Mari was staring at the back of her head. "She's a Julia."
Pietro glanced over at the girl again. "You mean a Helen, don't you? Julia was definitely a blonde."
"No, a Julia. Look at her. She has the power to make men happy." He pulled a face. "Antony's certainly changed his tune about marriage, hasn't he?"
"He does look smitten," said Pietro, grinning. He tried to catch Antony's eye, but the big cavaliere was wholly focused on the girl, who was acting in every way as the adoring bride-to-be.
"Such a waste."
For a moment Pietro didn't recognize Mariotto's voice. "What is?"
"Her, marrying that great lummox. Like Caesar's daughter being married off to Pompey. She's wasted on him. He's nowhere near her equal in birth."
"I thought he was your friend!"
"Of course he is! I know better than anyone. He'd be happy with a milkmaid — someone to do his sewing and bear him huge sons. That lady will wither and die with him."
He isn't serious, is he? This was more than simple ribbing. Mari's eyes were locked on Gianozza, sipping her gingered malmsey and listening to a story Antony was relating. That Antony finally remembered Mariotto was evident a moment later when he looked up to beckon his friend over. Gazing down into the bottom of his wine cup just then, Mari pretended to miss the sign. Antony shrugged and continued to speak.
The look on Mariotto's face made the hair on the back of Pietro's neck rise. "Mari? What's wrong?"
If Montecchio planned a reply, it was lost as the doors opened and Giovanna della Scala arrived. The Scaliger's wife played the hostess, teasing the men she knew, complimenting the ones she did not, all the time aware of the level of wine in the pitchers and the height of the torches on the walls. It was she who ordered a fresh round of mead for those who drank the stuff, and she who had the servants carry those too drunk to move to the upstairs loggia, where the cold would wake them in time for the second Palio.
She arrived at Pietro's side, and he made the clever bow he'd worked out using his crutch for balance. "Madonna."
"Ser Alaghieri," said Giovanna della Scala. "You know you are the most desired man here. All the ladies were asking after your prospects."
Pietro flushed. "Lady, such jokes are unkind."
"You think I'm joking? There are a half-dozen girls longing to know you better. And since you won't be running the foot Palio, you'll have them all to yourself for the better part of two hours while your fellows are freezing themselves to death. I plan to make it my business to introduce you to all of them. No, no protests. I am the hostess, it is your duty to honour me." She smiled at him and moved on to talk to another guest.
Pietro turned back to find Mariotto was gone.
Other wives were entering, though not Katerina, Pietro saw anxiously. Bailardino seemed in no way put out by his wife's absence. When there were enough women in the room that Pietro thought he could ask the question without undue suspicion, he approached Bailardino. "I don't see Donna Nogarola."
"Oh, she's a little uncomfortable these days," grinned the bearish man. "But she's happy enough to have a bun in the oven, so her bouts of sickness don't get her spirits down."
Pietro's blood froze. Nico da Lozzo's voice saved him from an embarrassing silence. "It's about time, you brute! What, don't you pay her enough attention?"
"I try, but she locks me out of the bedroom more nights than not!"
"So you take an axe and knock the hatch down!" cried Nico.
"And she takes the axe from me and buries it in my head for ruining her beautiful carved doors! No, I think we have her brother to thank for it." More hoots and hollers.
Glancing up from the drinking game he was teaching Marsilio da Carrara, Cangrande raised a curious eyebrow. "How so?"
Bailardino spread his hands. "It's that little brat of yours. I think he caused her womb to sit up and notice it was being supplanted by one of your bastards. So it got busy, and I got lucky. Crack, boom! She's pregnant!"
Not a few heads turned to see what Giovanna's reaction to this would be, but Cangrande's wife was paying no attention. A shame.
Pietro retreated to where his father was pretending to doze, his preferred defense in a raucous room. Poco had disappeared to watch the older men play at dice. Looking around, Pietro didn't see Mariotto. His eyes quickly traveled to where Antony sat with Gianozza. Seeing her, Pietro let out a breath he was unaware he was holding. Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?
Antony pointed a stubby finger towards Pietro. Gianozza rose to her feet, and Antony followed as she glided over the rushes to halt in front of Dante. Thinking the poet asleep, she addressed Pietro. "Ser Alaghieri, it is a pleasure. Signore Capulletto-"
"Antony," her betrothed hastened to correct her.
She smiled. "Antony tells me that your father is the poet Dante."
"Yes," was all Pietro could think to say. She was even lovelier up close. Her eyes were so blue they put her dress to shame.
"I quite enjoyed La Vita Nuova," she said.
"Have you read L'Inferno?"
"No." She shook her head sadly. "I haven't been able to find a copy."
"I'll get you one!" said Antony quickly. "As a wedding gift. Pietro, do you think your father will sign it for us?"
"My father loves signing his name to things." Pietro saw his father's face squeeze tighter. But since the old man was pretending to be asleep, he had to endure without interrupting. "I'll arrange a time for you both to meet with him and tell him just what you want written. Perhaps he'll even do a reading for you." His father's expression was a gift from God.
Pietro was startled to find himself kissed gently on each cheek. "Thank you! I simply adore the new style of poetry — il dolce stil nuovo." She closed her eyes and began to recite softly:
In the season when the world's in leaf and flower
the joy of all true lovers waxes strong:
in pairs they go to gardens at the hour
when little birds are singing their sweet song;
All gentle folk now come beneath love's power,
and the service of his love is each man's care,
while every maid in gladness spends her hours;
She blushed suddenly, as if caught doing something villainous. "I can't recall the rest."
"It's beautiful, though," said Antony. "Who wrote it?"
"I don't know. No one does. It's anonymous."
Pietro glanced at his father, half-intending to ruin his father's charade and ask who the author was. A curious expression on Dante's features stopped him. When he looked back up, Gianozza was smiling over Pietro's shoulder. She said, "Excuse me, Signore Alaghieri, Antony, but my uncle wishes me to meet someone." Sure enough, a glance revealed Il Grande beckoning the girl. She moved away, her skirts tickling the rushes at her feet.
Antony sighed. "She's beautiful, isn't she? Hey, where the devil did Mari get to? She wants to meet him. I've been telling her all about us — the Triumvirs!"
"I don't know where he's gone," said Pietro, glancing towards the door.
"He does like her, doesn't he?"
"He called her a Julia."
"A what? A Giulia?"
"It's a reference to Julius Caesar's family. It was said that each Julia had the gift of making her man happy."