The Master of Verona

by David Blixt

  "Capitano," said Villafranca softly. They had known each other a very long time, these two men. The form of address indicated the level of the privacy the discussion required.

  The Scaliger sent his Grand Butler off with instructions, then turned. "We only have a moment. If I disappear from the festivities for too long, someone will come looking."

  Nodding sharply, Villafranca said, "She's dead."

  If the Scaliger was surprised he didn't show it. "Not suicide, I take it?"

  "A wound in her chest, and — I don't quite know why, but her head..."

  "Was it removed?"

  "No. It was back to front."

  "Ah." That Cangrande reacted to. "So we'll never know who paid her."

  "There was no money except what you gave her on or about the body. I looked. You're certain that prophecy was bought?"

  "All her prophecies are bought. Only this one wasn't bought by me. What did you do about the body?"

  "I paid some actors to move her. I gave them enough to ensure their silence, but someone is bound to notice."

  Cangrande shrugged. "It'll only give her prophecy more credence if she disappears mysteriously. I'll post a reward for her murderer tomorrow."

  "Do you have any idea—"

  "No." The Scaliger gestured for Villafranca to walk with him. "Whoever he is, he's clever. Suborning an oracle. It's something I would do."

  "You know that damn Moor's back."

  "Are you changing the subject, or are they connected in your mind?"

  "It's bad enough there's a Jew in the palace. But that Moor! They're heathen sorcerers, both of them…"

  "I don't believe I've ever seen Manuel drink a child's blood. When he does, I'll hand him over to you. Until then, leave the heathens to me. Especially the Moor. Anything else?"

  Villafranca almost turned to go, but a question weighed on his mind. "Would you have killed her?"

  "Of course. It leaves us grasping at air."

  "You're not worried?"

  Cangrande yawned. "Frantic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see and be seen." He strode off with his customary disregard. It took some getting used to, but Massimiliano da Villafranca had known his lord since birth. A wolf in sheep's skin, a falcon among the doves, an emperor waiting to unleash himself on the world. The Constable was certain of it, and hoped he'd live to see it.

  "Excuse me, Massimiliano." The Constable turned to find the Scaliger's wife approaching him, flanked by two grooms, with a maid scuttling along in attendance. He bowed as she addressed him. "Did I hear you say the oracle had been murdered?" The Constable hesitated, then confirmed the report. "By whom?"

  "We have no idea, my lady. Your husband feels she was used to send him a message."

  "Again, I ask by whom?"

  "If we knew that, lady, we would be closer to finding her killer. Probably Paduan, or even a threat from Venice."

  Giovanna da Svevia's brow furrowed. "Find out."

  For a moment the Constable was reminded that she was descended from Frederick II. "He's in no danger, lady."

  Turning to leave, she said, "Obviously you didn't listen to the oracle."

  NINETEEN

  The snow outside the palace had begun falling in earnest, and Pietro was glad to step into the warm feasting hall. The beginning of the month-long deprivation had not dampened the spirits of the men within. There were dozens of men in cheerful conversation, a few in a corner singing. Apparently the women were dining elsewhere. Pietro was surprised, but grateful. He had no wish for the Scaliger's sister to see him at this moment — he hadn't embraced his role as butt that thoroughly.

  Being Lent, there were no decorations, but the dozen torches reflecting off mirrors threw a festive light around that not even the most pious bishop could object to, dancing and shimmering along the painted plaster walls.

  Carrara strode into the hall as if he owned it, the Triumvirs close behind. At the far end of the hall Cangrande spied the four young men entering and, standing, raised his goblet. Taking the cue, the assembled Signoria raised their cups to the winner and the loser of the first Palio. They also drank to the duo that had tied for runner-up.

  Pietro left his friends to join his father and brother at a low trestle across from the Scaliger's seat. The moment he sat, Mercurio leapt up and licked his face, the Roman coin at his collar slapping against Pietro's chin. "Hey, boy! I'm fine, I'm fine!"

  "He's almost as glad to see you still walking about as I am," someone said cheerfully. Pietro pushed the dog away and turned to see Ser Dottore Morsicato. "Always a good testimonial to one's skills, having a patient live." He greeted Pietro's father, then told Pietro to find him later. "I want to see how it's healing. And you can tell me all about the Palio, you young fool. No sooner do I fix them up then they're off risking their necks again…" The doctor's forked beard bristled as he walked away.

