The Master of Verona

"I mean, it may have — I mean, no, no, of course it won't, but — " Mosso grasped at anything he could think of to retain this contract. "Their books aren't in order! Everyone knows that the author never sees the full amount agreed to! Copies go missing and are sold under the table while they claim the loss-"

"Better that than a man who insults the book in front of prospective buyers. Please step aside."

Mosso looked about at the throng of people here in the street, all here to purchase this very book, all listening with glee to the scene he was creating. He couldn't lose this contract! Grabbing the girl by her shoulders he pulled her into the lee of his stall. "Listen, little girl! We have a binding contract, you and I! I am the sole supplier for this quarter, and if you try to break it I'll have you in court!"

There was a light misting in the young lady's eyes, no doubt fright from being so roughly handled. But her expression became, if anything, more resolved. "Do. In the meantime release me or I'll have you up on charges for assault!"

The bookseller was trembling more than the girl as he let her go. "Please — my wife — she'll murder me if I lose this contract…"

Dante's representative gazed at him, mouth thin. Finally she said, "You will triple your order, and another ten percent of the profit returns to the author." She waited for his nod of agreement, which he bobbed uncertainly at first, then more rapidly, before informing him that a clerk would be by later today with the new contract to sign.

Mosso sagged in relief. "I'm really very sorry." She stared pointedly at him until he moved aside and allowed her to pass. As she resumed her brisk pace, Mosso called after her, "Those bits about the Sienese were really very funny…" She disappeared in the crowded street and Mosso groaned inwardly. He'd begun the battle to keep his pride and had ended up losing a fair chunk of gold. But it was difficult to acknowledge that his head for business was not as good as that of a thirteen-year-old girl.

Glancing at the youth manning his stall, Mosso snarled, "What are you looking at? Get back to work!" Resuming his own place behind the counter, he began to call his wares. "The Inferno! Dante's Inferno! Get it here, and here only! The only seller in this quarter and the best price anywhere! Read the greatest epic since Homer! More daring than the Odyssey, more exciting than the

Aeneid! Go to Hell with Dante, Florence's lost son…"

Around the corner from Mosso's shop, Antonia Alaghieri paused at the edge of the Ponte Vecchio, leaning against a wall and breathing hard. That she had won the negotiation with Mosso only made the experience more frightening. Her mother would certainly disapprove — 'unladylike' would be the word. Brushing her mousey-brown hair from her face (for she was too young to hide her hair in public), Antonia daubed her eyes and composed herself.

Overhead the sky was heavy with clouds. They framed the nearby Martocus, a famous statue that was the sole remains of the ancient god of war who had been the patron of Florence long before John the Baptist was born. Canto Thirteen declared that, because the city had turned its back on Mars, he would plague them with strife forever. It was through that strife that the Great Injustice had entered Antonia's life.

As she always did, she looked to the enraged and broken marble face of the Martocus and whispered, "Forgive them. Please, forgive them, and bring him home." In her mind's eye she conjured up the cover of the Pisan publication, the one bearing a stamp of an engraving of her father's face. It was as close as she could come to picturing his face, for she'd never actually laid eyes on him, having been a babe in arms when the great poet was forced to leave Florence forever.

Yet not knowing his face wasn't the loss it might have been. She knew his writings and, through them, him. Poems, epistles, canziones — and especially his letters. Early in his exile Dante had corresponded perfunctorily with his wife, not even acknowledging Antonia until, at the tender age of nine, she'd enclosed a note in one of her mother's replies. Her note commented on a poem Dante had sent to be delivered to his copyist in Florence. Antonia had read it and secretly corrected a reference in it before it went to the copyist — he'd referred to the wrong Caesar when citing Catullus, saying that the Roman poet had lived in the days of Augustus. It was clearly a mistake, for Catullus was famous for his wicked satires of Caius Julius Caesar. Antonia made the correction, then wrote directly to her father to apologize for tampering with his work.

The letter that arrived three months later — addressed to her! — was curt: