The Master of Verona (43 page)

"He does look smitten," said Pietro, grinning. He tried to catch Antony's eye, but the big cavaliere was wholly focused on the girl, who was acting in every way as the adoring bride-to-be.

"Such a waste."

For a moment Pietro didn't recognize Mariotto's voice. "What is?"

"Her, marrying that great lummox. Like Caesar's daughter being married off to Pompey. She's wasted on him. He's nowhere near her equal in birth."

"I thought he was your friend!"

"Of course he is! I know better than anyone. He'd be happy with a milkmaid — someone to do his sewing and bear him huge sons. That lady will wither and die with him."

He isn't serious, is he?
This was more than simple ribbing. Mari's eyes were locked on Gianozza, sipping her gingered malmsey and listening to a story Antony was relating. That Antony finally remembered Mariotto was evident a moment later when he looked up to beckon his friend over. Gazing down into the bottom of his wine cup just then, Mari pretended to miss the sign. Antony shrugged and continued to speak.

The look on Mariotto's face made the hair on the back of Pietro's neck rise. "Mari? What's wrong?"

If Montecchio planned a reply, it was lost as the doors opened and Giovanna della Scala arrived. The Scaliger's wife played the hostess, teasing the men she knew, complimenting the ones she did not, all the time aware of the level of wine in the pitchers and the height of the torches on the walls. It was she who ordered a fresh round of mead for those who drank the stuff, and she who had the servants carry those too drunk to move to the upstairs loggia, where the cold would wake them in time for the second Palio.

She arrived at Pietro's side, and he made the clever bow he'd worked out using his crutch for balance. "Madonna."

"Ser Alaghieri," said Giovanna della Scala. "You know you are the most desired man here. All the ladies were asking after your prospects."

Pietro flushed. "Lady, such jokes are unkind."

"You think I'm joking? There are a half-dozen girls longing to know you better. And since you won't be running the foot Palio, you'll have them all to yourself for the better part of two hours while your fellows are freezing themselves to death. I plan to make it my business to introduce you to all of them. No, no protests. I am the hostess, it is your duty to honour me." She smiled at him and moved on to talk to another guest.

Pietro turned back to find Mariotto was gone.

Other wives were entering, though not Katerina, Pietro saw anxiously. Bailardino seemed in no way put out by his wife's absence. When there were enough women in the room that Pietro thought he could ask the question without undue suspicion, he approached Bailardino. "I don't see Donna Nogarola."

"Oh, she's a little uncomfortable these days," grinned the bearish man. "But she's happy enough to have a bun in the oven, so her bouts of sickness don't get her spirits down."

Pietro's blood froze. Nico da Lozzo's voice saved him from an embarrassing silence. "It's about time, you brute! What, don't you pay her enough attention?"

"I try, but she locks me out of the bedroom more nights than not!"

"So you take an axe and knock the hatch down!" cried Nico.

"And she takes the axe from me and buries it in my head for ruining her beautiful carved doors! No, I think we have her brother to thank for it." More hoots and hollers.

Glancing up from the drinking game he was teaching Marsilio da Carrara, Cangrande raised a curious eyebrow. "How so?"

Bailardino spread his hands. "It's that little brat of yours. I think he caused her womb to sit up and notice it was being supplanted by one of your bastards. So it got busy, and I got lucky. Crack, boom! She's pregnant!"

Not a few heads turned to see what Giovanna's reaction to this would be, but Cangrande's wife was paying no attention. A shame.

Pietro retreated to where his father was pretending to doze, his preferred defense in a raucous room. Poco had disappeared to watch the older men play at dice. Looking around, Pietro didn't see Mariotto. His eyes quickly traveled to where Antony sat with Gianozza. Seeing her, Pietro let out a breath he was unaware he was holding.
Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?

