by David Blixt
Behind them a man coughed, as they were blocking the hallway. Entering the loggia people made way for Pietro, recognizing him by the fine clothes that marked the new knight. Men he did not know called congratulations to him. "Hey! Alaghieri!"
Pietro found his arm held in a steely clasp and a moment later he was embraced. He tried to identify the man, who did look familiar…
"We met today — though I'm afraid I was something of a cad. Sorry about the tunnel."
Oh! "I was a little evil myself. Don't worry about it."
The man let out a breath of relief. "Good. I was afraid you'd want to duel or something. My name's Ugo de Serego!" Again Pietro's arm was encased in that strong grip. "Some friends of mine are over in the corner — we've had enough racing for one day. Come and join us! I want to introduce them to the man who saved my life."
Pietro was embarrassed. "We were both lucky."
Serego was roughly scruffing Mercurio's neck. "Come over anyway. I want to hear what it's like to be descended from a great poet."
Pietro saw someone he'd longed to see all evening. "Can I catch up with you? There's someone I need to talk to."
"Of course! We'll be over here when you want to celebrate." Serego strode back to his friends while Pietro and Mercurio made for another corner of the loggia.
Katerina della Scala in Nogarola was seated away from the crush of men and women. Pietro had expected her to hold court in the style of her brother and sister-in-law, surrounded by the best and the brightest, making use of her wit and her grace. But with the exception of a serving girl, there was nary a soul by her, a feat on this crowded loggia.
The reason for her solitude was cradled in her arms. Pietro was amazed she'd brought the boy to Verona, let alone here in public. It was tantamount to slapping Giovanna della Scala's face. Here is the son you could not give him, Cangrande's sister was saying, and I will raise him. We cannot even trust you to do that.
Cangrande's wife was across the loggia, holding a boisterous court. Men and women kept their eyes deliberately averted from the stately woman and the child she held, a child that bore such a strong resemblance to their lord.
Katerina passed the time by chatting with her girl, who must have been the child's nurse. Pietro looked around. Bailardino was nowhere in sight, which was unfortunate. Pietro required a chaperone, otherwise it would be improper — even if only he knew it.
He was rescued from his dilemma by his father. The poet arrived with a fresh goblet of steaming wine. The vessels here were finer than those in the feasting hall, these made of ornate rock crystal. Cangrande's famous disdain of ornaments evidently had no effect on his wife's tastes. Or his Butler's.
"Would you like to sit, father?" The reply was a raised eyebrow, indicating that idiot questions would not be answered. Crutch in hand, Pietro led his father to the corner occupied by Donna Katerina.
The lady smiled at his approach. "Ah Pietro, you mean to join me in my exile?"
Pietro bowed as best he could, and she pretended offense. "Ser Pietro Alaghieri! Do you dare to mock me by bowing when I cannot rise to curtsey in the proper way?" She indicated the child twisting restlessly in her lap. "I decided that, since I was banned from partaking in polite society, I might as well carry the cross with me. He is the cause of my plight. The least he can do is share it. And it gives the other guests a topic of conversation."
Pietro said, "You know my father."
"Who doesn't? I'm pleased I can say I knew him before he went to Hell. And who is this?" she asked of the hound staring at the child in her arms.
"His name is Mercurio." Nudged, the dog obediently curled up at Pietro's right foot.
"You seem to be weathering exile well," observed Dante. He settled himself onto a cushioned bench. "An active child."
"Too active for his own good. His nurse was about to throw him from the window. He's small for his age, and I'm convinced it's because he uses up all his energy staying awake. Pietro, please don't stand on ceremony." She freed a hand from the child's clutches to wave to a seat near her. Immediately the boy tried to wriggle himself onto the floor.
"He is a trial, then?" asked the poet, leaning forward to study the baby. A tiny hand darted out to grasp his beard. Dante chuckled. The child heaved up with his tiny muscles as if he viewed the poet's face as a mountain to be scaled hand over hand. As the next handhold was Dante's protruding lower lip, the poet let out a yelp.
