The Master of Verona

A Franciscan priest was now crossing the threshold of the baptistery. Feeling monumentally stupid, Pietro finally made the connection between the alcove, the water, the priest, and the baby.

Pietro started to bow to the lady, but the baby reached out a hand and grabbed his nose. Pietro yelped. Though the adults chuckled, the baby himself seemed disinterested as he let loose a long yawn.

"From the mouths of babes." Cangrande beckoned his chaplain forward, indicating Pietro. "This lad needs to receive confession and be dressed in time for the first entertainment of the day." He slapped Pietro on the shoulder. "One of a knight's merits must be punctuality!"

Pietro made way for them as the family exited via the metal-studded double doors of the south exit. The young hound moved to follow, straining at his tether. "Mercurio. Stay."

The priest stepped towards the confessional. "Come, young man. It's a busy day."

"And an early one," observed Pietro.

A weary-looking fellow with a knowing eye, the priest nodded. "Well, as the lord of today's festival, the Capitano had to be shrived. Though why the christening had to be today, I have no idea." His tone was disapproving. "The child — well, you won't guess what name the Capitano gave him."

"Francesco."

"Oh, you knew? Can't say I approve. The Capitano has never formally acknowledged any of his natural children before."

That caught Pietro's attention. "Did he now?"

The priest considered. "No-o-o," he admitted, drawing out the sound. "But his sister is raising a child he has given his own name? It seems to me that he might be planning — if, God forbid, Donna Giovanna remains barren — " His voice trailed off. "Well, God works in mysterious ways. Come."

Stepping into the penitent's seat, Pietro's thoughts were on the boy. Francesco

. Pietro alone knew that wasn't the name he'd received at his first baptism. His mother had given him a different name, a name the Capitano saw fit to erase from memory.

Another thought occurred to him. The custom was that the ceremony of baptism would drive the evil spirits from a child, making him cry as they departed. This child hadn't cried. Did that mean the demons had already departed at his first baptism? Or did they still lurk within?

Fifteen

The walk to the Arena was an ordeal. After confession, Pietro had struggled back to the room, trying twice to run, falling both times. Poco, under strict instructions from their father, was now extravagant in his compliments. "Really, no one deserves it more. It's the least he can do, and really about time! It's not like he's been busy. I wonder what took him so long — "

"Shut up, Poco." Pietro hurried over to his uniform for the ceremony and dressed rapidly.

Poco examined his brother's new farsetto with great interest. "The Capitano knows his fabrics." Lifting a fine pair of knee breeches, he added, "And he's considerate — he knows about your new aversion to hose. And that hat! Look at that feather! It's perfect. Daring, but not foppish."

Dante was beginning to laugh. Pietro said, "Seriously, Poco, I mean it, shut up."

But his little brother was on a roll. The purple of the doublet was a subject of particular eloquence. "This is a Tyrian dye — you know, the sign of senators and emperors. It's not the purple of violets, but more a plum colour. Do you know where they get it? From the ink sacks of a Mediterranean mussel. It takes hundreds of shells to obtain just a pound of it. First you have to crack the shell, then pull out the tiny sack, which contains only a few drops."

From across the room Dante arched an eyebrow. "And how, pray, does my son know so much about dyes?"

"When we were in Lucca, I — knew someone involved in the art."

The patriarch's left eyebrow arched even higher. "Oh? And you didn't introduce me, why?"

Jacopo shrugged, kicked the bed with his toe. "You wouldn't've liked — I mean, this person wasn't very — "

"She wasn't very what?" asked the father gravely.

"Did I say it was a girl?"

"No, but evasion is as good as an oath. I swear, Jacopo, if you've-"

"Father," said Pietro, "the Capitano is waiting."

Dante's jaw moved from side to side under his beard. But the poet decided to let it go for the moment. With a mutter about Poco being blown by eternal winds, he wrapped a scarf about his face. At fourteen, Jacopo was already close to notorious among the ladies, and Pietro was vaguely jealous of his little brother.

They departed the Domus Bladorum in the predawn light, Mercurio padding dutifully along by Pietro's legs. As they passed by the arch with the highly decorated monster's bone, a newly established phenomenon occurred. The occupants of the Piazza delle Erbe spied Pietro, and a murmur began to ripple through the crowd. Applause started, not for the poet, but for Pietro. Bailardino hadn't been lying — everyone loved a battle wound. Nothing gave more proof of devotion to a just cause and to God.