Antony pointed a stubby finger towards Pietro. Gianozza rose to her feet, and Antony followed as she glided over the rushes to halt in front of Dante. Thinking the poet asleep, she addressed Pietro. "Ser Alaghieri, it is a pleasure. Signore Capulletto—"

"Antony," her betrothed hastened to correct her.

She smiled. "Antony tells me that your father is the poet Dante."

"Yes," was all Pietro could think to say. She was even lovelier up close. Her eyes were so blue they put her dress to shame.

"I quite enjoyed La Vita Nuova," she said.

"Have you read
L'Inferno
?"

"No." She shook her head sadly. "I haven't been able to find a copy."

"I'll get you one!" said Antony quickly. "As a wedding gift. Pietro, do you think your father will sign it for us?"

"My father loves signing his name to things." Pietro saw his father's face squeeze tighter. But since the old man was pretending to be asleep, he had to endure without interrupting. "I'll arrange a time for you both to meet with him and tell him just what you want written. Perhaps he'll even do a reading for you." His father's expression was a gift from God.

Pietro was startled to find himself kissed gently on each cheek. "Thank you! I simply adore the new style of poetry —
il dolce stil nuovo
." She closed her eyes and began to recite softly:

In the season when the world's in leaf and flower

the joy of all true lovers waxes strong:

in pairs they go to gardens at the hour

when little birds are singing their sweet song;

All gentle folk now come beneath love's power,

and the service of his love is each man's care,

while every maid in gladness spends her hours;

She blushed suddenly, as if caught doing something villainous. "I can't recall the rest."

"It's beautiful, though," said Antony. "Who wrote it?"

"I don't know. No one does. It's anonymous."

Pietro glanced at his father, half-intending to ruin his father's charade and ask who the author was. A curious expression on Dante's features stopped him. When he looked back up, Gianozza was smiling over Pietro's shoulder. She said, "Excuse me, Signore Alaghieri, Antony, but my uncle wishes me to meet someone." Sure enough, a glance revealed Il Grande beckoning the girl. She moved away, her skirts tickling the rushes at her feet.

Antony sighed. "She's beautiful, isn't she? Hey, where the devil did Mari get to? She wants to meet him. I've been telling her all about us — the Triumvirs!"

"I don't know where he's gone," said Pietro, glancing towards the door.

"He does like her, doesn't he?"

"He called her a Julia."

"A what? A Giulia?"

"It's a reference to Julius Caesar's family. It was said that each Julia had the gift of making her man happy."

Antony heaved a sigh. "Then he does like her! Good. I was worried when he wandered off like that. But he's right, she certainly is a Giulia. I don't mind telling you now, I was a little worried."

Pietro laughed. "A little? You were afraid she'd be cross-eyed, buck-toothed, and drooling!"

"Shhhh! She might hear you!" Antony looked up to find Lord Carrara beckoning him as well. "Excuse me," he said, dashing off to his betrothed's side.

Pietro turned back to his father's reclined form. "Next time you see them you'd best have your quills ready."

Sotto voce,
Dante said, "I should have drowned you at birth."

Outside the palace, the crowd was waiting for the feast to end, which would mark the start of the Foot Palio. They clustered in little clumps facing fires, sharing warmth. Among them but apart from one another, two cowled figures watched and waited.

Indoors, the festivities reached an irreligious pitch. Yet everyone was sober enough that when Cangrande's Grand Butler entered, all eyes trailed his wending path up to the top table. Tullio d'Isola whispered in Cangrande's ear, and the Scaliger stood up. "Would all the ladies please retire to my loggia, along with all of us too old or too inebriated to run." He glanced sideways to the prone figure of young Carrara, who was snoring loudly. The winner of the first race was in no shape to enter the second.

Clever Cangrande
, thought Pietro.
There'll be no accidental slips, no revenge from an overeager Veronese.

"How come all the women go to your room?" shouted Nico da Lozzo from down the boards.

