Carrara strode into the hall as if he owned it, the Triumvirs close behind. At the far end of the hall Cangrande spied the four young men entering and, standing, raised his goblet. Taking the cue, the assembled Signoria raised their cups to the winner and the loser of the first Palio. They also drank to the duo that had tied for runner-up.
Pietro left his friends to join his father and brother at a low trestle across from the Scaliger's seat. The moment he sat, Mercurio leapt up and licked his face, the Roman coin at his collar slapping against Pietro's chin. "Hey, boy! I'm fine, I'm fine!"
"He's almost as glad to see you still walking about as I am," someone said cheerfully. Pietro pushed the dog away and turned to see Ser Dottore Morsicato. "Always a good testimonial to one's skills, having a patient live." He greeted Pietro's father, then told Pietro to find him later. "I want to see how it's healing. And you can tell me all about the Palio, you young fool. No sooner do I fix them up then they're off risking their necks again…" The doctor's forked beard bristled as he walked away.
Pietro resumed his place beside his father, Mercurio curling up at his feet. Dante was in the midst of a conversation with Bishop Francis, but paused to reintroduce his son. Pietro was congratulated on surviving the race, then was left standing next to the handsome young monk he'd noticed that morning. The two began chatting amiably. The monk was called Lorenzo and he worked in the Bishop's herb garden when he was between the hours of office.
Suddenly Dante turned with gleaming eyes upon Lorenzo. "Sebartés!"
The young brother lost all his colour. "P-pardon, my lord?"
"Your accent!" said the poet. "You're from the Sebartés region, are you not?"
"My — my mother was born thereabouts, I believe. I have never been." Brother Lorenzo looked like a cornered rabbit. "My lord Bishop, the Scaliger is waiting."
With an indulgent smile Bishop Francis allowed the young monk to lead him away, nodding to Dante as he left.
"Curious fellow," observed Dante. "There's deep water in Brother Lorenzo."
Pietro looked at his father. "Where is Sebartés?"
"In lower France, north of Spain, about two hundred miles from Avignon."
Pietro chuckled. "Maybe he's afraid they'll make him pope."
Instead of laughing, Dante said, "You didn't tell me you intended to ride in the race."
Pietro's throat closed. "I didn't know myself."
"Well. I'm pleased you're unhurt," said the poet, sipping at his wine.
"Thank you," said Pietro, discarding any intention of describing the race. "What has your day been like?"
As Dante launched into an account of his hours with the Scaliger, the servants rushed to bring forth the first course — stuffed anchovies and sardines and another strange-looking fish. After a lengthy prayer in which the Scaliger bid everyone pray to the Virgin for the souls lost this day, they began to eat.
In the second place of honour, Giacomo da Carrara masticated the odd-looking fish carefully. Looking past his nephew, he addressed the Scaliger. "These are delicious. How does one prepare them?"
Cangrande's head snapped around. "Where's Cardarelli? Damn, probably in the kitchens." He thought, then snapped his fingers. "I know. We have a gourmand in our midst." Cangrande craned his neck until he spied Morsicato. "Giuseppe! O, Doctor? Take your head out of your urinized cups and answer something for us!" Seated far down with the Scaliger's personal physician, Morsicato looked up. "Il Grande wants to know about the preparation of fish!"
Morsicato's great barrel of a chest swelled. "I asked Cardarelli that myself. You put the fish in hot water after making them rovesciata — which means removing the bones and head without piercing the belly skin, spreading the skin with a stuffing, and closing the fish so that the flesh is on the outside. You begin by grinding marjoram, saffron, rosemary, sage, and the flesh of a few fish. Fill the anchovies or sardines with this stuffing so that the skin is next to the stuffing and the outside in. Then fry them up."
Across from Pietro, Bailardino Nogarola was smacking his lips. "Never in my wildest culinary dreams would I imagine opening a fish from the back. What's the benefit of that?"
Morsicato's left hand stroked his forked beard sagely. "Well, certain fatty fish — and this inside-out technique is used only for suckling pig and fatty fish — will render some of its fat when exposed to direct heat. The results are excellent from the standpoint of flavour."
From down the table Nico da Lozzo called, "Does it bother anyone that the doctor is an expert in cooking flesh?"
"It amazing he's an expert in anything, the way he lives in his cups."
"I happen to have an exquisite taste in wine," replied Morsicato tartly.
"No wine is better than Verona wine!" said Bailardino, thumping the table.
"Personally," said Dante, "I agree with Diogenes the Cynic. I like best the wine drunk at the cost of others." There were several choruses of 'Hear, hear,' around the hall.
"'No poem was ever written by a drinker of water,'" observed Il Grande, raising a cup to salute the poet.
Dante returned the gesture. "Monsignore knows his Horace. It is a shame he does not also know his nephew's tailor, that he might have him flogged."
Pietro choked on his drink. Others hid their guffaws with coughing. Il Grande smiled indulgently, resting a hand on Marsilio's arm as the youth made to rise. "What has become of Masurius Athenaeus — 'Wine seems to have the power of attracting friendship, warming and fusing hearts together.'"
Dante shrugged. "In vino veritas."
Cangrande snapped the fingers of both hands in front of him. "This is the way it should be! I am surrounded by the best and the brightest! It has been too long since I had so many distinguished visitors. Maestro Alaghieri, when was it that we two last dined in this hall?"
Pietro sensed an attempt to rein in his father — or else goad him. Never mindful of the social niceties, Dante gazed upon his patron in thin-lipped amusement. "You abandoned us at your nephew's wedding, so let me see — not since your brother Bartolomeo, God rest his soul, occupied the place you now hold."
Men crossed themselves in fond memory of the man who had been Dante's first patron in exile. Bailardino lowered his head and spoke soundless words of blessings. Everyone had liked Bartolomeo.
Leaning back to allow a servant to place a platter before him, Cangrande's eyes took on a wicked glow. "God rest his soul, indeed. But I think you are mistaken, dear poet. I remember when my brother died, you spoke quite eloquently at his funeral. You were here some months after Alboino took his place. Surely you dined here before you left us."
Dante pretended to remember. "Ah, yes. The bones."
Cangrande's allegria widened. "Quite so. The bones." He raised his voice so that all could hear. "You may not believe this, but once upon a time I was given to practical jokes."
"Ma, no!" chorused several voices.
Cangrande waved a hand in acknowledgment. "I know, I know, it's hard to imagine. But when Maestro Alaghieri was first with us here, I tried his patience. Alboino was giving a feast. I made sure that the servants took all the bones they cleared from the dishes and placed them under Dante's seat. As a consequence, when the table was cleared there was a mountain of bones beneath him, with the dogs circling eagerly." Cangrande shrugged. "I was very pleased with myself. I had found the poet somewhat insulting the day before."
"I can't imagine," murmured Pietro. Poco sniggered into his sleeve, and Dante's spine stiffened slightly.
Cangrande hadn't heard. "But our infernal friend here had the last word. What was it you said?"