The Master of Verona

by Blixt, David

• ISBN13: 9780312361440
• ISBN10: 0312361440
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2007-07-24
• Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Summary

In 1314, the exiled, now infamous poet Dante and his two sons, seventeen year old Pietro Alagheiri and his younger brother Jacopo, travel to Verona at the invitation of it's leader, the legendary Franceso "Cangrande" della Scalla. Almost immediately, a sneak attack leads Pietro into his first battle - and into the confidences of the charismatic Cangrande, and a tight friendship with Mariotto Montecchiand Antonio Capuletti. But hidden forces are at work against Cangrande - a series of attempts are being made against an infant's life, a child believed to be Cangrande's illegitimate son and possible heir. Adding to the complications is the growing rivalry betweenPietro's best friends over a woman who is betrothed to one and in love with the other-a rivalry that will sever afriendship, divide a city, and ultimately lead to the best known tragic romance in literature.

Author Biography

David Blixt is a Shakespearean actor and director.  He lives in Chicago.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

 

The Road to Verona

 

The Same Night

 

“Giotto's O.”

 

In the middle of a dream in which no one would let him sleep, it seemed to Pietro that the words were deliberately meant to annoy him. Almost unwillingly he dreamed of a rock, a paintbrush touching the rock, forming a perfect circle.

 

The painter used red. It looked like blood.

 

“Pietro, I'm speaking to you.”

 

Pietro sat up straight in the rattling coach. “Pardon, Father.”

 

“Mmm. It's these blasted carriages. Too many comforts these days. Wouldn't have fallen asleep in a saddle.”

 

It was dark with the curtains drawn, but Pietro easily imagined his father's long face grimacing. Fighting the urge to yawn, Pietro said, “I wasn't asleep. I was thinking. What were you saying?”

 

“I was referencing Giotto's mythic O.”

 

“Oh. Why?”

 

“Why? What is nobler than thinking of perfection? More than that, it is a metaphor. We end where we begin.” A considering pause. Shifting, Pietro felt his brother's head on his shoulder. Irritiation rippled through him. Oh, Poco's allowed to sleep, but not me. Father needs an audience.

 

Expecting his father to try out some new flowery phrase, he was astonished to hear the old man say, “Yes, we end where we begin. I hope it's true. Perhaps then I will go home one day.”

 

Pietro leaned forward, happily letting Jacopo's head fall in the process. “Father—of course you will! Now that it's published, now that any idiot can see, they'll have to call you home. If nothing else, their pride won't let anyone else claim you.”

 

The poet laughed sourly. “You know little about pride, boy. It's their pride that keeps me in exile.”

 

Us, thought Pietro. Keeps us in exile.

 

Pietro felt a rustling beside him, and suddenly there was light. Jacopo was groggily pulling back one of the curtains. Pietro tried to feel ashamed at his satisfaction for having woken his brother up.

 

“The stars are out,” said Jacopo, peering out of the window.

 

“Every night at this time,” said Pietro's father. Now Pietro could see the hooked nose over his father's bristly black beard. The poet's eyes were deeply sunken, as if hiding from illumination. It was partly this feature that had earned Dante Alaghieri his fiendish reputation. Partly.

 

The light that came into the cramped carriage wasn't from the sky but from the brands held aloft by their escort. No one traveled by night without armed men. The lord of Verona had dispatched a large contingent to protect his latest guest.

 

Verona. Pietro had never been, though his father had. The youth said, “Giotto's O—you were thinking about Verona, weren't you?” Dante nodded, stroking his beard. “What's it like?” Beside Pietro, Jacopo turned away from the stars to listen.

 

Pietro saw his father smile, an unusual event that utterly transformed his face. Suddenly he was young once more. “Ah. The rising star of Italy. The city of forty-eight towers. Home of the Greyhound. My first refuge.” A pause, then the word refugio was repeated, savored, saved for future use. “Yes, I came there when I gave up on the rest of the exiles. Such plans. Such fools. I stayed in Verona for more than a year, you know. I saw the Palio run twice. Bartolomeo was Capitano then—a good man, honest, but almost terminally cheerful. In fact, it was fatal, now I think of it. When his brother Alboino took over the captainship, I made up my mind to leave. The boy was a weasel, not a hound. Besides, there was that unfortunate business with the Capelletti and Montecchi.”

