Still, Pietro was a better correspondent than Jacopo, who had not written at all. She settled in to read:
9 December, 1314 Anno Domini
Mia Sorellina,
Greetings from Lucca, on the eve of our departure. We're packing our rooms here. Why, you ask? Well, remember when I wrote in October (or didn't you get that letter?) that the lord of Verona had asked to become Father's new patron? It's a handsome offer — housing, a hefty income, and the promise of readings and publications, all in return for Father's visible presence at court.
As you might imagine, it was the 'visible presence' that tripped up Father. He's not one for public displays, he tends to get moody and let his tongue run away with him. While at the same time he loves being the center of attention, which means he can't just sit in a corner and laugh with the rest of us.
But after weighing the choices, Father made the decision at last and we're leaving soon for the Scaliger's court. Father claims he's doing it so Cangrande will make me a knight, but I think it's because he admires Cangrande as much as I do. Martial yet cultured, witty and decisive. I know all good Florentines revile him, but really he's quite amazing. He certainly took time to be kind to me, he and his sister both.
Anyway, we're leaving Lucca none too soon. The natives are grumbling. I think they've finally interpreted Father's lines about Pisa — though I honestly don't know how they could have missed them! I keep expecting to wake up in the middle of the night and find our rooms on fire. All in all, it's a good thing to be leaving.
Our host Uguccione took the news of our departure hard. His own fault — he sent us to visit Verona. It may be that he is disappointed to lose his poet-in-residence. Now that Father is gaining international fame, I think Uguccione planned to tout his patronage to the skies. It might have helped smooth his rough edges. Even his own people call him a power-hungry and avaricious tyrant. I think he wants to be known as a patron of the arts. I'm amused that a man who hates to read and can barely write his own name takes such pride in "owning" a poet, as he put it.
At least he's pleased in Father's choice of new domiciles. Verona is more to his liking than Polenta. Oh yes, Guido Novello has been urging us to settle down in his court. But Lord Faggiuola says that Novello is a fop who likes paintings and poetry more than warfare — an accurate description, I think, but there could be nothing more insulting as far as our Pisan host is concerned. On the other hand, Uguccione speaks of Cangrande in the most lavish terms. He says if he ever leaves Pisan employ, he will take up residence in Verona.
(That might be sooner than we all think, by the way. As I mentioned, the locals here in Lucca don't have a favorable opinion of our host. His most recent troubles have something to do with bankers and England, I didn't really understand it all.)
Uguccione is correct, of course, about Cangrande. He's like a lamp, I swear. He lights up any room he enters. I've never met a man so very alive!
Thank you for the scarf. It is chilly in Verona this time of year — at least, I hear it is. I haven't been in the north since the end of October. But it was already growing quite cold. I was discussing the temperature with the Donna Nogarola's physician, Giuseppe Morsicato — I mentioned him before, I think. He's the one who treated my wound in Vicenza. He says he's made a study of temperatures in the past, and he is of the opinion that the world is growing colder. He says in Roman times the winter was shorter, and there was nowhere near the amount of snow we get now. If he's correct, I wonder what it means? Father is sure there is religious significance. No doubt he is correct, but neither of us can fathom what that significance is. If the world is growing colder, does that mean that humankind is moving towards heaven, or are we drawing nearer to the fiendish realm? He is leaning towards the latter, seeing as how the center of the Nine Rings is filled with ice. I would like to hear your thoughts.
The letter paused, then resumed in a slightly different ink.
Our bags are packed and we are about to embark to our new home in the old Scaligeri mansion, where the family lived before they ruled the city and Mastino built their great palace. A grand palace, like a Memory Place made real. The Capitano has harnessed the remains of a Roman bath in the cellar — apparently Verona's Piazza della Signoria is built over the remains of their old Roman forum. I have yet to visit these baths — somehow I am untrusting of a cellar filled with water. But Father visited them often during our last stay. It's all quite a change from the years of sleeping in barns or woodsheds with students and other vagabonds. I've decided that it's better to have money than not.
I don't have to tell you how excited Poco is about Verona — by the way, the fur is his Christmas gift to you. He's very proud, he caught and skinned it himself. "I'll send it to Imperia," he said — you've never told me why he calls you that. (Am I the only member of the family that doesn't have a nickname for you?) Anyway, the fur is from him. Hideous, isn't it? But I know you'll do something to make it bearable. Poco caught it during the hunt on our last day in Verona. Embarrassingly, it was held in my honour. As a token of his esteem, Cangrande presented me with the best of a litter of pups sired by his favorite hound, Jupiter. I've named him Mercurio.
Mari and Antony came to Lucca for a visit last week. As we were walking through the streets here, we noticed a group of older women nearby. They'd stopped in a small cluster and were pointing at me and whispering. Antony and Mari started making some dirty jokes and I told them it wasn't what they imagined, that the women thought I was my father. Mari said that was ridiculous, noting I don't look anything like him — the nose a little, and the high forehead. 'But he wears a beard!' he told me.
Since it's been so long you might not know it but Mari's right. Father has taken to wearing a long beard these last few years. He shaves it off whenever he has his portrait painted so he can look more like Virgil or Cicero — Roman, you know. He wants to be remembered as their heir, and since they were clean-shaven when they were painted, he is too. But he hates shaving. So, because I look more like his portrait than he does, people stare.
'They're mistaking you for him?' asked Antony. I told them to go over and ask. They did, looking over their shoulders at me like I was mad. After just a minute of conversation Mari and Antony burst out laughing. Grinning from ear to ear they returned and repeated their conversation with the old ladies. 'Do you see that man giving us his shadow?' one of the old biddies had said. 'He's the one that goes to Hell and back again, and brings back stories of fiends below.' Antony had asked how they knew it was me. They said that my fine hat marked me as the devil's own.
It was all funnier then, I guess. But it made me think. This will always be the way for us — known for our father, not for ourselves. They do say greatness skips a generation.
I cannot think of anything else to write. Tell Mother not to worry about me. My wound is healing. I thank you both for all your prayers on my behalf. They seem to have worked.
Another change in ink, then:
A delay has caused us to remain a little longer in Lucca. Father has had some sort of inspiration and refuses to budge until the fit has passed. I'll admit to being disappointed. I was looking forward to Christmas in Verona. I miss Mari and Antony. Their coming for a visit only showed me what fast friends they have become in my absence. They've been racing all over the countryside around Mari's estate, exploring and hunting. I'm jealous. The only people I've ever known were family, teachers, or Father's contemporaries. And now I feel like I'm missing my chance to have close friends of my own age. The two of them have become joined at the hip, and I'll be the tagalong, the third wheel on a chariot.