The Master of Verona

As Dante's sons packed the effects of their Lucca lodgings for the move to Verona, the poet received a letter from his friend Enguerrand of the locality of Coucy in Picardy. The facts as Enguerrand related them were quite in the realm of the supernatural. King Philip had suffered no accidents or injuries to his person since falling from his horse some weeks earlier. A man in his prime, he suddenly dropped to his knees on a bright November day and began to foam about the mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then he pitched forward and screamed. And screamed. Still screaming, he was taken to bed and there he stayed until he left the mortal world. De Coucy related to Dante that the king was unable to utter words, though many were the final phrases attributed to him. Enguerrand closed his letter by adding:

It will be a matter of future history whether or not Jacques de Molay's curse upon the King's line down to the thirteenth generation comes true. Though I feel in my bones it will.

The ripples this stone cast in the international pond were wild and unpredictable. King Philip had been brother-in-law to the heiress of the Latin Empire of Constantinople. He had been connected by blood and commerce to the kings of Naples and Hungary. The kings of England and Minorca had been his vassals. After the English defeat last summer at Bannockburn, Philip had allied himself with the new Scottish king, called the Bruce. In fact, his political alliances had reached as far as the mystic Orient. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, the moment his death became known, men everywhere looked for ways to profit from it.

In Italy, the cause célèbre was the return of the pope to Rome. With the French king dead, it was suddenly possible, even likely. Thus it was the topic of the Christmas sermon in Florence, delivered by the visiting Cardinal Deacon Giacomo Gaetani Stefaneschi, who purchased Grace by spending a great deal of his sermon praising the life of Pope Celestine V. His Latin was scholarly and beautiful to hear.

Dante's daughter Antonia knelt, her eyes closed in what was supposed to be prayer for an end to the Avignon papacy. But her thoughts were fixed on a package that had arrived yesterday from Lucca. From her father.

The moment it had come she'd whipped off the covering, expecting a packet of letters. Instead she had discovered a small wooden box with yellow leather tacked in place by fine brass studs. The box was wrapped in twine and sealed with her father's ring.

Rushing off to find a knife, she had returned to find her mother waiting, the box stowed on a high shelf. "You shall wait until Christmas morning."

Perverse. Unfair. But Antonia hadn't argued, knowing her mother would only further delay the unwrapping. Now she knelt between her mother and her aunt, pretending to listen to the sermon while wondering what was in the package. To her right, Gemma di Manetto Donati in Alighieri knelt stiffly, back perfectly straight, head properly bowed. It would have taken a keen eye to see the pinch she gave her daughter as the girl began to sag back onto her heels. Antonia bolted upright and fought the impulse to rub her bottom.

She was aware of the eyes on her, and resented them. It was natural, now that her father was both famous and rich, that she should have suitors. But it annoyed her. Where had they been when her family was poor, beggared, hardly able to survive? Now that Dante and genius were being uttered in the same breath, fathers with eligible sons were beginning to call at the house. So far she had managed to frighten them away by embarrassing them. As her mother frequently pointed out, the fact that she was involved in the publishing business was a mark against her marriage prospects. Her intelligence was another. So when suitors called, she made sure to discuss her negotiations with Mosso, throw in a quote from Homer or Virgil, or recite a history lesson on the man's family that was never to his advantage. Discomfort led to rapid departures and a certainty that no amount of gold was worth the bride that came with it.

Her learning came from her free time in a house of books. Most girls lamented not being men, but Antonia would not have changed her state for the world. Boys didn't have free time. Men of noble birth had to split their attentions between learning, riding, hawking, swordplay, war tactics, and a hundred other pursuits. Even her brother Pietro! Before being catapulted to the position of heir he'd always been found with his head in a book or scroll. But still he'd undergone the most basic training in arms. Whereas Antonia's time was focused solely on learning. It was either that or weaving, and her weaving was atrocious.