Introduction

A sweeping novel of Renaissance Italy, THE MASTER OF VERONA follows Pietro Alaghieri, eldest son of the poet Dante, as he's caught up by the charisma and genius of Verona's ruler, Cangrande della Scala. Pietro risks battles, duels, and murder to impress his new lord. At the heart of the story is an infernal plot against Cangrande's bastard heir, and the rivalry of two friends over the affections of a girl - a rivalry will sever a friendship, divide a city, and spark a feud that will someday produce the star-cross'd lovers.

Based on the plays of William Shakespeare, the poetry of Dante, and the history of Italy, THE MASTER OF VERONA is a novel of brutal warfare, lost friendship, and dire conspiracy, combining to create an epic journey into the birth of the Renaissance that recalls the best of Bernard Cornwell and Dorothy Dunnett.

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Excerpt

Prologue

Padua

16 September, 1314

Ciolo’s nerves jangled in time with his spurs as he looked about. During the whole ride they hadn’t seen a soul. Not on the road, not in the fields. No one at all.

“What does it mean?” asked Girolamo.

“I don’t know,” said Ciolo.

“Is Padua under siege?”

“I don’t know. Let’s keep going.”

“How will we get in?”

“Keep riding.”

“But…”

“Think of golden florins.”

“I’ve never been to Florence!”

“Shut up!” hissed Ciolo.

Empty fields gave way to empty suburbs. Some of the spaced-out hovels and shacks of the laborers were burnt out, but more were intact, even new. Ciolo saw fresh-cut timber struts and new bricks – marks of an old siege, not a new one. If there was a present siege the hovels would all be still-smoking hulks and by now he should have heard the sounds of hundreds of men muttering and cheering and singing, the stamp of impatient horses, the crack and whine of the siege machines, the smell of fire and filth. Ciolo’s nose twitched.

But the only smells were the common night scents. The only sounds were crickets and the occasional goose or dog. There were no tents or firebrands, no bristling spears. The city wasn’t under siege. So where the devil was everyone?

Ciolo’s skin went cold with a horrible notion. A pest. A pest had come and even now the Paduans were hiding in their homes scratching at scabs and vomiting blood. He glanced at Girolamo but kept his mouth shut. He thought of the money, then put his dirty hand over his mouth to keep out the bad air and rode slowly on.

They approached the bridge to the city’s north gate. The Ponte Molino was an old Roman bridge the length of fourteen horses whose triple arches spanned the Bacchiglione River. The center arch was supported by two massive stone columns rising from the rippling river. Nearby water mills creaked and groaned.

The bridge ended right at the lip of the fortified gate. Ciolo squinted hard. No bodies piled up outside the gate. A good sign. With no one in sight, Ciolo nudged his horse onto the bridge and began to cross it. Girolamo followed.

Halfway across the bridge Ciolo could make out that the gates into the city were open, but dark. Ciolo paused, looking ahead.

Girolamo said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this job.”

Suddenly a flame showed high on the tower above them. A torch. Two more joined it. At the same moment Ciolo heard a human noise. Thousands of voices cheering. Men, women, children. Bells pealed and musicians played. All the people were inside the city walls, watching for sunset and the lighting of torches.

Ciolo sagged in his saddle and mopped his brow. “See, it’s nothing. A celebr…”

Then he heard thunder and his relief shattered. An army of horses was pouring out of the gate right in front of them. Plumed helmets and shining breastplates reflected light from the brands held high as countless Paduan knights emerged from the city, riding furiously across the Ponte Molino.

Riding right at Ciolo and Girolamo.

In panic Ciolo threw himself from his saddle, abandoned his horse, and ran, arms pumping, to the edge of the bridge and jumped. He hit the water feet-first, plunging below the surface. The sound of hooves vanished as the river swallowed him. He didn’t know how to swim. He lunged in the water, using his arms and legs as if he were running, flailing toward the bridge. Something hit him hard in the shoulder and he grabbed onto it as best he could. He couldn’t see at all but his fingers recognized the feel of stone. Whatever it was he grasped it and pulled himself along it. It was slimy and slippery, hard to hold. He dug in with his fingernails. His lungs were beginning to burn. Then his hand emerged from the water and he pushed his head up and through and sucked down sweet air.