  Pietro resumed his place beside his father, Mercurio curling up at his feet. Dante was in the midst of a conversation with Bishop Francis, but paused to reintroduce his son. Pietro was congratulated on surviving the race, then was left standing next to the handsome young monk he'd noticed that morning. The two began chatting amiably. The monk was called Lorenzo and he worked in the Bishop's herb garden when he was between the hours of office.

  Suddenly Dante turned with gleaming eyes upon Lorenzo. "Sebartés!"

  The young brother lost all his colour. "P–pardon , my lord?"

  "Your accent!" said the poet. "You're from the Sebartés region, are you not?"

  "My — my mother was born thereabouts, I believe. I have never been." Brother Lorenzo looked like a cornered rabbit. "My lord Bishop, the Scaliger is waiting."

  With an indulgent smile Bishop Francis allowed the young monk to lead him away, nodding to Dante as he left.

  "Curious fellow," observed Dante. "There's deep water in Brother Lorenzo."

  Pietro looked at his father. "Where is Sebartés?"

  "In lower France, north of Spain, about two hundred miles from Avignon."

  Pietro chuckled. "Maybe he's afraid they'll make him pope."

  Instead of laughing, Dante said, "You didn't tell me you intended to ride in the race."

  Pietro's throat closed. "I didn't know myself."

  "Well. I'm pleased you're unhurt," said the poet, sipping at his wine.

  "Thank you," said Pietro, discarding any intention of describing the race. "What has your day been like?"

  As Dante launched into an account of his hours with the Scaliger, the servants rushed to bring forth the first course — stuffed anchovies and sardines and another strange-looking fish. After a lengthy prayer in which the Scaliger bid everyone pray to the Virgin for the souls lost this day, they began to eat.

  In the second place of honour, Giacomo da Carrara masticated the odd-looking fish carefully. Looking past his nephew, he addressed the Scaliger. "These are delicious. How does one prepare them?"

  Cangrande's head snapped around. "Where's Cardarelli? Damn, probably in the kitchens." He thought, then snapped his fingers. "I know. We have a gourmand in our midst." Cangrande craned his neck until he spied Morsicato. "Giuseppe! O, Doctor? Take your head out of your urinized cups and answer something for us!" Seated far down with the Scaliger's personal physician, Morsicato looked up. "Il Grande wants to know about the preparation of fish!"

  Morsicato's great barrel of a chest swelled. "I asked Cardarelli that myself. You put the fish in hot water after making them rovesciata — which means removing the bones and head without piercing the belly skin, spreading the skin with a stuffing, and closing the fish so that the flesh is on the outside. You begin by grinding marjoram, saffron, rosemary, sage, and the flesh of a few fish. Fill the anchovies or sardines with this stuffing so that the skin is next to the stuffing and the outside in. Then fry them up."

  Across from Pietro, Bailardino Nogarola was smacking his lips. "Never in my wildest culinary dreams would I imagine opening a fish from the back. What's the benefit of that?"


  Morsicato's left hand stroked his forked beard sagely. "Well, certain fatty fish — and this inside-out technique is used only for suckling pig and fatty fish — will render some of its fat when exposed to direct heat. The results are excellent from the standpoint of flavour."

  From down the table Nico da Lozzo called, "Does it bother anyone that the doctor is an expert in cooking flesh?"

  "It amazing he's an expert in anything, the way he lives in his cups."

  "I happen to have an exquisite taste in wine," replied Morsicato tartly.

  "No wine is better than Verona wine!" said Bailardino, thumping the table.

  "Personally," said Dante, "I agree with Diogenes the Cynic. I like best the wine drunk at the cost of others." There were several choruses of 'Hear, hear,' around the hall.

  "'No poem was ever written by a drinker of water,'" observed Il Grande, raising a cup to salute the poet.

  Dante returned the gesture. "Monsignore knows his Horace. It is a shame he does not also know his nephew's tailor, that he might have him flogged."

