The Master of Verona

"Oh? When was that? The cave? The coach? Or just now? For I'll tell you, nothing today compares with what I just heard. Oh, but I'm forgetting — you know everything already." Pietro laughed sourly. "They want me to take Cesco to Ravenna. But if Cesco is the Greyhound, nothing I do matters. If I don't take him, it'll all turn out the same. Right?"

"You know that is not so. Your faith denies predestination. I am inclined to agree. There is much talk of the stars' influence on men. No one ever speaks of man's influence on the stars. There is no relationship in the Almighty's creation that does not extend both ways. The boy may or may not be the Greyhound — that we cannot control. But what kind of man the Greyhound will be, that is open to our influence."

They stood gazing at each other. At last Pietro said, "You're a part of this, too. You let them play their little games, you encourage them. You play them off each other. What is it you want out of all this, Tharwat al-Dhaamin? What are you after?"

The tall, scarred man gazed down at Pietro. "I fear that by watching the battle between brother and sister, you have lost sight of the war. The struggle between siblings, the feud with Padua, the designs of Venice, the rancors of Florence, the hopes of the pope, the dreams of those who would be emperor — all those are as nothing to the fate of this boy. If he is the Greyhound, he can reshape the world as we know it. Who would not wish to be a part of such an epic design? It is a slim hope, I know, the promise of a promise. But who would hesitate to give up his life to bring such a new age to pass?"

"That's not an answer. What is it you want?"

Al-Dhaamin lips pressed together. "Ask yourself this — if I have made charts for the child, and for Katerina and Cangrande, is it not possible that someone once made a chart of my own poor life? That I, too, find a destiny that revolves around this child? That I have even found the end of my life intersecting at a place along his chart."

"You've seen your own death?"

"Possibly, yes. You played a part in that discovery. Had you not suggested that there were twin stars, I could not have made the chart that showed the intersection of my death and his life."

That was a chilling thought. But Pietro was sick to death of prophecies and star charts. "Do you think you can postpone your death?"

The Moor's chuckle was an eerie rumble. "Nothing can do that, my young friend. We die whenever the stars will it. It is futile to strive against them. The stars are powerful enemies." Pietro was quiet. "The Scaliger has no plans now to control the child's life. He's taken his revenge on his sister and placed the child where he is most likely to thrive while not growing to be a threat to himself. It is a remarkable act of self-abnegation, not to be confused with altruism. He has, for a brief moment, transcended himself. At the same time, he has bestowed his greatest gift upon you."

"Gift? What gift?"

The astrologer laid a hand on Pietro's trembling shoulder. "He has shown himself to be something less than what you imagine him to be. He has revealed a darker side, peeled back the layers of his persona to show you the person underneath. He has freed you from the thrall of worship."

Pietro glared at the Moor. "If that's true, why don't I feel grateful? And how do you know all this? Did you divine it?"

"Sometimes a well-tuned ear is far superior to the pendulum. Pietro Alaghieri, the master of Verona has given you a choice. Will you step up to the task the stars have lain at your feet and grasp your destiny, as I have mine? Or will you deny the child his brightest future out of your own need for independence?"

"Tharwat, I'm a puppet noticing his strings for the first time. Perhaps that's a gift, but how much happier was the puppet when he was unaware of the tugging?"

"Pietro, you are old enough to discard the notion that life is about happiness. This is your destiny. It is a worthy one. I am only helping you to embrace it." The Moor bowed his head and laid his hand on his heart. "I will go with you, if you like."

Pietro blinked. "You would?"

"I have nothing more to bind me to here. My place is with the boy. If you will have me."

Lifting his cane, Pietro started to walk away. "I'll think about it."

The astrologer watched him go. Then he went to pack his few belongings. The stars had already given him Pietro's answer.

Dante lay in bed, trying to breathe easy after his adventures. He was not the young man who had fought at the Battle of Campaldino. His wars were now waged with words, not swords. The sudden excitement had tired him to the point of turning his lips blue. Morsicato had ordered a draught to help him sleep, but Dante hadn't felt like taking it. He didn't want to be insensible just yet. There were things going on around him. He wished to be aware of the outcome.

Antonia rushed into the room. Seeing his still form she whispered in a frightened voice, "Father?"

Dante raised a hand. "Fine. Just resting."