The Master of Verona (29 page)

The good news, though, is that the Franciscans have sent a new and better man to lead their order in Verona, who brings with him a group of new initiates. Already the Scaliger is talking of moving most of the major services during the Palio away from the basilica of San Zeno and into the Duomo of Santa Maria Marticolare. This promises to put the collective noses of Verona's Benedictines quite out of joint. They are already enraged that the Franciscans have the Scaliger's ear in religious matters. Now the disciples of San Francesco seem to be winning the political war. Perhaps it is all in the name — Cangrande's baptismal name is Francesco. I can already hear the abbot ranting.

That is unfair, though. My new patron is an enlightened man and is creating a garden of culture and learning in Verona, a new Caput Mundi. It is fitting that he listens to the disciples of Francis more than Benedict. He is a modern man, struck in a modern mold.

In women's news, I was invited (but sadly could not attend) the long-delayed wedding of Verde della Scala (sister to the odious Mastino and the oblivious Alberto) to Rizardo del Camino, the twin of the wedding of Cecchino della Scala to Rizardo's sister that was so rudely interrupted back in September. Since there is now a treaty in place and peace looms at every corner, the wedding went forward at last. I must say, these attempts at strengthening political ties by marrying of one's young children is growing ever more cynical. I despair that my new patron shall have any good off either of these matches — del Camino will take the dowered lands and do as he pleases. Wait and see.

If I am reduced to writing of uninspired weddings, I have clearly prevaricated and procrastinated long enough. Cara mia, it is time you heard the worst. But I do not know how to phrase the words — I, who am said to have the power to control men's souls with my thoughts, cannot find it within me to soften the bluntest of cudgels — my son Pietro will never run again. The magnificent doctor of the Nogarola palace, a famous knight named Morsicato, working together with the Scaliger's own physician, Aventino Fracastoro, was able to save my child's leg, it is true. But he has a third leg now, the polished mahogany crutch that balances his movements. Pietro walks as slowly as I — I with my curved spine, bowed by the act of writing.
And he has taken to wearing breeches, not hose, to hide the injury from view. Alas, nothing can hide the crutch and the horrible slowness of his gait.

He has not spoken to me of this cross he now carries. For all the world he has nothing but a smile. Yet that smile carries a wound of its own, one that I cannot imagine how to heal. When alone, he moons like a man in love, or struck with a fatal disease. He has tasted a knight's life and, finding it to his liking, discovers it suddenly denied him. It is a level of Hell I never envisioned. He is my son, yet he belongs among the Nine Worthies. I am consumed with admiration for him, both for his deeds and for his cheer in the face of misfortune. But I do not know how to help him, poor lad.

I have written to my friends at the University of Bologna — I imagine he'd be uncomfortable studying in Padua. I don't know if that is the answer. I am a man whose life is the written word, but is he? I can't send him away, the choice must be his, but how I wish to help him!

Can you advise me, Beatrice? How can I tell my son there is more for him in life than the cavaliere's sword? How can I heal the wound in his smile?

Distinti,

Dante A.

Antonia was indeed weeping when she finished her father's letter. Pietro — a cripple! And never a word of it in his own letter. How dreadful, how brave!

She tried to imagine her brother through her father's eyes. Dante had nominated him to stand with Hector, Alexander, Julius Caesar, Joshua, David, Judas Maccabeus, Arthur, Charlemagne, Godfrey Bouillon — the Nine Worthies. Instantly Pietro was transformed in her mind. No longer the plodding, pedantic boy she had known as a child, he now stood clad in golden armour, with a Roman eagle-banner in one hand, the longsword of Charlemagne in the other. Imposing upon that frame the crutch, he was transformed again into a noble sufferer. His wounds were glorious. Her brother was now a brother to Christ.

From that lofty perch it took a few moments more for her thoughts to return to earth. But soon her mind found its accustomed trail.
If Pietro's going off to university, who will take care of father now?
Not Poco
!

There was only one answer.
I have to go. I have to join them in Verona.
Finding her bottle of ink and a fresh sheet of paper, she began to write her reply…

Shortly thereafter Gemma Donati came looking for her only daughter. "Antonia? Franco and his brood will be joining us after all, so—"

But the girl wasn't in the study, having left the house to find a rider to bear her message to her father. Unknowing, Gemma picked up the two letters her daughter had left out. At first she was amused by the contents, then startled. "Oh, Durante…"

Gemma wept until she heard her daughter in the entryway below, arriving just as her brother-in-law rode up with his family. Daubing her eyes, Gemma rose and placed the letters just where Antonia had left them. She knew what her daughter would ask, and was tired of refusing. Gemma's attempts to find her daughter a husband were a desperate ploy to tie the girl to Florence, so that at least one of her children would remain with her. But she knew the power of her husband's words, made only stronger in Antonia by his absence. Realizing it was to be her last Christmas feast with her only remaining child, she descended the stairs with a slow, heavy gait.

The same moment Antonia was leaving church, the Count of San Bonifacio was entering one. Not a grand Paduan church, but a mean and humble one outside the city walls. Unknown to him it was the same one Cangrande had used as a rendezvous months before. On this holy day it had only two occupants. One, a frightened-looking priest, stood at the door. The other knelt in prayer by the altar. Nodding to the man of God, the Count crossed himself and sat down, resigned to a long wait. If he could enlist this penitent's aid, his cause might yet be won. He had the key to this man's spiritual vault. The Pup had given it him.