 

Pietro wanted to ask what business, but Jacopo got in first, leaning forward eagerly to ask, “What about the new lord of Verona? What about the Greyhound?”

 

Dante just shook his head. “Words fail me.”

 

Which probably means, thought Pietro, he doesn't really know. He's heard the stories, but a man can change in a dozen years.

 

“But he is at war?” insisted Jacopo.

 

Dante nodded. “With Padua, over the city of Vicenza. Before he died, the Emperor gave Cangrande the title of Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, which technically means he is the overlord of Verona, Vicenza, Padua, and Treviso. Of course, the Trevisians and Paduans disagreed. But Vicenza is ruled by Cangrande's friend and brother-in-law, Bailardino Nogarola, who had no trouble swearing allegiance to his wife's brother.”

 

“So how is the war about Vicenza?” asked Pietro.

 

“Vicenza used to be controlled by Padua until they threw off the yoke and joined Verona. Two years ago Padua decided it wanted Vicenza back.” Pietro's father shook his head. “I wonder if they realize how badly they erred. They gave Cangrande an excuse for war, a just cause, and they might lose more than Vicenza in the bargain.”

 

“What about the Trevisians, the Venetians?”

 

“The Trevisians are biding their time, hoping Padua wears down Cangrande's armies. The Venetians? Well, they're an odd lot. Protected in their lagoon, neither fish nor fowl, Guelph nor Ghibelline, they don't care much about their neighbor's politics unless it affects their trade. But if Cangrande wins his rights, he'll have their trade in a stranglehold. Then they'll intervene. Though, after Ferrara, I imagine the Venetians won't desire land anytime soon,” he added, laughing.

 

“Maybe we'll see a battle!” Jacopo was fourteen and didn't care about politics. Ever since Poco had joined them in Lucca, Pietro had been treated to a litany of dreams involving membership in some mercenary condottiere until Poco was proven so brave he was knighted by whatever king or lord was handy. Then, Jacopo always said, came the money, leisure, comfort.

 

Pietro wanted to want such a life. It seemed like the right kind of existence, leading to the right kind of death. Women, wealth, maybe a heroic scar or two. And comfort? That was a dream he and his siblings had held in the way only a once wealthy, now ruined family can. Dante's exile from Florence had beggared his children, and his wife had only kept their house by using her dowry.

 

But Pietro couldn't imagine himself as a soldier. At seventeen he'd hardly been in a friendly scuffle, let alone a battle. He'd had a lesson in Paris, one quick tutorial that basically told him which end of the sword was for stabbing. The only other combat moves he knew he'd copied from fightbooks.

 

As the second son he'd been intended for a monastic life. Books, prayers, and perhaps gardening. Some politics. Lots of money. That was the life Pietro was brought up for, and he'd never really questioned it. But two years ago, Pietro's older brother Giovanni had died while with their father in Paris. Suddenly Pietro was elevated to heir and summoned to join his father. Since then they had traveled over the Alps back into Italy, down to Pisa and Lucca. A stone's throw from Florence. No wonder his father was thinking about their home.

 

If asked, Pietro would have said he was a disappointment to his father. He hadn't the wit to be a poet, and he was a poor manager for his father. Pietro thought that his little sister would be a better traveling companion for the great Dante. She had the mind for it. Pietro's sole consolation was that Poco, by his very presence, made Pietro look good.

 

Like now, as Jacopo pressed their father further. “The Greyhound. What's he really called?”

 

“Cangrande della Scala,” said Dante. “The youngest of the three sons, the only one still living. Sharp, tall, well-spoken. No. That won't do. I said, words don't do him justice. He has a . . . a streak of immortality inside him, inside his mind. If he continues unchecked, he will make Verona the new Caput Mundi. But ask me no more about him. You will see.” When Jacopo opened his mouth, Dante held up a hand. “Wait. And. See.” He pulled the curtain shut, blocking the stars and plunging them once more into darkness.

