The Master of Verona

by David Blixt

  Dante's daughter Antonia knelt, her eyes closed in what was supposed to be prayer for an end to the Avignon papacy. But her thoughts were fixed on a package that had arrived yesterday from Lucca. From her father.

  The moment it had come she'd whipped off the covering, expecting a packet of letters. Instead she had discovered a small wooden box with yellow leather tacked in place by fine brass studs. The box was wrapped in twine and sealed with her father's ring.

  Rushing off to find a knife, she had returned to find her mother waiting, the box stowed on a high shelf. "You shall wait until Christmas morning."

  Perverse. Unfair. But Antonia hadn't argued, knowing her mother would only further delay the unwrapping. Now she knelt between her mother and her aunt, pretending to listen to the sermon while wondering what was in the package. To her right, Gemma di Manetto Donati in Alighieri knelt stiffly, back perfectly straight, head properly bowed. It would have taken a keen eye to see the pinch she gave her daughter as the girl began to sag back onto her heels. Antonia bolted upright and fought the impulse to rub her bottom.

  She was aware of the eyes on her, and resented them. It was natural, now that her father was both famous and rich, that she should have suitors. But it annoyed her. Where had they been when her family was poor, beggared, hardly able to survive? Now that Dante and genius were being uttered in the same breath, fathers with eligible sons were beginning to call at the house. So far she had managed to frighten them away by embarrassing them. As her mother frequently pointed out, the fact that she was involved in the publishing business was a mark against her marriage prospects. Her intelligence was another. So when suitors called, she made sure to discuss her negotiations with Mosso, throw in a quote from Homer or Virgil, or recite a history lesson on the man's family that was never to his advantage. Discomfort led to rapid departures and a certainty that no amount of gold was worth the bride that came with it.

  Her learning came from her free time in a house of books. Most girls lamented not being men, but Antonia would not have changed her state for the world. Boys didn't have free time. Men of noble birth had to split their attentions between learning, riding, hawking, swordplay, war tactics, and a hundred other pursuits. Even her brother Pietro! Before being catapulted to the position of heir he'd always been found with his head in a book or scroll. But still he'd undergone the most basic training in arms. Whereas Antonia's time was focused solely on learning. It was either that or weaving, and her weaving was atrocious.

  Still, there was one class of boys who did not have those active pursuits, who read as much as she. Those second and third sons of the nobility who entered into the church had no need to learn arms. Antonia imagined their lives filled with only study and prayer. It was the life for which Pietro had been intended, before Giovanni's death. Now it seemed a warrior's life was in store for him, something no one had ever foreseen. Antonia was alone in thinking it was his loss.

  Of course, Jacopo should have taken Pietro's place in studying for the Church, but no one was foolish enough to suggest it. He wasn't suited to such a life.

  No, thought Antonia, it's up to me to heed God's call.

  It was not unusual that at the tender age of thirteen she thought idyllically of a religious life. Fearing the marriage act, it was the perfect alternative. In the cloister she foresaw no chores, no duties save to love God and read. She longed for such a life. Antonia's hope was that, left to his own devices, her father would leave her unwed. But her mother — stern, rigid, unforgiving Gemma — wanted her betrothed. For the good of the family, of course. Gemma imagined an alliance with a rich count or even one of Dante's noble patrons. As the poet's star rose, Antonia grew in attractiveness. Time was running out.

  The only salvation was the long-dreamed-of summons. Her father might send for her. But it will have to be soon, father, soon! Else mother will have me married off to some idiot who doesn't read! It was the worst insult Antonia could conjure. Not reading meant a man lacked imagination, culture, intellectual curiosity. There was no nobler pursuit in this world than the written word. After all, it was her father's chosen profession.

  She almost missed the cue to rise and follow her mother to the altar for Communion. Christmas always made wine sweeter and bread less dry. Then, with final words from Bishop Venturino thanking their visiting cardinal deacon for officiating, the crowd dispersed.

  Aunt Gaetana patted Antonia on the head and softly said to Gemma, "Sister, will I see you at Francescino's for dinner?"

  "No, sister," said Gemma. "I regret to say we have plans. Tell your brother we wish him a happy Christmas."

