"Like they were playing at dice."
"Dice?"
"That's what it sounded like. And Donna Katerina was ordering more wine for them all."
Pietro digested this for a moment, then had to laugh. The fate of three cities, perhaps more, decided over dice.
As the doctor gathered up his instruments and poultices, Pietro asked, "When is her husband due back?"
"Two days, perhaps three."
If I were wed to Katerina I would never leave her side. "Well, thank you for looking after me. And for the news."
Morsicato actually bowed. "My honour, lad. Not often we see such bravery. Your father speaks of it to everyone."
Pietro blinked at that. Before he could muster a proper response the doctor was gone to other duties.
Brave? Was Morsicato lying? Pietro's father certainly hadn't used that word to him! Tight-lipped in public, the poet had launched into a caustic diatribe the moment they were alone. What words had he used? Not brave. Stupid, yes. Foolhardy, certainly. Thoughtless heedless jolt-head determined to land in an untimely grave, that was still ringing in his ears. But brave? No, Pietro was sure that word hadn't been mentioned.
He wondered if Katerina thought he was brave. He wondered about Katerina a lot. He found himself acutely resenting the shadowy figure of her absent husband. Insanely, he was also jealous of her relationship with her brother. However acrimonious, their deep connection was obvious. In the lady's disdainful treatment of her brother he saw a depth of feeling he'd never witnessed before.
An itching in his leg — in his leg! — reminded him of the maggots, and he shifted it closer to the brazier that was pleasantly toasting his right side. Maybe I can smoke them out.
To distract himself he continued piecing together the mosaic of Cangrande's family. At the top of the family tree was Cangrande's uncle, the first Scaliger ruler of Verona, called Mastino. Then Mastino's brother, Alberto, and his three sons and two daughters. Two of those sons, Cangrande and Katerina's brothers, were dead. Pietro remembered his father talking warmly of Bartolomeo and disdainfully of Alboino.
Dante had also spoken with open hostility towards the late Abbot of San Zeno, father of the current one. A bastard of Alberto's, wasn't he? I wonder if there are any other by-blows out there, any bastards with the Scaligeri blood. Mariotto hinted that way.
There was a thought there, something nagging at his memory, a conversation between brother and sister — but he couldn't grasp it. With a sigh he sat back, closing his eyes and focusing on the rain, feeling the heat of the brazier gently warming him…
There was a scraping sound. Pietro opened his bleary eyes and found the Scaliger moving a chair at the brazier's other side. "Forgive me. Do I bother you? Were you dreaming?"
"Just dozing," said Pietro, shaking his head clear.
"Mmm. These days when I dream, I dream of rain." Cangrande settled lanquidly into the cushioned chair and stretched his legs. "I hope you don't mind if I make use of your brazier. Supper will be served soon." Cangrande reclined, fingers steepled at his lips, eyes on the rain.
"Are the conferences over?"
"Yes. Everything is settled."
Dying of curiosity, Pietro bit his tongue. They sat together for a time, both staring into the shimmering wall of water that pounded the cobblestones beyond the lip of the roof. The sound was hypnotic, as was the shivering light from the brazier as it reflected off the rain. Pietro's eyes grew heavy-lidded again…
"Do you think your father is right?"
Startled by the question, Pietro roused himself. "About what, lord?"
"About the stars." The Veronese lord shifted in his seat so that he leaned towards the rain. It brought his face into view on the far side of the smoking brazier.
"I, ah — I don't know what you mean, lord," was Pietro's feeble response.
Suddenly Cangrande rose. "Come. We'll discuss it at supper."
"Me? At supper, lord?"
"Yes, you, at supper. It's a small party — your father, the Venetian envoy, Il Grande and his nephew, the poet Mussato, Asdente, and myself. With you, we'll make eight. We need another to make up your father's magic number, but who? Not Guelco — I've foisted him off on Mariotto's father, with the impressive figure of Signore Capecelatro as his second. And your two friends are off exploring the Montecchi stables, I believe, so they're out of reach. I know — I'll invite Passerino to join us, that will be nine. The Nine Worthies. Your father will approve. Come!"
Eleven
Even with a crutch and a helping hand, it took time for Pietro to navigate the halls, and the others were already gathered when he and Cangrande arrived. The Scaliger greeted them genially, as if half their number were not sworn enemies with feathers on the right side of their caps and red roses pinned to their gowns. "Please, sit! This is an informal gathering. Now that we are no longer wrangling we can enjoy each other's company."
"Just tell Asdente to keep his dice to himself," declared Passerino Bonaccolsi genially. "I've lost a month's rents to him."
Vanni gave his ghastly grin. "Fine. We'll use yours."
Cangrande named everyone at the table to Pietro, ending with the only man Pietro didn't already know. "This is Francesco Dandolo, Venetian ambassador and co-owner of two of my names. He is a Cane, too. Isn't that right, Dandolo?"
The Venetian made a deep bow to Pietro, ignoring what was obviously some kind of jab. "Honoured to meet you, young man. I understand you acquitted yourself well in your first battle."
"That he did," said Cangrande before Pietro could answer. "And from a man once destined for the church! If things had gone apace, he might have been able to intervene for you with the pope!"
The Venetian saw Pietro's puzzlement and sighed. "I was entrusted with the task of removing the excommunication Pope Clement laid on the Serenissima, our noble city."
"That floats on a bog," remarked Cangrande. "And this noble man, to do honour to his home-"
"Come," interrupted Il Grande, "the meal waits."
Having already made the Venetian visibly uncomfortable, Cangrande was not averse to letting his story go. For the moment. To his credit, Dandolo maintained a dignified composure as he settled at the far end of the table.
Pietro found himself at the table's middle. Close on his right sat Il Grande, and directly across the table sat Marsilio da Carrara. That one refused to speak or even look up, which suited Pietro fine.
On Pietro's other side Albertino Mussato had been given a wide leeway for his splints. The historian-poet bore a broken leg, a broken arm, and a fierce knob on the top of his head. Down the boards, Asdente sat bolt upright in a straight-backed chair, a fresh bandage wrapped about his head like a turban.
Pietro's father and Mussato were acquainted, having both attended the crowning of the last Holy Roman Emperor in Milan. As they sat, Dante asked after Mussato's head wound and Albertino grimaced. "Hard to say if it's addled my brains or not. I'm able to write, but someone else will have to read it to see if it makes any sense."
Cangrande took his place at the head of the table. On his right sat Il Grande, on his left the Mantuan lord Passerino Bonaccolsi. "I'll read your writing happily, Albertino. Marsilio, the wine stands by you." Young Carrara grudgingly passed the wine.
"You may not enjoy my new piece," warned Mussato. "It's a screed against you."
The brilliant smile leapt forth. "Really? Will it be good?"
"Oh, it will be excellent. But, my dear Dante, I have yet to congratulate you — L'Inferno is the finest epic since Homer."