 

They rode on through the night. Awake now, Pietro listened to the easy chatting of the soldiers outside. They talked of nothing important. Horses, wenches, gambling, in the main. Soon Pietro heard his father's breathing become regular. A minute later the coach was filled with snores as Poco joined in.

 

Pietro couldn't sleep now, though, if he tried. So instead he carefully peeled back a section of curtain and watched the miles pass by. Dante always insisted on riding facing forward, so Pietro could only see the road behind them, illuminated in bizarre twisted patches by the torches of their escort. A wind was fretting the oak trees and juniper bushes that lined the road. He could smell the fresh breeze. A storm, maybe. Not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But a storm.

 

In a little while the trees thinned out, replaced by farms, mills, and minor hamlets. There was a jolt of the wheels, and suddenly they were rattling over a stone road, not a dirt one. The clop of each hoofbeat hung crisply in the night air. Pietro was again glad of their escort. Too many things happened to foolish nighttime travelers.

 

One of the men spied Pietro and cantered his mare closer to the carriage. “We're coming up on the city. Won't be long now.”

 

Pietro thanked him and kept watching. Verona. They were Ghibelline, which meant that they supported the Emperor, who was dead, rather than the pope, also dead. Verona had a famous race called the Palio. They exported, well, everything. Any goods from Venice that weren't going out by ship had to pass through either Florence or Verona. Florence led only to the port at Ostia, but Verona was the key to Austria and Germany, and thus on to France and England. It lay at the foot of the Brennero Pass, the only quick and sure route through the Alps.

 

All of a sudden the suburbs were upon them, the disposable homes, shops, and warehouses of those not wealthy enough to buy property inside the city walls. But already it smelled like a city. Pietro found it strange that the smell of urine and feces was a familiar comfort, but he'd lived in cities all his life. Florence, Paris, Pisa.

 

The carriage slowed to a walk, then stopped. Pietro's father roused. “What's happening?”

 

“I think we're outside the city gates, Father.”

 

“Excellent, excellent,” said the poet sleepily. “I was so consumed with composing the encounter with Cato—I told you about Cato? Good—I lost all track of our travels. Open the curtains. And wake your brother!”

 

Their escort had been hailed by the guard at the gate. The escort now shouted out the names of the passengers—one name, really, followed by “and his sons!” The city's guards acknowledged the claim and came forward to confirm the number of passengers in the carriage. And, Pietro saw, to gawk a little at his father.

 

“It is you, then?” asked one.

 

“I thought you'd have Virgil with you,” said the other. Pietro hoped he was joking.

 

Dante said, “You didn't recognize him? He's the coach driver.” One guard actually looked, then laughed in an abashed way. The poet passed a few more words with the guards, and one of them made a comment that he thought witty until Dante sighed. “Yes, yes. Hellfire singed my beard black. My sons are tired. May we enter?”

 

They were delayed while word was sent ahead and the gate was opened. Then the coach resumed its course, passing into the dark archway that led into the city. When Dante recognized a church or a house, he named it.

 

All at once Dante smacked his hands together and cried, “Look! Look!”

 

Pietro and Poco twisted around to see where he was pointing. Out of the darkness Pietro could make out an arch. Then another, and another. Arches above arches. Then the torches revealed enough of the structure for Pietro to guess what it was. The only thing it could be.

 

“The Arena!” Poco laughed. “The Roman Arena!”

 

“It's still in use,” said Dante. “Now that they've evicted the squatters and cleaned it out so they can use it for sport again. And theatre,” he added sourly.

 

Quickly they were past it, but Pietro kept picturing it in his mind's eye until the coach pulled to a stop. The driver called down, “The full stop!” and laughed. Everybody was itching to show off his wit to the exiled master poet.

 

A footman opened the door to the coach, and Pietro, hearing a sound, poked his head out. Word of their arrival must have spread faster than fire. There was a crowd of men, women, and children, growing larger every second. After two years of walking from place to place, of leaving their hats on posts in each new city they came to until someone lifted them, thus offering lodging and food, Pietro still wasn't used to his father's newfound fame.

 

Pietro stepped out of the coach, first making sure his hat was at the proper angle—he liked his hat, a present from the lord of Lucca and his only expensive garment. But even in his fancy hat with the long feather, he heard the crowd's sigh of disappointment. He didn't take it personally. Instead, he turned to hold out his arm to his father.

