"I doubt the racers will mind," said Pietro. "I don't see your husband. Is he taking part?"
Her nod possessed a rueful quality. "He did not finish the horse Palio and is determined, in spite of his great age, to make a good showing tonight." Her voice warmed as she spoke of her husband. Which is as it should be, Pietro reminded himself.
"I understand congratulations are in order," said Dante, further depressing his son.
"Yes," said the expectant mother with tranquil ease. "I am finally to make my husband a proud father. He has been considerate all these years, not putting me aside for some young thing. Perhaps it is because I do not quote poetry at him." Dante chuckled appreciatively.
"Are you faring well?" asked Pietro. Pregnancy at her age was rarely uncomplicated.
"I am surviving. I am sorry I could not watch you race this morning, Pietro. I understand that you rode with great skill."
Recalling legs of pork and a hundred knives, Pietro flushed. His father spoke for him. "The fact that he can ride at all is due in part to you. I would like to thank you again for all your ministrations to his injuries."
"Send me a copy of your next epic when it is complete. That will be payment enough."
"I've had a similar request from your brother. But you might have more use for it — you could read it aloud to the boy. Poetry, like music, has soothing charms." He glanced down. "You appear to need something of the kind."
At it again, young Cesco had managed to turn himself about in the lady's arms and was pushing against her with both feet, trying to propel himself away from her. "I was thinking of letting go."
"What prevents you?" asked Dante, who believed in letting ill-fortune take its course.
"I do not wish to aggravate my sister-in-law more than necessary. If the boy begins to cry, he will go on for hours. Once he gets into a vein, he is loath to leave it. If left to myself, at home, I would let him topple end over end and damn the consequences. I prefer him noisy — then at least I know where he is. When he's quiet, he's plotting." She twisted the child around and he suddenly found himself upside-down. He giggled and swung his arms in front of him, twisting in space.
Dante poked a cautious finger at the boy. "Does he sleep?"
"He does, but does not like to. I begin to wonder if he has nightmares."
"Dreaming so young?"
"Oh, I know he dreams. Sometimes when he's dreaming it is impossible to awaken him. But I wonder if they are pleasant dreams…" Her arms trembling with the strain, she righted the child. Cesco clapped his hands together and grinned around. Was that not the most wonderful thing ever?
The lady's eyes suddenly narrowed and her voice sharpened as she said, "Don't skulk in shadows, child. It shows poor breeding to spy." Startled, both Dante and Pietro tried to follow her gaze, but the lady's face was solidly immobile. "I said come out here. Or would you like me to summon Tullio?"
From behind a tapestry at her shoulder little Mastino della Scala emerged, face sullen. "I wasn't spying-"
"Of course you were," said Katerina. "Now run along. I'm quite sure you aren't supposed to be here."
Mastino started to argue but something in his aunt's icy glare forestalled him. He crossed in front of her, heading for the exit. As he did, his fingers snaked out and tugged at the baby's small crop of curly blond hair. The infant yelped and began to whimper, lower lip wobbling. Pietro reached out a hand to smack Mastino but the boy broke into a run, disappearing among the legs of the revelers.
"Let him go, Pietro," said Katerina in a singsong voice, calming the child before he started to full-out wail. "Shhhh. The aggravation would not be worth the result. Shhh."
"Reminds me of his father," said Dante. "Forgive me, lady, but I never liked Alboino."
"You are not alone." The angry child was struggling furiously to be free. "Maestro, would you mind reciting another line of verse? It might avert a scene."
Pietro held out his arms. "May I hold him?"
Donna Katerina did not hesitate. "Be on your guard, he'll have your fine farsetto in ruins."
Finding himself transferred from one adult to another, Cesco glanced briefly at his new captor, then reached for the silver dagger hanging on Pietro's belt. Pietro gently interposed his own hand between the child and the knife. The boy's nimble little fingers reached around, grazing the dagger's pommel. The child's other hand shot out and grasped the weapon's hilt, and Pietro had to pry the little fingers free. Holding the wriggling, giggling child in one hand, he removed the dagger bearing his name from his belt and placed it on the floor beside Mercurio.
Twisting suddenly to dangle by one arm, Cesco's feet brushed the tiled floor. The child could have easily dislocated a shoulder, but Mercurio jumped up and slid underneath the boy, holding him up until Pietro got a firmer grip across his middle.
Cesco giggled at the dog, then noticed the feather on the top of Pietro's hat. Suddenly he changed directions, tiny fingers questing desperately up. Pietro quickly removed his cap and set it on the floor atop the dagger. The child's expression was pure disdain.
Dante chuckled. "He seems to have your measure." Mercurio snuffed once and settled back down.
"I'd like to see you hold him," retorted Pietro, struggling.
"No, thank you. One encounter is enough." Dante turned to Katerina. "Is he very like his father as a child?"
"I wouldn't know."
The poet grinned. "I shall give up my attempts to snare you and instead woo you with verse. Would you like something old or something new?"
"Something fresh, please. Nothing I might have heard."
Dante began with the final lines of L'Inferno:
Into that hidden passage my guide and I
Entered, to find again the world of light,
and, without taking a moment's rest,
we climbed up, he first and I behind him,
far enough to see, through a round opening,
a few of those fair things the heavens bear.
Then we came forth, to see again the stars.
From there he carried straight into the opening of the sequel he was calling Purgatorio. It never ceased to amaze Pietro that his father could render verse one day and recite it the next. He was very particular about his words and fought for hours about each one. Once satisfied, though, it became engraved in his mind as if in stone. If the poet's notes were ever lost he could recite the whole of his Commedia from memory.
Cesco's frantic quest for the feather ended as he listened, rapt, to Dante's encounter with Cato of Utica. Freed from the struggle, Pietro was able to glance around. The Scaliger had arrived, striding into the loggia with a laugh and a wink. His wife drifted over to take her place at his side. He wrapped an arm about her as he listened to a lighthearted argument between Giacomo da Carrara and Passerino Bonaccolsi. He laughed, and with that grand laugh the festivities were truly under way.
The race had been afoot for over half an hour. Lord Montecchio was reclined on a daybed close to the new Lord Capulletto. Pietro had never seen Mariotto's father looking quite as relaxed as he did at this moment. Usually abstemious to a fault, he was imbibing his share and more in the wake of the long confession at dinner. Perhaps this evening's events would make him a more joyful spirit. All he had to do was to wed his son and daughter off, the way Capulletto was doing. Give him grandchildren, an assured continuation of the name, and Montecchio would be a satisfied man.
Thinking along these lines, Pietro eyed Antony's bride-to-be. Gianozza had withdrawn from her admirers to the gap in the shutters that formed the race's finishing line. When she noticed Pietro staring she waved, and a huddle of young women by her noticed him and waved as well.