by David Blixt
Noon drew near without sign of Cesco or his Rakehells. But the people could not be kept waiting. Feeling the trepidation he always did when facing a crowd, and recalling the last two public readings he had done were before an Inquisitor and an Emperor, Pietro rose from his seat and strode to the pedestal, where the heavy book was open to the appropriate page.
After the applause subsided, Pietro thanked the Scaliger and the other notables in the crowd – Castelbarco, Bonaventura and his wife Kate, Antonio and Mariotto (of the two, he made sure to thank Antony first, to avoid him storming off in a huff), and a half-dozen other important men.
He gave a brief introduction, summarizing the events of L'Inferno to this point – Dante waking in a dark forest and being greeted by the dead poet Virgil, who led the living poet away from the dangers of the Lion, the Leopard, and the She-Wolf by the only route available – down into Hell. Virgil promised to guide Dante to his ultimate destination, Heaven, and reunite him with his long lost love, the lady Beatrice.
After passing through the famous gate bearing the dark inscription Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate, and seeing the ranks of the Uncommitted – those who did neither good nor evil in their lives (including those angels who took no sides in Lucifer's rebellion) – Dante and Virgil cross the river Acheron. “But the act of crossing sends Dante into unconsciousness – and thus we arrive at the Fourth Canto, wherein Dante awakes to find himself in Limbo.” With that, Pietro cleared his throat and began to read:
A heavy thunderclap broke my deep sleep
so that I started up like one
shaken awake by force
With rested eyes, I stood
and looked about me, then fixed my gaze
to make out where I was.
I found myself upon the brink
of an abyss of suffering
filled with the roar of endless woe.
It was full of vapour, dark and deep.
Straining my eyes toward the bottom,
I could see nothing.
‘Now let us descend into the blind world
down there,’ began the poet, gone pale.
‘I will be first and you come after.’
Just as Pietro finished these lines, Cesco and his Rakehells entered the square. Ruddy-cheeked and tousle-haired as though they'd been riding – or romping – they were respectful if cocksure as they strode boldly towards the front benches and shouldered themselves into seats.
Pietro's relief that the bait had been swallowed was tempered by the boy's demeanor. His very stride had changed. Always Cesco had possessed a purposeful gait, light on his feet, always someone with a destination. His newly careless lope proclaimed a truculence that pained Pietro's heart.
Pietro carried on through the events of the Canto – Virgil explaining that those who dwelt herein were only guilty of not knowing Christ in their lives, either through dying before baptism or else having been born before the Savior came to provide Grace to the world; Dante asking if any had ever been saved from this place, and Virgil recounting the Harrowing of Hell, when Christ came down to bring the great Hebrews up into Heaven – Adam, Abel, Noah, Moses, Abraham, David and his children, along with others who knew the truth of God and deserved to be brought to join Him above.
Pietro carried on to read of the four spirits that approach Dante and Virgil:
The good master spoke: ‘Take note
of him who holds that sword in hand
and comes as lord before the three:
‘He is Homer, sovereign poet.
Next comes Horace the satirist,
Ovid is third, the last is Lucan.’
The ancient poets did Dante honour, inducting the living man into their ranks, making him the sixth great poet of all eternity. Then the dead poets ushered Dante into a massive castle, and at once he found himself standing upon an Elysian meadow alongside other great historical figures – Electra, Hector, Aeneas, Caesar, Camilla, Penthesilea, Latinus and his daughter Lavinia, the first Brutus with Lucretia at his side, Julia, Marcia, Cornelia and, sitting alone, Saladin.
Pietro read of the approach of Aristotle, with Socrates and Plato, Democritus, and the other great philosophers, followed by the legendary mathematicians Euclid, Ptolemy, Galen, Hippocrates, Avicenna, and Averroes.
The Canto concluded with two stanzas, as Dante was forced to leave this exalted company:
I cannot give account of all of them,
for the length of my theme so drives me on
that often the telling comes short of the fact.
