David Blixt - The Master of Verona

The trio were escorted through a large receiving chamber into a private suite and told to recline on three fine daybeds. Their protests of soiling them came to nothing. "My maid Livia has a brother who is an upholsterer. I have been looking for a reason to employ him — at my brother's expense, of course."

The surgeon arrived. Introduced as Ser Dottore Morsicato, he was long-armed, barrel-chested, and bald with a forked beard that curled up at the tips. Around his neck was the ubiqitous symbol of the medicine man: the jordan, or urine glass. Modern diagnostic theory was the balance of the four humours — phlegm, blood, bile, and urine. The jordan was designed to collect any and all of these, but the one most often used for diagnosis was 'yellow bile' — hence the unsavory nickname of the glass. The doctor would collect his sample, then compare its colour with a chart that listed twenty or more distinctive shades, each with a short list of illnesses attached.

Today it was not the urine glass but the surgeon's saw that was required. "Good God," cried Morsicato sourly, examining the wounds, "I was brought here for this? There are men really hurt out there!" He dealt with Antony's head first, pronouncing him fit as long as he did not sleep for another twelve hours. "Strange things have been known to happen if a man sleeps after a blow to the head. Sometimes he doesn't awake again at all." Antony kept to his feet after that, pacing while the doctor dressed Mariotto's wound. It was rather superficial and was medicined with a salve the surgeon described only as "coming from Greece." He advised changing the dressing he wrapped about the youth's torso as often as three times a day.

With the two simpler wounds now behind him, the surgeon began to examine Pietro's leg. The lady tactfully withdrew as Pietro's ruined hose were cut away and the long process of removing the broken shaft of the crossbow bolt began.

Morsicato had long experience with battle wounds — indeed, most of his knowledge had been earned on one field of Mars or another — and thus knew the best way to remove such a shaft. The problem was that, in all Pietro's activity after receiving the wound, the broken shaft in his thigh had shifted slightly right to left. The doctor turned towards Mariotto and Antony. "I may need your help to hold him."

With fire, with boiling water, with strong hands and several different-sized blades, the surgeon went to work. To his credit, Pietro resisted crying aloud for a very long time. He spent agonized moments comparing his plight to the souls in torment in his father's work. He tried to joke about it. "The Malebranche's claws can't be as bad as this."

"Shhh," said Morsicato.

"Now, upside-down, with hot pokers at your feet, now that's painful…"

"Lie still," whispered Antony, holding his shoulders.

"No, I'm just saying that — damn — Hell can't be as bad as all that…"

"It's almost over," said Mari, hoping he wasn't lying.

Morsicato pulled one end as gently as he could, tapping the other end with a hammer. Pietro howled at last, fighting to move his limbs.

"Hold him!" shouted Morsicato.

But, blessedly, Pietro had fainted.

The room was disturbingly dim when Pietro awoke. The curtains were drawn and the shutters closed, and the rows of candelabra lining the far walls had all been extinguished. A lone central brazier still glowed, warming the room and casting creeping shadows of infernal light into the rafters.

Sweating and gasping for breath in the close room, Pietro winced as he shifted his joints. He wiped the damp from his brow and blinked several times. Laying on a daybed, his lower body was covered with a flannel — Florentine, he noted. Hesitantly, gingerly, fearfully, he reached out a hand to lift the coverlet…

Breath hissed out between his clenched teeth. Both legs were present. He'd feared that Morsicato might have just given up and amputated. But no, his right leg was still attached, wrapped tightly in linen bandaging with a swaddled hot brick beneath it. No wonder he was drenched in sweat.

Across the dim room came the rustle of cloth traveling over a rush-strewn floor. A figure approached, tall and regal. In the low light of the brazier it was hard to see until she was just beside him. Donna Katerina. In the warmth of the room she had released her hair. Not sun-bleached like her brother's, hers was a magnificently rich chestnut colour. It fell to the top of her thighs, draping across her back and swaying with every movement. With that luscious hair as a frame, and her face lit from below by the warm glow of the coals, she was no longer severe. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

Pietro recalled the banter before the battle when his friends had mocked the idea of going to war for a woman. In this moment it wasn't impossible to imagine.

Realizing he was holding his breath he blew it out and inhaled quickly, swallowing a gust of brazier smoke that made him choke.

Donna Katerina settled onto a stool beside him. "Are you all right?"

"Thirsty — " he choked.

A cup appeared, and though the water was warm he gulped it down greedily. "Thank you, lady."

"Shhh. Lie back."

He obeyed, settling back onto the daybed, propped up by a pillow he had been biting down on an hour before. From a bucket she produced a cloth which she wrung out then placed gently on his forehead. It felt wonderfully cool. Suddenly he was aware of just how much he was sweating. Worse, he was acutely aware of his nakedness under the flannel. He lay there, willing himself not to move as she mopped the sweat from his face and neck. It was, in the darkness, a very intimate act.

When his father had been nine years old, the poet had met a woman like no other. Donna Beatrice Portinari had inspired Dante to devote himself to her, a devotion that long outlasted the lady's life. Though he'd married elsewhere, in his mind, in his soul, Dante Alaghieri had given himself to the image and idea of a woman who was above and beyond all women. Divine.

Father — I understand.

A stirring across the room caused the lady to pause. She replaced the cloth in the bucket and glided across the room, away from him. He took the opportunity to pull the flannel a little higher. The sweat was gathering at his back, making the daybed damp. He shifted again, this time rolling slightly to his left. He'd closed his eyes, so they took several moments to adjust to the light from the brazier when he opened them again. Strange shapes swam into and out of his vision. He'd had a fever as a child. This was very like fever, but far more relaxing.

Morsicato had spoken of this during the operation, trying to distract his patient. "The room will have to be kept warm to simulate the fever, and perhaps we can convince the body that a prolonged fever isn't necessary. Hopefully we'll purge the evil humours, and restore balance to the gasses that've been lost." Gasses? He'd lost blood, not passed gas. Nothing made sense…

"Signor Alaghieri?"

He hadn't heard her come back. "Yes, Domina?" He felt the thumping of his heart in his throat, the coarseness of the wolf fur across his legs.

"I thought you might still be awake." She resumed her seat, the keys jangling gently as they fell into the folds of her lap. "Do you know where you are?"

"Yes, Domina." His voice seemed very hoarse. He closed his eyes again.

"Good. Signore Montecchio has accompanied Signore Capecelatro on a walk through the city in an effort to keep him moving. Ser Morsicato has gone on to tend other patients, leaving you to aid me in fulfilling my brother's orders." Again Pietro heard the touch of disdain in her voice. The lady's hand resumed its chore, stopping only to refresh the damp cloth. "Signor, do you mind speaking?"