The Master of Verona

I write you, my sweet, on the fifth day after the calends of December, a day before the ides, from Lucca, where my sons and I are spending the final moments of this momentous year. It has seen the death of a corrupt order of knights, whose curse has brought down both king and pope. It has seen the throne of the great empire of Charlemagne grow cold, with the last election divided and the fate of both claimants uncertain. It has seen the idea I had nearly fifteen years ago, the true life's work of a poor Italian poet, one-third done.

It has also seen my oldest living son become a man. I must tell you, your last letter was insightful beyond your years. You appreciate that, having taken part in battle myself, I know the thrill of holding a sword, and the terror of the thousand deaths you die before you meet the foe. My son is braver than you know. That, however, is a topic I shall leave for the end of this missive, because I know you, my love, and you will be blinded with tears.

Our former host, Uguccione della Faggiuola, is distraught at our imminent departure. I fear we are abandoning him at a time of crisis. He has just suffered a terrible omen. His prized tame eagle has suddenly died. As the creature was in murderously perfect health just days before, many people are suspecting foul play (there is no pun in that, I tell you honestly — I abhor them! But, having written thus far, I am loath to begin again on fresh paper. Too expensive). There is even a rumour that I had a hand in the giant bird's death. But then, the citizens of Lucca have never recovered from the rumour — most amusing — that I am a sorcerer! They claim I have the Sight, the ability to see far off lands, and even the future, like some cheap oracular hooligan. Because on the page I consort with demons, travel to unearthly planes, and speak to the long dead, it is thought I must also belong to the Dark Orders that the Templars were accused of forming.