The company of six falls off to two
and my wise leader brings me another way
out of the still, into the trembling, air.
And I come to a place where nothing shines.
“From here, the poet descends into Hell itself.” Closing the book, Pietro bowed to Cangrande, his father's last and greatest patron, who put his hands together, a signal for the crowd. Under the applause, Pietro could not help recalling his first day in Verona, when they had all lounged upon Cangrande's loggia and debated this very text.
Today the Bishop of Verona began the discussion by posing a leading question about light. “Tell me, you Alaghieri who knew him so well, why does your father describe Hell as a cieco mondo – a 'blind world'. Are we meant to take this literally? Are the denizens of Hell blind?”
“I imagine,” said Cangrande, “that he means they are blinded by the smoke of hellfire.”
Pietro inclined his head. “I'm sure my lord Scaliger is correct. However, I think my father meant something more metaphorical. He was likely referring to a poetic lack of Light. Outside of all the torments and suffering, it seems to me that this lack is the very definition of Hell.”
“How so?” asked Cangrande.
“I often heard my father say that Hell is not truly defined by those who are condemned to be there,” said Pietro, “but rather by He who is not. Hell is, quite simply, the absence of God.”
“Ah!” cried Cangrande, leaning forward. “God is Light, and if all light comes from God above, then the only light in Hell is reflected, or produced by flame. Bishop, do you not approve?”
“Very well said, my lord,” nodded Bishop Francis. “I imagine that would be torture enough – to stand and feel the lack of God's divine love would be an emptiness to stifle the boldest soul.”
“You speak to two former excommunicants,” remarked Cangrande with a half-grin. “Both Pietro and I know the pain of which you speak most personally.”
If it had been awkward for the Bishop to hold sway over a city whose lord had been excommunicated, he chose to laugh. “So you must feel the Light all the more fully now that you are both back in His sight.”
Cangrande's allegria flashed, whiter than the snow clinging to the rooftops. “Yes! Like the poet himself, Pietro and I have braved Hell, and are returned to Heaven. By which I mean, Verona.” There were smiles all around. Pietro saw Cesco roll his eyes.
“But what about the Limbicoli?” This came from Lord Castelbarco. “Why does the noble poet place so many ancient figures among those in Limbo, rather than lower in Hell?”
Pietro waited, hoping Cesco would answer. But the prince of Verona was looking blankly expectant, listening without the remotest hint of participation.
It fell to Antonia to respond. “The poet disagrees with the blessed San Tommasso, who says that Limbo is filled by only two classes of men – Hebrew saints and unbaptized infants. Instead we are given the great pagans, the learned men who were never afforded the comfort of knowing the light of Christ.”
“I see that,” nodded Castelbarco. “Yet there is one who troubles me. Why is the infidel general Saladin placed in Limbo, rather than lower with his master?”
Pietro knew why, though he could not speak it aloud. His father had abhorred Islam as much as any Christian – though that had tempered over the years he lived with Tharwat al-Dhaamin. But it had been Muslims who had preserved Aristotle and much of the great philosophy, science
, and especially poetry lost to the West when Rome fell. Honouring Saladin, the greatest of the Muslims, was the poet's way of acknowledging a debt humanity owed to the Infidel. It was no accident that the very next person introduced after the Muslim was Aristotle himself.
There followed some spirited debate over the life of Saladin, with Cangrande and several others attempting to reconcile his dignity against his deeds in fighting against Christianity. They concluded that, though a Muhammadan, his acts had been so chivalrous and so enlightened that he deserved to be among the noblest of the damned. Because, as Cangrande noted, “Damned is still damned.”
Still Cesco said nothing.
A humble man in the crowd asked why Homer carried a sword, a question answered by Mariotto's poetry-loving wife. “The sword in Homer's hand indicates he is an epic poet,” explained Gianozza, standing up. Now in her thirtieth year, she was as beautiful as ever, stopping the breath of men even with her raven hair covered and out of sight. “Also he is the greatest among them, and wrote of the greatest deeds in the history of men – the siege of Troy, from which all other history is sprung. It is only fitting he is honoured with a sword.”
