by David Blixt
Pietro restrained a grin. God Logic was often sneered at, especially by those who practiced it most. “Which, according to Eckhart, means you are enlightened.”
“I will confess, his view of an over-abundant God is appealing. But we see too much in life that is cruel to believe that God is overflowing with love.”
“It seems cruel to us,” said Pietro, thinking again of this day. “But what if the cruelty has purpose?”
“Cruelty comes from ignorance, or indifference. I choose to believe the Lord our God is neither.”
“Cruelty can come from selfishness as well,” said Antony, whom Pietro had not thought to be listening. “Most often it does.”
“Truth is truth,” said Poco, raising his cup.
As they drank, Pietro reflected that Antony was correct. Castelbarco as well. Ignorance, selfishness, indifference – all kinds of cruelty stemmed from those roots.
But there were times that cruelty was simple caprice. A dark laugh by evil stars. Without cause, just the malice of Fortune. There was no use in raging against that kind of injustice. For how could one take revenge on the stars?
♦ ◊ ♦
THE REVELS STRETCHED on into the evening. More and more torches were lighted. The piazza outside the Scaligeri palaces, filled with new knights and their families, was the stage for singing, dancing, laughter, contests, wagers, and the occasional brawl. Fire-eaters and sword-swallowers performed along the steps. The crowd exulted in the acrobatic feats of tumblers. Fortune-tellers set up at the edges, predicting glory equal to the size of the coin pressed in their palms.
One of them was within a stone's throw of Donna Katerina, watching as his little teardrop of stone made its circles and told its stories. Twice he was removed by the guards, told that his visage was upsetting some of the women. But he simply took up some new station near the lady. He made certain he was between her and the house where the pendulum said she was lodged. She could not go home without passing him.
♦ ◊ ♦
CESCO'S TABLE KEPT QUIET, so as not to frighten little Maddelena, but Mastino and Taddea performed the proper duties of their station, circulating among the hundreds of guests and greeting famous faces. Pleased to see the pair behave so smoothly, Carrara said as much to Cangrande. “It bodes well for their public life.”
“And their private?” asked the Scaliger.
Carrara pursed his lips. “What does it matter, so long as they behave properly in company?”
“There is no one less proper in company than Kate and her Petruchio. Yet I deem them the perfect marriage of Padua and Verona.”
Glancing at his own wife, childless these several years, Carrara pulled a face. “Not all of us are lucky enough to be matched in spirit as Dante and Beatrice. We must settle for show.”
Cangrande curled his eyes towards his own wife. “True enough. Please excuse me – mention of Dante puts me in mind of something.” Catching the eye of his Master of Revels, Cangrande gave a signal. Laying a sly finger alongside his nose, Manuel disappeared.
A few minutes later, as Pietro held forth on a recent legal opinion issued by the famous Bellario of Padua, he noticed Manuel approaching, lute in hand. He was accompanied by a young woman, barely taller than the Master of Revels himself. Commanding silence with a hand, Manuel began to pluck the instrument's strings in a mournful tune, with threads of hope woven through it.
Upon her cue, the female singer opened her mouth and the most incredible voice sprang forth: rich and full, earthy and entirely unexpected from such a shy waif. She sang words Pietro had never heard before – a new composition:
O courteous Mantuan soul
Whose fame still lasts in the world
And will last as far as the world will go;
My friend, not the friend of fortune,
On the deserted shore is so blocked
In his journey that he has turned back for fear,
And I am afraid that he may be already so lost
That I have risen too late to help him
According to what I have heard of him in Heaven.
Now go and with your ornamented speech
And whatever else is needed for his escape
Help him, so that I may be consoled.
I am Beatrice who causes you to go;
I come from the place where I long to return,
Love has moved me and makes me speak.
Pietro found his eyes welling, moved by this beautiful tribute to his father and the great Commedia. Before he knew it, both his brother and sister were by his side, and Cesco too, as they all listened to The Ballad of Beatrice, Dante's great love, the lady whose very name Antonia had taken for her holy vows. In it, the heavenly bearer of light and hope told of Dante's journey from her point of view, starting with her plea to Virgil to rescue Dante from the she-wolf, and ending with her final words of parting in Paradise.
