The Master of Verona

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 gonellas or the more modern (and revealing) doublets, these wealthy nobles and upper crust now stood by 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 a snarling hound.

Il Veltro. The Greyhound.

Suddenly the crowd 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-coloured linen shirt with a wide collar that came to two triangular points far below his neck. Over this he wore a burgundy farsetto, a leather doublet of the finest tanning, soft yet shimmery. Instead of common leather ties it bore six silver clasps down its 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 most struck Pietro. Bluer than the midday sky, sharper than a hawk's — unearthly. At their corners laughter lurked like angels at the dawn of the world.

Cangrande della Scala, the master of Verona, walked forward with his arms outstretched to greet the greatest poor man in all the world. a man whose only wealth was language.

Releasing Pietro's arm and drawing himself upright, Dante walked with dignity to the center of the square. He took off his hat with the lappets and, just as he had done a hundred times during his exile, placed it at the base of the plinth at the center of the square. The silent gesture was eloquence itself. From Dante the crowd might have expected speeches. But Pietro's father had a keen sense of drama.

Pietro watched with the rest as Cangrande stooped for the limp old-fashioned cap. As he rose, Pietro caught his first glimpse of Cangrande's famous smile, his allegria, as the lord of Verona twirled the hat between his fingers. "Well met, poet."

"Well come, at least," said Dante. "If not well met."

Cangrande threw back his head and roared with laughter. He waved a hand and music erupted from some corner of the square. Under its cover Dante spoke. Pietro was close enough to hear. "It is good to see you, my lord." The poet bobbed his chin at the ornate decorations all around the square. "You shouldn't have."

"Sheer luck, I must confess! Our garlands are for tomorrow's happy wedlock. But I feel the hand of Fortune, as they are far better suited to grace your coming."

"Silver-tongued still," replied Dante. "Who is to marry?"

"My nephew, Cecchino." Cangrande gestured to a not-so-sober blond fellow, raising his voice as he did. "Tonight he takes his last hunt as a bachelor!"

Dante also pitched his voice to carry. "Hunt for what, lord?"

"For the hart, of course!" The crowd broke with laughter. Pietro wondered if they were indeed hunting deer, or girls — he'd heard of such things. But he spied a handsome young man, dark of hair, well dressed, who carried a small hawk. So, deer. Pietro was both relieved and disappointed. He was seventeen.

Dante turned to face his sons. "Pietro. Jacopo." Jacopo tried to flatten down his hair. Pietro stepped eagerly forward to be introduced, ready to make his best bow.

But his father forestalled him with a gesture. "See to the bags."

With that, the poet turned in step with Cangrande and departed.

Two

Vicenza

17 September 1314

Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, sat on horseback atop a hill overlooking the walls of suburb of Vicenza called San Pietro. Beneath the metal protecting his arms the muscles were thick from years of slinging a sword. The beefy hands inside the gauntlets were callused from fire and leather. The stout legs were well used to the combined weight of plate and chain armour. A large man, he sweat freely and now mopped his forehead with a cloth. His aged visage was round and cheerful, a face belonging to a merry friar or a troubadour with a fondness for German beer. It seemed sorely out of place atop the body of a knight and soldier.

Beside him was the Podestà of Padua, Ponzino de' Ponzoni. Not only an unfortunate victim of alliteration, but a poor man's general. At the moment the Podestà was visibly sickened by the destruction of his honour. "Is there nothing we can do?"