The Master of Verona

That problem, at least, looked to be dying out. Old Montecchio had been more than gracious to Luigi's father, and the bride-thief was in France for who knew how long. Particularly pleasing, Antony had gotten a well-deserved kick in the pants, and the fat old man had used his son's humiliation for everything he could get. Rights and lands that would pass to Luigi's son someday. They couldn't change that.

The toddler snored lightly. Luigi chuckled, something he only did with his boy. Theobaldo, the name of Luigi's great uncle. An Italian name, though the boy's mother preferred the Dutch version — Thibault. Strange, yet Luigi liked it. Thibault.

"We'll show them all, won't we, Thibault, my son?"

Thirty

Castello Montecchio

18 May 1317

Under the early summer sun, Antonia Alaghieri let her bare feet brush the dewy grass. Moisture crept up between her toes. The log she sat on was slightly damp, but through her many layers of clothing she couldn't feel it. Only her bare hands and feet could sense the dawn condensation.

A rustling in the bushes off to the right startled her, but it was only a hare. "Look," she whispered, pointing.

Gianozza della Bella (in

Montecchio) had lifted her skirts higher, showing a fine thin calf to the morning sun. Looking at the hare she said, "Better run, little one! Or else Rolando will catch you up!"

Rolando was an old stiff-legged mastiff held on a tight leash. Frustrated, he barked at the hare and it scampered away into the brush. Satisfied, the dog settled onto his haunches and allowed himself to be congratulated by the two young women.

As Antonia stroked the dog's muzzle she said, "So, precisely where is Aurelia today?"

"Being fitted for her wedding dress. Her seamstress is a phenomenon. Maybe when your time comes…"

"A shame your sister-in-law couldn't be here," said Antonia tartly. "It's a lovely day. And what pretty landscape."

"Oh, mainly they use this as grazing land. No, the real pretty land is over that way. It belongs to Ser Bonaventura, though his cousin-"

"Gianozza! Enough."

Gianozza threw her head back and laughed, a sound not unlike water trickling between tiny stones. Antonia imagined Gianozza staying up each night after her prayers and practicing it.

As she finished her laugh, Gianozza said, "I'm so glad you finally came."

"I'm not." But it was a lie. Antonia had resisted coming not because she didn't want to, but because she felt it her duty to stay with her father until his latest work was ready for publication.

Two years had established Antonia's dominion over all things to do with her famous father. When the poet was writing, she became an immutable force to any who desired to steal his time. After twice being firmly refused an audience, even the Scaliger had to respect the iron in the sixteen-year-old girl. No one was allowed to interfere with Dante's Muse.

In the field of publishing she was no less firm. She'd recreated in Verona the copying houses of Florence. When the great poet was satisfied with a canto, Antonia would take the complete work and disperse it among the scribes. No house had consecutive pages, so there was no fear of it leaking early, yet the moment Purgatorio was finished it would be available to the public. Demand was enormous. L'Inferno was already more popular than the legends of Arthur, better known than the Song of Roland. Dante was being compared to Homer and Ovid. Princes, blacksmiths, bishops, and tailors were reciting his verses. At the University of Paris, a new Chair had been added to lecture on the meaning of the great epic Commedia.

But Antonia was secretly frightened. Her father wasn't looking well. In her two years with him the poet had visibly withered. Doctors were useless. It had been Pietro who had diagnosed the true cause. In one of his letters he had observed it was not age or illness, but the act of creation itself. Their father was pouring his life force into the pages he produced. Dante's work was his life. It was a race to see which ended first, the poet or the poem.

Which made it worse when her father ordered her to take a holiday. "My dear Beatrice, you've been flogging yourself for weeks. Purgatorio is almost done, there is nothing more you can do to ease the publishing. Go visit friends, or even your mother. Take some time for yourself. I insist!"

Reluctantly, she had agreed. A twenty-mile journey outside Verona brought her to Castello Montecchio and her only female friend, Gianozza.

Those that knew them thought their friendship odd. Gianozza was seen as a tiny gadfly who would, given time, cause her husband as much misery as she had her betrothed. Antonia, on the other hand, was believed to be made of granite. The merchants hated the girl in plain clothes with the basilisk stare. How these two young women had become intimates baffled the court.