 

Dante's long fingers took the youthful arm, putting more pressure than he showed onto his son's flesh. His foot touched the stones of the square and the crowd took a single step back, pressing the rearmost hard against the walls.

 

“Fool carriages,” muttered Dante. “Never get cramped like this on a horse.”

 

Jacopo had popped out of the other side. Now he came around the back of the carriage, an idiot grin on his face. With a word to the porters to stow their baggage, they followed a beckoning steward.

 

Awed the crowd parted for them. They were gathered to glimpse Dante, an event Pietro guessed they'd tell their friends of while making the sign to ward off evil. The old man was evil, but not in that way.

 

Following the steward's lamp, they passed under an archway with a massive curved bone dangling from it. “La Costa,” said Dante. “I had forgotten. That bone is the remains of an ancient monster that the city rose up and killed in olden times. It marks the line between the Piazza delle Erbe to the Piazza della Signoria.” The marketplace, the civic center.

 

The alleyway opened out into a wide piazza enclosed all about by buildings both new and old. The whole square was done up in cloth of gold and silken banners that shimmered in the torchlight. Below this finery were Verona's best and brightest. Dressed in fine gonnellas or the more modern—and revealing—doublets, the wealthy nobles and upper crust watched now as Dante Alaghieri joined their ranks.

 

The buildings, ornaments, and men were all impressive, but Pietro's eyes were drawn to a central pillar flying a banner. A leap of torchlight caught the flapping flag, revealing an embroidered five-runged ladder. On the topmost rung perched an eagle, its imperial beak bearing a laurel wreath. At the ladder's base was shown a snarling hound.

 

Il Veltro. The Greyhound.

 

Then the crowd before Pietro's father parted to reveal a man standing at the center of the square, looking like a god on earth: massively tall, yet thin as a corded whip, his clothes were of expensive simplicity—a light-colored linen shirt with a wide collar that came to two triangular points far below his neck, under a farsetto, a doublet of burgundy leather. Instead of the common leather ties, it bore six metal clasps down the front. His hose, too, were dark, a wine red close to black. Tall boots reached his knee, the soft leather rolled back to create a wide double band about his calf. He wore no hat but was crowned with a mane of chestnut hair with streaks of blond that, catching echoes of the brands, danced like fire.

 

Yet it was his eyes that struck Pietro most. Bluer than the sky, sharper than a hawk's—unearthly. At their corners laughter lurked like angels at the dawn of the world.

 

Cangrande della Scala stood surrounded by minions and fellow nobles to greet the greatest poor man in all the world. A man's whose only wealth was language.

 

Copyright © 2007 by David Blixt. All rights reserved.

 

 

