, unable to entirely hide the sign against evil he made behind his back. "Your esteemed father is also within. If you will both doff your boots, I have slippers waiting by the door. You are the last to arrive."
This statement renewing their panic, they hastily removed their boots in favor of soft-soled, pointy-toed slippers.
Montecchio said, "I've always heard your name as Al-ee-gary. What's this Al-ah-gary business?"
Pietro shrugged. "It's my father biting his thumb. Alighieri is the Florentine pronunciation. Since the banishment, he's insisted on the older pronunciation — Alaghieri, after our ancestor, Alaghiero di Cacciaguida."
Mariotto nodded as if he were truly interested. "And your brother came with you?"
Pietro grunted as he struggled with his right boot. "Jacopo."
"What's he like?"
Familial pride battled honesty. He settled on saying, "He's fourteen."
"Ah. No brothers here, just a sister. She's all right, if a little quiet. Aurelia."
"Mariotto and Aurelia?"
"Actually, Romeo and Aurelia. My mother named us — or so my father tells me. I never knew her. She chose Romeo as my baptismal name, but he wanted to honour his father, so I am Romeo Mariotto Montecchio. Call me Romeo and I'll murder you." He finished fitting his own slippers on and stood up tall. "Ready to face the lion's den?"
If it were a lion I wouldn't be so terrified. "How do we explain being late?"
Mariotto clapped Pietro on the shoulder and together they made for the grand hall. "Some things you just have to take a deep breath and live through."
Just before they reached the door, Pietro halted beside a fresco on the wall by the door. It was one of a set of five, each depicting a man on horseback, behind whom flew the banner of the five-runged ladder. The five men showed a great deal of resemblance, but it was to the last, closest to the door, that Pietro gazed at.
"Our lord," said Mariotto approvingly.
Pietro peered at t
he glazed paintwork. If you didn't know the man, the fresco might have been deemed flattery. Mounted on a great destrier, mace in one hand, sword in the other, head free of his hound-shaped helmet, Cangrande was fiercely beautiful, his face full of dark joy. Above his head, alongside the banner of the ladder, flew a personal banner with a greyhound racing across an azure field. The artist had added some dark spots to the banner, signifying the blood spilt in battle by this magnificent cavaliere.
But it was the actual paint that had Pietro's interest. "This is excellent work."
"It surely is," nodded Montecchio, looking close. "The neck of the stallion is just right, and also the length of the mane… Oh — sorry. My family breeds horses. These were painted by Giotto di Bondone." Pietro startled Mariotto with an abrupt laugh. "You've heard of him?"
"Better," said Pietro, "I know him! He's a friend of my father's. Sort of. We visited him often in Lucca." Pietro opened his mouth, then shut it, visibly resisting temptation.
Knowing he was missing something, Mariotto made an open gesture with his hands. "What?"
Pietro shook his head. "Have you ever seen Giotto's children? As sweet as can be, really nice. But they're repulsive. Girls as well as the boys. Ugly as sin. Well, we're eating supper in their house one night when my father asks how a man who paints such beautiful frescoes could make such ugly children."
"Oh dear God! What did Giotto say?"
Pietro did his best imitation of the cheery painter. "'My dear fellow, I do all my painting by daylight.'"
Smothering their laughter, they entered the salon.
Somewhere near Torre di Confine, a lone rider reined in before an inn. Young and frantic-looking, he leapt from his sweat-streaked horse and called for a fresh one. A stable boy emerged from beside the inn, hunk of cheese in hand. At the same moment the inn's proprietor, a burly man with one arm, sauntered out the door.
"Need — a horse," said the young rider.
The stable boy looked on, bored, as his master gave first the youth then his horse an appraising look.
"No," he said over his shoulder. "No horse for him. To judge by this one, he'll kill it."
The breathless rider clutched the innkeeper's one arm, gasping as he gave his news. At the same moment he spilled his purse at the innkeeper's feet.
Whether it was the news or the gold, the innkeeper changed his tune at once. The rider was brought some stout ale while the inn's best horse was saddled. The young messenger shivered the whole time, looking as though he were about to weep. He was certain he'd barely escaped with his life, and was equally sure that each moment of delay brought a whole army in his wake.
In ten minutes he was on the road again, a fresh wineskin hanging from his belt, digging his heels harder and harder into the new horse, leaving the innkeeper to call his neighbours together to decide if they should flee.
Sunlight spilled in through billowing curtains of the arched loggia to frame the lord of Verona and his honoured guests. The open side of the long covered balcony faced east, providing a magnificent view of the Adige River.
It was not, however, the view one first noticed upon entering. Cangrande della Scala would stand out in any gathering. His chestnut hair was sun-bleached a dark gold and hung to frame his muscular jaw. Well over six feet tall, practically a giant, he possessed enormous energy. Even in repose his movements were crisp and economical. As much hawk as hound, thought Pietro.
Both kinds of animals were scattered among the crowd. A fraction of Cangrande's hawk collection was here, at ease on wooden stands that bore the marks of their pounces. Several guests were attempting to feed the blindfolded birds without losing fingers.
At the Capitano's feet were a pair of wolfhounds. Huge, with long narrow faces, they looked the most feral of creatures until Cangrande reached out a hand, whereupon they became puppies, craving attention from their master.