Ciolo was holding onto one of the arches of the Roman bridge. Above him he heard the continued cascade of mounted soldiers. Idiots. Wherever their enemy was, it wasn’t here. Why charge, then – in darkness, when a horse was likely to trip and fall? Ciolo had nearly been killed in a night charge once. The horse in front snapped a leg, killing not only its rider but the two riders behind him.

He could still hear the cheering in the city, and he knew that he had almost been killed for the sake of a parade. A show of honor, of skill. Fools. Sputtering and shivering, Ciolo mouthed a string of curses against whoever had come up with the notion of chivalry.

Hand over hand he dragged himself to the edge of the support. He was lucky that the Bacchiglione wasn’t flowing hard, and luckier that what current there was had been dulled by the mills. Otherwise he would have been swept clean away. For the first time he wondered what had happened to Girolamo. But it was useless to call. If he’d survived, he’d meet Ciolo at the house.

It took Ciolo ten minutes to reach the river’s edge. Though the riverbank was solid, there was no way to reach the high gate from below. The only way was from the bridge. Ciolo took a breath and began to scale the cracked stone walls carefully. His wet fingers made it difficult. Muttering and cursing he pulled himself onto a carving of some old god just below the lip of the bridge. There he stayed, waiting for the horsemen to get past. He squirmed until he found a position that freed his arms so he could wrap them around himself. He was cold, teeth chattering. Damn all Paduan and their stupid patavinitas.

Then he heard the last horseman pass, with the citizens chasing after, cheering their fool lungs out. He twisted and pulled himself up onto the bridge proper. No one stopped to help him. In fact, he was almost knocked over again by the press of the people. God, did he hate Paduans.

He was swept along with the mob that wept with joy and pride. He tried to cheer through his chattering teeth. But the crowd was warming him up, and he was pleased when he realized how easy it would be to get into the city now. Knowing his own horse had probably bolted, he didn’t bother to look for it. He just played the part of happy citizen watching his army go off to glory.

The thrill of the moment passed for the Paduans and slowly they began to return to their homes. Recrossing the Ponte Molino, Ciolo made jokes, slapped backs, joining in the laughter at his obvious misfortune. Halfway along the bridge he found the body of Girolamo. Ciolo recognized him from his vest, since his face had been crushed. Ciolo bent down quickly, but it was no use. He’d already been robbed.

Ciolo entered the city with a smile on his face and joined a group of men entering a tavern. He’d been to Padua three or four times before. He’d even once been defended on some petty-theft charge by the famous Bellario. So Ciolo was able to fake the accent. He held himself to one bottle of wine, but he sang with gusto and thumped the table for as long as it took for his clothes to dry. Then he told his new best friends that there was a wench waiting and took his leave. He had a job to get on with.

A life to end.

* * * *

In another quarter of an hour he found the house, right where it was supposed to be. There was the hanging garden. There was the juniper bush. The house was frescoed with a pagan god holding a staff with two snakes on it. The god was between two barred windows and above two massive lead rings for tethering horses. Just as described.

The front of the house had torches burning, and Ciolo passed through the flickering light, walking drunkenly in case anyone was watching. He’d been told there was no possible entrance from the ground, so he didn’t waste time looking for one. Instead, he circled the block until he came to a three-story wall outside a dyeyard. The wall’s covering plaster had worn away at the street level, showing the mix of round stones and proper bricks that made the wall. It was dark in this street, the light from the stars the only illumination. Still playing the drunkard, he stood in the open, loosened the points on his hose, and relieved himself against the wall. Using his free hand to lean against the wall, his fingers quested. No one passed, not even a cat. Readjusting his points he rubbed his hands together and, having found the promised fingerholds, he began his ascent.

