by David Blixt
Dante had also spoken with open hostility towards the late Abbot of San Zeno, father of the current one. A bastard of Alberto's, wasn't he? I wonder if there are any other by-blows out there, any bastards with the Scaligeri blood. Mariotto hinted that way.
There was a thought there, something nagging at his memory, a conversation between brother and sister — but he couldn't grasp it. With a sigh he sat back, closing his eyes and focusing on the rain, feeling the heat of the brazier gently warming him…
There was a scraping sound. Pietro opened his bleary eyes and found the Scaliger moving a chair at the brazier's other side. "Forgive me. Do I bother you? Were you dreaming?"
"Just dozing," said Pietro, shaking his head clear.
"Mmm. These days when I dream, I dream of rain." Cangrande settled lanquidly into the cushioned chair and stretched his legs. "I hope you don't mind if I make use of your brazier. Supper will be served soon." Cangrande reclined, fingers steepled at his lips, eyes on the rain.
"Are the conferences over?"
"Yes. Everything is settled."
Dying of curiosity, Pietro bit his tongue. They sat together for a time, both staring into the shimmering wall of water that pounded the cobblestones beyond the lip of the roof. The sound was hypnotic, as was the shivering light from the brazier as it reflected off the rain. Pietro's eyes grew heavy-lidded again...
"Do you think your father is right?"
Startled by the question, Pietro roused himself. "About what, lord?"
"About the stars." The Veronese lord shifted in his seat so that he leaned towards the rain. It brought his face into view on the far side of the smoking brazier.
"I, ah — I don't know what you mean, lord," was Pietro's feeble response.
Suddenly Cangrande rose. "Come. We'll discuss it at supper."
"Me? At supper, lord?"
"Yes, you, at supper. It's a small party — your father, the Venetian envoy, Il Grande and his nephew, the poet Mussato, Asdente, and myself. With you, we'll make eight. We need another to make up your father's magic number, but who? Not Guelco — I've foisted him off on Mariotto's father, with the impressive figure of Signore Capecelatro as his second. And your two friends are off exploring the Montecchi stables, I believe, so they're out of reach. I know — I'll invite Passerino to join us, that will be nine. The Nine Worthies. Your father will approve. Come!"
ELEVEN
Even with a crutch and a helping hand, it took time for Pietro to navigate the halls, and the others were already gathered when he and Cangrande arrived. The Scaliger greeted them genially, as if half their number were not sworn enemies with feathers on the right side of their caps and red roses pinned to their gowns. "Please, sit! This is an informal gathering. Now that we are no longer wrangling we can enjoy each other's company."
"Just tell Asdente to keep his dice to himself," declared Passerino Bonaccolsi genially. "I've lost a month's rents to him."
Vanni gave his ghastly grin. "Fine. We'll use yours."
Cangrande named everyone at the table to Pietro, ending with the only man Pietro didn't already know. "This is Francesco Dandolo, Venetian ambassador and co-owner of two of my names. He is a Cane, too. Isn't that right, Dandolo?"
The Venetian made a deep bow to Pietro, ignoring what was obviously some kind of jab. "Honoured to meet you, young man. I understand you acquitted yourself well in your first battle."
"That he did," said Cangrande before Pietro could answer. "And from a man once destined for the church! If things had gone apace, he might have been able to intervene for you with the pope!"
The Venetian saw Pietro's puzzlement and sighed. "I was entrusted with the task of removing the excommunication Pope Clement laid on the Serenissima, our noble city."
"That floats on a bog," remarked Cangrande. "And this noble man, to do honour to his home—"
"Come," interrupted Il Grande, "the meal waits."
Having already made the Venetian visibly uncomfortable, Cangrande was not averse to letting his story go. For the moment. To his credit, Dandolo maintained a dignified composure as he settled at the far end of the table.
Pietro found himself at the table's middle. Close on his right sat Il Grande, and directly across the table sat Marsilio da Carrara. That one refused to speak or even look up, which suited Pietro fine.
