"Poor Manto!" cried Bonaccolsi. "Dante, throw us a bone!"
"I did — hers."
There was some little hilarity at this remark, but Cangrande was undeterred. Clapping his hands together, he divided the air in front of him. "Where is the line, poet? As someone who finds himself accused of being a figure from a prophecy, it concerns me deeply. What separates the active interpretation you advocate from the willful disobedience you deplore — or, should I say, He deplores?"
Dante wore his best enigmatic expression. "I suppose it comes down to the will of the Lord."
The Scaliger's mocking grin grew wide as he shook his head in disgust. "As always, poet, you wax eloquent on broad themes but on specifics remain cryptically obtuse."
Dante spread his hands. "Of course, my lord. What else are poets for?"
The supper went on, course after course, and conversation wandered into easier topics, no less hotly debated. There were discussions of battle tactics, of women, of politics, of wine. The meal ended with a second fricatella, apple this time, and a vigorous debate over the fate of the Knights Templar. Their order had finally been stamped out earlier in the year by King Philip IV and his puppet pope. Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, had been sentenced to burn at the stake for heresy. Before falling to the flames he proclaimed his innocence and declared that God would be his avenger, calling down a curse upon the French king and his issue down to the thirteenth generation. His last words were a summons for both King Philip and Pope Clement to meet him at the seat of God's judgment before the year was out.
The whole affair was forgotten until Clement dropped dead less than a month later. Pietro remembered the frantic editing, the numerous messages sent to all the hired copyists, as Dante added a prophecy of the pope's death to the nineteenth canto.
The men seated about the Capitano's supper discussed the prospects of the demise of the French monarch with surprising relish. Though all were skeptical of the Templars, not a one held a doubt as to the cause of their ultimate destruction. The Knights had fallen thanks to the greed of Roi Philippe le Bel — Philip the Fair.
Pietro listened, trying to absorb the thoughts of these great men. The whole evening had amazed him. Not just the debates, but the camaraderie. Not three days past Asdente had tried to split Cangrande's skull, but here was the Scaliger treating him like a beloved cousin. Il Grande was courteous and friendly and seemed to truly enjoy Cangrande's company. Mussato had visibly relaxed, relishing the evening as much as his injuries allowed. Even the sullen Marsilio had perked up when the talk had shifted to battles won and lost.
The only exception was the Venetian. Cangrande needled Ambassador Dandolo at every opportunity. Cheerfully, playfully, with a veneer of civility. But mercilessly.
Eventually the meal broke up. Marsilio da Carrara was the first to rise, perfunctorily asking his uncle's permission to retire. He didn't glance back as he left the hall. Asdente and Passerino headed back to the salon for a game of dice. Dandolo and Il Grande helped Mussato to his feet, from whence a bevy of servants conveyed him to his 'cell,' as Cangrande jokingly put it. No prison ever had the luxuries the Paduans were presently enjoying. The Capitano clearly believed in killing his enemies with kindness.
Cangrande was still talking to various servants when Dante approached his son. "How are you feeling, boy?"
"Fine, pater," replied Pietro, trying not to picture what was going on under the bandage on his leg.
"Good," said Dante gruffly. "Then I'm going to bed." He glanced up at his son's bare head. "The new hat?"
"Lost on the road," said Pietro.
"Mmm." With a pleased smile Dante departed.
Finished instructing the servants, Cangrande turned to Pietro. "Staying up? Then let us return to your perch on the porch."
Back under the portico, a fresh brazier beside them, Cangrande said, "You were fairly quiet tonight, Pietro."
"I didn't have much to add."
"Take it from one who knows, lying is a bad habit to fall into. You had plenty to say. And not just to Marsilio," he added wickedly.
Pietro felt his face grow warm. "I was the youngest there — "
"Marsilio only has a couple of years on you and you're infinitely better mannered. So, what was it you were thinking?"
"It — it's about — when you all were discussing the stars," said Pietro hesitantly. "You asked where the line was, between interpretation and willful disobedience. Perhaps — " He stopped short, his words inadequate to express the idea in his head. But the Scaliger was waiting. "Maybe it's a little of both. A man may not deny what the heavens have in store for him, as a sailor cannot control the waves. But he can choose what he does when the waves hit."
Cangrande seized the thought. "You mean that, though the stars may give him a map, it is up to him to follow it."
"Something like that," nodded Pietro. "But more than a map. Fate throws an obstacle in our way. We decide how to deal with it. That's our free will. We cannot fight Fate, but we can choose our reaction to it." Grinding to a halt, he realized how stupid he sounded as he watched Cangrande kindly turning his words over and over, as though they were worth considering.
When the Scaliger spoke, his tone was musing. "A man may be master of his actions, but not his stars."
"It was just a thought, lord," added Pietro hastily.
The Scaliger looked up from his contemplation. "And a fine one, Signor Alaghieri. I wish you had spoken it at supper. That sentiment far outstrips anything said by the warriors, diplomats, and poets tonight. You are wise beyond your years."
"This surprises you?" mocked a feminine voice from behind them.
"Ah, Donna Katerina." A glimpse of his sister was all he needed for his glib demeanor to return. "No doubt he is wise, but for the desire to see me yet living."
"Age may well temper that desire." Tonight her chestnut hair was held back by a single band of black.
Pietro managed to stand awkwardly. He was graced with a brief nod before Donna Nogarola again fixed her eyes on her brother. "If you are done wallowing, I have news."
"It is arranged?"
"It is. Do you wish me to go?"
Cangrande threw up his hands in mock horror. "What, have you tramping about in this weather, catching your death from the chill? That would never do. Bailardino would never forgive me."
"Then I owe my health to your fond feelings for my husband?"
"He raised me. I am the man I am today because of him."
"Perhaps I should thank him with a gift each year on your birthday. What should I choose?"
"A knife?"
His perfect smile was returned in kind. "My dear brother, you read my thoughts. But the knife that kills my husband would have to be sharpened on both ends, so it would cut out my heart as well."
As before, Pietro had trouble following the exchange. Their discourse was like an onion, each layer revealing another. It was impossible for an outsider to know what lay at the core. Something ugly, that was certain.
Katerina sighed. "So I am not to ride out tonight. Whatever would I do without your regard for me?"
"You shall never have to know, my sweet, for of all people, you have my fondest regard."
"So whom do you propose sending on so formidable an evening?"
"No one."
A frown passed over the lady's face. "Have you changed your mind?"
"Not at all. I do not propose sending anyone. I shall undertake the voyage myself."
The lady's disapproval was manifest. "You will be missed."
"If anyone asks, I am drunk. Or perhaps I've taken myself to pray in the chapel. Or at an orgy — in the chapel. I leave it to your imagination."
"My imagination often falls short of your reality. Nevertheless, I will play the spider and spin a web of lies for you. You should not go alone."