  Gaetana shook her head. Antonia's mother never associated with her husband's family. The shock of the exile and the ensuing poverty had made her overly vigilant in regards to her social perception. Her birth family had been on one side of the political debate, her husband on the other. Her family had won, so while she did not repudiate Dante's half brother and sister, she was never seen with them outside of church.

  "Antonia," whispered Gemma, "there are some friends we must greet. Behave yourself."

  The or else was implicit. Wishing Aunt Gaetana well, Antonia emerged into the piazza outside just as a gust of wind dislodged some snowmelt, peppering the lingering parishioners with wet. Some cursed, some laughed. Unsure of her mother's mood, Antonia wrapped herself tighter in her wool shawl and followed Gemma into the crowd. Antonia was not tall by any standard save one — her mother. Gemma was a tiny woman, birdlike, with hair dyed black and teased into curls. Her short legs never covered much ground, and on this of all mornings Antonia had to take care not to outpace her.

  "Buon giorno, Signora Scrovegni! I hope you are feeling better? Splendid. Signora Boundelmonte! Are you on your feet so soon?" Gemma was wearing her public face. In these busy public streets she was the long-suffering wife of that foolish poet Dante. So patient, so loyal. Impoverished by his exile, forced to live off her relations, only recently returned to her proper sphere. "Monna Giandonati! You look like a ray of sunshine—!"

  Antonia was swept into embrace after embrace as the entire Donati clan descended upon them, kissing cheeks and exclaiming. Gemma was the daughter of Manetto and Maria Donati, a name that carried great clout in Florence. Antonia never quite understood her mother's great affection for the Donati family. It was Gemma's late cousin Corso who had been responsible for Dante's exile. But family was complicated. Corso's brother Forese had been Dante's close friend and the namesake for Gemma's own brother. Indeed, Corso's father-in-law was the poet's most recent patron, the Pisan ruler Uguccione della Faggiuola.

  Both mother and daughter kissed their relations, who had sat nearer the front of the church and thus been allowed to exit earlier. Some cousin exclaimed, "We saw you two tucked away like thieves at the back. That will never do! You must come up and sit by us! Why, just yesterday Nanna Compagni was quoting poetry at me and I was able to wipe her eye by saying 'That's nothing! I'm related to Dante Alighieri!' What do you think she said? She gasped and began asking me all about your husband."

  Another said, "Oh yes, we really must have him recalled! It's a shame that such a genius isn't able to perform for us in person. He does performances, doesn't he?"

  Feeling her face screwing up to make a tart reply, Antonia quickly turned away and ran straight into her uncle Forese, who was saying, "Yes, I've read it twice! Even memorized the good bits. Though I disagree with my namesake. I quite like the bosoms one sees in the city. On a soggy morning like this the women make sure to paint their nipples! Though I'm glad my niece is too young for such displays," he added, sending an inappropriate wink Antonia's way.

  "Oh uncle," she said. "Watch out or I'll have my father putting words in your mouth."

  "He's welcome to, sweetie, just as soon as I'm dead!" Laughing, Forese turned his back on her.

  "I can't wait," muttered Antonia.

  Her uncle continued to speak. "It's a shame her brother is fighting on the wrong side. Word is he fought bravely up in Vice
nza. Got a wound, did my nephew, a good wound to show from it. I hear it's disfiguring, just horrible. I'm so proud. Would never have thought it of him."

  Antonia wouldn't have thought it of Pietro either. She couldn't imagine her bookish brother even riding a horse, let alone wielding a sword. He'd written once since September, hardly mentioning the battle and completely omitting his own part in it. Maybe there was news of Pietro in the package at home…

  She was drifting, her mother might notice. Turning back she found herself facing a portly man in his mid forties, not of her family. He was grinning down at her, and she couldn't help smiling back as she curtsied. "Good morning, Signore Villani. Are you returned? How does Christmas find you?"

  Giovanni Villani bowed. "I am indeed returned from Flanders once more, the bearer of secrets of trade, innuendo political, and gossip grave. As for Christmas," with his back leg still bent he gave a furtive look to each side, "it finds me hiding from the Peruzzi, as usual. The youngest keeps hounding me to put money into some mad venture or other. This time it's an artist, I think. But how does Christmas find you, my formidable foe?"