Excerpts

Chapter One The Road to Verona The Same Night “Giotto’s O.” In the middle of a dream in which no one would let him sleep, it seemed to Pietro that the words were deliberately meant to annoy him. Almost unwillingly he dreamed of a rock, a paintbrush touching the rock, forming a perfect circle. The painter used red. It looked like blood. “Pietro, I’m speaking to you.” Pietro sat up straight in the rattling coach. “Pardon, Father.” “Mmm. It’s these blasted carriages. Too many comforts these days. Wouldn’t have fallen asleep in a saddle.” It was dark with the curtains drawn, but Pietro easily imagined his father’s long face grimacing. Fighting the urge to yawn, Pietro said, “I wasn’t asleep. I was thinking. What were you saying?” “I was referencing Giotto’s mythic O.” “Oh. Why?” “Why? What is nobler than thinking of perfection? More than that, it is a metaphor. We end where we begin.” A considering pause. Shifting, Pietro felt his brother’s head on his shoulder. Irritiation rippled through him. Oh, Poco’s allowed to sleep, but not me. Father needs an audience. Expecting his father to try out some new flowery phrase, he was astonished to hear the old man say, “Yes, we end where we begin. I hope it’s true. Perhaps then I will go home one day.” Pietro leaned forward, happily letting Jacopo’s head fall in the process. “Father—of course you will! Now that it’s published, now that any idiot can see, they’ll have to call you home. If nothing else, their pride won’t let anyone else claim you.” The poet laughed sourly. “You know little about pride, boy. It’s their pride that keeps me in exile.” Us, thought Pietro. Keeps us in exile. Pietro felt a rustling beside him, and suddenly there was light. Jacopo was groggily pulling back one of the curtains. Pietro tried to feel ashamed at his satisfaction for having woken his brother up. “The stars are out,” said Jacopo, peering out of the window. “Every night at this time,” said Pietro’s father. Now Pietro could see the hooked nose over his father’s bristly black beard. The poet’s eyes were deeply sunken, as if hiding from illumination. It was partly this feature that had earned Dante Alaghieri his fiendish reputation. Partly. The light that came into the cramped carriage wasn’t from the sky but from the brands held aloft by their escort. No one traveled by night without armed men. The lord of Verona had dispatched a large contingent to protect his latest guest. Verona. Pietro had never been, though his father had. The youth said, “Giotto’s O—you were thinking about Verona, weren’t you?” Dante nodded, stroking his beard. “What’s it like?” Beside Pietro, Jacopo turned away from the stars to listen. Pietro saw his father smile, an unusual event that utterly transformed his face. Suddenly he was young once more. “Ah. The rising star of Italy. The city of forty-eight towers. Home of the Greyhound. My first refuge.” A pause, then the word refugio was repeated, savored, saved for future use. “Yes, I came there when I gave up on the rest of the exiles. Such plans. Such fools. I stayed in Verona for more than a year, you know. I saw the Palio run twice. Bartolomeo was Capitano then—a good man, honest, but almost terminally cheerful. In fact, it was fatal, now I think of it. When his brother Alboino took over the captainship, I made up my mind to leave. The boy was a weasel, not a hound. Besides, there was that unfortunate business with the Capelletti and Montecchi.” Pietro wanted to ask what business, but Jacopo got in first, leaning forward eagerly to ask, “What about the new lord of Verona? What about the Greyhound?” Dante just shook his head. “Words fail me.” Which probably means, thought Pietro, he doesn’t really know. He’s heard the stories, but a man can change in a dozen years. “But he is at war?” insisted Jacopo. Dante nodded. “With Padua, over the city of Vicenza. Before he died, the Emperor gave Cangrande the title of Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, which technically means he is the overlord of Verona, Vicenza, Padua, and Treviso. Of course, the Trevisians and Paduans disagreed. But Vicenza is ruled by Cangrande’s friend and brother-in-law, Bailardino Nogarola, who had no trouble swearing allegiance to his wife’s brother.” “So how is the war about Vicenza?” asked Pietro. “Vicenza used to be controlled by Padua until they threw off the yoke and joined Verona. Two years ago Padua decided it wanted Vicenza back.” Pietro’s father shook his head. “I wonder if they realize how badly they erred. They gave Cangrande an excuse for war, a just cause, and they might lose more than Vicenza in the bargain.” “What about the Trevisians, the Venetians?” “The Trevisians are biding their time, hoping Padua wears down Cangrande’s armies. The Venetians? Well, they’re an odd lot. Protected in their lagoon, neither fish nor fowl, Guelph nor Ghibelline, they don’t care much about their neighbor’s politics unless it affects their trade. But if Cangrande wins his rights, he’ll have their trade in a stranglehold. Then they’ll intervene. Though, after Ferrara, I imagine the Venetians won’t desire land anytime soon,” he added, laughing. “Maybe we’ll see a battle!” Jacopo was fourteen and didn’t care about politics. Ever since Poco had joined them in