The Master of Verona

The doctor nodded. "And a Venetian ambassador called Dandolo."

That made Pietro sit up. "A Venetian? What's he doing here? Is Verona going to war with Venice?"

"I have no idea," said Moriscato, holding up his hands. "Now sit back. I've told you all I know. Except…"

Pietro gave him an urging look. "Yes?"

Morsicato looked rueful. "Well, it's just that I was passing the door not long ago and it sounded like-"

"Like what?"

"Like they were playing at dice."

"Dice?"

"That's what it sounded like. And Donna Katerina was ordering more wine for them all."

Pietro digested this for a moment, then had to laugh. The fate of three cities, perhaps more, decided over dice.

As the doctor gathered up his instruments and poultices, Pietro asked, "When is her husband due back?"

"Two days, perhaps three."

If I were wed to Katerina I would never leave her side. "Well, thank you for looking after me. And for the news."

Morsicato actually bowed. "My honour, lad. Not often we see such bravery. Your father speaks of it to everyone."

Pietro blinked at that. Before he could muster a proper response the doctor was gone to other duties.

Brave? Was Morsicato lying? Pietro's father certainly hadn't used that word to him! Tight-lipped in public, the poet had launched into a caustic diatribe the moment they were alone. What words had he used? Not brave. Stupid, yes. Foolhardy, certainly. Thoughtless heedless jolt-head determined to land in an untimely grave, that was still ringing in his ears. But brave? No, Pietro was sure that word hadn't been mentioned.

He wondered if Katerina thought he was brave. He wondered about Katerina a lot. He found himself acutely resenting the shadowy figure of her absent husband. Insanely, he was also jealous of her relationship with her brother. However acrimonious, their deep connection was obvious. In the lady's disdainful treatment of her brother he saw a depth of feeling he'd never witnessed before.

An itching in his leg — in his leg! — reminded him of the maggots, and he shifted it closer to the brazier that was pleasantly toasting his right side.

Maybe I can smoke them out.

To distract himself he continued piecing together the mosaic of Cangrande's family. At the top of the family tree was Cangrande's uncle, the first Scaliger ruler of Verona, called Mastino. Then Mastino's brother, Alberto, and his three sons and two daughters. Two of those sons, Cangrande and Katerina's brothers, were dead. Pietro remembered his father talking warmly of Bartolomeo and disdainfully of Alboino.

Dante had also spoken with open hostility towards the late Abbot of San Zeno, father of the current one. A bastard of Alberto's, wasn't he? I wonder if there are any other by-blows out there, any bastards with the Scaligeri blood. Mariotto hinted that way.

There was a thought there, something nagging at his memory, a conversation between brother and sister — but he couldn't grasp it. With a sigh he sat back, closing his eyes and focusing on the rain, feeling the heat of the brazier gently warming him…

There was a scraping sound. Pietro opened his bleary eyes and found the Scaliger moving a chair at the brazier's other side. "Forgive me. Do I bother you? Were you dreaming?"

"Just dozing," said Pietro, shaking his head clear.

"Mmm. These days when I dream, I dream of rain." Cangrande settled lanquidly into the cushioned chair and stretched his legs. "I hope you don't mind if I make use of your brazier. Supper will be served soon." Cangrande reclined, fingers steepled at his lips, eyes on the rain.

"Are the conferences over?"

"Yes. Everything is settled."

Dying of curiosity, Pietro bit his tongue. They sat together for a time, both staring into the shimmering wall of water that pounded the cobblestones beyond the lip of the roof. The sound was hypnotic, as was the shivering light from the brazier as it reflected off the rain. Pietro's eyes grew heavy-lidded again…

"Do you think your father is right?"

Startled by the question, Pietro roused himself. "About what, lord?"

"About the stars." The Veronese lord shifted in his seat so that he leaned towards the rain. It brought his face into view on the far side of the smoking brazier.

"I, ah — I don't know what you mean, lord," was Pietro's feeble response.

Suddenly Cangrande rose. "Come. We'll discuss it at supper."

"Me? At supper, lord?"