Along the top were curved spikes to keep intruders out of the dyeyard. But Ciolo didn’t want in. He wanted passage. Reaching up one hand he carefully wrapped his fingers around the inch-thick base of the spike. He didn’t put much pressure on it at first. It might be sharpened along its whole length, not just at the curve. But in this too his instructions were accurate. The flat edges of the spike were dull. Ciolo gripped the spike harder, praying it would bear his whole weight. It did. He swung his free hand up to grasp the next spike. Then the next. Hand over hand he passed down the row of spikes, around the shadowed corner between two houses.

By now his breath was coming hard, his hands and shoulders aching sourly. But he only had another half length of the wall to travel. He started on it, then froze as a noise came from the house behind him. Did they have dogs? Or, worse, geese? Pressing himself against the high wall, feeling his sweaty fingers slip, he wished for a cloud to hide the stars and plunge him into deeper shadow. Ciolo listened.

It was a child. A child’s cry in the night. Unattended, it went uncomforted.

Ciolo glanced over his shoulder. It came from the house he was aiming for. In a perfect world he could have waited for the child to sleep again. But his hands were losing their strength. He continued quickly down the final length of the wall, mouthing foul pleas not to slip. The next move was tricky – he had to twist around until he was hanging with his back against the high wall and leap to a window across the four-foot divide. He doubled up his grip with his one hand, then twisted around and threw up his free hand. It brushed past one bar but firmly found the next. Now he was facing his target, an arched window. It was open, the wooden door swung wide. He knew the longer he waited the worse his nerves would get. Ciolo curled his feet up to press against the wall at his back, released the bars, and pushed off hard.

His ribs banged against the windowsill. He hit his chin as he began to slip. Flinging his arms wide, he pressed his elbows against the inside walls. His feet scrambling, he pulled himself awkwardly over the lip and into the house.

Crouching low beside the window, Ciolo found himself in a long hall, narrow, with a pair of doors on each side. He squinted until he was sure all the doors were closed. He felt like his breathing was making more noise than a bellows. But no alarums. No cries but the child’s, which were subsiding. If someone came now he would be useless, his arms were shaking so fiercely. He flexed and stretched, each second gaining him another breath, each breath easing his beating heart. His eyes began to play tricks on him in the dark. He imagined that the doors were all open, and twice he swore he saw movement. But each time he was wrong. Or hoped he was.

After two or three minutes of watching from the shadowy corner by the window, Ciolo was as ready as he was going to be. His right hand dropped to his left hip. Gripping the leather-wrapped hilt, he withdrew a dagger nine inches long.

Keeping well out of the faint light coming in the window he made his way down the hall. The house plan Ciolo had memorized indicated he had not far to go. Down this hall, a right turn into a grand room, and up a single flight to a double door. Simple.

The hallway was tiled and clear of rushes. Ciolo placed first one foot, then another, so much on his toes that his boot heels hardly brushed the floor. He came to the pair of doors facing each other. Both were closed. Holding his breath, he picked up the pace past them. Nothing leapt out at him. He sighed a little and instantly cursed himself for the slight noise.

The second pair of doors were also closed. Again, everything was proceeding as planned. He forced himself to stop and listen. One flight up the infant was still making noise, but the rest of the house was still.

Fortune favors the bold, thought Ciolo. He crept around the corner, feeling along the wall for the beginning of the stairs. Tripping would be bad.

Most stairs creaked, but Ciolo kept his weight to the far outsides of each step, where the wood was unlikely to bend. At the top of the stair there was another window, facing north. He could see the sliver of the moon, and it could see him. He crouched down, his back to the wall, and looked for the double doors.

There they were. The light from the partial moon just brushed their bottom edges. Staying out of the light Ciolo pressed himself up to one side of the doors. Inside he could hear the child. It was neither wailing nor giggling. More of a string of burbling noises. Ciolo thought the room must be small because he could hear an echo, as if the child’s own voice was answering itself.

Ciolo waited, listening to the room beyond the doors. Was there a nurse waiting with the baby? Surely not. Or else she was dead to the world. And soon would be moreso. Ciolo smiled and trained his eyes on the moonlight. He prayed to a merciful God to send a cloud, then on second thought redirected the entreaty to the Fiend.

Whoever heard his prayer, it was answered almost at once. The light crept away. Once it was dim, Ciolo moved swiftly. Lifting his knife, he grasped the handle of the nearest door to the child’s room and pulled.

