The Master of Verona

will before the whole Assembled Nobility of the Ancient Country of Verona

be made a Cavaliere under the Authority of the Great Lord of that City,

the Imperial Vicar, Can Francesco della Scala.

"What does it say?" asked the father who already knew.

"I–I'm to be knighted! Today!" Eyes wide, he looked up, first at his beaming father, then at the Grand Butler. He'd had hopes, of course, but as the days grew closer to the festival it had seemed he was to be passed over. He'd reconciled himself to the disappointment, which was perhaps why he protested. "But — it's too late! There have to be days of fasting — confession, prayer!"

Dante smiled. "It is Lent. You've been praying and fasting already. I imagine you'll be allowed to confess this morning before the festivities begin."

Pietro rose, reaching out to grasp the crutch that had over the past five months become an extension of his being. He thanked the Grand Butler, and Tullio said several kind words in return before stepping back before a veritable parade of servants bearing gifts.

Jacopo awakened when the first chest crashed home at the foot of their bed. He sat up in a groggy haze as it was opened to reveal a complete suit of armour and all the small arms appropriate to knighthood. Pietro paid particular attention to the sword, a single-handed double-edged blade that was almost the twin to the Scaliger's own. "From his own swordsmith," d'Isola informed Pietro.

Next came the chest of clothes that would be Pietro's uniform for the day. Jacopo gasped at the suit of purple and silver before realizing there was no matching suit for him. "You mean I'm not being knighted too?" Nearly four years Pietro's junior, he again started the refrain he had been singing ever since October. "Why didn't you take me with you? You hate me!" With that dramatic pronouncement, Poco ran from the room. Dante and Mercurio both sniffed, united in their disdain.

Cangrande's gifts were more than generous. In addition to the armour and clothes there were two cloaks lined with fur, one of rabbit and one of wolf. There was also a trunk full of the utility needs of a knight, from grinding-stones right down to socks and candle wax. All expensive, all for him.

Trapped at one side of the last trunk, wrapped in linen, was a small bundle. Pietro lifted it gingerly. Unwrapping it, he found a book. He angled the embroidered leather cover to the light. It was the Book of Sidrach, hand-copied in beautiful Latin script. Pietro lifted the cover to peer inside. In the frontispiece there was an inscription:

A Man may control his Actions, if not his Stars — Cg.

"Wise words," said Dante, leaning over his shoulder. "A private message?"

"Just a conversation we once had," said Pietro, closing the cover. The book was a popular tome of universal knowledge, from court etiquette to deadly poisons. His father had often decried such collections, but Pietro was sure they would both read it cover to cover, Dante claiming he was merely looking for mistakes.

Looking at this incredible largesse, these kind gifts, Pietro felt a wave of bitterness sweep over him. Not because he wasn't grateful, but because the main gift, the arms and armour, were filled with sad irony. The armour would never get used. The weapons would hang in a place of honour. Untouched. Unused. Unblooded.

Sighing, Pietro used his crutch to tap the lid of the nearest trunk closed and he looked at Cangrande's Grand Butler. "Thank Lord della Scala for me, but — "

D'Isola cut across him. "The Capitano has sent something more. A letter, and a gift." Handing over a sealed note, he then walked to the windows that opened out onto the Piazza della Signoria. Pietro watched as the double shutters were unbarred and pulled wide. It was dark, but there were torches flickering just beneath the window.

At d'Isola's urging, Pietro hobbled over towards the window. His leg hurt worst in the mornings, stiff and weak at the same time. He had taken to soaking it in hot water or wrapping it in warm cloths. He had even started visiting the baths in the cellar, soaking for hours in the warm waters beneath the mansion. He'd created a whole regimen of care based on observations given him by the doctor Morsicato.

Morsicato and his maggots had saved Pietro's leg. If not for the days of discomfort with them gnawing at his decaying flesh, he would have been another amputee walking about on a wooden stump. For this, he was infinitely grateful. He was still a whole man.

But above his knee the muscle had shrunk, pulled in on itself. Morsicato speculated that, with time, he might get around without a cane or crutch. But never without a limp, and never without pain.