  Antonia looked slyly up at the portly dark fellow. "I don't know what you –"

  "Oh, you know full well. The parchment, girl, the parchment! Here I am trying to write an account of the world without the parchment to write upon. You've bought it all up for your father's infamous Inferno! If you were older, or a man, or far less clever, I would set my hounds on you." He grinned.

  Young Antonia was amused. She truly liked Signore Villani — a rare compliment. "I don't think your complaint is with me. You should talk to the Villoresi parfumerie."

  "Fiends! Despoilers! If men took time to bathe they wouldn't need these fancy perfumes, and our poor parchment would be left alone." Perfume makers often burned parchment to create their pleasing aromas. "Damned biblioclasts! I tell you, there is nothing so vile as the destruction of a book."

  "I quite agree."

  "Then, please, stop destroying the book inside my head. I must have parchment! Oh, but I like writing on parchment. Each time you turn a page it rumbles like thunder. My words are so portentous — that's portentous, dear, not pretentious — it seems appropriate. Like Jove. Alas, without it I'm forced to use paper. Eeugh!" Villani shivered, throwing out his arms as if ridding himself of an insect. "Hemp. Boiled underwear. The pieces of animals even the Minoli won't eat. I swear, my fingers shrivel away at the merest touch. I'll catch a plague from paper, I'm sure of it."

  "Nothing of the kind," said Gemma, descending upon her daughter. "My husband spent years composing on paper. Or in the leaner years in chalk upon the walls. There is nothing disreputable about paper, not in these enlightened times. Paper is the new standard. Antonia, don't you agree?"

  Antonia didn't, but said she did. Villani looked scandalized. "But, madam, writing is a sacred act! Do we not call Christ, he who was born on this day, Logos? He is the word! Did not San Giovanni eat the book the angel gave him? Was it not sweet like honey in his mouth? Could such a book be written on paper?"

  Antonia couldn't help herself. "Signore Villani, you forget. When it reached his stomach it was bitter."

  His eyes twinkled. "Did it transubstantiate, then? Parchment in the mouth, paper in the belly? I must ask the cardinal. But, ladies, are you alone this morning? May I see you home?"

  Gemma declined the offer. "Gagliardo di Amerigo and his son have offered to accompany us, along with my cousin Cianfa. We have kept them waiting too long. Send my regards to your wife, Signore Villani!"

  The portly fellow swept his hat off in a bow, then turned and let out a kind of yelp. "Ah, Peruzzi, my dear fellow, where have you been hiding?"

  Antonia was still smiling when her mother reintroduced her to the wealthy Amerigo father and son. She curtsied before them, and the father said, "I've never seen you looking so fine, my dear. It can't be the weather, so it must be you! Boy!" He tapped his son hard on the head. "The lady is looking fine, isn't she?"

  "Is she? Oh, she is! Yes, you are!" Amerigo's son made a hasty leg to her. "Sorry, I was listening to your cousin. He's just back from — where in Greece?"

  "Anatolia," said an unfamiliar man. Was he her cousin? "Bursa, to be precise. I was there trading. Travel is fine, but it's good to be home, even if there are homely cousins to escort." He had already examined Antonia with a bored gaze. "Come, shall we go? I have plans for the evening."

  They began to navigate the streets, quite a chore these days as most were torn apart and under reconstruction. It was part of a city plan to straighten out the curved streets so that the city would look to God like a wheel, with spokes coming from a central hub, thus conveying to the Almighty a sense of good government.

  Hopping over gaps in the cobblestones or crossing plank bridges, Antonia found herself not needing to employ her bag of tricks to dissuade her mother's latest choice of suitors. Young Amerigo paid her no mind, agog over her cousin Cianfa's doings in the Christian city of Bursa. Neither the pesterings of Gemma nor the pointed comments of the elder Amerigo could regain his attention. Thus Antonia reached home having neither abased herself or displeased her mother. Making up her mind to dislike cousin Cianfa, she admitted she was thankful for his company. Perhaps he could call every time a new suitor arrived. Though she suspected she would have to pay him for his trouble.

