The Master of Verona

Cangrande stood half in the door, only one side of his face illuminated by the candle. "You're like one of my mastiffs, Pietro. Once you catch the scent, you don't let go." A moment passed. "We are here to beard the She-Wolf in her den."

"You said that before."

"You know the legend?"

"Pieces of it."

Face half in shadow, the Scaliger began to recite:

To Italy there will come The Greyhound.

The Leopard and the Lion, who feast on our Fear,

He will vanquish with cunning and strength.

The She-Wolf, who triumphs in our Fragility,

He will chase through all the great Cities

And slay Her in Her Lair, and thus to Hell.

He will unite the land with Wit, Wisdom, and Courage,

And bring to Italy, the home of men,

A Power unknown since before the Fall of Man.

Cangrande shifted out of the doorway and into the room. The candle was behind him now, and he became a dark shape lit only at the edges. "That's the part that everybody knows. There is a coda, however."

He will evanesce at the zenith of his glory.

By the setting of three suns after his Greatest Deed, Death shall claim him.

Fame eternal shall be his, not for his Life, but his Death.

"Like Christ, who is so often remembered more for the manner of his death than for what he did in life. I don't know about you, Pietro Alaghieri. But for my single self, I'd rather I was remembered for my life, not my death." Walking nearer, he lowered himself onto a bench. "Your father claims I am the Greyhound predicted. He believes I am the man who will unite this Italy and restore the unity of pope and emperor."

"You are," agreed Pietro.

"I. Am. Not!" Suddenly Cangrande's hand slammed down on the bench again and again. "Pietro, I'm not. An astrologer made a chart for me when I was born. I've seen it. I even called in the great astrologer Benentendi to confirm it. I am not this mythic Greyhound."

"But — your device, the banner — "

"It's the same dog my father used. The Scaligeri hound was created for Mastino. And I am, after all, Cane Grande." He flashed a brief, heartless version of his famous smile. "But I am not Il Veltro. I do not use the title. I have no right to it. When I ride into battle, it is to fight for my city and my honour. I will fight for God, if He asks." His voice became hard. "But I will not be the tool of Fate."

Thunder rumbled overhead. In a quiet voice Pietro said, "Why are — you hardly know me."

Cangrande's true grin returned. "Can't you tell? I want you to stay. I'm a good judge of character, Pietro, and you seem like a handy man to have around. So I'm seducing you — first, I give you political confidences, then personal ones." He sipped some wine. "Your father has expressed a desire to settle in one place. Have you thought about what you're going to do once he does?"

Pietro took in a breath. Honesty deserved honesty. "I have no idea. I was meant for the Church, but now that I'm the heir I have to find another career. I don't know what."

Cangrande's lips turned up at the corners. "I'm sure we can come up with something. In the meantime you can do something for me."

"Anything, lord."

"I want you to convince your father I'm not what he thinks I am."

Pietro shook his head. "He'll have you walking on water in the next volume."

"I'd rather turn water into wine, if it comes to that." After an awkward moment, he continued quietly. "Pietro, I know what I am. A man with gifts, yes, but no better than most, and quite a bit worse than the best I have known. How can a man live life as a myth? I tell you this — if I thought that I was truly the chosen champion of the heavens, I would fight it." His voice possessed a feverish quality. "Just to see her fail, I would fight it with all my might."

Her? Though Pietro had an idea whom Cangrande meant, he chose not to comment. Instead he was about to remark that they had hardly touched the wine when he heard a horse let out a short grunt. Their mounts were tied yards from the church. In the time they had been waiting, he'd not heard them once. This horse seemed closer, just outside the door.