Lucca, Pietro had been treated to a litany of dreams involving membership in some mercenary condottiere until Poco was proven so brave he was knighted by whatever king or lord was handy. Then, Jacopo always said, came the money, leisure, comfort. Pietro wanted to want such a life. It seemed like the right kind of existence, leading to the right kind of death. Women, wealth, maybe a heroic scar or two. And comfort? That was a dream he and his siblings had held in the way only a once wealthy, now ruined family can. Dante’s exile from Florence had beggared his children, and his wife had only kept their house by using her dowry. But Pietro couldn’t imagine himself as a soldier. At seventeen he’d hardly been in a friendly scuffle, let alone a battle. He’d had a lesson in Paris, one quick tutorial that basically told him which end of the sword was for stabbing. The only other combat moves he knew he’d copied from fightbooks. As the second son he’d been intended for a monastic life. Books, prayers, and perhaps gardening. Some politics. Lots of money. That was the life Pietro was brought up for, and he’d never really questioned it. But two years ago, Pietro’s older brother Giovanni had died while with their father in Paris. Suddenly Pietro was elevated to heir and summoned to join his father. Since then they had traveled over the Alps back into Italy, down to Pisa and Lucca. A stone’s throw from Florence. No wonder his father was thinking about their home. If asked, Pietro would have said he was a disappointment to his father. He hadn’t the wit to be a poet, and he was a poor manager for his father. Pietro thought that his little sister would be a better traveling companion for the great Dante. She had the mind for it. Pietro’s sole consolation was that Poco, by his very presence, made Pietro look good. Like now, as Jacopo pressed their father further. “The Greyhound. What’s he really called?” “Cangrande della Scala,” said Dante. “The youngest of the three sons, the only one still living. Sharp, tall, well-spoken. No. That won’t do. I said, words don’t do him justice. He has a . . . a streak of immortality inside him, inside his mind. If he continues unchecked, he will make Verona the new Caput Mundi. But ask me no more about him. You will see.” When Jacopo opened his mouth, Dante held up a hand. “Wait. And. See.” He pulled the curtain shut, blocking the stars and plunging them once more into darkness. They rode on through the night. Awake now, Pietro listened to the easy chatting of the soldiers outside. They talked of nothing important. Horses, wenches, gambling, in the main. Soon Pietro heard his father’s breathing become regular. A minute later the coach was filled with snores as Poco joined in. Pietro couldn’t sleep now, though, if he tried. So instead he carefully peeled back a section of curtain and watched the miles pass by. Dante always insisted on riding facing forward, so Pietro could only see the road behind them, illuminated in bizarre twisted patches by the torches of their escort. A wind was fretting the oak trees and juniper bushes that lined the road. He could smell the fresh breeze. A storm, maybe. Not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But a storm. In a little while the trees thinned out, replaced by farms, mills, and minor hamlets. There was a jolt of the wheels, and suddenly they were rattling over a stone road, not a dirt one. The clop of each hoofbeat hung crisply in the night air. Pietro was again glad of their escort. Too many things happened to foolish nighttime travelers. One of the men spied Pietro and cantered his mare closer to the carriage. “We’re coming up on the city. Won’t be long now.” Pietro thanked him and kept watching. Verona. They were Ghibelline, which meant that they supported the Emperor, who was dead, rather than the pope, also dead. Verona had a famous race called the Palio. They exported, well, everything. Any goods from Venice that weren’t going out by ship had to pass through either Florence or Verona. Florence led only to the port at Ostia, but Verona was the key to Austria and Germany, and thus on to France and England. It lay at the foot of the Brennero Pass, the only quick and sure route through the Alps. All of a sudden the suburbs were upon them, the disposable homes, shops, and warehouses of those not wealthy enough to buy property inside the city walls. But already it smelled like a city. Pietro found it strange that the smell of urine and feces was a familiar comfort, but he’d lived in cities all his life. Florence, Paris, Pisa. The carriage slowed to a walk, then stopped. Pietro’s father roused. “What’s happening?” “I think we’re outside the city gates, Father.” “Excellent, excellent,” said the poet sleepily. “I was so consumed with composing the encounter with Cato—I told you about Cato? Good—I lost all track of our travels. Open the curtains. And wake your brother!” Their escort had been hailed by the guard at the gate. The escort now shouted out the names of the passengers—one name, really, followed by “and his sons!” The city’s guards acknowledged the claim and came forward to confirm the number of passengers in the carriage. And, Pietro saw, to gawk a little at his father. “It is you, then?” asked one. “I thought