  Bidding their companions farewell, Gemma and Antonia entered the house Durante Alighieri had been born in. Over the door was painted the family crest, half green, half black, with a silver bar across the center. Simple, elegant — and, according to Gemma, undistinguished. They entered by the addition on the side of the house, the second door for callers added the year Dante had joined the Arti of Physicians and Apothecaries. He hadn't had any interest in such pursuits, but in Florence one had to belong to a guild in order to take part in public life. His membership, combined with the marriage his father arranged for him, had allowed him the political career that had ruined his name.

  Like the city, the Alighieri home was undergoing a spate of new construction. The family name now rehabilitated, Gemma was adding room after room to to the original four-story tower until its interior rivaled anything in this quarter. The exterior would still lack a stable, so horses would continue to be hitched to the rings hanging from the stone wall out front. It wasn't part of Gemma's design to appear to live in luxury. From the outside it would remain a humble home, one more cross to bear.

  The door had hardly closed when Gemma began a diatribe against fickle young suitors, though she quickly changed her aim to cousin Cianfa. "Just back after all the trouble he gave his family. They had to pay through the nose not to have him exiled, did you know, yet your father is still banished. Is that fair? I don't think so! And Cianfa's still the same — oh, thank you, Gazo." As the steward helped them remove their coverings, Gemma gave him instructions for their Christmas meal. The domestic set obediently off, leaving Antonia standing by her mother in the high-ceilinged entryway.

  Though Antonia remained absolutely still, excitement shone in her eyes. Gemma heaved a sigh. "Go ahead, open it. Tell me if anything else has happened to Pietro."

  Transformed from obedient daughter to exuberant child, Antonia ran across the rushes, skidding to a halt beneath the box on the shelf. She was just decorous enough not to scale the doorframe. Instead she found a stool, clambered up, pulled the package down, and sped to the large sitting room upstairs.

  Wood was already smoldering in the brick pit in the middle of the room, and holiday cinnamon and cloves smoked and snapped in the fire. It was otherwise blessedly quiet. Between the streets and the construction of the new Duomo, the Republic of Florence was a daily cacophony, but on Christmas Day the workers were at home and the city was at peace.

  Antonia used a poker to slit the twine that held the box. She was careful of the seal, keeping the impression of Dante's ring that resembled a coin of blue wax. The coin bore the Alaghieri family crest with the letters D.A. across it. She had a collection of the
se wax coins, and this one she set far from the fire so it wouldn't melt. Then she pushed back the lid of the box.

  The first thing she saw was a fur. Lifting it out she saw it was not an expensive one, inexpertly cut from an animal who had seen some hard living. Beneath the fur lay two little sealed bundles of paper. One bore Pietro's seal, the other her father's. Which to read first? Her instinct was to savor her father's by reading it second. But by rights she should read his first, being the word of the paterfamilias. Such things mattered.

  No, she decided. It's Christmas. I will take both letters slowly.

  She broke the seal and twine binding Pietro's letter and unfolded several pages. A long one! She often resented her brother's customary brevity. Pietro was often able to tell her facts about their travels that her father had left out, but without enough detail to satisfy her. After he had gone to join Dante in Paris, Antonia had been insanely jealous. Acutely aware of her own role in Dante's life, it never occurred to her that her brother might not recognize, or appreciate, his own.

  Still, Pietro was a better correspondent than Jacopo, who had not written at all. She settled in to read:

  9 December, 1314 Anno Domini

  Mia Sorellina,

  Greetings from Lucca, on the eve of our departure. We're packing our rooms here. Why, you ask? Well, remember when I wrote in October (or didn't you get that letter?) that the lord of Verona had asked to become Father's new patron? It's a handsome offer — housing, a hefty income, and the promise of readings and publications, all in return for Father's visible presence at court.

  As you might imagine, it was the 'visible presence' that tripped up Father. He's not one for public displays, he tends to get moody and let his tongue run away with him. While at the same time he loves being the center of attention, which means he can't just sit in a corner and laugh with the rest of us.