On Pietro's other side Albertino Mussato had been given a wide leeway for his splints. The historian-poet bore a broken leg, a broken arm, and a fierce knob on the top of his head. Down the boards, Asdente sat bolt upright in a straight-backed chair, a fresh bandage wrapped about his head like a turban.
Pietro's father and Mussato were acquainted, having both attended the crowning of the last Holy Roman Emperor in Milan. As they sat, Dante asked after Mussato's head wound and Albertino grimaced. "Hard to say if it's addled my brains or not. I'm able to write, but someone else will have to read it to see if it makes any sense."
Cangrande took his place at the head of the table. On his right sat Il Grande, on his left the Mantuan lord Passerino Bonaccolsi. "I'll read your writing happily, Albertino. Marsilio, the wine stands by you." Young Carrara grudgingly passed the wine.
"You may not enjoy my new piece," warned Mussato. "It's a screed against you."
The brilliant smile leapt forth. "Really? Will it be good?"
"Oh, it will be excellent. But, my dear Dante, I have yet to congratulate you — L'Inferno is the finest epic since Homer."
"Well, Virgil, at least," corrected Dante. He had been placed across from Mussato, no doubt to let the two poets converse on their craft. As the company settled itself there was some technical talk between them regarding canticles and cantos, publishers and copyists. Mussato was grandiose in his praise, though Pietro thought he was forcing it a little.
Cangrande was busily chatting with Il Grande, but Passerino Bonaccolsi turned to add his praise to the Inferno. "Wonderful! Though I do take umbrage over your treatment of dear sweet Manto. We Mantuans keep Virgil near to our hearts, and to hear him excise her son Ocnus entirely from the birth of our city — well, I wouldn't come visit for awhile, is all I can say."
This, thought Pietro, from a man whose own father is treated harshly in the story. He's more upset by father removing the magic from the founding of Mantua.
Dante answered blandly, invoking God's gifts, not his own. Mussato said, "Don't you mean 'the gods'? That's what your beloved Virgil says, with the words you put in his mouth."
Dante looked pained. "My poor pagan mentor never knew Christ's glory, since he died before the birth of our Savior. He refers to the divine in the only terms he would have known. But just because they were so unfortunate as to not know the true Divinity does not mean they were incapable of glimpses of truth."
Mussato glanced at the Scaliger. "That's true of a lot of people today."
Asdente grunted. "We had a fellow on campaign who could read — he was probably killed yesterday, come to think of it. Each night he'd scare the younger soldiers by reading aloud from your poem. I really enjoyed seeing them shit themselves from fright. 'That's what you'll get,' I told them, 'for impiousness and fornication!' Kept them out of my hair for months. Ha!" cackled the Toothless Master.
"Indeed," said Mussato, glossing over his fellow Paduan's rough manners, "your use of contrapasso is brilliant. Bertran de Born, carrying his own head! A marvel! I mean to steal it to use against the Greyhound there. For God's sake, someone, pass the wine. My head's killing me."
As the wine was passed again Dante leaned his forearms on the table. "Tell me, what form will your screed take? Epic?"
Bonaccolsi said, "For Cangrande? I'd be surprised if you could fill three stanzas with his life story. Look at him! Still a stripling! If he were a fish, I'd throw him back!"
"A damned lucky stripling," snorted Asdente into his wine goblet. The metal bowl made his voice reverberate. "He always gets what he wants."
"Now, Vanni, that's a blatant lie," grinned Cangrande. "I don't always get what I wa
nt. If I did, then you'd be Veronese and my sworn man to the death. Padua couldn't stand without you."
Asdente chuckled. "Padua could stand against anything in the world — except you, Pup!"
Cangrande beamed. "Pup! Now there's a title I haven't heard for a while! And how does the great Count of San Bonifacio?"
"Not so well, I imagine," said Il Grande. "After this, he'll have to admit that his Pup has grown into a proper hound."
"With teeth for tearing," added Mussato. "I'm lucky my right hand can still scratch a few lines."
"Which brings us back to my question," said Dante patiently. "What form?"
"A play," said Mussato happily. "Seneca would be proud."
"A play? In Seneca's style?" cried Dante. "Fascinating."