Blackness within. Ciolo stood to one side of the doorway, pausing for his eyes to adjust to the more complete darkness. Still the child burbled. Ciolo squinted at the corner the noise was coming from and thought he saw an outline. Ciolo reversed his dagger from point up to point down – a stabbing grip. Then he stepped fully into the gap, one hand on the door frame to guide him into the room.

There was a movement in the corner. A sharp cracking noise made Ciolo wince. Instantly the breath exploded from his body. Confused, he found himself sprawled several feet back down the hallway. Something had hit him in the chest, hit him hard enough to stun him. His free hand came up and found a thin line of wood protruding from his breastbone. His fingers brushed the fletched end absently. He whimpered, afraid to pull on the arrow’s shaft.

A hinge creaked as the second door opened. Light appeared as a shuttered lantern was unveiled. The light approached, growing brighter. To Ciolo’s dazed eyes it seemed to be borne in the hands of an angel. He blinked away the shapes that were creeping into his vision. She was still there, standing above him now. An angel all in white. The color of mourning.

“Not dead, then?” asked a voice. “Good.”

“Holy Madonna...” he sputtered, the blood on his lips leaving the taste of metal on his tongue.

“Shhh.” The angel set aside both the candle and the instrument of his demise, a small trigger-bow. Her arm must have been hurt firing it, for she used her off hand to take the blade from his unresisting grasp.

Behind her was another shape, a young girl clutching a baby. The baby Ciolo had come to murder. He didn’t know if it was a boy or girl, it was too young to tell and he’d never asked. He wanted to ask now, but breathing was trouble enough. Still his mouth tried to work at the words.

The woman shook her head. With a lilting accent Ciolo found beautiful, she said, “Say nothing except the name of the man who paid you.”

“I – I don’t…”

“Not a good answer, love.”

“But – madonna forgive me, but – it was a woman.”

The angel nodded but didn’t smile. Ciolo wanted her to smile. He was dying. He wanted absolution – something. “Angel, forgive me.”

“Ask forgiveness of God, man – not of me.”

His own knife flashed left to right in her pale hand. He made the effort to close his eyes so as not to see his life’s blood spill to the floor. With a choked whimper, Ciolo lay still.

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. Blinking, 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 carraige 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!” laughed Poco. “The Roman Arena!”

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

Quickly they were past it, but Pietro kept picturing it in his minds 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 arm of the youth, 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.

The awed 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 centre.

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 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.

Dante released Pietro’s arm and, drawing himself up, 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. From Dante they 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, the 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, and Pietro was close enough to hear. “It is good to see you, my lord.” The poet directed his gaze to the ornate decorations. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I must confess, it was luck. Our garlands are for tomorrow’s happy wedlock. But they are far better suited to grace your coming.”

“Silver-tongued still,” replied Pietro’s father. “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 for girls. But his eyes found 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. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

What was unique about setting the novel in early 14th century Italy? Did it enhance or take away from the story?

What specific themes did the author emphasize throughout the novel? Which themes, if any, could be called “Shakespearean”?

Do you think the author has a “message” he wishes the reader to carry away? In what ways do the events in the book reveal evidence of the author's world view?

Do the characters seem real and believable? Can you relate to their predicaments? To what extent do they remind you of yourself or someone you know?

Who, or what, is The Greyhound? Who originated the prophecy?

How does Pietro change or evolve throughout the course of the story? What events trigger his changes?

Which female character is the most modern in spirit? Which the least?

Who is young Cesco “destined” to become? And which Shakespeare character will he turn into?

What Shakespeare characters make appearances in the novel? From which plays? Did you find them entertaining, or distracting?

The famous feud between the Montecchi and Capulletti families begins over a woman. Could it have been avoided? Who, if anyone, is most at fault?

Astrology and numerology are referenced several times, by several characters. Do you believe in these things? Did the book change your understanding of them?

Did certain parts of the book make you uncomfortable? If so, why did you feel that way? Did this lead to a new understanding or awareness of some aspect of your life you might not have thought about before?

Weblinks

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