  Pietro choked on his drink. Others hid their guffaws with coughing. Il Grande smiled indulgently, resting a hand on Marsilio's arm as the youth made to rise. "What has become of Masurius Athenaeus — 'Wine seems to have the power of attracting friendship, warming and fusing hearts together.'"

  Dante shrugged. "In vino veritas."

  Cangrande snapped the fingers of both hands in front of him. "This is the way it should be! I am surrounded by the best and the brightest! It has been too long since I had so many distinguished visitors. Maestro Alaghieri, when was it that we two last dined in this hall?"

  Pietro sensed an attempt to rein in his father — or else goad him. Never mindful of the social niceties, Dante gazed upon his patron in thin-lipped amusement. "You abandoned us at your nephew's wedding, so let me see — not since your brother Bartolomeo, God rest his soul, occupied the place you now hold."

  Men crossed themselves in fond memory of the man who had been Dante's first patron in exile. Bailardino lowered his head and spoke soundless words of blessings. Everyone had liked Bartolomeo.

  Leaning back to allow a servant to place a platter before him, Cangrande's eyes took on a wicked glow. "God rest his soul, indeed. But I think you are mistaken, dear poet. I remember when my brother died, you spoke quite eloquently at his funeral. You were here some months after Alboino took his place. Surely you dined here before you left us."

  Dante pretended to remember. "Ah, yes. The bones."

  Cangrande's allegria widened. "Quite so. The bones." He raised his voice so that all could hear. "You may not believe this, but once upon a time I was given to practical jokes."

  "Ma, no!" chorused several voices.

  Cangrande waved a hand in acknowledgment. "I know, I know, it's hard to imagine. But when Maestro Alaghieri was first with us here, I tried his patience. Alboino was giving a feast. I made sure that the servants took all the bones they cleared from the dishes and placed them under Dante's seat. As a consequence, when the table was cleared there was a mountain of bones beneath him, with the dogs circling eagerly." Cangrande shrugged. "I was very pleased with myself. I had found the poet somewhat insulting the day before."

  "I can't imagine," murmured Pietro. Poco sniggered into his sleeve, and Dante's spine stiffened slightly.

  Cangrande hadn't heard. "But our infernal friend here had the last word. What was it you said?"

  The poet succumbed to his love of an audience. "I said, 'Cani chew their bones, but I, who am no one's bitch, leave mine behind.'"

  Having never heard that particular story, Pietro chuckled along with the rest.

  "Ah, the fabled Alaghieri wit," said Bailardino.

  "Even today that wit was in evidence," said Mariotto's father from a nearby table.

  "Yes," snorted Bailardino, "and about Verona's latest distinguished citizens. What was it he called you, Ludo? The baby Capuan?"

  Across the table Ludovico Capecelatro coloured slightly. Before he could reply, however, the poet filled the gap. "Capulletto," said Dante. "I called him Monsignor Capulletto."

  "That's it!" Bailardino slapped his knee. "'The Little Capuan!' I love it."

  Dante rarely softened any witty statement, yet he did this one. "It means something more than that, really."

  "Of course it does," said Cangrande, nudging his mentor-turned-friend. "You don't remember the Capelletti family?"

  "I surely do!" snorted Bailardino, who was slightly drunk. "They were a shore on my assh a decade before you were even born, rashcal. But they all died out or were killed — when was that? Barto was still alive, I remember."

  "The last three died the year I first came to Verona," said Dante.

  "Right! They were part of that shtupid feud with the — oh, sorry, Montecchio. It was your father, wasn't it, who put the last of them to the shword in a duel?"

  "No," replied Gargano Montecchio grimly. "It was me."

  There was an awkward silence, broken by Mariotto saying, "Those bastards deserved to die."

  Lord Montecchio sighed. "They weren't bastards, son. They were men from a noble line, who gave this city many consuls and podestàs in their time. It's important that we remember that."

  "Why?" demanded Mariotto.

  "Because they are no longer with us. The worst thing you can do is destroy a man's name." He turned to address the room at large. "Names have power. Ask the Capitano, he knows. Men live and die, their sons live and die. Deeds are forgotten — wars, romances, all of it. The only legacy we have is our names. I took that from the Capelletti. There are none of them left, no one to carry on a once noble house."