"God!" implored Asdente. "Here I thought we might get a good conversation going — death, treason, murder, war. But no! Poetry! It always comes back to poetry. Pah!" He spat as if he were eager to be rid of the word.
Dante ignored him. "So this is to be a dark Tragedy?"
"A Tragedy for the people of Verona, as dark as my mind can make it."
"And I'm the villain of the piece?" asked Cangrande proudly.
"Oh, no, no! I'm setting it back in the days of Ezzelino da Romano, when he was ripping up the countryside like you are now. The play will show what happens when a tyrant is let to rule over us. Your name will not be mentioned."
The Scaliger raised his glass to Mussato. "When it is finished, you must send me a copy. I'll fund the first production."
"Figures," growled Asdente. "Everybody knows you enjoy hanging around with actors and other parasites."
"And you, my sweet Asdente, and you."
Amid the jeering and laughter the first course arrived, and for a short time everyone was occupied with plates of armoured turnips, a dish of ash-baked turnips covered in spices, cheese and butter. Pietro was grateful for the activity. Extremely uncomfortable in this august company, he was well aware the only person near his own age and rank was staring murder at him from across the table.
Swallowing a turnip, Il Grande pointed his knife at Dante. "Tell me, Maestro Alaghieri. You were once a devout Guelph."
"How devout can a White Guelph be?" interjected Marsilio.
Il Grande ignored his nephew. "Now you live at a staunchly Ghibelline court and were a supporter of the late Emperor. I admit exile would sour me against my home, and I can certainly understand how a bad pope can make one jaded about the Church. But do you really, truly believe that the Emperor should not be subject to the papacy?"
"I do."
"Oh God," muttered Asdente, rolling his eyes at his neighbour Dandolo. "Here we go. Popes and emperors."
"It's what this war is about!" cried Marsilio da Carrara.
"It's not," growled Asdente. "It's about land and taxes, like everything else."
"I think you underestimate men, Ser Scorigiani," said the Venetian Dandolo. "For some it is as you say. But to many men this issue matters."
Cangrande pointed an accusing finger. "Says the man whose country takes no position. You are certainly a politic politician, Dog Dandolo."
"But he's correct." Il Grande leaned back and regarded Dante. "It matters to men like me. So how, Maestro, do you get around the Biblical argument? Genesis says two lights, a greater and a lesser, one for day and the other for night. Science tells us that one is reflected light. So if the pope's light is the sun and the emperor's light is the moon, the emperor must derive his power from the pope."
Dante smiled thinly under his beard. "That is indeed the common argument. But broaden your horizons. God, infallible, created man as a dual creature — one part divine, one part earthly. The pope's dominion is over the divine, the soul, the spirit. But he has no authority over the temporal part of us. That is the emperor's domain."
"But isn't the flesh subject to the soul?"
"Not necessarily. What is true is that flesh is corrupt, we wither and we die. Yet the spirit remains incorruptible. The two are separate by their natures, ergo God has set us two goals: Beatitudenem huis vitae et beatitudenem vitae eterne. I believe the emperor's authority must be derived directly from God Himself, as he is charged with maintaining order and peace during this testing time of humanity, for it is while we wear this weak flesh that we can prove our true devotion. If anything, the emperor's charge is the more important, because the one essential for man and reason to reach their full potential is lasting peace. Only when the whole world is governed by one man whose power comes directly from God above can humanity have the calm it requires to return to its state before the Fall."
Marsilio da Carrara sneered. "And from which demon did you hear this nonsense?" The other faces around the table frowned, including his uncle's.
"Nonsense?" interjected Pietro. "I'd like to hear you do better defending the corruption of the Church!"
"I don't talk," sneered Marsilio. "My voice is in my sword."
"A shame that isn't true," retorted Pietro. "If you were half the swordsman you are a braggart…"
Dante abruptly turned towards Cangrande and waved a hand in front of his face. "My lord, I think we require another brazier. There are a couple of gnats buzzing around in here that need smoking out."
"No more warmth, please," said Il Grande, shooting his nephew a dark glare. "There's enough hot blood in the room already." Marsilio sank back and glowered. Pietro held his eyes, trying to look hard-bitten.
