"No, lord." His head was in a fog.
"Here, drink this." The Scaliger lifted the cup of wine with its mixture of poppy juice and hemp seeds that Morsicato had prescribed. As Pietro slipped back into the comforting mists he wondered absently what he'd been saying.
Pietro dreamed again, but this time the visions were less obscure. He was lying on a bed, eyes closed, listening again to the voices of the two beautiful siblings. This time man and woman did not spar. Their voices were kept soft, their tones clear and concise.
"You said you had news."
"A woman has been to see me. She serves the Signora de Amabilio."
"Ah."
"Indeed. It seems the signora's husband was killed falling from a horse last April."
The voice was grave. "I take it she has a request."
"Sanctuary, if you take the city."
"Tell her it is granted." In the dream the Veronese lord rose to leave.
"It is not that simple." A brief pause. "The signora has recently given birth."
A silence, then the brother resumed his seat. He sighed. "A boy."
"Yes."
"Have you taken any steps?"
"I've sent for Ignazzio."
"And the Moor." As it wasn't a question, the lady did not respond. "She cannot be allowed to keep him."
"No. For all our sakes, but especially for the child's. There has already been an attempt."
"Has there? Who else knows?" There was a long stillness between them, broken by the words, "I must take him in."
"Yes, you must."
"If he lives."
"He will live."
"This will hurt my wife."
"Better this pain now than the pain of her heir losing his station."
"If she has an heir."
"There are other children, are there not?"
The brother's voice was almost amused. "You are unusually delicate. Yes, there are. Two, at least. But girls."
"Well, then. Hide this one among the others. What is one more?"
"Interesting that she sent to you, not me."
"She knows the prophecy as well as we do."
"I see I have no choice. Will you help?"
For a heartbeat there was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire in the blackened brazier.
"Thank you, Francesco. Of course I will."
"Don't thank me," he said bitterly. "I am only a tool of Fate."
Opiate-aided sleep reclaimed Pietro. He dreamed of a greyhound pursued by a pack of hyenas. Pietro twisted as in his dream the greyhound was brought down at the base of a collossal theatre, an ancient arena, staining the steps with blood.
II
Ten
Florence
20 September 1314
Italian cities were reflections of local geology, each one owning a distinctive character based on local stone. Verona was made mostly of rose marble and brick, Padua banded marble and cold stone. In Siena one found a burnt red colour everywhere. Bologna was terra cotta, and Assisi was the colour of fresh salmon. Venice, with no local geology, was constructed from all of them, at great expense.
Self-proclaimed fountainhead of freedom, the city of Florence was composed of brown stones and clay tiles, lending it a no-nonsense air. Unlike many other city-states, Florence was not a cult of personality. It was a city of ideas. 'The mother of all liberty,' it covered 1,556 acres enclosed by three sets of walls and filled with nearly 300,000 people.
Straddling the River Arno, the birthplace of Dante Alaghieri was currently enjoying a light breeze from the north. Clouds slid across the sky, growing ever darker. The break in the heat was welcome as the thick crowds clogged the streets, stopping at the tents that lined the wide walkways. This was market day, citizens bantering and bartering with members of the various guilds in order to find the best use for their precious florins.
The coin of Florence was one of the most stable currencies in the world, perhaps because it did no homage to king, pope, or emperor, but to the city itself. One side bore the city's symbol, the lily. The other depicted John the Baptist, the city's patron saint. Thus the florin survived unaltered during sieges, riots, or coups, passing from hand to hand and making Florence's economy grow astronomically.
A man called Mosso was sadly too busy to strangle that final florin from his customers. One of the great booksellers, his was not a mere tent but a fine wooden stall covered in awnings, erected each morning and deconstructed each night, at some cost. His precious wares needed the best protection from the elements. True, a few of his books were cheap prints from woodcuts, but the majority were hand-printed tomes, painstakingly copied by master scribes. All were of immense value. An edition of the Bible sold for a small fortune, so that only the richest men had copies — fitting, as they were the only ones with the Latin to understand it.
The cause of Mosso's consternation stood before him, an unlikely representative for the unlikeliest of best-selling poets. Not knowing how to begin, the bookseller tried small talk. "A cloudy day. I hear they're being drowned up north."
The author's representative wasn't interested in the weather. "How are sales?"
"It's going well — better than well, splendid. I'll be sold out in another week."
"I told you."
Mosso held up a hand. "Yes…"
"I told you to order more," insisted the representative.
The bookseller bit back what he would usually tell a prickly proxy — to take a running jump in the Arno. Instead he again forced himself to agree. "Yes, you did, didn't you."
Pointing to an expensive book bound in engraved metal, the representative asked, "Is this the new edition of Paolino Pieri?"
"His Cronica, yes," said Mosso fastidiously. He had to ask for more copies. They both knew it. The demand was incredible. A hundred copies gone in a day! His whole stock was almost gone. Worse, illicit copies were undoubtedly being made at this moment. He had to get more.
Yet it galled him, so he tried to talk around his problem. "What I can't figure out is why everyone wants it, when all he does is insult the city."
"He does quite a bit more than that." The Cronica was laid aside and a leather-bound copy of Gesta Florentinorum was unlocked instead.
"All that stuff about Fiesole — that's aimed at us."
"I'm surprised you noticed."
Bristling, the bookseller brought indignation into his voice. "Talking about the plant that springs out of their shit, begging your pardon, and turning into a nest of malice, a — what was it? A-"
"'A city full of envy.' Canto Six." The representative's eyes studied the calligraphy of the fine Latin letters, an art rediscovered by Brunetto Latini, just twenty years in his grave. Unfortunately he was burning in Hell among the sinners against nature and its goodness, according to the only authority that mattered.
"Yes!" cried Mosso. "Full of envy? For what, him? His writing? He's got talent, but too much hubris by far!"
Though Dante's representative didn't look up from the hand-painted letters, the eyes had stopped scanning. "Hubris?"
Mosso realized his error. "I didn't mean…"
Slam! The Gesta Florentinorum dropped to the countertop. "For God's sake!" Mosso nearly screamed as he scooped it up. The thing was worth a small fortune, and he'd had to pay up front.
Dante's representative was unrepentant. "If you find it so intolerable, then you shouldn't be required to sell it. I'll give the contract to the Covoni. Return whatever copies you have left and I'll reimburse you three-quarters." The representative turned to leave, pushing past the buyers who now hurried to get their copies before they vanished.