He was rescued from his dilemma by his father. The poet arrived with a fresh goblet of steaming wine. The vessels here were finer than those in the feasting hall, these made of ornate rock crystal. Cangrande's famous disdain of ornaments evidently had no effect on his wife's tastes. Or his Butler's.
"Would you like to sit, father?" The reply was a raised eyebrow, indicating that idiot questions would not be answered. Crutch in hand, Pietro led his father to the corner occupied by Donna Katerina.
The lady smiled at his approach. "Ah Pietro, you mean to join me in my exile?"
Pietro bowed as best he could, and she pretended offense. "Ser Pietro Alaghieri! Do you dare to mock me by bowing when I cannot rise to curtsey in the proper way?" She indicated the child twisting restlessly in her lap. "I decided that, since I was banned from partaking in polite society, I might as well carry the cross with me. He is the cause of my plight. The least he can do is share it. And it gives the other guests a topic of conversation."
Pietro said, "You know my father."
"Who doesn't? I'm pleased I can say I knew him before he went to Hell. And who is this?" she asked of the hound staring at the child in her arms.
"His name is Mercurio." Nudged, the dog obediently curled up at Pietro's right foot.
"You seem to be weathering exile well," observed Dante. He settled himself onto a cushioned bench. "An active child."
"Too active for his own good. His nurse was about to throw him from the window. He's small for his age, and I'm convinced it's because he uses up all his energy staying awake. Pietro, please don't stand on ceremony." She freed a hand from the child's clutches to wave to a seat near her. Immediately the boy tried to wriggle himself onto the floor.
"He is a trial, then?" asked the poet, leaning forward to study the baby. A tiny hand darted out to grasp his beard. Dante chuckled. The child heaved up with his tiny muscles as if he viewed the poet's face as a mountain to be scaled hand over hand. As the next handhold was Dante's protruding lower lip, the poet let out a yelp.
"Cesco! Monsignore, please. Allow me." Katerina removed the poet's fumbling hands then wrapped her own slender fingers around each of the infant's wrists. Pietro saw her knuckles go white. The child's eyes opened wide. When she released her grip, the baby's hands opened instinctively. Dante pulled back as the child giggled as though entertained by the rebuke. Katerina spared him hardly a glance in return.
The nurse came forward. "Should I take him?"
"Thank you, Nina, no. I will deal with him. As you see, Maestro Alaghieri, he has recently taken to climbing. He's scaling everything in sight. I positively dread the day he takes his first step."
Her knee began to bounce, providing the child with a new stimulus to distract him. But little Cesco's eyes remained fixed on the poet's beard. In return, Dante was massaging his chin with the back of his hand and eyeing the child with wary respect. "Pietro, if that laugh escapes I'll disown you. It is quite a grip, madam. I assume he gets it from his father?"
"I wouldn't know." She canted her head. "Really, Maestro Alaghieri, I have been the intended victim of a hundred such traps and have yet to stumble."
Dante grinned like a child caught filching sweets. "I am so sorry. My son can tell you, I am an inveterate gossip. Though I think it says enough that your brother asked you to raise the boy. If I recall, your relationship was not one of requests and favors done lightly."
"You're thinking of someone else, surely. There is nothing but warm amity between my brother and myself."
"Indeed? I seem to remember an incident-"
"Pater," interrupted Pietro, "weren't you going to tell me the last lines of a poem?"
Dante looked momentarily put out, but the new topic held enough entertainment value for him to endure the clumsy deflection. "Ah yes. As I said, I know the poet. Florentine. In our little circle of friends she was known as La Compiuta Donzella. Not particularly prolific, but her poems were of such quality that I cannot help but admire the young lady for referencing her verse."
Pietro turned to Katerina. "You've met Antony's betrothed, the girl Gianozza?"
"Pretty, but a little too tragic for my tastes," judged Katerina.
"Well, she quoted a poem to us this evening, but suddenly stopped. My father thinks there's some import in that."
Instead of replying directly, Dante began to recite:
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;
but I am filled with weeping and despair.
For my father has treated me most ill
and keeps me often in the sorest anguish:
he would give me to a lord against my will.
And this I neither do desire or wish,
and every hour I pass in sharpest grief;
and so receive no joy from flower or leaf.
"It goes on to claim she wants nothing more than the convent. I very much doubt, however, if this girl shares that particular sentiment. I fear your friend Antony does not have her wholehearted affection."
Pietro spied the lady in question across the long hall, listening to the excited prattle of several young men. Lively and bright, smiling at everything, she was what Mariotto had called her — a Julia.
"You recite beautifully," said Katerina. Dante made an immodest murmur of agreement. Little Cesco had ceased to fidget, staring at the elder Alaghieri, drinking in the poet with those eyes, so wide and so deeply green. In that, the child was unlike the Scaliger, whose eyes were light blue. In everything else one saw the lines of the fine bones, though in the child they were rough, less refined, somehow purer. Katerina's face was cut of the similar stone, by the same artist. It was difficult to remember that Donna Katerina was not, in fact, the boy's mother.
The lady noticed Cesco's fascination. "Perhaps I should hire you as a nurse, maestro. This is the longest he has been still all day."
"He has a poet's soul," said Dante, smiling ruefully as he stroked his beard. "In spite of his warlike tendencies."
"I am relieved. I often wonder if he has a soul at all."
"His eyes are very green," said Pietro.
"Today. Tomorrow they will be blue. He is a traitor to his core, he changes his colours daily."
"Then he should be fostered out to Nico da Lozzo when he is of age," observed Dante.
"Or perhaps your friend Uguccione della Faggiuola?" asked the lady innocently.
"I fear he will not be able to take any under his wing for some time," the poet replied. "He is planning a venture into Florence later this year."
"Yes, he even asked Francesco's advice on the venture."
"And what did your brother say?"
"He said only a fool would attack Florence now. It did not seem to have the desired effect."
"Well I for one wish him luck. Then perhaps, by the time Cangrande's son is grown, Florence will again be a city worthy of respect."
"It is strangely warm in this loggia, is it not?" replied Katerina, waving a hand before her face. "In spite of the chill winds outside. I believe we could have survived without quite so many braziers. But of course, I cannot say so to our hostess."