David Blixt - The Master of Verona

They stood gazing at each other. At last Pietro said, "You're a part of this, too. You let them play their little games, you encourage them. You play them off each other. What is it you want out of all this, Tharwat al-Dhaamin? What are you after?"

The tall, scarred man gazed down at Pietro. "I fear that by watching the battle between brother and sister, you have lost sight of the war. The struggle between siblings, the feud with Padua, the designs of Venice, the rancors of Florence, the hopes of the pope, the dreams of those who would be emperor — all those are as nothing to the fate of this boy. If he is the Greyhound, he can reshape the world as we know it. Who would not wish to be a part of such an epic design? It is a slim hope, I know, the promise of a promise. But who would hesitate to give up his life to bring such a new age to pass?"

"That's not an answer. What is it you want?"

Al-Dhaamin lips pressed together. "Ask yourself this — if I have made charts for the child, and for Katerina and Cangrande, is it not possible that someone once made a chart of my own poor life? That I, too, find a destiny that revolves around this child? That I have even found the end of my life intersecting at a place along his chart."

"You've seen your own death?"

"Possibly, yes. You played a part in that discovery. Had you not suggested that there were twin stars, I could not have made the chart that showed the intersection of my death and his life."

That was a chilling thought. But Pietro was sick to death of prophecies and star charts. "Do you think you can postpone your death?"

The Moor's chuckle was an eerie rumble. "Nothing can do that, my young friend. We die whenever the stars will it. It is futile to strive against them. The stars are powerful enemies." Pietro was quiet. "The Scaliger has no plans now to control the child's life. He's taken his revenge on his sister and placed the child where he is most likely to thrive while not growing to be a threat to himself. It is a remarkable act of self-abnegation, not to be confused with altruism. He has, for a brief moment, transcended himself. At the same time, he has bestowed his greatest gift upon you."

"Gift? What gift?"

The astrologer laid a hand on Pietro's trembling shoulder. "He has shown himself to be something less than what you imagine him to be. He has revealed a darker side, peeled back the layers of his persona to show you the person underneath. He has freed you from the thrall of worship."

Pietro glared at the Moor. "If that's true, why don't I feel grateful? And how do you know all this? Did you divine it?"

"Sometimes a well-tuned ear is far superior to the pendulum. Pietro Alaghieri, the master of Verona has given you a choice. Will you step up to the task the stars have lain at your feet and grasp your destiny, as I have mine? Or will you deny the child his brightest future out of your own need for independence?"

"Tharwat, I'm a puppet noticing his strings for the first time. Perhaps that's a gift, but how much happier was the puppet when he was unaware of the tugging?"

"Pietro, you are old enough to discard the notion that life is about happiness. This is your destiny. It is a worthy one. I am only helping you to embrace it." The Moor bowed his head and laid his hand on his heart. "I will go with you, if you like."

Pietro blinked. "You would?"

"I have nothing more to bind me to here. My place is with the boy. If you will have me."

Lifting his cane, Pietro started to walk away. "I'll think about it."

The astrologer watched him go. Then he went to pack his few belongings. The stars had already given him Pietro's answer.

Dante lay in bed, trying to breathe easy after his adventures. He was not the young man who had fought at the Battle of Campaldino. His wars were now waged with words, not swords. The sudden excitement had tired him to the point of turning his lips blue. Morsicato had ordered a draught to help him sleep, but Dante hadn't felt like taking it. He didn't want to be insensible just yet. There were things going on around him. He wished to be aware of the outcome.

Antonia rushed into the room. Seeing his still form she whispered in a frightened voice, "Father?"

Dante raised a hand. "Fine. Just resting."

"I was at Castello Montecchio when word came that you'd been attacked. There are rumours flying everywhere — you're dead, Pietro's dead, Cangrande's son…"

"All fine. There was some trouble, and the Scaliger has much to contend with. But I am well, the child is unhurt, and your brother — your brother is braver than I ever dreamed. But dear, in all the excitement, perhaps you haven't heard about poor Ferdinando." Drawing her down to sit beside him, Dante related the news that she most needed to hear.

She took Ferdinando's death soberly, at least outwardly. Dante tried to peer beneath her controlled expression, but failed. They had not been betrothed, not even courting. She said only, "I will pray for him. He was a good friend."

What Antonia did not know — and what Dante would never tell her — was that recently Ferdinando had come to Dante and baldly asked the poet's permission to court her. Since Ferdinando was not his ideal notion of a son-in-law, Dante had asked for time to consider. He was now ruing his delay. His children should be allowed whatever happiness they could snatch in this turbulent world.

She was looking particularly distant at the moment. Long convinced that all good parenting rose from the art of distraction, the poet changed topics. "My dear, I am considering taking up Guido Novello's kind offer and domiciling myself in Ravenna. Jacopo will consent, if with little grace. We shall be near Pietro again, and the University at Bologna would enjoy my lectures. When you are able, I want to hear your thoughts on the matter."

"Oh Father." Wrapping her arms about his neck, she wept, but only from her eyes. Her voice remained almost steady as she related the horrible state of affairs at Castello Montecchio. "Mariotto is swearing vengeance, Gianozza's weeping inconsolably, and Aurelia is just wandering around like a ghost. Capulletto has evidently fled back to his father. It's dreadful. I was wishing all night for nothing more than to escape them all and return to you!" And now this, she didn't add. She didn't have to.

Dante sighed. "It's settled, then. When all the wounds are healed, all the affairs settled, we shall accompany your brother back to Ravenna. I will have my family together at last." With unaccustomed feeling he hugged his daughter to him. "Verona is no place to be, now. I think there are dark times ahead. Especially for the Capitano. Tomorrow I shall inform him of our intent."

What drew him to the room Pietro could never later guess. He entered the salon that was once again a converted sickroom. The scents from the brazier were sweetly familiar. Before him was a man he'd glimpsed once, three years before, on a battlefield just south of the city. He lay white-faced and bloodless now, yet still retained an air of authority.

"Who's there?" asked the Count of San Bonifacio.

"Alaghieri. Pietro Alaghieri."

"Ah. My shadow. The wounds I bear, I understand, were delivered for actions on your behalf — half behalf. Do you have any oysters, child?"

"What?"

"My armour!" The old man clutched the scarred bloody breastplate that Pietro had discarded in the streets that morning. "The Pup brought it me. Thank Heaven — Father, I have it back! I'll bring it. It won't pass to my heir — my heir…" He was raving. Pietro took a step backward but the Count caught him by the wrist. "I hear you rescued the child. The little bitch-pup. Did you kill Pathino?"

"He escaped," said Pietro.

"Good, good. She'll be pleased. Once I'm dead — dead, down, but never forgotten! Never, you hear me! Never forgotten! Of course — of course, the irony is lost on you."