The Master of Verona

The scribe balked — it would take another whole day to replicate his work. "Why?"

"I will have no scurrilous additions to my father's work. No 'Finished, Thank God!' No 'For his pen's labor, may the copyist be given a beautiful girl.' No 'May the writer continue to copy and drink good wine.' None of it! You will do another version of this page and leave off any such nonsense. Honestly," sighed Antonia, shaking her head, "I can't see why you would want to do any extra work. Don't you have enough to copy? Would you rather be working on a Bible somewhere?"

All the copyists shook their heads. Yes, a complete Bible brought a goodly sum of money, but it took fifteen months to complete, during which time the copyist starved.

"I'll take care of this," said Cerdone, lifting the parchment from the board. His first thought had been to say something in the man's defense. Then he decided to keep the page for himself. One page closer to that bonus.

Soon Antonia left the writing house, feeling much more herself. She hurried to her next appointment. There was so much to do!

And besides, it looked like rain.

Vicenza

Over a hundred miles north of Florence the skies wept fiercely, pouring down sheets that reduced sight to less than the width of a man's hand from his face. Hissing torches illuminated nothing more than their brackets. Reports came of oxen and horses lost in mudslides.

Looking out over the balustrade of the covered loggia above a central atrium, Pietro sat with his right leg propped up high on cushions. The rain created a shimmering wall just beyond the lip of the roof, through which the other side of the Nogarola palace was made quite invisible. He could just discern the shape of a fountain below with three female figures pouring their water into the basin. Intently, he watched the rainwater dance in the overflowing fountain. He played with the laces of his doublet. He recited bits of poetry. He tried in vain to ignore the tiny filthy creatures wrapped into his leg's wound.

Maggots. Nothing in all Dante's traversing of Hell was so disgusting. Maggots. Literally eating him. Morsicato, the Nogarola's physician, had sworn that they were the best way to fight infection, that they only ate dead meat, not living flesh. So they were wrapped under the bandages, right in there with his puckered wound. Maggots. Pietro couldn't help imagining the soggy little white things gnawing away at him. What if they move away from the knee? What if they move up…?

Cavalcanti. You were thinking of Cavalcanti. 'Bilta di donna e di saccente core e cavalieri armati che sien genti…'

But poetry was no refuge from his imagination. He'd come out here hoping to drift into sleep, but the idea of dozens of tiny mouths chomping at him kept him awake. Worst was the itching. Pietro had woken this morning from dreams of gigantic worms feeding on his blood and tears to find his little brother newly arrived and poking under the folds of the bandages for a glimpse of the little devils at work.

Of course Poco's curious. His brother is a walking feast for worms.

As if to illustrate the point, Morsicato approached bearing a tray. Smiling gruffly, he said, "Master Alaghieri."

"That time again?"

"I'm afraid so. May I?" The physician knelt beside Pietro's outstretched leg, removed the blanket and lifted the long shirt, then began gently unwrapping the injury. "Rain shows no sign of letting up."

"No," said Pietro, desperately not watching the fellow adding or subtracting maggots to the wound. Valiently, Pietro fought to keep his bile down. He'd already vomited twice today. It was one of the reasons he'd moved into the open air. "But after two days of sweating, it's good to be outside."

"The army would have happily exchanged places," said Morsicato. "I was out in their tents this morning looking after minor ailments." He paused to grin, stroking his forked black beard. "Venereal ailments. Anyway, they're all huddled in tents, wrapped in straw and murdering time by using pig knuckles for dice."

One of the maggots had transferred to the doctor's beard. Pietro looked sharply away. "How are they holding up?"

"They're anxious. Wondering why we're not moving. Full of the usual rumours."

That got Pietro's attention. "What rumours?"