The Master of Verona

Dante pressed his lips tight. "The fool raises an interesting question. Aristotle was, of course, discussing more the nature of physics than that of astrology. But we have strayed. I did not say that there was more than one Heaven. I said that the heavens were written, and must be read. I apologize for my use of the word 'heavens'. I should have said 'the stars'."

The abbot stamped his foot. "I object to the idea that the — that Heaven is a book! No doubt you think it is written in the vernacular as well?" Pietro's father had written L'Inferno in the tongue the churchmen called vulgare, eschewing the Latin of the scholars. He maintained that vulgare was what the Romans had spoken a thousand years before, while the Church Latin was far removed from the common speech of all Italians, past and present. Ironically enough, when writing his treatise praising the common tongue, he'd used Latin.

In place of defending vulgare, Dante said, "The Book of Heaven is written in a universal language, for it is our universe. It is the language spoken by all the world before the Tower of Babel. When God created the planets and stars, he gave us a map of our fate. By reading the stars, we create ourselves. It takes a willful act upon the part of the reader to interpret that fate. You would know that if you were a true pastor."

Before the abbot could reply, Cangrande leaned forward, radiating intensity. "You're saying that how a man interprets the stars affects how his life will run?"

"Yes."

The bishop shook his head. Unlike his neighbour the abbot, he spoke in reasonable tones. "Pardon, but that seems to mean there is a fixed path to man's journey. That is predestination, and clearly contrary to church doctrine." At his elbow the abbot stamped a foot for emphasis.

Dante smiled. "Imagine you are reading a book — any book. The author has written a lovely poem, with a picture clear in his mind. He describes a cloud-laden sky. When you read over his words, an entirely different picture comes to your mind's eye. Where for him the skies are full of puffy white clouds, you imagine them to be grey and full of evil portents. You are not wrong, the picture is your own. It is not, however, what the author intended. The act of reading changes both the poem and the reader.

"Thus it is with the stars. Astrology is a science as much about man as about the celestial spheres. It is not enough to observe them. They must be interpreted actively. On those interpretations rest our fates, individual and collective."

Cangrande's interest was palpable. "So the Lord has given us the song of each life, but it is up to us to sing it well?"

One bored nobleman shifted his legs and said, "It's a shame, then, O great Capitano, that your own singing makes your dogs run and hide."

"Truth from Passerino!" cried someone else.

Cangrande was the first to laugh, and the loudest, but his eyes remained on Dante. "Well, poet?"

An audition. Or a challenge. Or acknowledgement of a test already passed? "It is well put, my lord. It takes an act of will on both the part of the Divine Author and the humble mortal reader to create a destiny. God has made his will known — but are we intelligent enough to read it in his stars?"

The abbot was about to continue the argument, but the Capitano had evidently heard enough. Canting his head to one side, he addressed his fool. "This talk of poetry has put me in the mind to hear some. Come, rascal, entertain us briefly before we dine."

Pietro had met the short clown the night before. Emanuele di Salamone dei Sifoni, better known as Manoello Giudeo — Manuel the Jew — cynic, bawd, and Master of Revels for lord Cangrande's court. Throwing out the sleeves to set his bells jangling, he began to recite:

Lady, God will say to me: "How did you presume?"

When my soul will be in front of him.

"You passed through the heavens to come to me,

And you rendered me through the likeness of vain love;

For to me belong the praises

and to the queen of the worthy kingdom,

Through whom all wickedness dies."

I will be able to say to him: "She had the semblance

Of an angel that was of your kingdom;

It was no fault in me if I placed love in her."

So soft, so dulcet was the recitation of this simple, humorous love poem that all other conversation on the loggia died away.

Cangrande threw his head back and sucked in the autumn air. "It is you who presumes, Manuel! I am home from battles, toil, and dreariness. I want jollity! Music, Manuel, music!"