The Master of Verona

Self-proclaimed fountainhead of freedom, the city of Florence was composed of brown stones and clay tiles, lending it a no-nonsense air. Unlike many other city-states, Florence was not a cult of personality. It was a city of ideas. 'The mother of all liberty,' it covered 1,556 acres enclosed by three sets of walls and filled with nearly 300,000 people.

Straddling the River Arno, the birthplace of Dante Alaghieri was currently enjoying a light breeze from the north. Clouds slid across the sky, growing ever darker. The break in the heat was welcome as the thick crowds clogged the streets, stopping at the tents that lined the wide walkways. This was market day, citizens bantering and bartering with members of the various guilds in order to find the best use for their precious florins.

The coin of Florence was one of the most stable currencies in the world, perhaps because it did no homage to king, pope, or emperor, but to the city itself. One side bore the city's symbol, the lily. The other depicted John the Baptist, the city's patron saint. Thus the florin survived unaltered during sieges, riots, or coups, passing from hand to hand and making Florence's economy grow astronomically.

A man called Mosso was sadly too busy to strangle that final florin from his customers. One of the great booksellers, his was not a mere tent but a fine wooden stall covered in awnings, erected each morning and deconstructed each night, at some cost. His precious wares needed the best protection from the elements. True, a few of his books were cheap prints from woodcuts, but the majority were hand-printed tomes, painstakingly copied by master scribes. All were of immense value. An edition of the Bible sold for a small fortune, so that only the richest men had copies — fitting, as they were the only ones with the Latin to understand it.

The cause of Mosso's consternation stood before him, an unlikely representative for the unlikeliest of best-selling poets. Not knowing how to begin, the bookseller tried small talk. "A cloudy day. I hear they're being drowned up north."

The author's representative wasn't interested in the weather. "How are sales?"

"It's going well — better than well, splendid. I'll be sold out in another week."

"I told you."

Mosso held up a hand. "Yes…"

"I told you to order more," insisted the representative.

The bookseller bit back what he would usually tell a prickly proxy — to take a running jump in the Arno. Instead he again forced himself to agree. "Yes, you did, didn't you."

Pointing to an expensive book bound in engraved metal, the representative asked, "Is this the new edition of Paolino Pieri?"

"His Cronica, yes," said Mosso fastidiously. He had to ask for more copies. They both knew it. The demand was incredible. A hundred copies gone in a day! His whole stock was almost gone. Worse, illicit copies were undoubtedly being made at this moment. He had to get more.

Yet it galled him, so he tried to talk around his problem. "What I can't figure out is why everyone wants it, when all he does is insult the city."

"He does quite a bit more than that." The Cronica was laid aside and a leather-bound copy of Gesta Florentinorum was unlocked instead.

"All that stuff about Fiesole — that's aimed at us."

"I'm surprised you noticed."

Bristling, the bookseller brought indignation into his voice. "Talking about the plant that springs out of their shit, begging your pardon, and turning into a nest of malice, a — what was it? A-"

"'A city full of envy.' Canto Six." The representative's eyes studied the calligraphy of the fine Latin letters, an art rediscovered by Brunetto Latini, just twenty years in his grave. Unfortunately he was burning in Hell among the sinners against nature and its goodness, according to the only authority that mattered.

"Yes!" cried Mosso. "Full of envy? For what, him? His writing? He's got talent, but too much hubris by far!"

Though Dante's representative didn't look up from the hand-painted letters, the eyes had stopped scanning. "Hubris?"

Mosso realized his error. "I didn't mean…"

Slam! The Gesta Florentinorum dropped to the countertop. "For God's sake!" Mosso nearly screamed as he scooped it up. The thing was worth a small fortune, and he'd had to pay up front.

Dante's representative was unrepentant. "If you find it so intolerable, then you shouldn't be required to sell it. I'll give the contract to the Covoni. Return whatever copies you have left and I'll reimburse you three-quarters." The representative turned to leave, pushing past the buyers who now hurried to get their copies before they vanished.

Mosso was out from behind his stall as swift as quicksilver. "Whoa, whoa there, little miss. I didn't mean to insult you or your-"

"You're blocking my way," observed Dante's representative, her eyes level with Mosso's breastbone.

"Don't go to the Covoni. They'll take a month getting organized and by then the demand will have died down."

The voice was icy. "Will it?"