"Cesco! Monsignore, please. Allow me." Katerina removed the poet's fumbling hands then wrapped her own slender fingers around each of the infant's wrists. Pietro saw her knuckles go white. The child's eyes opened wide. When she released her grip, the baby's hands opened instinctively. Dante pulled back as the child giggled as though entertained by the rebuke. Katerina spared him hardly a glance in return.
The nurse came forward. "Should I take him?"
"Thank you, Nina, no. I will deal with him. As you see, Maestro Alaghieri, he has recently taken to climbing. He's scaling everything in sight. I positively dread the day he takes his first step."
Her knee began to bounce, providing the child with a new stimulus to distract him. But little Cesco's eyes remained fixed on the poet's beard. In return, Dante was massaging his chin with the back of his hand and eyeing the child with wary respect. "Pietro, if that laugh escapes I'll disown you. It is quite a grip, madam. I assume he gets it from his father?"
"I wouldn't know." She canted her head. "Really, Maestro Alaghieri, I have been the intended victim of a hundred such traps and have yet to stumble."
Dante grinned like a child caught filching sweets. "I am so sorry. My son can tell you, I am an inveterate gossip. Though I think it says enough that your brother asked you to raise the boy. If I recall, your relationship was not one of requests and favors done lightly."
"You're thinking of someone else, surely. There is nothing but warm amity between my brother and myself."
"Indeed? I seem to remember an incident-"
"Pater," interrupted Pietro, "weren't you going to tell me the last lines of a poem?"
Dante looked momentarily put out, but the new topic held enough entertainment value for him to endure the clumsy deflection. "Ah yes. As I said, I know the poet. Florentine. In our little circle of friends she was known as La Compiuta Donzella. Not particularly prolific, but her poems were of such quality that I cannot help but admire the young lady for referencing her verse."
Pietro turned to Katerina. "You've met Antony's betrothed, the girl Gianozza?"
"Pretty, but a little too tragic for my tastes," judged Katerina.
"Well, she quoted a poem to us this evening, but suddenly stopped. My father thinks there's some import in that."
Instead of replying directly, Dante began to recite:
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;
but I am filled with weeping and despair.
For my father has treated me most ill
and keeps me often in the sorest anguish:
he would give me to a lord against my will.
And this I neither do desire or wish,
and every hour I pass in sharpest grief;
and so receive no joy from flower or leaf.
"It goes on to claim she wants nothing more than the convent. I very much doubt, however, if this girl shares that particular sentiment. I fear your friend Antony does not have her wholehearted affection."
Pietro spied the lady in question across the long hall, listening to the excited prattle of several young men. Lively and bright, smiling at everything, she was what Mariotto had called her — a Julia.
"You recite beautifully," said Katerina. Dante made an
immodest murmur of agreement. Little Cesco had ceased to fidget, staring at the elder Alaghieri, drinking in the poet with those eyes, so wide and so deeply green. In that, the child was unlike the Scaliger, whose eyes were light blue. In everything else one saw the lines of the fine bones, though in the child they were rough, less refined, somehow purer. Katerina's face was cut of the similar stone, by the same artist. It was difficult to remember that Donna Katerina was not, in fact, the boy's mother.
The lady noticed Cesco's fascination. "Perhaps I should hire you as a nurse, maestro. This is the longest he has been still all day."
"He has a poet's soul," said Dante, smiling ruefully as he stroked his beard. "In spite of his warlike tendencies."
"I am relieved. I often wonder if he has a soul at all."
"His eyes are very green," said Pietro.
"Today. Tomorrow they will be blue. He is a traitor to his core, he changes his colours daily."
"Then he should be fostered out to Nico da Lozzo when he is of age," observed Dante.
"Or perhaps your friend Uguccione della Faggiuola?" asked the lady innocently.
"I fear he will not be able to take any under his wing for some time," the poet replied. "He is planning a venture into Florence later this year."
"Yes, he even asked Francesco's advice on the venture."
"And what did your brother say?"
"He said only a fool would attack Florence now. It did not seem to have the desired effect."
"Well I for one wish him luck. Then perhaps, by the time Cangrande's son is grown, Florence will again be a city worthy of respect."
"It is strangely warm in this loggia, is it not?" replied Katerina, waving a hand before her face. "In spite of the chill winds outside. I believe we could have survived without quite so many braziers. But of course, I cannot say so to our hostess."
"I doubt the racers will mind," said Pietro. "I don't see your husband. Is he taking part?"
Her nod possessed a rueful quality. "He did not finish the horse Palio and is determined, in spite of his great age, to make a good showing tonight." Her voice warmed as she spoke of her husband. Which is as it should be, Pietro reminded himself.
"I understand congratulations are in order," said Dante, further depressing his son.
"Yes," said the expectant mother with tranquil ease. "I am finally to make my husband a proud father. He has been considerate all these years, not putting me aside for some young thing. Perhaps it is because I do not quote poetry at him." Dante chuckled appreciatively.
"Are you faring well?" asked Pietro. Pregnancy at her age was rarely uncomplicated.
"I am surviving. I am sorry I could not watch you race this morning, Pietro. I understand that you rode with great skill."
Recalling legs of pork and a hundred knives, Pietro flushed. His father spoke for him. "The fact that he can ride at all is due in part to you. I would like to thank you again for all your ministrations to his injuries."
"Send me a copy of your next epic when it is complete. That will be payment enough."
"I've had a similar request from your brother. But you might have more use for it — you could read it aloud to the boy. Poetry, like music, has soothing charms." He glanced down. "You appear to need something of the kind."
At it again, young Cesco had managed to turn himself about in the lady's arms and was pushing against her with both feet, trying to propel himself away from her. "I was thinking of letting go."
"What prevents you?" asked Dante, who believed in letting ill-fortune take its course.
"I do not wish to aggravate my sister-in-law more than necessary. If the boy begins to cry, he will go on for hours. Once he gets into a vein, he is loath to leave it. If left to myself, at home, I would let him topple end over end and damn the consequences. I prefer him noisy — then at least I know where he is. When he's quiet, he's plotting." She twisted the child around and he suddenly found himself upside-down. He giggled and swung his arms in front of him, twisting in space.
Dante poked a cautious finger at the boy. "Does he sleep?"
"He does, but does not like to. I begin to wonder if he has nightmares."
"Dreaming so young?"
"Oh, I know he dreams. Sometimes when he's dreaming it is impossible to awaken him. But I wonder if they are pleasant dreams…" Her arms trembling with the strain, she righted the child. Cesco clapped his hands together and grinned around. Was that not the most wonderful thing ever?
The lady's eyes suddenly narrowed and her voice sharpened as she said, "Don't skulk in shadows, child. It shows poor breeding to spy." Startled, both Dante and Pietro tried to follow her gaze, but the lady's face was solidly immobile. "I said come out here. Or would you like me to summon Tullio?"
From behind a tapestry at her shoulder little Mastino della Scala emerged, face sullen. "I wasn't spying-"
"Of course you were," said Katerina. "Now run along. I'm quite sure you aren't supposed to be here."
Mastino started to argue but something in his aunt's icy glare forestalled him. He crossed in front of her, heading for the exit. As he did, his fingers snaked out and tugged at the baby's small crop of curly blond hair. The infant yelped and began to whimper, lower lip wobbling. Pietro reached out a hand to smack Mastino but the boy broke into a run, disappearing among the legs of the revelers.
"Let him go, Pietro," said Katerina in a singsong voice, calming the child before he started to full-out wail. "Shhhh. The aggravation would not be worth the result. Shhh."
"Reminds me of his father," said Dante. "Forgive me, lady, but I never liked Alboino."
"You are not alone." The angry child was struggling furiously to be free. "Maestro, would you mind reciting another line of verse? It might avert a scene."
Pietro held out his arms. "May I hold him?"
Donna Katerina did not hesitate. "Be on your guard, he'll have your fine farsetto in ruins."
Finding himself transferred from one adult to another, Cesco glanced briefly at his new captor, then reached for the silver dagger hanging on Pietro's belt. Pietro gently interposed his own hand between the child and the knife. The boy's nimble little fingers reached around, grazing the dagger's pommel. The child's other hand shot out and grasped the weapon's hilt, and Pietro had to pry the little fingers free. Holding the wriggling, giggling child in one hand, he removed the dagger bearing his name from his belt and placed it on the floor beside Mercurio.
Twisting suddenly to dangle by one arm, Cesco's feet brushed the tiled floor. The child could have easily dislocated a shoulder, but Mercurio jumped up and slid underneath the boy, holding him up until Pietro got a firmer grip across his middle.
Cesco giggled at the dog, then noticed the feather on the top of Pietro's hat. Suddenly he changed directions, tiny fingers questing desperately up. Pietro quickly removed his cap and set it on the floor atop the dagger. The child's expression was pure disdain.
Dante chuckled. "He seems to have your measure." Mercurio snuffed once and settled back down.
"I'd like to see you hold him," retorted Pietro, struggling.
"No, thank you. One encounter is enough." Dante turned to Katerina. "Is he very like his father as a child?"
"I wouldn't know."
The poet grinned. "I shall give up my attempts to snare you and instead woo you with verse. Would you like something old or something new?"
"Something fresh, please. Nothing I might have heard."
Dante began with the final lines of L'Inferno:
Into that hidden passage my guide and I
Entered, to find again the world of light,
and, without taking a moment's rest,
we climbed up, he first and I behind him,
far enough to see, through a round opening,
a few of those fair things the heavens bear.
Then we came forth, to see again the stars.
From there he carried straight into the opening of the sequel he was calling Purgatorio. It never ceased to amaze Pietro
that his father could render verse one day and recite it the next. He was very particular about his words and fought for hours about each one. Once satisfied, though, it became engraved in his mind as if in stone. If the poet's notes were ever lost he could recite the whole of his Commedia from memory.
Cesco's frantic quest for the feather ended as he listened, rapt, to Dante's encounter with Cato of Utica. Freed from the struggle, Pietro was able to glance around. The Scaliger had arrived, striding into the loggia with a laugh and a wink. His wife drifted over to take her place at his side. He wrapped an arm about her as he listened to a lighthearted argument between Giacomo da Carrara and Passerino Bonaccolsi. He laughed, and with that grand laugh the festivities were truly under way.
The race had been afoot for over half an hour. Lord Montecchio was reclined on a daybed close to the new Lord Capulletto. Pietro had never seen Mariotto's father looking quite as relaxed as he did at this moment. Usually abstemious to a fault, he was imbibing his share and more in the wake of the long confession at dinner. Perhaps this evening's events would make him a more joyful spirit. All he had to do was to wed his son and daughter off, the way Capulletto was doing. Give him grandchildren, an assured continuation of the name, and Montecchio would be a satisfied man.
Thinking along these lines, Pietro eyed Antony's bride-to-be. Gianozza had withdrawn from her admirers to the gap in the shutters that formed the race's finishing line. When she noticed Pietro staring she waved, and a huddle of young women by her noticed him and waved as well.
Pietro turned quickly back to Katerina, who was listening to the poetry with her eyes closed. She owned the Scaligeri love of language. Miraculously, Cesco had fallen asleep. Pietro decided he could depart for a little while without offence. "If you'll excuse me," he whispered to Katerina.
Her eyes opened. "I will, if you promise to return after the race and keep me company."
