David Blixt - The Master of Verona

A man called Mosso was sadly too busy to strangle that final florin from his customers. One of the great booksellers, his was not a mere tent but a fine wooden stall covered in awnings, erected each morning and deconstructed each night, at some cost. His precious wares needed the best protection from the elements. True, a few of his books were cheap prints from woodcuts, but the majority were hand-printed tomes, painstakingly copied by master scribes. All were of immense value. An edition of the Bible sold for a small fortune, so that only the richest men had copies — fitting, as they were the only ones with the Latin to understand it.

The cause of Mosso's consternation stood before him, an unlikely representative for the unlikeliest of best-selling poets. Not knowing how to begin, the bookseller tried small talk. "A cloudy day. I hear they're being drowned up north."

The author's representative wasn't interested in the weather. "How are sales?"

"It's going well — better than well, splendid. I'll be sold out in another week."

"I told you."

Mosso held up a hand. "Yes…"

"I told you to order more," insisted the representative.

The bookseller bit back what he would usually tell a prickly proxy — to take a running jump in the Arno. Instead he again forced himself to agree. "Yes, you did, didn't you."

Pointing to an expensive book bound in engraved metal, the representative asked, "Is this the new edition of Paolino Pieri?"

"His Cronica , yes," said Mosso fastidiously. He had to ask for more copies. They both knew it. The demand was incredible. A hundred copies gone in a day! His whole stock was almost gone. Worse, illicit copies were undoubtedly being made at this moment. He had to get more.

Yet it galled him, so he tried to talk around his problem. "What I can't figure out is why everyone wants it, when all he does is insult the city."

"He does quite a bit more than that." The Cronica was laid aside and a leather-bound copy of Gesta Florentinorum was unlocked instead.

"All that stuff about Fiesole — that's aimed at us."

"I'm surprised you noticed."

Bristling, the bookseller brought indignation into his voice. "Talking about the plant that springs out of their shit, begging your pardon, and turning into a nest of malice, a — what was it? A-"

"'A city full of envy.' Canto Six." The representative's eyes studied the calligraphy of the fine Latin letters, an art rediscovered by Brunetto Latini, just twenty years in his grave. Unfortunately he was burning in Hell among the sinners against nature and its goodness, according to the only authority that mattered.

"Yes!" cried Mosso. "Full of envy? For what, him ? His writing? He's got talent, but too much hubris by far!"

Though Dante's representative didn't look up from the hand-painted letters, the eyes had stopped scanning. "Hubris?"

Mosso realized his error. "I didn't mean…"

Slam! The Gesta Florentinorum dropped to the countertop. "For God's sake!" Mosso nearly screamed as he scooped it up. The thing was worth a small fortune, and he'd had to pay up front.

Dante's representative was unrepentant. "If you find it so intolerable, then you shouldn't be required to sell it. I'll give the contract to the Covoni. Return whatever copies you have left and I'll reimburse you three-quarters." The representative turned to leave, pushing past the buyers who now hurried to get their copies before they vanished.

Mosso was out from behind his stall as swift as quicksilver. "Whoa, whoa there, little miss. I didn't mean to insult you or your-"

"You're blocking my way," observed Dante's representative, her eyes level with Mosso's breastbone.

"Don't go to the Covoni. They'll take a month getting organized and by then the demand will have died down."

The voice was icy. "Will it?"

"I mean, it may have — I mean, no, no, of course it won't, but — " Mosso grasped at anything he could think of to retain this contract. "Their books aren't in order! Everyone knows that the author never sees the full amount agreed to! Copies go missing and are sold under the table while they claim the loss-"

"Better that than a man who insults the book in front of prospective buyers. Please step aside."

Mosso looked about at the throng of people here in the street, all here to purchase this very book, all listening with glee to the scene he was creating. He couldn't lose this contract! Grabbing the girl by her shoulders he pulled her into the lee of his stall. "Listen, little girl! We have a binding contract, you and I! I am the sole supplier for this quarter, and if you try to break it I'll have you in court!"

There was a light misting in the young lady's eyes, no doubt fright from being so roughly handled. But her expression became, if anything, more resolved. "Do. In the meantime release me or I'll have you up on charges for assault!"

The bookseller was trembling more than the girl as he let her go. "Please — my wife — she'll murder me if I lose this contract…"

Dante's representative gazed at him, mouth thin. Finally she said, "You will triple your order, and another ten percent of the profit returns to the author." She waited for his nod of agreement, which he bobbed uncertainly at first, then more rapidly, before informing him that a clerk would be by later today with the new contract to sign.

Mosso sagged in relief. "I'm really very sorry." She stared pointedly at him until he moved aside and allowed her to pass. As she resumed her brisk pace, Mosso called after her, "Those bits about the Sienese were really very funny…" She disappeared in the crowded street and Mosso groaned inwardly. He'd begun the battle to keep his pride and had ended up losing a fair chunk of gold. But it was difficult to acknowledge that his head for business was not as good as that of a thirteen-year-old girl.

Glancing at the youth manning his stall, Mosso snarled, "What are you looking at? Get back to work!" Resuming his own place behind the counter, he began to call his wares. "The Inferno ! Dante's Inferno ! Get it here, and here only! The only seller in this quarter and the best price anywhere! Read the greatest epic since Homer! More daring than the Odyssey , more exciting than the Aeneid ! Go to Hell with Dante, Florence's lost son…"

Around the corner from Mosso's shop, Antonia Alaghieri paused at the edge of the Ponte Vecchio, leaning against a wall and breathing hard. That she had won the negotiation with Mosso only made the experience more frightening. Her mother would certainly disapprove — ' unladylike' would be the word. Brushing her mousey-brown hair from her face (for she was too young to hide her hair in public), Antonia daubed her eyes and composed herself.

Overhead the sky was heavy with clouds. They framed the nearby Martocus, a famous statue that was the sole remains of the ancient god of war who had been the patron of Florence long before John the Baptist was born. Canto Thirteen declared that, because the city had turned its back on Mars, he would plague them with strife forever. It was through that strife that the Great Injustice had entered Antonia's life.

As she always did, she looked to the enraged and broken marble face of the Martocus and whispered, "Forgive them. Please, forgive them, and bring him home." In her mind's eye she conjured up the cover of the Pisan publication, the one bearing a stamp of an engraving of her father's face. It was as close as she could come to picturing his face, for she'd never actually laid eyes on him, having been a babe in arms when the great poet was forced to leave Florence forever.

Yet not knowing his face wasn't the loss it might have been. She knew his writings and, through them, him. Poems, epistles, canziones — and especially his letters. Early in his exile Dante had corresponded perfunctorily with his wife, not even acknowledging Antonia until, at the tender age of nine, she'd enclosed a note in one of her mother's replies. Her note commented on a poem Dante had sent to be delivered to his copyist in Florence. Antonia had read it and secretly corrected a reference in it before it went to the copyist — he'd referred to the wrong Caesar when citing Catullus, saying that the Roman poet had lived in the days of Augustus. It was clearly a mistake, for Catullus was famous for his wicked satires of Caius Julius Caesar. Antonia made the correction, then wrote directly to her father to apologize for tampering with his work.