Antony applauded her answer, much to his wife's dismay. Cesco applauded too, if wryly. Giving up hope that Cesco would partake in this discussion, Pietro let himself be drawn into a debate with Fra Lorenzo over scïenzïa versus arte, the first indicating knowledge, while the second and greater word alluded to the ability to express that knowledge – infinitely harder. “It is easier to know than to share that knowledge.”
“Which is why the Lord has granted these great poets – as well as the philosophers and mathematicians – the lightest punishment in Hell,” added Poco with surprising clarity. His time in Florence had done him well. “Their abilities mitigate their torment.”
“Damned is still damned,” repeated Cangrande. It became the catchphrase for the afternoon, as time and again men brought the conversation back to the fact that, however great and able these men were, they were all still damned.
After an hour of vigourous talk and countertalk, and two shouting matches that almost came to blows, the event showed signs of heading for a natural conclusion. Pietro saw Cesco whisper something to his band of Rakehells and they moved to depart ahead of the rest of the crowd.
Cangrande saw them ready to leave. “Francesco della Scala! You are uncommonly silent – especially for one raised at the poet's knee. You have as much right as any to comment on his epic work. Surely you have some thoughts to share?”
All eyes turned to Cesco, whose face showed innocent surprise. “I doubt I have anything of value to offer this illustrious gathering. Certainly there are none better than Ser Alaghieri, Suor Beatrice, and Signor Jacopo to enlighten us all to the poet's meaning. And for good measure, we have heard from Donna Montecchio, as learned as anyone in the field of romantic poetry. I marvel at the education I've had here today.”
“And I marvel at such unaccustomed modesty,” answered Cangrande with an oblique smile. “You have nothing to add?”
Cesco considered for a moment, then gave a brief shrug. “Far be it from me to criticize the poem. It is a fantastic piece of craftsmanship, unparalleled in modern times. Yet it behooves us to remember it is, in fact, only a poem. One that takes as its premise a flawed notion.”
“And what notion is that?”
Cesco's posture remained nonchalant, but there was a fierce flicker in the depths of his eyes. “That there is any such thing as Heaven and Hell.”
The crowd stilled, and little wonder. Heaven and Hell were central to the Christian faith. Priests and monks and bishops spoke of them daily. Without the promise of Heaven and the threat of Hell, how were men supposed to know right from wrong?
Bishop Francis was on his feet, as was Fra Lorenzo. Men muttered, the mutters quickly rising to shouts of outrage. Eyes turned to Cangrande.
The Scaliger held out his hands, smiling reprovingly. “This is what happens when you raise a prince at the knee of a poet. Or perhaps minor heresies run in the family. But remember, all, this is a discussion of poetry, not God's law.”
Cesco flashed a thin-lipped smile. “See? I told you I had nothing of value to add.” With that he turned and exited the square, followed by his band of Rakehells – a name that suddenly had new meaning.
The crowd dispersed, everyone discussing in low voices what Cesco had posited. Bishop Francis crossed to have words with Cangrande, seeking a means to stem the tide of unrest. Mariotto was kneeling in stern conversation with little Romeo, who was frowning in puzzled thought.
On the stage, Pietro kept his face neutral. Antonia was less successful than her brother. Her wide eyes and clenched jaw bespoke her feelings. It was Poco who turned his back to the crowd so he might chuckle. “Twelve words. Just twelve words, and he's caused more of a stir than father did with the whole poem.”
Pietro, too, appreciated the skill with which Cesco had thwarted their obvious attempt to draw him out. Be careful what you wish for…
Antonia managed to keep her voice low, though it did nothing to soften her sharp tone. “He'll be murdered! The Church will condemn him as a heretic!”
