The Master of Verona

Pietro stumped towards the chapel, Mercurio leading. Pietro's new fashion of wearing breeches that tied below the knee (to hide the puckered scar so easily visible through hose) had the added benefit of being quite warm. He could see his breath, and his crutch kept slipping on the ice, jerking him off balance. He hoped that his heavy cloak hid his clumsiness. He certainly needed it in the chill air.

In the crowded square, everyone was trying to stay warm. One figure in particular caught Pietro's eye. At first his height made Pietro think it was the Scaliger, but this fellow was twice as broad as Cangrande, with shoulders as massive as blocks of marble. Whoever he was, he must have really been feeling the cold. Under the heavy drapes of his cloak, hood, and scarf, none of his skin was exposed to the open air. He was loitering not far from the church, and Pietro had to skirt around him to reach his destination.

Pietro was about to enter when he heard Mercurio huff out a breath. Suddenly the hound was straining on his leash past the door, dragging Pietro along behind him into the small churchyard. The animal stopped to sniff at a large rose-marble box. An open-air crypt. Four sarcophagi stood along the outside of the church, the oldest perhaps only thirty or forty years old, the newest less than five.

Mercurio snuffed around at the nearest with an excited air. Pietro tugged the leash to stop the pup from disturbing the dead, but the animal leapt up with his paws, knocking snow off the marble slab. Pietro put a hand inside the dog's collar and yanked him back. His eyes caught the words now uncovered by snow:

LEONARDINO MASTINO DELLA SCALA D.1277 — CIVIS VERONAE.

So this is the enigmatic first lord of Verona. Mastino della Scala the First. Not a grand epitaph, but Pietro found himself moved by the simplicity.

Moved, but cold. "Come on, Mercurio." The dog followed Pietro back to the entrance to the church. Passing under the stone lintel of the church, Pietro pushed open the wooden door of the small western entrance. Hooking the dog's leash to a chain near the door, he hastened to remove his hat and gloves. Stepping into the aisle, he knelt in genuflection to the altar, dipping his fingers into the font beside him to make the sign of the cross. He then turned to his right, where the confessional booth stood. Finding it empty of both penitent and absolver, Pietro looked around the deserted church. It was bright and cheery, even in this dark night, the alternating cream and red lifting the eyes up and up to the magnificent cross cut in the ceiling. Having been in one church or another almost every day of his life, Pietro had never seen a chapel so — cozy. There was a warmth here that was both surprising and joyous.

Pietro was gazing upward when a rumbling voice echoed around the room. "By God! It's one of the Triumvirs of Vicenza!"

Startled, Pietro coloured and bowed. "Lord Nogarola."

Bailardino Nogarola strode forward. Upon arrival in January, he had finally been introduced to Cangrande's brother-in-law, then visiting from Vicenza. Flaxen-haired, barrel-chested, with a bristling beard, he was nothing like what Pietro imagined Katerina's husband to be.

"Damned cold, isn't it?" demanded Bailardino, stamping his beefy feet and slapping his own shoulders bracingly. "But the Palio will take the snap out of it! Isn't that right?"

"I don't know, lord," said Pietro. "I've never seen it."

"You'll do more than see it, lad! Today you experience one of the wonders of the modern world! You may have to go become a hermit afterward, because nothing else can compare. Except, of course, next year's race!" Bailardino glanced at Pietro's crutch. "I wish I had one of those. Women love war wounds. Look at my brother. With two arms he couldn't find a lass to give him the time of day. One-armed, he's swimming in tail. I expect it's the same with you, right, lad? A dozen mistresses all clambering over each other to stroke your wound. And the adjacent demesnes, eh?" Bailardino shook with laughter.

"No, lord." Pietro was smiling in spite of himself. Bailardino's cheer was infectious. Which made it all the more staggering that Katerina was married to him, or that Cangrande liked him so well. They were cool people, where Bailardino was an inferno of back-slapping camaraderie. But Pietro had never yet seen Katerina and her husband together. Perhaps they were different with each other.

Lord Nogarola had come from a curtain that hung in front of an alcove that held the church's tiny baptismal font. Now the Scaliger emerged, his head uncovered. For a moment he looked grim, then he caught sight of Pietro. "Ser Alaghieri! I take it you've heard. God bless and keep you on this, your day. Has Bail been harassing you badly?"

"Only telling him how to make the most of this, his day."

"Don't listen to him," said Cangrande. "Age has touched him."