  From his seat far down the table Antony said, "I've never heard of this feud. What was it all about?"

  Gargano Montecchio furrowed his brow. "No one seems to remember the exact cause. About a hundred fifty years ago, there was some minor squabble over something — land, a woman, who knows? Whatever it was, it set the two families at odds. It wasn't until the Guelph and the Ghibelline strife really started that we came to blows."

  "That's no surprise," said Marsilio da Carrara. "The Capelletti were dedicated Guelphs."

  Carrara's uncle, unable to deny the truth of the statement, deflected it. "They were a fine and noble house — though if I recall rightly, they were fiercely Veronese. They fought against our city alongside the Montecchi."

  Gargano bowed his head. "Monsignore is correct. It was quite a duality. They loved their city and hated its politics. But my young lord might have forgotten that Verona has only been tied to the imperial cause for eighty years. Before that the Montecchi were as firmly Guelph as you yourself."

  "What about the duel?" Antony clearly wanted to get to the good part.

  But Lord Montecchio had his own reasons for starting at the beginning. "It began to get violent a century ago. At the time the Capelletti were strongly tied to the counts of San Bonifacio." There was a stirring around the table at the mention of the name. "My ancestors opposed the policies that those two families were introducing into government. In the fall of 1207, with the aid of the second Ezzelino da Romano and a Ferrarese noble named Salinguerra Torelli, my family took over the city."

  "Not for long," said Cangrande.

  "No. The San Bonifacio family was a powerful ally for the Capelletti. A month later Ezzelino and my ancestors were exiled from the city. With them in exile was young Ezzelino da Romano the Third, the man who would grow into the Tyrant of Verona. Because the Montecchi had shared his exile, we were his natural allies when he eventually rose to power. When he changed sides from Guelph to Ghibelline, my family went with him, but the Capelletti remained staunchly in favor of the pope."

  "That was around the time my great-uncle Ongarello della Scala was a consul," the Scaliger put in. "1230 or so."

  Lord Montecchio nodded. "Then there was the sack of Vicenza. As a Paduan possession, Ezzelino the Tyrant treated it brutally. The Capelletti were outspoken in their opposition. Ezzelino exiled them as trait
ors, but when Ezzelino was slaughtered, they were recalled."

  "By my uncle," said Cangrande. "Mastino, the first della Scala to be named Capitano."

  "Yes. Verona was in turmoil and Mastino della Scala stepped in to calm matters. He recalled the San Bonifaci, too, but they refused to enter while Mastino lived. Mastino granted the Capelletti reparations for their losses and promised to keep my family in line." Gargano shrugged. "Both sides were full of hate. It was mindless. I know. I was born maybe five years after the Capelletti were recalled. The loathing for that family pervaded every fibre of our house here in the city. Out in the country, far from them, it wasn't nearly as bad. But I remember seeing a boy my own age once when I was out walking though the city with my family. My father pointed to the boy and told me that I should be wary of him, he was a Capelletti. I remember actually spitting at him. His name was Stefano." Gargano shook his head in disbelief. "It was absolutely without reason, mindless. What had that boy ever done to me? How had he hurt me or mine?"

  "He did, though," said Cangrande softly, "eventually."

  The long-faced noble nodded sadly. "Yes. But I provoked it. By everything I ever said or did with regards to that family, I helped cause it to happen."

  "What happened?" It was hard to tell who actually said it first, so many voices had chimed in. This was better than a poem or a ballad or an ode. That Montecchio was reluctant was fascinating to them all, even his son. This was what men longed for — tales of duels, feuds, honour.

  Hearing their eagerness, Lord Montecchio looked to the Scaliger with an appeal, and the Capitano took up the tale for him. "After the Mastiff died, the feud began to burn hot again. My father was a great man, but he lacked the fearful presence of my uncle. He wasn't able to scare the two families into obedience. Nor did fining them do any good. They fought and they fought — in the streets, in homes, in workshops, in markets, afield — wherever they encountered each other. They could hardly leave their homes without a duel beginning. For a time my father actually repealed the right to trial by combat.

  "When he died, the feud exploded. The men of the latest generation began dueling in the streets wherever they met." Cangrande looked at Mariotto. "Your father must have been an excellent swordsman to have lived through that period."