Poco was dismissive. “This was a discussion of poetry. He can simply say he was—”
“What, being poetic? Poco, part of the reason it was so easy for the Church to rule against Pietro was our father's work. Not that he wrote anything outside of Church doctrine,” she added hastily. “But any poem is open to interpretation. And in Cesco—”
“In Cesco, they have both Cangrande's heir and my foster-son,” finished Pietro. “Damned on both sides.”
“This will make it harder for the Abbess to condone my staying in his house.”
“Or easier,” said Pietro. “You are trying to correct his wayward thoughts, and protect his little bride.”
Antonia looked like a geyser, steaming before the eruption. “For Heaven's sake, why would he say such a thing?”
Poco and Pietro both stared at her. Was she serious? Surely she recalled the many evenings in Ravenna where their father had posed just the same question. Was there a Heaven? Was there a God? The great mind had wrestled with the problem, and come down on the side of Yes. But it had not stopped him from trying to reconcile the natural world with the divine one. Pietro recalled his own struggle, practicing his legal skill as he argued for God while his genius father played the Devil's Advocate, trying to strike down the underpinnings of faith. In many ways, the Commedia itself was the poet's attempt to make sense of the relationship between God and Man.
If it was hard for me, what must have it been like for Cesco, all of six years old, to listen as we all discussed and debated? What did he absorb? A prodigy with a quick and nimble mind, the boy must have heard the arguments and set about deciding for himself. And his recent bitter reversals have made up his mind.
“He's not just challenging his father and the stars,” said Pietro in wonder. “He's determined to take the battle right to Heaven's door.”
“Aim high or go home.” Cangrande stepped onto the low stage to join them. “I was just assuring the good Bishop there that my wayward heir will be in Church come Sunday, and again on Wednesday. Can you divine what the sermons will be?”
Antonia was not amused. “This was a mistake.”
“Was it?” asked Cangrande grandly. “On the contrary, I found the whole thing scintillating. As your late father would have, had he been here. The reading was excellent – you mimic him well, Pietro, albeit unconsciously, I'm sure.”
Antonia was insistent. “But Cesco—”
“—showed more life in that moment than we've seen in ages. For three weeks he has reserved his liveliness for back alley brawls and petty pranks. Better this forum for his outrages than public violence. If the price is unity with the Church, well,” he glanced wryly towards Pietro, “we've slipped across that ice before. We should do this again after Twelfth Night.”
“Perhaps not so public next time?” suggested Pie
tro.
Cangrande tapped a finger alongside his nose. “Wisely. Wisely.”
“If it's not public, how do we get him to come?” asked Poco shrewdly.
“By inviting the Bishop, of course. Having thrown down his gauntlet, I imagine Cesco will want to engage in single combat.”
“Against the Bishop?”
Pietro shook his head. “Against God.”
Fourteen
HAVING BEEN EDIFIED by poetic mischief-making, the Rakehells went straight back to raising the Hell that Cesco denied existed. Lining up at the arches of the ancient Arena, they agreed on a track and mounted their steeds. Some horses, like Benedick's and Thibault's, were borrowed from Cesco's stables, but most were the property of their noble riders.
For Cesco this was an important race, for he was fully airing Abastor for the first time. Beside him was Detto atop a brown stallion he'd named for the steed of Roland, paladin to Charlemagne, made famous in The Song of Roland. In Italian Roland was Orlando, and his horse Veillantif became Vegliantino.
Cesco had been bemused by the choice. “Really? A man famous only for failing to protect the emperor's rear?”
“He allowed the emperor time to get to safety,” had been Detto's answer.
Cesco had blown his lips in derision. “Then called him back as he died! Was there ever a less useful death than Roland's? He didn't even die fighting. He blew a horn so hard his head erupted. And he lost all his men.”
“That was no fault of his horse,” Detto had said, patting his steed's neck. Cesco had been forced to confess the truth of this.
The route today was through the Porta Lioni, up the via Cappello, then left through the Porta Borsari, around San Zeno, and back south to the Arena. Cesco offered a pair of golden spurs to the victor, but that was less important than winning the praise of their fellow Rakehells, especially their leader.
