The Master of Verona

'They're mistaking you for him?' asked Antony. I told them to go over and ask. They did, looking over their shoulders at me like I was mad. After just a minute of conversation Mari and Antony burst out laughing. Grinning from ear to ear they returned and repeated their conversation with the old ladies. 'Do you see that man giving us his shadow?' one of the old biddies had said. 'He's the one that goes to Hell and back again, and brings back stories of fiends below.' Antony had asked how they knew it was me. They said that my fine hat marked me as the devil's own.

It was all funnier then, I guess. But it made me think. This will always be the way for us — known for our father, not for ourselves. They do say greatness skips a generation.

I cannot think of anything else to write. Tell Mother not to worry about me. My wound is healing. I thank you both for all your prayers on my behalf. They seem to have worked.

Another change in ink, then:

A delay has caused us to remain a little longer in Lucca. Father has had some sort of inspiration and refuses to budge until the fit has passed. I'll admit to being disappointed. I was looking forward to Christmas in Verona. I miss Mari and Antony. Their coming for a visit only showed me what fast friends they have become in my absence. They've been racing all over the countryside around Mari's estate, exploring and hunting. I'm jealous. The only people I've ever known were family, teachers, or Father's contemporaries. And now I feel like I'm missing my chance to have close friends of my own age. The two of them have become joined at the hip, and I'll be the tagalong, the third wheel on a chariot.

Listen to me whine like a mammet. It looks like we'll be setting out for Verona after the Roman New Year. So when you write back — and be sure to write back! — send the letters there.

Give my love to Mother, and give both Gazo and Laura my best wishes. Have a wonderful Christmas.

Tuo fratello maggiore,

Pietro Alaghieri

A strange letter! Pietro's thoughts were never that fragmented. It was far more like her father to jump from topic to topic — Dante enjoyed the freedom of letter-writing, as opposed to crafting poetry, two very separate endeavors in his mind. Pietro always knew what he was going to write long before he put quill to paper.

Jacopo was still an idiot, she saw with amusement. Pietro was right, the fur was truly horrible.

Pietro hardly mentioned his wound. Their mother had made a great show at church of lighting candles and praying for the health of her oldest living child. Antonia's prayers had been less obtrusive but no less ardent. Obviously from his letter he was up and around again. As for his — what was it, self-pity? — Antonia had no time for it. He was with their father, he was a hero, he could lump his sorrows.

Setting Pietro's letter aside she lovingly broke the seal on her father's letter. It too was a long one, she saw happily. She began to read:

Cara Beatrice,