It was a gift beyond price. And though Pietro knew the tune was Manuel's, a glance told him the words had been fashioned by Cangrande himself. A reward for years of service, a public acknowledgement of this peace, a private apology for all the betrayals, all the pain and anguish. In his inimitable way, Cangrande was making amends.
That planted an unwelcome doubt in Pietro's mind. Remorse was so uncharacteristic in the Scaliger, so utterly foreign to his nature, that something quite terrible must have happened. Did he feel Cesco's pain so deeply? Or was there something even worse gnawing the Scaliger's soul?
Forcing such troubled thoughts aside for the time being, Pietro allowed himself to enjoy these poetic lyrics set to a haunting tune. Beatrice sang of dressing to meet Dante on his journey, donning a white veil and green cape over her flame-red dress – white for faith, green for hope, and red for charity. Upon her head she placed a coronet of olive leaves, the traditional crown of Pallas Athena, goddess of wisdom.
Unable to resist, Cesco plucked a rebec and bow from an idle musician and began lightly sawing away in counterpoint to Manuel's tune. They did not often have the chance to play together, these two. When they did, they were like two hands on the same sword, working in unison to sever the heartstrings and pluck the soul straight from out the body.
Flooded with emotion, Pietro watched this boy – his boy! – display another of his countless careless skills. His sister's hand crept into his. This was their child. His pain was their sorrow, his victories their pride. They had raised him, and now they wept as much for him as for the song.
Pietro listened and watched, savouring, wishing this moment would last forever. At last Beatrice brought Dante as far as she could go, ushering him into the Sun, the Heaven of pure light, intellect and joy married in perfect love and harmony. In the song she handed him off, not to San Bernardo as in the poem, but to God Himself, who welcomed the great poet home.
Part homage, part eulogy, the song ended on a long drawn-out note from Cesco's rebec that had even Manuel's eyes clouding with tears. When it finished there lingered a hush, a raw shared breath as hundreds upon hundreds of souls clung to what they had just heard. Pietro's eyes were closed, his sister's hand clasped tightly in his own, wishing for so many things, grateful for so many more.
Applause started, and Pietro erupted to his feet with the rest. The girl singer blushed, smiling shyly, and Pietro knew that he would spend a large part of his now-considerable wealth to keep her in health so that she might sing this song her whole life long.
He met Manuel's eyes. “Thank you.”
“Say nothing,” replied the old jester. “There is no greater joy than a gift properly appreciated.”
Pietro turned to Cangrande. The Scaliger's famous allegria was strangely absent. Though the corners of his mouth were curled up and not down, he looked – sad, almost mournful. He, too, had been moved. Meeting Pietro's gaze, he did not hesitate, but walked up and over the table between them to embrace his favourite knight.
Pietro hugged him fiercely back, awash in conflict, grateful and resentful, happy and relieved, angry and wistf
ul all at once. It was catharsis, an ending to so many hurts and hopes.
But when Cangrande turned to embrace Cesco, the boy was already shaking hands with other revelers, accepting their congratulations, as if the whole thing had been his idea. Cangrande barked out a short laugh. “Now I know how Zeus felt when his thunder was stolen.”
Pietro wiped his eye. “It was marvelous.”
Cangrande waved this aside with the back of his hand. “It occurs to me, Pietro, that this is what Verona lacks.”
“What?”
“A poet. Your father is the closest we have come to literate fame, and that is reflected light – a Florentine falcon nesting in our towers. Mantua has Virgil. Why is there no great Veronese poet? What are we failing to do?”
“Perhaps it is Verona's destiny to inspire great art, not create it,” suggested Pietro.