you’d have Virgil with you,” said the other. Pietro hoped he was joking. Dante said, “You didn’t recognize him? He’s the coach driver.” One guard actually looked, then laughed in an abashed way. The poet passed a few more words with the guards, and one of them made a comment that he thought witty until Dante sighed. “Yes, yes. Hellfire singed my beard black. My sons are tired. May we enter?” They were delayed while word was sent ahead and the gate was opened. Then the coach resumed its course, passing into the dark archway that led into the city. When Dante recognized a church or a house, he named it. All at once Dante smacked his hands together and cried, “Look! Look!” Pietro and Poco twisted around to see where he was pointing. Out of the darkness Pietro could make out an arch. Then another, and another. Arches above arches. Then the torches revealed enough of the structure for Pietro to guess what it was. The only thing it could be. “The Arena!” Poco laughed. “The Roman Arena!” “It’s still in use,” said Dante. “Now that they’ve evicted the squatters and cleaned it out so they can use it for sport again. And theatre,” he added sourly. Quickly they were past it, but Pietro kept picturing it in his mind’s eye until the coach pulled to a stop. The driver called down, “The full stop!” and laughed. Everybody was itching to show off his wit to the exiled master poet. A footman opened the door to the coach, and Pietro, hearing a sound, poked his head out. Word of their arrival must have spread faster than fire. There was a crowd of men, women, and children, growing larger every second. After two years of walking from place to place, of leaving their hats on posts in each new city they came to until someone lifted them, thus offering lodging and food, Pietro still wasn’t used to his father’s newfound fame. Pietro stepped out of the coach, first making sure his hat was at the proper angle—he liked his hat, a present from the lord of Lucca and his only expensive garment. But even in his fancy hat with the long feather, he heard the crowd’s sigh of disappointment. He didn’t take it personally. Instead, he turned to hold out his arm to his father. Dante’s long fingers took the youthful arm, putting more pressure than he showed onto his son’s flesh. His foot touched the stones of the square and the crowd took a single step back, pressing the rearmost hard against the walls. “Fool carriages,” muttered Dante. “Never get cramped like this on a horse.” Jacopo had popped out of the other side. Now he came around the back of the carriage, an idiot grin on his face. With a word to the porters to stow their baggage, they followed a beckoning steward. Awed the crowd parted for them. They were gathered to glimpse Dante, an event Pietro guessed they’d tell their friends of while making the sign to ward off evil. The old man was evil, but not in that way. Following the steward’s lamp, they passed under an archway with a massive curved bone dangling from it. “La Costa,” said Dante. “I had forgotten. That bone is the remains of an ancient monster that the city rose up and killed in olden times. It marks the line between the Piazza delle Erbe to the Piazza della Signoria.” The marketplace, the civic center. The alleyway opened out into a wide piazza enclosed all about by buildings both new and old. The whole square was done up in cloth of gold and silken banners that shimmered in the torchlight. Below this finery were Verona’s best and brightest. Dressed in fine gonnellas or the more modern—and revealing—doublets, the wealthy nobles and upper crust watched now as Dante Alaghieri joined their ranks. The buildings, ornaments, and men were all impressive, but Pietro’s eyes were drawn to a central pillar flying a banner. A leap of torchlight caught the flapping flag, revealing an embroidered five-runged ladder. On the topmost rung perched an eagle, its imperial beak bearing a laurel wreath. At the ladder’s base was shown a snarling hound. Il Veltro. The Greyhound. Then the crowd before Pietro’s father parted to reveal a man standing at the center of the square, looking like a god on earth: massively tall, yet thin as a corded whip, his clothes were of expensive simplicity—a light-colored linen shirt with a wide collar that came to two triangular points far below his neck, under a farsetto, a doublet of burgundy leather. Instead of the common leather ties, it bore six metal clasps down the front. His hose, too, were dark, a wine red close to black. Tall boots reached his knee, the soft leather rolled back to create a wide double band about his calf. He wore no hat but was crowned with a mane of chestnut hair with streaks of blond that, catching echoes of the brands, danced like fire. Yet it was his eyes that struck Pietro most. Bluer than the sky, sharper than a hawk’s—unearthly. At their corners laughter lurked like angels at the dawn of the world. Cangrande della Scala stood surrounded by minions and fellow nobles to greet the greatest poor man in all the world. A man’s whose only wealth was language. Copyright © 2007 by David Blixt. All rights reserved. 
 

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Excerpted from The Master of Verona by David Blixt
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.