After hours of painful kneeling on the stone floor, the figure rose. And rose, and rose. He was as tall as he was thin, a grotesque figure made moreso by deliberate starvation. He crossed himself before turning about. "You didn't come here to pray," he said at once, accusing. "Your presence here is profane." His voice was deep and rich, odd to hear from such a strange figure.

"Merely secular," said the Count.

"I told you no," said the penitent.

"And I respected that," said the Count. "But things have changed."

"Your defeat is nothing to me." The man wore a medallion with an odd cross surrounded by pearls. Some pearls were missing.

"No reason it should. Still, you live so far from the city I wondered if you'd heard."

"Heard what?"

"Cangrande has taken in a son — a bastard son — and named him his heir."

The skeletal penitent remained entirely still, yet a change came over the chapel. Suddenly it was cold, as if a pall had swallowed the sun.

"A bastard heir?"

Seeing the fire in the penitent's eyes, the Count knew that at last he had found the wedge to drive the other man into action. Checking his smirk, he began setting his plan in motion.

The Count's was not the only wheel set turning because of the child. Late Christmas night, a ship was admitted past the bar and through the Lido, an unusual event after dark. It dropped anchor in a misty port off the Castello. Within ten minutes two cloaked figures were stepping from the arriving ship into a sky-blue gondola. The leading figure was short with the shoulders of a scribe. His shadow was built more like a mason or a soldier, tall and broad. As they settled into the bottom of the tiny gondola, its black-hatted oarsman pushed off and started angling them towards the Rio di Greci — Greek Street, a causeway of water entering the Castello directly opposite the small island of San Giorgio Maggiore.

They passed under the first bridge of the Greci in silence, but for the slapping of the waters against the gondola's sides. Here and there music or snippets of conversation floated by. At the second bridge, they were forced to stop. A deep-red and gold gondola had gotten turned, a mishap common with inexperienced polers. The figures in the immobile gondola were masked, and showed signs of drink. Some helpful fellows on the bridge had gotten sticks to aid them in turning, and now the unfortunate gondola was straightening out.

In the front of the sky-blue gondola, the smaller man asked, "Can't we get by them?"

The oarsman touched the wide brim of his hat and obediently shoved hard to angle them past the stalled gondola. Through no fault of his, the two bumped. There was a jeer from the masked men in the red-gold gondola, then another from the bridge.

Suddenly figures were leaping onto the sky-blue gondola from all directions. In an orchestrated move, the four men from the red-gold gondola threw off their cloaks, revealing shining weapons as they scrambled over. Their masks were firmly in place. Two more men vaulted the short stone balustrade of the bridge to land lightly, knives ready. They had donned hard-leather
bauta
masks as well, thus disguising their features entirely.

The oarsman of the sky-blue gondola dove into the freezing waters to preserve his life. Clearly the accident had been a sham. Whoever his passengers were, someone was out to murder them. This was the kind of ambush that left no survivors, and the oarsman valued his skin.

Back in his boat, the smaller man let out a yelp of surprise as he was forced to lie down by his companion, who rose to his full height. From under the taller man's cloak an arc of steel sliced the air, making the attackers jump and hiss in frustration.

The ambushers fought hard, but their numbers dwindled in the face of the tall man's falchion, a curved sword that ended in a wicked point. Having lost half their number and the element of surprise, one shouted, "The devil with this!" He dove into the water. His remaining companions hesitated, swore, then followed.

The driverless gondola drifted to the next bridge, the blue on its sides now flecked with crimson drops. Four men lay in its bottom. Two were screaming, one was whimpering, and one was entirely still. The final figure stared at the carnage as his upright companion wiped the massive blade clean.

Poles appeared and knocked the craft roughly to a stone and tile jetty. Wounded in calf and wrist, the larger man ignored his injuries as he helped his companion find footing on the stone steps. Some citizens reached for the little man, pulling him along into their ranks and comforting him while eagerly asking what the fracas had been about.

"I have no idea," the little man told them.

Thinking his brave companion might have a better answer, they made to pull him along as well. But as the man sheathed his curved German blade, his wrist became visible between the glove and the sleeve. One Venetian saw the man's skin and recoiled. "A damned blackamoor!"

There were hisses of distaste and disgust. Instantly the tide changed and people began to wonder whose side was in the right, the survivors or the ambushers.

"Call the constable! Take him to the gaol!"

"The devil with that! He killed a Venetian! Let's string him up!"

"Right! The gallows, not the gaol!"

"What about this one?" demanded someone of the littler fellow, who promptly found his hood pulled back until the knot under his chin choked him. The violence subsided when they saw a pale face growing paler by the second.

The mob on the jetty grew, more torches heralding the new arrivals. There was talk of tarring the black man. The little man tried to protest but the crowd paid no attention. Through it all the larger man stood with perfect stillness, his gloved hands in plain view, his breathing eerily steady. Blood continued to trickle down his leg, pooling in his boot.

Rubbing his throat, the little man tried to intervene. "My name is Ignazzio da Palermo. This man is my servant!"