One dog lay before them in the position of dominance. This was a fine, wiry greyhound with the characteristic long face and curved teeth. Cangrande tossed him a little something, and he fetched it back quick as a wink. As he settled in again to gnaw at it at his master's feet, Pietro saw his back-cloth was embroidered with the silver ladder and imperial eagle — the della Scala family crest. Under the cloth the beast's fur was long and slightly matted, showing it was one of the tougher breed of that dog known as the veltro — a term also synonymous with bastard. For those who called Cangrande 'Il Veltro', there was always that extra, amusing, connotation.
Seated in the place of honour to the Capitano's left was Pietro's father. Born Durante Alighieri di Fiorenza, he was now known to the cultured world as the poet Dante. A head and a half shorter than the young lord of Verona, he suffered mightily in comparison. His movements were jerky and incomplete, his breathing audible. His frame was mostly hidden beneath a gonella, the comfortable long gown favored by scholars, and his head was covered by the hooded cappuccio. Both garments were of black and scarlet, expensively dour colours. Like Pietro, Dante possessed a patrician face with an aquiline nose and large eyes. His jaw was large too, and the lower lip protruded a bit past the upper. But unlike his brown-haired son, his hair and beard were thick, black, and shiny.
As Mariotto and Pietro stood in the doorway of the loggia, servants rushed over to wash their hands. Watching them approach, Pietro saw the need for the slippers. The palace floor was not covered in the usual straw rushes, but bare marble. Great care was taken to keep mud and filth outside. The dogs must drive the servants insane, thought Pietro.
As the servants tended to them, Mariotto whispered, "There, in the deep green, that's Passerino Bonaccolsi, Podestà of Mantua — it's said he's Cangrande's best friend, but there's politics there, so you never know. Next to him, in the fur, that's Guglielmo da Castelbarco-Stick-in-the-Mud. He recently became the armourer for our army, and makes a nice bit of money from it. The one playing with the bread knife is Federigo della Scala — a remote cousin. He's a little quiet, but he defended the city brilliantly this summer. And there, standing just behind the Capitano, is Nicolo da Lozzo, but Cangrande just calls him Nico. He's young, only a little older than the Capitano, and he's the army's second-in-command. The post was given to him as a reward for deserting Padua, and he's doing very well with it…" Mariotto continued naming all the powerful men gathered in this room. Pietro took in each one with interest, though he doubted he'd remember many names. Bonaccolsi he'd heard of, and da Lozzo. For the rest, some of the surnames were familiar. Those denied the regal daybeds either stood or sat on cushioned boxes and stools.
Mariotto paused, looking at a broad-shouldered man with long hair braided at the back of his head. The deep blue of the ribbon that held the braid distracted the eye from the traces of silver and white that were mixed with the black and deep brown. Pointing to him, Mariotto said, "I don't know who that is."
Pietro was pleased to know something his companion did not. "That's Uguccione della Faggiuola, my father's current patron. He brought us here to renew father's introduction to the Scaliger — though I think he wants to use us to impress Cangrande. He needs an ally in the north."
Looking wise, Mariotto nodded. "Ah."
"He also bought me my old hat."
Mariotto grinned. Uguccione looked up and gave Dante's son a cheerful nod. Pietro was in the midst of waving back when a prickling sensation crept up his spine. Eyes traveling a few feet beyond the Pisan lord, he saw his father's gaze fixed upon him. A muscle below the poet's left eye twitched as his eyes flickered up a fraction to take in the new hat. Pietro felt his blood drain to his knees.
Dante and Cangrande were debating with a young abbot, a bishop whose aged gonella swept the floor, and a midget with a wide nose and dark skin. This last was dressed extravagantly, with bells on his cuffs in an outlandish parody of style. Moving closer, Pietro strained to filter out the overlapping conversations along the loggia to hear the discussion.
The elder clergyman was saying, "...Clement is dead. The Church should move to reclaim t
he papacy from Philip!"
"What does the nationality of your pope matter?" asked the garish midget in an innocuous tone.
Pietro's father and the bishop both responded with varying degrees of heat. Their sentiment was the same, but Dante expressed it better. "My dear misguided juggler — through converting the noble pagans of ancient Roma to Christianity, God chose Italy to be the seat right royal of his faith. Rome is the true home of the papacy, and the office belongs to an Italian! You are a Jew. Compare the exile of the papacy in France to the Babylonian Captivity, and you will perhaps grasp the significance."
"Or the captivity of the Jews in Rome after the destruction of the Temple?" asked the motley fool wryly. "Besides, Italy is a myth! An intellectual's conceit. A philospoher's fancy. Or a poet's."
"A dream of truth is no fancy, fool."
"Yet the last Italian pope was no friend to you, poet."
"True, fool, but a French pope is friend to no one."
Mariotto tugged Pietro's sleeve and together they drifted towards the raucous sounds of those nearer their own age. The bridegroom was at their center, answering war questions put to him by a large, well-muscled fellow with a thatch of unruly sand-coloured hair. Cecchino related the events of the fall campaign, and the failed attack on Padua. But the majority of the groom's friends were only interested in plying him with liquid courage and eliciting love poetry from him. "Ah, Constanza!" sighed Cecchino, earning a chorus of catcalls. Pietro and Mariotto joined in.