The Master of Verona

"Yes, you, at supper. It's a small party — your father, the Venetian envoy, Il Grande and his nephew, the poet Mussato, Asdente, and myself. With you, we'll make eight. We need another to make up your father's magic number, but who? Not Guelco — I've foisted him off on Mariotto's father, with the impressive figure of Signore Capecelatro as his second. And your two friends are off exploring the Montecchi stables, I believe, so they're out of reach. I know — I'll invite Passerino to join us, that will be nine. The Nine Worthies. Your father will approve. Come!"

Eleven

Even with a crutch and a helping hand, it took time for Pietro to navigate the halls, and the others were already gathered when he and Cangrande arrived. The Scaliger greeted them genially, as if half their number were not sworn enemies with feathers on the right side of their caps and red roses pinned to their gowns. "Please, sit! This is an informal gathering. Now that we are no longer wrangling we can enjoy each other's company."

"Just tell Asdente to keep his dice to himself," declared Passerino Bonaccolsi genially. "I've lost a month's rents to him."

Vanni gave his ghastly grin. "Fine. We'll use yours."

Cangrande named everyone at the table to Pietro, ending with the only man Pietro didn't already know. "This is Francesco Dandolo, Venetian ambassador and co-owner of two of my names. He is a Cane, too. Isn't that right, Dandolo?"

The Venetian made a deep bow to Pietro, ignoring what was obviously some kind of jab. "Honoured to meet you, young man. I understand you acquitted yourself well in your first battle."

"That he did," said Cangrande before Pietro could answer. "And from a man once destined for the church! If things had gone apace, he might have been able to intervene for you with the pope!"

The Venetian saw Pietro's puzzlement and sighed. "I was entrusted with the task of removing the excommunication Pope Clement laid on the Serenissima, our noble city."

"That floats on a bog," remarked Cangrande. "And this noble man, to do honour to his home-"

"Come," interrupted Il Grande, "the meal waits."

Having already made the Venetian visibly uncomfortable, Cangrande was not averse to letting his story go. For the moment. To his credit, Dandolo maintained a dignified composure as he settled at the far end of the table.

Pietro found himself at the table's middle. Close on his right sat Il Grande, and directly across the table sat Marsilio da Carrara. That one refused to speak or even look up, which suited Pietro fine.

On Pietro's other side Albertino Mussato had been given a wide leeway for his splints. The historian-poet bore a broken leg, a broken arm, and a fierce knob on the top of his head. Down the boards, Asdente sat bolt upright in a straight-backed chair, a fresh bandage wrapped about his head like a turban.

Pietro's father and Mussato were acquainted, having both attended the crowning of the last Holy Roman Emperor in Milan. As they sat, Dante asked after Mussato's head wound and Albertino grimaced. "Hard to say if it's addled my brains or not. I'm able to write, but someone else will have to read it to see if it makes any sense."

Cangrande took his place at the head of the table. On his right sat Il Grande, on his left the Mantuan lord Passerino Bonaccolsi. "I'll read your writing happily, Albertino. Marsilio, the wine stands by you." Young Carrara grudgingly passed the wine.

"You may not enjoy my new piece," warned Mussato. "It's a screed against you."

The brilliant smile leapt forth. "Really? Will it be good?"

"Oh, it will be excellent. But, my dear Dante, I have yet to congratulate you — L'Inferno

is the finest epic since Homer."

"Well, Virgil, at least," corrected Dante. He had been placed across from Mussato, no doubt to let the two poets converse on their craft. As the company settled itself there was some technical talk between them regarding canticles and cantos, publishers and copyists. Mussato was grandiose in his praise, though Pietro thought he was forcing it a little.

Cangrande was busily chatting with Il Grande, but Passerino Bonaccolsi turned to add his praise to the Inferno. "Wonderful! Though I do take umbrage over your treatment of dear sweet Manto. We Mantuans keep Virgil near to our hearts, and to hear him excise her son Ocnus entirely from the birth of our city — well, I wouldn't come visit for awhile, is all I can say."

This, thought Pietro, from a man whose own father is treated harshly in the story. He's more upset by father removing the magic from the founding of Mantua.

Dante answered blandly, invoking God's gifts, not his own. Mussato said, "Don't you mean 'the gods'? That's what your beloved Virgil says, with the words you put in his mouth."