The Master of Verona

The lone rider had tears streaming from his eyes when he was stopped at Verona's Ponte Pietro, the bridge leading east. "Where's the fire, lad?" asked the captain of the guard.

"I know him," said the seargent-at-arms. "Muzio. He's a page to Lord Nogarola's brother."

Realizing this might be something serious, the captain's tone grew more brusque. "What's happened?"

The boy couldn't speak. He reached for a wineskin at his hip, but a soldier got to him first with a flask of spirits. The boy coughed, then croaked out his news. "Vicenza. It's burning!"

Four

The good humour on the loggia gave way to hunger as smells wafted in from the dining-hall. The mingled scents of wine, spiced meat, melting cheese, and warm bread soaked in olive oil had all men salivating.

Pietro was singing a ribald chorus with the groom's friends and hoping his father wasn't listening when he noticed a woman in the great doorway. She was older than he might have expected, but lovely, done up in the new fashion, with her dark hair in wavy curls framing her oval face. Dressed in hanging panels of brocaded gold and burgundy, she glided into the room. Giovanna of Antioch, great-granddaughter of Emperor Frederick, sister of Cecchino's mother, and wife to the Capitano of Verona.

Removing himself from the cluster of men, Cangrande strode over to her, the wiry greyhound dogging his heels. She went up on her toes and spoke in his ear.

At the corners of the doorway beyond her, two children appeared. Pietro nudged Mariotto and whispered, "I thought Cangrande didn't have an heir."

"Not by his wife, anyway," replied Mariotto dourly. Realizing he'd spoken aloud, he coloured. "I apologize. Those are his brother's sons, Alberto and Mastino."

From Mariotto's indicating nods, Pietro learned that Alberto was the larger of the pair. A pleasant-looking child, about eight or nine years old, he seemed embarrassed to be where he knew he shouldn't. The youngest man in the room was probably Pietro's brother at fourteen years, almost a man, also a guest. Alberto knew the world of adults was still outside his sphere.

Just behind him, prodding him onward, young Mastino looked to be about six. Undoubtedly Scalageri, his face bore all the easy magnificence that graced his uncle. Yet in watching him, Pietro saw a little devil at work. Mastino pressed his brother on into the room. When Alberto wasn't scolded, little Mastino strode boldly past his pliable older brother. He stood on his heels, hands on hips, looking around the room as if he owned it. He was a genuinely gorgeous child.

Cangrande bowed to his wife, stepping back as she addressed his guests. "Gentlemen, lords, and honoured guests! The wedding feast is prepared!" A cheer. "I regret to say, though, that my husband has shamed me. Shamed me, his loving wife, by offering his nephew a feast that far outstrips the one for our own nuptials all those years ago. He has done me shame by offering to you what he never gave to me. So you must all assist him by making sure there is no evidence left!" Laughter, more appreciative cheers.

Cangrande draped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Someone, assist the groom to his seat at the head of the table. He seems to have found the liquid courage he needs to face his wedding night — if only he can remember what to do!" With an accompanying roar the group broke apart and prepared to move into the feasting hall below.

A hand slapped Pietro's shoulder. "Nice job of wriggling."

Pietro didn't bother to turn. "You're just jealous, Poco. You couldn't have done it." As a boy, Pietro had had such trouble with his brother Jacopo's name that he'd reversed the sounds, turning it into Poco. As Jacopo grew older, the nickname became an appropriate joke — he was short for his age. He'd also inherited their father's protruding lower lip, which set his young face in a perpetual pout.

"Who needs Aristotle?" asked Poco.

"Anyone with sense," came the voice that made them both stiffen. Dante's fingers clipped his younger son a light flick on the ear. "Pietro, who is your new friend?" Pietro told him. The poet looked surprised and uttered a mysterious, "Interesting."

"Why interesting?" asked Pietro.

But Dante was already heading towards the door. "Come along, Jacopo. Pietro, I'll see you downstairs."

Cowed, Poco trailed closely behind as Dante made for the exit. The bridegroom was being physically carried out the same doors by three friends while a fourth friend plied him with bread and water. Little Mastino and Alberto followed, poking the groom in the ribs to see if they could make him vomit.

Mariotto and Pietro hung back from the crowd of guests wandering out to their various suites to change for the meal. It would be at the least another half hour before they were all seated and able to eat, and Pietro recognized it as the perfect time for Mariotto to approach the young Capuan he was obliged to befriend.