The Master of Verona

By the time Pietro reached the Nogarola palace, the other followers had all broken off, finding their lodgings or going about their business. Pietro brought Fazio and his thirty men to the huge double doors of Katerina and Bailardino's home. They were welcomed by servants and Pietro asked that his men be fed. He then instructed his band of soldiers to be asleep by nightfall. Since they were unaware that a battle loomed, they thought him a killjoy, but he made them swear to obey. Pietro entered the palace and was shown to a guest suite, Mercurio padding by his side.

He was unaware he had been observed.

Four hours later, refreshed from a bath and a nap, Pietro followed a maid into a wide reception hall on the first floor. It was just how he remembered it — the fresco of a colourful pastoral scene, the gauzy curtains framing the arched doors that led to the peristyle garden. Beyond the billowing curtains, a fountain burbled up a clear stream of water. Pietro remembered sitting on the balcony above, trying to identify the sculpted figures. Now, after two years of university study, it was obvious. Holding the vessel for the water were three muses, Calliope, Clio, and Melpomene. He reflected that, given the amount of power astrology held in this household, Urania should have been present instead.

After days of riding, Pietro's leg was sore. Against his vanity, he was using his cane. He would need all his strength tomorrow.

As they drew near the central garden, Mercurio watched the flowing curtains warily, as if a hare might suddenly emerge. Pietro felt the same prickling sensation at the base of his neck. He saw nothing, but felt sure he was being watched.

His eye caught a reflected twinkle in the garden. A soft, moist pair of eyes peeking out from behind a bush. He smiled. "Hello, Cesco."

The youth stood. He was barely the height of Pietro's thigh.

"H'llo." Cesco's clothes were clean but had seen much darning, especially about the elbows and knees. His hair was more curled than Cangrande's and of a lighter hue, bright and blond. The ringlets had been allowed to grow long, covering the eyes that now flickered from man to hound. "Wha's his name?"

"This is Mercurio."

"M'curo!" The boy clapped his hands together in a demanding way. Amazingly, the dog trotted over and fell at the child's feet.

Watching the boy scrub happily at the dog's neck, Pietro said, "You're lucky. He generally doesn't do that for anyone but me." He advanced a few paces into the garden. "You don't know it, Cesco, but we've met before. My name is Pietro. I'm looking for your mother."

"La Donna's not here," the child said, still stroking the dog. He played for a moment with the coin dangling from Mercurio's collar, then glanced up at Pietro's head. "You don' have hat."

It was an odd statement. "No. No, I don't." Then it struck Pietro. "Do you remember me?"

"You don' have a hat," the child repeated.

"You tried to play with my hat once," said Pietro, "when you were a baby. Remember?"

"I have a toy," replied the child, holding forth a tangle of metal. One twisted piece hung from another.

"Did your father give you that?" asked Pietro.

"God is the father."

Pietro blinked, then tried again. "Who gave you this?"

"Cesco."

"You're Cesco."

The child made a face. "The other Cesco."

"Oh," said Pietro, smiling.

The boy offered the puzzle. "Do it." As Pietro walked closer, the child fixed his gaze on his limp and cane. "You're hurt."

Pietro patted his thigh. "A long time ago. It's nothing."

"Don't show it," advised the child. "No one will help." Cesco's light green eyes met Pietro's brown ones, and the boy pressed the puzzle into Pietro's hands.

Pietro was far more interested in the child than the tangle of molded metal bits, but Cesco was expectant. Examining the two pieces, Pietro gave it an experimental tug. They clinked together fruitlessly. Cesco did a little dance as Pietro struggled to decipher the twists and turns necessary to free one piece from the other.

Finally Pietro shrugged and handed the pieces back. "Can you show me?"

Taking the pieces with both hands, the boy twisted. It was awkward, for the curves of metal were too large and unwieldy for the hands that manipulated them. Once, twice, three times the boy pulled. And suddenly the two parts were free of each other, one in each hand. He looked up at Pietro, grinning.

"How did you do it?" asked Pietro, bending low.

Before the smiling child could respond, another voice echoed across the walled garden. "Cesco, don't bore Pietro. He's had a long journey."

At Katerina's words the sun vanished from the boy's face. What remained was light reflected from some inner source, carefully hidden. Cesco dropped the puzzle and walked straight-backed to Donna Katerina's side. He did not take her hand, but waited close to her, gazing at Pietro. The dog Mercurio followed, standing by his side.