"Well, Virgil, at least," corrected Dante. He had been placed across from Mussato, no doubt to let the two poets converse on their craft. As the company settled itself there was some technical talk between them regarding canticles and cantos, publishers and copyists. Mussato was grandiose in his praise, though Pietro thought he was forcing it a little.
Cangrande was busily chatting with Il Grande, but Passerino Bonaccolsi turned to add his praise to the Inferno. "Wonderful! Though I do take umbrage over your treatment of dear sweet Manto. We Mantuans keep Virgil near to our hearts, and to hear him excise her son Ocnus entirely from the birth of our city — well, I wouldn't come visit for awhile, is all I can say."
This, thought Pietro, from a man whose own father is treated harshly in the story. He's more upset by father removing the magic from the founding of Mantua.
Dante answered blandly, invoking God's gifts, not his own. Mussato said, "Don't you mean 'the gods'? That's what your beloved Virgil says, with the words you put in his mouth."
Dante looked pained. "My poor pagan mentor never knew Christ's glory, since he died before the birth of our Savior. He refers to the divine in the only terms he would have known. But just because they were so unfortunate as to not know the true Divinity does not mean they were incapable of glimpses of truth."
Mussato glanced at the Scaliger. "That's true of a lot of people today."
Asdente grunted. "We had a fellow on campaign who could read — he was probably killed yesterday, come to think of it. Each night he'd scare the younger soldiers by reading aloud from your poem. I really enjoyed seeing them shit themselves from fright. 'That's what you'll get,' I told them, 'for impiousness and fornication!' Kept them out of my hair for months. Ha!" cackled the Toothless Master.
"Indeed," said Mussato, glossing over his fellow Paduan's rough manners, "your use of contrapasso is brilliant. Bertran de Born, carrying his own head! A marvel! I mean to steal it to use against the Greyhound there. For God's sake, someone, pass the wine. My head's killing me."
As the wine was passed again Dante leaned his forearms on the table. "Tell me, what form will your screed take? Epic?"
Bonaccolsi said, "For Cangrande? I'd be surprised if you could fill three stanzas with his life story. Look at him! Still a stripling! If he were a fish, I'd throw him back!"
"A damned lucky stripling," snorted Asdente into his wine goblet. The metal bowl made his voice reverberate. "He always gets what he wants."
"Now, Vanni, that's a blatant lie," grinned Cangrande. "I don't always get what I want. If I did, then you'd be Veronese and my sworn man to the death. Padua couldn't stand without you."
Asdente chuckled. "Padua could stand against anything in the world — except you, Pup!"
Cangrande beamed. "Pup! Now there's a title I haven't heard for a while! And how does the great Count of San Bonifacio?"
"Not so well, I imagine," said Il Grande. "After this, he'll have to admit that his Pup has grown into a proper hound."
"With teeth for tearing," added Mussato. "I'm lucky my right hand can still scratch a few lines."
"Which brings us back to my question," said Dante patiently. "What form?"
"A play," said Mussato happily. "Seneca would be proud."
"A play? In Seneca's style?" cried Dante. "Fascinating."
"God!" implored Asdente. "Here I thought we might get a good conversation going — death, treason, murder, war. But no! Poetry! It always comes back to poetry. Pah!" He spat as if he were eager to be rid of the word.
Dante ignored him. "So this is to be a dark Tragedy?"
"A Tragedy for the people of Verona, as dark as my mind can make it."
"And I'm the villain of the piece?" asked Cangrande proudly.
"Oh, no, no! I'm setting it back in the days of Ezzelino da Romano, when he was ripping up the countryside like you are now. The play will show what happens when a tyrant is let to rule over us. Your name will not be mentioned."
The Scaliger raised his glass to Mussato. "When it is finished, you must send me a copy. I'll fund the first production."
"Figures," growled Asdente. "Everybody knows you enjoy hanging around with actors and other parasites."
"And you, my sweet Asdente, and you."
Amid the jeering and laughter the first course arrived, and for a short time everyone was occupied with plates of armoured turnips, a dish of ash-baked turnips covered in spices, cheese and butter. Pietro was grateful for the activity. Extremely uncomfortable in this august company, he was well aware the only person near his own age and rank was staring murder at him from across the table.
Swallowing a turnip, Il Grande pointed his knife at Dante. "Tell me, Maestro Alaghieri. You were once a devout Guelph."
"How devout can a White Guelph be?" interjected Marsilio.
Il Grande ignored his nephew. "Now you live at a staunchly Ghibelline court and were a supporter of the late Emperor. I admit exile would sour me against my home, and I can certainly understand how a bad pope can make one jaded about the Church. But do you really, truly believe that the Emperor should not be subject to the papacy?"
"I do."
"Oh God," muttered Asdente, rolling his eyes at his neighbour Dandolo. "Here we go. Popes and emperors."
"It's what this war is about!" cried Marsilio da Carrara.
"It's not," growled Asdente. "It's about land and taxes, like everything else."
"I think you underestimate men, Ser Scorigiani," said the Venetian Dandolo. "For some it is as you say. But to many men this issue matters."
Cangrande pointed an accusing finger. "Says the man whose country takes no position. You are certainly a politic politician, Dog Dandolo."
"But he's correct." Il Grande leaned back and regarded Dante. "It matters to men like me. So how, Maestro, do you get around the Biblical argument? Genesis says two lights, a greater and a lesser, one for day and the other for night. Science tells us that one is reflected light. So if the pope's light is the sun and the emperor's light is the moon, the emperor must derive his power from the pope."
Dante smiled thinly under his beard. "That is indeed the common argument. But broaden your horizons. God, infallible, created man as a dual creature — one part divine, one part earthly. The pope's dominion is over the divine, the soul, the spirit. But he has no authority over the temporal part of us. That is the emperor's domain."
"But isn't the flesh subject to the soul?"
"Not necessarily. What is true is that flesh is corrupt, we wither and we die. Yet the spirit remains incorruptible. The two are separate by their natures, ergo God has set us two goals: Beatitudenem huis vitae et beatitudenem vitae eterne. I believe the emperor's authority must be derived directly from God Himself, as he is charged with maintaining order and peace during this testing time of humanity, for it is while we wear this weak flesh that we can prove our true devotion. If anything, the emperor's charge is the more important, because the one essential for man and reason to reach their full potential is lasting peace. Only when the whole world is governed by one man whose power comes directly from God above can humanity have the calm it requires to return to its state before the Fall."
Marsilio da Carrara sneered. "And from which demon did you hear this nonsense?" The other faces around the table frowned, including his uncle's.
"Nonsense?" interjected Pietro. "I'd like to hear you do better defending the corruption of the Church!"
"I don't talk," sneered Marsilio. "My voice is in my sword."
"A shame that isn't true," retorted Pietro. "If you were half the swordsman you are a braggart…"
Dante abruptly turned towards Cangrande and waved a hand in front of his face. "My lord, I think we require another brazier. There are a couple of gnats buzzing around in here that need smoking out."