Cangrande mused at that before shaking his head. “Nevertheless, I must do something. I will add a professorship of Rhetoric to our six chairs. Perhaps that will elevate the discourse and lead to more scholarship.” He snapped his fingers. “And you! Pietro, you know every winter month one of the six chairs must hold a public disputation on some matter under their banner. This past month it was arithmetic. Will you do me the great honour of leading a public debate of poetry next month? Use your father's text by all means. I need your help to make Verona not simply a military power but an artistic one.”
Pietro balked. “I'm no poet. You should ask Cesco.”
Cangrande cast a glance in his heir's direction. “I don't want to ask too much of him at present.”
“Better to keep him busy than let him wallow.”
“You may be right. But I have kept him busy for as long as he's been in my power. I thought a lack of occupation might show understanding.”
“Or it might show him you think he needs coddling. How would you have taken it, at his age?”
Cangrande snorted. “I would have bitten off the nose of any man who tried to coddle me. Point well taken.”
As the sea of praise ebbed, Cesco excused himself. “My lords, forgive me if I depart for a time. My bride is understandably tired. It's time to tuck her in and tell her a story.” He was answered with good-natured barbs offering to accompany the couple to their home in a mock version of the traditional bridal procession.
Taking Maddelena by the hand, Cesco added, “Don't fret, fellows. My wife won't lose her head like any common maid.” A ribald comment quite lost on the little bride, as it was meant to be.
“When you return,” called Cangrande, “we'll find someone here who'll help you celebrate your wedding night. We have willing dames enough!”
“Which no one knows better than you.” There was no bite to Cesco's reply, only cheerful banter. But his words had several effects. Some men laughed outright, while others glanced at the Scaliger's imperious wife, blithely ignoring the implication. Well, she'd had enough practice at that!
Cangrande's own laughter seemed just a little forced, while his sister's smile was completely genuine. Pietro saw Detto wince.
The young bridegroom escorted Maddelena out of the piazza towards their new home, hardly a stone's throw away. The little girl was attended by her sisters, her nurse, and several other servants. Madonna Rossi wept silently while the bride's father made determined conversation with his brothers, trying not to watch his littlest girl depart. It was a great match for them, but now the moment had come, he could not help feeling the tug of loss.
Between the song and the parting, things had become more maudlin than festive. “Come Manuel!” cried Nico. “Give us something lively, that we might caper!”
The aged jester obliged, and soon the square was singing a sprightly ballata. Against his will, Pietro was forced to dance. Women flocked to him, married and unmarried both. Fathers introduced their daughters, brothers their sisters. It was a heady sensation, as he did not think of himself as either handsome or charming. But while Cangrande was the victor and Carrara the honoured guest, Pietro Alaghieri was the brilliant architect of this peace. Exiled Florentine, poet's son, knight, duelist, soldier, banneret, lawyer, judge, scholar, rich beyond most men's dreams. What did it matter if he was a clumsy dancer, or easily embarrassed? Of all the bachelors in Verona, he was the most sought after.
Spinning from partner to partner, he touched hands, stepping close then away. Sometimes a forward partner would brush her body nearer than necessary, or drop a hand to rest on his arm, his shoulder, his chest. One even stroked his thigh. Pietro had to laugh at himself for being scandalized.
Eventually pleading his bad leg, he staggered off through drinking contests and clusters of revelers. Dice had appeared on almost every table. It was like the best Christmas, a joyous Easter. And tonight was not the culmination, but merely the start of two more months of promised festivities that would last past the New Year. Some visitors would doubtless depart tomorrow, but the vast majority would stay on to partake in the hunts, sports, salons, and feasts that would go on until Twelfth Night.
He spied Donna Katerina, sitting alone. She caught his eye, and he could not resist her wave of summons.
“It is wonderful to see you dance,” said the lady.
“I doubt I cut a very impressive figure,” he replied, sitting and removing his hat to mop his brow.
“On the contrary, you are quite heroic. I am almost tempted to thwart all these feminine hopes and drag you away for joyous congress.” Seeing his expression, she laughed at him. “O Pietro! For someone who has engaged in the sordid business of spying, your face is as a book, easily read by all! A lover would do you such good.”
“If you say so, lady.”
Katerina studied him, amused. “Why did we never have an affair, you and I?”