Cangrande ignored him. "On the other hand, those men who think they are still able to stand, please move to the square outside! It is time for the foot Palio to begin!"

Rising, Antony carefully took Gianozza's hand in his and bowed again. This time, though, Pietro thought he saw the lips actually brush the tiny wrist. He couldn't hear what was said, but the cadence indicated more poetry. The young lady smiled, wished him a good race, then quickly joined her hostess as the women were driven from the hall by the sight of the men beginning to strip.

Strip they did, down to the raiment God made for them. That the Palio was happening this early in the year made no difference. The runners would have to endure the cold and the four inches of snow that had fallen since midday. Not rain, nor snow, nor flood could stop the foot Palio from being run.

Antony was red with anger that his fiancée had been exposed to so many disrobing males all at once. As soon as she passed out of sight, though, he began to tear at his own clothes. "Where the hell is Mari?"

Shrugging, Pietro leaned over to shake his father's shoulder. The poet pretended to wake up. "Is it time?" he asked innocently. Then the shrewd marble eyes glanced about. "Where's Jacopo?"

Pietro's brother was indeed nowhere in sight. "He's probably set on entering. Should I stop him?"

Dante paused, thoughtful. "I suppose not. He's in a desperate rush to grow up. All we can do is let him go and hope he doesn't get himself killed." Dante grimaced. "Your mother would flay me alive."

Pietro's eyes settled on Carrara's unconscious form. "He'll be fine. Do you want to watch the start of the race, or go straight to the Scaliger's loggia?"

"Doesn't matter." The poet was focused on not being knocked aside by one of the many young men stretching their muscles around the hall. He sensed his son's inclination. "Let's watch the start, then go inside where it's warm."

In the naked throng pressing through the doors, Pietro finally caught sight of Mariotto. He was outside the hall, waiting in complete undress beside the front doors. Pietro waved. Mariotto nodded brusquely. When Antony appeared, Mari turned immediately to walk ahead out the main doors. Antony raced to catch up to him. "Where did you go?"

"I wanted to get ready for the race," said Mari plainly.

"I could have used your help. I'm really bad about poetry."

"Maybe you should try reading some."

Antony's grimace was amused. "She wants a copy of Pietro's pap's pap!" Antony paused, quite pleased, then continued. "I promised I'd get her one — do you have one? I'll pay you back! She's really not all bad, is she? I mean, I know she's a Carrara, but they can't all be Marsilios, can they?" Antony continued in this vein as they passed out through the doors into the Piazza della Signoria. As he talked, Mariotto's eyes set in a determined squint that would have made a stone griffin proud. Pietro watched them go.

"Did you like her poem?" a keen voice said in his ear.

Pietro dragged his attention back to his father. "What?"

"The girl. Did you like her poem?" Dante reached up to adjust his long cap, jostled in the crush. "I enjoyed her recitation. She has a fine sense of the dramatic."

"I was going to ask you about it," said Pietro. "I didn't recognize it."

"Ah, but
I
did. Isn't it strange that she quoted it so perfectly, then all at once forgot the words?"

"Who wrote it?"

"Oh, it was anonymous just as she said, but that's because it was written by a woman. I happen to know which woman, in fact." His twinkling eyes told Pietro that the poetess' identity was going to remain a secret. "But it's the lines she left out that fascinate me."

They emerged last out into the square. Pietro was getting used to being at the back of the crowd. Beneath their feet the snow crunched. It was falling harder than ever, yet the crowd outside was as large as any that day.

"The animals are gone," observed Dante, mischievously changing topics.

"Probably to make room for the racers."

"Look," said the poet, pointing. "I was mistaken. One leopard remains."

It was true. A single leopard was visible on the steps to the Giurisconsulti, chained to a post. "I wonder why," said Pietro.

"Oh, I think keeping it there day and night from here to eternity is a brilliant notion. Only a just lawyer will risk being mauled just to pursue a case. And we both know such a thing doesn't exist."