Asdente watched the two of them with pleasure. "Ah, youth. The young make the best soldiers. They have so much energy!"
"Because every little thing matters," said Bonaccolsi, pushing back a plate and licking his fingers. "A molehill becomes a mountain."
Il Grande smiled. "It is fortunate then that we Paduans are not governed by a single youth. I wonder that Verona can cope."
Cangrande grinned. "Young though I am, my wisdom is as Solomon's, because my light is not reflected. It is my own."
A second course arrived, an almond fricatella, which consisted of crushed almonds strained through milk and rosewater, then added to ground chicken breast, meal, egg whites, and sugar. While Pietro and Marsilio continued to glare at each other, the rest of the table fell to with gusto.
Cangrande resumed civilized discourse. "I would like to renew a debate we were having while you gentlemen" — here he indicated the Paduans — "were storming the walls of San Pietro. We were discussing the role the stars play in our lives."
Predictably Dante spoke first. "The significant phrase here is 'Ratio stellarum, significatio stellarum.' Pietro?"
Clearing his throat, Pietro spoke to Marsilio as if explaining to a child. "Ratio stellarum, significatio stellarum — the order of motion versus the significance of that motion. Ratio — the stars circle above the world in an ordered pattern. Significatio — that pattern has a purpose...."
"There's a leap of faith," muttered Asdente.
"It's rude to interrupt, Vanni," chided Cangrande, but Pietro was grinning — the sneering Marsilio had turned away.
"Ser Scorigiani does have a point," observed the Venetian Dandolo. "Is it wise to assume a purpose to the motion of the stars? Why that only? Why not the motion of the clouds, or the flight of an owl?"
Il Grande shook his head. "That's paganism."
Dandolo chuckled. "I suppose it is."
"Is it?" asked Mussato. "Or would we be wise to look for God's will in all His creation?"
Cangrande's grin created creases on each side of his mouth. "Dear Lord, do Dandolo and I have something in common? Tell me it's not so. Still, as potential excommunicants we would, I suppose. I know it's hard to believe, but I once believed I was a good Christian. As I get older, I worry. I often get caught up in this — what did Abelard call it?"
"Theology," supplied Mussato and Dante at once.
"Yes! 'God logic.' And am regularly chastised for it by clergy near and far."
Bonaccolsi thumped the table with his fist and pointed. "Perhaps by the time you can shave you
will have already worried yourself grey, hound!"
As the Mantuan roared at his own joke, Cangrande sighed then continued. "Monsignor Carrara, have you noticed that no matter how often they are derided, some ideas can never be extinguished? The ancients believed in the power of the stars. So do we. Ours are even named for the old Roman gods, and they have much the same power. They live in the sky, choosing life or death for the mortals who are merely pawns to their amusement. Some refer to our God the same way."
Pietro said, "You are no one's pawn, lord. You just proved it." There were murmurs of assent from the Veronese.
"Did I?" The Scaliger waved a hand at the ceiling upon which rain pelted down. "Look outside and tell me what I achieved."
"You can't blame yourself for the rain," said Asdente. "Luck, nothing more. Good for us, bad for you."
Cangrande shook his head. "Luck? Or Fate? Ask the stars, Vanni! Perhaps it is God's desire for Padua to remain independant. Perhaps I will never…" His voice trailed off, silence lingering in the wake of his words.
"What is this?" asked Dandolo abruptly from the far end of the table. "The great Greyhound doubting himself?"
When Cangrande did not reply, Mussato cleared his throat and said, "The Church tells us the science of astrology is God's plan made manifest."
Il Grande shook his head. "What if the stars are not the celestial book of Fate? What if the ancients were correct? What if the stars are active participants in our lives?"
"They are." All eyes turned to Dante. "It is not paganism. The stars do exert influence over us. They make plants grow and wither. They create imbalances in the mind. Venus arouses the loins, Mars the sword."
Cangrande stirred. "I am told Mars was in the House of Aries when I was born. Does that mean I was destined to be a soldier? What if I had denied that fate? What if I had said no?"