An invisible fist clenched his throat. “Because I admire your husband.”
“That cannot be the sole reason. Is it my many crimes?”
Pietro decided to answer truthfully. “Partly. But also that affairs, by their nature, must end.”
“And you would not want it to,” she said with a glow of delight. “That may be the most flattering praise I have ever received.”
Flushing, Pietro shook his head sharply. “This is a poor topic on such a joyful day.”
“Perhaps it is that, having achieved all my hopes, I seek a little piece of personal joy myself.”
All her hopes. Cesco, locked in a sham of a marriage, bound to a fate he did not even know awaited him. Cesco, broken-hearted and bitter against the world. Cesco, broken.
Rising, Pietro bowed to her. He could not even think of an excuse as he stalked away, pushing past people, hearing her rippling laughter behind him.
I should have taken Cesco abroad, to France or Spain, or sent him to the Imperial court. Anywhere but here, where he is the pawn of his family and the thrice-damned stars.
♦ ◊ ♦
THARWAT AL-DHAAMIN kept to the edge of the festivities, like a gargoyle in an old French town, watchful and immobile. Too often in the past a revel had turned to danger. Once, in this very square, Tharwat had faced down an angry leopard, though it was Ser Alaghieri who bore the beast's scars. The eight month-old Cesco had been pitched to its mercies by Cangrande's bastard brother, Gregorio Pathino. Pathino was dead, but there were many other foes out there, beyond Verona's walls.
And even more within them. Tharwat's attention returned to Ambassador Dandolo, deep in conversation with the one-eyed Berthold. Venice and the Emperor had an uneasy relationship, but could possibly be united in their fear of Verona's rise. Out of such mutual interests were born strange bedfellows.
From the foreigners, the aged Moorish astrologer looked at threats closer to home. Mastino was accepting congratulations, his bride upon his arm. The Mastiff had proved himself more dangerous than Tharwat had expected, able to inflict more than obvious and petty harms. Because Mastino feared killing his kin, the Moor had written off any real potential harm from that quarter. Clearly a mistake.
Someone who would not
stint at murder was the Scaliger's wife, Giovanna. Finding her in the crowd, he was surprised to see her navigating the twirling dancers to approach him. Tharwat bowed as she arrived. “Madonna. Congratulations on a most joyous day.”
“Is it joyous?” asked Giovanna da Svevia. “Certainly it's frenetic. But is seeing my husband's bastard married and made a knight a cause for joy?”
“For many, yes.”
“For you, certainly. The culmination of years of scheming.”
“The schemes are not mine, lady,” said Tharwat stoically. “They belong to the stars.”
“A convenient answer.” The years had not been kind to Giovanna. Much older than her husband, her face had creased and withered. With her hair hidden under her flowing caul of gauze and silk, she looked severe even in repose. When, as now, she scowled, the lines bunched and multiplied.
Giovanna's eyes traveled to her good-sister, the lady Katerina, now conversing with some hunchbacked mountebank. “I know whose schemes they are. The bitch-mother.”
“Cesco is not her son, lady,” rasped the Moor from his scarred throat.
“Which makes it all the more inexplicable. Her son, I could understand. But her brother's by-blow? Why trouble herself over him at all? There have been plenty others, and she's never cared a fig. Nor has he. That has changed. You know that he's brought out two more bastards for the revels. It's as though he's determined to humiliate me.”
“I am certain that is not his intent. He means to show the whole strength of Verona's first family. I note that Paride has a place of honour.”
“Yes.” Giovanna's gaze fell upon her great-nephew, who danced with skill for one so young. “And he is knighted, which is as it should be.” Returning her formidable gaze to Tharwat, she said, “It is of Paride I wished to speak. We made a bargain once. That when Cesco was elevated, he would take pains to raise Paride with him.”
“You believe that time has come.”
“I do. I wish Paride to become one of the Heir's intimates. If I could have my way, he would displace Katerina's son as the Heir's bosom friend. But I know she wove those threads early on. It would take a sword to cleave them.”
